Howdy! Every once in a while I see these two pieces pop up on Pinterest, and I wanted to ask if you knew the original artists or the context? Is this little kitty proto-Tatters? Ty and here is a Lil friend! 🐈⬛
HOLY MOLY @micerhat look what Hodgie found!!!
In a nutshell-- yes!
I do not remember the name of the writer, but these were inspired by a fic where Hare, after being laid out in a junkyard (right picture top), protected a kitten from some bullies. The 'bots adopted the kitten and named her (?) AK(-47) (thanks Skull). I haven't seen that fic since, but I never shook the idea of the Becile Bots adopting a cat. So even moreso than any Marshmallow parallels, that fanfic led to Tatters!
And the artist is my long-time friend Micer, pinged above :)
What’s your favourite piece of dialogue you wrote this year?
I am incredibly torn between two segments, the Ignatius talking about delilah segment in auspicious, and the entire dialogue sequence in spectant. As such I will put them both here!
Auspicious
first He tells you He’s been having nightmares
(you have those - bodies and bullets)
(oil caked in layers on your hands)
“about the War?” you ask, you ask, because you can only assume He fought, was drafted, but He shakes His head, harsh, and you pry His fingers from His palms, where His nails crowd crescents into His skin,
“No, Peter, no, not the war,” He manages once you’ve linked His hand in yours, you don't know how else to make Him stop short of forcibly cutting his too-long nails in the midst of whatever this is, “I was hardly in it,”
and you can see the way His shoulders are shaking, and you wonder if peter felt like this whenever you pounded on his door in the night,
(you would,
you would do that,
too often, perhaps,
you would pound on peter's door, until the he swung it open,
until peter stared at you, blocking his room,
you could always still see his mary staring at you from peter's bed, her hair done up in curlers, livid again at you,
for doing this again,
again,
you keep doing this,
and peter would have to walk you back to your room as you shook,
as you couldn't stop the words pouring from your lips, peter the only thing holding you up as you legs threatened to give beneath you,
and peter would have to sit you down on your bed, stay there until you remembered how to breathe around the gunsmoke that never really left your throat,
he’d need to hold your sobbing body against his, and you’d just wish he could stay, stay, stay like you used to when he was young and couldn't sleep, stay like you did when you’d stay in his bed and fight his dragons with wooden swords until the sun rose,
but once he was sure you weren’t going to collapse in on yourself, he’d leave, he’d always leave, leave you, return to his room with you in the dark, for mary, mary, mary,
you wonder if this is how peter felt.
when you did all that)
“yeah?” you say, as Ignatius looks at you with wild eyes, wet eyes, cornered,
“I was raised by my aunt, Peter, because my father was killed by his—” Ignatius stuttered, as He spoke, then,
(and, you know now, you know and this is the last time you could have backed out,
and you should have, you should have,
but instead)
you hold his hand as tight as you can, as he leans into you, shaking like the winter has wormed into His bones,
and you
knew then
you knew, as you exhale, sharp, panicked,
that He trusts you
“I don't— he’d said she was his wife, Peter, he’d said she was his wife, my mother- was dead, by then, a fever, years prior, I was young, perhaps five, six, but— he’d—”
and you knew, as you pulled Him against you, clumsy about His elbows, awkward, you’ve never held anyone, peter never needed to be held, never since he was small, and you’re out of practice,
but you knew,
you trusted him too
(you held him, then
that night,
you held him,)
“She was tall, too tall, Peter, my father was short, Peter, but she was— she towered, beside him, and her hair was brown, matted, like a— like a street dog, all— it was falling out, manged, and her hands— he was holding one of hers, as she stood there, it was too long, Peter, and her eyes were wrong, all green, there was only green, I don't know what he did, Peter, but he’d— there was something wrong with her.”
He’d fallen against you then, clawing with His free hand at your back, shuddering,
and you are all He has, you think
you are all He has,
“I don’t know what I saw, Peter, I don't, I was too young, I think, but she— he took her out of the basement, of that house, he had then. I was never allowed down. But Peter—”
and His voice breaks, shatters like a splintering piece of wood, cracking, “He called her his wife, Peter, and her face it— cracked? twisted?”
“Ignatius,” you say, and you don't know what to say, but He’s shaking and you—
what would peter do? you think, hate yourself for it, that even now, you look to him,
but you don't know how to help, you don't know what to do other than keep His hand in your own, than to wrap your other arm around Him,
“Peter, no, listen, please,” and He’s shaking, “Tell me I'm insane, if I am, Peter, he called her his wife, and she turned, more- more than something living can, it was when he said wife, and her eyes, Peter, I remember seeing his shadow on the wall, the light from them was so bright as she— reached into him? and pulled— out his heart, Peter, his blood, Peter, it— the woman, the thing, it drank his blood, it ate his heart, it— if I am insane Peter, tell me, please, and then it looked at me and it—”
He's looking at you, now eyes wide, hair a mess, shaking, shaking,
“I was sure it would kill me, too, but it dropped him, my father, as it saw me, and— I don't— I don't know, Peter, I-”
but you know.
you know.
your father told you as much
what green matter does to those who it infests
(and you know, looking back now, at this moment, you chose what would happen from here,
you offered him the apple,)
“your father was thaddeus becile,” you say, as He shudders there, in your arms, “and— Ignatius? I think I have a rather certain idea, what that was,”
(you offered him the apple, and with desperation he bit into it.)
Spectant
“‘Natius?” Peter says, dimly, softly in the dark, rolling towards him in the bed, away from the window, “Are you awake?”
And to his surprise, Ignatius hums, quietly, sort of vaguely says something Peter can't quite parse with how mumbled it is.
“….I'm restless ” Peter says, perhaps a little too loudly for how heavy the night is, “I— are you..?”
Ignatius’s eyes flicker open, green in the dark, slightly brighter in ambient reflection than they should be, as Ignatius looks across at him.
“…Peter,” He mumbles on the R a bit, and Peter nearly feels guilty for waking him, but only nearly. “If I lit the lamp, Peter, to look at the time, would I kick you to the spare room?”
Which is perhaps a fair point.
He doesn't know how early it is, but it feels well past midnight.
Instead of answering, Peter shifts across the mattress, so he's closer, reaches at Ignatius’s arm.
“I can't sleep.” He admits, there are plenty of things that keep him up at all hours. Ignatius knows plenty of them.
Tonight it's a little less blood and bullets and broken robots than usual, though.
Tonight he is just…
He's… just restless.
Ignatius exhales, beside him, a lot tired, a little annoyed.
“You never do sleep, Peter,” Ignatius mumbles, though he’s urging Peter closer, guiding him to his chest, “Not once have I known you to lay down and sleep in a straightforward manner, always walking circles around closing your eyes.”
He tucks Peter's head under his chin, kicks the blankets out of his feet before dragging the blankets atop of both of them.
“What will I ever do with you?” Ignatius purrs into his hair.
Peter starts to say something, or starts to formulate a response grander than ‘I do sleep, you wretched man,’ but Ignatius draws him closer, buries a collection of kisses somewhere beyond his hairline.
And Peter melts.
“And is this better?” Ignatius asks, and he’s so very tired, Peter can tell, as Ignatius's head falls sideways to the pillow, “Are you attended to now, Mr. Walter?”
He smells a bit like electricity, a bit like smoke, a lot like him.
“Yes.” Peter says into his neck, and Ignatius’s kisses taper off as Peter settles against him.
Ignatius squeezes him.
“You are ridiculous.” Ignatius mumbles, though his hands curl around Peter's back, “Keeping me up at all hours. I have business to attend to, and… work, presumably, in the morning, Peter, and yet you insist yourself upon me,”
He presses his face into Ignatius’s chest. Ignatius curls around him.
“You have the poorest survival skills I can imagine,” Ignatius continues, pausing only to press another wayward kiss to his temple, “Can't sleep without me. You'd simply… I don't know, Peter, shrivel up and die, and I can't be having that. I'm much too fond of you.”
Maybe he can get a little sleep.
“I love you.” Peter says, and it's far from the first time he’s said it, but he hears Ignatius laugh, fond, low in his chest.
“Go to sleep, Peter.”
Maybe, he..
Ignatius is warm. The blankets are heavy.
He’s always slept better when not alone.
“…Don’t kick me in the dick again while you thrash, Ignatius,” Peter mutters, “I won’t forgive you a second time.”
“It was one time.” Ignatius mutters into his hair.
“It was twice.”
“The first one hardly counted.” Ignatius’s hands curl into the fabric of his nightgown, holding him close.
“Yes. But thrice is a pattern.” Peter points out.
“You are dreadful, Peter Walter. Waking me up only to complain of my charity of holding you. I am a generous man, you know,”
“Generous with the gouges you leave in my shins kicking the blankets to and fro.” He mumbles.
“I will turn you out to the cold.”
“You will not.” Peter argues, pulling away from him an inch, to glance up at his face.
Ignatius, the wretch, is grinning at him, doubly so as pulls the blankets off of them, and he is terrible. Peter reaches backwards for the quilt, but Ignatius has flung it out the other way, out of easy reach, the petulant bastard.
“Ignatius.”
“Not very tended to now, are we, Peter?” Ignatius raises an eyebrow, in the dark, and Peter squints at him.
“I was comfortable.”
“Yes well, so was I, before you woke me up, darling,”
Peter just turns his face back down and into Ignatius’s chest.
“Are we going to be nice now?” Ignatius’ fingers card through his hair, and—
He loves him.
He loves him.
“I thought you were generous.” Peter complains, “Let's revisit charity for me?”
“Are we being nice now?”
“I’m cold.” Peter complains, though he’s not actually, only slightly, but Ignatius sighs, dramatic, weary and played up as he swings the blankets back over the both of them.
“You’re quite lucky I am generous, Peter, elsewise we’d be at an impasse."
“You’re just petty.” Peter mumbles, eyes tired, for once.
“You’re just tired, Peter,”
And maybe he is.
He didn’t particularly sleep last night, either.
Ignatius wraps them both up, tucks the blankets under both their feet, holds him.
Holds him.
“….I love you too, Peter.” Ignatius says, soft, “More than anything.”
I JUST THOUGHT OF A QUESTION AND IT ACHES MY VERY SOUL AND MY HEART SHALL NOT KNOW PEACE UNTIL IT IS RELEASED FROM MY MIND.
Has Scratch met Marshmallow, and if so, how does he feel about the Great Beast of Ultimate Fluffiness?
(and, though it is much less likely that she has, how would Dee feel about Marshmallow?)
and as always. here is a friend. 🐈
By the time Epilogue Part 1 happens, I doubt he could've avoided meeting Marshmallow XD Scratch does go back to Walter Manor, especially early on working there so that he knows what to expect on the other end of his remote work. I imagine he saw Marshmallow and immediately started looking for a ladder so he could scratch him behind the ears. Might be a little envious Peter VI gets to ride him around and is too polite to ask to jump up himself. He'll get the chance eventually.
Dee on the other hand would be put off by a cat she couldn't hold like a baby. Too big, too likely to crush her. Them's the breaks!
I don't know if this is the most Appropriate Time, but does anyone have any dnd character backstories they'd like to share? Also, as I don't know how to send an ask without one and don't wish to learn, here is a wee little creature. 🦎
Dee: My elf was raised by wolves after her childhood village was burned to the ground, surviving with nothing but her mother's bow and the clothes on her back.
Dee: … Maybe. That was one of the better ones I wrote, but I'm not satisfied. Plotting a life story is harder than I expected…
I'm terrible at wording Sappy Stuff so forgive me if this is a bit clumsy.
I'm so happy that we got to go on this adventure with these goobers and I'm going to miss them so much. This blog was literally the reason I made a tumblr, and seeing them grow and get better and heal from their issues (and then develop New Exciting Issues /lh) has been so wonderful. I'll miss the Becile bots dearly but I'm so excited to see what happens with your new projects!
(As usual, here's a little guy! A friend for Tatters seems appropriate 🐈)
You said that Dee's Ghost Time PowersTM came from Thaddeus doing the spell to bring her back incorrectly, but is there a limitation on who she can go into Ghost Time with? We know she's Ghost TimedTM Hare/Tony and Scratch, but what would happen if she attempted Ghost Time with someone who wasn't affected by green matter like they were, like Riker or one of the Walter automatons, for example?
The ghost form of a person is sort of a blend of things-- usually, it's mostly based on their self-perception, for example Scratch's form has his pre-experiment body with marks delineating where the cyborg parts are because he hasn't fully internalized those changes. Riker doesn't have any disconnect between his self-perception and his physical body, so his form is the same on both planes. The Core of a robot, for the purposes of this story, provides a soul, so they would appear 'filled in' (the grey aura) like any other person that's not currently ghost walking. Dee's body is currently empty, which is why her body didn't have that.
The soul/ghost naturally tries to return to its body if removed, whether by outside force or by being forced out by death. If Dee let go of Scratch now, since his body isn't dead yet, his ghost would return to his body. The body can survive on its own for a time, like a few days.
Nobody in the cast is aware of these rules, they are flying by the seat of their pants and hoping for the best.
I think this might be the lost panel from the patially missng "Jack's Bow" ask! I thought I'd seen it on Pinterest before based on the description, and here it is!!! I wasn't sure of the best way to send it. Tumblr wouldn't let me put it in the comments of the post, so hopefully this way works ok!
Oh yes, that's it!! Thank you so much, I'll go fix that post now :)
