#y'know that prompt you posted about the cat? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mallowstep · 3 years ago

Note

Please tell us more! Why did Moth take Jay and not the other two? Who ended up being Jay's mentor? Do they not have any other traditions that could take the place of proving the river accepts cats? Does Jay get looked down upon because of that? How's his fishing skills? Does he get a mate in this au? Anything else you would like to share? Every time I see you post a new au idea I immediately get obsessed lol

why did moth take jay?

because that was the prompt and i liked it. holly goes to windclan because she looks like nightcloud, and lionkit goes to thunderclan because he looks like squirrelflight, and that just leaves jaykit.

who's jaypaw's mentor?

beechfur.

can he be accepted another way?

okay so. being accepted is not like. one thing. it is just. something that proves you are meant to be here. it can be something small, it can be something large, but there's always something. for example, for spottedpaw in stolag, it's this:

She opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, he continued, "Even you, Spottedpaw, carry the blood of the River." He blinked, slowly. "You wouldn't belong here if you didn't, but look. Greypool's kits are sleeping by your side, same as any other cat, and don't think I haven't seen the way you watch the water. You carry the divine in you."

it's a small moment, but this is when the whole, blood of the river thing is explained to her. and that's enough.

my other example would be dovepaw from icbtyssm, but (a) spoilers and (b) most dovepaw scenes are like, 4k words. but for her, it's a very private moment before she's even decided to stay in riverclan. she has a more dramatic moment, but being accepted is when you prove you can do what only riverclan cats can do:

As time went on, only cats with the River in their blood could see the water spirits the Moon made, and they were the strongest swimmers and the best fishers.

so basically, there are three main methods: be able to see spirits, be a good swimmer, or be a good fisher.

jaypaw is blind, so he can't see a spirit (it's specifically a visual thing. riverclan's medicine cat traditions are actually quite visual. they would of course adapt as necessary, but i think for a cat not proven to be riverclan, the clan would have a hard time accepting, "i didn't see a spirit but i did perceive one" as a valid thing).

and swimming and fishing is what they learn during their apprenticeship.

it's how most cats prove themselves! they learn to swim and fish and it proves that they belong. again, it's not like...a formal moment, but it is. it's a little ambiguous, because of riverclan's general culture.

anyway, he can't prove himself as a kit, so leopardstar can't mentor him.

(also jumping in at the end: there are other ways to prove you're part of riverclan. there's no specific list. those three are the big ones that most cats use, but there's no set list.

for example, spottedpaw is accepted by the kits of riverclan treating her like "any other cat."

so there's always, like, a way for a cat to prove themselves. but they might have to find that way out, y'know?)

does jaypaw get looked down upon?

it's complicated.

riverclan believes that cats who carry the river's blood are divine. it's a whole thing.

so in that sense, yeah, he's spiritually inferior to his clanmates until it's satisfied that he belongs.

and that is a huge sore spot for him. because he feels like a riverclan cat from birth. and riverclan you know, just one drop is enough. "the divine cannot be diluted" is a really common idea in my riverclan fics. it comes up in "there's holy water, undiluted; i see the divine", "denouncement", and "the blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine."

but he just, needs to be accepted. it's worth mentioning that riverclan isn't trying to be exclusionary. it's just saying, riverclan cats like to swim and fish and you need to be able to do that to be one of us.

because they don't actually care who your birth parents are, as long as you can effectively pass a citizenship test.

but kids can't take the test, so jaykit grows up with this background worry of what if i fail. and passing isn't complicated. it does not take a lot to pass. but that's after he's been an apprentice.

which is why when breezepaw points out he's not a clan cat by birth, jaypaw gets pissed. like yeah, jay is painfully aware of that.

however, riverclan doesn't strictly look down on him. it's more that. hm okay like, the ending for the story of the river forming riverclan ends in "the river flows in us all" and jaykit knows that, he's not included in that "us all" yet.

but in every other respect, riverclan understands he could be. he's just a kit.

so. it's Complicated.

i don't think any other kits would tease him tho. willowkit would beat them up.

how's his fishing skills?

i'm not sure! i need to do some research into blind cats and fishing. i suspect he'd be able to dive, but i'm not sure. he can't fish in the standard riverclan sense, i don't think, but he should be able to do at least some form of fishing.

although even if he couldn't fish at all, riverclan would still love him.

does he get a mate?

yeah kestrelflight. jaykestrel and hollywillow feat. kestrel and willow pestering each other about their significant others every half moon.

anything else you would like to share?

i'm really excited to explore riverclan from yet Another angle. i know it might be a while before i get here, but for me, like.

riverclan is interesting because of their whole "we're all divine" thing because on one hand. it's why they're so accepting. because they're all divine. if you're different, you can't be worse. you're just different.

it's baked into their spirituality.

but (a) that's not the same as feeling like you're an equal and accepted, and (b) jaykit isn't know to be divine, and he knows it would be so much easier if he could just see.

i don't particularly like narratives about jay wishing he could see in General, but it's definitely a pretty sore spot in this au specifically because it would make matters a lot easier.

anyway, it's a very "once you're one of us, you're one of us, but if you're not, we're all above you" sense.

(again, this isn't put on jaykit because he's a kit and hasn't had a chance, but it's not like he's not aware of that fact.)

but i created this because it's an interesting idea that has given me so many good stories to tell:

spottedleaf being accepted into a very spiritual clan as a very spiritual cat; the fact that it's not enough for her to be fated to go to riverclan, she is also shown to be accepted

mistyfoot hanging on to this idea that she is riverclan, she is divine; that no matter what happens, she is better than tigerstar, that what he is doing to her (and featherpaw) is fundamentally wrong, that there can be no true justification

leopardstar grappling with the fact that tigerstar ruins riverclan; that she is divine and he is mortal and yet he disgraces her, that she is riverclan and she has brought it down

(along with some unpublished ones ;3)

but now i get to add

jaypaw, riverclan by birth (although he doesn't know that), needing to prove himself; all of riverclan wanting to accept him but needing the spiritual significance of proof that he can't provide until he's reasonably old.

#river jay au #that's what we're calling it to distinguish it from the other #divided po3 aus #ask #anon #mine #long #talk #jayfeather #riverclan

14 notes · View notes

dwollsadventures · 4 years ago

Photo

*peeks out from behind bush* Is it okay to post Harry Potter things again? For those of you who are unaware, whether because of blessed ignorance of certain internet circles or because you're in the future, for a while it was very, very hip to tear into Harry Potter. Mostly because of the author being a transphobic asshole, but it got a little bit out of hand. Every little plot foible and characterization was re-framed as having been bad and rotten from the very start. Which was a little unfair, I think. The woman who wrote about depression, poverty, class, and prejudice in a wizard-themed school is a far cry from the woman who dedicates entire novels and twitter threads to her own life-consuming bigotry. What does this have to do with the image above? Well, Norberta is a transgender dragon and the star of one of my favorite scenes from the books. And I'm not kidding about the transgender part. Norberta is literally assigned male at birth by Hagrid, whose enthusiasm for magical creatures outweighs his biological knowledge. Then, after being relocated to a dragon sanctuary in Romania, Hagrid learns that Norberta is actually a girl. Everything about Nortberta is wonderful, to me. Hagrid's pure, unadulterated love for her is healing to the soul. Even when she becomes too much, she is taken to a sanctuary rather than killed, like more traditional stories would handle dragons. It's also got a good moral in there: no matter how much you love an exotic animal, they are not pets like cats and dogs. They must be treated with the respect and dignity that any wild animal should be granted. Even if it breaks your heart. Hagrid doesn't actually learn this lesson, but, y'know. It's the thought that counts. This was originally done as a prompt for my high-school art class. You can still see the line-art was done with pencil. All of the lighting effects were done afterwards in CSP. The actual original image is quite small, only 3.5 inches across, so there wasn't much room for detail. The temptation to completely redraw it was strong at first (mostly to fix things like the left side of Hermione's bangs or Ron's.... entire face) but I'd rather keep it like it is. And the best part: no Draco to spoil the mood.

#farf #fanart #harry potter #hagrid #norbert #norberta #norberta the norwegian ridgeback #Norwegian Ridgeback #dragon #transphobia mention #dragon hatchling #dragonet

6 notes · View notes

bibliocratic · 5 years ago

Text

For @babtest, who asked for the prompt: Martin showing normal, genuine human anger.

Jon/Martin, set in a nebulous post-160 AU. Cws in the tags.

“And if you want me to call – ”

“I know, I'll send a message.”

“And if you don't feel safe, or you want out of there, there doesn't have to be a reason – ”

“Jon.”

“I'll have the phone on me in case – ”

“Jon,” Martin snaps, and his voice is saw-toothed, edged with an irritation that serves as a defensive carapace to his nerves. “It's – it's fine, he's probably not going to be there anyway, this whole thing is going to be a waste, s-so would you please stop fussing, for – ” He releases a grunt of annoyance but tries to muster some calm, breathing with heavy huffing sounds. “I just need... this bloody Christ, this tie – ”

Martin's made a knot-eyed strangle-hold mess of it in his rush, and he tugs angrily at it, making it worse.

“Do you want me to – ?”

“No, I don't! Would you just let me do it! God forbid I be able to do it myself.”

Martin's voice raises to a shout that dips into a hollow of passive aggressive sniping. Jon stills, steps back from where he's been moving into Martin's space and crowding him, and tries not too feel too hurt, pushes down the knee-jerk cutting responses that will neither be helpful or deserved.

Martin tussles with the tie for a few more vicious seconds, his smart shirt having been tucked, untucked and re-tucked again and taking on a rumpled, disturbed pattern. He finally breathes out again, a heavy, weighted breath, closing his eyes. He takes a few calculated, noticeably deeper inhales and exhales that Jon recognises as the deep breathing his therapist taught him. Jon lets him tide through it.

“I'm sorry for snapping,” Martin says lowly, roughly. “I didn't mean – I'm not handling this very well. That's no reason to take it out on you.”

“Considering how many times I was short with you, you probably still have a surplus until we're even close to equal,” Jon replies, trying for levity. Martin wrings the abused tie miserably in his hands, and Jon wishes that this was easier, that this wasn't drawing out all of Martin's embedded poisons, his anxieties he's long laboured to conquer.

“Can you – Will you help? With the tie?” Martin says in a smaller voice, and Jon takes a step into Martin's unhappy orbit, and removes it gently from his hands.

“Of course,” he replies. “If you want to wear it. But you – Martin, you look good without it. And you hate ties.”

The last time he'd worn one was at his mum's funeral, Jon both knows and Knows. He hadn't been able to tie it then either.

“I want – ” Martin says, looking frustrated when the words don't come as easily as he desires. “It looks professional, yeah? Smart? I don't want to look – do I look like I'm, I dunno, trying too hard? It's – huh – it's only a cafe, right, not the bloody Ritz or something – will it, do you think it'll look too desperate?”

Jon touches Martin's arm with his hand. Martin's fidgeting with his shirt sleeves, the buttons at the cuffs, keeps tugging them down like he's worried they're not long enough. He twists and twists and twists his wedding ring and bleeds out nerves like a weather front stagnating in fog, and Jon selfishly wants him to cancel.

“You'll look fine,” he replies. “Smart, and put-together. And I'll think you look handsome, but that's by the by.” That coaxes Martin's lips to twitch. “But you don't... you don't have to wear it, if it's going to... if you're uncomfortable in it. Especially if you think not wearing it will make him disapprove or some nonsense.”

Martin huffs a sound that's the verbal equivalent of a long-suffering eye-roll.

“Spooky mind-reader strikes again, huh.”

“Fear my psychic powers,” Jon dead-pans, and Martin chuffs another one of those aborted half-laughs. Then, quieter, softer. “Want me to help with it?”

“I – I think I'll leave it,” Martin responds finally, with a nod to himself. “It's a Costa anyway, I'm just going to look like a hipster anyway in this shirt.”

“It's that and the beard,” Jon agrees, rubbing his hand at the thick scratchy weave of it until Martin bats his hand away with a 'get off you'. “Do you need your umbrella?”

“ 's only ten minutes down the road, should be alright.”

“You get caught in a downpour, it's your own fault.”

Martin's lips do actually quirk in a smile then, finding the grooves of their light-hearted bickering as a comforting oft-replayed melody.

“Your compassion never ceases to astound me.”

“You didn't have to marry me.”

“Not like any one else was going to do the job.”

“How noble and public-spirited of you.”

Jon kisses Martin's lips briefly, raising himself up on socked tip-toes. Martin's hand slots into his, faintly trembling.

“Whatever you decide, I'll support your decision,” he says in the tight woven space of their bodies. “Even if this isn't what you want, or even if it is.”

Martin nods, and returns a dry, bristly kiss in return before he heads out.

It starts spitting with rain not a minute later.

Jon has not been blessed with an abundance of patience. Martin's meeting is at half two, but he checks his phone at obsessive intervals, watching the screen lighten and the clock on analogue mode work through the grinding seconds. In case Martin's changed his mind. In case he wants out, doesn't want to do this. In case he was stood up, or is sat alone because there was some problem with traffic, or, or, or.

Jon, half-heartedly, tries a great number of things to distract himself, and to avoid any instances of Knowing. After an hour, he's given channel-hopping a go – watching five minutes of a mid-afternoon western, and then ten minutes of a reality show about buying houses on the coast and renovating them. (Martin loves these types of programmes, and in the spirit of them is trying to doggedly renovate the front hall. Meaning that any time Jon wants to go to the front door, he has to pick his way over old blankets thrown down to protect the flooring from paint drips, Martin's small forest of tester pots and paint pots and drying brushes).

Martin's got a window seat – the window misted with condenseness, some child has imprinted a pudgy hand as a calling card – has ordered a mocha – over-sugared, tacky in his mouth, he regrets the choice immediately –

SHUT UP, Jon fumes at himself, and tries to read, manages a few pages before he's struck with the frisson of Martin's spiking anxiety every time the ding of the cafe door pipes up, and stomps into the kitchen to occupy his mind by making himself an unappetizing lunch that he doesn't even want to eat.

His phone remains silent. Jon fights the powerful urge to send a brief check-up message, a little everything going ok? but stops himself. Martin's going to have enough on his plate.

Jon frets and waits for him to come home.

–

There's the plaintive squeak of the front gate (Martin will need to oil it again), and Jon sits up from where he's been petting the cat and poorly playing one of Martin's hand-held console games. He's been on the same level for about an hour now, and stubbornness is preventing him from giving it up as a lost cause.

The pad of two footsteps.

“You've – the flowers are nice. That you've got growing.”

“Thanks. It's not really – it's more Jon than me. He's pretty green-fingered.” The footsteps peter out. “So – er, well, this is me, heh. Close by.”

“Time really flew, huh.”

“Yeah. T-thanks for the, thanks for the coffee – ”

“Don't mention – ”

“ – and for the walk back – ”

“ – You can keep the umbrella, if you – ”

“N-no, it's, it's fine.”

The conversation stalls and splutters like an engine with the wrong fuel. Jon's moved out into the hallway, the cat restless but demanding in his arms, and sees the blurred bulk of Martin's stiff shoulders in the frosted glass pane of their front door, set high like he's shoved his hands into his pockets.

Jon skirts around the paint pots to get nearer.

“So,” the other voice – and it's so similar, strikes the same gulleys and furrows, the stop-and-start of thoughts eking their way out into expression, and it wrong-foots Jon to hear it, the ill-matching echo of it. “I – I'll see you again? If you, that is – I really liked... It was good. To catch up, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Martin says, and he sounds wrung out, straining on some mental rack he's internalised. “It was. Yeah. It was good to see you.”

“You want to do coffee again, sometime?”

“I – er. Maybe. Maybe.”

The first fuzz of hurt creeps to moss over the over-eager nervousness of the other voice. “Oh. Er, yeah. S-sure. That's... it's not a problem. Why, why maybe?”

Martin's hackles go up defensively. “I'm not sure, alright?”

“Was everything ok?”

“I guess relatively?”

“What's that mean?”

“Relatively as in, it's been thirty years, there's a few things to iron out after all that. Hence the, y'know, the maybe.”

“Right,” comes the response. “I am – you know I am trying here.”

Martin's voice goes low and flat and judgemental.

“And how long until you lose interest this time?”

There's a punch of silence. The cat buts against Jon's chin. Through the vague blurring of the glass, Martin shifts in that way of his, when he says something he wishes he hasn't, but he makes no move to take it back.

Half beseeching, half reproachful: “That's not fair, Marty.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

“It's Martin,” Martin replies, blistering with something bubbling to the forefront. “It's Martin, not Marty. I'm not – I'm not a child any more, so you can just – just drop that.” He scoffs a breath, and it's hard and hurt and deliberate. “And no, it wasn't fair. But neither was you leaving. So guess we're equal.”

“I – I tried to explain,” the other man starts, a heat of his own starting to shade indignant.

“And it was bollocks – ”

“It's the truth!”

“It wasn't good enough!”

“Your mother, she was – ”

“She was ill! She was sick and you knew, you knew she was just going to get sicker, and so you cut your losses and you legged it.”

“It wasn't like that – ”

“I was eight!” Martin snarls, and there's no pausing in his words any more, no careful consideration, it's a scatter-gun of words he's had secured in his chest for a long time now. “What the fuck sort of parent leaves an eight year old in that sort of house, with that sort of responsibility? What the hell kind of a life did you think I'd have?!”

“She had – you had aunts and uncles! They were, nearby, they were always cluttering up the house, popping round. I thought – I thought if, when she got really bad, they'd take you in!”

“She cut everyone out! What a stupid – you knew her! She hated anything that felt like pity, she was proud and she didn't want anyone to see her as she got worse. You think she'd have accepted someone implying she couldn't care for her son? No. And eventually it was – it was only us, and you know what, she hated me for it. Because I looked so much like you! Because everything I did, everything I ever did was just a reminder of how much she hated you for leaving.”

“I didn't – ” The response is regret-mired, apologetic, but Martin doesn't want to hear it. “I couldn't have known that...”

“No,” Martin replies, his voice all venom and hurt. “But it's not like you checked, did you? Pop in, see how I was doing. A visit o-or a letter in the post, o-or something! Christ, you didn't even come to the bloody funeral!”

“I.. No one told me! I found out she'd... she'd passed about a month back. I swear, Marty – Martin, sorry. I swear, I didn't know.”

“And now here you are.”

“I wanted to – I wanted to make amends! To be a better, a better father to you.”

“I'm nearly forty, dad,” Martin snipes unkindly, his throat thick. “What makes you think I need you now?” He sniffs, his words damper than he'd like. “Thirty years is a long time to wait to try and play happy families again.”

“Martin, I. Look, I had a lot of problems. Back then. For a long time. I'm not saying them as an excuse – ”

“Then don't say them,” Martin cuts him off. “I don't – I don't want to hear them. I... just. Don't.”

The conversation dies abruptly. There's a horrible, terminal sort of quiet to it.

“I'm going to go,” Martin says, his tone sanded down to quiet exhaustion. “I've got – Jon'll be waiting and I – I can't do this any more.”

“Right,” Kenneth Blackwood replies with an equal tone. “I'm staying, I'm nearby if you want to – I hope to see you again, Martin.”

Martin doesn't reply. Jon has enough warning of the looming shadow in the door to skitter back as Martin uses his key to twist the lock open.

His face is ruddy, splotchy with patches of red. His eyes wet.

“Guess you heard some of that, yeah?” he bites out bitterly on seeing Jon, tugging off his coat.

“Some,” Jon admits honestly, and Martin shakes his head like he's trying to knock something loose, throws his coat over the banister head, pulling off his scarf and balling it up and chucking it in the corner by the door like it's wronged him.

“What a fucking – It was a mistake, I knew I knew it was a bad idea, me and my stupid bloody – playing the bleeding heart idiot again as per fucking usual.”

“Did it, did go badly?” Jon asks, putting the cat down and skirting the edges of Martin's return, watching him pull off his shoes unlaced and slam them into the shoe pile into the corner.

“Absolutely fabulous!” he responds with a false bitter cheer that tinges yellowed and sick. He's not calming down. His hand threading through his hair, his face continuing to redden with an angry heat, eyes welling up. “He's so bloody sincere and apologetic and what the – what am I supposed to do with that now? Where were all his sorries then, where was he when I wanted to hear them?”

Martin plows on, clearly not wanting answers.

“A-and he was so interested, wanted to see our wedding pictures, and kept asking so so many questions like it was a job interview or something – what are you doing? What do you like doing? What are your hobbies? How long have you and Jon been together? – a-and, like, I couldn't help thinking that it's none of his – he wasn't there, he doesn't get to be all friendly like he didn't just walk out. And! And then!” Martin's voice rises to a furious damp crest, throwing his hands about. “Then he wants to share! He had pictures on him and his new wife and new kids – a-and mum, she always, she always said he hadn't wanted a family, hadn't wanted to be a dad, didn't want the responsibility that'd fall on him when she got sick. But he was so happy! So I don't – what am I meant to think of that? I don't know, I mean, was it lies she told me, how much was the truth, and how much did she twist like she did everything else?”

Martin sniffs loudly. “He got married a year after he left mum, and they're still together. His other kids are finishing uni or they've got cushy jobs in the financial district, and h-he was showing me and he sounded so... god, he was so proud of them.” Martin wipes at his eyes. “S-so that's, that's just great.”

“Martin...” Jon starts, despairing, listening to the croak in his voice, the way it keeps catching, the hitching jagged rise of his breathing.

“No. No, don't you get it, it's clear as fucking crystal. Because he wanted a family, yeah, he wanted kids he could dote on and take to the park and play football with. He just didn't want me, did he? And what the hell was s-so wrong with me?! I wasn't – I wasn't a bad kid, I was quiet and I kept out of trouble, and there's no, no reason he couldn't have taken me with him when he left. S-so what was so wrong with me?” Martin's shoulders are starting to shake. “Why – why wasn't I enough for him?”

Jon surges in as Martin bursts into angry bitter tears. Sobbing into Jon's jumper, fisting his hands into the hem of it, repeating snatches of recrimination and confusion over and over. Jon tries to tell him that he's enough, that he's always been enough, that he's so so loved, but Martin can't hear over his own hitching breaths, the sea swell of his grief.

Jon just holds him and waits for the tide to go out.

–

The doorbell rings around nine o'clock, and Jon Knows who's at the door.

Martin stirs under the twisted covers with a questioning noise, but Jon shushes him.

“It's the postman,” he lies. “I'll get it.”

Martin hums.

“Put the kettle on?” he asks sleepily, as though he won't be back snoring in a minute. Jon promises he will regardless, manoeuvring himself out of the heat-packed bed and Martin's loose grip, slipping on his slippers and a shirt.

He opens the door with his most imperious of gazes already set on his face.

Martin is there. Or, a man uncanny in resemblance. He shifts his weight from foot to foot like Martin does, has the same nervous twitch in the flutter of his hands. His skin is more weathered, maybe, has built up a collection of lines Martin hasn't sourced out just yet, a further progression to the receding hairline that's beginning to retreat back at Martin's temples.

“I – um, is Martin in?”

“Yes.”

“Can – would I be able to – ?”

“No,” Jon replies. “He's still asleep.”

It's taken for the denial it's meant to be. Kenneth Blackwood makes an 'oh, right' with the same ringing nervous cast to his movements that Martin had when he first came to the Archives.

“It's...” he starts tentatively, and politely does not have his gaze stray too long on the scars on his hand, his face, his throat. “It's Jon, isn't it?”

“Jonathan Blackwood,” he responds, feeling the odd need to stake the territory here. “I'm Martin's husband.”

“Oh!” Kenneth replies, a little surprised “That's... that's good. I didn't know you took his name when you got.... That's... that's great.”

“It's a good name,” Jon responds, and his father gives a sad, crooked look.

“Not sure Martin would agree with you.”

“It's not my place to comment,” Jon counters, and Kenneth nods and replies with a: “Yeah. No, no, you're right.”

The cat has come up to the door out of curiosity and nudges at the back of his legs before deciding to stay indoors. Jon clears his throat, feeling the nip of early morning under the thin cotton of his nightwear.

“I wanted to – ” Kenneth Blackwood starts. “I wanted to apologise. I didn't keep a cool head yesterday, and he – he deserved my honesty, not my defensiveness.”

Jon gives nothing else, and Kenneth Blackwood continues, clearly grateful for the conversational opening.

“Look, I'm – I have to head back today. I live up near Preston these days. But I hoped – Can I leave my number? I know I shouldn't have pushed so hard. It was a lot to expect. He doesn't...” He makes a half-sigh. “Martin doesn't have to call. I won't contact him again, if that's what he wants. I just – I'm there. If he wants to give me the chance to get to know him again. But if he doesn't.... I understand.”

Jon takes the piece of card offered.

“I'll give it to him,” he says, firmly but not unkindly, and then gives a nod. “Drive back safe, Mr Blackwood.”

He takes it for the dismissal it is meant to be, and he returns the nod. Shoves his hands in his pockets to stave off the chill of the morning as he leaves.

Jon closes the front door with an unobtrusive click, pockets the card he was given. Pauses for a moment, listening to the lull of the house, the rumble of snoring upstairs. Then he makes his way past pots and paintbrushes into the kitchen to make Martin a cup of tea.

#the magnus archives #martin blackwood #fic #prompt #cw parental abandonment #cw emotional abuse #cw intense emotional outbursts #cw poor parent-child relationships #jonmartin #angst #some domestic fluff #this is kinda heavy so if you want me to add more tags #please tell me #i wasn't sure how to word them

638 notes · View notes

flydotnet · 4 years ago

Text

Bad Things Happen Bingo! The event where you send me requests according to this marvelous card! (Red cross is the completed prompt, character headshots are prompts I’ve already filled. I don’t have any request left, so feel free to send in suggestions for this card!).

What... did you say...?

It's been a hot, like, 2 years since I last wrote for THH or Naegiri, and man, it shows... My Makoto writing is all rusty and I hate it. This fic isn't very good by any of my usual standards, but I really wanted it out of the door, and I just remembered just how much I like Makoto, Kyoko and Naegiri. I may not have the same fervor I had for DR as I did almost 4 years ago when I started writing Febris-Induced Case, but hey... I still like those guys. I hate canon but I love those guys. It's such a weird feeling. I usually go back to V3 instead, so seeing them again... made my heart flutter a little, then realize my prompt fill sucked ass lmao. Oh well. I'll probably go back to the ship and characters later during this card; but for now, I think I at least got that one prompt out of the way. Honestly, I had to do it with a THH-inspired oneshot because, y'know, Chapter 5 is a thing and it was the glorious sick episode that got me into DR in the first place. Also, is this set Post-Canon or is it in an Everybody Lives AU? Who knows! I sure don't!

--------

Last Heartbeat

Summary: Someone is trying to kill him while he's down for the count; yet Makoto can't find the strength to move away from the danger.

Fandom: Danganronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc

Wordcount: 1.6K words

Event hosted by @badthingshappenbingo

AO3 version available here.

--------

There’s a shadowy figure hovering over his bed.

He doesn’t know who it could be or why they’re here – but he’s got a bad feeling about this. All he can see about them is the reflection of the moonlight in their eyes (he forgot to close the curtains before collapsing back into bed, but he’s thankful for it, now) and the way their smile shines through the darkness like white under the black light, sharp teeth threatening him.

He doesn’t know why, but there’s one feeling that’s overwhelming the rest of his sense – he needs to escape from whoever that person is, as fast and as soon as possible.

That’s all well and dandy, but the thing is, his limbs won’t bulge. He’s trying his hardest to push him out of the bed before that person can do anything to him – he doesn’t even know if they’re armed or not – yet neither arms nor legs are responding to his desperate calls. He feels like his entire body has been covered in lead and that, in turn, seeped into his blood and flesh and made him heavier than he has any right to be.

The light reflects in the sharp edge of a knife pointed right towards him by the mysterious figure, ready to strike at any moment, to extract the breath from his chest – but he’s already breathless, so he wonders if he hasn’t been stabbed already… but that can’t be, right? He’d have felt if the blade had struck. He’d be able to see blood flowing down it, right?

It doesn’t make sense, but he feels lightheaded and breathless, so it may just be his head playing tricks on him.

Adrenaline kicks in before long and he manages to push himself to face the mysterious figure, legs following with a delay, as he sees their eyes: sulphuric yellow, bright and glistening, unrealistically bright even considering the lights outside – like a demon’s. Their breathing is unnaturally heavy, so close to him that he hears every crackle, every wheeze and every wet sound in it, oppressing him through merely existing and being in such a close range.

He’s now facing the figure, who has lied down on him, their knife still showing under the moonlight. Their expression is haunting, a mix of pleasure and pain like he’s never seen one before – their eyes are full of sorrow, but their teeth keep smiling, distorted in a pleased grin, a droplet of red falling down from one of them, one sharper than the blade they’re holding.

Their intent is nefarious indeed, but his legs are trapped in the drapes and covers tangled in his feet, and he finds himself cornered by the wall against which his bed is. He attempts to flee from the sides, left, right, left, right – but the person (the creature?) flawlessly matches his pace, if they’re not actually predicting what he’s about to do, so there’s no way out there either.

With strong hands, they pin him down to the bed, preventing him from even attempting an escape. He now has a closeup view of their eyes: their pupils are slit, like a cat’s in a way, and focus directly into his despite the fact it should be impossible in a mostly dark room like that one. They emit their own light, so they can probably bypass his limits, making them invincible by default.

His own breathing is heavy (albeit less than the creature), his hands are trembling and he’s stuck in this position, having to wait and see what the other person is going to do, even if he can guess their intentions can’t be good – he still has some hope left that it could be one giant misunderstanding. This may just be weird dream, after all, and his luck could finally be on his side for once and –

Hands wrap around his neck, cold and leathery to the touch, as the fingers dance around the edges of his jaw – he has no idea of what they’re doing, but he wishes he wasn’t so vulnerable and lethargic right about now, wishing he could recover just enough strength to get away from this dangerous situation. Their gaze is cold as it studies him, contrasting with the caustic grin, and their intent is now too clear for him to remain any optimistic about it.

Oh my God. They can and will kill him.

He has no idea of why someone would kill him, right now. Something tells him he must have done at least one thing to be a person to eliminate. He must know too much or snoop around too many places, and that must be displeasing to at least one individual. Kyoko did try to warn him, after all, of what sort of cases she may get on; but he didn’t mind because, simply put, he’d go through the apocalypse to be with her.

He’d very much appreciate her to be by his side, right now, considering he’s about to get killed, all alone, and it stings to think he’ll be drawing his last breath all on his own. If there was one thing he could be proud of about himself, it wasn’t any sort of talent nor ability, but his role as the heart of the class, the beacon of hope of the group as some have nicknamed him (it used to be ironic, but it grew on people); so, now that he’d need someone to pay him the favour back (now that he ever thought of it that way, but you know…), there’s nobody by his side and he’s left facing a demon in the darkness.

And that’s when one realization strikes him.

He’s going to die alone.

He’s going to die right here and ow without having had the opportunity to see all of the people he loves one last time and to tell them how grateful he was for every single one of them.

He won’t have the chance to hug Komaru one last time and tell her how she’s the best sister ever.

He won’t have the chance to thank his parents for their love and support, for comforting him in times of needs.

He won’t have the chance to tell the class he loved being their classmate and friend, how he spent some of the best years of his life with them, how they were the best thing to happen to him.

He won’t have the chance to tell Kyoko that… that…

The fingers around his throat slowly move from his neck to his head, eyes glancing into his, still burning with hellish flames, albeit suddenly expressionless, evoking nothing in his panicked mind. The person’s breathing gets heavier and heavier as his starts to disappear, second by second, as his own breath is starting to run short. He’d try to fight against it if his limbs weren’t, again, too heavy to move, too stiff to use, especially in a situation like that – adrenaline isn’t enough to save him, now.

And there he is, dying in his bed, slain during a moment where he was too vulnerable to escape. It’s sad, sad thing; but at least, it’ll be a quick and easy death, if it comes to it.

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

He wakes up to the soft light of the sun peeking through the curtains and the faint scent of lavender. The air is soft and a little cool, unlike what he can vaguely remember having felt before – only to jolt up when he remembers he shouldn’t even be alive to think that.

Two hands push him back into the bed, gentle yet firm. He doesn’t need to think much (and thank goodness for that, his head is heavy and feels like it could split in half if he used it too much) to know who this is, smile a little at the realization, then get even more confused about how he landed in this dream-like situation.

“Stay put,” Kyoko tells him in this tone that only her voice has, the one that’s stoic yet caring, in a way he can’t quite describe.

“B-but… I…”

He coughs, loudly, and his laboured breathing reminds him of something: the person’s, the creature’s.

“Everything’s okay, Makoto. You’ve just gone through a terrifying night. Everything else is fine. You’re still here.”

Her words are making him think a little more rationally about what felt like his death: it must have been a nightmare he didn’t wake up from. That’s weird, because usually, he’d wake up when he’d pass away in his dream, only to jump awake, drenched in sweat. The apocalypse happening before everyone’s eyes hasn’t helped.

“I don’t know what you saw while I was tending to you, even if I can imagine a version of it.”

He’s used to comforting Kyoko, not the other way around. She used to be very much uneasy with it, stumbling with her words and preferring silent gestures to words – which she still does and does very well at that with people she’s opened to – but she’s trying her best, he can tell.

“All I can tell you is that you were trying to escape from me but couldn’t.” She puts a damp washcloth on his forehead, prompting him to notice she isn’t wearing her gloves. “I assume you mistook me for someone else while I was simply trying to keep your fever in check.”

So, the figure… wasn’t trying to kill him, then.

“That’s probably it,” he replies with a cough interrupting him. “Sorry if I scared you.”

“It’s fine. Please tell me about it if you feel like it. I want to understand what happened when you pushed me away.”

“Will do,” he gives her the biggest smile he call pull off.

#bad things happen bingo #danganronpa #naegiri #makoto naegi #kyoko kirigiri #sickbed slaying #sickfic #my writing #i apologize #like this isnt peak naegiri #i'll need to give 'em justice later #just needed that prompt out the door

18 notes · View notes

occasionallyish--archive · 4 years ago

Text

Some random BNHA boys headcanons!

(Featuring K.Bakugou, H.Shinsou, H.Sero, and E.Kirishima!)

*I've seen all of the anime, so far, but am not very far in the manga. If some are canonically disproved, then I'll figure that out on my own time–

I do mention things I think up to the point of the school festival(I think that's around where the anime goes to, at current), though. If you haven't caught up to that point, you may not want to read this post.

Also! I love to interact. If you have anything to pitch in or would like to request specific headcanons or, hecc, I also love analyzing/pairing relationships, hmu!

TW, cheating and divorce! And self-loathe! Lengthiness under the cut!

Katsuki Bakugou

His dorm room is sort of a mix between Izuku's(not like he'll ever admit it), Eijirou's, and Kyouka's. The color scheme is prolly really based around his hero costume, with lots of blacks and oranges and maybe even a hint of green. Knowing his pride, even his sheets are prolly custom-made to match his aesthetic. Kat's got a punching bag and maybe other training equipment and, after the school festival, he ended up giving into his new hobby and got his hands on a drum kit. He's also got a couple of All Might merch, ofc– A poster, maybe a collectible here and there.

Katsuki isn't necessarily aromantic, because he does crush and knows a relationship-worthy person when he sees one. But, he strictly identifies as such because he feels it'd be selfish as a pro hero to have a lover than can be targeted. Plus, well, he has no interest in distractions, as tempting as it may be.

He's kinda like a tsundere when it comes to his parents' clothes lines, lmao. They love sending him stuff to wear and he honestly does feel pretty stylin' when he wears such, but he always protests and is all "Nada nada nada, I'm not some goddamn walking ad"

Kat's the only person in class 1-A who's completely fluent in English. Momo and Shouto are the only two that can really compete.

Hitoshi Shinsou

Shin's room is actually very cozy, warm, comfortable. He keeps a lot of cooler colors like grays, blues, and purples, with plain sheets. He also kinda sorta takes pride in the white fairy lights that decorate the walls– That lighting is kind of dim, but rediates calm vibes. He also has a sort of nest of plush pillows on his bed, that he can just sorta fall into at the end of a long day! It's surprisingly neat(other than his bed), as while he is too lazy to clean, Hitoshi's also too lazy to make a mess.

Over his time in UA, Hitoshi also develops his own sorta unlikely friend group! This includes Izuku Midoriya(Sports Featival, self-explanatory), Denki Kaminari(EraserMic parallels, plus I think a certain mangacap), Neito Monoma(It all started with a fist fight...), Momo Yaoyorozu(Responsible woman), and Mei Hatsume(They met during the Sports Festival). I like to think that Monoma and Shinsou are exes. It's a tolerate-hate relationship.

Similarly to Katsuki, Hitoshi sort of identified as ace-aro before having gotten with Neito. He doesn't really know what he identifies as, now, but he does crush every now and then.

Shin's got three pet cats! There's Bonji, a ginger tom of a housecat. He's a really prideful spoiled jerk that Hitoshi can't help but love, despite his ego. Bonji also probably ends up fathering Monster's kittens– She's a very very fluffy, chubby grey-and-white Manx. She's real snuggly and calm, and quiet. More of an observer than anything. Then there's Bear, this time a really whiny brown-and-white Manx that tends to get herself in trouble.

Also, if he's not a hero, then he's definitely a therapist. Or an author. Or both, most of the time. His office is called "Hear Meowt" and he's known for bringing cats in, from the local shelter.

Guns scare him. He thinks it's kind of a silly fear(especially for a pro hero) and would prolly get teased if it ever gets out, but– He could never bring himself to even shoot one. Gets all nervous if somebody in the room possesses one. The only class he puts 100% effort into, is Snipe's.

Also, Hito just– Never learned how to swim, cnejcmf. He's not scared of it or anything, and he's okay with hanging around a pool, but he can't swim and won't admit it.

Hanta Sero

Growing up he had a really bad habit of chewing his elbows(He also happens to be a flexible king) and ended up having to get braces(blush surgery because he messed up his goddamn elbOWs). That's why he has such straight teeth. He doesn't really like admitting it so he tries to be subtle but early on in the year he chewed on his retainer, too, and I bet there was one day where everybody just heard SNAP! from inside his mouth. Smile thru the pain, bby.

Also, yes, Hanta is a stoner– But! Being a hero-in-training, he's prolly ths most responsible stoner you've ever met. He'll never smoke on days that he has class or that he plans to train, and God forbid sharing his weed with others(unless, y'know, there's a responsible sober person around).

As such, he's not allowed to attend Bakugou's birthday. Doesn't stop anybody(other than Katsuki) from dragging him in, anyway, tho.

Eijirou Kirishima (But mostly his family)

His youngest sisters are the product of, ah, a cheating mother. So yeah, both parents are now divorced though the kids are in said mother's custody, because unfairness. Thing is, with a single mother that works, the situation gets especially bad after Ei moves into the dorms.

His older sister, the oldest of the kids, is Etsuko. She's 22 and left to America for college, as soon as she got the chance. She hates mom but is chill with all of her siblings, talking with them and dad whenever she gets the chance. Otherwise, her current girlfriend is a pro hero!

Then, after Eijirou, is Akari. He's 13-14 and filled with angst and anger and bitterness, not really going out of his way to show his hate toward the twins but definitely doing so if prompted. Their mom's sort of in the same boat, except for the fact that he just avoids her entirely. Akari takes after his dad, a lot, and sees him as a role model. Visits him whenever he gets the chance.

And then, there's Aiko and Aika(both twins, 8). Ko is really quiet, reserved, smart– She's the only of the two aware of why they don't have a father figure. As such, she has an internal self-loathe and does sometimes get angry and lash out, as a product. Ka's pretty much the opposite. She's real naive and fun and loud, the kind to play sports and gossip about boys and playfully tease her siblings. She doesn't really know much or care about the situation, but she does wish Akira would be nicer :(

As for Eijirou? Well, he's in a real tough situation. He loves both his mom and dad to pieces and could never exactly take a side, even if a small part of him resents mom for what she'd done to the family. After the divorce and especially after Etsuko left, he became sort of the man of the house, taking responsibility for all of his younger siblings. He caters to both his mother and father and though there is a lot of tense energy between the three, Ei gets by. After the dorms are implemented, he takes every chance that he possibly could to slip by.

26 notes · View notes

ckret2 · 5 years ago

Text

Ghidorah & Gigan Crash the Opera

It's hard for a blade-covered chicken-penguin cyborg and a three-headed snake-cat-bat dragon to get opera tickets.

But it's fine, Gigan has a plan: convince the ticket seller they're VIPs.

... Or, failing that, plan B: mug somebody.

Written to an anon’s prompt: "Hello! If ye be currently accepting ghid/gigan prompts rn (honestly love the ship too), how about the destructive duo crashing an opera performance or something like that? Love your work!" and to @soundwavereporting‘s prompt “Something for either rodorah or Ghidorah/Gigan? :D” from ko-fi.

This is part of an ongoing series of KOTM-verse one-shots. If you don’t wanna read the others, all you need to know is: Ghidorah was originally three dorats (small winged feline/lizard pets) who were turned into a monster by Xilien aliens; after Ghidorah escaped the Xiliens and before they arrived on Earth, they worked as world-destroying mercenaries and occasionally teamed up with Gigan; Ghidorah objects to being named so Gigan mercilessly nicknames them; and Ghidorah and Gigan have mutual semi-secret crushes. Links to the other fics are in the source at the bottom of this post.

###

"Where are the lines?" the triple threat asked. Gigan watched as they stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to peer at the ground around their feet, and then toward the opera hall. "We can never remember our seating footprint," they said, a tad more irritably, "how are we supposed to calculate it?"

Every planet that served as an interstellar hub eventually had to deal with the fact that intelligent aliens came in as many different sizes as planets themselves did. Some planets carefully planned separate neighborhoods and business districts to cater to different sizes ranges, segregating aliens out by height; some catered only to aliens their own size, leaving any aliens too large or small to fit in to fend for themselves.

Stellae Binariae XI's entertainment venues took full advantage of easily-retractable furniture to provide seating for as wide a variety of sizes as possible. A standard bench was designed to hold ten aliens of the most average size in the local interstellar community. Benches were retracted into the ground to provide a seating space for aliens too big to fit on one, their seats assigned based on height—tallest in the back to avoid obstructing each other's views—while seats for standard-sized and smaller aliens were set up into bleachers in the front. The large aliens had their ticket prices calculated based on the number of benches one of their seats would take up—their "footprint"—while smaller aliens' ticket prices were calculated based on the number of standard seats they took up. The very smallest could pack together ten to one seat and see a show on a single ticket, as long as they didn't mind sitting in the front.

Gigan and his buddies, however, shelled out hundreds of times more than the average customer for the honor of sitting on the floor in the back.

"This isn't some cheap second-run theater, they don't have lines," Gigan said. The three of them were used to that theater chain that printed rectangles on the lobby floor you could stand inside to guesstimate your footprint. "Stop looking so cranky, someone's gonna think we're here to burn the opera house down."

"We are cranky, it's late. We're tired."

By their standards, "late" was "any time past sundown." Gigan sent a ripple of brighter red light from one side of his optical visor to the other in an attempt to imitate eyes rolling. "It's barely nighttime," he said. "Anyway, you suck at using the lines, you always buy twice as much space as you need."

"We do not. We get the smallest space we can stand inside."

"You always include your wings! You tuck your wings under you when you sit, you don't need that much space."

"We don't want to be crowded. What do we do if we get to our seat and it's not enough space?"

"You could stretch out on my lap?" Gigan said, the absolute picture of innocence.

They smacked his leg with the side of a tail. "Be serious."

He kind of was, but he wasn't going to tell them that now.

The Eburnean Opera House was, Gigan suspected, the only venue on Stellae Binariae XI that not only accommodated aliens their size but also was fancy enough to mandate a minimal dress code even for aliens with a license proving nudity was the cultural norm for their species—which, of course, having no ties to their home worlds, neither Gigan nor the trio had a license for anyway.

(Gigan—after what felt like an eon's worth of wheedling and a mountain's worth of gold bribery—had gradually persuaded the trio to give him enough of their shed skins to patch together a snazzy-looking vest and pouched belt. The three of them, for the sake of not getting any more dirty looks than they were already bound to just because of their size, had elected for the evening to conform to the cultural mores of one of the more influential species in this solar system, which considered any body parts in excess of a standard bipedal plan to be signs of an impending budding and therefore taboo to expose in public. They'd wrapped up in sheer red shawls—stolen tents—and draped two as veils over Front-And-Center and Righty's faces, leaving Lefty unobstructed and thus in charge of observing the world on their behalf. They all looked very fancy and felt very uncomfortable. Although Gigan was digging the belt pouches.)

Most facilities that prided themselves on their exclusivity tended to exclude bodies that didn't fit in the local cultural limits for normalcy, size included. But this two-thousand-year-old structure, from what Gigan had heard, had been sponsored by and named for some big patron of the arts—with "big" meaning both "famous" and "huge." That was probably only the reason they'd be let in the door at all.

No discounts for being the size of the guy they named this place for, though. An average seat in this place probably costed as much as one movie usually did for Gigan and friends. He was about to drop a small fortune on seats.

Worth it though, if he got to take the triple threat to their first opera.

"Don't worry about your footprint," Gigan told them. "I know what size you are, I'll buy your ticket."

"If you don't give us enough space, we will sit on you." They paused. "Don't look so happy about it."

"Happy? You're seeing your own reflection off my beak. You wish you had an excuse to take a seat on this." He gestured at himself.

He wasn't sure which head scoffed, but he'd put money on Righty.

As usual, they skipped most of the line to the tickets by casually pretending they didn't notice it as they stepped over it. Gigan crouched down to smirk at the knee-height ticket seller. "Hey!"

The ticket seller looked up at him disapprovingly, clicked a button at his desk, and waited while the entire box office slowly elevated to eye level with Gigan. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, we're here to get tickets for, uh, The Devil in Love?" In his peripheral vision, he could see all three heads perk up. Yeah, he thought so. He hadn't told them which opera he was going to take them to. This one, as far as he could tell, was their favorite—certainly, he constantly caught them singing songs from it.

"What name are your tickets being held under?"

"No no, we don't have them yet," Gigan said. "We're here to purchase."

The ticket seller's look of disapproval deepened. "We don't have spare seating for guests of your stature the day of a performance," he said. "Nor usually the month of a performance."

"Oh, no worries, you've got room for us. We're VIPs, see," Gigan said. "Here. Our credentials." He rummaged in a hip pouch on his belt until the magnetic back of his tablet stuck to his scythe, pulled it out and tapped with the tip of his other scythe on the screen, and held it out for the ticket seller to inspect.

He looked skeptically at the page Gigan had pulled up. "This is a news article about a planet being destroyed?"

"It sure is," Gigan said, leaning in with a faux conspiratorial hush to his voice. "And we're the monsters that destroyed it. Like I said, pal—we're VIPs. And we're willing to make ourselves very immense problems if we don't get to see this show."

Getting the picture, his buddies raised their chest and arced their necks to surround the ticket seller's box, doing their best to loom threateningly. "Threatening" didn't take much effort for them.

The ticket seller looked between them and Gigan. "Ah. Yes. I understand. Shall I call someone to escort you? He gestured with a flourish toward one of the larger stickers mounted on the box office window. It said "Zone Family Security."

Gigan's back went straight "Oh! Y—y'know what? You guys look like you've got a pretty busy night, we can... we'll come back when it's less crowded."

The ticket seller nodded smugly.

The trio stared at Gigan in disbelief. "What?"

"Come on!" Gigan leaned against Righty, slung an arm around their shoulders, and didn't make any efforts to be gentle as he dug his scythe into Lefty's neck. "C'mon, c'mon, it's fine. Let's go."

"What is it?" Lefty tried to peer at the sticker as Gigan tugged them away. Front-And-Center ducked around Righty to give Gigan a baffled look through his veil. "We're not running from security guards?"

"It's not just security, it's Peacelanders," Gigan hissed. "We don't mess with Peacelanders."

"Why?" "How tough can they be, they're called Peacelanders." "We wanna fight 'em." They tried to turn back around.

Gigan dug his scythe in harder. "Nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh. No. We are not fighting the Zone family."

"So we're just going to leave without seeing the show?!" "After we got all dressed up?"

Gigan grabbed for the nearest head—Righty, as it happened—and tugged him over so he could whisper to him quietly enough that the sound couldn't carry to the ground. "Of course we're not leaving," he hissed. "I promised you an opera, didn't I?" He nodded toward a narrow alleyway—well, to them it was a narrow alleyway; to most other aliens it was a broad empty street that was blocked off with a sign that said Opera Access For Gigantic Patrons. "We're just not going in the front door."

###

"Seriously, why are you so tired?" Gigan asked, leaning away as Front-And-Center let out a massive fang-exposing yawn. "It's only a couple hours past sunset, you should be fine." And they'd only been waiting on the rooftop of the warehouse neighboring the alleyway for about half an hour.

"Ih's cloudy," Lefty said through a yawn of his own; Gigan elbowed him to get him to turn his face away. Now Lefty was gonna set off Righty and Righty was gonna set off Front-And-Center again. "We're always sleepy when it's been cloudy a few days." (And there was Righty's yawn.)

Gigan shook his head. "I swear that's the biggest irony of your lives," he said.

"Hmm?"

"The Golden Demise! Superpower number one: automatically summons hurricanes with every flap of their dread wings. Superpower number two: solar powered." (He noted, smugly, that Front-And-Center had just yawned again.)

"'The golden demise,' what is that?" "Did you just make that up?"

"I'm trying to think up a title for you guys to market yourselves under. Not a name," he knew how tetchy they were about the idea of being named, "just—something customers can look up if they wanna find you."

"Customers already find us."

"More would find you if they had a name they could search for instead of 'hey, we want this merc that's really good at flattening planets, no idea what they're called, ring any bells?'"

That earned Gigan a double snort. Fronty said, "'Golden demise' sounds pretentious as hell."

Gigan leaned away and gave them an exaggerated up and down. "You are pretentious!"

"We're sophisticated," they said pretentiously. Gigan hooted.

"Anyway," Righty said, weaving between the other two to lean closer to Gigan, "that's not the biggest irony of our lives."

"What, you've got a bigger one?"

"Yes," Righty said, mischief glimmering in his eyes.

"Okay." Gigan waited. "You gonna tell me what it is?"

"No," Righty said.

Gigan waved Righty off in a way that very nearly decapitated him, and leaned against Lefty. "So what's Righty's big irony."

"I dunno," he said cheerfully.

"What?"

"He won't tell us."

"What?!" Gigan flung up his arms in disbelief. "You can hide things from each other?"

"He can." Front-And-Center tapped his horns against Righty's. "We're not so good at it."

"Why do you even have that ability?"

Righty said, "Solely and exclusively to torment you."

"I'd believe it," Gigan grumbled. His attention was caught by the gate at the alleyway's entrance as it slowly rolled open. "Oh," he elbowed them, "here we go." A luminous ivory-colored slug riding on what looked like a parade float progressed down the alleyway, accompanied by practically an army of small quadrupeds wearing glowing jewelry that matched the slug's off-white glow. "Between slimy here and its entourage, they've gotta have a big enough seating footprint for the four of us, right?"

They leaned forward, their heads tilting thoughtfully. "If it plans on sitting on its big skateboard," Fronty finally said.

"I can't imagine it'd get off, where would they stow it?" Gigan stood. "Okay, showtime. Get your battle faces on."

Lefty shook his head to loosen up his neck, Front-And-Center stretched his jaw with a hiss that made his veil flutter, and Righty snapped his fangs a couple of times. "After you."

Gigan slammed down in front of the little parade, clashing his scythes together. "Good evening!" The triple threat hit the ground behind the parade, hissing static and sparks. Between them, the tiny bipeds clustered up around their slug, who rippled fearfully. Cheerily, Gigan said, "Wonderful night for an opera, isn't it? My friends here and I were hoping to go, in fact, but they didn't have spare seats for us. Imagine!"

He pointed at the slug, the tip of his scythe almost near enough to slash its quivering throat. "I don't suppose you have spare tickets, do you?"

###

Gigan pulled the curtain aside. "Nice! A private box!" He pulled down a cushion scaled to his size from the wall, dropped it on the floor, and plopped down. "Now this is real luxury. We wouldn't get this with orchestra section tickets." He pulled up the drinks and snacks menu on the touch screen at the front of the box. "Concessions too! Do you think they deliver or do we have to pick them up?"

They sat on the floor with their legs folded under them, crossed their wings on the box railing, and Lefty got to work scoping out the facility while Front-And-Center and Righty peered curiously at the stage. "Were concessions covered in their ticket price?" Fronty asked. "Or are they purchased à la carte?"

"À la carte, listen to you. You're almost starting to talk like people." Gigan elbowed them. They whapped him from behind with a tail. He must be on thin ice; the spikes almost got him that time. "No prices listed, so who knows. But we didn't have to buy tickets, so we can cover it."

With his mandatory survey of the room finished, Lefty twisted around to inspect the menu too. Righty asked, "Any fossil fuels?"

"Didn't see any in the snacks, but I haven't gotten to the drinks menu yet."

"Any samplers?" Fronty asked. Lefty butted Gigan's shoulder, "I want tapas."

"You'll just lick everything."

"You can eat what we don't like."

"What, after you lick it?" But despite his protests, Gigan scooted over to let Lefty take over the touch screen. He uncurled one wing to poke at the screen with the tip.

If there was a way to order, they couldn't figure it out from the touch screen. They decided someone was probably supposed to come around to take their order. By the time they started wondering where their waiter was, the lights dimmed, and so they settled in for the show.

###

For the first fifteen minutes, the trio was enthralled. Front-And-Center and Rightly flipped up their veils and all three stretched out of the box, watching with rapt attention as the performers on stage sang the opening numbers, quietly rattling their tails to the beat of the music.

Then Righty's attention drifted, followed by Lefty's. By the half hour mark, Fronty's attention was wandering as well.

At about forty minutes, Gigan gave; for all that he appreciated operas as one of the finer things life could offer, he didn't go to them for the entertainment so much as he did for the social cachet. This one sure wasn't doing anything for him, and if it wasn't doing anything for his friends then he could skip the rest. He elbowed them and scrolled a single word across his optical visor: "BORING?" One of them clicked his tongue in the affirmative. Gigan jerked his beak toward the curtain. The next time there was applause, they took the opportunity to cover the noise of their exiting the box.

"They just stood there singing at each other." "We at least expected dancing!" "And where did they get the lead contralto, she's clearly got her wings tuned to sing at equal temperament when the whole orchestra is using just intonation."

"Okay, I was with you but then you lost me."

They offered a triple sneer. "We could sing in tune with the marimba section better than her if we were using a tesla coil."

Gigan held back a squawk of laughter.

The right two shook their veils back down in place. "Let's raid the concessions stand, come back for the ingénue's solo, and blow this place."

"Blow like leave it or destroy it?"

They tilted their heads, considering the question. "Leave it," Front-And-Center decreed. "We can see a better show later."

Here Gigan had been afraid he'd turned them off to opera forever. "Hey, at least we saw this one free." They started down the spiral ramp to the ground level. "It'll be easier to afford the next one."

"We've got to find a cheaper way to get tickets. Think they'll notice if we keep mugging people for seats?"

"Maybe we can slap leashes on you and claim you're my support animal," Gigan joked.

They looked thoughtful.

"Oh no."

"Is this one of the states where support pets get their seating footprint for free?" "It's about half of Stellae Binariae XI now, right?"

For a moment, Gigan allowed himself to bask in the fantasy of locking three collars around the willing throats of a monster that could slaughter him without a second thought. It was a very nice fantasy.

But no. Playing at being a pet was one thing. He could get into it if it was just playing. Under the circumstances, though, he was pretty sure that would just go further to convince the trio that they were pets. How many centuries had he spent now trying to get them to treat themselves like people?

"Not gonna work," Gigan said. "We'd have to get documentation to prove your species is used as support animals."

"We were support animals," Lefty said, and Righty quickly clarified, "We weren't, we weren't trained for that. Our species was." Fronty said, "We're not about to call home for proof, though."

"Well, there goes that idea."

As they reached the bottom of the ramp, they slowed down. The way off the ramp was blocked by a small party standing in the lobby talking together: the giant slug they'd robbed earlier and its entourage, and several bipeds of wildly varying heights with matching silver armor and glowing eyes... Oh. Oh. Hoo boy. That was the Zone family. Gigan froze and held out an arm to block the trio from walking forward. They walked into it with a clang of metallic scales on metallic scythe.

The whole party in the lobby turned to look at Gigan and friends.

They stared back.

Gigan croaked, "Hey! Funny running into you, we just, uh... wanted to ask if you wanted to switch for the rest of the show? We're heading out early." In his peripheral vision, he could see flickers of yellow electricity as lightning slowly worked its way up two of the trio's throats. Gigan elbowed them.

The tallest of the Zones turned to the slug and said, "Are these the muggers who stole your tickets, Madam Goddess Eburnea?"

"Eburnea!" Gigan said, his voice going even higher. "As—as in the Eburnea that the Eburnean Opera Hall was named after?"

The Zone nodded slowly.

Gigan slowly nodded back. Then turned to the trio and said, very calmly, "Fly for your lives."

###

They made it out in one piece.

And the opera hall almost did too.

(And Gigan accidentally cut off his own belt with his abdominal buzzsaw. Now he had to drape it around his shoulders like a scarf.)

Eburnea's devout worshippers agreed to drop charges, if they agreed never to set foot in the state again and each prostrated themselves before Eburnea a thousand times.

Gigan wasn't sure how the triple threat managed to convince Eburnea that each one of their bows counted for three; but as they wandered around loudly griping about how long Gigan's was taking and debating (out loud, which meant they were only doing it because they wanted him to hear it) whether they should just fly off and leave him behind, he kind of hated them for it.

But not really.

###

The four of them retreated a couple of states away, found a neighborhood with some buildings built to accommodate their size, and grabbed seats at an outdoor table in front of a closed cafe as they pondered what to do with the rest of their night.

Fronty and Righty tossed their veils back to wear like scarves, no longer concerned about who they offended if they didn't have a fancy show to go to. Fronty scrolled through the tablet Gigan had loaned them looking for somewhere interesting that was still open and could accommodate their size, Lefty took in the street around them, and Righty leaned in toward the other two, gaze vacant, mentally withdrawn inward.

Gigan used to think that when their attention went three different directions like that, it meant only one of them was focused on the task at hand; but over time it had dawned on him that they did that because there was no reason all three of them should have to stare together at the same object when each of them already saw what the other two saw. Fronty went through the tablet, and because of that Lefty and Righty could consider the available options. Lefty looked around, and because of that Fronty and Righty knew what the street looked like. Whatever Righty was pondering, the other two were no doubt tuned in to.

And meanwhile, the outsider tagging along on this little committee meeting, Gigan sat backwards on a chair at the next table and watched them.

Sometimes, when they were in motion, looking at them was like looking at three marionettes someone had spray painted the same color, snipped apart at the joints, and tossed into a washing machine with a window in front: an anarchic tumble of shapes and body parts that never quite seemed to connect to each other in any logical way.

But then, sometimes when they were still like this—sitting on a chair turned sideways, leaning one side against the back, their feet curled up in the seat, their wings crossed on a table and taking up the entire surface, a single street lamp illuminating them in orangish light from the side—he saw them all as one continuous, sinuous, glorious shape.

Sitting behind them, the light shining straight through the sheer fabric delicately wrapped around their shoulders and back, he could trace the entire length of their left and right spines with his optic: from their napes nearly hidden beneath their crowns of horns, down the centers of their necks, over the curves of their upper back where their spines crossed through two sets of powerful muscles, down to the point where their spines narrowed toward each other along the small of their back, over their hips, along the length of their tails to their twin barbed rattles... He could see the slightest asymmetries around their spines, the evidence of ancient surgeries: the way their right upper back was a little bit wider and their left upper back hunched a little bit higher; the scarred lump near the base of the right tail where part of one spine had been grafted to another; the cleft between the vestigial shoulder muscles in the middle of their back where their middle spine dipped in and vanished from view. Their dull gold glowed in this light.

Gigan couldn't remember what his body had looked like before he'd been a cyborg—if he'd ever known what it had looked like. But he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that before he'd had scythes, he must have had some sort of—of fins, or vestigial wings, hell, maybe even tentacles—something like that at the end of his arms. Something that tapered to a soft point that could feel. And he knew that because when he looked at them like this, he craved so badly to run his whatever-he'd-had-down their back, tracing alongside each row of barbs that ran down their spines, all the way from the napes of their necks to the tips of their tails. But all he had was scythes.

"There's karaoke a short flight away. Open all night," Lefty reported without glancing at the tablet. Righty added, in that slightly dazed voice he sometimes got when he was exiting the triple threat's inner mental landscape and reconnecting with the real world, "We'll have to duck to get through the doorways, but we should fit."

"What're the drinks like?" Gigan asked.

"Let us check." After a moment, they grumbled, "Overpriced."

"For us, or in general?"

"In general."

He made an annoyed buzz. "We'll jack some rocket fuel on the way over."

"That works." They stretched their wings, slid off the chair, and waited for Gigan to retrieve his tablet.

"So, what's tonight's playlist going to be?" Gigan asked as he checked the map to the karaoke bar. "The opera we missed?"

They considered it. "No." "We're feeling more like cheesy war songs."

"Ooh, haven't heard the death growls in a while. Better get a private room."

He stowed the tablet in a pouch and they took off.

###

(Replies/reblogs are welcome & encouraged! Check the “source” link below for my masterlist of KOTM fics in this verse, as well as my AO3 and Ko-fi links.)

#ghidorah #king ghidorah #gigan #godzilla #kotm #ghidgan #(if nobody else has made a ship name then I'LL DO IT)#fanfic #my writing #(also featuring: cameo appearance by Zone Fighter and family)

67 notes · View notes

janthonyashtoreth · 5 years ago

Text

Another big batch of asks!

Answering a bunch of asks under the cut! Most of them are ink and flowers centric. I hope you all are doing well <3

anonymous asked: wait wait hold up Anathema works in Azra's tattoo parlour?? amazing, when i was thinking of making my own florist/tattoo artist au, i also had Anathema be Aziraphale's apprentice :D i like when these two are friends. do you have any more headcanons about Anathema in ink and flowers?

she does!! she was doing an apprenticeship under him but has since graduated to doing her own thing (but she still works at his parlor). i can’t get into the whole plot because spoilers but angels/demons and agnes nutter’s prophecies still exist in the iaf universe, but anathema isn’t her descendant. instead, anathema is a wickedly smart computer genius and her boyfriend newt is an endearing but kind of inept descendent of agnes. anathema was azra’s good friend-turned-wingwoman once anthony shows up. i love her

anonymous asked: concept: aziraphale seeing crowley presenting femininely for the first time how'd you think he'd react? in your flower shop tattoo artist au

anonymous asked: OKAY totally not asking bc i may or may not have been thinkin abt this for like. too long. but would anthony have to like, come out as genderfluid to azra/how would azra react to seeing anthony present more fem for the first time

ooo ive been thinking about this as well! i dont think anthony would necessarily have a “coming out moment”, they just kind of do what they want. if they feel like presenting fem or using different pronouns they would just. do it. and azra would just kind of roll with it. i like to think that the first time anthony presented fem she got all dressed up for date night and didn’t tell azra and azra just Stares bc,,,, wow anthony is just gorgeous like that!! azra’s dead!!!

anonymous asked: You're a cutie pie. That's it. That's the fact.

:’ ) you’re a sweety pie!!!

anonymous asked: i deadass tried for 20 minutes to make the finger heart...... how did your friend do it......

i have absolutely no idea and it hurts my brain,,,

anonymous asked: Wahoo

wahoo.....

@alligatorsnbats asked: OK, so what's Oscar's thoughts on Anthony?

oscar LOVES anthony... he’s the worlds most apathetic cat but he actively seeks anthony out when hes around. azra is only slightly salty about it

anonymous asked: Is Anthony cross eyed?

he’s not! i made him a little bit cross-eyed in my latest post on purpose bc he was flustered but i dont know if it came across very well ;;

anonymous asked: not to be *THAT* bitch who comes into your ask box and gushes over your art but i love the way you colour things and your clean line work?? mwah. i wish i could draw like you its just so lovely

bfdkjfdh im cry,,,, just keep practicing my friend!!! i promise it’ll get you where you want to go. the last couple of months have been really nice for me in my ~art journey~ because its the first time i’ve ever really liked stuff that i’ve drawn. ive been drawing for about 7-8 years and this is only just happening and it varies so much from person to person!! some people get to where they want to go in 2 years, some people take 20. just don’t stop practicing!!

anonymous asked: your human!crowley deserves infinite appreciation and the fact that he has coloboma: that right there! is! good shit! he has snake eyes,,,, but as a human. u are a genius good sir and your art is a blessing 👌👌👌

haha thank you!! i think coloboma (i know how to spell it now!!) is such an interesting condition and it’s kind of underused for human aus!!! its so dope!!!

@bolitakawaii-senpai asked: what would crowley's and azi's fav emojies from the cursed emojis??

asking the real questions out here..... i think crowley’s would be the one with all of the teeth and aziraphale’s (assuming he knows what they are in the first place) would be the really cute one with big eyes and the pink hairbow

anonymous asked: concept for the ink and flowers au: something happens to crowley (imma b honest i have no idea) and has a lowkey crisis and chops all his hair off and just. joins his pet snake and snakes around the nursery untill azra comes in seeing crowley crying and cuddling his snake and yeah idk enjoy my the weird shit my brain comes up with

jhuyhaijodfaydgsihfujoi RIP TO THE HAIR...... i love the angst potential (and i can come up with a few reasons for the angst, but i digress) but i dont think i could part with anthony’s hair,,, i love it too much

anonymous asked: I can't handle your ink and flowers Aziraphale. I can't. His hair is TOO fluffy. His face is TOO squishy. He is EXTREMELY friend shaped. His glasses and his eyes are bright like SPARKLES. Every time I see him I want to go feral and show all my friends. I would hug him without letting go of given the chance. 1000000000/10. 💜🐝

anonymous asked: I have a cat just like Oscar (big himbo) and I got him some knit hats for Christmas and he's gonna hate me but I can't wait to dress him up like a little bee so: does Azra ever give Oscar like costumes or footies just for fun? If yes, does Oscar love or hate? 💜🐝

isldakfj im grouping these two together bc im assuming ur the same person anon!! i love your signature!!

you’re correct. his hair IS too fluffy, and he IS entirely too friend shaped. he has the BRIGHTEST eyes. i cant contain my rabid love for him and it spills out into the art. i can’t help it. he gives the best hugs

SLADKFJ YES HE DOES..... IVE BEEN MEANING TO DRAW THIS FOR A HOT MINUTE,,,, as i mentioned earlier oscar is the world’s most apathetic cat so i dont think he would care that much but he’s not super happy about it

anonymous asked: Y'know what? I'm too tired so say smth clever so just know that I love you and your art is amazing 💕💕 PS: i love that you also tag them as Ineffable partners (i guess the point is to be gender neutral)

i love you as well anon,,, and yeah i like the ineffable partners tag! i find that it fits more with their relationship for some reason. though i still tag as ineffable husbands since its such a popular tag lksdfjdfknjbh

anonymous asked: Hello! Fist of all thank you for yor art, you are one of my favorite artists in this fandom and I have Feelings about the Ink and Flowers AU. Second: Don't feel pressured to post daily, we understand that life is complicated and art can be difficult sometimes. Take care! You're the best!

anon i would die for you!!! i never imagined that i would ever be one of anyone’s favorite artists,,,,, im speechless,,,,,,,,

and yeah unfortunately i dont think ill be able to post every other day once this coming semester starts :( i’ll probably have to cut back to once every 3. but there’s more ink and flowers coming at u guys so!! stay tuned for that

anonymous asked: Good omens characters having a game night?

i know this was sent in for the au prompts i asked for but. i dont think im physically capable of capturing the pure chaos that would ensue from this. holy shit it would be so feral.

thank you to anyone who read this whole thing!! i read all of my asks as soon as i get them and i have a lot that i’ve been sitting on for a while. if you sent me something i promise i haven’t forgotten about it!! if you’ve sent something in that you were expecting a response to and i havent responded, just send it again to be safe in case tumblr ate it

i love all of you! <3

#ask me anything #anonymous #not art #ink and flowers au #bolitakawaii-senpai #alligatorsnbats

58 notes · View notes

hobgayblin · 5 years ago

Text

oh I forgot to post my barikke/grimmjow fic exerpts (bc I’m too lazy to write real fics

There’s 2 of them, the 1st is Barikke being mean and the 2nd one is kinda nsf/w but not really I just thought of a funny nsf/w phrase and had to write abt it

[hubbhb I dont wanna write lead up to this. bitches talking and vibing or some shit who knows. Grimmjow climbed up onto a ledge and layed there bc he is a cat]

Grimmjow rolled over onto his stomach to properly look at the tall pink-haired man in front of him. His eyes inspected the man, wandering up and down the man’s body as he continued to spout off some nonsense he hadn’t actually been paying attention to. Not a damn scratch on him. His clothes were still torn up, but there was no trace of any wounds otherwise. Grimmjow could barely recall if he’d seen any wounds in the first place. It made him the perfect training dummy, at least; didn’t need to worry about tearing him to shreds when he almost immediately healed any scratch. His eyes flicked back up to Barikke’s face once he realized he’d stopped talking. The arrancar had a wide smile on his perpetually tired looking face. One of Grimmjow’s hands came up to prop up his head a bit more, bringing himself to eye level with the other man. The two locked eyes for a moment before the silence was broken.

"It's dangerous for such low-ranking arrancar to be wandering around here all alone y'know," Grimmjow's head tilted to one side questioningly as he continued, "If you’re not accompanying someone... It'd be a shame for you to become some kind of experiment fodder."

"Oh-ho-ho how sweet. You’re worrying about me?" Barikke mused, bringing the back of his hand up to his chin and giving a mischievous smile. “And I’m not alone now am I? You’re right here with me.” The smile faded from that of a troublemaker to a more sweet, genuine grin.

Grimmjow's face contorted in annoyance at the comment, but quickly relaxed into his more neutral everyday scowl. The espada pushed himself up from his lounging position, and dragged his legs up and over the edge of his perch. His arms flew up over his head to stretch before slouching forward and resting an elbow on his knee, chin once again being placed in his hand. His eyes narrowed at Barikke, whose eyes were very clearly following his chest as he stretched, and were still locked on to their target. Using his other hand, Grimmjow snapped his fingers a few times next to his face.

"Hey, hey, I'm up here now dumbass." Another brief look of annoyance crossed his face as he now looked down at the other man. Barikke obliged by looking up to lock eyes with him, a lazy grin stretching across his face. Grimmjow paused, in thought for a brief moment, before speaking again.

"I’m just worried about losing one of the only bitches around here that's worth sparring with."

"Do you now--"

"That's why," Grimmjow raised his voice to stop the other man from continuing whatever inane shit he was about to say this time, "I have a proposal for you."

Immediately, Barikke's eyes lit up with bastardous intent, but as soon as he opened up his mouth he was cut off again.

"What I'm proposing," Grimmjow loudly started again, eyes narrowed at the pink-haired bastard, "is that you become one of my fracción. No one’s gonna touch you if you’re workin’ under me"

Grimmjow's head listed to the side again, and a smirk spread across his face as he gave his suggestion. He was met with several moments of silence, and Barikke's face returned to its regular blank expression. The smirk faded as the silence continued; the two just stayed there, eyes locked, in silence, for seemingly forever. Grimmjow's eye twitched as Barikke continued to stare at him, stone faced and uncharacteristically quiet. He tried to break the silence, but almost as soon as his mouth opened there was a hand squeezing his jaw and dragging his face down closer to the arrancar's.

"What the fu--" This time it was Grimmjow who was cut off, but by a quiet, almost whispered voice.

"I'm not here to serve anyone, Jaegerjaquez." An insidious and cold tone had replaced Barikke's usually joyful, lilted voice. Grimmjow twitched at the use of his name; Barikke called him that frequently, but always lightheartedly, or accompanying a joke.

"I'm trying to help you here," Grimmjow spat out, "you should be fucking grateful."

Barikke's grip tightened, prompting a strained growl from the espada. A large hand latched onto Barikke's wrist in an attempt to pull the hand away. The grip only tightened further, Barikke's short claws now digging into Grimmjow's skin. He dragged the other man's face even closer, until he was only a couple inches away from his own.

"Grateful?" Barikke's voice took a more sickly sweet tone now, though the insidiousness was heavily weaved in. "You should be grateful you're so cute," Barikke playfully wiggled Grimmjow's trapped face back and forth slightly, "otherwise I would have killed you and taken your place by now, kitten"

With that, Barikke flicked his wrist and flung Grimmjow backwards. The espada quickly caught himself and snapped back to a sitting position. He rubbed his cheek with one hand, face red with both the squeeze marks, and unbridled rage.

[and then they fight or s/t i dont wanna write it rn]

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

“Hey Breakfast!” The small arrancar waved over at the two others as he passed by.

“Helloooo Phelinx!” Barikke waved his fingers at the other man and gave a small smile. Grimmjow didn’t acknowledge the other arrancar, but his eyes followed him until he walked out of sight. Once Phelinx was gone, Grimmjow’s eyes snapped over to the other arrancar, and a sly smirk spread across his face. Barikke’s gaze met his as he cocked his head to the side.

“Can I help you?”

“Breakfast?” Grimmjow cooed mockingly as he took a step in front of the tall man. Barikke opened his mouth to respond, but all that came out was a surprised yelp as rough hands grabbed onto his hips and slammed him into the espada. A light blush and a look of slight annoyance came across Barikke’s face as he felt the grip tighten and saw Grimmjow’s grinning face crane up to get closer to his.

“That mean I can eat you?” Grimmjow’s grin widened as he licked his lips and tried to bring the other man even closer, despite already being pressed against each other. The blush on Barikke’s face grew slightly, before he took a deep breath to collect himself. He pressed his hands together in front of himself as if he were praying, and released his breath. Then, his face suddenly dropped back to its regular blank state, and he tilted his wrists to point his hands at Grimmjow.

“You better be talking about my pussy, or I’m going to grab you by the legs and swing you around like a wild chimpanzee.”

#barikke drega #🐆#these are NOT finished but theyre good enough #and also im never gonna finish them so.#the 2nd one is so much funnier just ending on that quote anyway hdgfkhsdf #writing #bastardes supreme

1 note · View note

mysticsparklewings · 5 years ago

Photo

NaPoWriMo 2020 Day 19: Walking Archive

the black cat follow so chasing the petals on the wind wondering what happened to the bird who lost a few feathers it paws at the seeds you sow with a wish and a dandelion ____ I have mixed feelings about this one. Mostly because I have mixed feelings about the prompt, and that leaks into the poem. The prompt for today was to write a poem based on a "walking archive," which I can't decide if that sounds cooler than what it actually is: Go on a walk and pick things up as you go. Those things are the "walking archive." I think my problem with this prompt is mainly that it requires you to do extraneous things outside of just writing the poem or things you would normally do for that process (looking things up, etc.) And at that point, it starts to feel more like you're doing an oddball homework assignment than something for fun. Perhaps it's best I move on from the given prompt though because I can feel the critical part of my brain waking up and it both can and will rant about "everything wrong" with said prompt if I let it. Frankly, I'd rather spend those extra few minutes playing Animal Crossing if I can, as that's a much more positive experience. All that aside, since because of the way I tackle these prompts (writing the poem as soon as possible after the prompt is posted at 12:01 a.m.) meant that I didn't really have time (or, y'know daylight) to go walk around outside to gather a "fresh" walking archive, I instead thought back to a number of walks outside I have been on and the things I've picked up then. It's actually fairly regular in the springtime that I'll walk outside with one of our cats following me and end up picking up a couple of flower petals (even if it's just to look and I don't keep them), a stray bird feather or two, and plucking a few dandelions to blow the little wispy into the wind and watch them fly like fluffy sparkles. It's also not terribly uncommon for me to find a dead butterfly that I feel the need to take back with me and protect, as some loyal Sparklers that remember my Carousel of Curiosity may have already known/remembered. And that was originally on my "walking archive things list" but I couldn't think of a good way to squeeze it into the poem here without it feeling forced and out of place. So perhaps another time. That does though, I think, explain pretty much all of the poem here. I know a cat probably can't technically be part of a "walking archive," but it was important to me to include and it worked nicely as a vessel to communicate, instead of having to go with a standard "I" or the third-person "she." It's not terribly deep, save for maybe the last two lines that could be read more deeply into than the words at face value, but eh, not every poem can be. The mandala I tried to go for motifs similar to the things mentioned in the poem; a cat-like motif towards the center, a few flower/petal-ish ones, even one that is supposed to vaguely be like feathers, and of course some greens for grass and leaves and all that. The things you really can't avoid when going outside. Fun fact: I almost decided to go for a "walk" in Animal Crossing and use things I picked up in-game as my walking archive, but I ultimately said no because I was pretty sure that was just the part of my brain that didn't want to stop playing to work on this prompt. Though, that wouldn't be a horrible idea to come back to in the future when I have more time. Perhaps I will? ____ Artwork/Poem © me, MysticSparkleWings Inspired by FridgePoetProject ____ Where to find me & my artwork: My Website | Commission Info + Prices | Ko-Fi | dA Print Shop | RedBubble | Twitter | Tumblr | Instagram

#napowrimo

1 note · View note

stanbillyhargrove · 5 years ago

Note

Hey I just wanna say I really love demons and I love the toxic relationship ask you replied to the idea it's great. I think the fact you write the kinda fics on subjects that nobody wants to touch on is fucking amazing. You are crazy talented and I check your account hourly to see if you've posted. I'm not the best at liking or commenting but I want you to know I TRULY appreciate it. As someone who struggled like cat and has family members/friends who have too I really truly appreciate it

Pt 2/ I think people assume cats problems you just grow out of. But here I am at 20 I'm not as self destructive as cat but I'm still in the same boat as her and I have a sister who's in her late 30's who struggles with an eating disorder. I'm sure so many people read and relate but don't comment or press like out of fear somebody will find out bc when you're in that headspace you do anything to hide it. I'm also sure some people aren't ready and find it triggering but one day they'll go back to it

Pt 3/ Last part I promise haha. I'm sure they'll go back to it and read it and it'll help them. But I really appreciate you writing about difficult situations and not the usual recycled cliché stories. You don't need to reply to this i just want you to read and realise you truly help me and I'm sure so many others. Your fics help me think things through. It's healing honestly so I wanna thank you for making me feel a little less broken when I read your stories ❤️

First of all thank you so much 💜 I'm so glad you like Demons and I'm excited to see what people think of the abusive relationship prompt. I've been working on it a lot. I've noticed that not many people will touch serious subjects like I have and I wanted so badly to read something I could relate to but couldn't find anything so I was like "ima write it."

I've struggled for like 12 years with self harm and I'm 24 now and still if I'm in a really bad place or my hubby and I fight real bad I still want to turn back to it, have turned back to it once. That shit doesn't go away, y'know? All us angsty broken teens who grew up on tumblr still have that part of them and as much as I love other peoples fics I just don't relate. I recently told a friend who is a therapist about the issues I had with food growing up (and still have) and I laughed it off as me being stupid cause it wasn't extreme but she told me just cause it wasn't a worst case scenario doesn't mean its invalid. So that really spurred me on with Demons cause I was like "oh, i am really fucked up" and even though theres parts of Cat's story I've never dealt with it's still healing to write.

I'm sure Demons is definitely triggering, sometimes I even have to stop and wait to continue writing and I'm not even being very detailed. I've been debating on being more detailed but I'm not sure.

Whew that was a little long winded and I rambled a bit but thank you so much! I hope I keep helping you 💜

1 note · View note

the-slow-arrow · 2 years ago

Text

I posted 17,801 times in 2022

10 posts created (0%)

17,791 posts reblogged (100%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@mainly-dumbassery

@wrennette

@letsboldlygomotherfuckers

@robinasnyder

@hot-multifandom-mess

I tagged 1,602 of my posts in 2022

#dreamling - 197 posts

#obi wan kenobi spoilers - 192 posts

#mass effect - 33 posts

#q - 31 posts

#ofmd - 28 posts

#star wars - 22 posts

#fanart - 21 posts

#oh my god - 19 posts

#obi wan kenobi - 19 posts

#lmao - 18 posts

Longest Tag: 129 characters

#i don’t really read wips so if the author says it’s all already written i’ll be a lot more likely to read it than if they haven’t

I sent 1 gift in 2022

My Top Posts in 2022:

For the weird writing ask game :

19. Tell me a story about your writing journey. When did you start? Why did you start? Were there bumps along the way? Where are you now and where are you going?

21. Could you ever quit writing? Do you ever wish you could? Why or why not?

22. How organized are you with your writing? Describe to me your organization method, if it exists. What tools do you use? Notebooks? Binders? Apps? The Cloud?

Alrighty, you had to pick questions that required thought didn't you cat 😂

19. I started writing fic when I was like...12? 13? Me and my friend got into RPF and we'd write fic for each other and then gush over the people we were writing about. I remember her handwriting fic and giving it to me in an envelope in school and I'd have to wait until break to tear into it lmao. I'm sure I still have some of them somewhere actually...But then the obsession faded and the fic writing dropped away and I didn't pick it up again until I was 21. I read a lot of fic in between but didn't think I was any good at actually writing it, but then I was tryna get to sleep one night and a harry potter fic popped into my head and just would not leave me alone until I wrote the damn thing down. That was it though, until a few months later when I joined an amazing quiobi server and was tempted into writing for a prompt challenge they held, and voila! Here I am 2 years and 108 fics later! I wouldn't say I'm going anywhere with my writing except that I want to keep improving from where I started, and I just enjoy it so much (despite writer's block and the agonising over doing the actual, y'know, writing) and how it can be such a personal form of expression that I've never really had access to before. And I'll be forever glad I was tempted back into it because of the friends I've made along the way that are incredible people and have given me so much support

21. I want to say yes to this cos I don't need to write—like I know some people absolutely have to write to clear the clutter from their brain and that's so valid but it's not like that for me—but then I get stories or pieces of dialogue or introspection barreling its way into my head that won't leave me alone until I get it onto paper. So no, I don't think I could quit writing, and I'll never wish that I could so long as I enjoy it

22. Not. At. All. It's a chaotic mess, there is no rhyme or reason to when, where or what I write. I write on google docs and kinda use it as a conveyor belt kinda thing. So all my prompts and wips and random bits of dialogue or story ideas go in there and then when they're finished I download the finished fics to my laptop and then delete them from my google drive. It's very satisfying, like crossing something off a to-do list

2 notes - Posted June 7, 2022

Hello lils! For the writer ask game : has a comment someone left on a fic of yours ever made you laugh out loud?

CAAAT! Very good question but I’d have to say your comments 😂 I love your outrage in my inbox when I’m mean to the boys, it’s addictive

2 notes - Posted April 17, 2022

For the ask game : NEXT <3

Oh cat that's just cruel, making me write

Quiobi regency au just for you: "Qui-Gon grips the sketchbook with a shaky hand. “This is how you see me?”"

Ask game

3 notes - Posted June 7, 2022

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling Additional Tags: Post Episode: s01e06 The Sound of Her Wings, Developing Relationship, Pre-Slash, Drunkenness, Hob is drunk, Dream is fondly exasperated Summary:

Lesson number one: don’t try and keep pace with an immortal being when drinking.

Spoiler: Hob fails at lesson number one.

Inspired by @fulcrvm‘s post about Ferdinand Kingsley’s twitter bio

33 notes - Posted September 10, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling Additional Tags: Post Episode: s01e06 The Sound of Her Wings, Friends to Lovers, Hob demands compensation for Dream being 30 years late, Dream graciously obliges Summary:

In hindsight, pressing the King of Dreams, an endlessly immortal being of unfathomable power, against the wall of The New Inn is probably not one of Hob’s best ideas.

76 notes - Posted September 9, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

1 note · View note