#up until the post (the one where i was comparing my old drawings from like 2018-2019) i Never! drew like. more than a head facing the front

[salsflore]

if you are crazy enough anything is possible. i hope he dies

[starry-bi-sky]

I saw a post a few months ago (and damn was it really months? In PLURAL?) that was a cracky dpxdc au where the LOS were making Damian clones but the clones kept getting snatched by ghost portals and dropped into Danny’s lap and Danny just goes “ok ig this is my life now” and takes care of each one until he has his own mini army of Damian Clones.

And I remembered it a few days ago, and now I've been thinking about it again. Because I love clone aus (see: clone danny au, the 'danny is thomas wayne' au) because it itches the part of my mind that loves exploring personhood and the exploration of identity and what it means to be clone.

(What do you do when nothing about you is unique? When your face, your eyes, your hands, your hair, your voice, all the way down to your heart, all belong to someone else?)

(When it comes to nature vs nurture what of you came from your environment and your experiences, and what of you was already programmed into you from the DNA that made you?)

(What do you do to make it unique? What do you do to make you unique?)

And if I could remember who made that post I'd @ them right now because it was their original post that inspired this, but I'm just thinking of if the au only had One Singular Damian clone that fell into Danny's life.

(a read more because im apparently incapable of making posts that are less than 1k words...)

One Damian who knew he was a clone and knew that he was to either bring the original back to base or kill him to take his place, who was being trained the same way but kept getting compared to his original over and over again. Like an older sibling who you can never match up to. Who is still a child who craves adult affection and validation and praise, and can't get it because nothing about him is original.

One Damian who, at six years old, in a twist of fate is sucked through a swirling portal and lands in Amity Park, directly on top of, in front of, or in line of sight of one Daniel Fenton, half-ghost extraordinaire and local hero.

What happens next?

Well, for one, Danny recognizes him immediately. He would recognize the face of Damian Wayne anywhere because his best friend was ranting about him all week about Damian Wayne's environmental stuff he does.

And for two, he would recognize that the Damian Wayne in front of him was not Damian Wayne. Because Damian Wayne was a teenager. And the Damian Wayne in front of him is a child. Six years old.

Getting this not-Damian but also-Damian to go along with Danny is not, not an easy task. The tiny Damian is aggressive, regal, and at this point in time, six years old, barely understanding english. He also has a sword.

It takes all day and a google translator to get this Tiny Damian to finally agree to go home with Danny. It's a miracle. Seriously. A tried and true miracle. And its also only when Danny has to fight a ghost does he finally agree, saying something in arabic that Danny doesn't understand.

Danny flies them both home, carrying Tiny Damian like a koala. The ensuing conversation in his room is not any better. It is tiring, long, and exhausting. Tiny Damian is six years old, and every single thing he says when Danny asks where he came from is met with a poorly translated "that's classified".

Danny keeps an eye on the news. There are no reports of Damian Wayne going missing, in fact he's been rather public. Bruce Wayne is not one to lie about his children going missing, and Damian's secretive behavior and young age draws Danny to one conclusion: Damian is a clone.

He doesn't know why Damian Wayne is being cloned. Frankly he doesn't really wanna know, because whatever organization that did it doesn't seem too pure-of-heart if tiny-Damian's immediate attempt of murder when they first met is of any indication. But he's too busy taking care of his city, that he doesn't have time to deal with whatever shady business Tiny-Damian was produced from.

In the end though, he decides that this Tiny-Damian is not going back to whatever place he came from. Tiny Damian disagrees. It is a long, nebulous problem of Damian trying to run away, Danny catching him, and Danny pulling him back home.

In that time, Danny downloads a language app and starts learning Arabic so that they can talk to each other properly. Damian slowly, slowly, starts picking up English.

In that time, Danny also has to inform his friends and his sister about Damian. Tiny Damian is not a fan of this. That is another argument they have. Tiny Damian does not like Sam or Tucker for a long, long while. He only really "listens" to Danny, citing something in arabic that Danny still cannot understand, but has a repeated use of the word "lieazir". It's the only word that Danny can catch in a sentence immediately, because its what little Damian calls Danny.

Tiny Damian, in that front, is very interested in Danny's powers and in his parents work. He finds tubberware of ectoplasm in the fridge once while they're down in the kitchen and calls it something with the word lieazir in it. The other word is something that Danny later learns means water in arabic.

It makes him feel even more uneasy of whatever place little Damian came from.

It takes weeks for little Damian to finally give up on escaping, and then a few weeks more for him to almost entirely lose his spunk. Danny isn't sure what started it. It was as if he'd been flipped with an off-switch.

(Damian had been so confident that the League would go looking for him after his disappearance. He was wrong, and he is crushed. He is still a child, alone, in a country very big and very busy, where nobody understands what he's saying. He feels powerless, helpless.)

(The lazarus boy who calls himself Danyal is nice to him in a way the league has never been, and he's making an effort to learn Damian's language. But he leaves for hours at a time and Damian doesn't have much else to do but wait in this house for him to come back.)

(He tried leaving, many many times, but he doesn't understand the street signs, the roads, the people. He doesn't know where he is, and he feels scared in a way that he's not felt in the League. Danny finds him every single time, hours later when Damian is lost somewhere in Amity Park)

(And he never yells at him. Never. The first time this happens, Damian puffs himself up and prepares himself for this strange lazarus boy to yell at him. Damian feels like he's tripped on the last step of the stairs when Danyal doesn't yell at him.)

(He can tell he's frustrated by the tone of his voice, but when Danyal lays eyes on him he just looks relieved. He gets scolded on the flight home, but Damian doesn't understand any of it other than Danyal just sounds worried. Not angry. He gets a proper scolding once they get back, with Danyal typing into the google translator and playing it for Damian to hear.)

(This happens every single time until Damian finally agrees to stop running away.)

It's with Jazz's help that Danny finally realizes that Damian was depressed. It's with her help again that Danny tries helping with it. It's like trying to get a stray cat to trust him. And with everything else they've done, it takes a long time.

And it is so, so worth it when it all works out.

Tiny Damian doesn't really like Sam, or Tucker, but he likes Danny. And he finally starts calling him his name. His full name, but his name nonetheless. Danny doesn't bother correcting him. He's not looking a gift horse in the mouth. And it's endearing hearing Damian call him Danyal.

Damian in this time, also begins to take more initiative into learning English. And they teach each other words they know. Danny buys flash cards and writes the english alphabet on them, and then finds a book on arabic to teach himself and Damian. Sam and Tucker and Jazz start learning as well.

And then when Danny knows enough arabic and Damian knows enough english, and Damian trusts Danny, Damian tells him he's a clone. It's a quiet moment, late at night when Danny takes Damian up to the ops center to look at what stars they could see through the light pollution.

It'd be very easy for Danny to tell him, "I know. I could tell from the start.". He doesn't, it's not the time nor the place, and Danny's matured enough to know when to open his mouth and when to keep it shut. He lets Damian, almost seven now, tell him that he's a clone of Damian Wayne. Lets him tell him why he was made, what his purpose was.

(Danny will need a minute later to process the fact that Damian Wayne originally came from some kind of... assassin league with an obsession with immortality. But he's focused on Damian.)

In the end, he puts an arm around Damian Wayne's clone and pulls him into his side. Thanks him for trusting him, it must've been hard to tell him, that he's brave for being able to. And if he wants to, they can find a way to get into contact with the Waynes and let Wayne know about him.

Damian hides his face in Danny's ribs and holds him tight, and tells him he doesn't want to. Danny leaves it at that.

Perhaps it would be more morally ethical to alert Damian Wayne that there was a clone of him running around, that his... uh, grandfather was making clones of him. Hell, Danny would have liked it. But little Damian has asked him not to say anything, and little Damian needs someone to rely on; someone he can trust.

And in the end, its not that hard of a decision to make. Danny knows little Damian more than he knows Damian Wayne, and while Danny likes to think he's a good person, he knows he's not a great one. Nor a perfect one. He cares more about someone he knows than someone he doesn't.

If Sam tries to argue with him about it, then Danny will just double down. If Damian doesn't want to tell Wayne about his existence, then it's not their place to say otherwise.

There's a lot more to talk about over Damian's cloning, like what he wants to do moving forward. But that's a long conversation not meant to be one taken late at night. Little Damian is falling asleep at his side, seemingly much more relaxed than he did before, and Danny wasn't gonna ruin that.

And later he's right, it is a long conversation, and a slow one. Talking with Jazz about it helps him figure out what to do moving forward, and their best bet is to let Damian figure out what he wants to do. So he sits Damian down at the dinner table the next morning and tells him before breakfast that he doesn't need to be Damian Wayne.

He doesn't need to learn all the same things Damian Wayne did. He doesn't need to do anything that Damian Wayne does. And little Damian is seven, and he's smart, but Danny still has to word it in a way that's not too complex for him to realize.

And in the end, what he says essentially boils down to "You are not Damian Wayne, you are just you. Don't be anyone else but you." and it'll take more time to drill that into his mind when all he's ever heard and learned from is that he was a copy of Damian Wayne, and he must act like Damian Wayne. But it'll happen.

It's a hard task when Danny's the only person Damian really trusts and he can't be by his side all the time, but he starts to warm up to the rest of Danny's family. The Fenton parents know of him, it's hard to keep a six year old child a secret for as long as Danny did without eventually having to come clean about it. His parents, much to Danny's relief, are very welcoming to Damian.

Damian figures out what he likes. Slowly. He's six years old, almost seven, and nobody expects of him to figure out who he is immediately. No child knows who they are right off the bat. So like any child he begins to explore. His english is better but still rough, and he struggles to read said language, but the Fenton family are happy to help even if Damian learns words that no normal seven year old does. (Many of them scientific.)

Damian realizes he likes stars, even if said interest is influenced by the association to Danny. Danny is all too delighted to tell him all about them, and in the process takes him flying out somewhere where the light pollution doesn't reach and showing him where constellations are.

Damian is six-almost-seven, so he doesn't find all of them, but Danny helps him figure out the easier ones. He tells him the scientific facts behind them, and then tells him about the mythos of the constellations. Later on they make their own constellations and make up stories about what they are.

(Damian adores Danny out of anyone else in the Fenton Family. The name Danyal turns to Dany. If anyone asks, Daniel Fenton is Damian's big brother.)

(He still refers to Jazz as Jazmine, and Danny's parents as Mrs. and Mr. Fenton.)

He realizes that, like his original, he loves animals, and he becomes vegetarian too. Sam is smug and Tucker is disappointed, but Damian doesn't super care about their opinions. ...he's getting better at liking them, even if he thinks Manson is a bit snobby and Foley is too much at times.

Its inevitable that the conversation of school comes into play. Damian can't stay home all day and he needs proper schooling. So after a long talk with Damian, they agree to send him to elementary school.

...And before they can do that the Fenton Family goes through with legally adopting Damian into the family as Damian Fenton. It takes convincing to get the administration to enroll him into the first grade without a proper schooling background.

(On his adoption form, Damian asks to change his birthday to the day he met Danny. Perhaps its not the most responsible thing to agree to, but Danny wants Damian to find himself. And its not like they know when his actual birthday was.)

And despite where he learned it from, Damian quite likes sparring. And he quite likes sparring with Danny in particular. Danny makes it fun, something that was foreign in his old league training, and Danny never hurts him. It's a lot like roughhousing.

Danny tells Damian how he got his powers, and how his parents don't know. Damian wakes up late at night to Danny sneaking out of the room (their house is not big enough to give Damian an individual room, and Danny agreed to share his) to go fight ghosts.

It's upsetting. Damian knows that Danny gets injured in those fights, even if Danny never comes home until after those injuries have been fixed up. He wants to help, and he voices it, and Danny shoots him down.

It becomes an argument, something that has happened less and less over the months.

Damian is experienced.

Damian is a child.

Damian knows how to fight.

Damian is mortal and fragile. He is a tiny, squishy human boy and the people Danny fights are ghosts who are near-indestructible. Who are intimately acquainted with death but also do not remember that humans are capable of it. Especially when they're fighting.

Damian says that Batman's rogues are capable of the same thing, that he lets his Robins help him fight.

And Danny says he is not Batman and he will not allow Damian to fight ghosts with him. Those ghosts will kill him and it will hurt. Dying hurts in a way that is terrifying and unimaginable and he will not risk Damian experiencing it. Not even Sam and Tucker help him in his fights most of the time, they are not able to. Not in the way Danny can.

Damian doesn't talk to him all day the following morning, but Danny does not budge on his decision. Damian tries to follow him out the next night, and Danny catches him and takes him back. Over, and over, and over again.

Until finally he gets intercepted by Skulker while taking Damian back home and is forced to fight him in front of Damian. (If it had been his choice, he would not have let Damian see it at all.)

It's not pretty. Skulker has new weapons, weapons that hurt, a lot. Danny is stuck between trying to take him down and trying to protect Damian from Skulker's attacks at him and from all the debris being created from the fight. It's with Damian's quick thinking and fast feet that finally helps Danny take Skulker out. But Danny is badly injured in the aftermath.

He doesn't have time to take Damian home and get medical attention. So he takes Damian with him to wherever he has his supplies stashed. He doesn't call Sam or Tucker or Jazz, and has to stitch himself up alone, with Damian watching.

Damian is quiet the entire time, he feels awful. Danny's not mad at him -- well, he is. But not because he had to protect him. He's just tired, and a little disappointed in him. Damian doesn't sneak out again. But he still feels helpless.

Danny tells him that that is why he doesn't want Damian to help him. Ghosts, his ghosts, are hard to fight. They are powerful, and his 'rogues' are mean. They will not care that Damian is a mortal child, if he picks a fight with them, they will fight back. And Damian is not immune to certain ghost powers like Danny is.

Damian is silent. He wants to help. But Danny is right: he is a squishy, mortal, living child. There is not much he can do to help Danny. Not without any gear to do it. Not without any powers to do it. He wants to help. He cannot.

Damian, almost-seven-years old, begins to cry. It is the last thing Danny was expecting, and for a moment he is at a loss of what to do.

Damian reaches for him -- in the Fenton family, physical affection is expected. Damian is getting used to it, but Danny is the only one he likes touching him -- and then stops, cringing away like he only just remembered that Danny was hurt.

He only cries harder.

Danny meets him halfway and pulls him into his arms, situating Damian between his knees from where he's sitting. Through his tears, Damian says he wants to help. He wants to help. He doesn't want Danny to get hurt anymore. He doesn't want Danny to fight ghosts alone anymore. He's scared that Danny will stop coming back.

Danny doesn't have anything to say to reassure him. Can't say anything to reassure him. It'll all just be lies. He's not going to stop fighting ghosts, he can't. He's not going to stop getting hurt, he can't. He's not going to bring Damian with him, he can't. He'd never be able to live with himself.

"I'll always come back." He says though, because that is something he can promise. Whether dead or alive, he'll come back.

When the tears finally stop, Damian doesn't say anything again. He sniffles, and presses his ear to Danny's chest, listening to the steady, slow heartbeat. If he puts his ear to his sternum and strains his ear, Damian would almost hear the low hum of Danny's ghost core, like a small dwarf sun.

"If you die, I'll drag you to the Lazarus pools myself." Damian mumbles eventually, his voice sleep-full. It's spoken in arabic, and Danny only understands half of it.

He laughs quietly, and smoothes his hand over Damian's hair. He hasn't had a haircut since he arrived, it's gotten long and there are curls beginning to form. "Okay."

Damian falls asleep shortly after, and with much consideration to his own injuries and Damian's sleeping form, Danny flies them back home.

It's hard to say, but not much changes in routine afterwards. Damian hovers close to Danny, more than usual. Danny still goes out at night, he still stitches himself up before going back, he still goes back home where Damian is waiting worriedly for him. Damian doesn't like falling asleep without knowing Danny is there.

Now the hard question is: when does little Damian finally meet the Waynes for the first time? There's plenty of ways to go about it, both easy and hard. Perhaps we go this way:

The Fenton family are visiting Maddie's sister in Arkansas. And Damian is dragging Danny around through the surrounding forest. It's his first time being in a forest this large since he moved in with the Fentons. Safe to say he is delighted by all of the nature, and he's dragging Danny along with him.

Danny likes the peace and quiet it gives him, he's found that he enjoys the rural area more than he likes the city. He's happy to let Damian point out every plant he recognizes, even if some of it is in arabic.

They walk around all day until Damian gets tired, and then at night when the sky is clear Danny and him go look at the stars. It's peaceful at first.

On the third day of their visit, Damian drags Danny out far from the house. It's slightly worrying, but Danny can always fly them back if it gets too late.

It's in the woods that Danny and Damian stray much too far from Alicia's house, and from there in the early evening that they run into Batman and Red Robin, both of them in rough 'just got out of a fight' shape.

Safe to say, it was the last thing any of them expected to run into. Damian and Danny had stopped at a small crik to rest, and the two vigilantes came through the tree line on the other side.

It was... quite the staring contest.

Damian, now seven years old at this point, forgot to mention that the Waynes were vigilantes when he told Danny he was a clone. But he was told that Batman was his original's father.

Before anyone can say anything, little Damian wraps his arms tight around Danny's middle and stares Batman and Red Robin down. His sharp edges have softened around the Fentons. But he makes no exceptions to anyone else outside of Danny's immediate social circle.

Danny's arm automatically goes around Damian's shoulders, and he looks between both Red and Batman uneasily. If they were here then it meant that there was something unsafe nearby. Danny did not fight the living, and he wasn't going to put Damian in the crosshairs of anything that does.

"Should... should we leave?" He asks, brows knotted together with a frown. He stands. "Is there something going on nearby?"

Batman suddenly grunts, and looks at him. "It's been handled." He says, and his voice is gruffer than Danny imagined it. Lower. Danny is not all that comfortable with that answer.

"Do you guys live nearby?" Red Robin asks, and Danny can't help but notice that he keeps looking at Damian. Warily. In fact, so is Batman.

He pushes Damian behind him slightly, and Damian's grip tightens on him. "Not... exactly." He says, his eyes narrowing slightly. "My family's visiting my Aunt and my brother wanted to explore since it's his first time out of the city, I guess we wandered too far away if we're running into you."

There's no visible indication of whether or not both Bats reacted to him calling Damian his brother. But he can all but feel little Damian preen at the title, it makes Danny's mouth twitch into a smile as his hand finds Damian's hair.

"Would we be able to go back with you?" Red Robin asks, startling both Danny and seemingly Batman, who looks at him instantly.

"Red Robin." He growls out, and Red Robin throws Batman a look of annoyance.

"We are lost, B. They jammed the comms and our trackers back there and it hasn't come back on yet, his aunt may have the signal we need to let the others know where we are."

They end up walking back with Danny and Damian. It's silent, and awkward, and Danny has Damian walking on his opposite side so he's not near the vigilantes. Red Robin is fiddling with a phone but still can't get a signal.

Batman is silently brooding.

Red eventually gives up and shoves the phone into a pocket on his belt, then turns to make conversation with Danny. "I never thanked you for letting us walk with you. Thanks, by the way."

Danny blinks at him, and smiles awkwardly. "No problem, man," he says, "I'm uh, Danny." He glances down at Damian, who looks up at him with big green eyes, and Damian nods quietly.

He looks back at Red Robin, and says, "This is my little brother, Damian." And Damian peers over his side and glares at Red Robin -- and Batman, who looks over when Danny says his name.

"He looks like Damian Wayne," Red Robin notes, head tilting like he's inspecting him.

Danny huffs dryly, "We get that a lot."

Red Robin smiles at him, its a tilted thing. It makes Danny uneasy. "Where did you say you were from?"

"I didn't," Danny says bluntly, and he really doesn't want to tell them where he's from. Not when Red Robin was acting strange, but they're vigilantes and notorious for their detective skills. If he's suspicious, they'll look into him. "But I'm from Amity Park."

Damian in that moment, peers around Danny again and scowls at Red Robin. Full on scowls at him, as if it were the first months when he met Danny. "You're being nosy." He sneers, his hand squeezing Danny's.

"Damian," Danny hisses, suppressing a smile. Damian jumps like he's been startled, and looks up at him with big green eyes. "He's just being curious."

(He lets his smile slip through briefly, just to let Damian know he's not that upset. A tension leaves his little brother's shoulders.)

"But he is." Damian continues, a whine leaking into his voice. Danny jabs him in the ribs with his fingers, and Damian jumps, swatting away his hand with a squeak.

"Would you rather have us walk in dead silence, Dames?" He goes for Damian's ribs again, a grin stretching across his face as Damian jumps back again and swats his hand. "Hm? Hm? We could just walk in awkward silence for the entire trip back, I know you just love awkward silence, little brother."

(It's funny, saying little brother always sounds so uncomfortable when he reads it in books and watches it on tv. But Jazz always makes it sound so natural when she does it, and Danny finds that he sounds the same too.)

Damian continues to bat away his hands, but it's not enough to prevent him from squealing with laughter when Danny gets a good hold on him and starts tickling him. Danny's grin only gets bigger, and he swoops Damian up with his arm and holds him like a football.

"Is that it? Huh? Me, you, and two vigilantes walking back to Aunt Alicia's cabin in complete, utter silence." He says, "You won't get to hear any of my amazing jokes."

Damian's wriggling, trying to pound on Danny's ribs, he's giggling uncontrollably. It's the best sound Danny's ever heard. "Your jokes are awful! Laeazir! Put me down!" He cries, grinning from ear to ear.

(From the side, both Red Robin and Batman tense up.)

Danny chuckles, and through a short series of flips, has Damian sitting on his shoulders. "I will not. You're sitting up in air jail for insulting my hilarious jokes."

Damian tugs on his hair in revenge, harrumphing at him but making no move to get down. Danny squeezes his ankles playfully, and looks back to Batman and Red Robin.

Both vigilantes look at him like he's grown a second head.

....Red Robin looks at him like he's grown a second head. Batman just stares, and then looks away. Danny tilts his head at them, his smile waning. "You guys look like you've seen a ghost or something."

(Damian tugs on his hair again. A silent boo at him.)

Red Robin jerks, "Oh, sorry." He says, not sounding all that sorry. "It's just... I've lost count to how many times I've saved Damian Wayne from the occasional kidnapping and he's always been very... serious. It's just weird seeing a kid that looks like him be... not serious."

From his shoulders he feels Damian hide his smile in his hair, that's another thing they can put on their "Things That Damian Does That Damian Wayne Does Not" list. It started as a joke, but it's been surprisingly helpful for when Damian is questioning himself.

However, Danny is not a fan of the comparison, and he smiles widely, perhaps a tad passive-aggressive. "It's a good thing that my Damian isn't Damian Wayne then." He says, giving him the slight stink eye.

Red Robin picks up on it quickly, and nods.

The rest of the way is spent in idle conversation. It's oddly casual, even if most of the conversation is Danny talking about himself. It's annoying, but he unfortunately understands the reason. Secret identities and all that.

Damian interjects a few times, some parts to talk to Danny, and other parts to throw shade at Batman and Red Robin. Mostly Red Robin, who seems begrudgingly used to it.

("I'm surprised you haven't asked me much about myself." Red Robin says at one point into the conversation. Over his shoulder Batman glares at Red Robin. "A lot of civilians do when they're able."

Danny stares at him. "You're a vigilante." He says, frowning, "Isn't it superhero 101 that you don't ask superheroes for their secret identity?"

"You'd be surprised."

"Huh. Well, no. I'm not gonna ask you about yourself. I quite like talking all about me.")

When they finally reach the cabin, it's late into the night and Danny has moved Damian from his shoulders to his front in a koala-like carry. Damian's fast asleep with his head on Danny's shoulder.

His family was also frantically searching for him, and Jazz sees him first. She immediately turns behind her and yells "I FOUND HIM!". And then sprints over to him, his parents thundering not too far behind.

Both vigilantes are subsequently ignored as Jazz dotes over him and Danny, and soon enough so is his mom and dad. They're all talking all at once, asking him where he was, they were worried sick, did he know how late it was.

He shushes all of them, loudly. And whispers that Damian is sleeping. His family then immediately quiet themselves, and go back to yelling at him in a more appropriate manner.

"Me and Damian walked too far by accident." Danny finally says when he can get a word in, and then he jabs his thumb in Red Robin and Batman's direction. "We also found two superheroes who need assistance."

The speed of which his family all snap their heads over to the direction he's pointing is almost comical. As is all of their expressions of shock.

His mother is the first to regain her senses, and she sighs at him. She sighs! "Only you, Danny." She says, and Jazz snorts into her arm.

[kitkatkitzune]

MUSE

Pairing: Klaus Mikaelson x Fem!witch!reader

Summary: Always the artist, never the muse… until now that is… sorta?

Warnings: A tiny bit of Angst, Death, Mentions of painting with blood, Inconsistencies in the tense it’s written in (whoopsie)

Notes: First post of the new year!

After a lot of consideration I have decided that I am not going to be making a tag list at this point in time. I am simply not organized enough for it, maybe sometime in the future but not now! I’m sorry! If you’d like to be notified when I post you can turn on notifications… sorry again!

Word Count: 1.5k

———————

You hum as you walk around the Mikaelson home, stopping every few moments to admire the paintings hung around the house. Some of the paintings were incredibly old and some were only made a few years ago, and all of them had been made by the hybrid.

There was at least one of each sibling, Elijah, Rebekah, Kol, and even Finn. Freya had also gotten a painting after her return. However, there was someone missing.

There was not a single one of Klaus hung around the home, he wasn’t even in the large family portrait at the end of the hallway. You come to a stop in front of it, tilting your head in confusion.

You don’t get long to ponder the thought as a familiar voice cuts through the silence, “Admiring the artwork, love?”

Turning, you face Klaus with a small smile, “Yes, everything is so beautiful… you’re incredibly talented.”

He hums, taking a step backwards, “Come, I’ll show you my studio.” he beckons you to follow, holding out his hand for you to take.

After a moment's hesitation, you take his hand, allowing him to whisk you away to the art room. The room was isolated, far away from the rest of the rooms in the house. You could tell that this is where Klaus goes to clear his head, when he needs a moment to himself. You couldn’t help but feel honored that he brought you here.

He smiles, “Take a look around…”

You begin to look around the room, admiring the different paintings and drawings all around. Every one was unique in its own way but they were all so Klaus.

There were even paintings in blood, you assumed that the blood used had come from one of Klaus’ many victims. You hover your hand near the canvas, it was of an angel. Ironic. There was something about the painting that you couldn’t shake though, it looked so familiar.

“An angel of death? Since it’s in blood?” you question, quietly.

“Sometimes,” Klaus murmurs in your ear, causing you to jump, you had been too distracted by the paintings to notice how close he had gotten, “inspiration strikes at the strangest times, even while I’m slaughtering my enemies.”

“It’s beautiful…” you smile softly, tilting your head to look at him.

“It’s yours,” he says instantly.

“Oh Klaus, I couldn’t…” you trail off, your eyes catching another painting behind him.

You quickly move to the other side of the room to get a closer look, it was of you.

You look back at Klaus, who, for once in his life, looks a bit nervous, “You weren’t intended to see that yet…”

“You painted me?” you ask in a whisper.

Klaus smiles, regaining his confidence, “Well, I paint you quite often,” he makes his way to you in a split second, “Your beauty is something I enjoy capturing… although, no painting will ever compare to the real thing.”

Your face heats up a bit at his words and you sputter trying to find a response, Klaus however grins, responding before you can, “I don’t know if you picked up on it… but the frame on this was is the same as the other ones displayed, I plan to hang this one in the hallway with the rest of the family portraits….”

Your brows furrow, letting out a small laugh, “I’m not a Mikaelson, Nik.”

“No, but you practically live here, practically family at this point.”

“I suppose that’s true.” you let out a little laugh before frowning, “but what about you?”

“What about me?”

You roll your eyes at his question, “All these paintings, Nik, and not a single one of you.”

He smiles but you swear you see a flicker of hurt pass his eyes, “I’m the artist.”

“And?”

Klaus sighs, “I’ve simply never had the urge to paint myself… I prefer to paint other things.”

You knew there was a deeper meaning to his words and reading between the lines you were quickly able to figure it out. Klaus painted beautiful things, even in his most chaotic works there was beauty, whether it was landscapes or a pretty girl— he painted things he liked, things he loved.

His whole life, Klaus had felt like an outsider in his family, he was the half-sibling, the hybrid, the bastard child. He felt that he did not deserve to be painted, to be hung on the wall with his siblings, and you would make it your mission to show him just how wrong he was.

As it turned out, painting was a lot harder than it looked. You had gone through at least ten canvases over the past week, all containing painted scribbles of the original hybrid and you were growing increasingly frustrated. Klaus always made it seem so simple but it was anything but.

After numerous attempts at recreating his face and failing miserably, you decided to cheat.

There were spells for death, aneurysms, memory, you name it— there was a spell for it. It took time but eventually, you found one for painting. It helped you create a spectacular painting of Klaus. You use the term ‘help’ when in reality, the spell did most of the work.

You were ecstatic to show him the painting, holding the canvas close to your chest as you reached the art room.

“Nik?” you call out quietly, entering the room.

He hums, setting down his paint brush, he was working on a landscape painting. He turns to you, raising a brow when he sees you’re carrying something.

“I’ve brought you something…”

“You’ve got my attention.” he stands up from his stool as you hand him the canvas.

He flips it over and reveals the painting of himself, a small smile appears on his face. Suddenly, his brows furrow, causing you to gulp.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s excellent, love, I just wasn’t aware that you painted.”

“Oh,” your face heats up, “I don’t, not really… it’s just, you deserve a painting too… just because you’re the tortured artist type doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be captured and immortalized in art…”

Klaus surprises you by pulling you against him in a tight hug, “Thankyou.” he mutters, pressing a kiss to your head.

You freeze in shock but, after a moment you relax, “Of course…”

When he finally pulls back, he stares down at the painting before finally looking at you, “I know that you did not paint this though.”

“I- What do you mean?“

He clicks his tongue, “Artist, remember? I assume you used a spell, little witch?”

You sigh, “Well yes, but I just wanted to paint you and I couldn’t do it! It’s incredibly difficult! I tried my best but everytime I just ended up with scribbles!”

“Scribbles?”

“Yes! Scribbles!” you grab his hand, dragging him to your room to show him the failed paintings.

As expected, Klaus cackles at your failed attempts making you pout, “I did try!”

His laughter quickly subsides at your protest, “I know you did, it’s just… I think we should hang this one up,“ he holds up one of the paintings, “although, people may think Hope painted it.”

“Don’t be mean…” you cross your arms, looking away from him.

Klaus frowns, setting the paintings down, he approaches you and places his hands on your arms, uncrossing your arms, “I’m only teasing, I think that it’s quite sweet.”

Finally, you turn back and look at him, trying to hold your angry expression but fail. The two of you stand there for a moment in silence, just staring at each other until finally, Klaus moves. He dips his head, connecting your lips in a sweet kiss that quickly turns heated, his hands find their way to your waist and he pulls you flush against him.

You tug on his hair and he groans at the feeling, sliding his hands to the back of your thighs. He picks you up with ease, pushing you against the nearest wall causing a few things to rattle, including the painting made in blood. It fell to the ground, making you both break apart at the sound.

“That painting…” you mumble, out of breath, “It’s still so familiar…”

Klaus smirks, setting you back on the ground, “I thought you’d have figured it out by now…” he brushes some of the hair from your face, “It’s you, you’re the angel… I made that the day we first met. When you were surrounded by those vampires… and with a flick of your wrist all of their heads exploded, coating you in their blood. I had never seen a sight so beautiful…”

“That is… so messed up…” you breathe out, “but so hot.”

And with that, you grab his face and slam your lips to his. You truly were his muse, and he was yours… sort of?

Bonus!

You sit at the dining room table, coloring with Hope and Klaus. Rebekah was braiding Hope’s hair and Elijah sat at the head of the table drinking his coffee while looking over the newspaper when Kol came waltzing into the room.

Kol smiles, “I saw your new painting Hope, it’s lovely.”

Hope tilts her head, “What painting?”

Elijah answers before Kol can, “The portrait of Niklaus in the hallway.”

Your eyes widen and you immediately look at Klaus who is smirking at you.

“You ass!” you take the crayon you were currently holding and throw it at him, causing him to cackle.

“I told you I’d hang it up!”

[clevercatchphrase]

Cheers to a decade

My blog is 10 years old today. I have some thoughts.

On Januray 22nd, 2015, I made this tumblr blog. I remember it being my second semester of my senior year in college and feeling lost and depressed in my dorm room. Despite being in the class of 2015, I had technically graduated the winter prior, having come in to college with enough AP credits from high school to be ahead a semester. I remember not being ready to become an "official" adult yet. Despite having a degree, I didn't feel like I had enough choices in my future, so I stayed an extra year (3 semesters) and got a second degree before finally just being too sick of college life to stay there any longer.

I made this blog to practice art, but in truth, I think it was to distract myself from existential dread of being bottle necked into an occupation I didn't want with little to no choice of upward movement. I can't remember my exact thoughts, but I have a strong feeling it was along the lines of "if I can't get a job I like with my entomology degree, then I will practice art and try my luck as a freelance artist!" Not that freelance is any easier than an hourly paid 9 to 5, but at least it let me feel like I had more options.

It's so surreal scrolling back to that very first year. I posted a lot more frequently and did a lot more doodles and sketches and figure drawings back then. I didn't care about scheduling or queuing posts. I saw a cool tutorial? Neat, I'm reblogging this right now. just pumped out a 2 minute doodle of an animal, and it's going up on the blog immediately. I did more art challenges. Heck, I made a 50 day art challenge for homestuck and DID it! I made my very first long form song comic less than a month after creating this blog. It was for kingdom hearts set to the song "king" by Lauren Aquilina (which was almost certainly inspired by the LoZ song comic made by caffeineandcarpaltunnel set to the same song 2 years prior. (and I don't even play loz, I just liked the song)). I can't help but question myself; "where did all this motivation go?" "Where did all that passion go?" "Now I only post one piece of art a week and queue all the other stuff in november only." (Well, I didn't start doing that last thing until 2022, so I guess I can always revert my neurotic habits). But then I have to remember that until the summer of 2016, I didn't have a job. I didn't have bills. I lived in dorm rooms and off of college loans that funded my meal plan. Any time I wasn't studying or hanging out with other Cepheids (shout out to the 3 of you who know what that means) I was undoubtedly on the internet, enjoying what the 2010's web had to offer.

Can you believe youtube hadn't officially been around for 10 years at that point? musical.ly hadn't merged with TikTok yet because TikTok hadn't even been created in 2015. Vine still existed. This blog is even older than Undertale's official release.

I can't help but think of my life in "chunks" or "eras", some based on where I lived at the time, some based on the state of the world at the time, but a majority of it based on the media I was obsessed with at that time. (For example, 1998 to 2002 I refer to as the "hawaii era" because my family was military and we were stationed in Hawaii.) Shorter eras can also exist within bigger eras, like 2016 to 2020 is my zoo era, because I was a part time zookeeper, but it exists within my undertale era, which is still ongoing (this hyperfixation has a choke hold on me). So whenever I am given a date, I cross-reference it with what era of my life it occurred in, comparing it to my mental state and what was happening with my life. This blog started in my homestuck era (which went from early 2011 to late 2015) and it fucking showsssssss.

Another example; some of the earliest art on this blog was for Kingdom Hearts, because I am a KH fan. KH3 released in 2019. My blog had just turned 4 years old THREE days prior in 2019. KH3 will be SIX years old three days from today. 2019 was before the pandemic. I was still at my zoo job. Ghost switch wasn't even 1 year old yet. It's this kind of mental math that I am constantly doing for everything all the time whenever I have a date to compare to. Why do I do this? I have no clue. To measure up progress or advancements? To contrast what I've accomplished in that same amount of time versus what others have achieved? I don't know, but I've always done it and I will never stop. The endless forward march of time bewitches me so in this way.

Looking at the years and dates, remembering how it overlapped with my time in college and the memes of the early 2010s, which reminds me of my college era (fall 2011 to spring 2016) which brings up a whole well of other memories, like the world ending in 2012, the let's players I'd watch because I didn't have a gaming console or tv in my dorm, the basketball concessions I'd volunteer at to pay for my ticket to go to the student-run convention in the spring, the libraries and computer labs and dining halls, and shitty dorm room thermostats in winter and it's blaring fire alarms that would go off at 3 am because people microwaved popcorn wrong, and the time it rained so hard on campus that the basement hangout zone flooded.

Man... this whole thing got melancholic. I thought it would be nostalgic, but now it feels like I'm doing an elephant walk for my own blog (again, shout out to the three of you who knows what that even means). I don't know if my past self would recognize or approve of who I am now. And yet, I also can't say i've changed all that much. I still live at home with my family because I can't afford a house of my own. I still keep up with the youtube channels I subscribed to in 2013. I still check in on the webcomics that went on indefinite hiatus in 2010. I still use the same deviantart account I made in 2007. I still log on to my neopets account that I made in 2004.

This blog has been with me through a third of my life.

I don't know what I'll do when I finish Ghost Switch. (which will still take me 6 more years to finish, don't worry, I'm not going anywhere soon). Maybe i'll go back to posting shitty little doodles that I drew quickly in 2 minutes to practice figure drawing. Maybe I'll finally learn to code and make that visual novel I've been brainstorming since 2017. Maybe I'll make more (shorter) webcomics with my own OCs. Maybe I'll sit down and actually seriously think about professionally editing and querying a few of those novel drafts I wrote for nanowrimo, which I've also done for 10 years now, too. Maybe I'll come out of the closet and finally embrace the fact that I am a furry and draw nothing but anthro wolves and dogs.

Last year, I pulled out 10 old composition notebooks that I used as diaries for the years 2005 to 2010. This covered the beginning of seventh grade for me, to the end of 11th grade. Rereading these journals was simultaneously the most hysterical things I've ever written as well as the most depressing shit I've ever written, but that's just middle and high school for ya, babe. Still, I bring it up because when I look back on the past, I never know what I will think or feel about the past in hindsight. Seeing so many informative and hilarious posts from those early years fills me with great joy and also great sorrow, because those times are gone now. The internet landscape has changed so much, tumblr included. I do wish I could go back, sometimes. To go back to being so care-free, to relive those highs fandoms gave me when everything was new and exciting and happening Right Now, to be less stressed out about the state of the world, to laugh at stupid nonsensical rage comic memes.

But I also want to stay right here. To be proud of how far I've come, to appreciate what I've accomplished so far, and to remind myself that Today is good, too. I don't want to waste all my time wishing to go back to the past, because in 10 years from now, I'm going to wish I could come back to Now.

Do I even think tumblr will still be around in 2035? Probably. We're kinda like a roach like that, and also i've got some posts queued for 2033 that i need to see go live for The Bit.

Anyway, to end this reflection on a more positive note, thanks for hanging around for so long. We're all stuck on this glue trap together, but I'm glad I'm with you. These last 10 years have been interesting and wild, both on and off the internet, and I hope the thrills don't stop anytime soon.

[clumsiestgiantess]

Day 12: Pulse

The story to go along with yesterday’s drawing! (waited to post it until later)

tw: fatal vore and the slow agonizing death that comes with it

My kidnapper always likes to start things off with a big drop, no matter what.  Because no matter how many times it happens — flicked off countertops, tossed between hands, released over an open maw — I always scream.  They love to hear shrill desperate cries of somebody smaller than themselves.  

How small?  I’m not entirely sure.  An inch.. maybe two if I’m being hopeful.  One second I get a stinging pain at my temples and the next I look up and a fallen leaf is spread out before me like a mattress.  When my to-be kidnapper first found me, I was terrified, but they coaxed me to come with them with the promise that I’d be returned safely to my home — to my partner.  That was a lie.

I’d been taken back to their own home, locked in a cage, and tortured each day for no other reason besides finding new ways to make me desperate for my old life.

It’s honestly pathetic but mortifying all at the same time; why would someone so large spend the time to make someone so small feel this way?  If I’m meant to be nothing compared to you — which is what my captor always tells me — why would you focus all of your brutal attention on me?

There was a point in time where my biggest fear was survival over the course of several weeks as I planned out my grand escape and ways to contact people I trusted to come help me.  All of that is long gone now — the idea died after the third or fourth torture session.  These days I fear for my survival over several hours of horrible treatment masked as ‘playing’ or ‘enrichment’ every single day.

Today is another one of those messy days, where I’m covered in someone else’s fluids by the end of the day rather than my.. usually bile or blood or a mixture of the two.  Honestly I don’t know which days I prefer, but I’m used to both by now.  At least on days like these I’m less likely to pass out.

I know it’s coming from the moment their hand gets raised over their head and I’m pinched between two fingers, but regardless I still gasp a fearful shriek as I plummet through the air and my stomach flips.  My landing is announced by a squishy squelch and dripping saliva coating my back.  It immediately oozes through the thin layer of clothing I have on — ruining another one of the few pieces of wearable things that I have left, and staining my body with the horrible stench of mouth interior.

An uncomfortably large tongue slips me down onto their bottom jaw.  There’s a perfect view of the roof of my torturer’s mouth from here.  It’s smooth and reddish-tinged pink like almost everything else, but thin blue veins branch out over its surface just beneath the skin.  In an instant, the blue treelike branches of spindly veins become obscured by a fleshy dripping muscle.

Stringed droplets of saliva slowly and tauntingly wiggle down from the underside of the thing.  Each glob hits me and soaks in deeply beneath my skin.  I gasp and manage to tilt my head so it doesn’t get in my eyes, but it ends up in my open mouth instead and I choke on the rotten-food-tasting goo.  It’ll take me days to get the phantom taste of it out of my mouth.

Then, the muscle falls down on top of me with a thunderous chuckle — rattling my ribs inside my chest.  My arms instinctively lift to shield myself from the coming onslaught.  The second my hands touch their tongue, saliva coats them and begins dripping down the length of my arms.  However, the torture won’t stop until this awful person gets what they want.

In a sudden downward lick, the tip of their tongue lands directly against my crotch — right between my thighs.  Of course, they knew I’d release their tongue to cover the sensitive area.  Less than a second later, the entire muscle presses down wetly over the top of me.  My head gets squeezed between the tough raised flesh of the human’s bottom jaw and the squelching mass of their tongue.  Not to mention my arms now pinned down over myself.

Tongue pulsing over me, I’m squeezed and sucked on like some sort of living hard candy.  I sob and struggle for my freedom as the giant muscle takes to my pleas by pressing itself painfully against my face to lick at my tears.  The texture is rough and I can already feel the fiery sensation of my skin being rubbed raw across my lips and eyelids.  Which sucks, because the pain only brings out more tears.

I’m tossed around in that awful place for hours with my eyes still shut tightly from that moment.  My body gets easily popped between their teeth as my torturer bites me.  It’s painful and bruising, but their jaws always pull off right before I fear my skin will tear open.  I grit my own teeth and bear it.  

Teeth marks flow down every free space on myself as they move me up and down over different places between their jaws and bite down.  My only relief is when they hold me still to lick me.  The last of my clothing disintegrates against their saliva.  Up and down up and down their tongue rakes over my skinned and bruised body — blood pooling in nasty colors so close to the surface of my skin.

Then it’s time for me to be flipped over, and the process will begin again with my other side.  Dread causes me to start begging.  I know it rarely helps; it usually only escalates things.  However, I’m in too much pain to recognize that.

In the middle of my first desperate attempt to sway my captor off the path of utterly destroying me in the closest way to non-lethally as they can, their saliva-caked tongue accidentally slips off of me mid-transition across their mouth.  Coated in slime, I slide backwards until I hit something and stop, only to start sinking deeper.  A quick glance at the giant dangling piece of hanging flesh above me lets me know that I’m stuck against this person’s throat.

A cough sends me flying forward and blasts the sound from my ears.  I cling to a ridge of tough skin and hang on with every ounce of strength I have.  There’s something of a deliriously angry thought rampaging through my head about finally freeing myself from this hell by clogging my captor’s throat and suffocating them to death.  It feels bubbly and satisfying in my chest as the large thud of them staggering to the floor reaches my ears.

In a last-ditch effort, they give up on coughing me up and start to swallow.  The sudden change in direction dislodges my grip before I even realize it, and muscly sucking yanks me downward.  With a final large gasp like I’m about to dive underwater, I’m tugged down their gullet — throat closing up against my face.

I’m in too much shock to scream, which is a good thing because I’d probably lose all the oxygen I have.  Everything presses against me and I struggle to orient myself as it feels like I’m getting pressed down by tongues on all sides.  Pushed deeper and deeper in, things only become warmer.  The temperature is akin to the world’s most humid summer day, and I’m coated — absolutely drenched — in saliva.  It’s beginning to burn.

Desperate to hold my breath, I feel as if I’m being flattened and crushed inward as my lungs weaken with less and less air.  Finally, I fall out of the slick burning slide with an unintentional gasp, and I tumble into open space.  My body hits a wall and sticks wetly to it.  

I lay there for about half a second before the thing moves and a dying shriek claws its way out of my throat.  The entire wall of sticky flesh pulses against my back and bubbles up and against the sides of my limbs.

Writhing and screaming, I tear myself off of it and stumble backwards — feet catching on the lumpy living ground.  A loud squelch when I hit the non-ground makes my skin crawl.  I can’t see a thing, but I can very much hear and feel the walls crumpling and pulsing around me.  They all move inward and rub against me wetly.  Scream after scream wracks my body as the gigantic stomach squeezes me claustrophobically inside of it.

“H- Help!  HELP ME!  I can’t move!”  Something skin-crawlingly loud rumbles through every single thing in the vague resemblance of my captor’s voice.  The next thing I remember is blinking awake from.. passing out, I guess.  Oh god I wish I never woke up.

I start screaming again but I’m in so much pain all that comes out of my mouth is a choked squeal.  “I c.  can’t feel my legs!”  My voice breaks in the middle of a sob.  There’s a liquid rising in here now, and each time it rises a new piece of me feels like it’s being peeled off my body bit by bit.  I choke and cry and beg for my release as the air slowly gets stripped from my lungs — and the flesh from my legs.

Constant blazing agony is all- everything I feel.  The liquid makes its way to my midsection from my legs, which are nothing but stumps that are chemically burnt closed.  As the burning acid eats its way through my body, everything inside of me melts into the goo far quicker than my skin.  I begin to hollow out from the inside.

One last desperate struggle thrashes my internally-decaying body around the fleshy prison.  I gasp my final sob as it only finally clicks that I’m being digested alive.  Then everything falls into a hazy burning static, indefinitely.

[littledeadpotato]

Blue period 11

I didn't think I'd be reviewing manga, and I probably won't, but this one I have to do.

(If the art doesn't have credits underneath, its by the author; Tsubasa Yamaguchi)

In case you don't know, Blue period (1) is a manga by Tsubasa Yamaguchi about Yatora Yaguchi, a highschool student, who gets inspired and finds passion for art. He wants to get into one of the best art schools in Japan, since it's one of the few school (if not the only one) that's not private.

In volume 11 tho, We're at a part where Yaguchi is in uni but needs money, so he gets a job at a community art class with kids.

(I rate comics/graphic novels/manga a bit differently. Enjoyability > actual quality. Shitty way to rate ik but who cares🤷‍♀️)

Rating: 5/5⭐

(For the God of me i cannot find who made this art, but there's a chance it's Official since I can't find any post that's not reposted and its also used for fake merch. If you know who the artist is, please let me know so I can Credit them)

Spoilers ahead!!!

What makes this volume so special? Well it's not in a school setting. The whole art uni thing is very stressful to both the reader and the characters. Since it's spring(?) break, Yaguchi doesn't have to do any art. But this is still a manga about art. But this one focuses more on one's relationship with their art and others' art. And any artist has experience with that. Alot of people hate their art, and honestly I do too.

Since I like parting things, the book has 2 parts, each is focused on one kid in the art class.

Shoya

Shoya is bored in the class. He has trouble finishing his assignments, he's mean towards his classmates (and Yaguchi) and violent. Yaguchi tries his best to make Shoya interested but it just doesn't work. One day Shoya's mother comes to pick Shoya up from the class, when she sees Shoya's painting, she says:

,,What's so great about this painting? It doesn't look like he did that good of a job to me..."

Which is, you know, Something to say to a 5 year old. Shoya is understandibly not happy about that. But one day, Yaguchi finds him playing some games while walking home. And Yaguchi finds out Shoya is really good at drawing mechs. He talks to the teacher, and Shoya can draw whatever he wants to in class! Yayyy. He also makes this football game for their exhibition. Shoya's thing is that he doesn't enjoy art because he knows what he likes. No one enjoys drawing everything.

Sae

Sae has alot of passion for art. But she has alot of other classes. Even though Sae has barely any time to play with her friends, she still paints at home. And I mean this girl loooves painting. Well until her dad points at another painting (which as far as i know, wasn't even made by a child) and says:

,,Oh, that kid's painting is really good! How about trying to do something like that?"

We're back to this point, where the kids' confidence and how they think about themselves and their art is very much connected to how other people see it.

She starts comparing herself to the other kids. Hashida (who also works there now lol) also notices her painting has changed. When he says he likes her painting, she says:

,,Thank you, Hashida-sensei! But it's not good at all. Im worse than Shikahara-san. Ahhh. Why am I so bad...? I want to get better. I've been practicing so much, too..."

AND I HAVE NEVER RELATED TO A 5 YEAR OLD MORE. Like this young girl is already at this part of making art. Me and my art teacher actually talked about this, and she said this change from having fun with art to being critical of it happens around/after the age of 10.

The kids will have an exhibition! And one day in class, they present their art to the class. When they're presenting, Shoya compliments her painting. And I'll just write down the whole presentation.

,,My painting... is bad because the subjects are small. The colours are dull, too. And the bear looks messed up. It's creepy, crappy and just awful. Why is it... that I can only make something like this? Shoya-kun went out of his way to say something nice about my work... but... he can do that because he's better than me. How nice! How nice that everyone's great at art. [...] I dont wanna do this anymore! [...] My colours are messier than Miku-chan's! I can't draw mechs like Shoya-kun! I can't make cute paintings like Yuichi-kun! I cant paint like Shikahara-san! How nice that everyone's great at art!"

And after that I took a 20sec break ;P!

As far as i know, there are 2 ways people can react to making art around others. You either envy their work and take it as a learning experience to appreciate their art. But I, someone who's about to do entrance exams into art school, cant afford to do that. Or you can just fall apart under the pressure of "everyone is better than me". And it's easy to do that when you have a goal and everyone could be your enemy. You cant appreciate their art and love art together. Because they're better than you and you have to get better. Art isn't about how much you study. Art is about how passionate you are. How much you want to make art. If you hate everything you make, is there a reason to keep doing art? For some yes. For some no.

Sae quit the art class.

Before she does, Hashida asks her to do a collab. They just paint random things. React to the other's painting. Hashida says this (I'm sorry for so many quotes but they really stuck with me srryyy):

,,I'm actually bad at making art. I love art. I love people who make art and i make art myself, but the more I get to know other people who make art... the more is makes me think I can't go as far as them. I respect people who can keep their brush moving with tears in their eyes. I think you're truly amazing for jumping into painting like you did. Even when you feel miserable or think you have no reason to praise your own work."

Which again. SAME. Back to parents, when Sae shows the painting to her dad, he tears it in the half to give half to Hashida. They stick it back together. But you know...

SOMEWHERE IN THE BOOK HASHIDA ASKS YAGUCHI TO GO TO SWITZERLAND, ITALY AND GERMANY WITH HIM AND I HOPE HE ACCEPTS CUZ I LOVE HASHIDA AND HES SO INTERESTING. PLEASEEEEEEE.

If I read this volume without the other 10, I'd probably think it was just kids and being whinny about art. But when you read through so much of the stuff these people go through just to make art. And how they struggle. When out of nowhere, its like 'I fucking hate this'. This book just keeps you think 'Why? Why? Why? Why do they do that? Why dont they just quit?'. And your relationship with your art and art overall is important. It's not like you can look past the fact that you fucking hate what you just did and hate that you're only capable of such a bad thing. Art you create is often hard to love, especially when its competitive.

But art is still art. And it's such a pity that people who would love art and creating it crumble under the pressure of others.

Be gentle and loving to yourself and your art.

Art by: https://x.com/pplaksana

[crescentmoonsandroses]

Deltarune's themes of escapism and why they hit me hard

I was going to do some Deltarune art based around this and then just have the definition of escapism under it, but I can't think of what to draw, so I'm just going to ramble about it instead.

Deltarune, as I'm sure many many other people have pointed out before, has strong themes of escapism in addition to its themes of control, freedom, the narrative, etc. The Dark Worlds transform objects into people, rooms into environments, high school students into heroes. They seem to bring to life the sorts of games you played as a kid, with your toys and your friends, making up a story that played out in your mind, enhanced by your imagination. It's theatre of the mind, helped along by the toys and props and whatnot - like when you're playing D&D, too. This sort of thing is mainly in Chapter One, with the game pieces and cards and toys. I remember playing make-believe with practically everything as a kid - I made up stories with chess pieces a few times, that was fun. Castle Town and Card Kingdom are both reminiscent of a very traditional form of escapism: fantasy.

The Cyber World is a little different, but it still holds the same sort of idea - hell, we're all here on Tumblr, we know what it's like to bury ourselves in the internet, in videos and memes and posts, and forget the world for a little while. This is emphasised by Queen's commentary - I can't find the exact quote, but it's something about being worried that the Lightners will become depressed without the 'bliss' of the internet, which isn't currently working in Hometown. We also know that Chapter 3 will take place in Toriel's lounge room and seems to be specifically based around the TV (and, this is off topic, but I literally just realised Mike could be, like, mic, as in microphone, and Tenna could be short for antenna), which can also be a form of escapism for people. I know that my mum, for one, watches TV most nights.

There's also the specific characters who fall into the Dark Worlds - Kris, Susie, Noelle, Berdly.

Kris seems to be considered weird by most of Hometown, where they are the only human and don't seem to have many - or, well, any - real friends apart from their brother, who was the town's golden boy, who everyone keeps talking about and seems to hold in high regard, whose side of the bedroom holds trophies and pictures and colour while Kris' is bare and grey (they also have Susie now, but she only became their friend during the first Dark World). In the Dark World, however, Kris gets to be a hero, sword and shield raised, saving the world with their friends. Everyone in Castle Town loves them. The room Ralsei built for them has trophies aplenty. And then there's the matter of Ralsei, who looks so much like Toriel and Asgore and Asriel, who is so nice and so supportive of Kris, who has pink horns like maybe a certain red headband faded (yes I headcanon that Ralsei is Kris' old horn headband and will continue to do so until proven wrong).

Susie, who drinks milk from back alleys and threatens to eat people's faces, who didn't actually call home when she had a sleepover with Kris, who gets uncomfortable around the block of flats in Hometown, who doesn't seem to know how to react when shown kindness or friendship, who considers herself the 'bad guy'. Well, she gets to be that bad guy, strong and powerful and scary, with a big axe and sharp teeth and enemies to defeat. And then she gets to have friends, she gets to have food, she gets to be the hero and maybe that's not so bad after all if she does it alongside people she cares about, people who care about her. We can see how much happier she is in the Dark Worlds.

Berdly, who tries so hard to be perceived as smart, who loves videogames. I don't have as much to say about him, honestly, but his Dark World design is quite distinctively Cyber World when compared to the other Lightner's more fantasy-inspired designs, and being in the Dark World gives him the chance to be a hero, even if he's not great at that for most of Chapter 2.

And Noelle. Noelle, whose sister seems to be missing or dead, whose dad is in hospital, whose mum is the town's mayor and works a lot and has an icy personality. Noelle who searches for bugs and secrets in the games she seems to love. Noelle who wishes she had magic to heal her dad. Noelle who seems to feel powerless to help someone she loves, who doesn't stand up to Berdly or her mum. Once she's in the Dark World, she can heal people. She stands up to Queen, who is a sort of mother figure. She gets to spend time with Susie. She gets to see the city lights that Dess promised her.

All this to say that Deltarune in general and the Dark Worlds specifically have some not-so-subtle themes of escapism.

Now, the 'why it hits me hard' bit. Escapism has always been one of my main coping strategies, and even beyond that, I love fantasy, I love stories, I love burying myself in another world. It's much easier to be in a world where there's magic and quests and maybe there's struggles and strife and people still get hurt and mess up and go through bad things, but eventually there's a happy ending because that's how stories work, they don't have the constant uncertainty of real life. And, you know, if I could go to a Dark World, I would. I can understand why Susie likes the Dark Worlds so much, why Noelle and Berdly wanted to make another. Escapism is something that I can understand, especially after having struggled with my mental health for a few years (I'm a lot better now though). The world can be messy and complicated and hard, and wouldn't it be nice to be in a different world for a bit, one where you can be who you want to be and you don't feel lost anymore?

So, uh... yeah lol.

[ignalina-c0re]

WIP (folder) Wednesday

tagged again by the lovely @thegrandpineapple :x

How it works:

Post a screenshot of your WIP folder and then share some progress/snippets whatever you want to share about some of our WIP's (or all of them). The idea is to hopefully get people inspired to work on WIPs they maybe haven't worked on in a while or get others interested and asking about WIP's that look intriguing to them.

The SRP folder is a mess, so you get my notes instead, and P&P only has one (1) bit tentatively named "let's go up in flames" :,D

From smallest to largest:

The Glittering Curve of the Stars - A Disco Elysium paledriver AU Clegan, where the Buckies are piloting a cargo aerostatic through the pale, and things go very, very wrong halfway through the trip. John is extremely overexposed to the pale because of however many trips and years of working this job, and half of his memories aren't even his. Gale is his new rudderman, and he lost someone he doesn't remember having. Memories get muddy.

Footsteps echo in the wooden body of the gondola; they belong to John, who steps over to the gas panel, checking the values; they belong to the man stepping on to the flight deck, and John stares at him from the elevator wheel. He's his new rudderman, and they've never met before; they've done dozens of trips together, and John could draw the constellation of freckles on his cheek from memory. He's precisely drawn and beautiful, like an icon of Dolores Dei herself; he's precisely drawn and beautiful, and he puts Dolores Dei herself to shame. John doesn't know him, doesn't know his name; he always calls him Buck, and he loves him.

Peonies & Poetry - It's a Clegan coffeeshop AU I guess?? Bucky is a barista, a gym rat, and the world's worst English major, and Gale is a neurotic poet who is probably definitely on drugs. Gale is writing a cross between erotica and love letters to Bucky under a pseudonym that's so far removed from who he is in person that it's basically untraceable, until Curt Biddick and his dot-connecting superpowers happen, and then Bucky has to somehow deal with the fact that the married man so far out of his league it might as well be another universe that he's had a crush on for half a year wants to fuck him really bad, and a few thousand people have read exactly how he wants to fuck him in his latest book.

The Poet is indeed very pretty. Elegant might be a better word for it. He’s willowy tall, with long legs and a trim waist offset by wide shoulders, like a drawing from a fashion magazine. The severe lines of his ink black clothes mirror the severe line of his jaw, the sharp cheekbones and heavy brows. His features, in contrast, are delicately made: he has plush looking lips, full and almost too big for his face, were not the curve of them being so beautiful it’s like they were painted by the Old Masters with loving care; his eyes behind the silver wireframe glasses are the color of the sea on a sunny day, a little melancholy and a lot tired, dark circles almost like bruises under them. John wonders if he ever sleeps at all, or just puts himself on a shelf to charge, next to his sleek chrome laptop and sleek chrome phone, ready to go when his battery hits 100%, clothes still flawless and golden hair still gelled into artistically tumbling waves. 

Stall Recovery Procedures - my baby <3

A BuckyXBuckXRosie post-war happy-end creature where the three of them become airline pilots. It started as "what if i took the three prettiest men in mota, stuck them in the prettiest airplane in the world, and made them fuck, wouldn't that be fun" and now i have seven parts planned, so far 6k words about gale having a mental breakdown that's not even nearly done, three parts about john contemplating his unfortunate taste in men, an entire love letter to the lockheed constellation, one part for indulgent threesome smut with two paragraphs written where i compare rosie to a run-over frog, and this meme:

Pugachev's Cobra - Rosie POV of the entire story of SRP, a sort of overarching narrative I guess? All the other bits are just me elaborating on Cobra basically

Rosie, for his part, thought he was doing okay. After all, when was he not doing okay? He saw hundreds of comrades fall from the sky and he did okay, he trekked through no man’s land with a broken arm and did okay, he dodged bullets, rockets, flak and fists and he did okay, he saw piles of corpses and the gas chambers of Poznan and he did okay. 

Somatogravic Illusion - John POV of his and Gale's reunion after the Stalag, and their one kiss that ruined/saved them forever

Bucky touched the ghost of Gale on his lips, a motion more like drawing a cross in worship than it was just a touch. He knew that either he’ll take this to his grave, or this will be what takes him to his grave.

Holding Patterns - Rosie POV, my newest insane idea. Rosie starts a letter writing campaign to befriend John, and it ends up working a little too well. My big idea for this is that I'm going to make it a mixed media fic: I'm making the letters, and we get glimpses of Rosie's life and his late night phone calls to John inbetween

Graveyard Spiral - Gale POV, Gale is very much not okay post-war, leaves Marge, washes up at John's place because of course he does, and the two of them proceed to go on a mutually self-destructive bender lasting several months until Rosie turns up with an interesting idea...

He dreams that Bucky leans down to press his lips on his forehead, sweet and lingering. He dreams that Bucky peppers his face with with little kisses, each one a tiny flame, drying tear tracks, soothing the ugly bruise across his nose, igniting something, that then fizzes out into radio static and indistinct boozy numbness. He dreams that he tilts his head up and captures Bucky's lips with his own anyway. It's a chaste little thing, soft and fleeting; he feels Bucky smile into it.

Autokinesis - John POV companion to Graveyard, because I couldn't leave John's messy internal monologue well enough alone lmao

The war against himself, against the wholly inappropriate need to kiss Buck until he makes that sweet noise again, feels like it wages on for an eternity, and ends in a truce. John lowers himself slowly, and presses his lips to Buck's fever-hot forehead, a single spark of contact sending fire down the line until the entire system is an inferno; until he can't keep himself from ghosting soft kisses lower, over the bloom of the bruise, over Buck's lids drifting shut, over silvery tear tracks tasting of salt, over a day's faint prickling stubble. Buck tilts his head up slightly, and captures John's lips. It's the fuel tanks rupturing, obliterating every thought in John's head in a fiery explosion, save for I love you, I love you, good God, I love you.

Black Hole Approach - John POV, an exploration of how you move on after you and the love of your life destroyed each other. Set during airline pilot training, and includes a birthday, half a proposal, and lots of realizations

The chill winds that took up around September are bracing in a way that makes him not want to slip back into the blissful embrace of booze. Instead, he looks at the stars, picking out constellations that Buck taught him: Orion, Canis Major, Ursa Minor, Polaris winking at him like an old friend. When the sky is too cloudy, or his head is too heavy to raise, he looks at the landing lights, constellations on their own, guiding sailors home just the same: REIL, edge lights, center lights, steady and unwavering. They don't make him feel grounded, they make him feel tethered, a safety line back to life that won't let him float away into ruin.

CFIT - Rosie POV: had enough angst? Okay then, we're going out with a bang (literally). Or: the Buckies had enough of cautiously courting Rosie, and on a hot summer day in Bangkok, they decide to instead get him drunk and fuck his brains out. And then they live happily ever after <3

There is a short pause. And then a wolf-whistle from John. "Goddamn, Rosenthal. No wonder you flew like that." Rosie is so perplexed by that, he almost forgets to be embarrassed. "Flew like what?" "Like you don't need to compensate for anything. Although now I wonder how you fit into the flight suit. You sure you can handle him, doll?" Gale hums, tracing a hand down Rosie's front. He scratches into the dark curls of his pubic hair, teasing: Rosie can't help the soft moan escaping his lips, the pleasant shiver running through his body. He also can't help his damn nervous babbling. "Who flew like they compensate?" John stops his ministrations behind Gale, who looks back at him quizzically. The moment stretches on, motionless. Then Gale blurts out: "Brady." "Oh, Brady, definitely," agrees John immediately. He chuckles softly, and twists his wrist, earning a throaty groan from Gale. "Little John, always so agitated. Perhaps about his Little John." "You though, you took a B-17, and made it do goddamn ballet." Gale's eyes glimmer with wonder; it makes Rosie flush hot at the compliment. "Now we know how you managed that." Before Rosie can come out with more nonsense babbling, Gale wraps his long fingers around his cock and starts stroking him at a leisurely pace, never breaking eye contact. His gaze is dark and hungry and entirely focused on Rosie, like a lion staring at it's prey. Rosie's thoughts fizzle out.

This is entirely too long and I spent entirely too long making it orz

(I wrote the CFIT snippet just for this post please love me)

Come yell with me about my weird brain children!!

Tagging: @swifty-fox, @feyd-meowtha, @middlingmay, @wwasted no pressure tho :>

[sgtmickeyslaughter]

Art Tag

Thanks for putting this together @deathclassic! and thanks for the tag @spookygingerr

Have you always been interested in creating art? : Yes from day one

What's your favorite medium to use? If digital, what programs do you like? I use digital (procreate) most often now, not sure if it's my favorite but it's easier/cheaper than playing with all the mediums I like to use and allows for a little more freedom to play and experiment

Do you create outside of fandom? Yes! I draw and/or paint almost every day in my sketchbook and I work in architectural design so I sketch ideas with co-workers/clients

Share something you haven't finished and/or never got around to posting. Ooof so this haunts me - I have always always wanted to put together a full comic, so I had planned to make a comic version of my fic In Your Love, it's ultimately too much work ... so much potential, absolutely no time

Favorite piece you've made?

Sooo hard bc my favorite piece is for a fic I did but haven't posted yet... very soon though! Until then, my favorite piece is the watercolor I did for the fanart masquerade

Draw your icon in a minute or less - hey bud!

An underrated piece you've made in your opinion

Idk, I like this one and it doesn't have very many notes

Do you do art in a professional setting?

I do a lot of representational architectural drawings - like the Gallagher House drawings I did a little while back

A piece you don't like but did really well on social media. Honestly I really like all the pieces I've done - I either give up or gaslight myself into loving them

Post an old piece and compare it to your most recent, what are the similarities?

Honestly my style changes all the time but my skills have been pretty consistent so theres not going to be anything shocking

Have you ever collaborated with another artist/s?

I've only collaborated with a writer and created art for our gallavich summer camp bunk - which was really really fun

What piece has the most notes? Are you surprised?

Not super surprised, I think it's pretty lovely

Who/What is your favorite subject matter? I love making art that coincides with the fics that I write! after thinking about a scene or world or vibe for so long while writing I want to put it down on paper visually

Show us something not from fandom you've made There's so much, idk have some watercolor buildings, I'm too lazy to curate anything

Where do you like to create? At my table or couch, I don't usually draw out and about for some reason idk why

Do you have a tag that you use to group your creations? Tell us so people can follow it. No but all my art can be found here

Give yourself a shoutout, where can we commission/buy/follow you for more pieces? I don't take commissions or sell pieces, but follow me here on tumblr and you can probably talk me into drawing something you have in mind

tagging: @burninface @matt404b @deedala @doshiart

@heymrspatel @creepkinginc @suzy-queued

[employee052]

[Exploration]

Oswin has some doubts over the design he's given to his Narrator, and the two talk it out.

(i was gonna post this later on in the week but i talked abt this comic on stream so i wanna show yall sdkfj)

[For more rambles check under the cut!]

OK SO THIS ONE WAS MADE A WHILE AGO THAT I NEVER FINISHED UNTIL NOW (going on break from posting to just make stuff and pile them up surprisingly makes you productive)

ive had this idea for a while now, esp when i first made the first two pages. i just never had the time to fully contextualise what narry might say in return until now where he actually has advice (which i had to think abt)

like usual, im writing from experience and personal ideas bc for a while ive been genuinely unsure as to how i wanted my narrator to be. he's at his third redesign (roughly, this is the third outfit he's ever had and im counting design sheets as redesigns)

a part of me is glad its satiating the side that wants "just an old man" narry. but on the other my minds screaming its not 'creative' or 'unique' or 'different' enough compared to other ppls narrators. which are way more recognizable and more creative in their designs. and thus this is where this comic came from

im gonna explore my narrators design again for a bit. probably not a full rehaul since at this point the grey n white swoop is a standard. but with me experimenting maybe i can find something that satiates both sides of what i want and hopefully get to put that man in more silly outfits asdjashdg

also, if u cant tell by some of the comics ive been making recently/the vent comic a year ago where narry got his swoop from, i like writing my thought processes into plotlines for tsp bc my minds constantly changing, so might as well have it adapt sdjh

plus, this comic was just so i could draw him in silly outfits, which is what ill do >:3

[timemajesty]

So, today on November 5th, 10 years ago I made an OC for the game called Super Mario RPG. Ever since then, I've worked on him and poured so much love, sweat, tears, money and even blood into making this OC into what he is today. Not my typical type of post on here, but it's important for me to share just how much Erbin has grown as a character.

Erbin was originally created for the purposes of coping with a lot of awful things that happen in my childhood, but I never had resources or anything to draw him or get art of him, so until around 7 years ago he didn't even have any artwork to his name. I just always had so much written up pieces about him, all this information, all these little stories, and especially a lot of ship fanfics. I made him to ship with Geno, which I know is very basic nowadays, basically everyone ships an OC with Geno, but I don't care for being basic.

His first design, is awful I won't lie, I didn't know what I was doing as a character designer back then. Most of his much older art is so old, I cannot find any traces of the artists who drew a lot of them for me, so I apologize in advance for that.

Art was originally made by someone known as SweetRaccon on Amino.

Gawd, his old design. Back when he had pink hair, a much larger crown, no nose and no ears. He was also really slim back then, and also his story was a lot more different, and not good. I'll be honest and say, I kinda originally wrote him to be a projection of what my abusive ex was, a horrible person who didn't care about others if it meant getting what he wanted and I admit that I don't think that was healthy for me to do, and I've grown and I know now that projecting is okay but if you want an OC to be very much your own thing you probably shouldn't project too much onto them.

This was also the era of which I started becoming more serious with his character, adding more details into his story and giving him actual information, such as an age, a family, stuff like that.

Original art by my boyfriend.

Ah, his second design. It's still not the best but it was better. Back then I had figured out his height, some characteristics to his design and overall fixed some stuff; such as I gave him a nose and ears, and his hair wasn't completely pink, this was also around the same time that FNF was getting popular and everyone and their mothers kept comparing him to the mom from that game, to this day I will never understand that because I just don't see the similarities at all, other than the skin color.

This was probably the time in my life where I started to develop a lot of my bad writing habits, especially my habit of giving up when I feel like something I write isn't perfect; it's kinda an issue and still is to this day, and you can probably understand why I don't post him often because of that. What I will say though is that back then I had fleshed out his story to be less of just "haha he's my ex but as an OC" to "Oh, he's a very troubled and fascinating character who I changed up to not be an abuser." I'll be honest, I regret ever making him anything like my abuser.

Original art by Facade on Discord ( @toastee-roastee )

The current design, the current era.

This is when I started to develop more of his relationship with Geno, instead of Erbin being nothing but a flirty bastard with Geno; he's now someone who had to earn Geno's trust back after Geno had learned about Erbin's affiliation with the Smithy Gang. Which, let's talk about that, I don't talk about his lore enough. So here it is, the definitive and complete story of Erbin's backstory.

Once upon a time, there was a God and a Shadow Siren. They didn't love one another, the God knew he loved someone else but fate kept them apart and forced him to be with this Shadow Siren. When they decided to have a kid to keep the Gods' legacy in tact, they realized they didn't have the time or resources to care for a child. So this God, Culex, decided to give the child to a tyrant, none other than Smithy; who begrudgingly accepted Culex's request and took in baby Erbin, raising him as if he was one of the Smithy Gang members.

It didn't take long for Erbin to start being an annoyance around the Factory, he had known from a young age about how his father abandoned him which made him grow up as a troublemaker. After 30 years of suffering from abuse, burns and scars from machines, and constantly being yelled at...Erbin had enough, that's when Mario and his group of heroes destroyed Smithy, and that's when Erbin took that opportunity to steal Smithy's crown and escape the Weapons World, claiming an abandoned castle deep into the Forest Maze as his home.

It wasn't long before he met one of those heroes, Geno, who had been ordered to take care of any remaining Smithy Gang soldiers that lurked Mario's World, the rest is history.

More art from my boyfriend.

When I tell you this OC means everything to me, I mean it. He's been with me through it all, ever since the start of an abusive relationship with my ex all the way to today, where my life is a lot better and I have an amazing partner and an awesome friend group. To everyone who's been in this journey of helping me make Erbin the character he is today, thank you. You mean just as much as Erbin means to me, which is a lot. I wouldn't be here without this OC and I definitely wouldn't be who I am today without him, he brought me so many memories and I can't wait to make more with him. I may post more for him today, today is his special day.

Oh and it's election day so like, vote for Erbin lmao.

[likeadevils]

idk if this is commons knowledge and I’m the only one that doesn’t know, but when Taylor said that Harry used to live next to her did she mean in London or LA?

THIS IS ACTUALLY WAYYYYY MORE COMPLICATED THAN PEOPLE REALIZE. to answer your question yes they lived very close to each other in LA (i believe it caused HAYLOR IS BACK to trend on twitter when it was announced harry bought the house). long answer she’s likely fibbing a little bit when she talked about it but also she might never have said it

so i believe you’re referencing this:

oh, some extra info on IWYW. cant remember if ive already shared this, if i have im sorry, if i havent then here. taylor wrote that after a couple of months after her and harry broke up, and they decided to become friends again, and she said this was the first time she had become friends with an ex to the point where they were comfortable enough to talk about why the relationship didnt work out. and he said how, after they broke up, he bought a house literally one road adjacent to hers. and every day he would drive home, and accidentally turn into her street, and told her how he just wanted to stop at her house and see her, but he never did. and she said this song is about while he was in the car making the decision to get out the car and see her, she was sitting in her bedroom, wishing he would make the move and go back to her and just pitch up at her house. she compared it to a classic movie where both parties want the same thing but neither has the guts to say anything. and thats why the song has the lyrics of "driving straight ahead", opposed to taking the left turn to see her.

as far as i can tell the tumblr post i linked is the earliest surviving source for her saying this— someone saying a likely 1989 sessioner said it to them. i can’t find the the actual sessioner’s account (admittedly, i haven’t tried in a couple years, and ive gotten way better at searching old websites). so it might be a fabrication, but taylor can also can be a bit silly with her recounting of events so it might just be her telling a wee fib. but no matter what this is likely some level of a simplification

iwyw was likely written in late may 2013 (that’s coming from an aggravate of multiple sources that’s too hard to cite here, but it’s all that’s in the 1989 timeline in my pinned). at the time, taylor had two houses in LA (one appears to be a guest house, we only learned about it when she sold it in 2018), one in rhode island, and one in nashville. it is almost definitely referring to her LA house though, because harry never lived in the other two places.

HOWEVER harry didn’t buy a house in LA until march 2014, after taylor finished 1989 (non-taylor’s version). now, i’ve heard he was staying with a friend in LA in 2013 who lived close to her house, but i haven’t been able to independently verify it, and it was from a haylor account so i am wary of bias. there’s also no evidence of them talking until august 2013, three months after she probably wrote iwyw, but that’s easy enough to hide from the public.

tldr the sourcing is questionable and the story doesn’t match up with publicly available facts. there are alternative explanations with even more dubious sourcing. taylor lies for the sake of a better story a fair amount but also she is capable of hiding big things from the public. draw conclusions as you will but be aware that they are built on sand

[blackbackedjackal]

So to put this in perspective. I was about 5-7 when The Burned Furs was happening. I literally went to see Pokemon: The First Movie IN THEATERS, while this was going on.

By the time I was using the olde internet was about 10 or so. My family had a home computer system with Windows 98 and kept things upgraded over the years due to my dad needing access to "the internet" for work. I was left alone a lot as a kid (busy father/neglectful mother) and this was around the time of "CHECK OUT WWW.POKEMON.COM FOR MORE DETAILS" kind of time of the early internet + advertising. Like I was still using AOL dial-up for a lot of my original internet deep dives. Then, when things like Neopets took off, I was using the computer religiously. I stayed (mostly) on kid-safe spaces, but of course, the internet was, and is, the internet and I eventually branched out. I wanna say I was looking up pictures of Inuyasha to print out and use as art reference, as well as Digimon and Wolf's Rain. I know one of the earliest pieces of furry media was Renamon porn around 2002-2004, as well as a lot of art by Dark Natasha through her website.

At some point around 2005-2006 I stumbled onto VLC. I remember because I saw some furry art by an artist and really liked his style and was emulating it for a bit. At this time, furry art was still ruled by many people emulating Animalympics (which I only knew of because my family owned one of the first official releases of the VHS copies), as well as Osamu Tezuka's deep stylistic influence on the furry community in the 80-90s. The Disney influence from TLK hadn't fully seeped into the community at that point, and, being a little anime kid, I was genuinely fascinated with the art style. One of the first pieces of art I posted online was something I drew inspired by some furry fox art I saw on VLC, but then hyperfixated more into the general "I wanna draw a cool edgy anime wolf" kind of thing.

My first OC, Jade Shadowblood (lol) I made when I was about 9-10. I still own the sketchbook where I first drew her. This was sometime around 2001-2002. She was an Inuyasha self-insert character and intended to be "me" if I was in Inuyasha. I always refereed to her as "this is me if I was a wolf demon" to my friends at the time when I showed them my art in elementary school. I got the idea to make more "wolf demons" of my friends when they asked me if I could draw them as wolves at school. I took a lot of design inspo from Neopets/Neopets Adoptables at the time, and a lot of my original OCs were in fact, based off of kids who were my friends at the time (I have all of these original pieces still saved to this day).

Anyway, I joined DeviantArt in 2006 when I was 12-13 under the handle ShroudofShadows. I heard the name on Xiolin Showdown and thought it sounded cool for an internet username. This was my first real venture into social media. I scanned in and posted some of my old art, and continued making art inspired by Inuyasha, Wolf's Rain, Neopets, etc. It wasn't until about 2007 or so when I shared Jade on DA that one of my friends asked me "is this your fursona?" and I was like "what's a fursona?" and well, here we are I guess?

My first webcomic was started at this time, I found out about other people making wolf comics with their characters and I was like "I wanna do that too". The OG Wolf Song was heavily inspired by Inuyasha/Wolf's Rain, but because I also liked Don Bluth, an inspiration Kay Fedewa also used for her art, I got lumped in as "copying" Kay Fedewa because our styles were similar.

Kay got started with The Blackblood Alliance around the same time I did, and did influence about 5 or so of the original pages. Even though I knew my characters and plot were different and eventually would deviate from looking similar to her art, I just leaned into it since people were accusing me of copying her when we just happened to be posting around the same time. I had no idea who she was prior to people comparing me to her.

Wolf Song, ran for several years, but due to being bullies by TheRoguez/RayJ and her band fo merry fuckwads who made it their goal to "remove" wolf comics off of deviantart (the great sparkledog cleanse) and people like MirrorZan and BlueShineWolf having some very public drama in the wolf comic community, I eventually stopped working on my comic to do a big re-write. I wanted to FINALLY get out from under the "oh you're just copying these people" bullshit because I was like "I literally don't know who this is until you name dropped them". I stayed in my lane with Wolf Song and didn't branch out too much to other wolf comic artists since we were all getting harassed at this point. I didn't really know who to trust outside of the friends I had made in my early DA days.

By 17, I was applying for colleges and didn't have time to work on Wolf Song anymore. This was also around the time the other Wolf Song, the one on youtube, began taking off more and my comic was buried under the popularity. I figured "eh ok" and dropped the project while focusing on school.

I never felt like I really fit in with any one place/group. I had my own space and the fans of my comic which made me happy, so I avoided social media/fandom stuff for a few years. I was always on the fringes of the furry fandom, but due to coming across some really racist proboards forums about the furry fandom when I finally looked into it and saw "N*ggers can't be furry/therian/otherkin", I was like "ok fuck you too" and never wanted to participate in the fandom.

[pinkpinkmermayyy]

so this is something I talked about on my old acc but I’m bringing it up here now

ghostflower tangled au!!!

heads up for a really long post lol

@adorefavv @ace-and-sleepdeprived @chessbox @darksidescorner @daydreaming-en-pointe @hoe-bie @i-put-the-wit-in-dimwit @skullghoulz @sp1derw1re @spiderkittens @spidey-bie @thecrowandtherose @the-cat-and-the-birdie @thisismisogynoir @punkeropercyjackson @l0starl @t1r4misuu @zainnbug @urmadiik @tatumis-a @ohara-n-brown

___

so there’s two ways I think this could go:

#1: In Brooklyn of universe-1610, Miles is still a baby, being taken care of and loved by his parents. One night, when Rio tucks him into the crib and leaves the room, Miguel O’Hara, the Spider-Man of universe-928, carefully opens the locked window open and steps inside, making sure to stay silent. He walks over to the crib where Miles is sleeping soundly, unaware of the crime that the man is about to commit. Miguel knows it’s horrible, kidnapping a child for them to never see their true family again, but it’s necessary for the security of the multiverse, no matter how much it hurts. He tries his best not to compare him to his past child, Gabriella, as he slowly picks up the sleeping baby and cradles him gently. However, Miles wakes up as soon as Miguel touches him, and starts crying at the unfamiliar face. Miguel hears Rio and Jeff walking up to the room and quickly dashes towards the open window, only hearing her gasp loudly as he faces the room one last time, eyes glowing a vibrant red as his claws carries the fragile child in his hands. And just before the two horrified parents can do anything, he vanishes.

Jeff and Rio search everywhere, with an ongoing case to search for Miles happening more than a year, but it’s no use. Miguel took Miles to his universe and locked him in a secluded tower within the spider society, raising him as his own from then on. Miguel truly believes that Miles is an anomaly, and that the only way to stop him from getting bitten is by removing him from his home entirely, and he reveals some of that to Miles. But he also lies to him about the world, telling him that’s it’s a dangerous wasteland filled with horrible monsters that have killed most civilization off, and that the only people remaining besides them are selfish and cruel, wicked people that would not hesitate to torture a “fragile” child like Miles. This makes Miles absolutely terrified of the outside world, making him reluctant to leave and even easier for Miguel to handle.

But Miles is secretly still curious about the world. He’s read about it in his limited selection of books, and along with his interest in drawing and arts in general, he wants to at least get a glimpse of the world, hoping that there might still be some beauty in the “wasteland.” Of course Miguel refuses, and his hopes are low, until his 15th birthday. Every year on his birthday, LYLA, the extroverted and sneaky ai assistant of Miguel, would show Miles the lanterns that unbeknownst to him, happen right in his universe by his parents as a way to mourn him. This strengthens his yearning to go outside, without Miguel even knowing it.

Then we have Gwen, a new recruit in the spider society, is exploring the building of the society and finds the secluded tower within a separate part of the building, and gets promptly knocked out with a frying pan by Miles. When she wakes up, the whole conversation between Eugene and Rapunzel in the original film happens between Miles and Gwen, with him being convinced to go outside with her. The whole story plays out like Tangled, except instead of dying, Miguel escapes and retreats to another part of his universe, plotting a way to still “preserve the canon.”

___

Now here’s the second one:

This is much closer to Tangled, with the Morales family being royalty and living in a kingdom very similar to Corona. Rio is pregnant but also extremely ill, and Jeff orders all of the guards (including Aaron, who is the Captain of the Guard here) to search for a possible cure, one of which being the elusive magic golden flower from Tangled. Doctor Olivia “Liv” Octavius used this flower to not only stay young for thousands of years to continue other scientific research of hers, but she also studies the flower for other ways it can benefit herself.

One day, the guard finally find the flower and take it to the castle, feeding it in a soup to Rio. A little after that, she gave birth to Miles, who inherited the same healing powers from the flower through his hair, which was now blonde. Everything seemed happy for the family, until Olivia broke in at night and decided to kidnap the child for her own gain. She keeps Miles in a tower just like in Tangled and uses his powers for her experiments and to stay alive, while acting as his mother. The whole story plays out the same, with Gwen being Eugene and Kingpin and The Spot/Johnathon Ohn being the Stabbington Brothers.

[frostedpuffs]

HI @rosekasa !!!!! 💗

(have to answer this as a text post bc it's too long for an ask)

i LOVE this question, because it made me think!! i wont rate them in any particular order, and i don't necessarily think these scenes are the best I've ever written, but they're some of my favorites because of how much fun i had writing them.

putting this under a read more because im gonna paste the scenes and this ask might get long. some of this writing is a few years old atp so forgive the awkward wording in some places

Sewing Sentiments - Chapter 7 First Kiss Scene

"You're dear to me, too," Marinette said, longing to draw him in, to kiss him until she couldn't breathe and her lips turned blue. "I'm no good with words, Adrien, but...I do like you. I like you s-so much that I wish I could tell you just how much I like you. How much I…"

I love you.

The thought didn't startle her. Not as much as she thought it would.

In a short time, Adrien had become so dear to her. She adored him like no one else. He was the light of her life, the shining presence that brightened her day. One of her best friends.

Marinette wanted to be his girlfriend more than anything. 

(Now, she only needed to tell him that.

…Or show him.

Her eyes found his lips again, burning with the desire to know how soft they would feel against hers.)

"You're so cute," said Adrien. "Fumbling over your words for me. I'm touched."

"Don't make fun of me," she laughed. "I'm not going to kiss you now."

His eyes grew large. "You were going to kiss me?"

"Maybe," she said, the tip of her tongue poking out from her lips as she turned away. "But you're being mean, so I might have to reconsider."

"No, no, I'll be nice," he said, grabbing her hand. "I will be so nice. So nice, Marinette."

She turned back to look at him. "Promise?"

He wrapped her in his arms, linking his hands over the small of her back. "You have my word."

“Okay,” she said, and before she could psyche herself out of the budding confidence sprouting in her veins, she tilted her head forward and—with a moment’s hesitation—pressed her lips against his.

His lips were just as soft as she’d imagined.

No—softer, like pillowed clouds, fluttering through the breeze as they danced in tandem with the beat of her heart. With one hand trailing up to rest on his shoulder, the other found his neck, weaving her fingers along the soft blond hairs at his nape. As if he were mirroring her actions, she felt him do the same, unsure exactly where to place his hands but enjoying it all the same.

Marinette had to stand on the tips of her toes just to reach his lips; Adrien took it upon himself to lean down, angling his head in a way that left her breathless.

It was a little clumsy—a steady mixture of gentle, chaste pecks and lingering brushes occasionally interrupted by breathy laughs—but it was undeniably addicting. Adrien flooded her senses, filling her nose with his familiar scent. Every breath she took smelled of fresh mint. His hair was silk between her fingers, like delicate wisps of gold.

When she finally pulled away, reluctant despite her desperate need for air, she ran her tongue over her lips, swearing that her mouth tasted just a bit sweeter.

"Wow," breathed Adrien.

Marinette giggled. "Yeah. Wow."

Her muscles tingled, and every inch of her body buzzed aflame. With a sated smile, she drew closer, capturing his mouth again, and again, and again until both of them were subdued to a fit of quiet laughter and whispered praise.

Adrien pressed his forehead against hers and gazed into her eyes, his face warm as the flush of his cheeks traveled across his skin. He looked so adorably content that she wanted nothing more than to dive back in and kiss him senseless, kiss him, kiss him until neither of them could form a single coherent thought, lost in the languid movement of their mouths.

Marinette had been kissed before. She'd been kissed plenty of times, of course. But those kisses, as fun as they had been in the moment, balked compared to the feel of Adrien’s lips roaming over her own, slow and curious and perhaps uncoordinated, but so wholesomely him that she wouldn’t trade the experience for the world.

It had been too long since she had last felt something so freeing.

“You’re amazing,” he breathed, his warm breath fanning her freshly kissed lips. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. And you’re so sweet, too, and so funny, I—I can’t believe you—I can’t believe we…I just can’t believe—I mean, I've been going crazy all week, trying to tell you how much I like you and—and I—"

“Look who’s fumbling over their words now,” she teased, weaving her arms around his neck and pulling him closer—almost close enough to kiss him again.

Adrien shrugged, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. It was such an innocently intimate gesture that it had her melting like putty in his hands. “Yeah, well, it’s hard not to when you’re looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you wanna kiss me all over again.”

“Maybe I do,” she said. Her fingers twitched as she brushed her lips over his, not quite pressing them together but close enough to elicit a gleeful little chuckle from his mouth. “Maybe I want you to stop talking so I can kiss you until I can’t think.”

“Well, that’s no fun.” He smirked. “How will you compliment me if you can’t think?”

“You’re gonna lose your kissing privileges.”

“Somehow, I don’t think you’ll let that happen.”

“Shut up,” she teased, kissing him again.

---------------------------

Downpour pretty much the whole fic is one of my favorites because it touches on a darker subject/the stress of being a superhero, but this scene specifically i like.

"Can I ask something weird?" Chat Noir inquired, to which Ladybug nodded. "Do you ever think about, like…what would happen if we didn't win a battle? Like if we lost."

Oh. Oh.

Well, she'd never really thought about that before, at least not to a considerable extent. Sure, she often worried there would come a day when Papillon would seize the Miraculous for himself, but she had enough confidence in herself and Chat Noir to know they'd never let his crusty, evil hands near the precious jewelry. That's what they were there for—to stop him from stealing what was rightfully theirs.

(As "rightfully theirs" as two magical artifacts containing animalesque fairies could be, anyway.)

Thinking about it harrowed her, though. The idea of them losing to Papillon was disturbing in its own right, especially since nobody really knew what he would do with the Miraculous once he had them in his clutches. He could be bent on world domination, destroying Paris, or something equally terrible.

(Hell, he could even use them to injure Chat Noir and herself just for being a thorn in his side—but that thought made Ladybug's chest hurt, and she didn't want to dwell on the possibility any longer because…

Well, because thinking about her partner getting hurt was devastating. The concept often kept her up at night. His reckless behavior really got out of hand sometimes.)

Ladybug sat up and released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her eyes locked with his.

"Sometimes," she finally answered, though it felt unconvincing. "Most of the time, though, I worry about you. You're always jumping in to protect me without caring about what happens. You know how much that scares me, right? I care about you."

Her heart thudded. The thought of losing Chat Noir was too difficult to bear, so difficult that if she kept thinking about it, she knew her eyes would burn with the threat of tears, and crying was the last thing she wanted to do in front of him tonight.

No crying. Not now. It wasn't a good time.

"Oh," was Chat Noir's response. His voice was light and breathy; barely audible above the sounds of wind and rain. "I-I didn't know you…"

Ladybug patted his hand. "It's okay."

"It's not, though," Chat Noir said. His shoulders were hunched together like a child that had just been scolded. "I don't mean to scare you. I just know you're more important to the mission than I am, so—"

"Shut up," Ladybug huffed, surprised by the bite in her tone. "Don't you dare finish that sentence, Chat Noir. I don't want to hear it. You're just as important to Paris as I am, and I wouldn't even be doing this if you weren't by my side. You matter just as much as I do!"

Chat Noir's face softened. He opened his mouth to speak, lips parted in preparation for a word (or two), but then he closed his mouth and pushed himself to a stand, arms wrapped around himself as he walked to the edge of the terrace awning and stared out at the city. "I'm glad you think so," he whispered. "And the people of Paris, too. It's just hard to convince myself sometimes."

"And why's that?" Ladybug asked. She stood and trailed after him, stopping at the awning's edge, where rain splattered the pavement. Her shoulder brushed her partner's. He responded to the touch by stepping closer.

Chat Noir met her gaze, his eyes cloudy and so full of despair that it almost made her want to wrap him up in a warm blanket and carry him home to her bed so she could snuggle the frown off his face.

(Almost.)

"It's too personal to say much about," he said. "But you're the only one who can purify akumas. Do you remember that one time you couldn't transform quickly enough to get to where the villain was, and I was just running around the city like crazy with an akuma in my hands? I accidentally said the F-word in front of a kid! You should have seen the glare his mother gave me. It still gives me chills."

Ladybug swallowed the laugh that threatened to bubble up from her chest. "I remember. I'm still so sorry about that, kitty."

"It's okay," he told her, but the humor that had momentarily flashed in his gaze had already faded. "But it still worries me. Because what happens if you're hurt or stuck somewhere and I can't purify the akuma or fix the damage it caused? You know what happens when they get free. They multiply. And then the city would be in terrible danger. So, yes, you are the main concern when fighting akumas, because if you get injured and can't do your job, then we're screwed." He kicked a stay pebble across the floor; it bounced, clattering across the rain-soaked terrace. "That's why I'm always diving in to protect you. Because even if I get hurt, we can still win. You can still win. And that's all that matters."

Feeling her heart clench at his words, Ladybug touched her partner's shoulder. "I...wh...you. Okay, hold on. Sometimes I don't need saving, Chat Noir. You're reckless. You dive in before you even give me a chance to defend myself."

"That's not true—"

"Yes, it is!" she snapped. He flinched, and remorse instantly bled down her shoulders. She corrected her tone before she spoke again. "I'm sorry. Sorry, it's just…it hurts me when you sacrifice yourself. I can't stand seeing you throw yourself into battle like you mean nothing! I care about you, and I—"

"But I am nothing!" he shouted, his voice cracked with hollow despair. "Why does it matter so much to you when you've obviously beaten akumas alone? I want to be here to protect you so you can continue to do that just in case something happens, and I can't be by your side anymore!"

Ladybug's brow furrowed. Her hands clenched at her sides, trembling fiercely, and her chest squeezed with each breath she took in, quicker and quicker in succession until she was practically panting from frustration and sadness and—and some other emotion she didn't want to think about right that second.

"Why does it matter to me?" she asked incredulously, a hint of venom in her tone. "It matters because you're important to me, Chat Noir! I don't get why you can't see that. And, yeah, sometimes I have to fight akumas alone, but I don't like it! It's not fun. It's hard, and it sucks, and every minute I'm out there by myself, I hate it because all I think about the entire time is how much I want you by my side. How much I miss you!" She jabbed a finger into his chest. "I always want you by my side, even if the battle is easy. You make it better. You aren't nothing. You matter to me. You make being Ladybug more bearable. I enjoy having you in my life! You're my best friend, damn it, and I don't get why you can't see how much I love you!"

Chat Noir's jaw went slack, then snapped shut. His pupils blew wide, growing from thin, black slits to black spheres that, if Ladybug's eyes weren't fooling her, sparkled with tears. He reached toward her, his clawed fingers hesitating momentarily before pulling back. Then his arm lowered to his side.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked shakily. His eyes never wavered from hers.

Ladybug swallowed thickly, feeling slightly out of breath from her outburst.

What did she mean…? Did she even have an answer to his question?

She said nothing. The weight of Chat Noir's raw emotion resonated heavily in her chest.

Chat Noir licked his lips, voice faint and cracked as he asked, "Did you mean anything by that?"

"Yes," she answered, finally relaxing. She glanced at the floor. "I-I think I did. I'm just not sure I really know how I meant it, though…"

"Th-that's okay," her partner breathed, reaching forward to gently—ever so gently—tuck a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. "It just, um. Feels nice to hear you say it. Even if you don’t have it figured out yet."

---------------------------

A Simple Suggestion - Chapter 21 Lake/Rope Swing scene

“Look,” [Adrien] said, pointing to the top of a large oak that craned over the lake's edge. It was jutting out from a small overhang, the water's surface about a half-meter drop from the rocky face of the ledge. “There’s a rope swing.”

Marinette’s expression fell flat as her eyes landed on the weathered old rope dangling from one of the oak’s branches. “Oh, no.”

“I’m doing it,” Adrien said, letting go of her hand and walking down to the sandy shore. “You can’t stop me!”

“Adrien,” she laughed. She nearly tripped over a stray root as she followed him off the path, silently mourning the loss of his touch. “You’re gonna walk back to the cabin soaking wet?”

He paused, plucking at his black overshirt and eyeing it warily. “You’re right. My dad would kill me if I ruined this shirt.”

“Come back,” she said. She didn’t want to admit how badly she missed holding his hand. 

Adrien turned his head to look back at her. With a smirk, he began to undress, slipping off both his shirts. His T-shirt caught on his head momentarily, ruffling his hair as he finally pulled it free. 

“Adrien!” She squawked as he began shucking off his pants. Her heart beat wildly, and her eyes told her to look away, but she couldn't tear her gaze away from his near-naked form. “What are you doing?!”

“Oh, come on,” he said. “Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed, Buginette. You’ve seen me in my boxers before.”

She sputtered, her cheeks a fiery red. “B-but that was before—”

“Before you knew Chat Noir’s identity?”

“Well, yeah…”

“Newsflash, Ladybug: it’s been Adrien Agreste’s underwear you’ve been seeing the whole time.”

Marinette’s face felt so hot that she felt like she would melt into a puddle of blushing goo. She glanced away for just a moment, but her attention was torn back to the boy in front of her as he tugged on the rope to test its stability. She did not—would not—look at his butt.

She wouldn’t do it. No matter how cute she knew it looked in those black Gabriel-brand boxer shorts, she would not look at Adrien’s butt!

...

She looked at his butt.

Yeah, she thought, grinning. That’s a good view.

“You think it’s safe?” Adrien called toward her.

Crossing her arms, Marinette shook her head. “If you get hurt and I have to explain to the Ladyblog why Chat Noir is out of commission, I’ll kill you.”

He stuck his tongue out in retaliation. Grabbing the rope and taking a few steps back, Adrien braced himself, pausing for a moment before he dashed off the ledge and flung himself into the lake, the once-still surface rippling from his dive. His collision with the water caused a few small waves to rush to the shore. As a few water droplets splashed onto Marinette’s face, she rolled her eyes, wiping the wetness from her cheeks.

She waited for her partner to surface, watching with her hands on her hips, ultimately unimpressed. 

And she waited.

And waited.

…He should’ve come up for air by now.

“Adrien?” she called, stepping toward the water. He didn’t answer. “Adrien!”

Damn it, Marinette thought, kicking off her shoes and preparing to leap into the lake after him. If he got hurt—

Adrien’s head breached the dark water, gasping for air. He wore a stupid grin as he swam toward her, his hair sticking to his forehead and wet droplets beading down his face. “Look,” he said, holding his hand in the air. In his palm was a smooth gray stone. “I found a cool rock.”

Marinette stomped her bare foot on the sand. “You idiot,” she hissed. “I thought you got hurt! I was about to jump in after you.”

Smirking, Adrien rested his arms on the small rock ledge he’d jumped off, gazing up at her with nothing but pure adoration in his eyes. It made her sick.

(Not really. She’d never get tired of those eyes.)

“Aw, Marinette,” he cooed, placing his head in his palm. “Do you care about me or something?”

“Yes!” she shouted. 

“Gross,” he laughed.

She turned away from him, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re gross.”

“Not as gross as you being in love with me.”

Marinette sucked in a breath through her teeth, whipping around to face him. “I am not."

Pushing his wet bangs away from his forehead, Adrien snickered. “I thought you didn’t like liars, Marinette.”

“That’s it,” she huffed, a wave of confidence surging through her as she began to pull her dress over her head. Once free from the confines of her clothing, she folded it neatly and placed it on a rock away from the sand, marching her way over to the ledge. “I’m coming in there and drowning you myself.”

She didn’t miss the way Adrien’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head as she undressed. Truthfully, she felt a little embarrassed to be in her lacy pink undergarments in front of her partner, but she held eye contact as she grasped the rope hanging from the tree. Adrien gaped up at her, his pupils blown wide. He at least had the intelligence to swim away from the rock ledge to give her enough space to leap. 

“This better not break,” she grumbled. 

“It’s okay,” Adrien said, sounding slightly out of breath. She wasn’t sure if his cheeks were red from the cool temperature of the water or from the fact that she was half-naked in his presence. “If you fall, I’ll catch you.”

“And drown us both? I don’t think so.”

Adrien’s grin was all teeth. “You have so little faith in me?”

Marinette scowled down at him, hating how badly she wanted to kiss that stupid smirk off his face. Taking a few steps back, she braced herself for a second, mentally counting to three before she sprinted off the ledge. She swung in the air, and as she let go and collided with the water, Marinette was reminded of being at the mercy of her yo-yo, zipping over rooftops and flying over the city with her partner by her side.

Breaking for air, she gasped and shrieked, her body trembling from just how cold it was. 

“Adrien!” she cried. “You didn’t tell me it would be freezing!”

He held up his hands in a placating manner. “I didn’t think you were going to come in!”

Despite her shivers, Marinette’s shook with laughter. She hugged her arms around her body, rubbing her hands up and down her skin to try to recuperate the loss of her body heat. Adrien joined her in her laughter, and together, they filled the air with childish giggles, splashing each other.

They spent the better of the morning milling about in the lake. Marinette couldn’t count the times they’d both jumped from the rope swing, and by the time the sun reached its highest peak in the sky, Adrien had made himself a nice collection of rocks and shells he’d procured from the sandy bottom of the lake. 

It felt so lovely just to be with him that Marinette couldn’t stop smiling. Her heart felt light. For the first time in nearly two weeks, she was indescribably happy. 

---------------------------

Perfectly Platonic (Unless...) Chapter 19 the wedding pact scene

“Adrien?” [Marinette] inquired, setting her empty glass aside. “Do you want to get married someday?”

He choked on his drink. Sputtering, he asked, “T-to you?”

Marinette’s hand clenched around the tablecloth. “I meant in general.”

“O-oh.” He took a breath to steady himself. “Yeah, of course I do. I really want to. Someday.”

She watched the bride and groom as they twirled around the dance floor. “I wonder if I’ll ever get the chance.”

“What do you mean?”

Sighing, she frowned. “You know why.”

It took him a moment to process the question. Once it settled in his brain, his expression softened with mutual understanding. “Oh. That.”

Her mouth tasted bitter, and not just from the wine. “Who would want to marry me when I'm never around? When can I never tell anyone why I leave so often? It wouldn’t be fair. Marriage is about trust and honesty. How would that be possible, being with someone who doesn’t know? Who could never know for their safety?”

Adrien smiled sadly. He was quiet for a long moment, drumming his fingers on the table. Then, setting his empty glass on the coaster, he stood from his chair and offered her his hand. “Want to dance?”

Surprised but not at all unwilling, Marinette nodded. She grabbed his hand, allowing him to pull her to a stand.

“Marriage is a tricky subject,” said Adrien, leading her to the dance floor. A soft song played, trickling through the air in a beautiful melody of piano keys and violin strings. Placing one hand on her waist, he used the other to lead her around the floor in a slow waltz. “I understand where you’re coming from. It’s scary to think about.”

Glancing down at their feet so she wouldn’t step on his toes, Marinette laughed softly. “I don’t know if I would call it scary. More like...intimidating.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because that’s a commitment,” she said. “And it wouldn’t be fair to whoever I marry—if anyone at all—if I’m not around often. If I can’t tell them the truth about who I am, then what’s the point?”

Adrien hummed in thought. “That makes sense.”

Her voice lowered to a whisper. “So I guess that, so long as I’m Ladybug…” She blushed as Adrien pulled her closer. “I can’t hope to get married, can I?”

A frown creased Adrien’s brow. “That’s not true.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Yes, it is. It wouldn’t be fair to whoever I dated if I told lies constantly.”

“I guess so,” said Adrien, twirling her.

“And what about children?” she continued. “I wouldn’t be able to tell my kids who I am. And I don’t know if I would want to bring children into a world where Akumas attack on a near-daily basis, anyway. It isn’t safe. I’d rather spare them from unnecessary trauma.”

Adrien’s frown deepened. “But you want kids, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. I love children.”

“Well, if you could have kids, how many would you want?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Three.”

“Three is a good number.”

“What about you?” she asked, curiosity piqued. “How many would you have? If you could.”

His smile was soft and inviting, as warm as the summer sun and one thousand times brighter. “Three.”

Marinette swallowed. 

Three.

He’d said three.

Suddenly dizzy, she braced herself with both hands on his shoulders, overwhelmed by just how desperately she wanted that future with him. “B-but how can I hope to achieve that when safety is uncertain? When I already have so many responsibilities as Ladybug and Guardian? Keeping those secrets from my spouse or family wouldn't be fair. It's just…” Her heart sank as the thought weighed heavily on her mind. “It's too dangerous. I can’t be with anyone while I’m Ladybug.”

Anyone but you, anyway, she mused.

Adrien was the only one who understood.

(She only wanted him. Why couldn’t he see that?)

Noting her change in demeanor, Adrien pulled her closer, continuing to lead her in a slow dance. “Well, lucky for you, I have a solution.” 

“Oh?” She grinned. “And what solution is that?”

He winked, smirking wide enough to show off his perfect white teeth. Lightly poking her nose with one hand, he squeezed her fingers with his other. “You need to marry someone who understands you. Someone who won’t become suspicious of your mysterious habit of disappearing. Someone who always has your back and trusts you unconditionally. So, my solution is—” 

She gasped as he dipped her low, bracing her with his hand slotted on the small of her back. 

“—Just marry me," he finished.

Fuck.

Marinette’s breath caught in her throat. Eyes widening, she froze, absolutely stunned.

He’s got to be joking, she thought, her heart beating so hard she swore it would pop out of her chest. He loves flirty jokes. That kind of joke is right up his alley.

He doesn’t want to marry me.

…Does he?

She choked out a strangled noise halfway between a laugh and a whimper. Her mouth flopped open and closed as she fought to find her voice. Eventually, she gasped, “Are you…proposing to me?”

His green eyes sparkled with mirth. “Nah. I don’t have a ring with me. And it’s not like you’d say yes, even if I did.”

Don’t be so sure, she thought, feeling light-headed as he pulled her back up to her feet. Disappointment curled in her gut like a cold, hard stone.

Instead, she offered an awkward laugh in response. “I...um. You know, I…”

What could she say? “Yes, I would” or “I’d marry you right now if you asked me”?

Ridiculous.

“...Never mind,” she said, heart sinking.

Adrien cocked his head to the side, offering a smile as he settled his hand back on her waist. “Listen. We’ve known each other a long time, right?”

“Right,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“And we’re great friends,” he continued. “So, how about this: if we’re both single by age thirty, let’s get married. Just for the hell of it.”

Her heart stuttered in her chest.

“J-just for the hell of it?” she asked, hopeful. “N-not for any other reason?”

“Or for the tax benefits, I guess,” he joked.

Marinette snorted, amused despite her chagrin. “Y-yeah. The tax benefits. Sure. But I want kids earlier than thirty.”

“Fine,” he chuckled. “I can be your sperm donor.”

Startled, she burst into laughter. “You’re ruining the vibes, Adrien!”

“Nah.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I think they’re only getting better. Wouldn’t you agree?”

As they moved around the dance floor, bodies pressed close together, a fond smile stretched across her face. “Why even be a donor, then? We can have kids as friends.”

Adrien’s eyes widened. After a moment, he laughed, the sound breathy and light. “Okay, so we’ll get married—as friends—and then have three children.”

“As friends,” she added.

He nearly doubled over from the force of his laughter. “What’s next? Adopting a hamster?”

“Woah, slow down,” she joked, linking her arms around his neck. “I think that teeters too far outside the friend zone.”

“So getting married and having babies is fine, but adopting a hamster crosses the line?”

“Adopting a hamster is a big event, Adrien. You have to go to the pet store and pick one out together. That’s like a whole thing.”

“I’m sorry,” he laughed. “Forgive me for being confused, but how is that a bigger event than, I dunno…giving birth?”

"We don't get to choose what our kids look like. But we might argue over the color of a hamster."

"Good point," he laughed. "But I'm sure our hypothetical kids—and hamster—would be gorgeous."

"You don't know that," she said. "We could get an ugly hamster."

"Well, at least our kids won't be ugly. We've both got great genes."

"Yeah," she breathed, eyeing him appreciatively. "That's true."

He grinned, pulling her closer. His breath was warm on her face as he spoke softly. "I hope they have your eyes."

Feeling hot, Marinette swallowed. "N-no," she whispered. Subconsciously, she leaned in, seeking the heat of his breath with her lips. "I hope they have yours."

---------------------------

and finally probably one of my favorite scenes i have ever written in my LIFE

Perfectly Platonic (Unless...) Chapter 20 the drunken kiss

Her eyelashes fluttered as she met his gaze. “It’s been so long since the last time I was kissed that I don’t even remember what it feels like.”

“Oh,” he said. His heart danced wildly in his chest. Well, that just wasn’t fair. Ladybug shouldn’t go kissless. Of all people, Marinette deserved a nice kiss. “I’ll—I’ll kiss you. If you want me to. So you can—can remember.”

“Yeah?” Her eyes glowed like starlight as she sat up, looking up at him with such an intense fire in her gaze that he became lightheaded from her attention alone. “You would?”

He nodded furiously. Frantically. “Absolutely.”

“O-okay,” she said.

He felt as if he couldn’t breathe. “You…you want me to?”

Ladybug nodded. Her cheeks were flushed, dusting her freckles in a pleasant shade of pink. Wisps of dark hair framed her face as she inched closer, her lips mere millimeters away from his. “Y-yeah. Just so I can remember.”

“If you’re sure,” he said.

“Yeah.” She nodded. “Doesn’t have to mean anything, just…just to feel.”

Chat Noir swallowed hard. He wasn’t even sure if his voice was working anymore, but somehow, through the cloudiness in his head and the frantic racing of his heart, he breathed a faint, “Okay."

There was no backing out now. Taking a breath to calm his nerves, he leaned in.

It was over before he’d even processed what it felt like. Just a quick peck—nothing more than the chaste press of lips on lips, every sensation dulled by the buzz of alcohol in his brain. 

…Huh.

It was strange. He had always figured a kiss with Ladybug would feel like sparks, fireworks, or a burning blaze, but…

But he’d barely felt a thing at all.

His stomach felt sour with disappointment. Though he tried not to let it show on his face, he knew Ladybug had picked up on it.

“What?” she asked as her expression fell. “Not good?”

Chat Noir shook his head. “It’s not that.”

“Then...what is it?"

Despite himself, a small smile cracked its way through his frown. “It was too quick. Didn’t really feel it.”

“Oh.” She scooted closer. Gently cupping his cheeks in her gloved hands, she tilted her head. “Here, then.”

Soft.

That was the first word that slipped into his mind as she kissed him. Soft, warm, sweet, and wonderful were next, embracing his entire being and wrapping him in a thick cloud of sensation. She was so soft, so—so amazing, beautiful, and her lips felt so good—

The relief that flooded his veins felt like a breath of fresh air. He’d wanted to kiss her for years, and now he finally was, and oh—

—he could taste the bitterness of the wine as their breaths mingled, feel the warmth of it as it puffed on his face, could smell the fruity aroma of the Merlot—

And then her lips were gone, replaced by the chill of the empty night air.

When he finally blinked open his eyes, his head spun from joy. 

Ladybug stared up at him through her lashes, cheeks red and eyes sparkling like firelight. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, she smiled, her nose scrunching adorably as she giggled.

It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard in his life.

“Thanks,” she said. “That was nice.”

Chat Noir felt as if he was floating. “Y-yeah. Nice.”

Nice.

It had been more than nice, that was for sure.

She glanced at his lips. Then, tortuously, she licked her own.

He whimpered, his heart lurching with pure want. They’d only meant to share one kiss, to remember what kissing felt like. But now, as he stared at her lips—which were as pink as a peony, so soft and delectably kissable—he felt as if she was a drug, and he was undeniably addicted. 

(And the longer he sat there without the bliss of feeling his mouth on hers, the more the symptoms of withdrawal set in, needy as it sent a never-ending mantra to his brain of want-need-want-please-more-please.)

His hands twitched at his sides. It would be so easy to kiss her again…and it would feel so amazing, too…if only he could…

He wasn’t sure who leaned in first.

When their lips pressed together, it wasn’t the same hesitant kiss they’d shared before, which had been slow and tinged with curiosity. It was charged with something more desperate—something he couldn’t explain but didn’t care enough to. All that mattered at the moment was the feeling of her lips on his, soft as they glided along his in a fervent motion, and the warmth of her wine-scented breath as it blew into his mouth, like kindling to the ever-growing fire that blazed in his heart. Even as their noses bumped and teeth lightly clashed, he wanted more.

When her lips parted, his stomach tingled with excitement. His hands cupped her cheeks to draw her closer, to drink in her scent and—as her tongue slipped into his mouth—her taste.

(She tasted like heaven. Like pure stardust, she flooded his senses, overwhelming his every thought with nothing but her.

Of Ladybug. Of Marinette. His Lady. 

His love.)

Chat Noir sighed and tilted his head to the side to achieve a better angle, caressing her cheek with his thumb. Her skin was still damp from her tears, and as her hand reached up to rest over his, she gave him an affectionate squeeze. He could almost cry from the simple intimacy of it—as simple as making out with his best friend could be, anyway.

Her mouth was hot around his tongue, sizzling his senses with a pleasant burn. As their chests pressed together, he wondered if she could feel the frantic thundering of his heart. She was so warm, so soft, so—so Marinette.

He was kissing Marinette.

When her fingers fisted in his hair, he moaned.

“Chaton,” she whispered against his lips. “My kitty…”

He barely heard her. Drunk from the affection (and alcohol) swimming through his head, he barely managed a hum in response before his lips connected with her chin, following an invisible path that journeyed from her mouth to her cheek and then her jaw.

“Chat Noir,” she sighed, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Mm, what…”

Her sharp inhalation cut off her words as he dragged his lips down her neck and placed an open-mouthed kiss on her pulse.

(What were they doing? This wasn't the plan. They were only supposed to kiss once.

Then again, if she didn’t want this…she could push him away, couldn’t she?

He knew he should stop. Of course, he knew. But it was so hard, and she smelled so good, and she felt so nice—)

“Adrien,” she moaned.

Fuck.

He snapped his head up at the sound of his name. It had been all the encouragement he’d needed to keep kissing her skin, but maybe they should stop before—

Ladybug’s lips crashed back on his before he could finish that thought, their shared breath hot as it smoldered between them. Her tongue was back in his mouth in an instant. Head spinning, Chat Noir groaned quietly as she gently took his lower lip between her teeth, tugging in a way that drove him insane, and oh, wow, had she crawled in his lap? Oh wow okay yes she had crawled in his lap and now she was suddenly kissing his neck and woah, were those her teeth? Oh okay wow yes she had just used her teeth and it felt so good and, okay, he was making some embarrassing noises because he’d had no idea that he had a thing for that until now and holy fuck—

He’d never imagined how amazing it would feel to have someone bite him.

“My Lady,” he gasped. “M-Marin—”

She shifted her hips, and he groaned.

Fuck.

Fuck, she was in his lap a-and moving her hips in a torturous motion, and ohh god her hands were pulling down the zipper to his suit, uh oh oh no—

He wanted this. He wanted it so badly. He wanted to let her explore him more than anything, but…

...No.

Chat Noir pressed his hands on her shoulders, edging her backward until her lips released his skin with a wet pop.

“My Lady,” he panted, their chests heaving in tandem as they fought to catch their breath, “h-hold on. Hold on. Woah.”

Ladybug tucked a loose wisp of her hair behind her ear. She looked so gorgeous with her cheeks flushed a tantalizing red and her lips kiss-swollen and so perfect that it was challenging to resist diving back in for another taste of her, but—

(But they were getting carried away. And they were both a little too drunk to be sure that this was a situation either of them wouldn’t regret in the morning.

…Not him, of course.

Never him.)

“We need to stop,” he said.

Ladybug swallowed. Licking her lips, she nodded and crawled off of his lap. Though brief, he noted the pang of disappointment in her eyes. “Y-yeah. Sorry.”

(Wow, she was panting. Had he done that to her?

…Did he have the same effect on her that she had on him?)

She fidgeted uncomfortably. Looking down at the street below, she made a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Um, I don’t know why I…I mean…I…wow.”

“Yeah,” laughed Chat Noir. “Wow.”

“I…I don’t know what happened back there,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

His head spun from the absurdity of the apology (and probably the wine, as well.) “You’re sorry? Why?”

She buried her head in her hands. “I-I lost control.”

“Am I that irresistible?” he purred, bumping her shoulder with his.

Hiding her face against the side of his arm, she grumbled, “B-be quiet.”

She hadn’t denied it. Feeling giddy with affection, Chat Noir chuckled, wrapping his arm around her and squeezing her against his side. 

---

I KNOW THIS WAS SUPER LONG SORRY. BUT I HAD SO MUCH FUN DIGGING THROUGH MY FICS TO ANSWER THIS ASK!!! THANK YOU!! 💗💗💗

[aerkame]

Sorry for lack of posts, this is the final week to kind of wrap everything up this semester (technically it ends on next Wednesday, but I would prefer to to have everything done before the due dates just in case something went wrong). I have decided to hold off on major posts/stories until everything is done for the semester, but will make smaller posts as they're easy and fast to do for me. Also because I really want to share with you guys :) So, here are some fun Finfolk Home headcanons that have been in my head rent free.

Home may not be the strongest in the sea right now, but he sure is the most forgiving. At least to Wally he is. Most sea gods aren't very nice to mortals or even other immortals. Think Greek mythology kind of mean, like you could look at this one dude the wrong way and BAM, you are a fish forever now.

It's really no surprise that Home lives under the islands where his presence is well hidden. Not even other sea gods know he exists (not like they move from their "territories" anyways), it's kind of impressive when you think about it.

Wally and the others don't really know the full extent of Home's abilities but they do know he has enough power to be considered a sea god when compared to others. Maybe one day they will witness his true might? That would be terrifying and exciting.

Being hidden all the time can get lonely though. Very rarely, and I mean RARELY (maybe every few hundred years even) does Home decide to visit the mainland himself.

It's too easy to blend in really. Sort of. He may be out of touch with how things are sometimes. I'm sure he'd be more prone to acting like someone's dad or something with how many puns and jokes he makes. Usually he takes on the form of a well-dressed lion. His own little joke really, he's a sea lion. (Get it?)

I honestly just imagine this lion with greying fur tips, wearing old overalls, and worn fishing boots sipping away at coffee in a quiet cafe somewhere near the coast. I feel like drawing him later...the dude sounds like an old fisherman.