#it just feels better if i do have those little details

[mystybelle]

Adding on because I find it relevant-

Knowing which style of world building, or type of storytelling you're doing really, requires knowing what parts of your story are actually important for the purpose of communicating your story the best. Because Art, is communication through aesthetic. And in order to do communicate well, you have to understand what your message is AND what parts of your message are most important before you can decide how to convey them.

The Hard magic vs Soft magic spectrum is a measure of how important the utility of your magic is for solving problems that exist in the narrative. E.g. ATLA's magic is harder than Tolkien's or Lewis' because the characters in ATLA solve a majority of their problems with the power of kung fu magic, and their interpersonal struggles mostly help them learn how to either use martial arts magic better or new ways to employ it. But the fantastic foot-up-your-ass magic is the most important tool. Meanwhile Frodo is a weak hobbit, and his struggle is about whether or not he'll be able to maintain the emotional bandwith to make a horrific trek into the heart of darkness; the rest of the events we see in the book/movie are largely to impress upon us just how much is riding on the mental health of one little guy. Lewis' is slightly harder (barely) because Narnia is ultimately a very christian(colonial) fairy tale, and the wonder of the new and foreign world is the most important part of the story. Even the characters are pretty "soft" in Narnia, because the point is the vibe of the fairytale world, and you're not supposed to care about Snow White's intense psychological anguish at her step mom trying to have her killed because she can't handle being a milf. You're supposed to care about the vibe of the dwarves she's staying with and the overall plot.

Likewise with the worldbuilding-

Narnia gives you a middling amount of detail for it's fantasy world, but it paints in very broad strokes. Because the vibe of the world, the feeling of wonder and awe that unfamiliarity with it provides, is more than the details of Cameroon's culture or borders in contrast with Narnia's.

ATLA's setting is much harder by contrast, because you're explicitly not meant to be a gawking tourist to this world, the viewer is meant to see it through the cast's eyes. A deeply affected member of the world, who is trying to familiarize themselves with it's complexities. The kung fu magic is a part of the complexities of that world in a very fundamental way, so those two things get a lot of details. The show even beats you over the head with the idea by constantly telling you that the Avatar must be connected to the world, verbatim in a few episodes in fact.

LOTR sits somewhere between the two because it's world is... Frankly more fleshed out than it probably needed to be for the sake of it's story. Tolkien wrote his story to make you care about his world, not the other way around. So it's actually probably an awkward example here, but even still! Through the narrative, we're given information about the world within the context that the characters would experience them in order to impress upon us the complexity of the problems they're facing. The world itself provides the challenges, and the solutions come from the mettle of the characters. So we spend more time with the characters and learning about the routes they'll take, the challenges on them, and the sociopolitical structures of the various nations they pass through, than we do learning about the magic.

In order build stories like this, like OP said- you have to do it on purpose, and in order to do it on purpose, you have to know why you take each step that you do.

another thing fantasy writers should keep track of is how much of their worldbuilding is aesthetic-based. it's not unlike the sci-fi hardness scale, which measures how closely a story holds to known, real principles of science. The Martian is extremely hard sci-fi, with nearly every detail being grounded in realistic fact as we know it; Star Trek is extremely soft sci-fi, with a vaguely plausible "space travel and no resource scarcity" premise used as a foundation for the wildest ideas the writers' room could come up with. and much as Star Trek fuckin rules, there's nothing wrong with aesthetic-based fantasy worldbuilding!

(sidenote we're not calling this 'soft fantasy' bc there's already a hard/soft divide in fantasy: hard magic follows consistent rules, like "earthbenders can always and only bend earth", and soft magic follows vague rules that often just ~feel right~, like the Force. this frankly kinda maps, but I'm not talking about just the magic, I'm talking about the worldbuilding as a whole.

actually for the purposes of this post we're calling it grounded vs airy fantasy, bc that's succinct and sounds cool.)

a great example of grounded fantasy is Dungeon Meshi: the dungeon ecosystem is meticulously thought out, the plot is driven by the very realistic need to eat well while adventuring, the story touches on both social and psychological effects of the whole 'no one dies forever down here' situation, the list goes on. the worldbuilding wants to be engaged with on a mechanical level and it rewards that engagement.

deliberately airy fantasy is less common, because in a funny way it's much harder to do. people tend to like explanations. it takes skill to pull off "the world is this way because I said so." Narnia manages: these kids fall into a magic world through the back of a wardrobe, befriend talking beavers who drink tea, get weapons from Santa Claus, dance with Bacchus and his maenads, and sail to the edge of the world, without ever breaking suspension of disbelief. it works because every new thing that happens fits the vibes. it's all just vibes! engaging with the worldbuilding on a mechanical level wouldn't just be futile, it'd be missing the point entirely.

the reason I started off calling this aesthetic-based is that an airy story will usually lean hard on an existing aesthetic, ideally one that's widely known by the target audience. Lewis was drawing on fables, fairy tales, myths, children's stories, and the vague idea of ~medieval europe~ that is to this day our most generic fantasy setting. when a prince falls in love with a fallen star, when there are giants who welcome lost children warmly and fatten them up for the feast, it all fits because these are things we'd expect to find in this story. none of this jars against what we've already seen.

and the point of it is to be wondrous and whimsical, to set the tone for the story Lewis wants to tell. and it does a great job! the airy worldbuilding serves the purposes of the story, and it's no less elegant than Ryōko Kui's elaborately grounded dungeon. neither kind of worldbuilding is better than the other.

however.

you do have to know which one you're doing.

the whole reason I'm writing this is that I saw yet another long, entertaining post dragging GRRM for absolute filth. asoiaf is a fun one because on some axes it's pretty grounded (political fuck-around-and-find-out, rumors spread farther than fact, fastest way to lose a war is to let your people starve, etc), but on others it's entirely airy (some people have magic Just Cause, the various peoples are each based on an aesthetic/stereotype/cliché with no real thought to how they influence each other as neighbors, the super-long seasons have no effect on ecology, etc).

and again! none of this is actually bad! (well ok some of those stereotypes are quite bigoted. but other than that this isn't bad.) there's nothing wrong with the season thing being there to highlight how the nobles are focused on short-sighted wars for power instead of storing up resources for the extremely dangerous and inevitable winter, that's a nice allegory, and the looming threat of many harsh years set the narrative tone. and you can always mix and match airy and grounded worldbuilding – everyone does it, frankly it's a necessity, because sooner or later the answer to every worldbuilding question is "because the author wanted it to be that way." the only completely grounded writing is nonfiction.

the problem is when you pretend that your entirely airy worldbuilding is actually super duper grounded. like, for instance, claiming that your vibes-based depiction of Medieval Europe (Gritty Edition) is completely historical, and then never even showing anyone spinning. or sniffing dismissively at Tolkien for not detailing Aragorn's tax policy, and then never addressing how a pre-industrial grain-based agricultural society is going years without harvesting any crops. (stored grain goes bad! you can't even mouse-proof your silos, how are you going to deal with mold?) and the list goes on.

the man went up on national television and invited us to engage with his worldbuilding mechanically, and then if you actually do that, it shatters like spun sugar under the pressure. doesn't he realize that's not the part of the story that's load-bearing! he should've directed our focus to the political machinations and extensive trope deconstruction, not the handwavey bit.

point is, as a fantasy writer there will always be some amount of your worldbuilding that boils down to 'because I said so,' and there's nothing wrong with that. nor is there anything wrong with making that your whole thing – airy worldbuilding can be beautiful and inspiring. but you have to be aware of what you're doing, because if you ask your readers to engage with the worldbuilding in gritty mechanical detail, you had better have some actual mechanics to show them.

[httpvomitello]

Shell of Trust *⁠.⁠✧

Donatello had always prided himself on being observant. He noticed the little things—the way people hesitated, the subtle changes in tone, the details others often overlooked. It was part of what made him such a good problem solver, and right now, the puzzle in question was you.

You’d been part of their lives for months now, introduced as April’s best friend. Sweet, kind, and intelligent, you’d fit in with the group almost seamlessly. But there were walls you kept up, things you didn’t share, and the most glaring of all: your reluctance to let them come over to your home.

Donnie wasn’t one to pry, but the more time he spent with you, the more he found himself wanting to know what was behind those walls. It wasn’t just curiosity—it was something deeper. He admired you, more than he cared to admit, and your quiet strength had a way of captivating him.

So when you’d canceled plans for the third time that week, claiming something had come up, Donnie couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling that something was wrong. Against his better judgment, he decided to stop by your place. He told himself it was just to make sure you were okay, but deep down, he knew there was more to it.

It was late when he arrived, the soft glow of your living room lights spilling out through the window. Donnie climbed onto the fire escape, careful not to make a sound as he peered inside.

What he saw stopped him in his tracks.

There, sitting cross-legged on the floor, was a little girl. She was playing with a set of blocks, her face scrunched up in concentration. Her resemblance to you was unmistakable, from the curve of her nose to the way her hair fell in soft waves.

Donnie’s breath hitched.

Before he could process the revelation, the little girl looked up—and screamed.

“Mommy, there's someone at the window!”

Donnie backed away from the window, panic rising in his chest. He hadn’t meant to scare her. A moment later, the window swung open, and you looked outside, your expression a mix of shock and seriousness.

“Donnie?”

“Uh… hi,” he said sheepishly, raising a hand in an awkward wave.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice laced with worry.

“I—I wanted to check on you,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to scare her. I didn’t know—”

“That I have a daughter?” you finished for him, crossing your arms.

He nodded, his gaze flickering toward the window where the little girl was peeking out cautiously. “Yeah. That.”

You sighed, leaning against the doorframe. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his voice soft. “Why didn’t you tell any of us?”

You hesitated, glancing back at the window before stepping outside and closing the door behind you. “Because it’s complicated, Donnie. People judge me because of that. They assume things, say things… I didn’t want you guys to see me like that.”

Donnie frowned. “You really think we’d do that?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But I couldn’t take the chance. Maya’s been through enough, and so have I. I couldn’t risk you rejecting her—or me.”

He took a step closer, his expression earnest. “I could never reject you. Either of you.”

Your eyes met his, uncertainty flickering in them. “You say that now, but you don’t know the whole story.”

“Then tell me,” he urged gently.

You hesitated, but the sincerity in his voice broke down some of your walls. “Her dad… he left when I told him I was pregnant. Said he wasn’t ready to be a father and walked away, a few months later I found out he was cheating on me and his mistress was also pregnant.. Since then, it’s just been me and Maya. And let’s just say people haven’t exactly been kind about it.”

Donnie’s eyes became more serious. “That’s… awful.”

You gave a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well, it is what it is. I’ve gotten used to people looking at me like I’ve failed somehow. I didn’t want you guys to look at me that way, too.”

“I don’t,” he said firmly. “And I never will. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met, and from what I can see, you’re an incredible mom.”

Your breath hitched, and you looked away, blinking back tears. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not just saying it,” he insisted. “It’s the truth. And Maya… she’s lucky to have you.”

You let out a shaky laugh, finally meeting his gaze again. “You’re really something, you know that?”

He smiled softly. “I could say the same about you.”

The two of you stood there for a moment, the tension easing into something quieter, more intimate. Finally, you broke the silence.

“Do you want to come inside?” you asked.

“Are you sure?”

You nodded. “Maya’s probably still a little scared, but… I think it’s time she met one of my friends.”

He followed you inside, his movements careful and deliberate. Maya was still on the floor, clutching her stuffed rabbit tightly. When she saw him, her eyes widened, but she didn’t scream this time.

“Hi,” Donnie said gently, crouching down to her level. “I’m Donatello. You can call me Donnie if you want.”

She didn’t respond, her grip on the rabbit tightening.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” you said softly, kneeling beside her. “He’s a friend. Remember how I told you about Mommy’s special friends? Donnie’s one of them.”

Maya glanced at you, then back at Donnie. After a long pause, she whispered, “You’re really tall.”

Donnie chuckled, relief washing over him. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Your heart warmed at the sight of him interacting with her so gently.

As the evening went on, you found yourself smiling more, watching Donnie carefully build a tower of blocks with Maya. He was patient and kind, never once making her feel uncomfortable.

Maybe, just maybe, you had found someone you could trust—not just with your heart, but with hers, too.

[additiva]

ace charles?! been dying for some ace fics ngl

Yes!

Here's a snippet, for the consideration of the (proximal) masses. It's unedited (be nice to me).

“Hey, Max.” Charles wonders aloud, tilting his phone for Max to see. “What one do you like more?”

He flicks between two hoodies on the screen – a pale blue, and a black, both with Nahmias splashed gaudily across the front. Max squints at the screen. It probably doesn’t matter which he says; Charles will almost certainly get both.

“I like the blue one.”

Charles hums, letting his head flop back against the pillows, looking down at the screen of his phone propped on his bare chest. Max snorts quietly, amused. From this angle, he has about nineteen chins.

“Maybe, I will take both.”

Max bites back a smile, and turns his focus back to what he’d been doing before – what he’s been doing for the past forty minutes. He lifts one of Charles’ knees back over his shoulder, feeling his heel settle against the middle of his back. He lets his fingers trail up, wrapping over to stroke firmly over the crease of his hip. When Charles finishes shuffling -- still tapping absently at his phone – Max settles in to lick at him again. Not at his clitoris – Charles doesn’t like that – but around it.

The hoodies, Max knows, will be here in a few days, in one of two ways.

Either they’ll come to Max’s address, the box adorned with the fake name and contact details Charles has used to order them; or Doni Nahmias will figure out somehow that it’s him, in which case the clothes will be deposited at Charles’ doorstop, and the money back into his account. After that, Charles will wear them to Max’s apartment, take them off, and forget them on the couch, or in the kitchen, or in the bedroom, or on the terrace. Max will fold them, and put them in the drawer with the rest of his forgotten belongings, until Charles accuses him of stealing them, and takes them home again.

It'll have to happen soon, he muses, thumbing gently over warm, wet skin. The drawer is getting full.

Charles sighs heavily and lets his phone fall, hands collapsing against his chest, apparently content with his procurements. When Max glances up, he’s gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling. His expression doesn’t change as Max’s fingers wander, except that his eyes fall closed. His foot slides up to plant itself on Max’s back, knee lifted a little higher – thigh close enough for Max’s head to lean against, hips tilted for better access.

Max, watching his face, folds his fingers – with two knuckles, he glides firmly over the dip between folds. Charles shudders a little, twitching. Some days he likes this; others it’s too much. Today’s a good day. Max can tell by the way his scent has been clear and fresh all morning. It has a certain crispness to it – one that can easily turn sharp with apprehension or sour with warning.

Max does it again, pressing more firmly with his knuckles – there’s no friction, the delicate skin already thoroughly soaked. Not with slick. Charles’ body rarely produces slick. It’s happened maybe once or twice in the entire time they’ve been doing this – months. Not even enough to make him wet; just barely enough for Max to catch a scent in the air, and a trace on his tongue. He’s not even sure what it was that did it – they haven’t been able to replicate it, to Charles’ great disappointment.

Max doesn’t mind.

Yes, maybe those slight traces tasted better than the champagne he drank on his first ever podium. Maybe it shone on his fingers like gold – gleaming brighter than the WDC trophy.

But in some ways it seems right, that he only got to have it for a moment. He works himself half to death just to hold that trophy for ten minutes each year – none of his replicas at home can quite compare.

He thinks he might’ve worked harder still, with Charles. He thinks they both have.

In any case, for Max, it’s probably the smaller moments in between that make it worthwhile. It’s each step closer to the perfect setup on a new race-weekend. It’s every purple sector, and podium. It’s the way the mechanics make space for him among them; the way Christian smiles up at him with pride on the top step; the way GP’s daughter lights up when she sees him.

With Charles, it’s the way his knees flop languidly open when Max nudges at them; the way his hands find Max’s skin without thinking; the way his scent stays warm and open through it all.

It’s like that now: soft and calm and inviting. It’d probably even stay that way if Max were to slide a finger or two inside him, to stroke at the velvety heat of him and massage at the tightness of the muscles there.

But Max won’t, because as he’s contemplating it, a timer goes off.

So instead, he slowly pulls away, going to the bathroom to wash his hands.

Then he goes back to the bed, and flops down next to Charles, casually tangling their legs as he digs his own phone out of his pocket.

“Alright, so.” He flicks open a spreadsheet. “What went well?”

-----

Idk guys are we vibing it or no? Lemme know.

[writerfromshikahr]

A pre-relationship piece. TW for some discussion of abuse, but nothing detailed.

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Pebbles - Lucanis X Rook Fanfic

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"I can see why this is your favourite spot," Rook said, gazing out at the bustling city below. "Treviso looks stunning from up here. I never got to explore this part of the city as a child."

Lucanis smiled as they sat together on the rooftop. "Illario and I would come up here and throw pebbles at the people below—until Caterina caught us," he said, smirking. "It was his idea, of course."

Rook laughed softly. "Yes, that does seem like something he would do," she said, turning to him with a knowing smile. "But you should have known better."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the distant hum of the city below filling the air. Then Rook spoke again. "Must have been hard, growing up with Caterina. She seems like a formidable woman. If your training was anything like mine…" Rook trailed off, her voice softening as she caught herself.

Lucanis regarded her for a moment, his gaze steady but unreadable. "She’s my grandmother, but yes, it was difficult. At the time, I hated her. She was impossible to please, and like most Crows, I suffered. But what made it worse," he said, his tone lowering, "was when she’d turn around and tell me it was because she cared for me. It was… confusing."

"I understand," she said quietly, though her voice carried the weight of her memories.

"And you?" Lucanis asked, his gaze lingering on her. "I learned a little from Viago. He may have called you 'his idiot,' but don’t take it personally. If he ever stops using that word, then you should start worrying." His smirk softened as he added, "You were eight when you joined House de Riva?"

"My parents were killed while they were trading here," Rook said, her gaze fixed on the city below. "We were walking back to our accommodations when some mercenaries jumped them. I don’t remember much of that evening." She hesitated, "But I do remember using my magic for the first time—trying to help my mother."

Her hand drifted to her lap, her fingers fidgeting as she spoke. "I would have been killed too if it hadn’t been for a Crow that… intervened." The word lingered, heavy with meaning. "House de Riva took me in—gave me a home, a place to sleep. But they never addressed what I’d witnessed. Instead, they used it, reminded me of that night, to push me harder in training." She glanced at Lucanis, her expression conflicted. "I’m grateful, but like you said, it’s strange to feel grateful to people who also hurt you."

"We have things in common, it seems," his voice thoughtful. "I lost my parents young, but unlike you, I had family." He glanced at her, his expression softening. "You were alone in a city that wasn’t your own, surrounded by strangers you had no choice but to rely on." He paused, his dark eyes lingering on hers. "Admirable resilience for someone so young, Rook."

"I get a compliment Dellamorte? I’ll take it���Viago doesn’t hand those out too often."

"Oh, you’re his favourite; that’s why he’s harder on you," Lucanis leaned back on his hands. "Besides, you have me by your side now. That’d terrify him more—he and I, we have a history."

"By my side? Is this just Crow loyalty, or… something else?" she mused, glancing down at the city. Her heart fluttered as the question lingered, unspoken feelings stirring beneath her curiosity.

He regarded her quietly for a moment before replying, his tone unreadable. "As I said, there are plenty of reasons to work with you. Some, I admit, might be more out of self-interest than others."

"Self-interest? I can work with that," she said, smiling at him.

Lucanis didn’t respond, and she hadn’t expected him to. Silence fell again, broken only by the faint hum of the city. She noticed him digging into his pocket.

"I almost forgot," he said, pulling out a small handful of pebbles and offering them to her.

"I wondered why you were picking those up when we walked here."

He smiled playfully. "Whoever can hit that merchant’s stall three times in a row buys the coffee later. Bonus points if you can land one in the bowl of mackerel."

Rook raised a brow, taking a pebble. "The fish? Now you’re just trying to show off."

Lucanis rolled a pebble between his fingers. "Maybe. Or maybe I just want to see if you're up for the challenge." He tossed the pebble lightly in the air and caught it, his gaze darting to the stall below. "Your move."

Rook narrowed her eyes, "Oh, I’m more than up for it."

She aimed, letting the pebble fly. It bounced off the corner of the merchant's stall, missing her mark by inches. "Damn it," she muttered, biting back a laugh.

He chuckled, leaning forward. "Close, but not quite. Watch and learn." With an almost lazy flick of his wrist, his pebble sailed down, landing with a soft plunk in the bowl. He tossed another pebble in the air looking decidedly smug.

"My coffee’s going to taste even better knowing you’re paying for it."

[ecto-hazard]

I wanna make a tf2 oc so so bad but I’m terrible at drawing people. Got any pointers?

So you wanna learn how to draw humans. Good for you! Drawing humans is complicated as shit and theres a lot that goes into it. I still need to improve in some areas of anatomy, and especially with drawing shit like clothes. There's millions of good guides out there for drawing all these specific aspects, but they're going to vary in complexity, style, etc. So I've instead put together my bullshit guide for drawing humans that can apply to people of any style and skill level!!!!! Welcome to Grey's 3 steps to draw humans.

STEP 1. DRAW BAD.

People get bashed over the head with the advice of "just practice bro." But the realistic thing is that if you're a perfectionist, it'll make it difficult as shit to improve your art if you don't let your art be bad. This doesnt mean, oh draw poorly on purpose. This is more a mindset thing. Embrace the fact that, while your art might not be at the level you'd personally want it to be, it's still worth making. If you enjoy drawing, it shouldn't matter if its "bad." You'll draw tons and tons of "bad" stuff and eventually look back and realize you've gotten better, even subconsciously. But if you can't get over the hurdle of letting stuff you draw be "bad" sometimes, you'll probably be too frustrated to keep going.

STEP 2. Practice drawing blocky shapes BEFORE details.

This is a skill I learned in the two art classes I took, but you can learn it on your own too. Basically humans have a lot of details going on and it can get a little overwhelming trying to capture it all. Work big to small. Focus on overall shapes first. Keep your sketches light and messy, cause itll be easier for you to overcome the hurdle to change something if you don't like it. Gradually build up to drawing the more intricate shapes like fingers, facial features, etc. If you're doing a full render, capturing the overall shapes of lights and shadows is helpful too!

When it comes to drawing your first sketch, try not to get too caught up in those tutorials that make you draw a specific type of sketch with like all the circles and cylinders and straight lines, thats all fine and good but if you're starting out its just kinda confusing and misses the point. Those are tools that'll help out when you want to hone in your ability to draw things in perspective.

STEP 3. Don't draw humans if you don't enjoy it.

Have you tried drawing humans but just don't really like doing it? Then fucking dont baby!!!!! Don't miss out on making things you enjoy just cause these goddamn humans are in the way! Make em a furry, a mech, an object character, a disembodied gangle of nerves floating in the abyss. Hell if you don't like drawing at all, WRITE em instead! Don't feel shackled by this mortal coil! Shed that shit!!!! Draw whatever the fuck makes you happy, and you'll be on the right track.

Hope this helps!

[idkimjustexistingsblog]

Ok i keep adding this to the post I reblog, but now ima make my own post

Hello I'm idkimjustexsitujng and welcome to my fucking ted talk this contains arcane spoiler,and misspelling, please enjoy

Arcane is beautiful it is bitter it is realistic it highlights what is it to be human, to try and strive for better to get stuck in a cycle and not escape. It cycle through evrything well conveying just what it's doing. The animation is beautiful and amazing and they convey so much with so little. The animator the righter they are all amazing.

I hear they're getting hate from the second season (I have not seen it personally), but all the things they do all the unsaid thing left make arcane even better for me

Finishing the series showed me just how much arcane did to keep it all human. How Victor and Jace talk about it in the final(?) Episode summed it up beautifuly for me. Humans are complex self sabotaging creatures, and theirs so many things and ideas out their And in difrent shows that try and show what makes a human human, and I think arcane unconsciously (or extremely consciously given the hours of detail they put into this beautiful masterpeice) succeeded in that. They showed us that humans are animals who are not just in it for surviving but for ceriousituy, not only do they focused on surviving they foucuse on surviving wellbuilding luceries to make life easier, the look analyzie and take what around them and think what if. They show us just how humans observe the world around and add it themselves how they keep those small thing living. The cycles each and evry chacter live through and repeats ( powder deing twice as I say but it's not just powder it someone loving their family so much they they give life its self for them becuse they beilive in them). How humans can grab the smallest sign a trait that their mom did or freinds did and keep them( lines mom used to put a peace sign on her head and in the first season during jinxes fight with ekko where we see powder doing the same symbol just like her mom.) How evryone has their own idea on the chapters and just like them evryone has their own ideas of us. And they final episode shows that with poeple discussing if jinxed sacrifice was in her character devolment or not.

I don't think jinxes sacrifice was a good thing, though. Personally, I don't like her going into that so soon after she git talked out her own suiced. And i read on a post that jinxes decided to live to honor the sacrifices already made (specifcly by isha) she was given hope one more time. I think she had a plan on getting out. That's my hope at least

I defebitly have more to say but this ramble just off the top of my head and please tell me euat ypu think agree, disagree. random or not. I feel and think so much rn I wanna hear what evryone else has to say.

[lunarubra]

Ok I'm back, sorry I had to skip the last two, I feel bad about it but I could not take the violence. I know I am a baby...

“You came for me?”

Lily, why do you do this to us?! Honestly, I thought my heart couldn't break any more after everything Lucy’s been through, but you had me crying all over again.

This chapter was exactly what I needed—Tommy finally holding her, finally there to bring her back to some kind of safety. But it’s so much more than that, isn’t it? Even though I couldn’t read the details of the torture, the emotional toll she’s carrying is crystal clear. That mental pain is so real. It’s like the world’s weight is on her shoulders, and she’s been through hell. And Tommy, poor Tommy, he’s been through his own kind of hell too, watching it unfold and trying to keep it together.

I feel a little better now knowing they’re back together, but I can’t shake this feeling of dread for what’s to come. Lucy’s struggles are far from over. Those insecurities that she’s always quietly carried, those doubts, they’re amplified now. It’s heartbreaking to think that this trauma might never leave her. But at least Tommy’s there, he way she’s been his rock for so long, it’s his turn to be hers now. He has to step up, but I’m terrified because we know how Tommy can be when it comes to Lucy. He’s so convinced of his feelings for her, sometimes I wonder if he realizes how much she might doubt herself in the face of everything she’s been through. Tommy, you need to take a step back and see her pain for what it is. She’s always been your strength, but now you have to help her rebuild hers.

I’m not sure if I’m ready for what comes next, but I know one thing for sure—these two need each other more than ever now. Whatever happens, I trust they’ll find their way back to each other in the end. Just please, no more heart-shattering moments! You’ve already broken me enough, Lily! But seriously, incredible chapter as always! You’ve got me hooked, and I can’t wait for the next one!

Part 21: The Shadow of the Abattoir

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x OC

Summary: Lucy may be out of Luca's clutches, but that does not mean that the pain is over.

Word Count: 4,635

Notes: Warnings for depictions of blood, drug use, and references to torture and violence.

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Chapter 25: Safe

The tires of the Bentley squealed in protest as Tommy slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a screeching stop just outside the steps leading to the church’s doors. Pulling his revolver from his coat, he leapt from the car, taking the steps two at a time, fully prepared to be met with gunfire the second that he yanked the door open.

Instead, he was met with eerie, impenetrable silence. 

He skidded to a halt, eyes widening in horror at the sight before him. 

It looked like a fucking massacre had happened. 

Blood was smeared all over the altar. Some had even splattered back to drench over the huge wooden cross mounted against the far wall. Two bodies were slumped over in chairs at a table set up in the space between the pews and the altar, cards spread out across the table. One of the corpses still had a hand of aces and jacks clutched between his fingers. 

There were more bodies scattered throughout the pews. Most were shot, but there was one by the foot of the altar that looked at though someone had been at him with a hunting knife or maybe a machete, his head hanging to his neck by only a thin sliver of skin. 

The burning stench of blood and gunpowder invaded Tommy’s nose, the smell metallic and almost eye watering. 

His ears pricked at a small sound. A tiny hitch in breathing. His fingers tightened around his revolver, wholly prepared for an ambush at any moment. With slow, cautious steps, he made his way down the aisle, rounding the front row of pews as he tried to zone in on where the sound had come from. 

Another noise that this time was more clearly a stifled sob came from the altar, and Tommy’s head snapped around in the direction of the podium. With quick, still cautious movements, he picked his way over to the very back of the altar where it was located, gun raised as he rounded the podium so that whoever was hiding behind it came into view.  

She was huddled there. A hunting knife clutched to her chest, and covered in so much blood and bruises that he hardly recognized her at first. 

Tommy swore that his heart stopped. Lucy’s hair was matted and greasy, her face splattered with so much blood he could barely make out how ashen her skin was underneath. The clothes she was dressed in were much too big for her and soaked crimson–with her own blood or with someone else’s, he couldn’t be sure. Her head was bowed so that he could not see her eyes. 

Tommy almost staggered at the sight of her. A sob of relief at finding her alive caught in his throat at the same time that horror at the state she was in warped through him like a shockwave.  

My God, love, what have they done to you?

“Lucy–” he dropped down to his knees, setting his revolver flat on the floor beside them. He reached out to touch her knee, and she suddenly jerked to life, knife jabbing out wildly. He barely managed to catch her wrist in time, the tip of the blade just tickling the front of his waistcoat. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s me.”

She stared at him with wild, unfocused eyes, like she did not quite understand. Her breathing was rough and labored, but the moment recognition passed across her face, the wildness of lingering adrenaline and violence melted away. Tears filled her eyes, and her breaths started to hitch with barely contained sobs.

“Tommy?” her voice croaked, and his heart shattered at how small and broken she sounded. She was looking at him as if she did not entirely believe that he was actually there. Her grip on the knife slackened enough that he was able to pull it away from her and set it down beside where his revolver lay on the floor. “You came for me?”

There was something about the question that nearly cleaved him in two. Had she really not thought that he would? Did she really believe that he wouldn’t have torn apart the entire fucking world to find her if he had to?

“Of course I did, sweetheart,” he inched closer to her, wanting desperately to pull her into his arms, but not wanting to further hurt or upset her.

Lucy’s eyes screwed shut with a violent sob, and then she flung herself at him, arms locking around his neck, clinging to his collar as if it was the only thing holding her to the earth. Rattling sobs that jerked her entire body began to rage through her, crying so hard he was a little afraid that she wouldn’t be able to breathe. 

Tommy swallowed roughly, wrapping his arms around her and closing his eyes against the emotion welling up inside of him, just feeling the weight of her in his arms for a moment. She was here. She was alive. He felt tears of deep relief brimming at his lash line. 

“Oh my Lucy.” He turned his head to kiss her temple. “Shh,” he shushed her gently, stroking her hair and rocking them both a little from side to side. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m here. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

She just kept sobbing even harder, and when he brushed his hand across her back, she flinched with a soft cry. He quickly retracted his hand, eyes widening. It was obvious that she was hurt, but the extent of which he could not be entirely sure. 

“We need to get out of here, love.” He hated to move her so quickly, but who knows if there were more Italians skulking about somewhere, or even Luca himself. Much as he’d have loved to get his hands on him, he needed to get Lucy to safety first. 

She nodded weakly against his shoulder, and he leaned back to remove his coat to drape around her. The shock was beginning to settle in as her blood began to cool, bringing with it shivers that wracked her tiny body. 

When he finished pulling off his coat, Lucy's eyes grew huge, hand reaching out to questionably touch the stained sleeves of the shirt he was wearing underneath it, the dried blood having left the material crusty. 

“It’s not mine,” Tommy assured her, wrapping the coat securely around her shoulders, hoping it would help to cushion any injuries she had against his touch. She suddenly seemed very tiny and fragile, half hunched in on herself, eyes bugged out and half mad with pain and fear. He grabbed his revolver from the floor, jamming it back into its holster. “What did he do, sweetheart?” he broached the question as gently as he knew how. Lucy’s eyes unfocused. There was a haziness in them. A deadness that sent a shiver down Tommy’s spine. She started to shake like a leaf, lips trembling, clutching his coat tighter around herself. 

“I don’t…I can’t…”

“It’s okay.” He quickly soothed. “We can talk about that later. How badly are you hurt?”

Her eyes filled with terror. “I don’t know.”

Tommy swallowed hard, battling back his own panic. He needed to be the strong one right now. “Okay. That’s alright. I’ll get you to a doctor. They’ll make it better, love, I promise.” He kissed her forehead. “I’m going to pick you up now, okay?”

She didn’t respond, eyes staring blankly at a space directly above his right shoulder. Tommy touched her chin delicately, turning her face to look at him again. 

“Lucy?”

She blinked, as if coming out of a dream. “Okay.”  

He stood and scooped her up bridal style into his arms. A whimper left her lips. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he apologized at the sound of pain, carrying her with hasty steps towards the door. “Not that far to the car, I promise.”

Lucy made no indication of hearing his words. But her head leaned heavily against his shoulder, eyes staring straight ahead. Pale as a ghost, she could have been mistaken for a corpse at first glance with how still she was. He had to check to make sure that she was still breathing.  

Worry squeezed in his chest, and he tightened his grip on her unconsciously. 

Another Bentley was just pulling up as he stepped outside, and for a moment Tommy panicked, thinking that it might be Luca or some of his men about to ambush them. That was until he recognized Arthur behind the wheel.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Arthur said as he stepped out of the car and saw Lucy, his face going pale. Tommy shot him a grave look. 

“Open the door for me, will you, Arthur?”

His brother rushed around them to open the passenger side door of Tommy’s car, and he slid Lucy gingerly into place on the leather seats.

“Don’t leave me!” she cried out, suddenly rousing from the still, silent trance she’d fallen into as he carried her out of the church. Her hand flew out to grab desperately at him.   

“I’m not going anywhere, baby, I promise,” he let her draw him in closer to her, wrapping his arms around her and kissing the top of her head. “I just gotta get around to the other side so I can drive.”

It nearly killed him to pull away from her frantic grip, her hands extremely reluctant to let him go despite his reassurances. Mindful to stay in her line of sight as he walked around the front of the car to open the driver’s side door, he felt his heart twist at the way she followed him with wide, terrified eyes. The coat he’d wrapped around her made her look even smaller as she huddled under the heavy dark fabric. 

Sliding into the seat next to Lucy, he quickly wrapped an arm around her, letting her tuck into his side. Burrowed in deep against him, he could feel her shaking violently. Being careful not to put too much pressure into his touches to avoid hurting her, he smoothed his hand up and down her shoulder while he rolled down the window to talk to Arthur. 

“I’m taking her home.”

“Not to the hospital?” “No, I don’t trust them anymore after Luca managed to get in to see Michael. I’ll have a doctor brought to her.”

“You want me to stay here?”

He nodded. “Luca might come back. The Golds are on their way?”

“Yeah.”

“Right. Stay here for a few hours. If Luca or any of his men don’t show up, come back home.”

Arthur nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets, taking a step back so Tommy could begin to back the Bentley away from the front of the church. 

“Just hang on,” he told Lucy as he gunned them down the main road. 

“Hurts, Tommy,” she rasped, and he felt panic seize at his throat with icy talons. Casting a quick glance at her, the feeling only grew at the sight of her bloodied clothes. He didn’t even know where exactly she was hurt. Or how serious it was. 

“I know, baby. I know. I’ll make it better, eh? Soon as we get home, I’ll get you patched right up. Everything is going to be okay.”

He didn’t know if he was speaking more to her or to himself. 

∗ ∗ ∗

Lucy stared numbly at the peeling paint of the front door leading into the Shelby’s home. It felt as though her brain had been filled with smoke, so thick that it was hard to think through. Her body ached, and she was so tired that she couldn’t even bring her muscles to move at all after Tommy stopped the car and got out. The most she could manage was a small whimper when he moved to pull away from her. 

“Just going around to get you from the other side, sweetheart,” he told her gently, kissing her forehead and making sure that she was leaning up against the leather seats so she wouldn’t tip over without him there to hold her up. 

True to his word, he came around to the other side of the car, opening her door and picking her up as though she weighed as much as a single pillow. She curled into his chest, wishing that she could somehow burrow her way entirely into him and hide away from the rest of the world. 

He carried her with hasty steps into the house, rushing them past the shocked, horrified expressions of the other family members. 

“Get me the medical supplies and a bottle of rum, Pol,” he ordered Polly on his way towards the stairs. “Finn, bring the tub from Charlie’s room into my bedroom and fill it with water.” With steps that were careful not to jostle her too much, he started to climb the stairs. “Ada, phone Doctor Evans at the hospital and tell him I need him to make a house call. I’ll pay whatever he wants.” 

Orders given and starting to be carried out, he kicked open the half ajar door leading into their bedroom. At the sight of the bed, Lucy was overcome with how tired she was. The kind of tired that went to the very bones. That made her feel as though she could have slept for an entire lifetime. 

Tommy set her down on the bed with a gentleness that was near heartbreaking. He stroked some hair out of her eyes, fingertips brushing delicately along her skin, checking her over as if to make sure that she was still there. 

“It’s okay,” he said when he met her teary eyes, a hand holding her by the upper arm to help keep her upright. Polly came rushing in with a box clutched in her arms. She set it down on the nightstand, opening it for Tommy to rifle through. Finn arrived a moment later, dragging the bathtub with him, vanishing then returning with buckets of steaming water to pour into it. 

“Lucy,” Tommy touched her face, urging her gaze back to him. “Love, I’m going to need to take off your clothes to check your injuries.”

A shudder went through her. She did not want him to see what Luca had done to her. How he’d ruined her; reopened all the wounds she’s worked so painstakingly hard to close.

Tommy cradled the side of her head, drawing her close until she could rest her face against the side of his neck. She sniffled.

“Polly or Ada can do it instead if you’d rather,” he whispered. She shook her head, panic seizing her at the idea of being in such a vulnerable position with anyone other than him. “Okay.” He stroked down her hair, along the nape of her neck, and she let out a relieved breath that he understood without her having to explain further. “Right,” he raised his voice to address the rest of the room. “Everyone out.” The command was followed by a snap of his fingers. Finn immediately went to the door, shouldering past Ada and Lizzie who had crowded in the hall to peer through the doorway. Polly hesitated a moment longer, staring at Lucy with wide, dark eyes, before setting down the bottle of rum she’d brought along with the medical kit on the nightstand.

“I’ll let you know when Doctor Evans arrives,” she said to Tommy quietly. He just nodded, and she finally went to exit the room, herding Lizzie along with her. But Ada remained. 

“Tommy, if you need help, I’ll be just downstairs.” She touched his shoulder lightly. He shot her a grateful look before returning to rifling through the medical kit. Ada glanced at Lucy, taking a careful step forward, as if trying not to spook her, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I am glad you’re alive, sister.” She murmured into her curls, and Lucy almost started weeping at the sentiment. 

Ada departed, closing the door behind her and leaving them alone. Lucy felt her bottom lip begin to tremble, hands bracing on either side of the bed. Tremors started to wrack through her limbs again, her breathing growing ragged and short, chest tightening. 

“Hey, hey.” Tommy was suddenly kneeling right in front of her, cupping her cheeks. “Look at me. It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re safe, Lucy.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, another round of sobs overtaking her. It hurt to cry. It hurt to do anything. “T-Tommy…”

“I know, I know,” his strong palm curled around the back of her head, resting on the base of her skull, and then pulling her face forward to tuck into his shoulder. He smelled strongly of the dried blood still clinging to his shirt, but under that she could still detect traces of his cologne. Of smoke and pine. Of safety. “I’m sorry, love. I’m so, so sorry. I came as fast as I could.”   

She nodded. Of course. Of course he did. She felt guilty for ever even considering that he wouldn’t.

He gave her a gentle squeeze then leaned back, caressing her face and leaning in to kiss her forehead tenderly. His fingers traced over the collar of her shirt, drenched in a combination of blood that belonged to both her and the guards that she had killed. 

“Can I take this off so I can check you?” he asked, wide eyes searching hers. She swallowed hard around the panic in her throat and nodded. It was just Tommy. She was safe with Tommy. 

At her nod, he pulled from the medical kit a pair of scissors and, with careful, gentle movements, started to cut away at the fabric of her shirt.

The fabric had stuck to her skin in multiple places where blood from her wounds had started to clot and harden, and Tommy had to yank a little to get it off. A harsh breath sucked into his lungs once he’d pulled the garment away. Lucy couldn’t bring herself to look at him, instead staring down at the floor with a lump in her throat, fingers playing with each other. She could feel him examining her, taking in the ruined expanse of her back, the reopened scars winding down her body, the bruises blooming on what little was left of her that hadn’t been sliced open.  

“Lucy…” he choked out, inching closer to her. She sniffled, burying her face in her hands, trying to hide her shame from him. “Hey,” he put an arm around her, careful to settle it high enough around her shoulders so that he wasn’t disturbing the worst of her injuries. “Oh, my love, shhh…” his thumb stroked up and down. “I know. I know, baby. I’m so sorry.” He waited until she quieted before his hand ghosted over–but didn’t actually touch–her shredded back. “Sweetheart…what did this?”

“He called it a cat o’nine tails,” she whispered. Tommy sucked in a breath again, suddenly leaning over her, examining her left shoulder more closely. “You have a bullet wound in your shoulder.”

“Oh.” She blinked, suddenly remembering. “Yeah. One of them got me during the shootout in the church.” Her voice was scaring even her with how dead and empty it sounded. Tommy gingerly touched the skin beside the bullet hole.

“I’m going to have to take it out.”

“Okay.”

He started to gather up materials from the kit. Snatching the washcloth hanging off the rim of the tub, he dipped it into the water. “Sorry,” he apologized at her hiss when he wiped at the wound. “Drink this.” A glass of whiskey was nudged into her hand. She took a few sips, aware that she would need as much pain numbing as she could get, but also unable to bring herself to entirely care. It wasn’t like it could hurt much worse than what Luca had already done to her.

She was aware of Tommy shooting her worried looks of deep distress every few moments.

“Right,” he cleared his throat, adjusting the way that he was sitting on the bed so that he was behind her. “Try not to move. I’ll make this as fast as I can.”

She curled her head down so that he could have as best access as possible to her shoulder. He hooked one arm around her, thumb repeating the soothing up and down rubbing motion when she hissed a little at how tightly he gripped her to keep her in place. A pair of tweezers probed at the wound, and then plunged in. She cried out, hands latching onto her knees, gritting her teeth. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Tommy sounded to be almost on the verge of tears, holding her firmly in place while he worked the tweezers. She screamed again as they scraped against the edge of her opened flesh, trying to get a grip on the little metal ball inside her. “I know. I know it hurts. Just a bit more. You’re doing so well, love…”

Another whimper of pain from her, a slight twist of the tweezers, and then he was retracting them along with the bullet that had lodged itself into her flesh. 

He wiped at the wound, dropped the bullet into an empty whiskey glass on the bedside table, then hugged her. She realized that she’d started crying again. 

“All done, all done, love. No more. You did so good, sweetheart.”

She burrowed into him, shuddering, closing her eyes until the sharp bite of pain drew back into the consistent throb she’d grown accustomed to. 

“Alright?” Tommy asked, after giving her a few moments to recover. She nodded, eyes closing and leaning into him. “I need to disinfect all these cuts, honey.” He sounded truly distraught at the idea of causing her more discomfort, and when she looked up, she was met with an agonized expression she’d only seen cross his face a handful of times before.

“Okay.”

He leaned back, looking earnestly into her eyes. “Tell me if it hurts too much.”

She nodded. He kissed the top of her head, and once more reached for the rag, wetting it in the water in the tub, and beginning to very, very gingerly clean her skin of all the dried blood so he could get a better look at what her injuries looked like.

They had to pause so that he could remove her trousers, Lucy gripping his arm tightly to keep herself upright as she stood so he could pull them down her legs. The frown on his lips only deepened as he took in the cuts that marked her hips and legs. He knew her body well enough, there was no doubt in her mind that he recognized that the pattern of the fresh cuts perfectly matched those of her old scars. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he whispered, as she whined when he poured the rum he’d asked Polly to bring over her injuries, taking care to ensure he got each and every cut. Most had already clotted and partially scabbed over, so she was in no real danger of bleeding out. Luca had been careful in his every incision. It had not yet been his intention to kill her. 

A shiver wracked down her spine at the thought of what else he may have done to her if she hadn’t managed to get away.  

“Is the doctor not coming?” she asked, as Tommy finally set aside the rum and started to prepare a needle and thread to stitch her up.

Tommy frowned, glancing at the clock. “I don’t want to wait for him.”

She nodded. Truth be told, she’d rather Tommy stitch her up over anyone else anyway. 

It was as he began to thread the needle through her skin that, in a small, hoarse voice, she started to tell him what had happened. How Luca took her from Lizzie’s home. How he strung her up in the bowels of the church for days on end. The whipping. The reopening of her scars. How she escaped. The carnage that she had to commit to do so. 

He listened silently, only interjecting every once in a while with the occasional question. But she could see his jaw tighten as she described the things that Luca had said and done to her, black pools of rage opening up behind his eyes, rivaled only by the horror that she also saw reflected there. 

When he was done stitching and bandaging her up, he retrieved one of his shirts–the soft, white cotton Henley that she liked so much–for her to wear. It was loose enough on her to not disturb any of her bandages, and as an added bonus it smelled like him. His brows pulled together at the way she yelped and flinched when she had to lift her arms so he could help her pull it over her head. The movement sent her shoulders ablaze with pain. 

“Lay down,” Tommy ordered gently, a hand on her head guiding her to rest her cheek against the pillow. She curled up on her side. There was no way she could lay on her back right now with the state that it was in. “There you go.” He pulled the quilt up to her chin, making sure it covered her completely. 

“W-wait, don’t go–” she lifted her head, suddenly half panicked when he rose to his feet. 

“I’m not going anywhere, love,” he assured, urging her to lay her head back down. Still, she watched him anxiously as he went to the nightstand, pulling open the drawer and rifling around inside until he pulled out a small vial of liquid.

“Tommy?”

“It’ll help with the pain.” he sat down on the edge of the bed, pouring a glass of whiskey and then adding a splash of the liquid into it, giving it all a quick stir. “It’ll help you sleep. At least until the doctor gets here.” 

She frowned. They’d bought it for special occasions. It seemed a pity to waste it on something as dour as this. But she didn’t have the energy to argue with him. And she did want everything to stop hurting. Even if just for a little bit. 

“Alright.”

He raised the glass to her lips. The whiskey and opium burned a little on the way down, and almost immediately she felt her eyelids grow heavier.

“I’m going to go get changed and cleaned up, alright?” he leaned over to set the empty glass down on the nightstand, then smoothed his hand along her forehead. “I’ll be in the washroom right down the hall. Just shout if you need me, eh?”

“You’ll come right back?”

“I promise.”

She nodded. It was getting harder and harder to keep her eyes open. Tommy kissed her forehead. 

“Just rest, eh? Try to sleep. I’ll be right back.”

She watched him go, pulling the blanket in tighter around herself. She heard his footsteps thud on the floor across the hall to the washroom, the squeak of the hinges and then the click of the door closing. 

She was pretty sure, despite her mind drifting in and out of consciousness by that point from the opium and pure exhaustion, that she then heard the muffled sounds of him retching. 

She was in and out after that, so it was hard to pinpoint how long Tommy was actually gone for. It couldn’t have been long, though. Only ten minutes at most.

“Tommy?” she asked, stirring against the pillow at the sound of footsteps near the bed, unable to open her eyes. 

“I’m right here.” His voice came somewhere near her head. Her hand reached out weakly, and a moment later his fingers engulfed hers tightly.

“Don’t leave me alone,” she begged. He kissed her temple. 

“Never in a thousand years.”

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Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a comment, reblog, or like. I always appreciate feedback and love getting the opportunity to interact with you and hear your thoughts!

[terrarium-of-mistakes]

Don't you just love it when you're trying to find something that does exist. This information is known. But because of googl's inability to understand you aren't starting from zero, all you get is "Oh, you want to know about this? Here's the basic surface level information (that isn't even correct)."

Then you think you finally found a keyword to refine your search and now it's all "hmmm, a interior decorator I see." Or it's "HEY BUY BUY BUY BUY YOUR SHIT YOU STUPID IDIOT"

I JUST WANT TO KNOW THE ACTUAL COLORS OF FIREEEEEEEEEEEE

[dykedvonte]

Can you talk about trans!Curly a little bit more? I'm curios if you have any headcanons and the like

-💀

It's just such a thing in my mind because it adds a truthful sadness and differing aspect to mouthwashing.

If Curly was trans it adds the horror of the horribly selfish thought he could have easily been in Anya's situation. It could've been him but it wasn't and he so conflicted on the pit it put in his stomach that brings and the shameful relief it wasn't. In this scenario he is friends with Jimmy for a long time still. Jimmy likely knew him pretransition. Maybe he gave Curly weird looks then, maybe they never stopped after, maybe they seemed meaner. They are guys now, bros, both of them are. He doesn't really have to worry what those looks mean anymore, Jimmy just has that face with him sometimes. It's recontextualizing a lot of things for him that he was in denial about or too ashamed to admit. How naive he was being and how he let that get another person hurt.

Specifically with Anya, it's he knows the dread and fear she's feeling. He can understand it because he had to live with it for a good portion of his life, he knows it cause he still does, just in a slightly different way. It makes him think of all the times he's been alone with Jimmy, all the times he's been way more drunk off his ass and not remember the night, Jimmy was always with him the next day. Makes him think of the comments he would laugh off both because that's what guys do but because that part of being a girl says to laugh so Jimmy doesn't do something. It's the selfish realization that he was never safe and he's uncertain now too. Mad at himself for forgeting that feeling, espcially since for a long time he would've been considered the only woman on a crew (with all that implies) for a long time.

He should've taken those blinders off, step back into that position for just a moment and it's so much more painful that Anya likely came to him because he should've gotten it. Those thoughts don't leave his mind after the crash when he's in an even more vulnerable position than she was...

[triglycercule]

hhhhidea...,,,, CUTE idea (kinda?) dust reading to phantom papyrus during night to lull him to sleep,,,, but really its just a way for him to pretend that everythings not really that shit (as if phantom paps isn't just dust's denial incarnate) and to help him NOT wake up because of a nightmare again or something

(and just because i can't resist now im imagining this with mtt. not that dust stopped reading to paps in place of killer and horror (because he wouldnt he simply wouldn't) but now the two join them for storytime. horror knocks out pretty damn fast and eventually dust falls asleep too after he makes sure that paps is satisfied with the amount he read and then killer's just left to sit there. maybe he tries to fall asleep maybe he doesn't,,,, maybe he picks up the book and continues reading but EITHERWAY,,,,,, this scene in my head so 💥💥💥😇😇😇)

[weptsorrow]

“ till~ ” he chirped in turn, a stark contrast to the deadpan way the younger man currently spoke. he was happy to see him, alive and as well as could be in this situation, and— selfishly, indulgently —without a shirt. he committed every single detail to memory— who knew when he'd get such an opportunity again. if ever.

the smile he put on was for till's sake. he'd never admit to it, but maybe, just maybe, in the deepest depths of his mind, he hoped that if he acted like nothing was wrong, till would feel better... even if a little bit, ivan hoped that he could help him get over that sluggish feeling he was likely experiencing after spending three nights out cold. he could see it in the way till carried himself.

“ yay! let's go to your room... you can change, and i'll bring you some food! ” ivan all but beamed once his friend took his hand; he wasn't going to bring up alien stage at all. it would do till no good to stress him out even further. there'd always be enough time to sing and practise later... plus, ivan doubted he'd do a good job if he was feeling sickly like this.

though even ivan's cheerfulness likely couldn't fully cover up just how empty this place had become, as they walked across artificial grass, under the fake sun, along projections of trees. the distant chatter of their classmates was gone, and it was just those ambient noises that played through the speakers. “ three days to be exact, ” he hummed out, like it was no big deal, despite having just mentioned that he'd been worried about till. ivan's behavior didn't match the tone of his voice.

he adjusted, letting go of till's hand so that he could instead wrap his arm around slender waist, helping the man down onto his bed upon arriving to his room. “ don't overexert yourself while i'm gone. i know how you are, ” he then offered a small wave as he then backed out of the door. i'll be back in no time, but the promise went unspoken.

  ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎distantly  aware  of  the  faint  sting  and  ache  that  lingered  along  his  back;  undoubtedly,  there  were  more marks  etched  into  his  skin,  but  he  found  himself  unbothered,  the  urge  to  confirm  them  outweighed  by  the  sharp  focus  on  his  ribs.  with  every  uneven  inhale, they  jutted  out,  protruding  grotesquely  in  the  bright  light.  the  medical  ward  lights  always  managed  to  highlight  every  unfavourable  aspect  of  skin.  someone  had  changed  him  at  some  point,  a  fleeting  thought  intrudes.  they  probably  intended  to  throw  him  back  into  the  same  clothes  he'd  worn  the  night  before  —  or  was  it  longer ?  the  vague,  hazy  recollection  of  the  first  rounds  seemed  not  too  long  ago,  but  he  wasn't  sure…

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎he  toyed  with  the  idea  of  stripping  his  pants  off,  too.  they  clung  uncomfortably  close  to  his  frame,  the  tailored  fit  so  alien  compared  to  the  oversized,  ill-fitting  pieces  usually  favoured.  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  he  decides  against  it,  brushing  the  thought  aside.  instead,  his  gaze  returned  to  the  fractured  reflection  in  the  warped  mirror  before  the  door  creaked  open,  and  his  muscles  instinctively  tensed.  he  expected  a  threat,  something  cruel  to  enter  —  urak  —  but  instead,  it  was  ivan  who  appeared  in  the  doorway,  his  figure  familiar  but  unwelcome  all  the  same.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎till  sighed,  shoulders  slackening  slightly  as  his  eyes  drifted  back  to  the  poorly  reflected  man.  ❛❛  ivan.  ❜❜   he  grumbled  after  a  stretched  silence,  the  weight  of  the  man's  gaze  settling  too  heavily  on  his  back.  till  wasn't  exactly  keen  on  being  observed  like  some  spectacle  for  ivan's  quiet  consumption. he  was  too tired.  hadn't  had  painkillers;  every  bruise,  every  welt  screamed  for  relief and  his  stomach  churned,  empty  and  gnawing  at  itself.

  ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎  ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎turning  to  face  ivan  properly,  the  motion  was  sluggish,  he felt  distant,  as  if  he  were  an  observer  in  his  own  body.  a  frown  tugged  weakly  at  his  expression,  accompanying  furrowed  brows,  as  ivan's  words  broke  through  the  haze.

  ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎he  shouldn't  have  been  worried,  not  yet  —  unless  the  next  set  of  rounds  loomed  near.  the  realization  sent  a  jolt  of  unease  trickling  through  him  like  ice  water.  shit.  till  stood  there,  motionless,  the  dizziness  that  clung  to  his  senses  rendering  him  useless  until  ivan  prompted  him  to  move.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎❛❛  yeah…  i  wanna  get  changed  ❜❜  till  murmured  back,  the  words  barely  carrying  across  the  room.  whether  it  was  the  right  thing  to  do  or  not  didn't  matter;  his  body  moved  mechanically  as  his  hand  grasped  ivan's  outstretched  one.  the  five-minute  walk  would've  been  a  slow  agony  without  the  support  —  his  mind  half-heartedly  reasoned,  too  foggy  for  resistance.  ❛❛  . . . must  have  been  out  for  a  while  to  worry  you.  ❜❜

[drpicklesart]

they are going to mehnahnaroo

[stairset]

I think the portrayal of Spider-Man 2099 in Across the Spider-Verse is in-character in that aside from like Shattered Dimensions he's always been portrayed as a bit of an asshole who slips into anti-hero territory at times and generally has a "needs of the many over the needs of the few" mindset and given his specific circumstances in the movie it's not unreasonable to think he could take the actions he does. However it does kinda suck that since like 99% of moviegoers had no idea who he was before the movie came out their first impression of him is when he's in an antagonistic role and people think "antagonist" and "villain" are synonyms so now I'm gonna have to listen to people who've never read a comic saying he's a villain or isn't a real Spider-Man for the rest of time or at least until he inevitably changes his mind in the third one.

[fluffs-n-stuffs]

"Cuhut it out- you guys!" "Nu-uh, not until you're all perked up first! You don't want those gym challengers meetin' with an ol' mopey leader, do ya?" "Whitney's right, dear friend. No need to hide that beautiful smile of yours, alright?~"

What it takes to cheer up Johto's beloved ghost boy 👻💕

[puppyeared]

Atla live action 😐

[sysig]

Red Eyes and Evil Time, practically the same thing right (Patreon)