#now i gotta rewrite it

[idkwidatp]

I DELETED AN ENTIRE FANFIC OFF OF GOOGLE KEEP BY ACCIDENT CUZ I PRESSED THE WRONG BUTTON ON FREAKING KEYBOARD GOD DAMN IT

[sometimes-men-need-help-too]

when you forget that asks are different and they're not going to automatically save to your drafts so you lose everything you wrote

[nightfall-kachiniko]

My post never posted 😞

[marf244]

I also noticed that the Farm raid took place WAY sooner than I thought it did. I never actually played AC1 so I missed this convo, but Vidic mentions having agents raid other Assassin encampments and Lucy tells Desmond they did indeed go to the Farm, but it was empty. This happened literal days after Desmond was kidnapped. ALSO the team that was killed trying to rescue Desmond may have included some people from the Farm, and if so, probably people Des knew :(

[rotshi]

they have so many KIDS

[morningstargirl666]

Rules: you will be given a word. Then you share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that starts with each letter of your word!

I was tagged by the lovely @galvanizedfriend The word was 🐺CLAWS🐺

My excerpts are mostly long, okay, and it's because the TBBW rewrite is HUGE. These don't even scratch the surface of it lmao---they're still snippets. (Also I've lost track of what i have and haven't shared at this point, so russian roulette it is I guess?)

C.

Caroline knew Sam was dangerous.

He wasn’t like Klaus or Damon, or any of the other Original vampires; he hid it well, behind kind smiles and carefree laughter that she couldn’t help but see herself in. But that sharp, dangerous edge was always there, taunting anyone who dared dig a little deeper. There was the fact he was a hybrid of course, his bite toxic to any vampire unfortunate to cross it. But it was more than that—there was a Klaus-like familiarity to anytime she glimpsed his rage, burning behind his eyes with the force of a thousand suns, simmering just below the surface. It was like staring up at a sky full of dark, thunderous clouds approaching on the horizon and smelling the spark of ozone in the air; feeling the ache in your joints and knowing without reason or logic that—beyond a doubt—a storm was brewing.

So, Caroline knew. But there was a reason they said seeing was believing. And when she saw his gaze latch onto Elena’s bloody neck, eyes bleeding wolf gold, she felt the full force of her terror.

“ELENA, RUN!” Stefan roared, pushing Elena behind him, just before Sam lunged forward, lip pulled back in a savage snarl.

Stefan rose to meet him, and the two collided, Stefan barely bracing his arm against Sam’s neck in time to stop his fangs from descending on his neck. The two crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs, claws and fangs bared, Sam blurring with the speed he lurched for Elena again, only stopped by Stefan’s arms wrapped around his middle, yanking him back a hair’s breadth from Elena’s face. Caroline grabbed her friend’s arm and pulled her to her feet, pushing her towards the door as the two forces wrestled on the floor, Tyler immediately leaping to Stefan’s aid to hold Sam back.

“Elena, go!” she yelled, shoving her again towards the door when Elena planted her feet, refusing to move.

“But Stefan—”

“RUN!” Caroline roared, her panic snapping her resolve. There was a crash behind her, and she turned, just in time to see Sam hurl Tyler across the room, into the coffee table that smashed under the weight of the impact, the cracking sound of wood splintering piercing the air. Then Sam whirled on Stefan still on the floor, slashing his claws across the vampire’s face and making him roll back. As Stefan cried out, shielding his face with his arm, Sam pounced forward, fangs poised to sink his teeth into the vampire’s skin.

Caroline’s eyes widened with horror.

“STEFAN!”

In a blur, Elijah was suddenly there, throwing Sam off Stefan by the nape of his neck, fingers curled around his collar. Sam snarled, a fierce growl rumbling out of his throat, lashing out and struggling against Elijah’s hold but the Original vampire was strong, stronger than Sam, quickly manoeuvring the hybrid into a chokehold from behind, arm pressed against his windpipe. He even managed to brace his hands against Sam’s head, poised to snap his neck. But in that moment, Elijah made one grave miscalculation: he may have been stronger, but Sam was hungrier.

Driven feral from the bloodlust, he struggled wildly against Elijah’s hold and sank his fangs into the man’s hand. 

Elijah screamed.

Not giving him enough chance to recover, Sam jerked his elbow back into Elijah’s nose and flashed out of his hold and spun, slamming into Elijah and lunging for his neck. His fangs sank into the Original’s jugular with such savage force it brought the man to his knees, ravaging his skin and tearing apart his throat. Within the span of a few seconds, he had grabbed Elijah’s head and yanked his neck to the side, breaking it with a resounding CRACK before the man could even react. His limp body dropped to the floor, hitting the lavishly decorated rug with a thud, head at an awkward angle and vacant eyes staring towards them, the ravaged skin of his neck a mutilated mess from Sam’s venom-laced bite.

Somewhere to the left, Caroline heard Rebekah's heartbroken wail, but she couldn't move. Couldn’t speak. As they all looked on in horror, Sam stilled over Elijah’s body, straightening his spine and standing tall. He tilted his head in that distinctly canine-like way and sniffed the air, chasing a scent. And then he was slowly turning around, golden eyes landing on Jeremy a few feet away, still standing with Matt. Elijah’s blood was still smeared all over his face, dripping down his chin, and when his black, yellow-rimmed eyes landed on the humans, his lips pulled back over his bloody double fangs. There was no trace of Sam in the animal’s eyes; only the wolf within.

Jeremy took a frightened step backwards and that was all it took for the prey drive to kick in.

“NO! JEREMY!” Elena screamed as Sam pounced, claws extended, and Caroline couldn’t stop her running to her brother, couldn’t save Jeremy, he was too fucking far away—

—And then Kol crashed into Sam’s side, sending them both to the floor.

[TBBW Rewrite, Chapter 39]

L.

“Love is a vampire’s greatest weakness,” he ground out, calling after him before he could disappear, determined to get in the last word.

Sam stopped in his tracks, slightly turning his head back towards Klaus. Then he smiled, and with one sentence, shattered a belief Klaus had closely courted for centuries. 

“Good thing you’re not a vampire then, isn’t it?”

And with that parting remark, Sam turned and left the room, leaving Klaus wide-eyed, forced to contemplate over what he had said. In the dancing flames of the hearth, the sketches Klaus had thrown into the fire continued to burn, flames licking at their edges and crawling across the lines of charcoal and pencil, leaving nothing but ash behind. He looked down at the last sketch of Caroline he’d drawn: the first moment she stepped into his studio, eyes wide with awe as she craned her head to look up at the paintings hung around on the walls. Fingers reverently skimming over her face, he gently tugged the paper from the pad but didn’t throw it into the flames like the others, placing his sketchbook aside on the mantel almost with half a mind. Then, careful not to damage the soft lines of Caroline’s features, he folded the sketch tentatively in two and slipped it into his back pocket.

He told himself he would burn it later. He didn’t.

[TBBW Rewrite, Chapter 21]

A.

As he had done a thousand times, Klaus snuck past the soldiers guarding Aurora’s chambers, using the empty servants’ corridors to gain entry after Aurora’s handmaiden had been dismissed for the night. He didn’t bother knocking in his haste, barging into the chambers with little foresight.

Aurora leapt to her feet beside her dresser, whirling around and gasping in fright. Only when she recognised him did she relax, pulling nervously at the edges of her night garments. 

“Nik?” she breathed in surprise, eyes darting to the doors of her chambers, where soldiers were no doubt stationed outside. “What are you doing, the guards will hear you—”

Klaus didn’t stop as he strode across the room towards her.

“Word’s been sent to Elijah that Mikael was spotted across the border. He’s coming.” He grasped her shoulders, leaning down to kiss her brow, before jumping into action again, moving towards her wardrobe. “We have to leave. Tonight.”

Aurora blinked, struggling to follow. “What?”

Klaus began to pull out her favourite dresses and attire, dumping the clothing into a pile on top of her bed, pointing to her books set aside and other treasured items, like her mother’s jewelled comb, as he did so. “Grab whatever you need, if we have a headstart we might have a chance—”

Aurora watched him, eyes darting back and forth as Klaus flashed around the room, collecting her things. Her eyes grew panicked and she shook her head, voice rising as she spoke. “Nik, I don’t understand—”

Noticing her panic, Klaus stopped in the middle of the room, expression softening when his eyes landed on her. Abandoning his mad dash to gather her belongings, he strode over to her, slowing to a gentle stop in front of her. 

“Aurora,” he began, picking up her hands with his own and offering a soft smile that hid his nerves. “Run away with me.” When her mouth parted in surprise, he squeezed her hands tighter, rushing to explain. “You’re always talking about how you wish to see the world—I can show it to you. Let me show it to you.”

Overwhelmed, Aurora struggled to speak. “Nik—I—”

“I love you,” he declared, leaning down to catch her eye. “These last few months I have been reminded of what it is like to live, not just survive. You reminded me.” The smile cut across his cheeks, wider than ever, dimples and all. He ducked down and kissed her knuckles. “Please,” he continued when she still didn’t answer, eyes wide, fixed on his face. “Come with me.”

“Run away with you? Leave my brother? My home?” Aurora asked aloud, her voice shaking. “Tristan—”

Klaus shook his head, grasping her hands tighter, imploring her to listen to him. “Tristan does not love you. He loves the idea of you he has created for himself, the fragile little bird he keeps in a golden cage. The world is bigger than this castle. Let me show you.”

He smiled again, tentative around the edges.

She only looked up at him with a look he couldn’t begin to read.

“How? As we hide? Fleeing your brute of a father? Always on the run, living like dogs?” she demanded. She wrenched her hands from his and scoffed, taking a step back from him, the laugh cruel. “I think not.”

Despite his intention to keep the hurt from his expression, the pain of her rejection was written all over his face. 

“Your… Your brother has turned you from me,” he said, trying to rationalise her actions. Tristan had become more paranoid as of late, ever since he was turned, tightening his hold on Aurora as a result. Almost as if, everything he was before when he was human, had been heightened.

“No,” she immediately refuted, shaking her head. “I turn from you because I do not love you.” 

Klaus froze, as did she, realising what she had just said. Her expression flickered, eyes growing distant as she struggled to comprehend her own emotions, her voice growing more confident with each word. 

“I—I thought I did. But it’s as if I see you clearly for the first time and I–I—” Her gaze shot to his, finally, and seeing the disgust in her eyes, Klaus wished she had never looked at him at all. “I find you a cruel, wretched thing, pathetic, really. And unworthy of anyone’s love, let alone mine.”

He swallowed around the ball building in his throat, voice coming out as little more than a croak. His hands, bereft without hers to hold, fell to his sides. “You don’t mean that.”

“You say you are not a monster, yet you killed your own mother. Because why? She did not love you like she loved your siblings?”

Hurt twisted into rage in an instant and his glare seared into her skin. “That is not the reason I killed her, and you know it,” he ground out.

“How?” she scoffed, the sound slightly hysterical as she stared at him like she didn’t even recognise the man before her. “How could I know such a thing? How do I know anything you have told me is true when you lie to your own siblings? Your own family?” Her face hardened, posture straightening with purpose. “I wonder what they would say if they knew Mikael’s rage was justified.”

Suddenly all Klaus could hear was his heart pounding in his ears. “You swore to never speak of what I did.”

“I owe you nothing,” she sneered. “We are not alike. And I could never love you.”

Every word hit him like a physical blow and Klaus felt something inside him shatter, his entire expression splintering apart.

“Aurora, please—”

He stepped forward, reaching for her, wanting to fix this, to tell her it wasn’t true, that she was just scared, that he would protect her from Mikael, from Tristan, because he loved her and she loved—

“Do not touch me,” she hissed, jerking away from his hand, stepping backwards as she grasped her own arms in a white-knuckled grip. He froze, eyes wide and broken. She refused to look at him.

“Go,” she ordered. When he didn’t move, she raised her voice, screeching the words out. “GO! GET OUT!”

She shoved him away and he stumbled backwards, blinking back to life. He ducked when she threw an empty chalice at him, growing increasingly frenzied in her attempts to get him out. It was only then he finally recognised the look in her eyes— Fear.

She was afraid of him.

“GET OUT!”

His heart in his throat, Klaus backed away, escaping out the room the same way he’d arrived as he dodged the projectiles she threw his way. Her screeched cries followed him and in his haste to get away, he didn’t check the corridor was clear when he emerged out of the passageway and into the light. 

“HEY! You there! Halt!” a guard called out, followed by the loud, clattering steps of armoured footsteps. There was the hiss of blades being drawn and Klaus stopped in his tracks. “Identify yourself!”

At his sides, his hands curled into balled up fists.

“That’s Lord Niklaus,” another voice whispered—another guard. He sounded young.

There was a pause, before the first one spoke again, his voice more respectful but no less suspicious. “What business do you have in this wing of the castle, m’lord?”

Unbeknownst to the men, black veins crawled across Klaus’ cheeks as his eyes bled red, flickering to life. 

“Lady Aurora’s chambers are not far. You don’t think—”

The boy had not yet finished his train of thought before Klaus whirled around, grabbing his sword arm and ripping the limb right from his shoulder. He screamed, blood spurting everywhere. Klaus had already moved onto the other guard as the younger one staggered back, swatting away his sword to grab the man’s neck, shoving him into the wall and grabbing his head, fingers clenching around his helmet. It dented under his supernatural grip and the guard screamed as his skull was caved in, deep throated wails of it, before it suddenly stopped, the man’s gaze turning unseeing as he took his last breath, a resounding crack echoing through the corridor as the helmet pierced the skull, right to the brain. Klaus let him fall, body landing a mangled heap on the floor. Blood dripped from under the helmet and down his brow, a steady stream of red staining the frenchman’s skin.

The helmet itself glinted in the candlelight and Klaus could see his own face staring up at him from the reflection in the golden metal. There was blood on his face, wet specs of it sprayed all over his skin like a macabre painting of freckled watercolour.

“We are not alike. And I could never love you.”

He didn’t wipe it away.

[TBBW Rewrite, Chapter 5]

W.

“What do you want this time, daywalker?” the man spat, lip curling over elaborate blue-toned tattoos that covered half of his face, firelight bouncing off one side of his completely shaven scalp. 

“I want information,” Klaus declared with a bright smile, as if he was offering the noblest of deeds to a dear friend. He pulled his leather coin bag from his belt, shaking it at eye level, the golden coins clinking noisily within. “I’m willing to pay you handsomely for it and then, you will never see hair nor hide from me and my family ever again.” 

The witch eyed him suspiciously, glancing between his grin and the bag of coins. After a long, deliberating moment, the witch opened the door wider and reached for the payment. Klaus moved the bag out of reach, expression flatlining into something dangerous. 

“... Unless, of course,” he warned, “You are foolish enough to ever side with my enemies in the near future.”

The witch glared at him, meeting the Original’s challenge with bravery and reaching over the threshold, away from safety, to grab the bag of coins.

“I have no intention to quarrel with the likes of you,” he said, snatching the payment out of Klaus’ hand. “What is it you wish to know?” he asked, eyeing Klaus one more time before turning around.

Klaus moved to follow but stopped, unable to, magic keeping him out without an invite into the home. Mouth curled into a sneer, Klaus raised his gaze from the infuriating doorway to the witch inside, who was walking back to his work table where the carcasses of several animals sat. He grabbed a huge meat cleaver where it hung off a hook attached to the rafters, carrying it over to the table and continuing his work, beginning to gut a brown, pink-nosed weasel.

The smell of blood wafted into the air as flesh was sliced apart and Klaus turned his head away, not squeamish by a long shot but definitely hungry, staring instead at the numerous dried out herbs and charmed objects hanging from the ceiling, the air thick with magic. Along the shelves, ceramic jars stood in stacked rows, packed with all sorts of things; frogs legs and pigs hearts, moonstones and mandrake roots, even hare’s eyes—they stared back at him, magically blinking, very much somehow alive, watching his every movement with unnerving intensity. 

“You are familiar with the wolves in this area, are you not?” Klaus asked, trying to ignore the shiver that crawled up his spine.

He remembered the hut his mother used for spells and blessings throughout his childhood, the heavy atmosphere of magic that thickened the air like an ever-present fog and the uneasiness it gave him whenever he stepped inside. Kol and Finn always loved it, said it felt like mother was embracing them. For Klaus, it was suffocating.

“I was,” the witch drawled, glancing up at Klaus as he pulled out the weasel’s intestines, “Before your family slaughtered what was left of them.”

“What was left of them,” Klaus echoed. His eyes narrowed. “Such a specific choice of words.”

Once Klaus and Kol had reunited with their siblings the morning after the wolf pack’s attack, they had sought those responsible. Unprotected by the might of the full moon, the wolves that had not perished under The Black Wolf’s claws met a terrible end, bled dry by his family’s fangs. But how would the witch know about the Black Wolf that had interfered, even when his family did not?

“Ask your question, demon,” the witch said with a sigh, impatient, wanting him to get to the point.

“A black wolf, larger than your average werewolf. Powerful, too,” Klaus described, intently watching the witch for his reaction. “What do you know of it?”

The witch paused. Calmly, he set his cleaver down, discarding the weasel’s pelt and throwing it onto a pile on the floor, wiping his bloody hands in the fabric of his apron. His eyes found Klaus, a grimace on his face.

“The Dolpha pack that rules the northern territories… they call him der Schatten.”

“The Shadow,” Klaus breathed, translating the name.

The witch nodded, hesitantly continuing his story. “He is a ghost, a story wolf-folk tell their children at night before they sleep. A protector that stalks the land, searching for the prince that was taken by der Zerstörer. They say he walks in his shadow, hunting him forevermore.”

“Der Zerstörer?” Klaus repeated, stumbling over the unfamiliar word, the language of the Franks far more familiar to him than his Germanic.

“The Destroyer.”

Klaus felt himself freeze; felt as his muscles tensed at the mere utterance of the feared moniker Mikael had begun to answer to.

“And what is this… ghost?” Klaus asked, teeth gritted as he forced the question out. At his sides, his hands clenched around the wood of the doorframe. “What gives him power?”

“You say his pelt was black, yes? And powerful, very powerful?”

“Yes.”

“My guess is he is a Bloodborne,” the witch said with a shrug, grabbing the organs of the weasel he had just gutted and throwing them into a huge cauldron that bubbled and boiled over the fire-fueled stove. “They are a powerful breed of werewolf, descended from the oldest bloodlines of their kind. At the turn of a blood moon, their power is… unmatched.”

Klaus remembered how Mikael used to cower during the nights of the blood moon when he was but a child, refusing to allow any member of their clan to leave the caves even when the moon had waned and the sun had set twice more. Superstition, he had believed it to be then. Now, more aware of magical practices and the power of celestial events, he knew the true monsters to fear on such a night were the witches, not the werewolves.

But perhaps he was wrong.

“One Bloodborne pack was well-known in the Scandinavian regions for their pelts, black as the night, made of the thickest shadows,” the witch continued, providing Klaus with more food for thought. “They inspired many myths of the great Fenrir in the times of Old, no doubt, before the Great Purge came. Perhaps he is a descendent of them.”

“Can he be killed?” Klaus asked, that ever-present worry that the Black Wolf—despite its peaceful actions so far—was a threat to his family loud in his mind.

“Any werewolf can be killed,” the witch said with a cruel laugh, turning around to shoot Klaus a serious look. “Just make sure you aim for the neck." He grinned. "A wolf cannot bite without a head.”

[TBBW Rewrite, Chapter 7]

S.

Sam had transformed, his wolf chained by the ankles to the walls of the pen, with even a god damn collar circling his neck, locking him to a chain bolted to the floor. They’d attempted to give him a make-shift muzzle; straps of leather wrapped endlessly around his snout, clamping his jaws together so tightly Klaus could see the straps digging painfully into his flesh from where he was standing, rubbing it raw. Patches of blood decorated his pelt, a macabre splash of colour against the shades of brown and cream. The wolf was unconscious—thankfully—motionless against the floor, Kiera kneeled right beside him trying to tear the chains away, straining in her attempt.

“Don’t just stand there! Help me!” she called over to him, eyes panicked. Finally, the chain she was pulling at gave way, the metal links loudly snapping in half under strength. Even as she threw it away, she started coughing, the vervain still hanging in the air clogging her throat. “If he wakes with these around him—”

She choked, and it sounded like a sob before she could quell it. Kiera didn’t cry. In over eight hundred years, Klaus had rarely seen her shed more than one tear—at least, not when there were witnesses. 

Something in Klaus’ expression hardened, and he didn’t need her to finish her train of thought, already rushing to her side. He knelt down, grabbing onto the next chain just as she reached for it herself.

“On three?” he asked her. She nodded. Klaus gritted his teeth as he wrapped his hands around the cold iron, changing his grip. “One…two…three!”

They both pulled on the metal with all their strength, straining from the effort, and this time, with Tyler’s power added to hers—both wolf and vampire—the chain snapped much quicker, breaking from the combined force. Klaus moved to rip the makeshift muzzle away as Kiera moved onto the next chain, desperate to get the wolf out of the restraints.

“Knife,” Klaus ordered, holding a hand out expectantly when he failed to tear the leather wrapped around the wolf’s snout with his bare hands. Kiera quickly paused in her attempts to break the chain, lifting up her foot and planting it on the floor, pulling a wicked-looking knife from her ankle, sharper than those she used to throw. She slammed it onto Tyler’s palm, and Klaus curled the boy’s fingers around the handle, immediately using it to cut away the tight straps of leather, careful not to cut the wolf’s flesh. Underneath the leather, the skin was read and raw, weeping. Klaus clenched his jaw. Kiera refused to look, resuming her attempts to break the last of the chains.

Working together, they managed to free the wolf; Kiera worked the chains, pulling the bolts from the floor and tearing the links from the collar, while Klaus cut away the muzzle, discarding the scraps of leather and wire one by one. Throughout it all, the wolf barely stirred, eyelids fluttering open once or twice, only to fall shut once more.

“Need help with the collar?” Klaus asked, when the muzzle was gone, the wolf’s jaw free. He sincerely hoped that wouldn’t bite him in the arse later. Literally.

The metal collar was a heavy thing, weighing a dozen tonnes. With the added weight, Klaus could barely move the wolf’s head—probably by design.

“Grab the other side,” Kiera ordered, already moving onto it, Klaus following. She grabbed the leather clasps around the neck first, unbuckling them, before nodding at Klaus, indicating for him to pull out the bolt that attached the two halves of the collar on the other side. At her nod, he ripped it out with a snarl, and she caught the part that fell to the floor while Klaus caught the top, careful to make sure both pieces didn’t fall on the wolf’s paws and injure him further.

“How is he?” Klaus asked, watching Kiera as she put her piece of the collar down, reaching for the wolf’s head immediately. She ran her fingers through his fur, brushing back his ears. They twitched at her touch, and on the ground, his paws tensed, claws digging into the wood.

“Sssh,” Kiera hushed softly, and although the wolf’s eyes didn’t open, he must have recognised her voice, because the beast’s entire body sagged. She pulled his huge head into his lap, her lip thinning into a grim line as her eyes landed on his swollen snout.

“He’ll heal, once we’re out of this air,” she murmured, scanning the rest of his body worriedly. “I’m more worried about what this implies. Shouldn’t he have shifted back by now?”

Klaus rolled Tyler’s jaw, shaking his head as he too looked the wolf up and down. “It’s the Heel. It locks them in this form—”

“I know it locks them in this form, Klaus,” Kiera snapped, looking right at him. “I’ve seen what hunters do with their heads, let alone their hides.”

Not all hunters killed vampires and werewolves alike just because of some divine calling to rid the world of all evil, or because they decided they alone could protect those they loved from the monsters lurking in the dark. Some merely used that as an excuse.

Some, hunted the supernatural world for sport.

Those hunters were the kind of men and women that didn’t care whose lives they took, taking fangs from vampires and claws from werewolves as trophies, mounting the wolf heads on their walls and decorating their floors with their hides. Heel locked a werewolf in their canine forms even after a death, making it possible to skin the corpse and take the pelt. On the black market, the rarest werewolf pelts were worth a small fortune—a white pelt, for example, had sold at auction three years ago in Seoul for over 2 billion won.

Klaus dared not imagine how much his pelt would be worth.

“All this time… and they thought we were the monsters,” Kiera continued, gently brushing her fingers through the fur at wolf’s neck. “We need to make them pay,” she whispered. 

Klaus gritted his teeth, shooting her a warning look even though he longed to agree with her. “We will, but not now,” he hissed. “We had a plan.”

“They used Heel on him, Klaus,” she snarled, eyes shooting to glare at him, veins crawling along her cheeks. The monster was hungry. “They need to burn.”

[TBBW Rewrite, Chapter 42]

The word is 🦇BITE🦇

Tagging @stars-and-darkness @marxandangels @bellemorte180 @ks-caster @iturnlemonadeintolemons and @stardust414 because i'm sure you could adapt this for art wips

[rewritingcanon]

stop making fics where scorpius and al have friends and are popular in school. they’re literally loser boyfriends bro their only friends be each other wdym they have other people they’re chatting to on a consistent basis??? the only other people they talk to thats not each other are the blood relatives and even that pushes it

[monofazz]

Working on something i guess- I'll see how I feel about colours or whatever

also them :) ❤️

[puffles]

Doesn't this just do the same thing at the end of the day?? "`Western view of their identities and manipulated the text in the process" lol??

[quailxcrossing]

had to do toyhouse rewind AS FAST AS POSSIBLE

[pencilofawesomeness]

Guys I'm having such a bizarre moment. I didn't expect to win like this, or to have my personal headcanons be confirmed so directly, but I also feel simultaneously robbed because Akutami is reaching into my head /jk

We received so little about Sukuna, but those brief brief brieeef moments of existentialism really caught me and I've thought about him for so long because of it. He was a fantastically terrifying villain, but there was always that dissonance there, between some of his words and actions, that portrayed that aimless longing and hurt and what that meant as a characterization point, and I'm honestly so hyped we turn around and get this in 271:

(scanlation for this panel because I think it gets the sentiment across better)

Followed by

I'm—

Y'all I started my draft for my Sukuna Reincarnation AU months ago and I never expected canon to validate me. They leave it easier and more open-ended, of course, but I'm coming on the record to say I wasn't crazy for my stretch of a character exploration and also I called it.

I won't go into the specifics of my "study Sukuna like a cockroach" notes now I just wanted to come grab the mic and announce that I beat Akutami to it >:D /lh

I'm being a good noodle and not stretching myself thin by starting a new multichap now, but I've had With the Storm in the works since January, and in light of the end of JJK and this lovely little tidbit, I'm tossing a sneak-peak from Chapter 7 because why not:

But maybe it could be. Maybe, just maybe, Uraume could accept this proffered hand and continue to hope.

---

Yet… things were different now. Things changed. Uraume changed, Sukuna changed, and even though they were still themselves, there was a myriad of shifts that piled on their shoulders until something gave way. Maybe a subconscious part of Uraume had braced for that to be a crash, but instead, Sukuna had been nothing but accepting and open. It only made them more nervous about losing him, just as they feared losing Pops. Uraume was not used to wanting, or hoping, but there was a powerful need in their chest that childishly demanded that they should get to keep both their kinder father and this happier Sukuna close, even if that may not be possible.

They nodded, not trusting their words at the moment, and Sukuna relaxed slightly.

“Good. Though that reminds me… You never really answered my first question. What do you want to do? With this life, I mean.”

There was that want again. Uraume felt the pull at their lungs until it was unbearable. They knew what he was asking; the question didn’t hinge on his involvement anymore, just them. Sukuna said he wanted to live peacefully, so what, then, was Uraume’s answer?

As much as they felt like a coward saying this, maybe that was okay. Sukuna felt the same way, after all. “I like this life too…” Uraume answered, and it was very different saying those words aloud. “Pops isn’t a shaman at all, and he’s good company and a good father. If I wasn’t able to find you, or you were not of this world, then… I would stay as his family.”

“That’s good,” Sukuna agreed, lifting yet another anxious weight from their chest. “I get that. Nobody else in my family are shamans either—at least, not really—and they’re all good people. It’s a good life, and even though I would have never expected it… I don’t want to lose it.”

It was amazing how similar they were, then and now. Uraume…really shouldn’t have worried about a lack of understanding. Sukuna didn’t have to say it, but it was clear that their thoughts had wandered down a similar road yet again. Their families, full of normal people living normal lives, were an unexpected treasure; to willingly become a monster, to become a scourge upon the world for whatever reason, would forfeit that. More than that, having people to care about made the desire to spread destruction lessen, rather significantly. Maybe that hurt and rage and bitterness was still there, in between their ribs, but in the ones that were dead and buried—a part of them, but also not quite there anymore, like when a scar ceases to constantly itch and ache and becomes only a mark on functioning skin.

They didn’t have to be monsters anymore. There were calmer, kinder things available to want—available to receive, even.

“This is so weird,” Uraume blurted, staring at their small hands and thinking of the strange miracle their lives turned into.

Sukuna barked a quick laugh before it was muffled into something like a snicker. “I know, right?” He leaned back in a stretch, his face catching the sun and lighting him in something that wasn’t a fire, but equally bright. “It’s not bad though.”

It was weird, to be a child, to be without some far-off goal, to be loved and happy, in the sense that it was absurd and foreign and absolutely unexpected. It was a breath of fresh air after years and years of having frozen lungs. Weird, surprising, but unmistakably good after so long of believing that no such term, deceptively simple, could have ever been applicable.

“Not bad at all,” Uraume agreed, a bright and blooming thing in their chest as their life began to slot into a new place. Still open-ended and perhaps a little terrifying for it, but Pops accepted them, and Sukuna accepted them, so maybe they could truly accept themself now, and whatever that will look like.

[patolemus]

Wip Sunday

Got tagged a while ago by the wonderful @dontcallpanic @hedwig221b @gege-wondering-around and @endwersed (sorry this took me so long y'all it's been a tough week) so here you have another snippet from my time travel au

As he waits for class to start, Stiles takes out his phone. He’s got no new messages after the one from Vinny confirming Deucalion and his pack left town Saturday morning, and that Kali and Ennis were getting ready to do the same. Since no werewolves have started banging at his doorstep demanding he reveal what he’s doing in Beacon Hills, and hunters haven’t stuffed him full of arrows, Stiles considers the whole ordeal a success. A job well done, all in all.

There’s only one little thing that keeps nagging at Stiles, an ache in the back of the head.

But before he can get onto that little piece of information, the desk in front of him rattles with the sudden weight thrown on it. Stiles looks up instantly, lookingassessingmeasuring the personthingthreat. Maybe a harpy? A wendigo on the loose?

It’s Laura Hale. Stiles thinks he prefers the wendigo.

“Hey, Myca! How are you? You weren’t here last Friday, right? That was a bummer, I was going to invite you to hang out at the movies with a few friends, but I didn’t catch you all day,” she says, barely stopping to take a breath. Stiles wonders if this is what it feels like when he steamrolls over people with his words, and if so how is it that no one ever actually taped his mouth shut, because it’s kind of overwhelming.

Then again, maybe that’s the panic attack building up in the pit of his stomach. Who knows?

Why is it that no matter how much he tries to avoid the Hales, they end up finding him anyway? Stiles had never meant for them to even know his name, and now both of them have talked to him.

He misses Scott. Scott would know what to do, he’d be a gentle buffer between him and the Hales, would soak up the social interactions while Stiles panics in peace.

But Scott isn’t here. His Scott is dead, and in his place there’s an eight year old, and he’s not. Here.

Stiles still hasn’t learned to live without him. He dreads the day he finally does.

Laura is still looking at him, expectant. It takes Stiles a moment to realize she’s waiting for him to provide her with a real answer for her question.

Ah, shit. How is he supposed to not-explain that he was out in the distillery near the preserve watching a showdown between werewolves and hunters, threatening a few Alphas with murder and basically creeping on every supernaturally inclined individuals in town?

Yeah, Stiles thinks the fuck not.

“I had a few things to take care of. My dad—” he allows his throat to close up, remembering his dad and the awful fate that befell him. Stiles feels dirty for using the memory of his dead father to trick Laura, but it works out almost too well. Immediately, her face shifts from an invasively curious one to a sympathetic, pitying expression. Stiles has to hold back the urge to tell her to save her pity for herself, since she’s going to need it much more than he does if his plan doesn’t work. “Anyways, it was best if I didn’t come,” he finishes lamely.

Laura just stares at him for a moment, making Stiles want to fidget on his seat. While her gaze don’t inspire the same trepidation Derek’s did, it’s just as intense. Stiles remembers that was a trait both Derek and Cora shared, and now he’s guessing it’s a family thing. Her green eyes are nowhere near as pretty as Derek’s, but nonetheless Stiles fears they may be able to peer into his soul and find all of his secrets.

Stiles looks away before she does. It seems like the only thing he can do when it comes to the Hales.

“That’s alright, then,” there is a certain softness in Laura’s voice that makes Stiles want to scream. He says nothing. “Hey, do you want to go to the lacrosse game this Friday? It’s the last game before winter break, and everyone in school is going,” she swiftly changes the subject, and while the soft part of Stiles appreciates it, he can’t help but curse the particular topic she chose.

Seriously, what is it that the Hales find so interesting about him? Stiles never got this kind of attention from anyone in school before. In fact, people actively avoided him because he talked too much and couldn't stop moving and would go on about weird shit. Also because of his unfortunate stunt as a child delinquent who went about breaking people's noses when they pissed him off. And Stiles avoided them right back, since most people didn’t interest him enough. Without Scott, Stiles would be a loner by definition.

Yet here he is, with Laura Hale flashing her almost-too-toothy grin at him.

Laura is the best, I love her. Not a lot of sterek on this one but I thought I'd share a little of what Stiles gets up to when he's not too busy daydreaming about Derek hehe. No pressure tagging @hedwig221b @dontcallpanic @salty-fryingpan @novasillies @oldefashioned @fuji09 @endwersed @gege-wondering-around and @kittykatstiles sorry again that this took so long, uni is unsurprisingly kicking my ass

[gabugabs]

sooo, once again, I replayed S3. the ending of ch4 really got me feeling like

superstition is ofc by @13leaguestories ❤️

[gnomewithalaptop]

Uuuugh vehement antishippers are so annoyinggg 😑

[warrior-cats-rewritten]

Are you telling me that Bramblestar didn't get a fucking life from Hollyleaf?

WHAT THE SHITTING HELL IS THIS

No no fuck the fact that Brambleclaw had a breakdown when Holly died, she isn't his REEAAAAL daughter, let's put RAVENPAW in there and make the Skyclan timeline look weird when we give him his own Skyclan based book that'll be fine

WHAT DOES CINDERPELT HAVE TO DO WITH HIM OTHER THAN SHOWING US 'hey she's in starclan now' WHY LIONHEART HE IS JUST HIS UNCLE AND AFAIK ISN'T ACKNOWLEDGED

Fire, Blue, Golden, and Feather make sense though, nicely done on those ones.

Since some more cats live and some more die, the lives have been changed. Hollyleaf still doesn't give a life in WCR because she lives, sooooo...

WCR!Bramblestar's 9 lives are:

Firestar for courage to make right choices

Bluestar for clear judgement of character

Goldenflower for forgiveness and love

Cinderpelt for listening to medicine cats (and foreshadowing the Mediator role)

Snowtail for acceptance of difficulty in life

Ashfur for trust, even in the dark......

Longtail for offering second chances

Feathertail for a sense of adventure beyond Clan borders

Redtail, for speaking out against injustice.

[trashquisitor-shirozora]

Was browsing through early BOBF/Mando S3 criticisms on Tumblr and WOW, 93% of S2’s viewership dropped when S3 finished airing for an extremely understandable reason. As someone who got into Dinluke after all the dust settled I can only imagine what it was like becoming invested in Din’s story and being floored by the S2 finale only for it to get totally swerve-balled after a long-anticipated wait. How did you avoid the disappointment and burnout?

Spite is an incredibly powerful motivator, let me tell you.

I'm halfway joking about that, btw. I could say I'm used to disappointment and I also worked really hard not to take things too personally after being disappointed time and again year after year by fandoms I was in. Imo the healthiest attitude is that no show/movie/book/videogames/etc will ever play out the way you want/think it should so take what you can get and trash the rest. By the time I started watching The Mandalorian, I'd been burnt badly by Star Trek AOS, the Sequel Trilogy, the MCU, and the Disney machine, and I had to figure out how to accept that I like what I like, I can't change what I can't change, and I can/will run the fuck off with what I can change, which is making wildly fun and fulfilling transformative shit like fanfics and fanart.

I was actually excited about TBOBF and was utterly betrayed by the executive decision to throw him and Fennec to the side in order to absolutely trash the Season 2 finale of the Mando Show by having Din and Grogu reunite just like that. I guess I got lucky in that I had a long-running fic series that I was heavily invested in and I was not about to let Disney stop me from finishing it. Instead of letting my frustrations kill my interest in the show and fandom, I turned it into motivation to keep telling the story I wanted to tell based on the fallout of Season 2. It also helped that Andor happened.

I quit Season 3 of the Mando Show after the 1st episode and it was the best decision I ever made. I had a really rough time with it and was encouraged to step away if it was giving me too much stress. I'm glad for that. Less time and energy picking about Filoni&Favreau and Disney Lucasfilm's decisions and disappointments, more time and energy spent writing and drawing the dinluke I want to see. The nice thing about Star Wars is that it is an old and vast sandbox. Plenty of room here to build whatever sandcastles and dig however many holes you want while canon goes floundering by.

I think also that it really helped to find spaces to share with people who vibe on the same wavelength, so I'm not alone to my thoughts and spiraling myself out of a fandom I enjoyed (like what happened with TLJ but I shan't go there bc this response is long enough). Those posts about having friends you can shit-talk things with? Valid af. You need outlets to vent your grievances without setting bridges on fire, and it'll help your enjoyment of things in the long run.

I didn't avoid the disappointment but I figured out how to make something of it, so I'm still writing dinluke, I'm still drawing dinluke, I'm still getting giddy over dinluke. I actively choose to do what I want with them, and nothing Disney Lucasfilm puts out is ever going to stop me.