#master post is up soon??

[sorivii]

You know my Raph peepaw AU, no? Okey anyway, Shelldon being able to carry a older Raph will never not be funny to me. Like he did NOT expect them to carry him without a problem, Donnie made them sturdy for sureeee.😂😂

[inkyrainstorms]

Martian Stan AU - Aftermath & Discovery

The Beginning (1), Aftermath (2) (here), next

Extra! (The Apology)

Ford didn’t know how long it took for him to pry himself off the floor, but it felt like hours later when he managed to trudge his way upstairs, eyes burning and throat raw. There was new blood on his knuckles, and Ford couldn’t remember if it was Stan’s or his own. He’d tried to scrub the blood off of the portal, but most of it had been too high and Ford was so tired.

He couldn’t fall asleep in the basement, he chanted to himself, again and again and again and it only occurred to him once he stood swaying at the top the of the stairs, that is didn’t actually… matter, anymore.

It didn’t matter what Bill did, or didn’t do.

The portal was broken beyond repair. His brother was dead.

The journal is gone. his mind whispered insidiously, and he couldn’t remember if he’d always been so cruel to himself, or if it was a byproduct of Bill. You got what you wanted, Sixer. How does it feel?

Ford hobbled to the bathroom as fast as he could manage, and hurled his guts out into the toilet. When all that came up was acrid bile, though, and Ford wondered idly when we he last ate. It didn’t matter.

None of it mattered, Ford decided firmly, hands clenched on either side of the porcelain bowl so hard that they looked bloodless in the harsh white light. It didn’t matter what he felt, or didn’t feel.

Not anymore.

The journal was gone. That was a good thing, it meant that the portal could never be rebuilt again. Stanley made an honorable… he. He’d made an honorable sacrifi—

Ford hunched over the toilet and heaved again. Nothing came out.

Impossibly, time kept moving.

Ford was left drifting in the current, from room to room, machine to first aid kit to paper to specimen to paper to circling the door of his lab again and again like an anxious sentry. He didn’t process any of it, and eventually, the door was the only thing left in the house that felt truly real. It was the only mystery left that Ford could pay any real mind to, and most of the time he wanted nothing more than burn the whole thing to the ground.

Sitting against the door, head leaned back and staring at the ceiling, Ford searched his mind for something. Anything.

A plan, a goal, fuck, he’d take the will to actually get out of the house and get groceries despite the constant chance of being watched at this rate. There was near nothing left to eat in the cabinets that wasn’t rank with age, and Ford knew he was wasting away like this.

But there was nothing. No part of him cared.

He knew he’d always had the wildest aspirations as a kid and as a young man, that he’d never stop reaching for bigger and better heights, but the light had blinded him with its promise, and now he’d fallen. He’d fallen so far.

He’d said Icarus didn’t flap hard enough, when Fiddleford tried to warn him of his own hubris all those weeks ago. Now he was just glad he wasn’t an English major, because it had taken him all of this just to realize that Icarus had found the sun, been embraced by the promise of warmth, and burned for it.

Trust no one.

Ford traced an idle finger against the freshly bandaged burn on the underside of his hand.

And no one should ever trust you.

…

The worst part, Ford thought to himself as he brewed another pot of coffee and searched for a clean mug, was the uncertainty of it all. There was a grief in loss, of course, but not knowing could be so much worse.

Stanley could still be alive out there, among the creatures of the Nightmare Realm, all alone. He could be dying. He could be dead. He could be sitting on the other side, waiting, hoping Ford could open the portal and bring him home—

Ford slammed down the sole clean  coffee cup he had left hard enough to startle himself, and then sighed.

He’d have to go clean up the remains of the portal, eventually. Before he fell asleep and Bill…

Ford poured out the coffee and leaned heavily against the counter as he took a sharp swig. It burned the whole way down. 

What did he have left that Bill wanted? What reason did Bill have to keep him around if his research was beyond saving, if he couldn’t be threatened or tortured into complying anymore?

The next time he fell asleep…

Ford didn’t know what’d happen to him, and despite everything, damnit, Ford didn’t want to die. He couldn’t let Bill win, couldn’t become another footnote in the history of the world because he was just another one of the poor schmucks who fell for Bill Cipher’s lies.

Taking another gulp of liquid courage, Ford pulled his coat tight around himself and marched to the door of his lab before he could talk himself out of it.

Forget not sleeping in the lab. Ford couldn’t sleep at all until he found a way to sever Bill from his mind for good. Project Mentem had been a bust last he’d checked, but it was worth another shot. What else hadn’t he tried? There was something… a protection spell? A charm?

Ford contemplated his options all the way down the stairs, one hand keeping him steady on the wall while the other held his mug. 

He still wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted yet, or what his next step was, but Ford could do this. He just had to secure his mind, like he’d planned, and then get rid of the blasted portal once and for all. Nothing had changed.

Nothing had changed. Nothing had changed. Nothing, nothing, except that Ford felt hollow where there must’ve once been something warm and vital in his chest. He didn’t know if he’d ever feel warm again. He didn’t deserve to.

Ford remembered a detail about sleep deprivation, as the elevator neared the basement level again and his heart dropped in time with the doors hissing open. Hallucinations were a common byproduct of the resulting sensory overload and exhaustion. They could take auditory or visual form, though visual hallucinations were a more common symptom by over 52%.

That was the only explanation he could conjure for the faint singing that echoed through the dark, cavernous sub-level before him. 

“It’s not real,” Ford whispered to himself, hands a vice around the coffee mug. He felt cold. “Auditory hallucinations are an expected and well documented symptom to experience in conditions less dire than these. Focus on your intellect, Stanford. Focus, focus, it is not real.”

For a long stretch of time, seconds, or perhaps minutes, Fords feet were glued to the floor of the elevator. No matter how hard he tried, no matter what he said or did, the singing, or the static, remained steady and quiet. 

It wouldn’t go away unless Ford made it. 

Finally, Ford forced himself to creep into the basement, and then the control room to set his mug down on the desk. The music was louder now, more distinct here than it had been before. Had Ford left a radio on down here? Was that it?

Holding his breath, Ford crept around the trashed room, checking behind spare sheets of metal that had been propped up against the walls, kneeling to look under the control panels, and then behind them too. All the while, the music droned on, buzzing and humming and settling under his skin like an itch. 

-any- wind blows—

It got louder as he neared the very back of the room, the words filtering through the humming static and becoming clear. Ford couldn’t deny it anymore. That was a voice. He shivered hard, jolting like ice had been pressed to the back of his neck, and hurried forward. 

-really matter to me… To me. 

There was a pile of debris, in the back of the control room, farthest from the door where he’d entered. Stanley must’ve crashed into it, when Ford and him had been… when he’d…

-just killed a man —a gun against his head…

Ford slowed his pace, staring down at the dented metal plates and machinery that had fallen loose in a heap on the floor, the stray wires and screws jutting out of the mess every which way. Slowly, Ford sank to his knees and pressed his aching palms onto the cool floor beneath him.

He could hear the singing now. Warbling, staticky. Familiar.

-Life had just begun, and now I’ve gone and thrown it all away.

Ford choked on his next inhale, thin and trembly as it was, and searched through the wreckage with wide eyes. 

There. Nestled between a dented panel with half its screws undone, and a jumble of wires and smaller panels of sheet metal, was the source of the sound. 

For a long, long moment, all Ford did was stare.

Oh mama… oh ohh oh. Didn’t mean to make you cry.

If I’m not back again this time tomorrow…

Ford’s hands trembled as he reached out, carefully prying the radio out of the scrap heap and holding it up in the dim light.

Carry on, carry on…

As if nothing really matters…

The voice faded out. Static.

Ford set the radio down on his lap, gently, as it would shatter into a million pieces otherwise, and pressed a trembling hand to his mouth.

“Stanley?” Ford choked out, and it was like trying to breathe glass. But he had to know, he had to, because— because…

He sat there, dully staring down at the radio Fiddleford had cobbled together months ago, when they’d still been in the implementations stage of the data and blueprints they’d collected, when the preliminary tests had begun. A device to send and collect waves and other information from beyond this dimension without actually opening a rift.

And here it was. In Fords hands, dented and scratched and still whole despite everything. Ford had turned his sights completely to the portal before the it’s completion, since Bill had deemed the entire endeavor a waste of time and energy and an ineffective outlet for his genius.

Fiddleford must’ve completed it, back when he was still just as enthralled in the project as Ford was. He missed his old friend, but Fiddleford was likely back home by now, in California to try and reconnect with his wife and child. As bitter as Ford was, he hoped Fiddleford was successful. His old friend deserved as much and more. 

There was no reply to Ford’s question, except, Ford brought the radio to his ear and strained to listen through the faint static. Was that… humming? 

Doo- doo doo, yeah, no poindexter, I‘m done, man. That’s the last song of the evening, I’m not paid for overtime. 

Moses, wish I were getting paid for this.

Ford jumped, wincing at the sudden burst of noise loud enough to make his ears ring, then processed what Stanley, because that had to be Stanley, had said.

“Stanley! Where are you? Are you in the Nightmare Realm? You must be… what sort of method did you find to transmit your signal? Are you al—“

But Stanley continued speaking as though he hadn’t heard him. A thrill of irritation  went through him. Was Stanley ignoring him? Was this some kind of petty revenge tactic?

When’d that song come out anyway? ‘75? 

He hummed.

Sounds about right.

Ford shook the radio and bit back a growl, before he remembered that the technology in his hands was damaged and sorely in need of a repair and upgrade, and loosened his grip again. He set it down in his lap.

“Stanley, I need you to take this seriously, please, for once.”

Wow, that song was everywhere back then, wasn’t it? I remember thinkin’ Ford probably liked it when it came out, wherever he was. The nerd was probably in college.

“Stanley?” he tried again, but he wasn’t expecting a reply anymore. Stanley soldiered on, rambling about everything and nothing and Ford could almost hear the smile in his voice if it didn’t sound so tired. 

Hell, where’d I first hear it? Must’ve been over at a gas station in… eh, Kansas? Somewhere over there, the big ol’ middle states. 

We sure aren’t in Kansas anymore.

Ahh, those were the times. Me, the open sky, and so, so much dirt in my hair. Seriously, where did the dirt come from. I roll around in one haystack and suddenly i’m fishing filth out of my hair a month later.

Stanley went quiet again, before he laughed. 

Aw man, I actually like this story. Buckle in folks, and I’m taking us back to that weirdly cold summer day in Kansas, where I had to steal 5 prized chickens. For some reason.

Look man, when someone pays you a hundred bucks and tells you he wants chickens, you don’t ask questions. 

Anyways, I’d been-“

For the past few… well, it had to have been days since Stanley fell through the portal by this point, if Fords state was anything to go off of, Ford’s mind had been eerily blank. He’d been a hollowed out shell of his former self, a ghost in his home and life that held onto the living plane by only the barest threads and pure spite.

It was like a switch had flipped. Ford’s fingers drummed on the outside of the radio as he forced himself to his feet, mind whirling at a hundred miles per hour and making calculations and theories and discarding some and contemplating others, and he was nearly jittering as he walked out of the control room entirely. He’d need to find a way to secure this side of the portal from Bills influence, recollect his journals, and then, he was bringing his brother home.

He stopped just before he got into the elevator and turned around to stare down the wrecked portal that loomed overhead. The once perfect inverted triangle, now ruined and warped nearly beyond recognition.

He grinned in a way that was more just like baring his teeth.

“You may be a god, Cipher, and you may think you can control me, but never forget. I am a scientist.”

The portal stood dead as it had been, but Ford didn’t care. He whirled around and stalked into the elevator. He felt more awake than he had in days. And he had research to collect and a demon to banish.

Stanley was still talking, as the elevator began to shudder and rise, and Ford’s adrenaline shot began to ever-so-slightly wane. Something about… attack pigeons?

-And when I finally think I’m in the clear, I duck around one of the hay bales and come face to face with, and I’m not kidding here, a cow wearing heavy duty armor, like a helmet and shit the guy in ‘Nam would wear. It even had holes for the ears!

There was a strange sound then, and Ford realized with a start that it was coming from him. He was laughing. It wasn’t even than funny, really, but something about Stan delivery made Ford wheeze. 

When was the last time he’d laughed? It must’ve been before this whole thing started, when he’d been with Fiddleford or B—

The laughter died in his throat. Oblivious to Fords inner turmoil, Stan kept on jabbering.

And there I was, 5 chickens smuggled into my coat and in my bag —and if you’ve never tried to carry 5 chickens, never do, it’s hard as hell and not worth it at all— staring down ol’ Bessie. 

And then, because this fucking farm couldn’t get any weirder, the cow started moo-ing like it was setting off a tornado siren, and all the other cows in the whole place started mooing in sync too. It was fucking terrifying man.

They must’ve been calling the attack pigeons, because those suckers came back, and they started dive-bombing my sorry ass, and really, that was when I reached my limit.

I dove into the hay bale like a damn football player going for the end line, and even though it was by far the itchiest thing to ever happen to me, it saved me from death-by pecking so I’ll take take it. 

The itchiest, of course, save for my stint in Albuquerque.

Ford could almost imagine Stan shaking his head as he paused again. With a start, he realized he was still smiling.

Just. Don’t try selling pillows in Albuquerque is all I’ll say.

Stan gave an audible shudder. 

So many feathers… And itch powder. The itch powder didn’t help. 

Ford couldn’t help the chuckle that slipped out of him at that.

Tags! (I’m sure I’m forgetting someone, pls tell me if you want to be on the list! Or just follow the tag that also works) @aroace-get-out-of-my-face @pleasantartisanhottea @littlelilliana15 @empressofsamoyeds @pinesfamilycatsau

Super Epic Secret Surprise!

[oh-biwan]

Pietà

[wyvernity]

wip posting just to get something out there, and it's def a mixed bag!! the only thing more inconsistent than my posting schedule is my art style RIP

[al-luviec]

compiled whatever this is (and I run out of tag space)

meh HoT gifs (3/?)

[warm-mangoes-with-chai]

This is what it's all about baby 🥹💛🤍💛

[zwodder-softdrink]

I know this seems late, I just forgot to post it on Miku’s birthday 😭

A little close up so you can see all their individual personalities :)

Happy birthday Hatsune Miku!!!!

[artemistorm]

Master Sword Pt 3: What Wild thinks of the Master Sword

(See Part 1: Master Sword Facts and what Sky thinks of the Master Sword and Part 2: What Time, Warriors, Hyrule, Four, Wind think of the Master Sword)

We see in Memories Part 2 that Wild first drew the Master Sword at age 12 and we know from BotW/AoC lore that he was a child prodigy with the sword and easily drew it. But in BotW when he attempts to draw it, it challenges him and steals his life as a test of strength and it's only when he has enough hearts that he is allowed to actually pull it from the pedestal.

In Spar, he makes a snide comment about how the Master Sword actually can and does hurt her Masters. This is likely a reference to the heart-loss challenge in BotW when you try to draw the Master Sword.

Back in Memories pt 2, the next panel is interesting because Wild is naked. Yes I know that sounds weird, but it's interesting because it makes me think that he has done the Sword Trials. The Sword Trials are BotW DLC monster-fighting challenge where if you complete all the levels, the Master Sword gets powered up to full power. And just like Eventide Island, you have to start from zero, with no clothes, items, or weapons.

In Swords, he is still curious about the Master Sword. Despite his misgivings, he still wants to understand it.

Wild does state, that despite his frustration with it, the Master Sword is right to test its would-be-wielders. Character development!

Overall, Wild has a complicated relationship with the Master Sword. He doesn't love it like Sky does, but he doesn't hate it like Time does. He's upset by it's judgement but he understands it. And as you can see in Broken Master Sword, he's not afraid to use and misuse the Master Sword. After all, it is his birthright.

[skiaskai]

More Avari ✨

[lez-bichi-lover]

Sorry ya'll I swear AlecZ isn't dead he's just having troubles with unhealthy sleeping schedules and school </3

[bell-swamp-fitzjames]

John Morfin playlist!!!!! I think this one is also very good, up there with cdv & manson. But I'm biased bc I've been having fun making these. After this, I'll release the playlists i make in batches (i think oops all doctors will be upcoming, mcdonald is done & the other three are close) to save ppl grief. I've been having so much fun with davechella so. thanks for joining me if anyone is

[dawnthefluffyduck]

Last drawing of my summer class, we were only given an hour but I think I made good progress (this was a test of sorts)

This will be the last time I'm studying under this professor, so I'd like to share his art page (I think it's neat to see how his approach to art has influenced my own)

[keicordelle]

Things are starting to get just a little bit spicy up in here! (Don't worry, they're going nowhere fast, we've got at least another 6 chapters of fluff and fretting before the two of them get their act together enough to do anything more than kiss and blush.) Chapter 14 of A First for Everything, Off the Beaten Path, is up on Ao3!

Read it on Ao3 at the link above, or check out the first chapter on Tumblr here.

-

The light filtering through the windows made for a dappled display against the map spread out over the coffee table. Shadowy spots danced over the carefully marked routes and hideaways. It might have been distracting, had Thancred actually been studying the map as closely as he pretended.

Instead, his eyes drifted sightlessly over the patterns, his own cramped handwriting blurring into illegible blotches. Worry gnawed at his stomach and clattered like pixie wings through his skull. This was a really bad idea, wasn't it? The longer he thought about it, the more certain he became that this was one of the worse ideas he’d had in recent memory. He’d agreed to it in the moment in part because, well, he would probably agree to just about anything Urianger asked of him at the moment. And in part because he was worried that if he said no, Urianger would just make the trip himself. Which...

He would be fine, probably. Almost certainly. He'd clearly traveled here on his own, and he wasn't some damsel in need of constant protection. He could take care of himself when he needed to. Thancred had been impressed recently, watching how adept Urianger had become at his divining magicks. But if something were to happen to him when Thancred had just stayed back and let him go off on his own, he'd never forgive himself.

But... Maybe it wasn't the best idea to bring Minfilia back into Eulmore's reach. Not when they'd just lost their trail. They’d fought so hard to get away from them. If they were to draw their attention again, it would mean returning to life on the run, dodging scouts and armed soldiers on scant hours of sleep.

...It would mean having to leave behind the comfortable routine they'd established here. Leave behind the soft blankets and the real food and the solid roof over their heads. Leave behind Urianger. And.... Thancred didn't want to leave.

Hells. He dragged a hand harshly through his hair, and when that wasn't enough, down over his face, lips catching on the rough drag of callouses. They were going to have to leave eventually. That was always the plan. They couldn't stay here indefinitely, no matter how comfortable it had grown to be. It wasn't fair to Urianger to impose so long on his kindness, and it wouldn't help Minfilia. Thancred was supposed to be training her, helping her become something more, not relaxing in the fae lands with his new— his new.... Arg. His friend. Urianger. Who he happened to kiss. A lot. And think about constantly. And spill himself almost nightly to the thought of. Gods this was dangerous. And stupid. Maybe he really should just leave.

Soft footsteps and the shush of robes around slender ankles drew his head up like a dog who smelled a treat. Urianger's eyes landed on him, golden and kind. He paused, head tilted in that familiar way that used to simply mean "elezen" but now just screamed "Urianger." "Is aught amiss?" Urianger asked.

And suddenly, miraculously, nothing was. The familiar melody of his voice washed away all of Thancred’s troubles in an instant, and suddenly everything felt right — and that in and of itself was wrong. Urianger shouldn't be able to do that to him, to make everything feel better just by walking into the damned room. Nothing should be able to distract him as much as Urianger did.

Thancred merely shook his head, pushing his hair back out of his eyes. "No, I'm fine. Just a bit of a headache," he assured him.

Urianger looked as if he wasn't entirely convinced, but he didn't push. Instead, he brushed his fingers against through Thancred’s bangs as he passed, glancing furtively both ways before stooping to press a quick kiss into his brow. Pink tinted his ears as he pulled back, turning quickly away to return his attention to his task.

Thancred watched him as he moved about the room, gathering the things he thought he would need for their trip, lost in his own world as he contemplated two different canisters of tea leaves. Slowly, the worry crept back in to gnaw at Thancred’s thoughts, the small smile Urianger’s kiss had raised to his lips slipping away. He really, really didn't want to give this up, but... If he brought Eulmore's forces down on Urianger’s head because he was too selfish to leave, he would never forgive himself.

"Urianger?"

"Mm?" he answered without looking up, distraction blanketing his tone as he set one jar back on the shelf.

"I've been thinking... Maybe I should leave. Once we're done at the Crystarium. Maybe it's time that Minfilia and I go our own way."

There was a clatter as the tea hit the floor. Urianger didn't even try to pick it up as he turned to Thancred, his face contorting as he struggled to hide the distress that so clearly painted itself across his features. His mouth opened and closed, once, twice, soundlessly. Then, quietly: "I... would prefer if thou didst not. I... I wish thee to stay. Here. With me. Just for a short while longer?"

Watching the shadows that flitted within his aureate eyes, Thancred could have kicked himself for even suggesting it. He felt rather like he'd just punched a puppy, his heart aching in his chest in a way he'd never felt before. He fought the urge to grip it, to reassure himself that the sensation was all in his head. "If something happens though while we're out, we won't have a choice. I won't risk bringing Eulmore's forces to your door." Never mind the fact that a handful of moons ago, he'd been all too willing to take that risk. Desperate for somewhere to stay and someone to turn to.

Across from him, Urianger swallowed hard, feeling the lump in his throat all the way down to where it settled like a stone in his stomach. He'd known that Thancred would have to leave eventually. That was always his plan. That he'd stayed even this long was nothing short of a miracle. But... Urianger had grown greedy. Avarice clutched at him like a dragon's claws. Demanding. Desirous. He wasn't ready to give up the tentative intimacy that bloomed between them. He wanted to spend more time at Thancred’s side. "Perhaps I could simply come with you, if that is the case. Thou couldst use a healer to assure thy safety."

"No!" Thancred barked, a little too quickly. A little too vehemently. The tentative hope that had begun to unfurl beneath Urianger’s breast withered. He couldn’t supress the expression that twisted his features before it broke across his face, hurt welling in his chest.

Thancred flinched, back pedalling. "It would be too dangerous, to have so many of us in once place. Better to have allies tucked away than to travel together. For now, at least. Besides, your research is too important to give up, and you could hardly do that on the road. That's the whole reason we're taking this risk in the first place."

Urianger’s teeth worried at the inside of his cheek, eyes falling from Thancred’s face. Much as he would have liked to, he couldn't argue with that.

Thancred softened, casting a glance over his shoulder to ensure they were alone before he held out a hand to Urianger. "Come here."

An offer Urianger could never resist. He went to him in a shush of robes, the tea cannister abandoned on the floor behind him. Thancred's hand closed around his, drawing him down into an embrace. His arms were gentle around him, a quiet strength in his fingers as they stroked along the exposed skin of Urianger’s back. Chains tinkled as he caressed upwards, over Urianger’s shoulder to rest his palm against his cheek, cupping his face tenderly. Thancred’s thumb brushed out across his jaw, the warmth in his eyes mirrored by the warmth of his body, seeping into Urianger’s skin where Thancred’s leg pressed tight against his.

Thaliak preserve him, he was practically sitting in Thancred’s lap, tugged down onto him when he'd drawn him into his arms. This close, Urianger could see every fleck of green and gold in Thancred’s eyes. Could feel the brush of his breath against his lips. The hard lines of his body beneath him, soft skin and dense muscle and warmth, so much warmth. Urianger’s pulse quickened, his heart racing beneath his breast as heat spilled through his cheeks and out along his ears. Surely Thancred would be able to feel it, thundering against his chest. Urianger’s eyes dipped to his lips, plump and inviting before him.

He couldn't say who leaned in first. They met somewhere in the middle, Thancred’s lips ghosting against his in the softest of kisses, sweet and chaste. A gentle brush, then another. Just a pressing of lips, nothing more.

He could say for certain that Thancred was the one who deepened the kiss. Lips parting and tongue sweeping out to tease at the seam of Urianger’s mouth in a silent request. He opened for him, as readily as he always did, allowing Thancred in to taste him. Thancred’s tongue slid along his, curling along his lips, his teeth. Urianger’s head tilted to allow him in deeper, mouth moving on Thancred’s as his hands rose to tangle in his hair, holding him to himself.

Urianger could also say for certain that he was the one who pushed for more. Gentle brushes became more heated, the thrum of Thancred’s pulse echoing through Urianger’s chest as he pressed closer, pushing forward against him until his back pressed into the cushions, Urianger’s knees framing his hips and their bodies pressed flush. He could feel the heat of Thancred’s skin bleeding through their clothes, could feel the way he shifted against him. Could feel the hard dig of something against his stomach, pressed tight against his naval. Was that his—?

Blood rushed to Urianger’s face, fluster making his tongue clumsy against Thancred's.

Yes, that was definitely what he thought it was, digging into his stomach. It wasn't the first time he'd felt it when they kissed, but it wasn't usually so close. Usually Thancred played it off, or he shifted his hips so Urianger didn't have to feel it, but this... It was... curious. Intriguing.

Urianger’s own body stirred in response, thoughts swimming from the depths of his passion-addled brain. Thoughts of what lay beneath the tight grip of those trousers. Thoughts of what it might looked like — what Thancred might look like, with his jacket and his pants decorating the floor rather than his body. How it might feel to press his bare skin against Thancred’s, to feel those hands on him as Urianger kissed him. To... Touch him? No— That was— He couldn't—

Urianger drew back, his tongue a leaden weight in his mouth and his ears burning hot enough to melt snow. Where on earth had those thoughts come from? His eyes dropped, away from Thancred’s face and down to focus on the sculpted lines of his stomach. And yet, despite himself, his gaze was drawn inexorably downwards to the catch on Thancred's groin. Not, of course, because he was picturing what lay beneath the cover of cloth and leather. He simple could not bear to look Thancred in the face while his own body raged with a slithering heat that coiled and gathered beneath his robes. Urianger’s pulse throbbed between his legs, distracting and insistent, and his fingers twisted in the fabric of his robes. Please no. Calm down. Go away!

Thancred followed Urianger’s gaze down to his own lap. Surprise jolted through him, redness spilling bright up his ears as his eyes darted back up to Urianger’s face. "Shit, Urianger. I'm sorry, it just— it just happens, you know. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I— please don't run away."

It had been a consideration. He forced himself to stay, despite the antsy twitch of his legs. How could Urianger express to him that it wasn't Thancred that made him wish to flee? It was a natural response, full well did he know that. He was not unimmune himself to the natural course of biology; he was familiar enough with the body’s automatic response to such... stimulating situations... But the way that his own blood raced, his mind filling with thoughts of kissing Thancred, of holding him, of... "It's— I know. Mine apologies. Pray forgive my response, I simply— I'm not—"

Seemingly assuaged that Urianger wasn't going to flee despite the tension that still sung through his legs braced where they around his hips, Thancred softened. He reached up to brush a hand along Urianger’s face — not holding, just touching, allowing Urianger to move away if he wished. Allowing him the opportunity to run, even if he hoped he wouldn't. "Hey," he said, his voice soft and soothing as he drew Urianger’s attention back to him. "I know you're not. It's okay, it doesn't mean anything, really."

Urianger merely nodded, not quite able to bring himself to look up and meet Thancred’s gaze, no matter how reassuring those steady hazel eyes would be. Not when his smalls were still uncomfortably tight beneath his robes, rubbing against his skin in all the wrong ways. His hands fisted in his robes, grateful that the heavy fall of fabric hid it from view.

Thancred's thumb stroked along his cheek, gentle and soothing. He scratched lightly at the edge of Urianger’s beard, the pleasant shift of the hair beneath his finger tingling along Urianger’s skin. A welcome distraction from other, less pleasant tinglings. Slowly, the sensation faded, and with it, the tension leeched from Urianger’s body until he was able to meet Thancred's eyes.

Thancred was watching him warmly, waiting, a reassuring smile on his lips. "There, that's better," he said. He leaned in and Urianger braced himself for another kiss, but Thancred’s lips landed instead in the tip of his nose: a quick, light brush. His lips were damp from their earlier kiss, softened by their shared saliva as they ghosted against Urianger’s skin.

Urianger’s heart caught in his throat, snatching his breath to reside there with it. That was a new kiss. Of all the places Thancred’s lips had touched, they had never touched him there. His mouth, his cheek, his brow, but never his nose. It was different from the others. Lighter. Sweet and cute and playful and... Affectionate.

Not that kissing Thancred wasn't always affectionate; the mere act of kissing necessitated affection. But this was different, somehow. More like the stroke of a thumb up the back of his hand while their fingers twined, or the caress of fingers through his hair while Thancred helped lull him to sleep. Like....

Like the countless little gestures Thancred doted upon him each and every day. A hand on his back when he was stressed. The bump of a knee beneath the table. A mellow voice reminding him to stretch out his back and asking if he'd eaten. Thancred’s every gesture was full of that same sort of soft affection. How long had he looked upon Urianger so, with that delicate warmth in his gaze, without his notice?

 Urianger’s eyes lifted to meet Thancred’s, seeing as if for the first time the way the light haloed his features in a gentle radiance. The way his eyes softened at the corners as he looked at him. The private smile that graced his lips, the one he shared only with Urianger and none other. It widened as he reached forward, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Urianger’s ear. "What do you say we finish getting ready for this trip. Best be prepared for anything, right?"

Urianger could only nod, the swell of emotion beneath his breast staying his tongue. Oh. So that's what I've been feeling all this time.

[Chapter 15] | [Masterlist]

[Kofi/Commissions]

[ceo-of-jennette-de-alger-obelia]

*mumbling ominously to myself about Marrow/Whitley in my au*

I keep seeing people posting quotes that say how murder is like an act of submission, of loyalty, like a soldier. They do dirty biddings that no one else would do and it translates into a very strange way of "love", you're giving up your humanity and empathy in order to kill, in order to show your undying "love".

What if a younger version of Marrow wanted to be a hero, show his kind of "love". Prove that he wasn't a savage, dirty animal that he keeps hearing, show he wasn't a mindless dumb puppy and that he could do more, show more, but he ends up in a job that requires someone to ignore that humanity. He can't mourn his fallen brethern, can't get distracted. He can't show his true grief. All of that will cost him more lives. (Toxic positivity should be rampant in rwby now that I think about it, like damn I can't cry without getting killed? Gotta constantly gaslight myself into thinking I'm happy?)

What if instead of asking him to do those dirty biddings, instead of asking him to draw his weapons Whitley asks Marrow if he could love him. Whitley who secretly thinks it's a hard thing to love him, he hates himself, he can't do anything, he was the leftovers after his sisters left. But even then can you love him? Is it dirty work to try and love him?

Marrow who's used to be asking to kill is now asked to show that love he so desperately wanted to do when he was young.

[darkhazard19]

So my brain came up with a primis armyhorse fic but gave me two versions of the same idea 😅 I didn’t know which one was better so I’m here to get your opinion on which version I should write.

I feel like version 1 gives an insight into how Leta and Dempsey’s relationship developed and how they bonded but version 2 shows the moment the two know they want to be together. Maybe this could be a 2 parter kinda fic but that’s why I’m here to get opinions and feedback lol

Prior to Origins and a couple months into when Leta joined the marines. During the aftermath of a battle while trying to assess everyone’s injuries, Leta gets shot and injured by a straggler. While getting her wounds treated, Leta is slightly delirious and lightheaded from blood loss and just mutters about how she’s sorry for not being useful. Tank comforts her and later on the two share a heartfelt moment while Leta is healing. (Version 1)

Prior to Origins and right after Sterling’s death, Leta makes it back to where they set up base with the letters she nearly died for, letters that Sterling died protecting her for. Moments after delivering the letters she passes out from exhaustion and a wound she had to stitch up rather quickly and messily. After being treated and waking up, she and Dempsey share a heartfelt moment and make the decision to cement their relationship and make it official. (Version 2)

[htonl-writes]

i've been thinking about what my problem is with epithets, because i definitely have a problem with them, which is why i basically never use them. an epithet, if you don't know the fancy words we use to refer to other words, is basically a descriptor that's used as a stand-in for a name or pronoun. the classic fandom example is "the bluenette", although maybe that was more widespread ten years ago. or maybe i just read different fic now.

anyway, my problem with epithets comes down to how i think of POV writing. i write almost exclusively in limited third person, which means i use names and pronouns and descriptors like we're all just standing there watching what's happening like a movie, but i pick on character to be the POV character and describe them from the inside - how their own body feels rather than how it looks, what they notice about the world around them rather than what's actually there - and i don't use any information in narration that they don't have.

that bit about describing what the POV character notices about the world rather than what's actually there is where this comes from. when i write in limited third person, i think of it as giving the reader a glimpse into the POV character's thoughts, just phrased in a slightly more viewer-friendly manner. if the POV character doesn't actually think of another character in a specific way, then i don't use it as an epithet. it actually breaks my immersion when other authors don't follow this rule - i have a way of turning my analytical writer brain off when i'm reading so i can enjoy it regardless of how skilled the author is, but some things i can't turn off, like noticing misspellings or accidental usage of the wrong word, and epithets. apparently.

using star wars as an example, and i promise i'm not vagueing any author or fic in particular: if a jedi who's known obi-wan all his life is talking to him, and the narration is using limited third person with the other jedi as the POV character, the use of epithets like "the red-haired man" or "the shorter man" jars me out of the story. epithets that describe physical traits can be useful to the reader, but if it isn't the first time the characters are meeting, they're unlikely to be focused on each other's appearance. in the above scenario, i might use epithets like "the youngster" (since this jedi is older than obi-wan and knew him when he was little), "the [jedi] master" (since this jedi is likely either proud or jealous of obi-wan's accomplishment in becoming a master at such a young age), or "the general" (i'm sure all the jedi have feelings about becoming generals).

but like i said, i mostly don't use epithets at all. the narrative purpose i use them for is different than what i think most people use them for - that is to say, distinguishing between who's saying/doing what in a scene, without overuse of names or pronouns. i get where people are coming from with this, but i actually don't think it's possible to overuse names and pronouns. i mean, it's definitely possible to overuse pronouns alone, causing your readers to lose track of who's doing what; but pronouns combined with names, i don't think you can overuse. it's just like the word "said", as opposed to other dialogue tags - it communicates the minimum amount of information, and it's usually "invisible" to the readers, in that they absorb the information it contains and move on without paying any more attention to it. pronouns and names do the same, and readers also tend to kind of skip over them in favor of the more interesting parts of the sentence.

instead, i use epithets to communicate something about the POV character, and about the character they're interacting with. how does the POV character think about the character they're interacting with? are they affectionate? derogatory? creepily attentive? respectful? do they not even see this person as a person, but instead as a piece of moving furniture? and the subject of the epithet - how are they acting? is there an unusual element to their appearance? in that same scenario from earlier, the other jedi might use the epithet "youngster" for obi-wan if the context of the interaction is the jedi temple and obi-wan is relaxed and smiling, but they might use the epithet "general" instead if the context is a battle and obi-wan is giving orders and adjusting his armor.

it's a really small thing, on the whole, how an author uses epithets. i really, genuinely do not hold it against a fanfic author if they're using epithets in a way i don't agree with; maybe they're less skilled at writing than me, or they have less experience, or they're more experienced and better than me and they're going for a specific effect. i am so serious about fanfic being a space for people to explore without judgement, no matter if they're exploring a story or world, an emotion or trauma, or something else entirely. i just. i just have Opinions. about writing. because i'm a writer. it happens.