#scarely

[bluebababibabidi]

guess whos doing acc

We've started a christmas carol in school and out of curiosity i started to search about scrooge x marley

WHY IS IT POPULAR????????????????????

i like it to now so english is gonna be very awkward

i ate the forbidden fruit and must live with knowledge,

knowledge of gay old men

byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

[the-hydroxian-artblog]

@vertigheist I don’t know if you’d care to humor me here (Or take any offense to this because honestly this thing is kind of an affront to god and I don’t blame you if you only feel revulsion at the sight of it) but: “Scarely” was a once-nameless spooky scarecrow-necromancer who saw Scarly once and immediately became her biggest fan and remade itself/theirself in her image using some scraps, old tattered clothes, and hay for hair

everyone who talks bad about Scarly will have to face SCARELY’S WRATH 

[hellopartypeoples]

[cannibalisticskittles]

The Harlequin and the Scarecrow -- Leaf [007]

The last thing he expected, unmasked in this area far from the Narrows but so similar, was to be recognized, let alone beckoned closer by a muffled voice in a heap of leaves.

Before he can decide whether to just gas them and be done with it, the pile shakes, and a torso wriggles into clarity – a torso in familiar red and black, followed closely by a head that shakes free of leaves as he stills. “Fancy seein’ you here, professah,” she says, voice a pleasant hum. She pats the pile beside her – or at least, he thinks she does, as much of her is still hidden by leaves – and invites, “come and sit?”

Keeping the harlequin’s company could be dangerous. Her beloved, sadistic clown jumps between perceiving such closeness as amusing chivalry, or as seeing it as a move on his moll. But his latest heists have been splashed over front pages for a week straight, which usually put the clown in a better mood – one where he is less likely to reach with maiming. And this besides, refusing the grinning girl generally proved to be an unwise move.

So he follows this with no small amount of caution, gingerly sitting as he wonders at how often a simple afternoon is turned into this. He still sinks a good foot into the pile.

Surprisingly, Harley stays quiet long enough to discern the pattern of her breathing; when she breaks the silence, he is not opposed to it. “Ain’t it lovely?” A glance shows her eyes to be closed, so, grudgingly, he prompts, “what is, child?” A hand emerges from brittle red and brown, fingers spread and gesturing. “All a’ this. Sittin’. Waitin’. Enjoyin’ the moment.” An interesting sentiment, from her.

 “You are most often… on the move,” he begins slowly. “You do not often have the time to pause?” He knows she cannot. Quick to make herself known and eager to join her beloved once caught, her visits to Arkham cemented the rumors of its revolving door policy.

“Mistah J’s not so fond a’ quiet, so there’s not much time for it,” she laments, linking her arms behind her head, “and it’s aaaaalways busy.” She kicks her legs out, and leaves scatter out. “But this is… nice. A little lull in the plans is –”

An explosion shatters the tranquility of the scene.

Glass shatters out from one of the brick buildings lining the street up ahead, rocketing out from the force and littering the pavement with glittering shards. He is aware of Harley sitting up beside him, staring up the street. “Oooooops. That’s my cue.” She rises, pulling on her jester hat with practiced ease and breaking into a run. “Seeya professah! It was nice talkin’ with ya!” she calls out along the way. And she launches into a series of acrobatic leaps, disappearing into the building now engulfed in orange flames.

…well. On the bright side, he would have been much closer to the building had he not paused.

[cannibalisticskittles]

The Harlequin and the Scarecrow -- Product [005]

They were each, to some extent, products of their surroundings.

He bows under the pressure of perception, of upbringing, until he can bend no more – but he does not buckle. He uses against his aggressors fear, the very force once made to intimidate him, and he thrives.

She buttons up feelings of insecurity and inadequacy forced upon her behind easy smiles and mild words and continued success that is not, cannot be enough, until a white-stained hand pulls up the corners of her lips and teaches her to smile again.

And then their surroundings are products of their actions. Their masks are truer faces and they have no need to change. How happy they will be in years to come is unknown… but the relief at shedding years of endured misconceptions could not be ignored.

[cannibalisticskittles]

The Harlequin and the Scarecrow -- Startle [004]

[A/N: I thought about going for the obvious “well doy, he’s the Master of Fear, why wouldn’t he be able to startle her” approach, but I think I’ll save that for a later day. This was… surprisingly difficult to write. Gotta add in more characters soon, I think. Next word: Product.]

The noise of pipes sputtering to life startles him awake.   It takes him a moment to gather his bearing – a dilapidated house for a sanctuary, not long-abandoned, but far too worn for official residents – and from there it is no great task to ascertain why the noise is so out of place. There should not be someone to turn on the pipes.   He slips on the mask as by instinct now. He does not possess the all-too-common defense against home intruders – never mind this not being his home – but he has something that can be much more unforgiving in his hands. After all, a gun can only inflict wounds on the physical form.   Dust has stopped up otherwise-creaky floorboards, and he possesses no great weight; he creeps quietly along the hallway. A woman stands there in the kitchen, back to him, and for a moment, he thinks someone has managed to break the lock and slip inside. But no; now, one of the hyenas of them nudges against her trustingly, and she threads her fingers absently through its thick, matted hair.   How interesting.   He rubs at his temples and remembers, remembers how the harlequin had burst in on his note taking, costume torn at the side and blood-soaked, turning the red there to rust and looking for a temporary hideout, dragging those two mangy mutts behind her – “won’t be here for long, professah, don’t you worry! You won’t even know we’re here!” – and subsequently cleaning out the already-sparse cupboards and generally making a ruckus.   There is no bounce to her step now, as she shuts off the sink to set down the bowl of water, no cheer as she rubs the sleep from her eyes. She is still clad in diamond red and black – he does not imagine she has any surplus of wardrobe – now with crude stitching pulling together at her waist. Her hair is unkempt and tangled, some strands lying thick with crusted blood; her make-up is only half off around the edges, looking as if were swiped off by clumsy fingers.   Kneeling, she murmurs to her “babies,” pulling them close. He cannot catch the words, but the voice… Lower, and rougher. Little traces of the artificial sweetness she normally coats her speech with.   She looks tired, and worn, and not at all fit to be the shrieking accomplice of the mad clown.   Quietly, he turns away, resolved to catch a moment more of sleep in this rare moment of quiet.   When he wakes next, she is gone. A crudely scrawled note of gratitude and a smear of white paint is the only trace of her.

[cannibalisticskittles]

The Harlequin and the Scarecrow - Outside [003]

[Next word: Startle. …this one was fun.]

Harley Quinn is as free as a bird, back in costume and newly made up, free to walk where she wants and enjoy the view.

She hums a tuneless song with words she’s already half-forgotten, stepping lightly through puddles glimmering black and starlit blue, interspersed with occasional threads of orange, barely seeming weighed down by the hefty weapon slung over her shoulder.

Mass breakouts aren’t as fun of course, she muses, watching as plumes of dark smoke overtake lines of the sky from where she stands. They’re lovely and chaotic and it’s nice to see everyone working together – she steps over an unconscious body as the thinks this – but it’s so much harder to pick out her puddin’s handiwork.

Still, she knows if she only looks hard enough, they’ll be together at last. She’ll find her sweetheart – who’s surely been missing her terribly, she knows it – and everything’ll be as right as rain.

The sound of shouting cuts into her thoughts, and her smile widens. It’s not the dispersion of shrieks that have been overtaking the city since Arkham’s breach, but a burst of panic, all together, and close. Just the place to start investigating. Everyone in orange knows not to get between the harlequin in search of her beau, so she is unhindered, nearly skipping. The shouting leads her to an alley – but here, she is greeted not by the sight of her beloved in tones of jewels, but a burlap-clad figure far lankier. She pouts exaggeratedly and shifts her mallet discontentedly. Her sweetheart must have bigger plans, farther away, but she wishes he were here. He would so revel in this maelstrom. Her movement draws attention, both from the figure in control and the ones at his feet.

One of those still-lucid, still-struggling – thug or former inmate, she can’t be sure – takes the moment of apparent distraction to scramble up and bolt – straight towards her. A well-placed kick stops his momentum; a push with the butt of her mallet against his sternum sends him sprawling back.

“No, no, no,” she chides, giving the man a not-so-gentle kick in the direction of the professor. “You can’t leave now! You’re going to miss the punchline!” She punctuates this with her knuckles against his temple, giggling in the moment before she realizes how unappreciative her audience is.

She’s hit too hard, she thinks at first as he wavers, but then he stands, anger lining his face – forgetting the real threat here until a bony hand lands on his shoulder, and drags him back down.

She grins, and the Scarecrow grins back, the burlap seeming to stretch of its own accord, gas diluting into the air even from here.

The joke gets old after a while – the punchline never changes much – but it makes him laugh. It’s just about the only thing that does.

And what kinda girl would she be if she denied him that?