#The Head Archives

[autisticrosewilson]

An Excerpt from my TMA Au

Ft. Archivist! Dick, Spiral! Jason and Steph, and Stranger/Beholding Cass! TW for broken bones and horror themes, canon typical esoterica @perseus-jackass thought you'd like this!

"WHAT IS GOING ON!" Dick trips through the winding halls of the Head Institute, skidding to a halt in front the heap of limbs sprawled on the ground, bent in weird positions even by his standards.

Jason wriggles around on rubbery bones while Steph laughs at him, hanging upside down from her trapdoor in the ceiling.

"Humans are so...fleshy." he complains. "They break too easily." He wriggles his awkwardly bent limbs, and Dick can hear the broken bones grinding together under the skin. He tried to breathe through the nausea.

"Are you...okay?" It's a nasty break, multiple even, but Jason doesn't seem pained, and he's still not-human enough that his patron might lend a hand.

Cass, whose crouched oddly on top of a nearby table stares with wide unblinking eyes, studying the state of him. "Looks fine." The canned audio of the radio she's using as voice box crackles and cuts abruptly.

That's not reassuring, Cass's limbs look like a poly-jointed dolls on the best of days. "Steph, can you, um, help with this?" He looks to the blonde whose moved onto positioning Jason's limbs into increasingly strange positions.

"Why would I do that?" She seems occupied trying to...spell Jason's name with his limbs? What the fuck.

He doesn't get paid enough for this. Actually now that he thinks about it, Ra's doesn't pay him at all these days. No point paying an employee who can't quit and already lives with you.

[artemisdesari-blog]

A writer friend told me something that broke my heart a little bit today; they're going to quit publishing their fanfic.

My instant thought was that they had been trolled or attacked or that something terrible had happened in their life because this person is so passionate about their writing. It wasn't any of that. Engagement with their works has been going down, as it has for many of us. Comments are like gold dust a lot of the time, and just looking through the historical comment counts on old fics on ao3 demonstrates this trend very clearly. It was not simply the comments dropping off which caused them to decide to stop posting, however.

My friend came across a discord server for their fandom (I should point out here that their fandom interest and mine diverged a couple of years ago, we stay in touch but don't currently read each other's posts because I'm not into their fandom and they would rather gouge their eyes out with a wooden spoon than read anything Star Wars) and specifically to share fic in that fandom. They joined, because we all love a good fic rec, only to discover that their latest multichapter fic, which has almost no comments and very few kudos, is being hotly discussed in this server as one of the best stories ever. Not one of these people has bothered to say this to them on the fic. When they asked, none of participants could see the point in telling the author of the fic they apparently loved so much that they love it.

This discovery has absolutely destroyed my friend's love of sharing fic. They share because they love seeing other people's enjoyment, and fic writers do that through comments and kudos/reblogs/likes because we don't get paid. There is no literary critic writing a blog post/article about how amazing the story is for us to copy and keep/frame. There is no money from royalties. All we have are the words of the people reading our works.

Those people on that server could have taken five minutes of the time they spent gushing about how amazing my friend's story was to other people and used it to tell the one person guaranteed to want to hear that praise how much they loved it. They could have taken a moment to express their opinion to the person who spent hours upon hours plotting, writing, editing, and posting those chapters. Instead, they deprived my friend of thing that keeps them sharing their writing, and in the process have killed their love of it. My friend now feels used and unmotivated.

I won't be sharing a link to their fic, they said I could share their experience but not their identity. I know they plan to post one final chapter. I know they intend to express their hurt at being excluded from the praise for the thing they created, and I know they intend to announce that as a consequence they will not be posting for a long while, if at all.

So please, I beg you, don't hide your love of a story from the writer. It's just about the only thing we have.

[veradragonjedi]

[scooterscoob]

worn out.

[froopa-coopa]

in the safehouse

[anchovy]

Me in a random tag: weeeeee this is so fun!! I love looking at all the cool art and posts wow.

An 18+ untagged self insert reader fic that involves multiple kinks, is thousands of words long, and isn’t under a read more:

[wojtekaneko]

That's how it went

[lestangestthing]

thinking about jonathan sims and daisy tonner both feeling more like themselves than ever in the coffin because in there they were simply two scared people and not avatars. they felt their lightest when the weight of the world was pressing down on them. in this essay i will-

[wolfythewitch]

Minor redesign

[autisticrosewilson]

Spiral! Jason origin ficlet! @perseus-jackass this is the one I was talking about, part of it at least.

Characters: Bruce Wayne(?), Spiral! Joker, and little! Jason

Tags: Jason has a no good very bad time, Spiral-typical nonsense, hints of body horror at the end, blood and injury, Bruce may or may not actually be Bruce but Jason believes he is

The snow that isn’t there crunches under his boots as he follows Bruce into the land that Isn’t. Sannikov Land doesn’t exist, but it is beautiful. It’s terrifying. It’s impossible. It shifts and bends and melts and reforms. Staircases to nowhere claw themselves from the ground and doors open and close and beckon with bright colors and glimpses of hallways. 

How would a melody describe itself if asked? How does Jason describe everything he sees, everything he hears? The cold seeps into his bones, warms his marrow, generates static at his fingertips that makes his hair stand on end. He has to drag his eyes away from the neverending, shifting spirals that threaten to enclose him, and his gaze lands on the snow. It’s too bright, dull gray. It’s pale and has the opalescent sheen of an oil spill in sunlight. It shifts beneath him more like sand and pulls his boots down like soft clay. The footprints they left behind disappear, erasing the only proof that they are here, not covered by new snow but simply fading from existence. You can not tread on land that isn’t. 

The snow falls, disappears before it hits the ground, shifts colors mid-air, flickering like an idle TV. It bounces off his cheeks and curls and sends static up his spine, then the feeling settles like bursts of hot oil, like sticking his hand too close to boiling water.

Bruce tells him to keep pace, voice tight and eyes straight ahead. He doesn’t seem surprised about any of this, there is no fear, or surprise, or awe, not even the cutting, distant curiosity that usually lingers in his eyes. His face is blank and he will not look at Jason. 

Jason follows dutifully.

Jason is lost. He knows exactly where he is. The map he was given does not make sense. He follows it anyway. He thinks he’s been here a few days, maybe a week. There is no day or night in the endless hallways, his watch is different every time he looks at it. 

Had Bruce known it would be like this? Would he have asked Jason to go inside if he did? Jason would have, if Bruce had told him. He justs wants to help. He keeps following the map.

He can't tell up from down, he doesn't even remember lefts from rights but he stumbles through the disjointed halls anyway, trying to keep to the overlapping scribble of lines that wind around and through each other in a somehow boxy circle.

The laughter starts following him.

The sound will not stop. The hideous laughter keeps pace with him, distorted and sharp and ringing and blurring the edges of his vision with kaleidoscope colors. The floor shifts below him, wood slipping from beneath his feet as he’s thrown bodily on concrete, the floor-ceiling spinning around him, like he’s in a drying machine. He hates the warehouses more than the hallways, the boxes of things that sing awful, luring songs and the unbreakable windows that tease glimpses of the world outside. 

And of course, there’s the host. The thing with the long sharp fingers and the face that blurs and twists, it’s body moves like a centipede and then melts into greasy puddles before reforming into dense fog, too many mouths and they are all laughing. It does not kill him, but Jason wishes it would. He does not heal but he cannot die, the pain lingers and burns but he cannot rest, so he keeps walking, looking for the door-window-mirror that will let him go back to the never ending maze, to start the chase again.

He thinks it’s been a month now. He hasn’t slept in a while. The hunger gnaws at his gangly body as he drags it forward. He will not succumb to it. He wishes he would.

He is in a hospital, the fluorescents are too bright and the buzz is too loud and there has been no respite from the piercing laughter, an overplayed laugh track that gets more unrecognizable every minute. The smell of disinfectant makes his headache worse. He’s always hated hospitals. There’s a winding trail of red dragging through the center of the floor, dipping under the out of place doors in shakey, dissimilar lines. It would be more normal if it were blood, but it’s dry and smooth and not the right shade. He shambles through the unending halls towards the sound of cries he’ll never reach, eyes tracking the world's worst paint job and he leaves his own trail of red. 

The blood that pools behind him dries up as quickly as it hits the floor, the ground seeming to suck it in hungrily.

His socks are dampening from the moist brown carpet, his shoes having long fallen apart. He’s been walking for daysmonthsyears and he hasn’t slept for longer. He has a map, it does not make sense but he has nothing else to do but follow it. Why is he here? Where is he? He doesn’t remember anything but static in his veins and grating laughter that only got louder when his ears started bleeding. He keeps walking and the pictures on the walls change. Are they mirrors? They all show the same hallway from different angles, he is in all of them but he can’t see his face. He doesn’t remember what color his eyes are. Blue or green or purple. Can eyes be purple? It doesn’t seem…right but the thought drifts away as soon as he gets it, slipping through his fingers like snow.

Breaking up the maddening yellow wall-paper is a heavy metal door proclaiming EXIT in big red letters. It is lying. He keeps walking and ignores the scratching from the other side.

The hallway with the green striped walls has no right turns. Left after left after left and there are no doors, or mirrors, or pictures. He doesn’t know what the map is trying to tell him anymore. He starts scratching at the walls when he hears something moving on the other side. His nails are longer now. Or maybe just his fingers? They are sharp at the ends and the walls shudder when he drags his hand down through the rotted wood and plaster. There’s a scream from the other side, panicked and human. His stomach growls. He breaks through into another hallway, with tan walls and patterned brown carpet, lined on either side by rows of doors he knows are locked. He tries them all anyway. The numbers are out of order. The door at the very end of the hall has RUN etched crudely into the door instead of a room number. The handle gives when he tries it.

[trans-jon-rights]

I think we've all forgotten this legendary quote by Jonathan Jarchivist Sims so I present you again :

Jonathan Jarchivist Sims, from MAG 114

[everkinshi]

Michael jumpscare

[y3llow-hoodie]

Here’s a season 2 tma comic I started in august 2023 and procrastinated finishing till now, will post half now and the other half tomorrow, enjoy ! :)

Edit: here is part 2

[tiresomespaceplant]

pretty jon for lighting practice

magnus art dump under the cut!

martin doodle

roughs for this piece of dialogue that i still think about

sketchbook stuff

aaannnnddd nikola i did for my 3d finals!

[scooterscoob]

so i finished S1 recently

[teaableu]

I think he’s neat