#thisstarvingartist

[whiskerknittles]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

It’s frostmaster lads (I’m not a big marvel person, but it’s been in my drafts for years so I thought I’d throw it out into the void)

—

“I notice that you’re a little—mm, a little bit tense,” the Grandmaster said. “I get the feeling that you’re—hm—you’re not relaxing the way I asked you to. Won’t you at least—you know, try to enjoy yourself?”

[whiskerknittles]

Uh Oh - I’m writing rvb fic

http://archiveofourown.org/works/10959840/chapters/24396378

“In which video game designer and college student Dick Simmons enlists a stranger from Craigslist to accompany him to his family's Thanksgiving dinner party, and things spiral out of control from there.”

This is only chapter one, and I would like to have the fic done by the end of this month so I can prioritize other projects... but this one just won’t seem to let me go.  

[whiskerknittles]

so, just a quick update for everyone (including myself)

i am, in fact, working on those martial arts and cat aus that i spoke of a couple weeks ago. the ma!au is coming slower than i anticipated, but i will get there. the cat!au is coming along swimmingly. chapter one is finished (there will be an as of yet undetermined number of chapters, i estimate between 3 and 6)

they are not going all too quickly, because i’m also trying to write a novel this month.

an entire novel. in a month.

i am weary. but making good progress.

anyway, i will hopefully have a presentable amount of the cat!au fic soon, and the ma!au will eventually be written to my satisfaction before it is released into the wild.

thank u for taking the time to read this :P back off i go

[whiskerknittles]

LOOK WHO WROTE A THING

So I still intend to write the other fics I mentioned (yes, both of them! I can’t pick just one either lol) but I was inspired by talking2thesky’s comment on my post!! Thanks for this!

--

When John came back into consciousness there was darkness, and screaming—or more accurately, yowling.

He could barely move, blind to the world, wet and surrounded by heat. He tried to remember what had happened, after—after the—

It was difficult to remember much of anything. He grasped in confusion at memories as they fluttered by, blurry and meaningless. A box, being lowered into the ground as rain poured down from the sky. A green uniform. A beautiful woman smiling at him, then buildings, falling, far away. Then the feeling of fear, of loss. Guns, loud banging, bodies falling, blood. Endless dead eyes staring at him. Pain. The idea of a bridge, with a bottle in his hand.

Then, a sudden shift. Tall towers of books, an abandoned subway station. A small, deer-eyed man in a dapper bespoke suit, with a briefcase.

Harold. He sunk himself into the name and held onto it like a live saver. Harold. Harold. Harold.

A computer screen. Weapons firing. But this time… was different than all the other times. Everything had changed, and he could see him in the distance—Harold Harold Harold—and he could feel it, he was doing what needed to be done, protecting Harold, the only thing that had ever mattered. And he was so happy.

And then pain. Sharp, unforgiving pain throughout his body, searing, wet, excruciating. But still, he was happy.

Then, a flash of white. Then a long, quiet whiteness.

Then this. What was this? He was still blind, surrounded by darkness, with loud shrieking from above. Weakly, John opened his mouth, to try to speak, to call out to the screaming above him, to try and understand what was happening, where he was.

He mewled softly.

--

Full Fic:

http://archiveofourown.org/works/7343374

[whiskerknittles]

SHOUTS

SO I stayed up till 6:30 in the morning reading fanfiction, something I have not done in... geez it’s been well over a year now. Anyway, I want to get back into fic writing. Instead of starting something *completely* new, I’m thinking of redoing an old fic.

Any opinions from the studio audience on what fic I should redo, or for what fandom? 

[whiskerknittles]

Man, it’s been a loooong time since I wrote fic for PoI.

I have an excuse for it, but still. It’s been too long.

So... does anyone have a drabble prompt for me? It might take a day or two for me to respond, since I’ve been rather busy with school work, but it would be great to get my creative juices flowing again!

Send suggestions to my askbox!

[whiskerknittles]

Still looking for prompts? How about this: Harold's been exhausting himself, so John drags him off and MAKES him rest...Hope you feel better soon!

Thanks anon! <3 <3 So, so, so sorry for not getting to this sooner, I was very unexpectedly overrun this weekend with an endless strain of activities that prevented me from responding to this prompt. I am ALWAYS eager to receive fic prompts, and I truly hope you will find and enjoy this one!!

–

John had been watching Harold’s head bob very, very slowlyback and forth in front of his computer for the past several hours, and it wasbeginning to become more pronounced. With every dip he sank closer and closerto the keyboard, the lids of his eyes sinking lower and lower. His right pinkywas working harder than John had ever seen before, hitting delete almostregularly as he typed out line after line of code.

“You should get some rest, Harold,” John told him.

Harold’s back straightened immediately and he widened hiseyes at the screen, defiant, and redoubled his work. “I assure you, Mr. Reese,I don’t need it.”

John raised an eyebrow at him, standing up from his chairand stalking calmly across the subway station floor. Harold sensed hisapproach, ever aware of his partner’s movement, but didn’t react to it. Hestood silently behind Harold, staring at the computer screen.

It was generally quite rare for John to go down into thesubway station and not find Harold working at his computer. However, it wasalso not usual for him to remain underground for more than a few hours at atime—and by John’s estimation, he hadn’t tasted fresh air in almost seventy-twohours. John had gotten into the habit of keeping track of Harold’s movementslong before Samaritan had taken over the city and driven them into hiding, longbefore it became responsibility—no, necessity—towatch over him.

At first it had been playful, a bit of a game between thetwo of them which Harold (somewhat begrudgingly) played. But then it changed,because Harold… Harold was important. Harold was more important than anything.And John was the king of self-punishmentand pain but when it came to others, people hewas responsible for, it simply wasn’t acceptable for them to suffer.

“Finch,” John said, placing his hand on Harold’s shoulder. “Youneed to sleep.”

The moment he initiated physical contact, Harold’s handsstilled. He turned in his chair to face John, glaring at him scathingly, butthe effect was lost when John’s gaze was drawn to the obvious bags beneath hiseyes.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m busy.”

“Too busy to sleep?” John crossed his arms, smiling faintly.“Even computer geniuses need their rest.”

“Mr. Reese—”

“Harold. I’m not letting this go.”

Harold was one so bold he would stare John down, unblinking,for long minutes until he relented to the man’s sheer force of will and bowedhis head in submission. But he was so tired and weary that his eyes flutteredshut and the effect was lost. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I can’t sleep.”

It was as much of an admission of his current emotionalstate as he’d ever offered. John touched his shoulder again, more tentativelythis time. Strategically placed for reassurance, not force. “Let me help you.”

–

“…Mr. Reese, I’m not entirely certain that this isappropriate.”

Very shortly after their primary hideout had transitionedfrom the library to the subway station, John had brought down the necessitiesof a secure home base: mini fridge, microwave, first aid and emergency kits inaces around the place, and a small futon. Harold had not been utilizing the futon to the fullest extent of its usage, soupon unfolding it, dressing it, and divesting himself and Harold to only theirslacks and undershirts—an adventure that had been particularly enjoyable withHarold’s soft and ruffled protests—they were now tucked snugly beneath twosheets and a large comforter.

Both of them.

Together.

John had his arms wrapped around Harold’s torso and was curledprotectively around him; his nose was pressed gently against the nape of theolder man’s neck. If he could have been any more pleased, he would have been purring.Harold was less thrilled with the arrangement. He shifted, his heart beatingrapidly, and John tried not to smile too widely at the other man’s discomfortbecause, really, it was oh so endearing and adorable.

“Harold, relax,” John murmured against the shell of hishear, warm breath brushing over the delicate skin. “Go to sleep. I promise you’llfeel better in the morning.”

“I… alright.”

Eventually, his nervous moving and twitching stopped, andinch by inch John felt Harold’s body relaxing against him, warm and safe, andwhen he softly began to snore John couldn’t stop himself from pressing anendlessly gentle kiss on the back of his head before closing his own eyes inthe pitch darkness of the room and drifting into his own dreamless sleep.

[whiskerknittles]

Requested by Mithveaen -  A storm broke one of the library’s windows, and while Finch and Reese clean up, Finch tells Reese about his favorite book.

I apologize for not quite sticking to the prompt here, Mithveaen--I had a truly difficult time attempting to chose an adequate book which Finch would reasonably call his favorite, and, well, by the time I had this was already half written. I hope you enjoy it, anyway!

--

It was very late at night to be in the library—although, to be fair, Reese would likely still have been awake despite the hour, prowling the apartment floor or cleaning his arsenal, had he not received Finch’s distressed call just half an hour before. The thunderstorm that had struck the city with an inexplicable force in the late afternoon had not dissipated, it seemed, before shattering a set of glass panels in the farther ‘J’ section of the library, and wreaking havoc on the nearest six shelves. First and second editions were strewn haphazardly across the floor, pages rumpled and covers damp from the rain.

They’d cleaned up the worst of it, and Finch’s mood had evened out considerably—he had been as livid as Reese had ever seen him upon his arrival, scowling and going so far as to shout at the makeshift window guard whenever it billowed hazardously inwards.

Reese didn’t have to say that he would have the frames reinforced when he installed them the next day. It was an unspoken understanding they seemed to have developed; Reese anticipated Finch’s desires, like a well-trained watchdog, and responded accordingly. He stored away the tiny, approving smiles and appreciative nods he received from the other man for times when he was alone, and felt like wallowing in something other than self-pity and distain.

Reese bent down and picked up a sore looking number titled The Trial, its cover leaking woeful tears onto the wooden library floor. It was one of the more tragic looking ones; most seemed to have escaped the brunt of the water.

“Kafka isn’t looking too good, Finch,” Reese said as he handed the pathetic thing to Finch. Finch took the waterlogged book carefully, placing it open-faced on the desk.

“I suppose even in his literature he is prone to unfortunate bad luck,” Finch sighed, his fingers hovering just above the exposed pages before he pulled away and continued his business of replacing the salvaged books onto their appropriate shelves.

Reese smiled softly, and let out a light chuckle. Finch continued his work, not turning to look back at him.

“I can’t help but find his writing fascinating, if not incredibly morbid,” Finch continued. “Although I wouldn’t consider myself one for cheerful literature, Kafka’s examination of life as a whole is thoroughly troubling. Have you read any of his work?”

“Metamorphosis, in high school,” Reese said.

“Hmm, a perfect example of Kafka’s self-deprecating mindset,” Finch said, as if in agreement. “A fascinating short story, true.”

“What’s your favorite book, Harold?” Reese asked, suddenly. Finch did look up then, turning to face Reese with a faintly surprised look. Reese was surprised, too; he didn’t generally ask direct questions, when talking to Finch. It was a learned habit, when working with paranoid people like his partner for so long. Direct questions almost never produced valuable answers, especially when they were just pulled out of the blue.

Finch was silent a moment, his stare calculating as he eyed Reese, perhaps looking for an angle. Eventually he dropped his gaze, considering.

“That’s a bit difficult a question, Mr. Reese. Of course Kafka is a talented writer but I hardly would consider him one of my favorites. I suppose Jane Austen has some merits; her impressions of life and love in the eighteenth century are quite captivating. Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 is rather exceptional. I read Kate Chopin’s The Awakening the other day; it was quite thought provoking.”

He looked at Reese again, for a long, thoughtful moment.

It was those moments, those considering moments when Finch’s eyes would move about him, intent and invasive, penetrating his flesh, staring into his soul. His stomach twisted, a familiar feeling. Finch had that sort of effect on him, he’d noticed. Likely, Finch had noticed at some time or another, too, but he never mentioned it. A small kindness, Reese assumed.

“I suppose A Tale of Two Cities must be the one. Have you read it?”

Reese shook his head, wishing very much that he had, if only to impress Finch.

Finch smiled faintly at him. “I’ll have to lend it to you. It’s really quite a wonderful read. Although I fear you may associate yourself too closely with Sydney Carton—I assure you, the only commonalities the two of you have are your dedications to the people you love.”

“Yes,” Reese said, and Finch paused. The air seemed to still about them, and Reese took in a breath, wondering if it would be wildly inappropriate to ask Finch if he would read the book to him. Finch had a wonderfully relaxing voice, a safety harness keeping Reese from slipping over the edge, a trusted gleam of light in the otherwise dark abyss Reese called home.

He’d already taken a risk asking a question of Finch in the first place, however, and his bravery was spent.

“John,” Finch said, and Reese felt a chill spread across his skin at the sound. He waited.

It took a moment for Finch to continue. He seemed almost surprised that he had spoken at all.

“Yes, Harold?” Reese asked, softly.

“I’ll bring the book to the library as soon as possible, Mr. Reese.”

“Okay, Finch.”

It wasn’t often that Finch anticipated Reese’s desires, but when it happened, he was always ludicrously on point. “… If you’d like, I could read the book to you, during stakeouts. If memory serves, they can be incredibly tedious in silence, and I know you’re not usually a fan of long afternoons reading on the couch.”

If that couch had Finch, sitting alongside him with a book in his hands, then Reese absolutely wouldn’t mind at all. But even over the comm, while watching a number, Reese could imagine Finch’s steady voice reading aloud his favorite novel, and his heart thudded pointedly in his chest. “Yeah, Finch, that sounds great.”

Finch smiled at him again. “I find the idea rather appealing myself.”