Jul 6
WIPs below + time taken + sword closeups + BEAVER EDIT + FLAT COLOURED VER + YAP
seen from Russia
seen from China
seen from Poland
seen from Malaysia
seen from Poland
seen from China
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from Germany
seen from Japan
seen from China
seen from Poland
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from France
seen from Germany
seen from Portugal
seen from United States
seen from Poland
WIPs below + time taken + sword closeups + BEAVER EDIT + FLAT COLOURED VER + YAP
first, you almost successfully gaslit me into thinking your names been evilien this entire time and i just had it double wrong (my brain kept reading emilien and emily for a while for some reason...) until i checked your ao3, you wont get me like that!!!
second, i read the restraints chapter, and im not religious and not even christian but i audibly said jesus christ after reading that, i needed a good expletive
LIKE DAMN. DAMN. MAN I DONT HAVE WORDS HOLY SHIT
anyways, im here cause a bit after reading that, i wondered about the scars and if ford would notice during the portal incident (i decided his sleep deprived ass would have no idea) and then thought of irony of getting the shoulder burned again. Thought that would give a nasty flashback for sure and IT GAVE ME AN IDEA
magic curse scar, every time stan has suicidal thought the live scars flare up again. i rest my case.
First let me say: thank you for letting me enjoy your confusion ^^ won't lie - I changed recently for a number of reasons, one of them is playing to confuse people (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧
Second: I'm so glad you were as impressed by the Restraints fic! And ohhh, such ideas! I can say that personally I'm leaning towards some scars fading with time, but some would left.
And... Hooo, hoooooooooooo.... And that's why NO ONE SHOULD MENTION TO ME TASTY IDEAS BECAUSE YOU WEREN'T ASKING BUT HERE I GO!
The reminder did stay.
'live'.
Stan would wake up with seeing traces of once gentle fingers on his cheek and neck and with remembering his body and soul burning.
'live'.
He would went through the day hiding the burns under long sleeves and some stolen scarves and telling wild tales about the burns still visible.
'live'.
He would tremble at night and looking at the ceiling and glancing at bottles or knives and whimper and stare away.
'live'.
Worst thing? Stan tried to look for Jimmy, at times - with anger, at times - with shacking hope, at times - with just questions, but there was nothing. No one saw him that day, no one knew about him since the day he left the first time.
And at times Stan was even tempted enough to try again, to see if Jimmy would come again, but the memories would just surface, of that night, of scorching pain, and Stan would take a step back, lower his hand, look away.
And with time scars started to fade. Not all of them - just the lightest ones. Most of the words, some of the palms. Enough to stop wearing long sleeves...
Until one bad night, until Stan's hand found a razor, until one stray thought of just being quicker...
Then the scares flared up, each one burning as if received a moment ago, making Stan curl and curse everything, everyone, himself, Jimmy, the world...
And everything would start anew, with scarves and sleeves, and until another bad night...
And again... And again...
***
Stan turned around and tried to check his newest burn in the mirror.
It was looking startling, a raised geometrically-symbolic shape in-between the fading words.
Figures. Everyone Stan ever loved left some scars on him.
But at least Stan could bring that one back.
***
Ford's scar began to fade, and Stan went and payed to tattoo its shape right over. It was painful, and he got tired to explain all the other words around.
But he needed them, needed a reminder to keep himself going.
A weird shape to keep working.
Countless words to keep living.
Thank you for this. I won’t bother you again.
❀ and ☯
aggression symbols / / accepting »» @the-lost-lieutenant
❀ - to grab my muse by the jaw and force them to meet your muse’s gaze☯ - for my muse to wake yours in the middle of the night, panicked
“Aryn, we have to go!”
The hurried words come in a hushed voice, but a tone forceful enough that it’s a bit louder than a whisper-yell. Paired with both hands grasping at his friend’s body, giving her a relatively strong shake to wake her up, Shiro’s panic and absolute fear is written clearly across his face.
There’s seemingly no reason for his behaviour – the castle is silent, there are no alarms going off, no sounds of chaos, nothing. Everything is fine.
To Shiro, however, they are not.
Moments ago, he’d been in bed, tossing and turning, thrashing about and muttering to himself. He’d woken from a particularly nasty nightmare, but had yet to actually escape it. To Shiro, this isn’t the castle, this is the Galra prison ship. He doesn’t see the bright lights, the white walls, and the lack of soldiers and sentries, he still sees the dark metal hallways, the dim purple lighting, and feels that deep sense of doom sitting in the pit of his stomach, that knowledge that at any moment, things could get worse.
Right now, he’s not Shiro, the Black Paladin and leader of Team Voltron; right now, he’s Shiro, one of thousands of Galra prisoners.
“We don’t have long– They could be back at any moment, we have to go!”
Another rushed, pleading statement, and Shiro takes an anxious glance back at the door as he hears Aryn shift in her bed. He assumes that she’s getting up, though he’s promptly proven wrong when he feels a solid, metal hand grab at his jaw and pull his face back. Forced to stare at her, his eyes meeting her own, he blinks in surprise even as he feels more panic beginning to rise in his chest.
‘It’s not real,’ she says, drawing only confusion out of him. And yet, she repeats herself, her expression entirely serious; ‘It’s not real, Shiro. You’re safe. We’re in the castle. You had a nightmare.
‘You’re safe.’
Those two words are the ones that stick out to him the most. You’re safe. While he doesn’t initially believe it, his brain starts working, rolling the words over and contemplating what he can gather from them. He doesn’t feel safe. His mind is still telling him to run, that Galra could find him at any moment, but… Aryn wouldn’t lie to him. Not about something like this.
She keeps her grip tight on his jaw, refusing to let go, and Shiro can’t pull his eyes off of hers. He stares into them, searching them, his own eyes wide. He doesn’t fight against her hold, rather almost seems to use it as a grounding force, allowing it to pull him out of this waking nightmare. With the conflicting senses of reality in his head, he uses Aryn’s words as proof of what is actually real. Latching on to the words, he swallows hard and exhales a long, trembling breath. One of his hands remains gripping at Aryn’s shoulder tightly, though he doesn’t even realize the strength of the grasp, and Shiro shifts his focus to his breathing, to slowing the pace so that he can think more clearly.
As his breath does start to become less erratic, Aryn slowly releases his jaw and touches become softer, more reassuring. There are careful strokes at his cheek, brushes of fingers in his hair, and much like the hold on his chin, the contact is grounding for Shiro. It helps to calm him, to pull him back, and eventually make him realize how completely stupid he must look.
“…I’m so sorry,” he mumbles once the last of the nightmare has finally let him go, his gaze dropping from Aryn’s face, shame washing over him in a hot wave. “I wasn’t– …I didn’t–”
Before he can finish, Aryn’s hand is back on his face, this time covering his mouth. A glance back up at her face tells him that she’s not upset, and clearly she doesn’t want to hear an apology. There’s understanding in her eyes, and… Shiro can’t help but feel grateful.
(@darkhearthorns)
Everything had started so quickly.
It might have ended just as fast were it not for a single birds call. She'd been curious of its song and stepped just so to the right, peering upwards to see if she could catch a climpse of the creature. As she had an arrow zipped by her head, only hearing the distinct snap of a crossbow being pulled after. There hadn't even been time to reason, to lie or question before a second bolt was fired and it narrowly missed her shoulder.
She'd taken off in a blind sprint, her basket of flowers leaving a trail behind her before she'd finally tossed it off into the brush when she'd nearly lost her footing along the narrow dirt path. Wherever she was going she couldn't have been sure, all she knew is she could hear the footsteps of multiple men behind her as they shouted to one another. More arrows flew and gunfire joined them, but they all fell just short of striking her as she'd weaved behind trees and scrambled down a hill.
Gemina blindly mistepped when she'd ran into a space where the sun bled through the trees and with a short, rasped shriek she tumbled head over heels and off the trail she'd been trying to stay on. When she finally landed she found herself at the roots of a large tree. The men's voices were distant, but still far too close, and despite the pain in her limbs from her fall she had every intention of scurrying further into the dark of the forest. Until she saw something -- someone -- just across a small open patch. Her chest siezed, her head spun, and all she could do was lift a shaking finger to her lips. "Please." She'd mouthed silently as the voices grew closer. "Please don't."
Sarge or Indie? (for the This or That?)
I’m a terrible mom who shouldn’t play favourites between sibs, but definitely Sarge. Indie was a last minute add-on because Sarge didn’t quite feel whole as an only child. I’m constantly accidentally leaving Indie out of key moments in Moonage because she’s always off doing her own thing. She kind of transcends the narrative in that sense- she’s too independent for me to control!
Indie’s one of those characters I can only really write about in small doses because she’s so intrinsically good. It’s impossible to rile her up or get her upset because she sees the good in everyone, even in the worst of situations. She’s always uncovering noble causes and it’s all of these things combined in a protagonist that exhausts me. So, Indie works as a foil for the other two more than anything else. She’s a stabilizing factor for when Sarge and Vi go spinning out of control and a reminder that not everything is all bad.
I generally feel that Sargent has more meat as a character, largely in part because I spend more time and energy thinking about what he’s doing and where he’s going, and how his dynamic changes with Violet. Someone could ask me what Indie was doing during any given scene where she’s conspicuously absent, and I genuinely wouldn’t know what to tell you, because I just don’t know. Sargent’s constantly got more going on that’s clearly more central to the plot, given that Vi is, for the most part, main, and she hangs off him.
Idk… I set out to write a boy who didn’t fit into a conventionally masculine box and he clearly exceeds expectations. I’m constantly excited by how enthusiastically readers respond to the things he does, half of which is super obnoxious, but no less loveable… I love how his weird and horrible taste in fashion has taken over ruined my life and inspired a few artists to get creative. I love how sometimes he’ll wake me up from a dead sleep in the mornings by singing some ridiculous show tune in my ear. (And yes, it makes me cry too and I only hear it in my head…) I love just how aesthetically garbage he is. Like he goes out of his way to pick out the ugliest things and just rolls with it and still manages to be 100% unique and himself about it, and somehow makes it beautiful in a trash kind of way?? I just find him a very intrinsically beautiful character who constantly surprises me.
The best characters become so real in their development, they begin to teach their creators a thing or two, and Sargent Gansey has taught me so much in the six months he’s occupied my mind. He puts me through my paces on what it means to challenge gender expectations, especially those that I may have inadvertently internalized. He gets me constantly working my way through what it means to be on the asexual spectrum, and how many different iterations exist along that broad breadth of sexual expressions. And most recently, he’s been teaching me that identifying as something other than a boy doesn’t make him any less revolutionary in terms of kicking the gender binary’s ass. If anything, it makes him more so and if I’ve been slapping his gender identity (he’s a demiboy, for anyone who hasn’t heard Sarge and I screaming it from the rooftops) in my tags too much, it’s because I’m proud of My Son for being so steadfastly himself, even when he’s still figuring out what that means to him.
I don’t think I’ve ever had any creative control over Sargent. He’s been entirely full steam ahead in terms of who he is as a character and I’ve just sat back and let him tell me and the rest of the readers who he is. While I’m busy hemming and hawwing over what could happen with him, he’s busy expressing himself in the loudest way possible so that he can be heard. He wants you to know that he loves fashion and he loves theatre and he loves Violet Lynch. He wants you to know that he’s ridiculously ace, with not a single interest in sex, unless it’s to please the girl he loves. He wants you to know that sometimes he doesn’t identify as a boy; sometimes he doesn’t identify as anything and that’s just fine. I didn’t have Big, Deep Thoughts about these things, he simply just, set them in my lap and informed me that’s how it is. So there he is, as he’s meant to be. And I don’t think I’d want it any other way.
So yes, I love My Son, because developing him isn’t hard. It isn’t an uphill battle like it is with his sister. He’s open and easy and just genuinely wants to talk to me about his life. And I love that. That’s how a character-creator relationship should be. <3
Make me choose: this or that?
Lost in Silence || closed
Örjan stumbled through the darkness, eyes glazed with tears, hands trembling as they held the pack in his arms. As much as he wanted to stay in that alley, he couldn't, not in this city at this time of night. Doing so would be suicide. So he let his feet carry him wherever they chose, mind not focused on where he'd end up. His thoughts were aflutter, he couldn't focus on anything other than the crushing grief and fear coursing through him. Red blood was beginning to dry on his face, but the gash still stung, a constant reminder of what had happened. Örjan could still see it, the anger in his father's eyes, the glint of glass in the dim light before it came slashing down. He screwed his eyes shut, not wanting to linger on it for long.
He found himself in front of Berwald's cafe, and without thinking, picked the lock, disabling the security systems as he stepped inside. It was the one place he could think of to go. Unsure what to do now that he was inside, Örjan sat on the floor beside a table, hugging his knees to his chest before hiding his face, shivering slightly with each small sob. He didn't want to bother his cousin. He would leave in the morning, before he woke.
DeanxLuna
Send Me A Ship
vomit / don’t ship / ok / cute / adorable / sexy / perfect / beyond flawless / hot damn /screaming and crying / i will ship them in hell
THIS IS MY MAIN SHIP FOR BOTH OF THEM!! OMG!! I don’t even think you want to get me started on how lovely they would be because they are both such kind souls. And… OMG… They could travel to all these beautiful places and Luna could go looking for random animals while Dean gets inspiration from the world around them for his art.
Just… Imagine them getting caught in a rain storm and just enjoying the rain on their faces and then coming back to one of their flats and changing into dry clothes and making cocoa and sitting wrapped in blankets on the couch. .
..I’m going to shut up. Sorry. Very sorry.