#things I should just write into a fanfiction

[randum-famdoms]

Something I have seen people complain about is when the story “stops” for a character to mentally think about their feelings regarding something.

I think that’s bullshit.

Like, okay. Think about it. How fast is your train of thought? Faster than your reading speed, right? Do your thoughts all happen in neat little sentences, or as more of a nebulous and/or choppy half-formed thing that *you* understand, but would sound like nonsense on a page?

Also, the character probably isn’t actually taking as long to think these things as you are reading it. “Character A feels xyz about this” isn’t taking ten seconds to actually happen, feelings coexist with action!

Now, there is a time and place for introspection. It is my personal philosophy to have the amount of introspection reflect the pacing of a scene. Fast battle scenes will be far more action-heavy and introspection-light compared to, say, a calm breakfast.

I think it balances the annoyance over pages of introspection completely breaking the flow of an intense section of the story (at least, from the perspective of the reader), while still maintaining some of that wonderful interiority (which is actually a new word for me, and I adore it).

I’m the first to admit that I am far from an experienced or professional author. I don’t have a professional editor, and my only education is via Highschool and middle school classes (and while I was always in the advanced classes, a few even college level, they were still restricted by being part of the American education system). I definitely can think of times where my grasp on the interiority slipped. Especially when it comes to describing things that wouldn’t necessarily be noticed by the pov character, simply because I as the author do know about it and think it’s funny or important.

I’d imagine a good rule of thumb regarding this would be to treat it like dialogue. People always say to read your dialogue out loud to notice any problems. Well, just act out the scene as though you are the pov character. Not necessarily irl, but in your head. (And maybe even irl if you can manage it, it can’t hurt!) What way are you facing? Would you be able to see that annoying dog? Would you focus on the person you are talking to’s face, or their hands? Is this activity one that you would space out during, or does it require laser focus?

Basically, all the things you would not think about if you imagine the scene like a movie as you are writing.

Picturing the scene as a movie can be helpful, particularly for things like imagery. But it does have its shortcomings, as op said.

It can work thematically for some stories, but when it comes to most writing that is not third person omniscient, it’s definitely something that can cause the reader to feel… distant, I guess. Less immersed.

It’s also something that, sadly, many writers will have to teach themselves and seek out to learn, because, as OP said, it’s becoming harder to find in modern works. This is doubly so do people who mainly read non-published works. I will sing the praises of fanfiction until the day that I die, and maybe even after, but the fact of the matter is that 99% of fanfiction authors are self taught. They may not know how to incorporate interiority. They may not even have ever read a work that had it.

I know a lot of people say that you should read the “classics”, and you may be thinking that could help here, but I for one am a fierce defender of not putting up requirements to be considered a writer, and that includes required reading. Yes it can help you learn skills, but so can more modern works. I learned a lot from reading Percy Jackson, and other lesser known books, and none of them are considered classics on par with The Great Gatsby or Shakespeare.

Instead, I propose this: if you want to get a better grasp on writing with interiority, try actually consciously focusing on your day to day life for a little while every day. Focus on your train of thought, on the things you focus on, on the things you see.

If you want to read something, great! Ask for recommendations, go to your local library and flip through books until you find one you think you will both enjoy and which has a good grasp of the concept.

First and foremost, however, in any writing, is to remember how we as humans actually live and interact with the world, and you’ve got a primary source of research at all times: yourself. Exclusively using other texts as sources will only ever end in a very broken game of telephone.

A lot of fiction these days reads as if—as I saw Peter Raleigh put it the other day, and as I’ve discussed it before—the author is trying to describe a video playing in their mind. Often there is little or no interiority. Scenes play out in “real time” without summary. First-person POV stories describe things the character can’t see, but a distant camera could. There’s an overemphasis on characters’ outfits and facial expressions, including my personal pet peeve: the “reaction shot round-up” in which we get a description of every character’s reaction to something as if a camera was cutting between sitcom actors.

When I talk with other creative writing professors, we all seem to agree that interiority is disappearing. Even in first-person POV stories, younger writers often skip describing their character’s hopes, dreams, fears, thoughts, memories, or reactions. This trend is hardly limited to young writers though. I was speaking to an editor yesterday who agreed interiority has largely vanished from commercial fiction, and I think you increasingly notice its absence even in works shelved as “literary fiction.” When interiority does appear on the page, it is often brief and redundant with the dialogue and action. All of this is a great shame. Interiority is perhaps the prime example of an advantage prose as a medium holds over other artforms.

fascinated by this article, "Turning Off the TV in Your Mind," about the influences of visual narratives on writing prose narratives. i def notice the two things i excerpted above in fanfic, which i guess makes even more sense as most of the fic i read is for tv and film. i will also be thinking about its discussion of time in prose - i think that's something i often struggle with and i will try to be more conscious of the differences between screen and page next time i'm writing.

[moonstandardtime]

mostly based on vibes. love putting characters on graphs. elaboration under cut

siffrin — i think this is pretty self-explanatory. least self-aware mf in the room (mostly due to being unaware of everybody else too). their perceived "normal" is very different from everyone else's.

loop — more self-aware than siffrin due to. siffrin. definitely more aware that shit's fucked. but they also for sure have a VERY warped view of "normal okay things to experience" (in a different way than siffrin—siffrin is more "that was a fine thing to experience. [symptoms of ptsd] are just part of life :)👍", while loop is "that was bad but it wasn't THAT bad. i'm just a big crybaby loll")

mirabelle — writes fanfiction and has anxiety meds. next

isabeau — seems like something defenders should know (and by that i mean its relevant so he did more research than strictly necessary) and he's very self-aware. he knows his placement on this graph. he's telling himself it's not a problem and it's working out... alright. has a very solid(ly Not Great) coping strategy of Play Pretend.

odile — she knows what ptsd is conceptually at the very least. and she's coping in a way that works. she knows what she's doing and it's working fine for her. (is it good? ehh debatable. but you can't deny it works.)

bonnie — children are both extremely aware and extremely not self-aware. they know what's normal and what's not but it doesn't really click that bad things result in bad feelings beyond a surface level.

[batmanlovesnirvana]

Maybe you should just block me since you’re clearly you’re talking about my fic.

I used the x reader tag because it started as one before I decided to rewrite it with more North African/Middle Eastern representation—something fandom desperately lacks, along with addressing the racism that often accompanies it.

I’ve made a conscious effort to keep descriptions minimal for inclusivity, so if that doesn’t fit your narrow expectations, that’s on you.

Maryam means a lot to me, both as an immigrant and as a woman of color. As a Muslim, too, especially in the current climate where we're constantly navigating prejudice, stereotypes, and discrimination. There's so much negativity around us, both in the real world and online. It's hard to feel seen or understood, especially when you're already carrying so much weight.

She’s kind of a love letter to anyone who sees pieces of themselves in her, because that’s the whole point—she’s meant to be you.

Fandoms were supposed to be a refuge—a place to connect with others who share your passion, to feel safe and accepted—but too often, they become spaces where that very sense of belonging is challenged. It's heartbreaking when something that's meant to bring joy and solidarity feels like it only amplifies the hurt.

I’m an amateur writer sharing my fanfiction for free—because I love writing and enjoy seeing others enjoy it—but also hoping to get noticed, not for the attention, but for the feedback. I thrive on seeing others engage with my work. If I don’t promote it, nobody will see it, and then I’ll lose my motivation.

If I don’t promote my work, I’m not doing my job. Simple as that.

Next time, just scroll past and save us both the drama—or, you know, there’s this thing called filtering in your settings.

But considering how many times you’ve reblogged it, pinned it, and stirred up others, I may as well delete it—since it clearly bothers both you and them that much.

Honestly, it really hurts me to see all this bad attention over something I created to share and enjoy. It’s just so upsetting, I’m genuinely thinking about taking it down.

— نور

tags for the readers of the fic : @gaypoetsblog @faeryki @rattyfishrock

and for those who responded to that woman & are agreeing with her : @mouthfullobats @hwasflower

me when i see an x oc fic, but it has an x reader tag:

im sorry, do i look like a maryam to you?

[obsidianpen]

also can you believe it’s 2025 and you started bg in 2017. i think it’s just crazy to see that when i go read bg over and over again. like the passage of time. the life youve lived during that time etc.

it’s almost been a decade. how much does a persong change/grow in a decade?

i have to admit i wasn’t here from the beginning. in a sense i ’got lucky’ since i only discovered bg last february. and that’s when you started youre more fast paced updating. yet i kind of hope i would have gotten to read it from the beginning in 2017.

well anyway, it’s an amazing story! thank you for writing and spending your time (8 years!!!!!?????!!!) writing it for us to enjoy for FREE????!!!❤️

well the answer to your first question is A LOt. But. Should be noted - I didn’t ’spend 8 years’ writing blood and gold. That would be nuts. I’ve been writing it over the span of 8 years, which is different. Blood and gold was never a job or a gig or even my main fanfiction for most of that time if I’m being honest! There were times where I stopped working on it for months or years at a time, for various reasons. In that same 8 year span, I have:

written and finished 2 original works that are over 100k words (one of which I edited a lot and am actually proud of! The other eh it was a learning experience lol might rework it one day)

Written a bunch of other fanfiction nonsense, idek how much and of what

moved like…. God 5 times? 6? Currently in the middle of move 7? And most of those were across the freaking country

got my masters degree (that was a two year break)

got married

had a bebe

worked some of the most STRESSFUL and time consuming jobs of my LIFE

and that’s just some of it!

anyway Im sorry, I got heated over this because I’ve been sent screenshots (wish I could unsee some things I swear) of someone talking shit about me and how long my stories take me to write. If I didn’t have a life and if I was only ever focusing on just one story at a time, they wouldn’t. 🤷‍♀️

[fic-writer-confessions]

i envy everyone who shares their writings with loved ones.

seeing other authors saying, "my partner read my fic and..." or even, like, "my friend joined this fandom just to read my fics," makes me feel inadequate, isolated, vastly insecure because everyone in my personal life, i absolutely FEAR knowing i read fanfiction - let alone WRITE it.

they have the mentality that it's stupid and childish, they think reading AND writing fanfiction to be the equivalent of "crazy, lonely, single cat lady". it makes me feel completely embarrassed of myself because to them, "fanfiction isn't real literature, those people can't consider themselves real authors".

i love writing. i love fic writing. it's my own personal secret - which in itself, is great! it's the one thing totally mine that i never have to share.

but at the same time, i feel like a fraud because i can't share this genuine passion of mine with literally anyone. loved ones ask what i'm writing about ALL the time and i can't tell them. i literally say, "it's therapeutic. if i wanted to share / wanted you to know, i'd talk about it, not write about it." which sounds kinda harsh, but they keep pushing, and i know for a FACT if i share even ONE fic, they'd ridicule and judge me.

i have one of those families where there are NO secrets, even confidentiality is disrespected; the kind of family where when anything happens, even Great Auntie Mabel thrice removed on my dad's side will suddenly know. i don't need my whole family to know i write smut about fictional characters; or about gruesome violence; or whatever else. so i feel trapped in a sense; i want to connect with them and share this passionate hobby of mine, but i also don't want to hear their hateful, unsupportive opinions/comments NOR deal with the ramifications of the people i didn't want to know, knowing.

and yeah, sure, the fanfic community is full of "like minded individuals" but it's not the same. i just feel so isolated and embarrassed to be me.

does anyone have any advice on how to "get over" this fear? should i keep it to myself (it's not harming me to keep this a secret) but if one day, i wanted to - let's say - tell my best friend, how would i go about that...? do i give them my pen name? do i send it to them anonymously (meaning editing out anything that could connect my pen name)? do i send them my blog and just say, "have at it"?

i feel so silly, ungrateful, and whiny.

.

[lookingfts]

Hello, there. I'm both excited and sad about the upcoming end of Lover. It's such a unique story. I'm so glad you took a chance on regency. You should be very proud. I love the variety that comes with fanfiction but I find canon time/place easiest to visualize, so I love finding good ones. Do you know which multichapter you are going to tackle next?

Aw, thank you. I'm grateful to everyone for supporting my journey into regency even though I'm sure I yada yada'd over a lot of things hahaha. It's been a pleasure to write. I'm so happy that anyone enjoyed it.

I have no idea what I'm tackling next. It seems to change constantly. i've been rethinking Perfect Places again. I think I'll probably take a few weeks after I finish Lover and do some one-shots, and the muse will tell me where to go.

I'm assuming Kate and Anthony won't be able to get married unless they somehow are able to get the queen to assume Fife is dead after x amount of years. If they are never able to wed, would Anthony be able to claim any of his and Kate's other children as legitimate? Or has Ben been brought up to speed that he/his kids will carry on the line?

I will be so glad to get the last chapter done so I can stop worrying about spoiling the ending haha! Kate and Anthony's children will be legitimate, that's all I'll say for now.

Does Fife ever reach out to ask about his family again? Even if it's a subtle letter to Anthony thanking him for taking care of Kate and Arjun?

Hmm, I'm not sure honestly. I think Fife feels the guilt of walking away from his wife and child, even if he knows it was the best choice for them. And the easiest way to cope with that is not to know about anything about Arjun. He can't really get news of them without telling Arabella where he is; their correspondence is one-sided. But he trusts that Kate will take everything he left her and manage it well, and that Anthony and the Bridgertons will take Kate and Arjun and Arabella under their wing, because that's just who they are.

[dreamer-grl]

I get that but at what point should you just (honestly I’m okay with being the bad guy for this one…) write a book. Literally change the names and be like After (terrible example but still) or something like idk man I just feel like I’d rather support someone who went from writing fanfiction for the heck of it to perfecting their craft and realizing they were talented to then becoming an author. You don’t even have to write long stories to be an author. You can write short stories. You can write cute articles. Also respectfully… what will a couple of $3-$5 subscription on Patreon help you pay for in this economy? I just feel like everything is about money now a days and we don’t have the love for the true world of fanfiction. Also to touch base on the whole not every fanfiction is for every fan. I agree. However if I wanna read an Austin Butler fanfiction (which tbh is kinda a dying fandom on here) and I’m stuck with two or three writers to read from because the rest of them are putting up a paywall I don’t think I wanna read Austin anymore ya know? Putting things behind a paywall would just deter people who might appreciate and seek inspiration from your craft away from your work. Also, back to the book. If we can have works from Lauren Asher and Colleen Hoover flood the shelves imagine how much true talent can come from these Patreon tumblr writers.

Very unpopular opinion… I don’t think people should be putting fanfiction behind a paywall like Patreon… it’s giving the same vibes as Wattpad putting all those ads in their app and not being how it used to be… like don’t get me wrong I know why people do it. I will forever support a writer as a writer myself. However, fanfiction is supposed to be for fans. Like why restrict certain people from your craft because they can’t afford to support your work and others work monetarily.

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[frownyalfred]

today’s fun writing fact: did you know that most writing coaches estimate that it takes around one hour for the average writer to write 1000 words?

I know what you’re thinking — that’s really slow! I can write that in 20 minutes. Right, but that assumes that when you started typing, you knew exactly what you were going to write — every line of dialogue your characters were about to say, every description perfectly pre-planned, etc.

And then you have to go back and edit it. And tag it. And cut out parts that don’t work and add new bits. So by the time you’ve got that “short” fic all ready to go, you’ve probably spent at least two hours on it, maybe more.

So yeah, as an author, I cringe seeing the “this was so short!!” comments on fics, even when they’re well-intentioned. Because someone just took 2+ hours out of their day for something you could read in less than five minutes and be done with.

The next time you see that author put out a 1-2k chapter, remember to do the math! And leave a comment 💜 that’s how you keep those updates coming.

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Phantom stared at the monitor with baited breath. He had been alerted by the computers beeping and came to see what was going on.

Could this really be happening? After all this time alone in his lair, waiting, hoping for any sign that his last remaining friend was still out there, his ecto-signature finally showed up on his radar.

This had to be a trap.

But...what if it wasn't? What if Robin was really there? What if he was hurt and waiting for Phantom to come rescue him? The thought made his stomach drop. He knew what his birdy had gone through when he was still alive and he would rather feed himself to a pool of ghost piranhas than let Robin believe for a second that he had been abandoned again.

Grabbing the essentials and shoving them into a bag he rushed out of his lair. It had been years since he had seen his birdy and even longer since he had been in Amity Park or any other variation of the Living Realms. But this was for his best friend. For him he would do anything.

...

Which apparently included fighting his besties adoptive dad in the streets while he was in a full Gothic fursuit-Robin what the heck- Robin himself wasn't helping, he was just cheering Phantom on from the sidelines and giving him tips.

Phantom managed to get away from the bat and his other birds- how many did he have???- and had an emotional reunion with his best friend which included a lot of tears, mostly from him.

Okay, entirely from him. He was worried out of his mind for his birdy, sue him. Robin was mostly confused, saying he didn't remember disappearing, only that he felt more and more strange before he just...blanked. The next this he knew he was standing over this prone figure of a guy with a leather jacket and a full faced red helmet. Batman looked at him odd and Robin didn't hesitate to mock the man he once viewed as a father.

They fought for a bit with the younger vigilante using all the powers Phantom taught him along with his furry training to beat up the man who abandoned him to the mercy of one of his rogues.

Speaking of which. The very next thing Jason did was find the Joker and do everything the deranged clown did to him. Karma. It was on one of his later confrontations that Phantom appeared. Now the darker dynamic duo are running around Gotham being ghostly and more or less doing whatever they want.

Bruce was spiraling mentally. His second son lay in the batcaves infirmary stuck on life support because somehow, some way, his soul was knocked out of his body.

They needed to find some way to put it back in before that other teen "took him home" and Bruce really hoped that didn't mean what he thinks it means.

[imtrashraccoon]

I'm feeling down and really tired today so I've been reading some monster x human fanfiction. Anyways, I was suddenly inspired to write something for Nightmare and since my friend @superbfirnacho also seemed to be feeling down lately, I may have indulged in something comfy.

Nacho, I hope you like this, I was tempted to ask first but then I didn't, so... I was really tempted to write more but I didn't plan anything out and just wrote until it ended in a good place. Is it weird that I was also tempted to try and write a crossover that included Aylin meeting Ivy? I'm too tired to try and make that work right now, but I'm not opposed to it!

Cuddles By The Fire: Ivymare

The gentle crackling and occasional popping of the coals could've soothed even the most stubborn person to sleep. However, for a god like Nightmare, he was unaffected by the allure of rest. He could if he wanted to, but often didn't since the time doing so could be used for more productive things.

There was one exception though and she was currently laying asleep next to him.

Her name was Ivy and she was easily the best thing to happen to him in centuries. He wouldn't have thought he could feel any affection for anyone or anything again but lately he was realizing how wrong he had been.

Her bubbly personality and seemingly boundless positivity was mildly irritating, almost like sand between his bones. But it was nothing in comparison to the blazing sunlight of his brother's own aura.

He had pushed her away at first. She was basically the complete opposite to him and yet something about her kept him from leaving entirely.

All beings could experience negative emotions just as they could experience positive ones. He could sense that she was no different, despite how much she tried to hide it behind a bright smile. Maybe that was why he'd persuaded her to join his little crew of misfits.

Or maybe it was because she seemed so familiar... Almost like a long lost friend...

Whatever the reason, he wasn't about to let her leave his side anymore. He wasn't going to let anyone hurt her. He wasn't going to allow her happiness to be snuffed out.

She was a talented healer too. Anyone with even an idiom of mana could sense how powerful her soul was. Some may foolishly suggest that she was a Boss Monster but he knew better. Her strength rivaled that of his own and while he'd never actually inquired, he highly suspected that she was somehow related to a deity. Although, he wasn't sure if she was a god like he considered himself to be or if she had been blessed by one.

Healing wasn't all she could do though. She wasn't afraid to defend herself if anyone was foolish enough to challenge her to a fight. He'd witnessed her put Killer in his place a few times already and likely would again since the skeleton never seemed to learn his lesson.

She was also a skilled botanist and had a way with animals that he'd only ever seen from nature deities the few times he'd ventured into Reapertale. These talents weren't as useful for his work but they occasionally proved handy. It was just one other thing he admired about her since his own corruption didn't mesh well with most animals or plants.

He used one of his tendrils to set aside his journal for the time being and shifted her body a bit closer to him. He lightly ran one of his phalanges over her cheekbones, being mindful not to graze her with his claws and mar her perfect skin.

She stirred and mumbled something unintelligible but he was quick to soothe her back to sleep with a gentle kiss on her forehead. He lived for these rare quiet moments when it was just the two of them.

If his brother ever found about her, he knew that those Star Fools would immediately assume he'd kidnapped her. That wasn't entirely incorrect but it wasn't like she had ever tried to leave either. He probably would've let her, but at the same time, a darker side of him wanted to lock her away and never let anyone even look at her again.

His tendrils unconsciously coiled tighter around her body for a moment before he realized and loosened up his hold so as to not wake her.

She was his.

And he wouldn't let anyone take her away from him. Not again...

[tired-gae]

Prompt #27: "That's not the point"

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: Teen (for cursing)

No warnings as of now!! (If there is something that should be put here, let me know!)

(No ships either)

Premise: Post-revival (Died in Infinity War, ambiguously is Alive at present time, between Infinity War and Endgame) Loki and Clint have a conversation.

---

Loki had been in the Avengers Compound for nearly a week. It had been a few days since the revelation that the Invasion of New York was not done voluntarily on Loki’s part (and since he’d last seen Barton.) Thanos was a topic of heavy discussion, of course, given the whole ‘Snap’ business. Loki’s almost glad he was dead at the time, if only because he didn’t have to witness that event. 

He and Barton hadn’t made eye contact since he’d returned. This did not come as a surprise, and Loki expected this pattern to continue.

So imagine his shock when, as Loki is sitting against a wall in an unused training room in an attempt to think uninterrupted, Barton walks into the room and sits down mere feet from him. Loki glances over but chooses not to react. Whatever Barton is trying to accomplish, he’s sure it will make itself clear soon.  

He observes the agent quietly. Barton looks tired. He’s staring, eyes half-lidded, at the floor, and appears older than Loki remembers. (Though, he supposed, it had been a good number of years since New York. Mortals aged quickly, did they not?) He takes note of Barton’s lack of weapons. (Visible ones, anyway. He is a spy.) A display of benevolence, perhaps? He can’t imagine it’s a display of trust, considering it all.  

Loki looks away once again. It continues to be silent.  

The silence is expected. Loki can hear the gentle whine of Barton's hearing aids. (An old pair, presumably worn for comfort reasons. Stark had bought (made?) him a pair recently, after deciding the technology around Clint's ears was subpar at best, and that the archer could do better. Loki had yet to see him wear them.)  

The silence is also fragile. Barton is the first one to break it.  

"You too, huh?" 

Loki hums quietly. "In a different way, but... yes." 

Barton picks at the skin around his fingernails. "I had a feeling." 

Loki's head snaps toward him, stunned. He struggles to find words for a moment, mouth opening and closing stupidly. He settles on, "Pardon?" 

Barton's eyes finally flicker over to Loki's, his eyes still half-lidded, tired. "You do realize I remember a good amount of my time under the mind-control crap, right? I mean, it wasn't that hard to figure out." He looked away again. "I don't actually have pigeon shit for brains."

Loki takes a moment to form his response, choosing only to respond to the last part of the statement. "I'm aware. You were the brains behind the stunt in Germany, and subsequently the entire plan, after all. I could hardly think you were stupid." 'A distraction and an eyeball,' if Loki remembered correctly. 

Barton's face twists into a grimace briefly before he shakes it off. "Anyway—the point was, I remember a lot of those few days. I remember you going into a trance-like thing a few times, and coming back from it all shaky and shit. ...Not that you weren't really shaky the whole time. You were weirdly weak, and despite telling us not to overwork ourselves, you didn't really seem to sleep at any point..." He shrugged. "I dunno. After I more-or-less got over it all, it wasn't exactly a difficult conclusion to come to that there was something fishy going on, that you weren't really the big bad." 

Loki stared at the wall opposite them, fingers digging into the flesh of his arms where he was crossing them. It was silent again for only a moment. 

"Oh, and SHIELD's known since forever." Barton added like an afterthought. "I mean, they combed through basically every piece of footage from the invasion, I've seen the clips. They analyzed the shit out of the footage from the collapsed PEGASUS facility, they couldn't really ignore all the signs that you weren't quite... at your best when you showed up." Understatement of the millennium, Loki thought with very little mirth. Barton looked over lazily again, though this time Loki was the one avoiding eye contact. 

"Anywho." Barton continued, quieter. "This isn't forgiveness or any crap like that." 

"I wouldn't expect it to be," Loki agreed. 

"It is... I dunno. An olive branch I guess." He shrugged, crossing his arms in a mirror to Loki to stop himself from picking more at the skin on his hands. "Part of me still wants to put an arrow through your skull, but, y'know, it's a small part." 

Loki frowned. "You would be completely entitled to do so, if you wished. I would not stop you from taking that revenge." It likely wouldn't even kill him, he mused. Nothing seems to be able to do that these days. 

Barton groaned, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Loki can't help but wonder what he'd said wrong. "See, you say shit like that, and it makes that part even smaller. I mean, dude. I'm not actually gonna fucking shoot you." 

Loki can't say he understands why not, but he can't say he understands much about Barton. (Despite quite literally being in his mind at one point.) None of these mortals make much sense. 

Barton sighed, letting his hand drop again. “Anyways. That’s not the point. The gist is... we’re OK, all things considered. If you catch me using a printed out picture of your face on a dummy during target practice, mind your business. That’s just how my brain works.” He shifts, standing back up from their position of sitting against the wall. “I’ll see you around, terrorist. Don’t die on us again. Still needja for the whole killing Thanos thing.” 

Loki rolled his eyes at the ‘terrorist’ nickname. “Never losing that epithet, am I?” 

“Not a chance.” 

[lauronk]

happy birthday to my friend @stillboldlygoing. this once - and only this once - will i participate in your wish fulfillment of fixing my fic there's nothing surgery can do.

so i give you this tumblr exclusive ficlet, just a dream

word count: ~3.4k tags: ellie pov, joel & ellie, nightmares, 'it was all a dream' trope, blood, minor injury, no beta we die like david

“But no matter what, no matter all the time you have spent hating me, I love you, Ellie. Okay? No matter what, I would always have loved you. And I have never, not for a goddamn second, regretted my choice.”

Ellie’s eyes flutter open, Joel’s words still ringing in her ears. Her eyes are crusted with the remnants of her tears, cheeks still damp, and as she sucks in a shallow breath, Ellie realizes she is still crying.

She might never stop, at this point. She doesn’t see how she can, not with Joel gone, not with what feels like her entire life upended. What the fuck is she supposed to do, with his words and the echo of that gunshot reverberating non-stop in her head? That image of him walking off into the trees is forever seared into her mind.

Another ragged sob slips out of her lips, and Ellie pushes herself upright on her bed, chest heaving –

She freezes, hands gripping the edge of her mattress. Her bed. She didn’t – she fell asleep on the floor after getting back, she fell asleep there and she stayed there. She stayed there, on the cold ground, still in her jeans and flannel and boots, and yet…

And yet she’s in her bed, in her pajamas, boots shucked off messily by the door like she always does. The door’s still locked, and Ellie whips her head around to check her window, to look at the curtains she knows she closed, and yet they’re wide fucking open. Joel’s house is framed behind them, trees swaying ever so slightly and Ellie –

Ellie bolts.

Doesn’t bother with her shoes, just twists the lock and yanks the door open, doesn’t shut it behind her. Runs full tilt across the yard without slowing, even when she steps on a rock or a twig or something that has her swearing and her right foot radiating pain, but she doesn’t stop until she’s up the steps to his porch and outside his door. It’s fucking locked - who locks their goddamn doors in a place as safe as Jackson? - and Ellie jiggles the knob fruitlessly.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

She gives up trying to turn the handle in favor of banging on the door with her palm, not stopping even when it starts to sting, when the pain is ricocheting up her arm, not caring that she probably can be heard from around the front of the house, that the sun is barely up, that her foot is hurting something awful, just keeps slamming her hand into the door until she hears a noise from behind it and the handle turns and the door swings open and –

Joel is standing there in front of her. Joel, whose expression morphs rapidly from annoyance to surprise to trepidation to worry. Joel, with his graying hair and increasingly wrinkled face, faded shirt and bare feet, and Ellie can’t help the noise that slips from her and has his eyes going wide.

“Ellie, what –?”

But her hands are scrabbling for his arm, his right arm, rotating it until she can see his forearm, the skin unmarked and unblemished and un-fucking-bitten.

Her oh my god comes out wet and garbled, and she slumps forward until her forehead meets his chest. Joel staggers - steadies - and wraps an arm around her shoulder as she twines her fingers into the sides of his shirt and sobs her relief out against him.

“You’re alright,” she hears faintly above her, his hand rubbing a slow path up and down her spine. “‘S alright.”

They stand there together until Ellie’s sobs subside and she leans back, peering up at him as if she can’t quite believe he’s here. And she can’t, not really - the dream was so vivid, so life-like, she can still smell the dirt, can still hear the echo of the gunshot, can still feel the tightness of Tommy’s arms around her, pulling her away from him permanently.

Joel’s staring back at her almost the same way, uncertainty and confusion and hope all warring visibly across his face. He cups her cheeks, thumbs brushing away stray tears as they still fall, and his brows tug together.

“You wanna tell me what that was about?” He asks softly.

“I –” Ellie’s throat closes, head turning enough to catch sight of his bite-free arm again. “I had a nightmare last night, I guess. But it was one of those nightmares that feels so real, everything about it was so clear, I can still remember every little detail of it, I –” She shifts her weight, a hiss escaping when her right foot flares with pain. “Jesus fuck,” she breathes, looking down.

“What –” Joel follows her gaze down, his hands tensing on her face. “You’re bleedin’.”

Sure enough, there’s a small pool of blood on his back deck, her foot throbbing and tacky with it when she lifts it to examine the damage. It’s a deep gash, right through the middle of her foot, and a glance backwards shows a few bloody footprints across the deck.

“Yeah,” Ellie replies quietly, looking back at him, “I think I stepped on something in the yard when I was coming over here.”

Joel shifts to the side of her, hooking an arm under her shoulders. “C’mon, inside.” He nudges her forward, supporting her weight as she hops awkwardly on one foot.

“No, I can take care of it,” Ellie protests weakly, even as she lets herself be led over to the couch. “I don’t wanna get blood on your floor or anything.” Joel props her foot up on the coffee table before disappearing into the kitchen and reemerging with his first aid kit, a dented white case that had been in the house when he’d moved in.

“Yeah, well, you showed up here freaked the hell out and bleedin’, so humor me for a minute and let me fix you up, alright?”

Ellie sinks a little deeper into the couch, watching as he cracks it open and pulls out a wipe and some gauze. She doesn’t know how there’s even anything left in it at this point, after years of bandaging up her cuts and scrapes, not to mention his own. “Alright.”

She leaves him to work in silence for a moment, eyes skating over the room around them curiously. Not really anything has changed since the last time she was here other than a couple more wood carvings, maybe some new books. The clock on the mantel ticks loudly in the silence, right next to the drawing of him she’d made. She can still see his face, gone all soft and pleased in the way she only ever saw from him rarely, staring down at the drawing with his hand over his mouth. Eyes glassy as he’d immediately gone to get a frame for it.

The drawing he’d done of her in turn had been taken out of its frame and shoved in the middle of one of her books. She hadn’t been able to make herself get rid of it anymore than she could stand to look at it.

“So…” Joel draws the word out, glancing up at her briefly before returning his attention to her foot. It stings as he carefully wipes it clean, a towel resting under her heel and slowly darkening with blood. “You gonna tell me about this nightmare of yours?”

Ellie starts to pull her leg back immediately, but Joel’s too quick - his hand clamps around her ankle to keep it in place like he knew exactly what she was thinking. “I don’t wanna talk about it,” she says sullenly, crossing her arms over her chest and feeling for a moment like the fourteen-year-old she had been when they met.

Joel hesitates, hand squeezing her ankle and then releasing it in favor of pressing a bandage to the sole of her foot. He keeps pressure there for a long moment, shifting her foot to rest on top of his thigh to hold it better. “You don’t gotta tell me about it if you really don’t want to,” he says eventually, eyes still on her foot. “I just know it had to have been pretty bad if it had you runnin’ to me all panicked like that.” His voice fades into something a little more forlorn, like he recognizes how out of the ordinary it is now for a tear-stained Ellie to be showing up on his doorstep. For Ellie to be on his doorstep at all, after a year and a half of careful avoidance.

Ellie tilts her head back to rest on the back of the couch, eyes on the discolored ceiling. It’s easier than looking at Joel and seeing all the layers of him as she’d known him overlapping. The utter asshole of a man she’d first met that had flung her into a wall and pointed a gun in her face; the softer version he’d become after their argument in this very house, teaching her about football and how to shoot; his face as he’d admitted to lying to her, to ruining any hope of a cure; the face from her dream as he’d prepared to go off into the woods and die; and the man now carefully bandaging her foot with his head hung. There were too many versions of him that pulled too many of her heartstrings and had her feeling entirely too many different ways.

But her eyes slip shut and the vision of him walking towards the trees with a trembling arm and two patrolmen swims behind her eyelids, and the words fall out.

“You died.”

Joel’s hand stills on her foot, the gauze half-wrapped around. He doesn’t say anything, and it’s like all the air has been sucked from the room.

“You died,” Ellie repeats quietly, swiping a stray tear from her cheek. “You got bitten out on a patrol, and me and Tommy had to go say goodbye to you, and then I watched you walk off to go kill yourself.”

His hands resume their ministrations, but even without looking at him Ellie can feel them trembling. Fuck, she’s already said this much, so she might as well keep going.

“Tommy came to get me,” she whispers, eyes still shut, “and told me you got bit. And so I went out with him to see you before you – before.” Her throat goes tight, and Ellie forces herself to sit up and look at him again. Even feeling him securing the ends of the bandage isn’t enough - she needs a visual reminder that he’s still here, that it was all just her brain’s idea of a horrendous joke.

Joel finishes bandaging her foot but makes no move to stand or to return her leg to the coffee table. One of his hands stays wrapped loosely around her ankle, his gaze on the ground between his bare feet. He’s still in his pajamas, Ellie realizes for the first time. She must have been banging on the door hard enough to wake him - there’s not even the smell of coffee coming from the kitchen.

“Was there more to it?” Joel asks when she doesn’t continue, and Ellie swallows.

“Yeah, it –” she blows out a breath, fingers knotting together in her lap. “We got there and you’d…you’d gotten bit on your arm. Same place as me.” Joel’s right arm twitches slightly, his eyes finally lifting to meet hers. “And…we –” Ellie clears her throat. “We said goodbye.”

“What did we say?” Joel asks quietly, a note of fear in his voice like he doesn’t really want to know the answer.

“Well,” Ellie takes a deep breath, resituates herself a little but doesn’t pull her foot from Joel’s thigh, “I got really pissed at you. Told you it was all your fault because of…because you –”

“Because of what I did at the hospital,” he fills in for her. There’s no recrimination in his voice, no guilt or anger, just understanding. He’s holding her gaze steadily, encouraging her to keep going, something sad lurking in the depths of his eyes that Ellie doesn’t want to try to name.

So she keeps going, spills out all of it - all the things they’d said, the puns, the way she still hadn’t been able to let go of her anger but the way his death had all but destroyed her from the inside out. By the time she stops talking, her throat is dry and her cheeks are damp again. So are Joel’s, his hand still cradling her ankle.

Silence envelops them, the air in the room leaden and heavy with a grief that still feels too real, too raw and present. Ellie still can’t believe how clear the whole dream was - how clear it still was in her mind even now - and she still half expects to blink and be alone in his house. Blink, and he’ll be gone, out in an unmarked grave beyond Jackson’s walls, and she’ll be here with only grief and resentment and fading memories of his laugh to keep her company.

But Joel remains solid in front of her, tangible, his calloused hand still keeping her tethered.

“D’you want some tea?” He finally asks, looking up at her a little uncertainly. “I’ve got some things I’d like to say about your nightmare, but I think maybe we might need some kinda fortification for that.”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

Joel steadies her as she stands, hands hovering nearby as she limps to the dining room and settles into the chair by the window. It doesn’t hurt quite as bad to walk with the cushion of the bandaging, but she knows she’s gonna have to let Tommy know and probably get herself taken off patrol for a couple weeks.

Ellie sits there, watching as Joel busies himself at the stovetop, pulling down an extra mug to go with his owl mug, digging out a tin of tea that she’s pretty sure she left here after she moved out, pacing back and forth until the kettle whistles and he can pour both of their drinks.

Joel brings both mugs over to the table and sets them down, turning back to dig a small jar of honey out of one of the cabinets and carry it back along with a spoon.

Clearly, he still remembers how she likes her tea.

The smell of his coffee permeates her nostrils as she stirs in the spoonful of honey, and for once she doesn’t recoil from it. She’ll never admit it to him, but the smell had grown on her over the years. Not the taste - never the taste - but the scent of coffee was something Ellie came to associate with Joel, and with safety. Coffee and sawdust and whatever oil it was he used on his wood carvings. She’d forced herself to stop seeking out the smell of it when she’d cut Joel out.

This morning though, Ellie just lets herself take a deep breath and inhale it as Joel settles himself across from her.

“‘M sorry you had that nightmare,” he begins slowly, staring into the depth of his coffee mug like it’ll have all the answers. “And I’m glad that you came here and I could help you out.”

“Like old times,” Ellie can’t help but say, thinking back on bandaged blisters and cut hands, and Joel gives her a brief, wry smile.

“And I don’t expect anything to change, even with how scared and upset you were.” Joel takes a sip of his coffee, setting the owl mug back down with a thunk. “‘Specially once I tell you that I agree with everything the me in your nightmare said.” His voice wavers a bit, but his gaze is steady as it joins with hers. “I don’t regret what I did. I’ll never regret it.”

Ellie’s jaw clenches, but she doesn’t interrupt. This was what her mind had been trying to tell her with that dream, right? Hearing Joel out, letting him say his piece and deciding where to go from there, before it was too late to do anything.

When she stays quiet, Joel’s shoulders lose a little bit of their tension, dropping from around his ears. “I know that’s probably not what you wanna hear. But after I lied to you about what happened at the hospital - what I did,” he clarifies when Ellie’s fingers twitch on her mug, “I told myself that if I ever got the chance to talk to you again I’d be completely upfront about it. So I’ll tell you, I’d do it again. Anything to save your life, kiddo.”

Ellie sits, sips her tea, lets the silence envelop them once more. What he’s saying is nothing new to her - she’s always known he didn’t regret it, wouldn’t change his mind, would kill anyone he deemed a threat to her without a second thought. And it still pisses her the hell off, the way that he’d taken a crucial choice from her, ruined the one thing she was supposed to be good for. It still makes her want to toss her tea in his face and storm out.

But even as she thinks it, she hears the Joel from her dream murmuring I gotta go, baby and sees him vanishing into the woods. Feels the gaping wound left by his death, filled only with her anger and resentment, and Ellie knows - she doesn’t want that. This world they live in now…anything could happen. He could get bit; she could get shot. At his age, he could have a heart attack or a stroke or just fucking die.

And Ellie doesn’t think she’d be able to live with herself if he died thinking she hated him.

“I’m still mad,” she says slowly, and Joel nods, not really looking at her. “I might always be mad. I don’t know how to forgive what you did.”

“Yeah,” Joel says sadly. He rotates his mug between his hands, thumb running over the lip of it almost absently. “Yeah, I know.” He says it like he is already expecting a return to the way things had been, to distant and polite greetings, to separate lives.

“I think I’d like to try though,” Ellie manages, her voice barely a whisper. “Like I think…” The table in front of her blurs slightly and she blinks away the fresh round of tears to look up at Joel. He’s watching her with guarded hope on his face, his own eyes glassy. “I think that if something happened to you, like in my dream, and things were the way they were, I think I’d regret it the rest of my life.”

Joel swallows, hands white-knuckling his owl mug. “I’d like that,” he tells her hoarsely. “I’d really…I’d really like that.”

“Okay,” Ellie says, letting out a breath and feeling like a hundred pound weight has lifted from her chest. “Okay, good, that’s…good.”

They finish their drinks in a quiet that feels less tense and weighted than anything else that’s been between them…all the way back to that ridge overlooking Jackson, if Ellie really thinks about it. Him lying to her there had been the biggest crack in their relationship, made wider and wider by every time he doubled down on it.

But now it felt like maybe it could be fixed, like things between them could start to shift back to how they had been on the road.

Ellie washes their mugs in the sink despite Joel protesting that she oughta stay off her foot. He hovers - nice to know nothing has changed - one hand perpetually outstretched like she’s about to suddenly topple over. He escorts her to the door too, asking only once if she’s sure she’s alright to walk across the yard to her place. He doesn’t ask her to stay - they both know that would be too much, too soon - but he watches from the porch as she hobbles carefully down to her home. She gives the offending rock a wide berth, eyeing the sharp point of it - smeared with her blood - with distaste.

Joel’s still on the porch when Ellie gets to her door and glances back. He gives her a wave and starts to step away like he’s gonna head inside.

“Hey,” Ellie calls impulsively, and Joel pauses. “Wanna watch a movie tonight?”

Even from across the yard, she can see the way his face lights up.

“Yeah,” he’s grinning from ear to ear, “yeah, kiddo, I’d love to.”

love you rocky, hopefully you're having a delightful birthday 💗

[mirrortouchedsea]

dark. that was all he had ever known. cold, dark, damp. the boy shivers in the small room, painfully alone, only a book and his magic to keep him company. he tries not to use his magic very often, though. it seemed that the people above knew when he used it and they always always always refused to give him food until he “woke up” next, if they bothered to keep track of that. maybe this time he’ll learn their lesson. the boy whispers his spell, cur memini, and creates a small light in his fingers. this is the only spell he can cast safely, too small to be noticeable by the people above. he holds his hand over the fading book on the floor. the boy can’t read the letters on the page, but this book has pictures. he flips through it again, careful of the pages that were falling apart, admiring the figure in armor who always comes to rescue the figure in the tower, cut off from the world, just like him. the boy frequently dreams of a figure in armor coming to save him, despite the years he has spent alone. dark and cold and damp. 

the room the boy lives in, the only room he has memories of, is empty besides himself and the book. sometimes the people above would give him water and stale bread to eat, and then there was a cup and a dirty plate, but otherwise it was just the boy and the book. the boy knows why the people above have locked him away, they told him that he was a freak of nature, unnatural, dangerous. but the boy could only make lights in his palm, and that wasn’t very dangerous at all. he thinks to himself that the people above are the dangerous ones, locking away a child for something like this, but he can’t say that out loud. he doesn’t want to die again. 

the boy’s stomach grumbles and he curls in on himself, the light in his palm fades out. he longs to see the sun again, to play with the other children he can hear through the ceiling, to be normal. the people above must have decided to punish him again, though, as he doesn’t remember the last time he had anything to drink, to eat. his stomach would eat through his skin and he would still wake up the next day. why can’t he just die once and for all and be rid of the pain? why is the world keeping him here? why was he even born?

the boy closes his eyes, and falls asleep. maybe this time it won’t hurt so much. 

--- 

how long has he been here? the boy doesn’t keep track of time. he knows he’s died at least a dozen times, but how long does it take for a dozen lifetimes to pass? 

--- 

a clattering on the floor wakes the boy up. the people above decided he can eat today. stale bread and water again, but better than nothing to the boy. he crawls closer to it, listening to the door. it closes and the voices disappear. where was the sound of the lock? did they forget? 

the boy scarfs down his food and water before tiptoeing up the stairs. he doesn’t hear any voices, but he needs to be careful. he doesn’t remember what the above looks like, but he needs to leave. he needs to be free. 

slowly, quietly, he opens the door. it’s dark on the other side of it, but still much, much brighter than his room ever was. he closes his eyes but keeps the door open. breathe in, and out. opens his eyes again, blinking the brightness away. pushes the door further open. steps on the hard ground outside the door. he’s so close. closes the door quietly. turns around and holds his breath. where was outside? pick a direction and go. his legs hurt. turn the corner, listen for voices. voices are dangerous, get away from the voices. whisper his spell, create a small light. keep moving keep moving keep moving. window ahead. break it? open it? is he strong enough? lift the window up. too weak. voices coming. hurry hurry hurry must get out now. whisper spell again, hand on window. break the glass and jump through it. cuts on feet cuts on legs deal with that later. voices getting louder voices shouting. run run RUN. 

the boy runs away from the building, away from his room. freedom is so close. first get to the trees, then… he hasn’t thought that far, but he will find a way. gunshots from the house. he runs faster, must get to the trees, must hide, must be free. cur memini, he whispers again, crossing into the forest. his spell can make lights and now break windows, but he needs it to protect him at this moment. run run run until the voices are quiet again. his legs are giving out, but he needs to run. he can’t die now or they’ll find him. keep running. bare feet on sticks and stones and sharp things, everything hurts but he can’t stop. he keeps running until the sun comes up. his heart beats out of his chest. 

--- 

when he wakes up he doesn’t know how much time has passed. his heart beats fast and he sits up. did they find him? he looks around. trees, rocks, a gurgling stream. he’s free. he’s free. he sighs and lays back down. how far did he run? he needs to go further. away from other people, away from anyone who might lock him up again. he sits up again and forces himself to stand and walk towards the sound of the stream. he can start there. water is important, and he might be able to get food from the little stream too. 

his first drink of the stream water is icy cold, quenching his lifelong thirst in just a few swallows. he washes his face with it, removing years of sweat and grime. he wants to sit by the stream forever if only he could, but the people will find him eventually if he doesn’t keep moving. but he allows himself a few minutes to bathe in the water, savoring the feeling of water on his skin. his stomach still growls, wanting something more filling than the freezing water of the stream, but that would have to wait. he needs to get his bearings. 

the light of the outside world is almost blinding, he realizes. the sun and the snow made it almost impossible to see anything. he should get up above the trees. can he even do that? cur memini, he says, trying to get his voice to be louder than a whisper. his feet float a few inches above the ground. he closes his eyes and says his spell again with more conviction. Cur Memini. he feels himself shooting into the air before he opens his eyes. he can see the forest stretch out for miles around him. trees covered in snow in every direction. if the old house is behind him, he should fly straight ahead, towards the forests on the mountains. tentatively, he leans forward and focuses his magic on keeping himself afloat. 

it doesn’t take much to exhaust what little magic he has, but he’s put more distance between himself and the old house and the people above now. he should be safe to rest, truly rest. but first he should find something to eat. is there anything to eat out here? something in his head tells him to look a little closer to the ground. to his left. there’s a bush full of berries. he’s never had anything but stale bread, and doesn’t know what to expect as he crushes one with his teeth. 

the sensation overtakes him for a brief moment. the berry is sweet, yet tart, and delicious. it’s the best thing he’s ever eaten and he thanks the little voice in his head for the information as he picks several more berries from the bush. the juice runs down his chin and makes him sticky, but it feels good. he feels truly alive for the first time. 

once he’s finished picking the bush clean of its fruits, he needs to find a place to rest, to stay warm. he’s shivering in the intense cold of the north, but it’s nothing he isn’t used to. the room was never very warm after all. he listens to the little voices calling out to him, guiding him towards a small cave, instructing him on how to make a small fire to warm himself up. a small rabbit brushes against his leg and he swears one of the voices is coming from it. and with the fire going, he thanks the rabbit before it hops away back into the snow. he would be roasting that same rabbit over the fire a few months later. 

the boy can’t stay in the cave forever though. as days turn to weeks turn to months, he worries that the people above are getting closer to him. they’ll put him back in that cold, dark, damp room again. he needs to keep moving. he has been practicing his magic, casting stronger spells, and he needs to be ready to fly. it's been long enough. cur memini he says holding his hand out. a rough stick with twigs tied to the end flies into his hand. it’s a poor excuse for what he understands is a broom, but it will work. he climbs onto it and focuses. cur memini cur memini cur memini. he lifts off the ground and watches as the branches of the trees get shorter and eventually he passes above the treetops. 

he takes a moment to gather his bearings. he no longer remembers the direction the house was in, but going up is his best bet of staying away from the people above. he laughs, realizing that he is the one above them now. after a moment, he flies into the mountains. the small voices change into bigger, unfamiliar ones as he gets further into the mountain range. they tell him to hide, to stay away. he doesn’t listen. they cannot be more dangerous than the humans he is running from. 

the boy lands, still exhausted from using so much magic, but he was able to travel further this time. that has to count for something, surely. he gathers some sticks and looks for another cave to make his home in. the caves remind him too much of the room he left, so he chooses to stay close to the entrance, close to the light that reminds him he is free. the fire keeps the animals away, but the voices are curious about the new presence in their woods. they make him curious too. he should stay in the cave tonight though and regain his energy. maybe he can get some small game to fill his stomach before settling in for the night. he listens for a rabbit’s voice, or maybe a squirrel, anything that would be small enough to kill with his hands. 

at last, a small fox’s voice is heard nearby. he wonders if fox will taste different from the other game he’s eaten thus far. he lifts a hand-sized rock and slinks out of the cave towards the voice. it takes a few minutes to find the source, but the fox is curled under a tree, shivering, hungry, just like him. the boy hesitates before bludgeoning it and slinging the corpse over his shoulders. there are more foxes. he is much more important. 

the fox is only the first animal he hunts in those mountainous woods. he spends several years in that forest and eventually humans settle up there as well. the boy, or rather, the man now, has made a name for himself amongst the human populations of the north. he is no longer afraid of humans capturing him and locking him up. they are still terrified of him, but now he is in control of that terror. the hunters that left his territory alive whispered tales of the great wizard owen who inhabited the mountains and terrorized anyone who had the bad luck of running into him. 

all of this is perfectly fine with owen. eventually his reputation will grow beyond himself, encapsulating atrocities that were impossible for even someone as strong as oz to commit, but that would be a problem for future owen. for now, he is still young and living in his cave on the outskirts of a small village and scaring hunters who stray too far from their boundaries. the wolves don’t like these visitors either and gladly listen to owen’s lamentations. it keeps his hands clean of the bloodshed if he isn’t casting the spell himself. the wolves don’t care for owen either, but they respect him. and that is enough for owen. 

the first of the unwanted visitors was a young man, someone who wanted to provide for his family. he pleaded with owen and the wolves to let him go and he wouldn’t cause any problems. those pleas fell on deaf ears though as owen looked the man in the eyes. won’t your family be disappointed, he asked almost innocently, you don’t have anything to show for your efforts. the man stammered a response, they’d rather i come back alive with nothing than die trying to find food. is that so, owen reached out for the man’s chin, the distance between their faces was almost nothing. y-yes, sir, please just let me go and i won’t bother you anymore. owen grinned. oh i’m sure you won’t be causing us any trouble again. the wolves stalked out of the woods, drooling at the prospect of tearing a piece of that man for themselves. owen snapped his fingers, and they came running forward, only to stop mere inches from the now trembling man. there was a suspicious yellow stain in the snow beneath him. p-p-please sir, anything you ask, it’s yours! then make sure you tell the rest of your little village that this forest belongs to the great wizard owen. the man ran off, leaving behind a hunting rifle and a ratty sack. the rifle would be of use, but the sack became tinder for his fires. 

despite the warning from that first man, hunters continued to enter into owen’s territory. and one after the other, they ran off screaming with their tails between their legs. this should have annoyed owen, that people would ignore all of the warnings and stories that had started popping up about him, but it doesn’t. their fear feeds into his magic power, only making him stronger, and that is all fine with owen. he is no longer a weak child locked in the damp, dark basement, and he never will be again. 

[valiantlyannoyingbread]

good news: i just wrote the best work of my life, with truly some of the funniest and most touching dialogue i've ever written

bad news: it's a high school musical fanfic

[bythehearts]

not to bring tiktok drama on tumblr but like every time a ‘scandal’ comes out with one of these ‘production companies’ that make fan films i always hope we’re finally gonna discuss how they professionalize something that should be an hobbyist endeavor… and yet every single time i’m disappointed.