#i will most likely be drawing more scenes from this i just can’t help myself

[veryberrybad]

this scene from Competing Frequencies owns my heart and soul and i just couldn’t go on with my life without drawing it. please please PLEASE read it, it is a journey and a delight and one of my favorite fics of all time!!!

[littlereddream]

ok so that zombie apocalypse au with jason was absolutely insanely amazing. i love how you wrote the rationale behind staying with him. would you ever consider writing more on the time jason kisses reader the first time (the one after they’d been attacked by a horde? if not, totally fine! have a cool day

Thank you!! So glad you asked because I’ve been wanting to write more about this au lol

This fully escaped me and ended up being longer than the original. Included is the missing scene from Jason kissing the reader for the first time and (I know you didn’t ask for this but I can’t help myself) their second kiss.

Enjoy!

(The original)

Under Heavy Rot

Missing scenes

Zombie apocalypse au typical gore (though more than Under Heavy Rot), gn reader

It was like digging for iron and finding gold instead. The corner store, such a short walk away from Jason’s house, was like a piece of trapped, untapped history. Every shelf was untouched, fully stocked as if the employees had made it their very last duty to fill up the space with supplies.

It’s not all perfect, of course. All of the dairy products are well past their expiration date, leaving you to grab powdered milk instead. The power’s out, and likely has been since the very beginning of it all, so most of the refrigerated or frozen products are out of the question.

Still, candy bars and canned food are nothing to scoff at.

After confirming that you’ve busied yourself with shoving non perishables into your backpack, Jason goes off to secure the store’s outside.

It doesn’t take long to fill up your backpack, and you zip it shut before slinging it over your shoulders. At that point, you almost leave. You’ve done what you and Jason came to do, so what’s left?

Just exploring the chance that the store might have a bag of those chips you used to love. Jason’s not around to lecture you for taking unnecessary risks, so you make your way over to the back. You’ll take your chances.

Every little movement has the old tile creaking under your feet, until one step prompts a quiet splash. Your gaze flicks down to your shoe, finding a puddle of sticky, nearly black blood. It sticks to the bottom of your boot when you raise it, thick and gooey.

Your hand flies to your knife, drawing it out of its sheath. Walker blood. It’s too coagulated to be anything else, too dark to be from anything other than the dead. The puddle smears forward, creating a trail through the aisle before turning past your view into the next.

Slowly, weapon raised, you move forward to follow the bloody path. You hardly make it two steps until a shrill snarl is your only warning before a hand grabs your shoulder.

You whirl around, knife angled to slash, but the blade can only uselessly cut across the walker’s chest. There’s no reaction from it, entirely undeterred from your attempt. You step back, distancing yourself as best you can while trying to form a plan. It’s just one. You’ve taken down countless walkers before, why’s this any different?

Another groan, this time from right behind you. You look back and, fuck, there’s two, blocking the other end of the aisle. Okay. Sacrifices, sacrifices.

Turning back to the one, you grip your knife tight and rush forward at it’s feet, diving between it’s legs to get behind before twisting around to slash the back of it’s knees. The action costs you your knife, getting stuck in the flesh mid movement, but it’s fine. It’s enough to buy you time, let you find out where you’d gotten yourself.

To the very back, with three walkers gaining on you and a singular clear path to the exit the next aisle over. You don’t make it. They’re faster than you’d predicted, recovering too quickly for your plan to fall into any sort of action. Too close, too close.

The two steps back you do take have your shoulders pressing into a shelf, securing your fate.

Or not. You could’ve sworn that the walkers in front of you didn’t have those holes in their head two seconds ago. They fall, one by one until they’re nothing but piles of previously reanimated flesh in front of you.

Behind them? Jason, slowly lowering his gun to rush over to you. His brows are knitted together, frown tight on his face, and you can only stare at him as his hands come up to cup both sides of your jaw. He tilts your face in his hands, checking you for injuries.

Jason repeats your name quietly, mumbled like he needs it to breathe. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“Did you get bit? Scratched? What happened? I thought…” he trails off.

“I’m okay, Jay. They didn’t hurt me. You got them,” you reassure, hands coming up to rest over his.

He’s close, enough for you to see the sweaty glow of his skin, the scuffs of dirt on his cheeks. You don’t think there’s ever been anyone so beautiful.

“You’re okay,” Jason repeats, like he doesn’t quite believe it himself.

You nod, sweeping your thumbs in little circles over the back of his hands. Jason doesn’t waste another second. You aren’t ready for it, you don’t think he was either. Between one second and the next, he has his lips pressed to yours.

It’s soft, sweet in a way you wouldn’t have expected from the same man who almost killed you during your first meeting. Though maybe you shouldn’t be surprised. He’s also the same man who changed the bandages on your wound as if you’re broken glass, bound to shatter entirely if he pressed a little too hard.

He holds your face in his hands like the world around you doesn’t exist. There aren’t dead walkers sprawled around your feet. You aren’t standing in a crappy, abandoned corner store. This isn’t about to end the second he pulls away.

But it does, and the second his lips leave yours, the real world falls back into place. You don’t think you’ve ever hated it more.

Jason breaks it abruptly, but doesn’t fully pull away. His forehead remains touching yours, eyes squeezed tight like he’s preparing himself to force his next words out.

“I’m sorry. It…you know. Adrenaline. It won’t happen again, promise.”

Jason’s hands drop down to his sides, and now even the warmth from your kiss is gone. The real world is cold, and all you can do is shiver.

But if he wants to pretend it was a mistake, then you’ll let him. At this point, you doubt there’s much you wouldn’t do for him.

The realization hits you like a bucket of cold water. You really, really don’t want to leave him. Judging by everything that’s happened, he doesn’t want you to either.

There’s nothing for you to say, not that he gives you any time to speak. He’s already grabbing more canned food to shove into his own backpack.

“I think we have everything. We’re probably good to head back. Need anything else?” He asks.

You need him to kiss you again.

“No. Let’s go.”

With a curt nod from him, you leave the corner store, your favorite chips forgotten.

Two weeks later, you learn that Jason Todd is a liar. A no good, handsome, filthy little liar. And sure, maybe it’s you that gave him the perfect grounds to break his promise, but still. A liar.

It’s not like you’re not grateful. If Jason hadn’t gone back on his promise, then you wouldn’t be sandwiched between him and the kitchen counter.

You’d gotten tired of watching him look away anytime you caught him staring, of seeing how he’d never allow himself to touch you for more than a second when pulling you out of danger.

Your exhaustion, well paired with the event of him wearing his stupidly fitting leather jacket around you, was the perfect recipe for you to damn the consequences and just kiss him.

You’d started with so much confidence. You thought you understood what he kissed like, thought you’d be the one to overwhelm him when you grabbed him by the collars of his jacket.

“I really want to kiss you right now. Can I?” You’d whispered, like you’d disturb the air around you if you were just that little bit louder.

He’d nodded stupidly, eyes wide and lips parted in shock.

You’d overwhelm him, you’d thought.

You’ve never been so wrong.

Within seconds of your lips meeting his, Jason doesn’t waste another moment before backing you up into the counter. This Jason is different than the one from the corner store, who was so sweet and gentle. This Jason kisses like he’s trying to steal the air from inside your lungs, more starved than the dead outside.

Your brain feels blank, all confidence gone along with any memory of what to do while kissing somebody. He doesn’t even give you a second to think, broad hands squeezing your hips like you’d even try to move away. What the hell, what the hell.

Jason pulls away to give you a total of two seconds to breathe, then he’s back, bringing a hand up wrap around one of your wrists, still resting on his chest. What is he- oh. With his hand guiding one of your arms to wrap around his neck, you manage to have just enough brain capacity left to bring the other arm up too.

You aren’t sure how long you kiss. What you do know is that even after your lips part for the final time, the real world isn’t even close to coming back. Your brain’s too fuzzy, head resting against his chest while his arms wrap around your waist, slowly swaying the both of you to a melody that only he knows.

You know that if you look up now, you’ll see the wide smile that he hasn’t been able to force down since you’ve stopped kissing, despite his best efforts.

Leaving. Right. As if. As far as you were concerned, the only way either of you would ever leave is with the other following right behind.

And it’s perfect.

[randomyuu]

the way it follows you home, the stories i never told

My guy Vox once again graced us with lovely Goyuu fanfics, and the way it follows you home, the stories i never told, made me go FERAL.

Time travel? Two Gojou Satorus? Double affection for our sunshine Yuuji? Yuuji sandwich? What feels like possible continuation of (you'll whisper, serpent tongue) what you fear you have become???

FUCK.

I need to stop indulging my imagination too much. I should’ve been content with writing long-ass comments but noooooo, my brain goes “you gotta draw it”. DAMMIT VOX, YOU AND YOUR DELICIOUS WRITINGS HHHHHH

So… usually I should’ve picked a favourite scene that is within my drawing capability, but I just… love all three chapters??? So I made a questionable time investment? I can’t stop??? Help???

This is probably the most ambitious fanart project I’ve ever done so far. Fair enough, considering I might combust if I keep these welled-up emotions inside from reading Vox’s Goyuu fics. Fuck.

Fic info:

Title: the way it follows you home, the stories i never told

Author: @voxofthevoid

Pairing: YuuGoGo. Future!Yuuji, Future!Gojou, Teen!Gojou

(idk why I laugh writing YuuGoGo. I’m beyond help)

Currently, it is 3 chapters out of 8. And it’s gonna be NSFW chapter 4 onwards, so don’t forget to read the tags first, folks!

The drawings are under Read More, because I have lots of thoughts surrounding each chapter and drawings. It’ll be hella long if I didn’t hide it here. It was a mess down there. A combination of hours before, during, and after I read said fic. I’d say good luck finding the art among the sea of jumbled words but… you’ll find them easily. Don’t worry about it haha

SPOILERS FOR ALL 3 CHAPTERS! I highly recommend reading those first before diving into these drawings!

Also for the comics, read from right to left please!

From here on, I will be referring to the Future!Gojou as Gojou and the teenage one as Satoru.

Overall, drawing all these is fun! Really fun! This project pushed me quite hard, forcing me to test my limit (because I rarely draw this much back to back). Since this is a combination of drawings and comics, the coloring style will not be consistent. In a way, I want to try some brushes I never get to use, as well as try out my new graphic tablet. Drawing these got me giggling because I was finally able to let loose during line art. It's much easier to do so, and sometimes I just get to reread the fic and giggle to myself for the nth time.

CHAPTER 1:

Whooo. Whooooooooo—

Ok, ok, the premise is just that good. It intrigued me, fascinated me, and I just… oomph. I cannot refuse a Time Travel Yuuji Sandwich. Sign me up.

Honestly, there are two scenes that are just… a bit too clear in my mind when reading this chapter. That would be the one I drew above, and the other is when Yaga called Gojou to come outside of the class. I love, loooove how Vox wrote Satoru’s POV. And when Yuuji fucking giggles?

I lost it.

Can you imagine, drawing Yuuji grins, with shiny stuff, maybe some sunlight, just purely happy and indulging Gojou?

Help me, for I am drowning in my love and adoration for Yuuji.

Page 2 is an experiment on using harsh black as shading (kind of?). I really enjoyed colouring Yuuji, and drawing those buffalo skulls! I wish I can grasp the concept of contrast a bit better tho :v

CHAPTER 2:

This is probably the only chapter where I picture still images instead of comic panels. A bit like those cool chapter covers in mangas. The one I really, really want to draw is the scene with Satoru on the table. Can’t pass the opportunity to highlight Satoru being a brat, albeit a really cool brat.

Cool idea drawing always proves to be a challenge, because of course my artistic skill just so happens to be below the requirement. Thank you, Sketchfab, for the chair and desk’s perspective otherwise I’m screwed lmao

The second scene that I want to draw the most is this:

Gojou is one step away from climbing Yuuji. Also, I have a bit of a problem picturing a man pouting that makes him look crazy instead, so please have Gojou pouting adorably instead. Because, as Yuuji said (with love), Gojou is (also) a brat.

This is possibly my favorite art in this project, after Yuuji's in Chapter 1 page 2. It's clean because I don't have to draw background, and I was having a fun time drawing Yuuji. And Gojou's squishy cheek as well.

Oh, actually, there is a “manga” scene in this chapter. It’s when Yuuji said, “I love Satoru.”

I just—

AAAAAHHHHH YUUJIIIIIII YOU AND VOX ARE GONNA BE THE DEATH OF ME. That secure relationship between Yuuji and Gojou? Satoru’s description of how Yuuji’s smile could blot out the sun??? Not me screaming 💀 I also see bits of hints of possible co-dependency, though I could be reading those wrong, but either way I’m good. Secure and possessive relationships are fun to consume hhhhhh

But yeah. There are too many wholesome Yuuji smiles in this fic, and I… I am not confident enough to draw genuine happiness. It’s too much for me ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿

For this chapter, another reason why I chose these two scenes is just because I want to try and draw cover-worthy pictures of Yuuji and Satoru, and Yuuji and Gojou (cough)

CHAPTER 3:

We start the chapter with Nanamin. Ah, Nanamin. I forgot what his teen self looked like and was surprised to see his design again lmao

I want to draw Yuuji and Nanami scene because… I just want to, I guess. I have never drawn him before (Yaga as well) so that's an interesting challenge. I got two ideas on how I want to draw it. One is a bit painting-esque, and the other one is like another chapter cover. In the end, I chose the cover one because I want to emphasise the difference between teen!Nanami and the Nanami from Yuuji’s original timeline, and how the watch feels like a connection between the same (yet not) person. It’s a bittersweet feeling? In a way?

I’m not really good at explaining my intention ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿

I love Yuuji’s answer to Nanami's question.

AND FINALLY.

A Yuuji SandwichTM scene.

And oh B O I do I love it. Have I told you I like every chapter? I probably have. But this one? Satoru’s curiosity, Yuuji’s on-brand self-deprecation, and Gojou come strolling down to show more of Yuuji to his mini-self. I want to draw this whole scene, from Gojou finding them, feeding Yuuji snacks, bitch-slapping Satoru into the backroom, to Yuuji growling. Them trying to hide a boner from Yuuji’s growl got me cackling so hard I LOVE IT 😭

I love it all. Please love Yuuji in my stead, Satoru and Satonyan :3

Oh! Also! 40-finger Yuuji sounds really, really cool! I’ll be happy with whatever Vox will give us in future chapters, but 40-finger Yuuji… possible scene with this timeline’s Sukuna… my god. The action! The drama! The bloodshed! One can only hope.

However, as much as I love that whole scene, it’s still too much for me :”) I’m still not yet confident in delivering the humour and action. Also my already-long drawing plan had my brain groaning in protest so I can’t push my luck :'D

When Gojou said "He looks sweet, but he's a bit of a beast", I kept picturing Yuuji staring innocently, but there was an edge to his look. As if the moment Satoru looks away, he will pounce. But in the end I just stick with innocent-looking Yuuji because I accidentally drew his eyes that way and I want to keep it in lol

Since Satoru points out how soft and cuddly Yuuji is, I also want to draw soft Yuuji :v

And the last one… is the last scene. For some reason, I read that both Gojou and Satoru share Yuuji’s lap and was having a frustrating yet fun time figuring out how it’s… physically possible, without having their butts on the ground because they both are not small at all. As I lined the art, I reread it again and… perhaps I read it wrong? Satoru is beside Yuuji, and not on his lap? So yeah, this one might be the least accurate, but hey, at least you can view it as a crack drawing or something :v

AAAANNNDDD I HAVE EXCEEDED TODAY’S BRAIN CAPACITY OF FORMING WORDS

Have I told you I love this fic?

…I probably have.

Have an amazing week (❁´▽`❁)*✲ﾟ*

[lovelynim]

hello Nim, congrats on 900 followers! may I request a tickle interrogation fic with lee caelus and ler dr. ratio? you probably know why I ask.... if not, anything haikaveh would be cool please!

Hi anon!

I think you're talking about the scene with Dr. Ratio trapping Caelus in the recent update, right? Heheh, guess our mind went the same way...

“WahAHAHAIT!! Eheheh, n-nohoho mohohore!!” Caelus laughed, clenching his hands into fists while the restrains around his wrists kept them tied to the chair’s arms. His attempts of protecting his body from his captor’s ticklish assault were, so far, all fruitless. The only thing he could do was to laugh - and laugh a lot.

With some sort of inhumane precision, those fingers knew exactly where they should strike to send Caelus into a fit of hysteric giggles, effortlessly drawing out more and more of his laughter. “C-cohohohome on!! GihiHIhive me a brehehak!!” Caelus whined through chuckles, scrunching up his shoulders and pressing his eyes shut as if it would make the tickling any more bearable. 

Still, his captor didn’t seem to be convinced and, instead, continued to knead at the soft spot below Caelus’s ribs.

After a couple of minutes that felt like an eternity, the tickling stopped. Caelus let out a loud groan, feeling his cheeks a little sore from smiling for so long. It was only when the sound of his laughter ceased that Caelus could focus on what the man in front of him was saying. Right, he remembered: his captor - Dr. Ratio - was explaining why he was being interrogated in the first place.

“And, therefore, the prime suspect behind Herta’s disappearance is… you”, Dr. Ratio concluded, withdrawing his hands and resting them over Caelus’s arms. “Now, do I need to repeat myself one more time or was this enough to help you remember where you were during the puppet’s disappearance?”

Right, it’s because of that. If anything, Caelus knew he just had to prove that he was innocent and had nothing to do with the puppet going missing, but how was he supposed to do that while strapped to a chair?

The trailblazer sighed, looking away as he tried to clear his thoughts. For some reason, he couldn’t recall most of the details and all the events from earlier that day were a bit blurry inside his head.

“It’s impolite to ignore a person while they are speaking to you,” Dr. Ratio interrupted, placing one hand on Caelus’s shoulder as he looked at him straight in his eyes. “Now, if you’d be so kind as to answer my question and spare us both from wasting any more time in this absurd interrogation, I’d be pleased. Where were you during the puppet’s disappearance?” Dr. Ratio said firmly, narrowing his eyes.

Caelus sighed, looking up to Dr. Ratio’s face. The way this man talked made him feel even more confused, but he knew he had to give him an answer - and do it soon.

[silvyadrakkon]

3 Under-Discussed Writer’s Block Busters

You all know me as an artist, but my first love will always be writing. And writer’s block is REAL. 

So I thought I’d throw out a few of my moderately unusual writer’s block busters to help my fellow authors.

Of course, the most common “answers” to writer’s block are:

Just keep writing, even if you don’t want to. (Something is better than nothing.)

Write now, edit later. (Leave your perfectionism at the door.)

Find what makes you most creative. (Play music, write during the same time of day, find good snacks, write in the right setting, and so on).

These are definitely helpful tips—things you 100% want to do whether you have writer’s block or not, but they’re not much use against more stubborn forms of creative constipation.

That’s where my three failsafe fix-its come in. They have always worked for me, no matter the situation. 

1. Change your writing method.

Story time! I haven’t been able to write on a computer for three years—about as long as I’ve been writing and editing for my career. I associate my computer with business—even now that I’m between jobs.

My creativity freezes up whenever I try to work on one of my stories, and I get really distracted. Eventually I end up down a rabbit hole looking up limnic eruptions or different types of crocodiles, having only written a paragraph of a completely unrelated story. 

I swapped to hand-writing stuff just after my son was born, and that worked for a long time. I filled several notebooks with some great content (that will eventually be ready for you to read). But then my kid started walking, and I became his favorite chair.

If I have a pen, my kid wants it. And he won’t take a decoy pen. He specifically wants the pen in my hand, so writing when he’s awake is kind of out of the question. (I can only draw when he’s awake because I can balance my tablet on the back of our sofa.) Plus, those of you with munchkins know that you’re generally doing other responsible adult things when the kiddo is asleep, making writing then rather difficult.

I learned a few days ago I can get a lot of writing done on my phone in the Apple Notes app. It sure beats doom-scrolling Tumblr and is a vast improvement over my retro minesweeper game when I’m spending some quality time in the bathroom. It’s also something I can write with when standing up, sitting on the couch, or hiding behind the baby gate on our stairs.

Can’t get the words out on Google Docs? Switch to Microsoft Word. Getting distracted on your computer? Handwrite your story—in a notebook or even on colorful construction paper. Don’t be afraid to experiment, even across the same story.

2. Get a second opinion.

I have a character floating around my WIPs who’s an absolute blast to write (I can unleash my full punning arsenal), but he’s also an ENFP, meaning we see the world in completely different ways. I often find myself stuck on how he would get out of the really nutty situations he often gets himself into. Thankfully, my ESFJ husband has really strong Extroverted Intuition (an ENFP’s dominant Jungian function), so I can often turn to him and ask, “What would be the dumbest could-work way you’d fix this problem?”

Asking for a second opinion is surprisingly low on most writer’s block fix-it lists, but it is by far one of the most helpful. I’ve been my mom’s developmental story consultant since I could read, and it’s been a great way for her to really churn out the novels. (It’s also a great motivation to finish your story because at least one person will be wanting to read it when you’re done.)

Even if you don’t take someone’s advice, it might still spark something that’ll propel your story forward.

3. Change your story’s direction.

Adapted from The Writing Life by Annie Dillard

Writing, in many ways, is a lot like digging a silver mine. As you rummage around your own head for precious nuggets (those really impactful scenes readers remember forever), you’re setting up a sturdy narrative shaft, using exposition and rising action to fortify walls so your story doesn’t collapse on itself.

Experienced miners know when a shaft isn’t structurally sound. They won’t willingly enter or work on a mine that could cave in on them, gauging the safety of the mine through small clues—clues their demanding boss is completely blind to. 

Your creative subconscious is a miner, and you, its employer. While not always, writer’s block could be an early sign that your story is about to collapse. Perhaps you’ve accidentally let a plot hole grow too large to fill with easy edits, or maybe the way you’re taking your story will fall flat, leaving you and your readers unsatisfied. Sure, you can force your creative subconscious to continue, but you’ll end up with a lot of unusable content in the end.

If you think you’re in a mine shaft writer’s block scenario, go back several plot points and start writing in another direction. If that doesn’t work, go back a few more plot points. While doing so may temporarily upset the plans you had for the novel, it will let you continue writing in peace and produce a better finished product.

[balladofsallyrose]

Emmylou Harris interview by Cameron Crowe Rolling Stone, June 19, 1975

Fame Catches Up with Emmylou

Los Angeles – Guitar in hand, Gram Parsons sat in his road manager’s Laurel Canyon home and coached singer Emmylou Harris through the harmonies of the old Burritos classic, “Sin City.” Later, after she’d excused herself for a visit to the kitchen, Parsons grinned proudly. “There she is,” he said, “that’s my kick in the ass, keep an eye on her.”

That was in 1973. Now, two years later, Harris’s first major solo effort, Pieces of the Sky, has done well and her current club and concert tour (augmented by a band featuring Elvis’s guitarist James Burton and his keyboard player Glen D. Hardin) is drawing unanimous raves. But Emmylou Harris, it seems, is the last to catch up with Emmylou Harris. Still a bit dazed over Parsons’s untimely death in the fall of ’73, the 28-year-old singer is only now waking up to the reality of a successful solo career.

“I know what’s happening but it hasn’t really hit me yet,” she drawls softly, curled up on the sofa of a West Hollywood hotel room. Two nights earlier, she’d enthralled a capacity Palomino Club audience that included such luminaries as Bonnie Raitt, Maria Muldaur, Lowell George, Commander Cody, Joni Mitchell and Linda Ronstadt (for whose recent country hit, “I Can’t Help It” Harris provided the strong counter harmony). “I guess it’s just been a kind of long hard road. In a way I’ve been at this for almost ten years on almost all kinds of levels – from waiting tables to playing in New York clubs and not having anybody listen to me, to making a terrible first record for a bankrupt company to working with Gram.

“I suppose working with Gram was the most amazing thing that ever happened to me,” she continues. “There was just something very magical about the experience. It was so much fun to just get up there, sing with him, and not worry about carrying a show myself. Everyone paid all this attention to me and told me how good I was and all that. It was really like being some kind of fairytale princess. Somehow that affected me more than all this that’s happening now.” She lets her words settle for a moment, then decides on a quip. “Maybe I’m on time delay.”

Born in Alabama and raised in Virginia, Harris remembers a reputation of being a “real prig” in high school. “I was considered to be a kind of oddball. You know, always studying and making good grades. Singing began as a social thing. I realized when I started singing at parties people began noticing me. High schools are real hip now, everybody’s cool, but there was a counter-culture in Woodbridge, Virginia, in 1963. You were either a homecoming queen or  a real weirdo. Here I was a 16-year-old Wasp, wanting to quit school and become Woody Guthrie.”

Instead, Harris made it to the University of North Carolina on a drama scholarship. Using free time to play off-campus bars in a folk duo, she lasted a year and a half before applying to the more prestigious drama department at Boston University. “I was gonna work as a waitress in Virginia Beach for a while to get enough tuition money,” she recalls. “But there was an incredible little music scene going on down there. That’s when I got serious about singing.”

Harris never made it to Boston U. “I thought I was going to get married. My first big love below up in my face, so I just went to New York ’cause there was nothing else to do. I was greener than green. I got a room at the YWCA, started going to the Village, playing basket houses [pass-the-hat-clubs] and just . . . hangin’ out.”

In two years of scuffling around New York, Emmylou made some valuable friends like singers Jerry Jeff Walker and David Bromberg. “Besides turning me on to country music, they sort of looked out for me,” she says. “Even so, I must have had some protective kind of bubble around me. I used to walk home from gigs on dark streets at two in the morning with my guitar and never think anything of it. Looking back, I get scared to death.”

Harris’s first album (on the now defunct Jubilee records), recorded in New York just after her marriage, is one she’d like to forget. “I was trying to keep it a secret,” she laughs (ironically, since the 1970 release was titled Emmylou Harris). “I hope somebody in authority will be able to buy the masters and burn them. Everybody involved with that record hated everybody else and I was in the middle trying to keep the peace. It was a disaster.”

Several months after recording, “the worst possible thing any girl could ever do to her budding career” happened. Harris became pregnant with her child, Hallie. “Up until then,” she admits, “my life had been a little too nebulous, I had no clear vision at all. The pregnancy, although it wasn’t planned, gave me something very real and something present to relate to.”

Later, with her marriage broken and ten dollars in her pocket, the protectiveness of motherhood, soon drove Harris out of New York. “I didn’t know where I was gonna go, but I knew I had to get a job and make some money. By accident I got back into music through some friends, Billy and Kathy Danoff [writers of ‘Take Me Home, Country Roads’]. They were still living in their basement apartment with all the cockroaches running around. They were the ones that put a guitar in my hands and ordered me onstage again.”

It was early ’71 when Flying Burrito Brothers guitarist Rick Roberts stumbled onto Harris performing in a small Washington D.C. bar called the Red Fox. The next night, Roberts brought the rest of the Burritos down for a look. They invited her to join the band; before she could accept, the Burritos had dissolved.

“Chris Hillman,” Emmylou remembers, “wanted to come out to L.A. so he could produce some demo tapes. He was really busy at the time. Anyway, I think it probably worked out the way it should have.” The way it worked out was for Hillman to turn on Gram Parsons, the Burritos’ long estranged cofounder, to their incredible discovery. Months later, Parson dropped in on one of Harris’s many D.C appearances and made a few vague promises. A year later, Parsons invited her to L.A. to sing on his first solo album, GP. Their partnership quickly intensified. “It was gonna be a Dolly Parton-Porter Wagoner situation. We didn’t see any need to break up that partnership because we really got higher on what we did together than anything we did separately. I still feel that way.”

It was hard work, she says, that kept her from slipping into an extended depression. “Gram’s death was like falling off a mountain. It was a very hard year between his death and the recording of my album [Pieces of the Sky]. A year of throwing myself into a lot of work that my heart wasn’t really into. There was a lot of stumbling involved. I was playing quite a few bars and was in a real vulnerable position. People felt that they could come up and ask me anything. I used to get hostile. It  hurt. I didn’t want to get emotional around some perfect stranger who had the goddamn gall to come up and ask me something that was none of his goddamn business.”

The subject brings her close to tears. “Gram was such an amazing part of my life. I have so many good memories of him, it seems pointless to dwell on the tragedy of it.” Abruptly, she reaches to turn up the country station already blaring from a hotel room radio. “Do you like Conway Twitty?” she asks. “I just love the harmony on this.”

Pieces of the Sky was almost a year long project in itself. Emmylou for one could not be more proud. With the help of Anne Murray’s ex-producer Brian Ahern, great care was taken in selecting material. “I’m just starting to write again,” says Harris. “I don’t mind the fact that I only wrote one song [“Boulder to Birmingham,’ cowritten with Bill Danoff] on the album. There are just too many tunes that I get off doing and want to turn people on to. I feel very deeply and personally involved with each one, so I don’t miss that writer’s identity of making a statement.

“I think any singer feels that way,” Harris says about choosing songs like the Everly Brothers’ “Sleepless Nights,” the Beatles’ “For No One”and Dolly Parton’s “Coat of Many Colors.” Like Linda [Ronstadt]. When she sings a song it’s really sung. Nobody cares that she doesn’t write; the delivery’s all that really matters.”

Besides a heavy touring schedule and the summer recording of her next album, Emmylou Harris spunkily refuses to acknowledge the long-range future. “A lot of my life has been circumstance. The future just doesn’t exist for me. You’re not responsible for decisions if you don’t make them.

“What do I see in the future?” Harris asks, reaching for the telephone. “A chocolate shake. Hello, Room Service?”

[oohnotvery]

Hand To Your Heart (Chapter 4)

After he leaves for Maryland, Scully doesn’t hear from Mulder for a day and a half. She figures it’s just as well. He told her this case was none of her business, so why should she bother concerning herself with its details?

But try as she might to ignore the pain, her mind is in turmoil. She knows she and Mulder have been out of sorts for weeks, but it’s unlike him to turn on her so aggressively. We’re not partners anymore, he said. Don’t hold me back, Scully.

Every time she remembers his words, she stops breathing. He stared at her like . . . like she was his enemy. Like she wasn’t his greatest fan, his most loyal supporter, his devoted partner. No, this isn’t just a casual falling out between friends; there is something far more insidious at play in the way he’s been acting.

She’s a scientist; she knows how to put two and two together. Mulder didn’t start acting this way until Diana Fowley arrived on the scene. Ever since that woman sank her claws into him, he’s become distrustful and moody and selfish. She only wonders if he’ll ever snap out of it, or if she’ll be stuck with this version of Mulder for the rest of . . .

For the rest of . . . forever?

“Forever” used to feel right for them. It only took a few months of them working together for Scully to realize that Mulder was it, that for the rest of her life, she’d be by his side. There was no future she could imagine without him playing a starring role.

But now the word forever feels bitter and acidic on her tongue. It doesn’t make sense for them, not if he’s going to act like she’s an impediment. Not if he’s found someone else to be his partner . . . .

She’s slipping out of the shower when she hears a loud knock at the door. Pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, she trots into her living room just as Mulder enters her apartment.

She blinks in surprise as he dangles his keys at her.

“I let myself in,” he says unnecessarily, and she nods, stupefied.

There’s water dripping from the ends of her hair, and she glances at the clock, noting that it’s nearly ten o’clock.

“Everything alright?” she finally asks, eyes sliding back to his.

He takes a step towards her and lights from her floor lamps illuminate his unnervingly giddy expression. It alarms her. Wasn’t it just yesterday that they fought? Why does he look so happy all of a sudden? Instinctually, she crosses her arms over her chest, as if this act will protect her from whatever Mulder is about to throw at her.  

He’s either unable or unwilling to read her cues, however, because he takes her by the shoulder and starts guiding her into her bedroom, his eyebrows jumping with excitement. Her hands fly to his forearms in protest but he’s strong, and when he tosses her onto her bed, she freezes.

Before she can enlist the help of her higher reasoning, his lips are falling to the juncture of her throat and shoulder, licking a long, wet path up her neck to her jawline. His hands wander over her breasts and down to the waistline of her sweatpants, and he tugs. Her breath hitches as she realizes that he’s trying to take off her pants. Her mouth parts in protest and her mind screams that she needs to put an end to this.

God, but it’s been weeks since he’s touched her like this, and her body resists the brain’s message. And as he slips off her underwear, she willingly parts her legs.

His eyes flick up to hers and a triumphant grin lifts to his lips just before he brings his mouth to her center. Her hips surge off the bed as pleasure unwillingly floods her body. Jesus Christ. She really, really wants this. And yet she really, really doesn’t want this. The effect is confusing. Her hands fall helplessly to his dark mop of hair and she starts to push him away, but then his tongue slides inside her and she can’t resist tugging him closer, nudging her clit against his nose. Fueled by her responsiveness, he hums greedily against her, wraps his arms around her thighs, and draws her tighter against his face.

When his lips form a suction around her clit, she whimpers in strained agony, trying and failing to fight the pleasure building inside her. But it’s becoming clear that he’s going to force this orgasm from her, whether he means to or not. Sensing that she’s getting closer, he slips one finger, then two, inside her and pulses them against her inner wall. One of her hands flies from his hair to cover her mouth. She bites her fist as she tries not to give into the waves and waves and waves of sensation.

Because if she comes for him, she’s weak, right? It would be undignified to come for a man who has no respect for her.

Oh, but this is Mulder eating her out, and try as she might, she can’t fight the culmination of emotions and physical sensations in her body. He’s too damn good at it, and he’s had too much practice doing exactly this to her with his mouth. He presses a kiss directly to her center and her back arches like a cat. It feels so fucking good. The pleasure in her body starts to drown out the weightier, more unpleasant messages her brain is sending.

So what if she lets Mulder go down on her tonight? What’s the big deal? There’s nothing wrong with letting herself have a little pleasure every now and then. There’s strength in that too, right?

“Stop overthinking it,” he mumbles against her clit, and she grits her teeth in frustration at his ability to read her so easily. “Come on, Scully, come on my face.”

She slams a fist into the mattress, her back arching as she tries to fight it one last time. Don’t give in, don’t give in—

“Come on, baby.” He rises abruptly to his feet, two fingers still inside her, and fixes her with a feral look. Above her, he looks powerful, a chameleon-eyed god cut from sharpest stone. It is not fair, she thinks angrily as he starts to drive his fingers in and out of her at a furious pace. It is not fair to have one’s senses assaulted with such an awesome amount of beauty, with such an agonizing amount of pleasure.

He slides a knee in between her legs and uses the weight of his body to drive his hands harder into her. A bead of sweat slips down her temple and he surges forward to lick it off her skin before pressing his lips to hers. His thumb slots into place against her clit and he rocks into her body, applying pressure in all the right places. She’s coming undone. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Her breathing becomes unsteady; her chest rises and falls erratically. And when his tongue slides against her lips and she tastes herself on him, she comes, a wild gasp into his mouth.

He stays on top of her until her orgasm subsides, rising to full height only when her heart rate starts to slow. The raucous, boiling pleasure of moments before is starting to curdle into self-hatred, and subtly, she turns her head away from him to hide the tears building on her lashes.

But he plops down beside her, one large hand falling to her naked thigh. He strokes slowly up and down the crease of her leg and she bites the inside of her cheek until her tears start to dry. But his fingers being to wander across her thigh and up into her wet center, and when he brushes her overly sensitive clit, it breaks something inside her.

Yanking her legs up into her chest, she scrambles to the other side of the bed and closes her eyes, trying desperately to forget what just happened. I did not just let Mulder do that to me, she repeats to herself. I did not let Mulder back into my bed. I did not—

“Scully?” she hears. She steadies herself with a deep breath, then opens her eyes. Mulder has twisted to face her, his eyebrows slanted in concern.  

Why does he look so confused?

Her voice trembles when she speaks. “What the hell was that?”

He tilts his head thoughtfully. “I figured I owed you one.”

Her heart plummets and her lips part. When she is composed enough to speak, her voice is rough with indignation. “So, obligation, then?”

He frowns. “You didn’t come last time, Scully.”

She blinks, confused. So he did notice. “It’s been six weeks,” she breathes.

“And?”

She swallows, clutching her hands together to stop the violent trembling in her fingers. “It’s been six weeks since you fucked me, and you’re only just now deciding it’s a good time to reciprocate?”

He huffs and adjusts himself so that he’s sitting with his back against the headboard. Off-handedly, she notices that he is half-hard. “So just because I’ve been a little distracted means I’m not allowed to come over and give you what I owed you?”

She shakes her head in disbelief. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Literally anywhere,” he says, and she notes the undertone of aggravation in his voice. “Lay it on me, Scully.”

She swallows, trying to gather her jumble of thoughts. “You didn’t owe me an orgasm, Mulder, we didn’t make a contract. Our—our sexual arrangement was not a tit-for-tat transaction.”

“Say tit again, Scully—”

“Do not mock me,” she hisses furiously. Their eyes lock and when he realizes she’s serious, he nods. “You say you’ve been distracted,” she continues after a moment, “and I never expected our arrangement to include exclusivity rights, but you’ve barely even looked at me in six weeks, much less managed to suggest that our arrangement was still in play.”

He frowns. “Of course it’s still in play, Scully, it’s always in play—”

“It’s not always in play,” she growls, “I’m not a sex toy.”

He twists to face her fully now, his face darkening in outrage. “What? Of course you’re not, Scully—”

“You used me last time—”

“I never—”

“You fucked me, and hurt me, and you just admitted that you knew I didn’t enjoy it, and now you’re coming here nearly two months later with some half-ass excuse about being too distracted, and you’re hoping that one round of oral sex will magically bandage up this entire thing?”

He gapes. “I hurt you?”

“That’s not the point—”

He reaches for her arm and she yanks away so fast that she nearly tumbles off the bed. He catches her shoulders and holds her in place, her face flaming, her lower half still embarrassingly exposed.

“Scully,” he says softly, his eyes turning tender in a way that she hasn’t seen in weeks. His thumbs rub gently across her biceps. “What do you mean I hurt you?”

“Stop,” she replies, batting away his hands. “That isn’t the point. The point is, you can’t just use me for sex whenever you feel like it. You can’t just—just show up and—and do what you just did—”

“Did you not like it?”

“It’s not about liking it, it’s about you coming here expecting something of me when you’ve ignored me for weeks!” she shouts. “You—”

“How did I hurt you?” he begs, reaching once again for her arm. “Please tell me, Scully.”

She shoves him away and he retreats to his corner of the bed like a kicked puppy. “It doesn’t matter,” she huffs. “What matters is that you have no interest in me as a partner or a person but as soon as you start to feel a little bit horny, you come here to use me—”

“Stop saying that!” he yells, his anger exploding around the room. His eyes flash with outrage. “Our arrangement is to be friends with benefits, is it not? We’ve had a rough couple of months, Scully, sure. We haven’t seen eye-to-eye on anything lately, and I get that. I know we’ve been out of sync, but does that mean our agreement is off?”

Her mouth opens but she can’t find the words. “I just—I just expected something different,” she finally says.

“Something different than consensual sex?” he asks, his eyebrows creasing.

I expected you to fall in love with me, her brain provides. Humiliation darkens her cheeks. How could she have been so stupid?

“I just mean—forgive me if I’m a little confused by your actions right now.” She takes a shaky breath. “It may not matter to you, but I—I don’t want to do this if we’re not at least . . . .”

“If we’re not at least what?”

She buries her face in her hands, too humiliated to express her pain. You can’t just come here and expect to hook up, she wants to say. Not when we’ve been distant for weeks. But to admit that would be to admit that she wants more out of their arrangement.  

“Scully?” he prods.

She shakes her head and he groans heavily, dropping his head to his chest. “Why are you always like this?”

“Like what?” she breathes, afraid of the answer. She has a feeling she is about to discover why he’s been so withdrawn lately.

He stares at her. “Why are you always fighting me? I’m so sick of it, Scully.”

Bewildered, her eyebrows fly up. “Excuse me?”

“There’s a reason I didn’t want you there yesterday and today. You wouldn’t have believed a word of what we saw,” he says harshly. “You’ve been suspicious of Diana from the get-go. You were suspicious of what we saw in Antarctica. And now you’re not even satisfied with sex? This is what we agreed to, isn’t it?”

Tears prick at her eyes, and she briefly hates her body for revealing its vulnerabilities so easily. How could she have ever convinced herself that friends-with-benefits would be a good idea? She should never have expected Mulder to want this to grow into something more.

“Just get out,” she says under her breath.

When he doesn’t move, she turns on him sharply. “Get out, Mulder.”

He scowls, shaking his head. “But I—god, you make this so fucking impossible.”

She stays silent. She’s already said too much.  

He sighs and stands, his hands falling heavily to his hips. When he doesn’t make a move to leave, she glares up at him. “What, Mulder?”

He drags his hands roughly across his face and for a half-crazed moment, she wonders if he can smell her on his fingers. “I need you with me tomorrow,” he finally says.  

Her eyes widen in surprise.

“At the crime scene,” he adds.  

She untangles herself slowly, dropping off the bed to stand in front of him. “Am I going mad,” she asks carefully, “or did you not just tell me you didn’t want me there because I wouldn’t believe?”

He scowls. “We have a body we need you to look at.”

“I thought Diana had no need for a scientist—”

“Can you be there or not?” he interrupts harshly.

She swallows, wondering when her gentle, tender Mulder turned into such a monster.

Diana, her subconscious mind supplies.

And then . . . it clicks. Her eyes meet his and she seems to read the answer right there on his face. Diana. Diana is the answer.

He’s fucking Diana. That’s why it took him six weeks to get back to her. That’s why he’s insisting that this arrangement remain purely platonic. That’s why he’s telling her he doesn’t need her anymore.

Her limbs turn leaden and her heart seems to stop beating. For a moment, she can hardly catch her breath. Of course. It’s all starting to make sense.

“Scully?” He’s staring at her curiously.

She feels walls starting to rise around her heart, feels barriers slamming down around her mind. Her body quickly battens down the hatches, preparing a fortress that no one—not even Mulder—will ever be able to penetrate. All the love she has for him, all the care, the passion, the affection—it’s locked up tight behind those walls, and as long as there’s the possibility of pain, those feelings will never see the light of day.

One day, she promises herself, one day far in the future, those feelings will die, starved of light and energy. But for now, she will no longer continue to feed them.

Stoically, she raises her eyes back to his. Where she used to see a lover, she now only sees a coworker. If Mulder seems to observe a change in her, he doesn’t mention it. When she speaks, her voice is hard and cold, as emotionless as possible.

“Tell me when and where.”

[ivanttakethis]

okay so hello first of all. second of all, thank you for all the color theory posts they are a good time. third: why do you like Ivan so much? I am an Ivan lover myself. He is my freak, my silly little guy, he spawns many of my late night ponderings but I will admit I am curious as to why you like him? Especially curious about what you consider Ivan "mischaracterization" because you are so opposed to it (I am as well though so like. i relate) anyways hope you are doing well!!

Hello fellow Ivan enjoyer! I’m glad you like my color theory ramblings 🫡

My answer got kinda long, so I’ll put it under the cut...

Part of the reason I like Ivan so much as a character is because I relate to him in a lot of ways.

Like, when he was younger, Ivan was quiet and not very good at expressing his emotions. So he had to fake/force them to fit in with the other kids.

I’ve talked about this art before, but the first time I saw it, I literally went:

“Oh. It me.” 🥹

I wasn’t as young as Ivan when I realized I didn’t quite express things as much as my peers did, but I’ve been there. I know what it’s like to have to perform to avoid being seen as weird.

My resting face is very neutral, which can look blank or emotionless to others, so when I’m around people who don’t know me well I have to put in effort to smile to avoid making them uncomfortable.

I kept seeing Ivan being mischaracterized as “emotionless” and that really rubbed me the wrong way. So that’s where my “#1 Ivan Mischaracterization Defender” title came from.

I talked more about my opinions on Ivan mischaracterizations in my Top 5 Worst Ivan Mischaracterizations post, if you’re interested in that.

Though for the most part, my title is just me being in a silly goofy mood lol.

Ivan is also just a super tragic character from pretty much start to finish.

The meteor scene. The unrequited love. Always chasing, never chased or acknowledged. Endless yearning. Black Sorrow. All of his self-deprecation. Thank you for being a victim of my shallow emotions.

His story really tugs at my heartstrings and I can’t help but root for him.

Not even to get with Till, necessarily. I just wish he could’ve found some happiness and reciprocity in his life, so he wouldn’t have thought he was so expendable. (Damn that’s really sad, anyways 😬)

I also like him because he’s a weird, silly little guy that I don’t fully understand.

Some of his motivations for the weird shit that he’s done are completely incomprehensible to me.

Why did he orchestrate that confrontation between Till and Mizi and his little wagyein buddy?

Why did he make a list of Till’s birthday presents every year just so he could (presumably) take them all??

Why did he lick Till’s blood off his fingers while making direct eye contact with him???

I don’t know. But I think that’s part of the draw. Ivan is like a puzzle.

I want to study him. I want to figure him out. I want to put him in a blender. You know?

He has bewitched me with his strange and somewhat unsettling behavior.

Thanks for the ask! I’m interested to know what you think of Ivan as well 👀

[erbodd]

A Wolf's Eye

This little story is meant as a present for an artist I admire, who became a friend and someone I respect and care for a lot. I first wanted to draw something, but I’m better at writing than drawing. I’m no “writer” though, by any means, and probably write stories like a 15-year-old with too big a will for happy endings and sugary love.

This is based on something I used to do when I was a very bad student at school. I’d ask for some imposed terms I have to use. Not just mentioned in a description but integrated into the story in a coherent manner. When I did that at school, I would even ask for the hero of the story, and once wrote the marvellous adventures of a mouse. But for this one, I gave myself the courtesy of choosing the protagonists. One would expect Pelle and Varg, but they’re much better in their hands than mine, so I went for the pair I’m the most comfortable with.

Here is what I asked for, and the perfect answers @plusvanity gave me : 

A colour: titanium white An animal: wolf A country: Sweden An household / everyday use item: a warm blanket A season: winter A song with lyrics OR specific lyrics: For Emma - Bon Iver

-Me before starting it : This is going to be so easy, I was already planning for winter and the lyrics are so fitting! -Me after writing about 50 words : Fuck me…

______________________________________________________________________

The sunset was stretching its golden beams across the landscape. Sat on the roof of the cabin, basking in the fainting warmth of the sun, was a blonde haired man. His eyes were closed and his mind was wandering. Winter had a way of sneaking memories in there, mostly bad, sometimes good. He shook his head to push any unwanted thought away. He wanted a clear mind so he could come up with new lyrics.

Being alone and just looking at nature was a good way to do that. He would often do it as an escape, since his younger years back in Sweden, and the habit has stuck with him. However, it was less and less of an escape and he truly enjoyed these rides now. It helped that the scenery was different from what he was used to, bringing something fresh to his sore mind. Yet, Norway was similar enough to Sweden in its decor to give him this sense of home and comfort that his old home didn’t give him anymore.

He would admire the landscape, see it move and change to become what he wanted. From a warm orange sunset, he would imagine a dark blue cloudy sky instead. All those beautiful evergreens, he would picture them dead with charcoal black bark. Where there is a house, in his mind it would turn into a castle made with old grey stones and lit by torches. In a window, there would be a shadowy figure cloaked in darkness, its watchful eye towering the scene. It would be cold, rough and gloomy, just the way he likes it. Later, he would pull out some paper and sketch his visions to turn them into something more tangible. He would scrap many, but some would be true to the images in his mind and worthy of keeping.

The sound of a door opening and some steps coming from the porch underneath him tore him from his reverie.

“Pelle? It’s getting dark, where are you?” “Up here” he answered, waving his hand. “Why are you on the roof?” he asked, slightly annoyed to have to step out in the cold. “The view. Come join me” he offered, pointing at the ladder. “I don’t deal with heights very well. Can’t you come down?” “You make me come down.” he dared him.

Øystein groaned and left, slamming the door shut, enough to make the wall and the windows shake. The blonde chuckled. For some strange reason, his friend’s temper would always bring a smile to his face. He resumed his contemplation but now, his mind was blurred, like an old television that got stuck between two channels. He sighed and climbed down carefully. Night wasn’t yet covering their part of the world, so he made for the trees instead of going home.

He walked on a path he knew as it was too late to venture in any new direction. His steps were confident, each one taken exactly where he had to in order to avoid a cavity here or a stump there. This allowed his mind to wander once more, free from any other thought. It was one of these moments ; your mind is invaded by a melody, it’s nostalgic, distorted like an old record, and it feels eerily familiar even if the name eludes you. There were no words, only notes that escorted his stroll in the forest.

He stopped and blinked a few times, adjusting to the unexpected drop in daylight. It felt as sudden as an eclipse, plunging the forest in darkness right after he realised he had wandered away from his regular path, too lost in thought. He fumbled carefully, going from a tree to another, taking slow steps until there was no tree left so he had to walk blindly, both hands in front of him.

Tripping on a shrouded obstacle, he ended up with his hands and knees in the cold snow. He was about to get back to his feet when he heard a low growl. As far as he knew, there were no dangerous predators in this forest, he would have noticed by then. But the sound filled him with a sense of dread he never felt before. Daring to lift his head, he looked around and was met with two bright golden eyes surrounded by titanium white fur that almost blinded him. The creature’s outline started to appear inch by inch as Pelle got used to the obscurity. It was a wolf, a huge one, and it was only a few feet away from him. He was frozen in fear save from the slight tremor the cold gave him as it crawled into his skin from his hands and knees.

The wolf started to inch closer and closer at an agonisingly slow pace when all it had to do was pounce on him to tear him up. Pelle hoped this was a dream or an hallucination, that he got lost in the forest and was now slowly dying of hypothermia, his mind protecting him by creating this weird fantasy. The wolf came close enough to sniff him and circled him before it sat, his mesmerising gaze locked on Per.

“We trip, we fall, we get up and try again until darkness becomes light and there is nothing left to fuel our fears. Only then can we live. Only then we are free.”

His voice was deep and distant, like the echo of an ancient deity that took pity on Pelle in his dying moments. The wolf came to his side, its icy fur grazed Per’s body and it took him a few seconds to understand it was offering help. He held onto him and lifted himself up, realising the cold had numbed his legs so much that they were shaking as he straightened up. The wolf retreated into the depths, leaving him alone with his freezing body and clouded mind.

A faint light caught his eye in the distance. Unconsciously, he knew he had to go that way. Gradually, it became brighter and his path was visible. However, he kept his attention to the source, understanding his surroundings from sole peripheral vision. From an unknown shape, the light became a rectangle. A door. A strange figure appeared in its frame, it was short, had long hair and wore a cloak of sorts. It came out from this divine gateway and seemed to float above the ground. Taking his steps at the same time as the figure, Per circled it like a predator would with its prey, avoiding the light and placing himself to the side of whoever it was.

“Pelle! It’s really cold now! You’ll freeze to death!” “No, I won’t” “Fuck! Don’t startle me like that!” “Sorry, I won’t do it again.” he promised, his playfully smile hinting otherwise.

Øystein opens his arms to invite Pelle inside. He meant inside the house, Pelle understood inside his arms. So that’s where he went, sliding his arms around the Norwegian and laying his head on the guitarist’s shoulder.

“You’re cold!” “And you’re nicely warm.”

Giving up, the shorter man wrapped his singer with the blanket as best he could, shielding him from the cold.

“Come inside, please.” “Were you worried about me?” “...Always.” he answered in a whisper.

He noticed Øystein was blushing. Or was it only the cold? Pelle didn’t care, he found it cute. He’s warming up already, but from the inside, from this foreign feeling of being cared for.

In the distance, the wolf was watching. His fur so white made him stand out from the fainter tone of the snow. As the wanderer he is, the lone wolf invites to explore the trails yet unblazed. Would Per understand this sign? Would he travel on this foreign road? Only time would tell, but Pelle would not forget his fall into the uncanny valley any time soon.

[dreamsandcherrypie]

Maria’s Sketchbook Masterlist

We’ve reached a pivotal element of the story which involves someone sneaking a peak at our main character’s journal 😏

Now chapters that don’t already have artwork will be illustrated through Maria’s Sketchbook! Hope you like :D

(As always click the image for that good quality)

PS I’ll illustrate your fanfic too!! Bonus if it’s Dean but not required :)

Chapter 1: Prologue

The little girl from our power duo’s first case

. . . Until an entirely different kind of job appeared at the foot of my bed. A creepy as shit ghost of a girl in bows and dusty nightgown. But even so, you could tell she was a beautiful little girl in life . . .

Chapter 2: In da Club

Our main suspect

“Oh! An’ she had glasses! Ol’ timer ones with the thick squares,” the pretty southern woman drawled out in her honeyed accent from her hospital bed.

I quickly begin sketching some glasses on my drawing of our suspect.

“Mrs. Bennet, did you notice anything unique about her teeth?” I ask, super casually.

“Like wha?”

“I don’t know, maybe they were… pointy?”

“No miss... I woulda reckoned somethin’ like that.”

Chapter 3: Meet Me at the Crime Scene

Ava’s puppy eyes

“Please? I really think we could use their help and I really like Sam.”

“Can’t you boink Sam without us having to work with his stupid brother?”

She clasps prayer hands under her chin, tilts her head even further, and juts out her lower lip. I hold out for all of a few seconds.

“Ugh! Fine!” I throw up my hands in defeat.

“Yay! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

It’s hard to be mad at her. Dean on the other hand…

Ava takes me by my hand back to where the boys stand. Those two dorks literally give each other a thumbs up.

Great.

Meanwhile Dean and I stand apart with crossed arms.

“Did you get hit with the puppy eyes too?”

“Actually… Yea.”

Chapter 4: What’s the Steaks? Focused Dean

“Oh yes,” says Rose, now holding hands with Ava, “Tell me more.”

I catch Rose up on the bet and Ava up on that whole barstool thing.

“Do you think he fancies you?” asks Rose, on the edge of her nonexistent seat.

“Not a chance in hell! You should hear the way he talks to me!”

“I don’t know hun, it sounded awfully sexually charged,” says Rose.

“It kind of felt more like a threat?”

“Hot,” says Ava.

“Dude! Might I remind you the whole reason we are here is to compare notes on this case?! Sam said he’d bring his computer and there is no computer!”

“I might have only said we were studying to get you over here.”

With a huff I leave the bathroom, the girls giggling wildly just behind me. I take that beer Sam got us before and chug.

“Let’s play darts!”

Chapter 5: A Whole Night

Cassettes

Chapter 6: Morning, Sunshine Green Soap 💚

Once most of the pool water is off my body, I steal a little of the boys’ green bar soap. I come out of the shower smelling like a straight dad, but I like it. Taking the liberty of using the guys’ cleanest looking towel, I dry off and wrap myself up.   I can’t believe I have to do this.  My hands gently crack open the bathroom door causing steam to escape. “Dean?”

Chapter 7: This Plan Sounds Dumb

TBD (To Be Drawn) Chapter 8: Out of the Woods "Listen..."

Chapter 9: "Field of Blue"

[redux-iterum]

Do you have any advice to help or prevent writer's block? I have a terrible habit of starting but never completing what I write. Also really excited for the Charred Legacy!

Hello and thank you! My advice splits into two categories of writer's block, which I'll call here Classic Block and Progression Block. Classic Block refers to the block people usually mean, especially when drawing: that you can barely write three sentences before erasing it all because it's awful and you hate it, leading you to sit around stewing in frustration that your skill level is so low. Progression Block, meanwhile, is the block where the actual work of writing something to completion is a Herculean task, even if you don't hate your writing style. The distinction DOES matter, as you’ll see.

To start off, Classic Block sources from your standards of writing not matching what you perceive to be your level of ability. Maybe you used to like how you write, but now all you see is the flaws. Your skills have leveled out or lowered instead of steadily increasing in quality – at least, that’s how it feels. This leads to you not writing at all, or only getting a bit done and then abandoning it because it sucks and what’s even the point and you’ll never make anything good anyway and so on. It’s the same thing as artist’s block, just with typing.

This brand of block has similar advice in every medium of art that it appears in, which is “study and practice”. The only way to get better is to examine where your faults are at and work to fix them. If you find how you write dialog unnatural, for example, you take a look at books or scripts you enjoy the dialog of and pay close attention to how the characters talk, or you find as many advice posts on the web as possible about how to create natural-sounding conversations, or even just listen in to people chatting in the real world. Like an artist studies anatomy and feels more confident about their improving work, a writer studies all the advice they can get and applies it to their story, and continues writing for practice until they get somewhere they’re okay with. It may not be as easy as artist’s block to conquer, depending on who you are, but it is doable.

Progression Block is a different beast, and I’ve certainly felt it before on my comics and writing. This is when you’re at the beginning or starting the middle of your project and you find yourself unable to continue on to the end. Maybe you’ve lost the adrenaline that the start gave you; maybe the prospect of a long-term story is too daunting; maybe you ran out of ideas or passion; maybe you don’t like the start now and you want to rewrite it before you continue; maybe (and this is the most common one) you’ve found yourself at a part of the story you’re not that excited about and it’s difficult to get through it. Whatever the case is, you’re good at starting ideas, just not finishing them. This is extremely common, so don’t feel bad about it. I can’t count how many webcomics or fics I’ve seen left to rot after about a month of work on them. I’ve done it myself, multiple times! We’re all at risk of it.

The biggest thing to address here is that, sadly, writing is not always going to be exciting. That’s just a fact. You are not going to be riding a high the entire process. You WILL get to something that feels more like homework than fun. This is a guarantee for every single project that goes on longer than a couple pages, and sometimes even the short stuff isn’t safe. This is not a horrible thing, it’s just something you need to develop methods to overcome. Discipline is important if you want to take writing seriously. There are ways to get through this: dinner-before-desert (the promise of “I have to write this dull chapter and I’ll get to write the scene I’m really excited about”), setting small goals to get the unfun part done a bit at a time (writing 200 words a day, or a couple paragraphs, etc), finding things to appreciate (like that joke you threw in or how pretty this scenery is), and having something occupying the senses to keep flow going (listening to music, mainly) are all tools I use myself to get past potentially weeks of writing that I’m not excited about. You do need to be a little stern with yourself, but the reward of getting to the thing you’ve been dreaming of since the start is completely worth it, I can promise that. You just gotta eat your dinner first, and then we’ll get you some ice cream. One carrot at a time. You can do this.

Something that can get to people is the prospect of being “stuck” with something for months or potentially years. The size of a project can be intimidating, I understand that. You’re doing this particular thing for god knows how long, and you have to do it on a regular basis if you ever want to get anywhere with it? That’s a little scary! I get it! But that does not mean you won’t have fun, or won’t ever be finished. It took me six years to complete a comic you can read through in one day, I’ve started one I know will take me at least ten, and Iterum itself is going to be a long fucking ride I don’t dare to guess the length of. I have had the occasional sensation of leaning on a table, bracing myself on my arms, staring down at a drink and thinking “Jesus Chirst” about how long all this shit will take me.

With that issue, I’ve personally found that taking joy in the process is the best solution. “Well, I do love writing these particular characters, I’m excited to see how they’ll grow over time!” “Planning chapters is a very chill way to spend my evenings while still giving me something to think about.” “It’s so exciting to have all these secret plot developments no one but me knows yet!” And so on. Like in life, you should appreciate the Now, not constantly be fretting about Later or Before. Learn to love typing out dialog and prose! It’s doable.

Of course, you should have a few thoughts about the future. That’s where planning comes in. Some people can make up shit on the fly and write a complete, excellent novel. I am not one of those people, and not many are. Some architecture is generally necessary. When I don’t have a set general path ahead of time for me to take as I write, I give up on things because I don’t know where to go next. Create your path, however vague or exact it needs to be! My advice on planning is to start with only the most major of story beats, arrange them in the order you want or need them to happen, and add smaller connecting lines to them, then connecting even smaller lines to those lines, slowly getting more and more specific and detailed as you zoom in on the story beat-by-beat.

Another thing that might help you keep at it is finding an audience – at least, it worked for me. When I started writing for real, I was doing choose-your-own-adventure threads in forums, and then a choose-your-own-adventure webcomic, where people got to send in commands to move the story forward. I could not get anything completed on my own to save my life, but having people participating and actively waiting for me to continue the story helped me develop the discipline and work ethic required to do the projects I’m doing now (and taught me how to improvise extremely well, as a side benefit). Your audience could be one person, or ten, or a hundred. Even if they don’t comment or regularly engage with the story, just knowing that someone is there waiting to see what happens next can be a good motivator.

One final thing: you may fall into the trap many do of looking at the small bit of stuff you’ve completed, not liking it, and wanting to go back and rewrite it, because this time you’ve got the skills to do it right.

DO NOT FUCKING DO THAT.

All that’s going to do is trap you in an endless cycle of “improving” what’s already there at best, and wear you out from going over the same old ground over and over and drain your love for the story at worst. You will not be fixing anything. Put it out and move on. Don’t keep trying to rescrub the same plate until you put a hole through it. You’re going to look back and think it’s shit. That’s normal. Doesn’t mean it’s true, or that you should waste time “fixing” it. Learn to go “well, I don’t like it, but I gotta keep going”. Get it done. It will never be perfect, and the sooner you understand that, the sooner you can get this project done.

That’s about all the advice I can think of for now. I hope this prattling helped you, at least a little bit!

[alittlefrenchtree]

“AN INCOMPLETE LIST: 20(ish) THINGS YOU LOVE (or don't) ABOUT RED, WHITE AND ROYAL BLUE”

Hi! No idea how I end up writing this since I’ve only been casually hanging in the fandom for about two minutes.

A few things to know before hand:

I apologize in advance if some of the questions sound weird. English is not my first language :).

Like said, I know about 2% of the fandom so the questions are pretty basic. Hope you had fun anyway!

Feel free to send me numbers AND to tag me (I can also put a tag but tumblr doesn't care about these half of the time so... do what you want #rwrb ask meme) if you play/want to answer some questions . I’m not sure I can answer myself to half the question, but I want to read your thoughts. 

1- What was your introduction to Red, White and Royal Blue? How did you become aware of it, what was your first impression of it?

2- Team Alex or Team Henry? (I know you love them both equally but choose anyway. OR choose depending of the circumstances. Like, "I’d go shopping with Alex but I’d marry Henry. Or I’d hug Alex but I’d go karaoke with Henry. I don’t know. Try something.)

3- Pick a Sis’ to be your Sis’! June or Bea? 

4- If you could keep only the book or only the movie, which one would you choose?

5- Choose one scene from the book to add to the movie.

6- Favorite kiss of the movie?

7- Tell us something you like better in the movie than in the book. And tell us something you like better in the book than in the movie. 

8- Favorite person in the Claremont-Diaz family (but you can’t say Alex).

9- If you had to delete the entire movie but one scene, which scene would you save?  

10- You’re in a difficult situation where you have only one call to get help (or to save your life), who are you calling? Amy, Zahra or Ellen?

11- Choose your prison. Would you rather live in a royal palace or in the White House? 

12- Share one of your unpopular opinion about the book and/or the movie.

13- A detail you feel like it’s not enough discussed. Whether it’s a scene, a quote, a frame, a piece of acting, a decor…) Time to ramble about it!

14- Favorites outfit(s) in the movie? (You can pick as many as you want, from as many characters as you want. But if you reply with a screenshot of a naked person, I’m going to put you in horny jail).

15- Gapfiller — briefly describe a scene you would have love to read/watch. It can be a whole new scene or a scene you would have like to be a bit longer, include more things.

16- Pick a line and/or a quote for each:

-You have to sell the book/movie to someone who doesn't know anything about it.

-The quote that makes you the most emotional.

-A quote/line that could be a life lesson to you.

17- Who is more in love with the other? Alex or Henry? (we know they’re both equally in love and idiots, just entertain your audience with some arguments to feed the international debate).

18- You have to get a RWRB tattoo (either because you want one or because someone is threatening you and you have to get one to save your life). What do you choose? It can be anything! 

19- Karaoke time ! For each, pick a song :

-To tell the love of your life how you feel about them.

-To tell your crush that you want them.

-To present yourself to the world and show what kind of wonderful you are as a person.

20- Suggest a fun drinking game rule that would be the deadliest or the funniest while watching the movie. (Like, "drink every time Henry looks at Alex with heart eyes").

Bonus! (or 21-) Do you read fanfic? Follow some visual artist (drawing, painting, gifing...)? Recommend someone to follow! (rwrb related ofc)

Have fun people 🏳️‍🌈💜

[calaisreno]

Point of View in Fiction: Some Observations

I did a poll on point of view in fanfiction a while ago. The results didn't surprise me; I knew that some people just don't read 1st person stories, and most people don’t care about POV. I was more interested in the reasons people gave for their preference.

It's a personal thing, how someone tells you a story, and if you don't like the narrative voice, you will associate it with other things. Readers don’t often think about voice, but it is one of the most important ways a story draws you in, or sends you to the back button. I suspect it's narrative voice that is affecting some readers more than POV.

I’ve never hit the back button on any fic because of the POV. I have hit that button because of format, paragraphing, and a few other issues. I’m an English teacher who taught creative writing for many of those years. Now I don’t read things that feel like student writing-- simply because I can’t enjoy reading something if it feels like I should be grading it. If there are spelling errors or common grammar mistakes that I see over and over in student work, I don’t read it. It might be a good story, but I can't put myself in the right headspace to appreciate it because it feels like work.

Judging from the replies to the poll, some people associate first person POV with bad writing, but there are many other things that flag a story as badly written. And a badly written story isn’t necessarily a bad story. (Barbara Woodhouse assured us that there are no bad dogs; this may be true for stories as well, but choice is an individual matter. There are some breeds I would not choose as a companion.)

I was given the task of teaching creative writing because the admin in charge of the schedule at my school needed another English elective and I had a hole in my schedule. I was an avid reader and had written a lot of original fiction at that point, and thought having students write poems and stories might be a nice change from essays and book reports. My feelings about it were not relevant. Nobody cared whether I was qualified; it was either Creative Writing or Study Hall (i.e. Purgatory) for me. I did not hesitate.

The reality: I loved it and hated it.

Many of my young writers were reluctant, having been placed in my class to fill a hole in their schedules; they did not enjoy writing in the least. A hundred words was an accomplishment for some of them; if they could break this barrier, they got smiley faces and exclamation points. Others were wildly enthusiastic, producing pages of badly spelled and punctuated narrative, a chaotic jumble of scene and dialogue with random flashes of brilliance.

Grading a story is not like grading an essay. The fledgling writers who are serious need to know that spelling, punctuation, and grammar matter: it’s the suit you put on for the interview so you get the job. The ones who dislike writing need encouragement to see that it doesn't have to be punishment. It can be play.

A few observations from my years working with student writers:

Inexperienced fiction writers tend to use POV 1st person more often. Most of these writers are also enthusiastic readers. First person POV helps them find the camera eye focus they realize fiction needs. However fantastic, the story they write is their story, intimate and personal, and 1st person feels most comfortable to them. They need encouragement and a few friendly suggestions, not a paper bloodied by my red pen. In writing process, first drafts are allowed to be horrible.

The non-readers in my class were the most reluctant writers; they often failed to understand POV and wrote from an outsider third-person POV which ended up being more of a summary than a story. My job was to show them how to pull scenes out of the summary. People talking, doing things.

We all start somewhere.

Publishers note that first submissions are often written in first person. It is not that they reject these stories because of that; the stories have other amateur flaws and the POV is just a flag for other issues. First person is not bad, it’s just harder for new writers to pull off well.

Several novels I’ve recently read use first person narrator to good effect: Piranesi comes to mind, The Rule of Four, and Moriarty. The Left Hand of Darkness is a story I can’t even imagine in third person-- and it has two narrators! The original Sherlock Holmes stories (all but a couple) are written in first person, with Doctor Watson narrating.

There are choices even within a first person narrative. The main character doesn’t have to narrate. Watson isn’t the main character in ACD’s stories, Holmes is. Watson is an involved/interested observer (a common use of first person); he stands in for the reader, seeing the mystery unfold, not understanding what all the clues mean until— surprise!— Holmes reveals the solution. I have read mysteries where the first person narrator turns out to be the murderer; the shock value of this fades if you use it every time, but it’s effective on some stories. First person is not bad, if chosen for a good reason.

And third person has its own set of problems. The multiple “he” and “his” that need clarification. The accidental wandering out of limited point of view into semi-omniscience. Even a close, third-person limited narrative provides some distance from the viewpoint character.

Second person is rare and considered gimmicky. I wrote a story in second POV once; the only comment from my most admiring reader: NO. Just, NO. Since that horror, I’ve used first person with second person address in a couple stories (Blessings and The Story of Us, if you’re curious). It’s not a choice I’d often make, but sometimes it’s the right one.

Several of my favourite fanfics use the first person brilliantly. (Pointing to ivyblossom’s The Progress of Sherlock Holmes and The Quiet Man.) When reading, I generally don’t notice point of view unless I think about it; if the narrative flows, the choice obviously works. I don't read much in other fandoms, but think that the Sherlock fandom has a lot of really talented and experienced writers, better than many published stories I’ve read.

I use first person in some of my stories, usually because I’ve found a narrative voice I like. I’ve also rewritten stories after the first draft, changing POV (first to third, or third to first) because I thought it would work better. My feeling is that neither is better in general; in a specific story it should be a deliberate choice, not an accidental one. It’s one of many things to think about when writing a narrative. Voice is one of the most important.

My conclusions:

Reading for pleasure means that the best story is the one you love. It’s a personal choice, not a debate.

Writing well develops over time, as a product of many things. If you’re writing for pleasure, not pay, you should write what you love. Do not change your story because of what a poll says.

If you’re unsure or unhappy about what you’ve written, find a beta reader. Ask them questions. Pay them in adoration. Return the favour; it’s a great way to learn.

Polls are useful only for provoking thought. My thanks to all who participated!

[huesofvioletandpurple]

A few days ago, the DRDT channel made public a “character song” playlist with sixteen songs inside (link). Naturally, considering this means that every character has a theme song of their own, I became Fucking Obsessed and tried matching each song to every character

Out of sixteen, I have exactly Four I am completely and absolutely confident in. That’s like, (checks notes), a quarter of the songs. I wish four was as neat of a number as three but unfortunately I do not get a choice in that regard. This would’ve been a quick post on which song I think matches with who + why but these guys made me recite an essay to myself as I paced around the room. So they deserve their own post <3.

Featuring: screenshots, hidden quotes (link) (required reading), and a shit ton of brainrot. explanations are below cut. tl;dr:

Rose is Cartoons

Charles is Asymptotic

Nico is Drawing Pins

Teruko is Good Grief

=

Rose Lacroix is Cartoons

[plain text: Rose Lacroix is Cartoons]

Track #4 is Cartoons by Louie Zong, and I have decided this is Rose’s track too. This is one many, many others have suspected as well. Starting it off with this first because it’s the simplest to explain: Rose is an artist, the lyrics are about art; or, at the very least, uses animation and drawing as metaphors.

Abstractions how I live my day to day, [...] Hard to explain, And to express, Forever just a work-in-progress.

The song in general uses drawing to explain feeling burnt out/not passionate about. Well. Your passions. Rose states herself that her work can only give her catharsis, considering none of it technically “hers” anymore.

[ID: Two screenshots of  Rose from chapter 2 episode 5. She is in the dressing room talking to Teruko, and has her hand on her neck as she looks downwards. Transcript: All I do is make paintings on other’s beck-and-call. It’s been so long that I don’t think I remember how to paint something original anymore. / There’s no value in the creations of someone who’s fallen so far from artistry. The only thing I can get out of art is catharsis. End ID]

Which is even more tragic, considering how she had huge ambitions as a child

[ID: One screenshot from the same episode. Rose now rests her chin in her fist. Transcript: I wanted to be a great painter when I was a kid, but things didn’t turn out that way. None of my original stuff ever sold well. End ID] 

There’s also these lyrics here

Can't hold a pencil or a thought. (Oh uh oh) Can't paint myself something I'm not.

Tryin' to make that ol' deadline, But all I've got are two dots and a line.

Rose knows she’s talented; in fact, I’d argue she’s one of the most secure about her talent than anyone in the class. She understands how useful it is in the killing game when paired with her photographic memory. In chapter 2, however, she hesitates, despite knowing this more than anyone.

[ID: Three screenshots of Rose from chapter 2 episode 8. She is sitting against a wall, knees drawn to her chest as she buries her face in her arms. Transcript of her dialogue: I don’t want to find out what kind of corpse Arei left. It’s easier for me to pretend nothing bad happened and forget about everything tomorrow. / That’s why I’m sitting here, wallowing in my own guilt, unable to do anything helpful. / You probably need me to draw a picture of a crime scene, like last time. That’s something only I can do that can help everyone. End ID]

She doesn’t want to use her talent that way—she can’t “paint herself something she’s not”, and she would “make the deadline”, but she can’t just will herself to simply Do Something when it’s draining and linked to her trauma from the previous case—and she’s more self conscious of it than anyone, that she only has “two dots and a line” —an upset face.

There’s also her hidden quote from the inspect elements of her character page: “In the end, all I can do is watch my wretched life go on.” I think it fits with the general theme of being incredibly discouraged and burnt out. “Forever a work in progress” indeed.

=

Charles Cuevas is Asymptotic

[pt: Charles Cuevas is Asymptotic]

I’ve chosen Asymptotic by (once more,) Louie Zong as Charles’ song. I could say it’s because of the mathsy theming and Charles is literally a fuckging chemist and leave it at that—I almost chose this as Min’s song because of how groovy and nerdy (affectionate) it was. I’m sorry to say it’s because of angst.

We’re aymptotic, Divided, by the smallest, slimmest line

Hey, so you know how Charles has an older brother ?

And you know how he didn’t know this until one of the motives told him ? So now there’s a good chance he won’t remember him fully for a long, long time ?

[you’re] Not imaginary. But it's complex! The limits are infinitely great

Charles now knows of this family member he has no recollection of. He most likely existed at some point—every other secret, though written to show the worst of the cast, are based on some sort of truth. I have a pet theory that his phobia of blood is connected to his brother, considering amnesia of a traumatic event is a common occurrence, and he doesn’t recall the origin of his haemophobia either, which opens up the possibility of them being linked. As long as he has this amnesia, any memory of his brother will always be far from his grasp.

As close as we could ever get, you'll be just out of reach

His hidden quote is about how it’s better to just forget; that means those events weren’t worth keeping.

if you forgot it, then it probably wasn’t important to begin with. none of those memories should ever be kept anyway.

In the context of the creator looking at the lyrics of the song and going “omg that’s blorbo from my brain”, the song refers to him as believing that he and his brother are asymptotes—lines that greatly resemble each other that will never reach, existing in different planes altogether.

=

Nico Hakobyan is Drawing Pins

[pt: Nico Hakobyan is Drawing Pins]

So.

Drawing Pins by Nothing but Thieves ! This song in particular fucking Stumped me. The lyrics are good, they slap, the Creator has fantastic taste in music; I just couldn’t figure out who the Hell it could be. Then, I had an epiphany.

This epiphany, by the way, is also probably one of my BIGGEST reaches. It completely redefines the song—even MORESO than how I treated asymptotic—and focuses hard on One aspect of Nico’s character.

(In my defense, it’s a really huge part.)

I don't feel like I belong Here at all

Tell me what you did it What you did it What you did it for 'Cause I can't figure it out

What do I have to do To be loved, loved by you

These are the lyrics in particular that made me go “wait a god damn Second”.

Firstly, not feeling like they belong.

[ID: Two screenshots of Nico from chapter 2 episode 6. They hold their arm and look nervously to the side in the first screenshot, then bury their face in the collar of their shirt in the next. Transcript: I thought you would laugh at me. I was worried you would pick up rocks and start throwing them at me or pick up clumps of mud and start throwing them at me. / I’m sorry, this never happens! Usually people call me abnormal or say that I’m just trying to be special, in a derogatory way. End ID]

Nico has been a frequent victim of bullying. Even though their current classmates are accepting, that just made them wary that something was off, because their past experiences stuck with them ! I feel like it should go unsaid that that, already on its own, is pretty fucking isolating !

[ID: a screenshot from the same episode. Nico is in the same pose. They say “And then they leave me out of everything and never talk to me again because there’s something wrong with me.” End ID]

So, self-explanatory line in the context of Nico. Cool. Cool. What am I seeing in the other lyrics, though ?

Tell me what you did it What you did it What you did it for 'Cause I can't figure it out

Okay, so. You know Nico’s hidden quote ? It’s “why should I own up for the mistakes someone else made?”, if you’re wondering.

There’s another reason they don’t feel like they belong.

There’s this running thread of Nico misunderstanding social cues, causing conflict and being scorned for it, but never being explained why those social cues exist, leading to them confused on why something so arbitrary is held to such importance. This causes this cycle that they’re just expected to escape, yet not being given the understanding or tools to do.

[ID: Three screenshots of Nico from the same episode. Nico looks down at their hands, then scratches their chin, then buries the bottom half of their face in their shirt. Transcript: If you’re having dinner and want someone to pass the salt, you can say, “Please pass the salt,”  or you can say “Give me the salt.” / One of those things is supposed to be more polite than the other, right? But why? They both meant the same thing. They’re just slightly different mixes of words. / It’s like that. I don’t understand why some mixes of words come off as ‘rude’ and some don’t, even if they mean tthe same thing. End ID]

I suspect the hidden quote is of Nico snapping, of not caring about being polite or nice anymore. They are already honest, which escalated their animosity with Ace, but this time they’re not caving if someone tells them that they’re being “too blunt” about it.

What do I have to do To be loved, loved by you

But it was never on purpose. They are not “blunt” or “brutally honest” to Ace or David whoever because they want to build that kind of reputation. I think these lyrics are suggesting a culmination of their arc, “What can I do to be loved ? Why should I apologise in place of the person who did hurt you ? Why am I constantly apologising for my existence ?

How do I win over people like you?”

I am fully aware that I may be reaching, but if you see the song as a representation of Nico’s rage and resentment that they had to “hold down by drawing pins”, you can at the very least see where I’m coming from.

=

Teruko is Good Grief

[pt: Teruko Tawaki is Good Grief]

Good Grief by Bastille, aka the last song on the playlist !

I’ve seen people say it’s a Whit song, or a Charles song, and I see it ! Death is very important in both of their arcs, and so is their way of mourning. However, I feel like it couldn’t be anyone but Teruko, and I also feel like there’s a very important part of her that people often forget.

[ID: Two screenshots from the episode 1 of the first chapter. They are lines of Teruko’s inner monologue. Transcript: His name, her face, it’s just barely out of reach. I claw and grasp through the dusty haze of my memories. / Choking on my nostalgia, I keep begging for you to come back. End ID]

[ID: A screenshot from chapter 1 episode 9 of Mai Akasaki turning around and smiling at the viewer. End ID]

Teruko mourns.

At the very least, she tries. She misses people. She grieves. That is what drives her distrust—she knows how much love hurts, and doesn’t want to feel that way.

[ID: A screenshot from chapter 2 episode 3. Teruko playing with succulents in her room as if they are dolls. One succulent has an eyepatch and knife, and the other has a knife and a sticky note, with a cowlick resembling Teruko’s. End ID]

Even in this silly moment of Teruko playing with cacti—it shows she didn’t WANT Xander to die ! She misses him. She wishes it could’ve gone better and blames herself for trusting—and notice how Xander in this scenario stands by her side.

Every minute and every hour I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more

She “chokes on her nostalgia” when she thinks of two unnamed people, “begging them to come back”. Will she ever admit it? Fuck no are you kidding me she couldn’t be emotionally vulnerable to save her Life. But Teruko constantly loses and is never given time or space to mourn (That is what I meant when I said she tries), and it’s led her to bottling and hiding them to further isolate herself, to prevent her from losing the ones she loves again.

In my thoughts you're far away And you are whistling the melody, Whistling the melody Crystallising clear as day Oh I can picture you so easily, Picture you so easily

Again, the two people are “far away”, she’s half forgotten after all. But Mai Akasaki’s image is as clear as day. Her memories are one of the only traces of Mai we have at all.

I could repeat myself over and over with pretty much every lyric of this song in particular, so I suggest seeking it out and listening to it yourself. I cannot stress enough how much this song SCREAMS Teruko to me

=

Overall, I’m fully ready to be wrong. I do not have a great track record when predicting story arcs. However, I have thought about this for a very intense bit of time, so this is to work as a way to get my thoughts out there.

I have a few hunches, like Shun-Ran for David or Jotaro’s theme for Xander, but both are just hunches, and neither are as strong as the four above.

Anyways, have a great day ! holy shit this is over 1.7K words excluding the image descriptions.

[soulofapatrick]

Never Leave Me Tommy - Tommy Miller x Reader

Summary: Part 5 of the Instant Attraction series. Tommy and Y/N spend your first day apart and well... Tommy realises he never wants you to leave him; the feeling being mutual

Words: 2.9k

Warning: Smut (p in v); overstimulation

Y/N’s POV

The bed is empty when I awake to the sunlight streaming in but there’s a messy scrawl of a note on the bedside table. Tommy got called on an emergency patrol as there’s apparently a bunch of infected that the original patrol need help with. I can’t not smile at the way he thought about leaving me a note even if he was in a rush as time is of the essence when patrol goes wrong - it was one of the first lessons Maria taught me. 

Tommy won’t be back for a while so it’s probably a good time to explore Jackson and try make some friends as Maria told me I should try and settle in, not just with the Miller brother and Ellie. She’s right. Annoyingly. So I pull my aching body from the soft sheets, finding my worn bra and some jeans to add to the boxers and shirt so I look somewhat decent and keeping my modesty. There’s socks in the top draw so I borrow a pair before trudging down the stairs, slipping into my boots before grabbing a jacket. It’s Tommy’s fleece lined jean jacket again, he must have left it for me. He’s such a damn sweetheart, I hope he’s okay out there. He better come back to me alive or I’m going to raise fucking hell. 

The settlement is loud and bustling despite the outbreak and I envy the community feel to it all, knowing they stare and whisper. The canteen is still open, luckily, so I grab a plate and help myself to a portion of breakfast before turning to find an empty space but every table has at least one person. Someone’s waving, he seems a little older than Ellie but I’ll take it as he’s not judging but offering me the empty seat opposite him so I weave through the tables until I’m there. 

“Y/N right?” His voice is oozing with southern charm but it’s not flirty like most and it definitely doesn’t fit his appearances. He’s obviously Asian American, I expected an American just not the amount of southern lilt to it and he seems to understand my surprise, “I was raised in South Carolina before my mum brought me and my younger brother here for sanctuary.” 

“Nice to meet you…” I trail off, he hasn’t said his name. 

“Jesse,” He holds out his hand politely so I reach over the table and shake it before digging into my food, “I’m seventeen if that’s going to be your next question.” So three years older than Ellie and three years younger than me. Exactly between our ages. He’s so easy to talk to, I love it, and I can just tell we’re going to be best friends. From the lopsided smile he sends me, he can sense it too, “So you and Tommy hit it off pretty quickly. I think everyones glad as he was starting to drive us all crazy.” 

“They seem more judgemental,” I reply quietly and he laughs lightly, a musical sound, “I guess that’s a given as I’m new?” 

“You did arrive with the famous Joel Miller that Tommy could not shut up about and that mouthy girl, Ellie.” Jesse points out and yeah, he has a fair point. I didn’t arrive to Jackson quietly, the way Joel and Tommy reunited in the town square and the way everyone could finally put a face to the name seeing as Tommy would not talking about Joel it seems. He really does love his older brother, Joel should know all those fears he had about Tommy not wanting to see him again were stupid and Tommy painted him like a hero. Joel is a hero even if he doesn’t see it. 

Jesse and I fall into a comfortable silence, eating breakfast and drinking the sweet orange juice that makes me think of before the outbreak. I haven’t hadn’t half of this food since the outbreak, the QZs not being generous with their food and then on the road, it was a miracle when we found canned goods like ‘Chef Boyardee’. It takes a lot of self-restraint not to eat like a starved animal as I don’t want to make more of a scene than I already am by being in the canteen. I want to spend every day from here on out, the sense of community a little overwhelming but it’s definitely something I could get used to. 

“Come on, I have inventory to do, you can join me.” Jesse stands once our plates are clean so I just nod and follow him, putting my plate and cutlery in the designated racks. It’s cold outside, Tommy’s jacket putting up a fight to keep me warm as we walk through the settling snow. It’s pretty, the snowflakes clinging to every surface as we head towards the small hut I saw a few days ago, curious about what it was. Guess I’m about to find out seeing as Jesse is pulling keys from his pocket and unlocking the door, holding it open for me to go first. As much as I trust Jesse my nerves are still fried so I just stand there, staring at him until he shrugs, “Understandable.” Stepping in first. I follow him to find myself in a small shed that is full of all types of weapons and ammo. 

Ellie would lose her fucking mind if she saw this room, the same reaction she had when seeing Bill’s armoury. Fucking nerd. She’s right though, all this is so fucking cool, I can’t help myself as I run my hands over every gun. The cool metal familiar under my rough fingertips, having been brought up to fight with any available weapon but the one thing I want the most is hidden away in the corner. A bow and quiver of arrows, they’re tucked away as if not touched for years which is fair enough as you’d have to be faster than a clicker grabbing the arrows and firing them. Guns are the ideal weapon for this post apocalyptic world but they’re calling me so I’m picking up the bow, feeling Jesse watching me. It’s a little old but still strong, the string still taut as I pull it back as if firing an arrow, it sings when I let it go and the sound is beautiful. I don’t know why people wouldn’t use bow and arrows when able to anymore. 

“Is it true you’re the Ghost?” Jesse asks, sitting on the table as he watches me with those dark eyes, no judgement or any emotion in them really, “I’ve heard stories but I don’t think you’re the antihero people paint you as. I’m guessing you did it out of love or loss. Only those two emotions can cause a reaction like…” He trails of, shrugging lightly. 

“Loss,” I mumble back, setting the bow back down and joining him at the table, eyes skimming over the notes laid out with the amounts of ammo and guns and what types there are. People’s names are next to some of them so I guess that’s for whoever they belong to or who uses them the most, “My older brother got infected and I had to look after my little brother.” 

“I’m sorry.” Again, no judgement or sympathy. Just words, “We should begin counting everything or Maria is gonna be annoyed. She’s already stressed about the recent influx of infected in the area recently. You can keep the bow and arrows by the way. Take them home with you.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Nothing to thank me for.” 

*

It’s almost dark by the time Jesse and I are emerging from the mini armoury Jackson has. The bow and arrows are secure on my back, the weight of them being familiar like a weight I’ve missed. I wait for Jesse to lock the doors before we head towards the residential area of Jackson, the snow heavier now and ankle deep. It’s refreshing, the way it clings to Tommy’s coat and my hair and the way Jesse’s voice carries my way with the soft breeze. He’s telling me about his arrival in Jackson and making friends with Dina who is his girlfriend, she sounds like the girl Ellie yelled at when we arrived. Jesse laughs at it and confirms it is her, I must tell Ellie that then. 

“See you tomorrow Y/N.” Jesse hugs me when we stop outside of Tommy’s, surprising me so I barely have time to hug him back before he’s disappearing into the night with a grin and a wave. The lights are on in the house, meaning Tommy’s back from patrol, he’s probably tired as well so I try and be as quiet as I can when slipping inside. 

Tommy’s passed out on the couch, still in his patrol uniform so I take extra care with being silent. It comes natural to me, all those years creeping up on clickers and bloaters so he doesn’t even stir as I take my shoes and jacket off, setting the bow and quiver next to the door. I decide it’s my turn to cook so I lightly pad to the kitchen, stretching my tired shoulders until they pop before raiding the fridge. There’s bacon, milk, cheese which could be made into cheesy pasta if we have pasta and flour. Not infected flour. 

He stays asleep until the aroma of sizzling bacon and creamy cheese sauce fills the air, causing him to sit up with a soft groan. The sauce is bubbling happily away enough for me to leave it for a few minutes to check on him, having not seen him all day. I’m kneeling between Tommy’s legs, holding his face in my hands as I memorise the freckles smeared across that sun kissed skin, bringing my lips centimetres from his, “I missed you.” 

“Missed you too baby girl.” He mumbles back before closing the gap, his kiss soft and delicate, rough pads of his fingers holding my jaw in place. It’s different compared to other kisses we’ve shared and I could definitely get used to this, “I love you.” 

“I love you too Tommy,” I can’t hide the smile when I stand, him trailing after me to the kitchen. His arms wrap around my waist as I turn the bacon and stir the sauce and pasta, making sure nothing is burning, “Why don’t you get changed sweetheart, it’ll be ready by the time you come back down.” 

“Missed you.” He numbers into my neck again and I can’t stop the light laugh escaping me, even when he lets out a whine of protest, my heart melting even more. 

“I will be right here when you come back down.” I turn in his grip, holding his face in both hands once again and making him look me the eyes, tiredness and fear settled deep in the cognac of his gaze, “I promise.” 

He stares at me for a few seconds more before nodding once, pressing a kiss to my forehead and disappearing upstairs so I can grab us bowls and mix everything together before serving it up. By the time he comes back down I’m sat on the sofa with my bowl in hand and his on the table, waiting for him. He practically dives into the seat, sitting almost too close to me but I’m not gonna complain, I want everything Tommy has to offer me and it’s obvious the feelings are reciprocated. We don’t talk while we eat. We don’t have to. Each other’s company is enough until our bowls are empty and his lips are on my neck. 

Tommy’s grabbing my hands and guiding me upstairs, hands on my hips and lips leaving scorching heat over every bit of bare skin he can find walking me backwards until my legs hit the bed. I pull my shirt over my head, him doing the same before I lay back, watching the way Tommy climbs over me and his fingers trail up and down my body as if trying to map it out and remember it for future, just in case, “You’re so beautiful baby girl.” He murmurs, lips trailing down my stomach to the waistband of my jeans, popping the button with his nimble fingers and I lift my hips for him to slide them down, his boxers going with them until I’m bare. He kneels above me, taking me in and I try hard not to squirm away or cover myself as he seems to need this after the patrol today, the featherlight touches and bags under his eyes say it all, “How did I end up getting so lucky.” 

“I think it’s the curls.” I joke, watching the way his eyes crinkle in an amused smile before he’s leaning down and capturing my lips in a kiss that has me trying to follow his lips with my mind but his hands holding my shoulders down stops me. 

“If it’s my curls then no touching.” He growls in my ear, drawing a whimper from my parted lips before he’s sliding down so he’s between my legs. He wraps his arms around my thighs before burying his face in my weeping mound with no warning, my hands going for those curls but I have to stop myself, wrapping the sheets in my grip as my back arches into the thrusts his tongue begins. If he continues at this brutal pace I’m not going to last much longer, he’s dragging me closer and closer to the bliss with every moan he lets out against my sensitive clit as he eats me out like a starved man. My body acts on it’s own as I ride out the bliss but it stops suddenly, dragging an anguished cry from me and my eyes flying open to see my hand is in Tommy’s hair. 

Fuck. 

He’s got a smirk on his lips, glistening with my arousal as he pulls my hand out of his hair and stands. I whine, hips rocking down onto nothing, needing him to get me there. He just watches, eyes almost black and blown wide as his voice comes out low and strained, as if he’s struggling to hold himself away from me, “What did I say baby girl.” 

“N-no touching. Baby please.” I’m practically a blubbering mess, needing him, and I should be embarrassed but the way he licks his lips has me far from it, “I need you.” 

It’s like his restraint snaps as he’s climbing back over me, lining himself up and pushing to the hilt in one quick move. It has my nails dragging down his back as he catches that sweet spot with the first thrust, my back arching up and my eyes rolling into the back of my head. My mind blanks out and I’m chanting his name like a prayer as I clench around him as I ride out my orgasm, the shock of it tensing even muscle in my body. Tommy just holds me close, thumb soothing over my cheek and hips twitching as he tries to stay still until I’m coming down, voice soft and wrecked as he practically begs, “One more baby girl.” 

He’s waiting for my consent despite being balls deep and I’m nodding, not trusting I’ll be coherent if I try and talk. My body can’t decide if it wants to try and scramble away from the quick thrusts or move into them, a cry escaping me when he begins to circle my now oversensitive clit. It has me trying to scoot away from him as my body reacts with both pain and pleasure but his tight grip on my hip holds me in place as he grazes his teeth across my neck and collarbone. I’m letting out dirty sounds, barely able to hear them as all I can focus on is the way he fucks me raw, another building orgasm making itself known, my walls fluttering around him. My ankles lock up around his hips as he lets out a beautiful sound, my name falling between it and he’s filling me up. The feeling alone has me clamping tightly around him, milking his dry as I practically yell in pure ecstasy. Tommy’s caressing my hair as I slowly come back down, whispering about how much he loves me and how good I am just for him. It has me pulling him closer, blushing furiously at the chuckle rumbling in his chest. 

“Bed.” He nudges me up, neither of us wanting to part, having been one after a long day apart. He manages to roll us onto our sides so we’re facing each other, my legs unwinding from his waist as he pulls the duvet up. I should care about the sweat or the mess leaking out around his softening dick but I can’t because it’s Tommy and he’s all encompassing and everything I’ve ever wanted or needed. This is the future I want.  

“Never leave me Tommy.”

“I won’t if you won’t.”

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Part One // Part Two // Part Three // Part Four // Part Five

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[topazshadowwolf]

hello there :D

I’ve never done an ask before so here it goes.

to my favorite creator on tumblr!

I have always had this theory that Dust and Horror are very fidgety and often need to do something with their hands, I have always thought that sometimes Horror, Dust and Error (I know Error isn’t in this story but he is in mine) would just sit by the fire and do their own fidgety crafts, Dust does origami since it is delicate and takes time distracting him from his thoughts, Horror likes to cross stitch, and Error knits. I was just wondering if they do anything like that, maybe a fidgety craft like that could help Dust with his nerves and baby depression (it helps me :D).

Lastly, I saw someone mention the boys coming out to Nightmare, what are your head cannons on their sexualities?

I love your work and can’t wait to read more, take your time and have fun. And here, a sketch, Gooptales and Sky children of the light

Hello!

It's okay, I honestly get nervous sending in asks myself. Welcome to my ask box, and feel free to send in anything anytime. I try to answer most of them I recieve.

And what an honor to have such a title! Thank you!

I love your idea! It is nice for the boys to have hobbies to occupy their minds and hands other than mischief! Really, what you shared is a pleasant scene I could see playing out.

For HNBD, though, it would be mostly Killer with his whittling once he takes up that hobby. Dust just likes reading, and is good at sitting still and letting his mind drift off into space adventures in his book. Maybe one day, he will try writing one. But right now, he just would rather read. Horror, with his hunting that he will start, likes leather working as not being wasteful extends to more than food to him. To him, using 100% of an animal he kills is how he honors and respects the creatures that sustain him. Cross likes training, gaming, and occasionally sketching and journaling. As for the Growing Up

GoopTales offshoot, well, the boys do join clubs which will kind of answer that. Cross joins track and field as he stays fairly active. Horror doesn't join on at the school, Nightmare helps him find a hunters club, and he also decides to be a boy scout. He's an outdoors kind of guy. Killer ends up joining the drama club and taking such classes. He finds a love for Shakespeare, and it makes Nightmare so happy to hear him in his room practicing his lines. Plays are perfect for him, but he can't read them while sitting. Reading has been difficult for him since his soul was mutated, but since lines are split up, and it is meant to be read aloud, with voices, he can focus on it. As for Dust, he didn't want to join any at first, but Killer kept dragging him along. Eventually, he slips away one day and finds the chess club... he also finds out about the creative writing club and joins both since they meet on different days.

I honestly don't feel like discussing that, sorry. Just know, my main ship is Soriel, and if I see a Sans, I want to give them a Toriel, and if I see a Toriel, they should have a Sans. That's the way my brain is programmed. I do actually have a Toriel picked out for Dream. But trying to not spill all my Soriel headcanons all over the UTMV too quickly. XD (After all, there is FuzzyNight, then my fics I am slowly writing when in romance moods: The HouseKeeper for Killer and Soul Fire Blues for Dust. I think that's enough for now)

What an adorable drawing! Thank you so much for sharing this! I will have to add it to my collection of art! I love seeing them following Nightmare like little ducklings. It warms my heart. And love the cape you gave Nightmare!