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bluefrogsbestfrogs · 2 years

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Research

So I was reading over the novelization of the first X-Men Movie to refresh myself on some details for upcoming chapters of Dimensions, and came across this gem:

He didn't move.

His attacker didn't move. Logan could feel the weight of whoever it was on his claws. And he heard the gasp of pain.

A familiar gasp.

His nightmare-fogged mind tried to wake up, remind himself where he was.

Suddenly his door burst open. Cyclops stood frozen there for an instant until Storm and Jean shoved past him, flipping on the light.

Logan was sitting upright in his bed. The claws from his right hand were still extended through Rogue's shoulder and out her back.

She was frozen on the end of his fist, standing beside his bed. He held her there, staring into her shocked eyes, not knowing if he should move or not.

What had he done?

Cyclops jumped to help, but Storm grabbed his arm.

"Don't touch her."

Rogue nodded, then smiled at Logan. "You were having a nightmare," she said her voice raspy.

"I know," Logan said.

Rogue eased one arm up slowly and gently touched his face, as if he were a long-lost lover and this would be the last time she would ever see him.

For a short moment her touch was light. Wonderful.

Then what felt like a blast of electric current shot through his body.

His claws instantly retracted, pulling through Rogue like a knife through butter.

Rogue staggered back, mouth open in a silent scream. Her eyes were wide with fear, with shock, with horror.

The electric charge stopped as suddenly as it had started, the moment her hand left the side of his face. Blackness threatened to swarm in from the sides of his mind and take him, but he shoved it back.

Rogue stood staring at him, with Cyclops, Storm, and Jean gathered around her but not touching her. And as they all watched, her wounds healed, leaving not even the slightest scar. She stood for a moment, a stunned look on her face. Then she bolted from the room.

His fuzzy mind wouldn't let him understand what had just hapened. He was just glad that she was ok.

Then he couldn't hold the blackness back any longer.

This time he didn't dream.

Okay. So let's talk about this.

The writing is just so...boring. It makes me so thankful for the world of fanfic writers out there who bust their butts to create stories, characters and worlds that are so much richer than what we got here. Seriously, way to go for attempting to fix this canon mistake.

What the hell? I mean. What the hell?! First, that's not what happens in the movie. Yeah, yeah, I hear you saying, "But BFBF, it's a novelization!" My response: It's a terrible one. The tension in the movie is so much better than what they wrote here, with one exception...

Rogue eased one arm up slowly and gently touched his face, as if he were a long-lost lover and this would be the last time she would ever see him. Excuse me?! Ahem. This part can stay.

The fact that Storm stops Cyclops from helping is crap, especially considering the next section of this chapter has him ranting about how Logan is putting them all in danger and "Think of the students!"

The fact that Rogue "smiles" at Logan while his adamantium claws are stuck through her chest is just...yuck. Pretty sure I'd be screaming or dead if that happened.

Also, Logan would be immediately aware of who he'd stabbed. By scent and sight. The adrenaline rush would've put all those lovely senses into overdrive, and there would be absolutely no confusion about what he'd done...

Anywho. Writing is going well on the next chapter of Dimensions after a two and a half year hiatus, so I'm hopeful I will have an update for you all soon!

Take care of yourselves <3

#fanfic #writing #yo ho yo ho a writer's life for me #rogan #rogue #logan #wolverine #x-men #xmen novelization

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veinereastath · 2 years

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🐊 here, yeah there's so much we need to know about his background, it's almost like we could use a 2nd season with him in it or smth idk 🤔 (AHEM, Marvel) Anyway, Harrow is a fascinating character and even if I didn't have this inexplicable primal lust for him I would still want to know more about him and why he's Like This. (Also, I've been looking for Moon Knight discords as well so if you find a good one let it be known 🙏🏼)

Ethan Hawke and Mohammed Diab are both making me go crazy, because they've both given not-so-subtle hints that Harrow could be quite alive and I'm screaming about it internally every single day...

Also I feel you on that inexplicable primal lust, oh gosh. You know I'm deep into a character where I spend few nights in a row without sleep because I have new fanfic idea. ;_;

And sadly I didn't get any information about discord servers that are still alive. Tempted to make a new one, even if for only 3-4 people, duh!

I've also read on Reddit the other day that Harrow indeed might be teased as "alive" in a sense that he, sadly, was killed by Lockley, but he's still alive as his Dr. Harrow version in Marc & Co mind palace. While I definitely prefer the original Big Bad Harrow over the Doctor version (because I'm a shameless villain fucker), I'm desperate enough to grasp anything they could give me.

#another day another suffering because of no Harrow #yo ho yo ho a writer's life for me #seriously fanfiction helpes me cope #arthur harrow #moon knight

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ijuststareatstuffhereok89 · 15 days

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Ugh I think my latest WIP has AU potential but no one's into it lol why do I even write?

#yo ho yo ho #a writer's life for me #because im being punished #now I'm the Cassandra of fic writing

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writergirl2011 · 1 year

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HEY!! What did I do to get called out like this????

#bastards #yo ho yo ho #it’s the writer’s life for me

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cant-get-no-worse · 1 year

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love finding them titles, hate writing the fic

#yo-ho a writer life for me

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triflesandtea · 1 year

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Weaving words, rainy mornings, long drives, Julie Fowlis, and film sets. A great start to the day indeed. 🌧🖤🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 Today, I'm working on "Merchant of Secrets"! 💚 What are you working on?

#car #photography #computer #Julie Fowlis #Scottish #Scottish music #Scotland #Merchant of Secrets #Chronicles of the Callori System #Callori System #Civham Malconi #writers #yo-ho yo-ho a writer's life for me #writersofig #my writing #sci-fi #science fiction #scifi #isn't Scottish music so much fun?

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nightingaleflow · 1 year

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I finished plotting out Violet and Lotus!

It's pretty funny how I originally thought it was gonna have 4 or 5 chapters. It's now gonna have 7 plus an epilogue.

#yo ho a writer's life for me #violet and lotus #nightingale writes

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mamawasatesttube · 3 months

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6 & 29 for the ask game? i love your work!!

6. Are there any fics from others you reread all the time?

not "all the time" per se but i've definitely gone back to both fill in the blanks by @mindshelter and blush by @misspickman a few times. what can i say, i love it when tim is besotted and kon gets loved <3

29. Share a bit from a fic you’ll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic. (If you don’t have either, just share a random fic idea you have that you don’t plan on getting to.)

okay i DO plan to post this.. eventually... when i finish the other 5 chapters of it... but given that i have no idea when that will be, here's a bit of the "jon's friends keep thinking his big brother is hot and he's in hell about it" wip sfdkjh (under the cut for length!!)

fanfic writer asks!

Any thoughts Yichen had about going to the skate park tomorrow get zapped clean out of his head as an engine purrs, and a sleek, sexy as hell motorcycle peels into the parking lot.

It’s a gorgeous dark red color, with black accents, exposed chrome exhaust pipes, and a front light and handlebars to match. It’s not obnoxiously loud, but its thrum is powerful and satisfying. It sounds expensive, if that’s even possible.

The sexy bike rolls to a stop right in front of the three of them, and the rider rests his foot on the ground for support. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a leather jacket covered in patches and studs—the shoulders are spiked, and a little chain dangles from one of the pockets.

Yichen identifies a few hero logoes among the patches on both the back and front; there’s the Superman family crest, obviously, on one shoulder, and then Wonder Woman’s winged W on a trapezoid. One of the Flash lightning bolts, too, in red and white—Yichen isn’t good at remembering which hero is which, outside of Metropolis. Is that… no, Kid Flash is yellow. Oh well. There’s others he doesn’t recognize at all, like a round yellow-and-black one right over the rider’s heart with a weird… bird-shaped thing, maybe?

Man, he really oughtta brush up on his heroes.

But that’s beside the point, because holy shit. This guy—this is the coolest guy he’s ever seen in his life! That jacket, the boots—chunky, thick-soled, covered in belts and buckles—and the ripped jeans, with barely-visible fishnets peeking out through the tears. This guy has fashion! Ho-lee shit, what is someone like that doing here?

Jon hops down from the brick fence with a sigh. “Alright,” he says, and leans down to pick up his backpack. “Well, I’ll see you guys.”

“Wait,” Priya says. “That’s your ride?”

Jon blinks. “Uh, yeah? Why?”

The cool as hell motorcyclist pulls off his helmet. Yichen’s jaw drops.

It’s like seeing Jon’s dad’s face transplanted onto a guy half his age and so much hotter. He’s got high cheekbones and a square jaw ever-so-slightly dotted with stubble, and piercing blue eyes just like Jon’s dad, and his hair falls in curls that should be crushed and flattened from the helmet but somehow still look amazing.

“Yo, Jonno!” Conner calls. “C’mon, we’re gonna hold up traffic!”

“I’m coming!” Jon hollers back. “I’m just saying bye, jeez!”

Yichen finally remembers how to close his mouth and does so. He doesn’t feel cold anymore—his face is on fire. “Dude.”

Jon tilts his head quizzically. “Yeah?”

“Dude,” Yichen repeats.

“What, Yichen?” Jon glances at Priya for clarification, but doesn’t seem to find any. What the hell does he need clarified here?

“Dude!” Yichen clutches at his hair. “Duuuude!”

“What!” Jon hefts his backpack onto his shoulders. “Stop ‘dude’ing at me and say it already!”

Yichen jumps down from the brick wall and grabs Jon by the shoulders. How does he not get it? How does he not get it?!

“Dude,” he says, as intense and emphatic as he can hope to get. He shakes Jon slightly, then points at Conner. “That is your brother?”

“Uh… yes?” Jon squints at him. “Is that, uh… a problem?”

Yichen clutches at his hair again. “Dude!” he exclaims in consternation. Grabs at Jon’s shoulders again. “Oh my god. Dude! Dude! You never told me your brother is hot!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Yichen almost thinks he sees Conner laugh. Except that’s not possible, because the engine definitely drowned out his words—they’re not that close to the roadside. Priya definitely laughs, though, covering her mouth with one hand.

Jon, meanwhile, wrinkles his nose. “…Ew.”

#answers #bandanabiel #rimi writes #just a lil bit hehe #and thank you!!!!!!

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astaraels · 6 months

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a man takes a drink. the drink takes a drink. then the drink takes a man. Lip Gallagher, six months after the finale. (ao3)

The Alibi is silent, still; completely the opposite of a usual night in the bar. No patrons sit in the cracked booths or on the worn-out bar stools. No one plays pool, or watches a game on the darkened TV sets. Lip stares at the figure behind the bar. Frank Gallagher, dead six months and looking healthier than Lip ever remembers seeing him.

“The fuck is going on here?” Lip says out loud. The words fall heavy from his mouth, almost landing with a dull thud on the sticky barroom floor. Frank looks up, his con artist smile and calculating gaze now turned bland and indifferent.

“Tell me, Mr. Gallagher,” Frank says, “what brings you here on a night like this?”

There’s a chip in Lip’s pocket that suddenly feels like a lead weight.

“...not sure, really,” he finally admits, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Why the fuck are you here?”

“I’m here to do my job, aren’t I?”

“What’s that, fuckin’...bartender to the afterlife or something?"

Frank says nothing, only pours a glass of amber liquid and slides it in front of Lip. “Bourbon. Neat. Or do you prefer it on the rocks?”

“No, I’m good. Thanks.” He swallows as he stares at the glass. Tightens his grip around the chip. Clever Lip, smart as a whip. Better hold on or you just might slip…

He reaches out and knocks the glass over, only flinching slightly when it shatters by his shoes.

“Apologies, Mr. Gallagher. I’ll get that cleaned up right away.” When Lip glances down he sees the glass is gone—dream world, right—but the bourbon is still there, sticking his feet to the floor.

“Don’t think I’ve ever heard you apologize for anything in your life, Frank.”

“I’m afraid you must have me confused with someone else, Mr. Gallagher. I’m just the bartender.”

Lip laughs humorlessly, because of course. It’s not Frank, not really. And bartenders only serve the drinks. They aren’t the ones who make you drink it. You put your hand out and you take the glass—your decision, not theirs. He reaches for it now, the glass back on the bar in front of him as Frank finishes pouring more bourbon. Like nothing had happened. Neat and tidy. Nothing between the drunk and the alcohol. Nothing but a man’s own self-control.

He takes the glass, brings it to his lips. Smells the alcohol, strong and unmistakable. Thinks of nights when he would watch Fiona, all of eight or nine years old and outside with a secondhand coat in the Chicago winter. How he’d seen her dragging Frank through the yard all on her own because she’d told Lip to keep an eye on Ian. He thinks of the blackouts, the hazy holes in his memories that he’ll never get back. Thinks of his siblings’ weddings and how he’d gotten shit-faced drunk at both, looking in a grimy bathroom mirror and seeing his father staring back. Hearing the fear in Debbie’s voice when she told him not to end up like Frank. Pleaded with him—it broke his heart, even then.

Lip looks up and sees his father there now. Sees him watching as Lip holds the glass, letting the bourbon slosh gently from side to side. Frank stands there, still. Unmoving. Smile bland and empty.

The glass makes a harsh clunk when Lip sets it back down. Pushes it back towards Frank.

“Man takes a drink,” Lip says. He’s seen this movie before. “The drink takes a drink. Then the drink takes the man.”

Frank chuckles, takes the glass. Takes a drink. “Ain’t that the way, Mr. Gallagher. Ain’t that the way.”

#lip gallagher #frank gallagher #shameless #shameless character study #yo ho yo ho a writer's life for me #this is inspired by the bar scene from doctor sleep and you should definitely go watch it if you haven't seen it plssssss #alcoholism cw #leinth writes fic

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radiantlyrey · 11 months

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Trying to figure out my writing plans for the next few months and… it’s very much an “Oops! All TRON Fics!!” sort of situation I’m finding myself in………..

#tronblr #yo ho yo ho a writer's life for me #not that I’m complaining mind you #I have been reinvigorated in this fandom and I am LOVING IT

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trashiewrites · 1 year

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can you maybe do a fanfic for mw2 2022 that the reader gets kidnapped and soap or ghost has to save them

OH HOHO HO

THis one is a two-parter!

A/N: SORRY THIS TOOK LIKE FOREVER!!! NOT ONLY WAS I HAVING A WRITER'S BLOCK BUT ALSO TMNT TOOK OVER MY LIFE SO HERE WE GO!! I AM GONNA DO ALL THE REQUESTS I GET I SWEAR!! Without further delay, enjoy!

Took You Long Enough: Part 1

(Soap x F!Reader)

(Trigger warning: light angst, mentions of violence and death) if case idk if anyone need these Moreofthismainlyinpart2 maybe maybe

"I don't see why I can't go with you guys!" You protested to Soap, "you guys need all the help you can get to get those missiles!" You grabbed his arm, as he continued to walk past. It's not in your nature to question orders but this doesn't make sense to you.

"I get it (Y/n) but that's not your choice to make!" Soap whipped around to face you; his face as serious as he could manage. "I don't quite get LT.'s thinking either but it's not our place to question it. Plus, you get the privilege of interrogation against our little drug lady."

"I don't see how that could be helpful... she already told us where the missile is." You shrugged, "if anything, Ghost is the better interrogator. At least more efficient..."

"Efficiency isn't the focus here lass," Soap grasped firmly to your shoulders, "LT trusts you to get some more info on where she is taking Hassan. I trust you to do it if anyone can; it's you."

"But what if-" you said before being pulled into an embrace. Soaps arms wrapped tightly around you but yet so gentle, his warmth making you melt deeper into the hug. He placed one hand firmly upon the top of your head.

"We will be back before you know it, (y/n)."

——————————————

Watching as the boy boarded the heli was bittersweet, to say the least. Soap's talk yesterday did help you get the idea that it wasn't as pointless as you thought. But the lingering fear of something bad happening just around the corner was irking you. To be honest, you could care less about the actual mission, as much as it was your job that wasn't why you wanted to go.

John Mactavish, your sergeant, you had always been fond of. You both knew each other in your last platoon before the 141. He was the one who recommended you to the captain, who surprisingly agreed. To say you two were close was a gross understatement, in your head at least...

You do one final salute as they head up, John with a sly smirk also gives you a small heart with his fingers. You smile, standing there till the heli is no longer in sight. Heading back inside you went into Alejandro's office; you were glad he allows you to use it to gather your thoughts and prep for interrogations. He also states that if you need anything then call for one of his troops. They have been instructed to do as you ask within reasonable means of course. You lean back in the plush chair, writing notes on how you wanted to begin your approach. ————————————————-

To no one's surprise, the drug lord is a tough cookie. In the beginning, not spilling a word. Secondly, you dug into her relationship with Alejandro. Perhaps her getting riled up would have her slip a thing or two. Within the first day, you had managed to get that they didn't stop the trade for Hassan. Despite their Boss being taken hostage.

"No les importa que yo esté aquí. No importa si muero, El Sin Nombre sigue vivo." Valeria spoke, she spoke deeply with a sick grin on her face. "My legacy will live on even if you decide to kill me now. Especially in the stupid states."

"What do you mean?" You grabbed her by the collar, "Where did you send Hassan; what is he planning?"

"Like I'd say anything to you, puta~" you backhand her straight in the face. Grabbing her face and crushing her cheeks with your hand.

"¡Borra esa puta sonrisa de tu cara, zorra!" You growled, "how could you be proud of yourself, you betray your people, Your home!"

"You know nothing of my home." You punched her gut; you watched as her head dropped low. Taking a deep sigh, and taking a break outside would probably help calm your nerves. Opening the container door, you covered your eyes as the sun blinded your vision. Walking just past the guard stationed in front, you rubbed your temples. Quiet footsteps move behind you.

"No need to cover the door," you raised your hand, "I'm gonna hea-" within moments you felt an arm wrapped tightly around your neck and a cloth held over your mouth. They kicked your shins, having using legs no longer your first thought. After harshly struggling you felt your consciousness slip, fading quickly to an empty void.

Upon stirring awake, eyes flutter open. Your head pounding mixed with the coldness of the surroundings. You attempted to move your arms, hearing an unmistakable clanging of metal chains. You were cuffed? Your mind raced, how in the world did this happen? Where were you and how do you get yourself out of this shit hole? Taking a moment to clear up your thoughts, taking a very needed deep breath. You noticed people talking loudly outside the cell. "You know what happens to those two British guys?" Americans... is Graves behind this? "Yeah, I heard they both fled. One was wounded though."

"Serves them right, you don't fuck with the commander!" one laughed aloud, "speaking of which!"

"Where's the girl," Graves's voice sounded stern, he was not here for a happy chit-chat; you knew that much... But once you find out what the hell is going on you're going to murder that man yourself... "Open that cell"

"Yes, commander." Both men said in unison. How the mood dropped, silence so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Broken by the screeching noise on the cell doors. There stood the tall man with a disgruntled face. You stared in horror as behind him two men pulled an unconscious Alejandro behind him.

"Graves... What have you done?" You stared at him in disbelief... "How could you? After all we have been through!"

"It's nothing personal beautiful~" Graves crossed his arms, leaning against the frame of the cell doors, "Just a change in command, that's all. Daddy's in charge now!" You felt yourself wanting to vomit hearing such foul words exit his mouth. How crude... Classic for him and his people if you were honest. "Now with how gracious I am, I am giving you a choice. Get out of this heaping shit pile and work beside me, or rot in this rusty pothole!"

"Graves..." You stood up, arms forced down to your side due to chain restrictions, "Where is Soap and Ghost?"

"You worried about those wanna-bes? Those traitors?" Graves chuckled, "Fine, I'll tell ya! Ghost, man is probably running for his life right now from my men! Begging for mercy! I can imagine it myself." You clenched your fist, the thought in your head that this is what he has thought about us this whole time... Our brothers in arms your ass... "And Lil'Soapy boy! Oh," He rubbed his hand on his chin... "My men shot him up pretty well! I wouldn't see it impossible that he's bleeding out in the streets right now!"

"YOU BASTARD!" You lunged forward, pulled back once again by the chains. Grave's laugh haunted you, not a hint of remorse just utter amusement. "WE TRUSTED YOU! YOU AND YOUR TEAM WERE OUR BROTHERS!"

"Keyword, 'were' my dear! " Graves eyes within a moment were back to those of a dead cold killer, smiling like a greedy bastard. "You see, 'Brothers' was revoked when they weren't so willing to uphold the chain of command. Now tell me," Graves walks forward to you, "What happens when a small puppy barks at the big vicious dog?"

"What?" you snarled, and he extended his hand. Grabbing your face and pressing down your cheeks so tightly as to crush your jaw.

"You. Get. Bit..." Graves lets go, swiping his leg under your feet. You fell back to the floor with a harsh thud. "Now, I'd love to chat more... but I have a lot of work to do!" he laughed once again before heading to the cell door. "Say. Let me know when you take me up on that offer earlier. Still stands till whenever I guess!"

"Go fuck yourself Graves!" You yelled back at him, "You'll pay for this! I SWEAR IT!"

"Tell me when~" He grinned, "Close her up boys!" As the doors closed you were once again left to your thoughts... Your head was empty, no matter how much you tried only one thing haunted you...

"John..." You hugged your knees close, resting your head as tears unknowingly flew down your face. "I-I knew I should have come with you..."

Part 2! Out now!

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod #modern warfare #cod mw #cod mw22 #modern warfare 2 #johnny mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #soap x you #john mactavish #john mactavish x reader

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veinereastath · 2 years

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waves of retrospection [Arthur Harrow one-shot]

It’s mostly a bit of psychological take on Harrow; Basically I don’t accept him as dead, so I’ve decided to do what I enjoy doing best and change canon to my own twisted desires, but also somehow leave the ending open to intepretation and choice. So have this small piece of 2204 words of his own retrospection at night by the sea.

Fandom: Moon Knight [2022]

Rating: nothing explicit at all, but there are some mentions of self-harm. You know, glass in shoes.

Summary: Ammit has been defeated once and for all, but Harrow is still alive - but he isn’t sure if that’s what he truly wants.

Characters: only Arthur Harrow and his mind, because I love psychological / philosophical mumbo jumbo.

Side note: English is not my first language so you can expect some mistakes.

_____________________________________________________________

The rocks of the shore were dark, treacherous, full of little cracks and imperfections. Their edges were sharp, ready to inflict pain on any who would make any kind of mistake, the fail of judgement when stepping on them. Too careless feet would soon find themselves to be cut and bleeding, with the cold, salted water of the sea hitting the shore inflicting even more pain. Rubbing the salt on the wound gained a new, painfully real meaning.

But the glass he had in his old, battered shoes for the past years made him accept the pain. He got used to it, and he understood its fundemental purpose – after all, it was a punishment he chose for himself, every single morning hiding it under the mundane action of touching the glass of water with his lips, allowing his throat, tired from preaching and intricate manipulation a bit of relief. His throat in exchange for his feet. For someone like him, who knew the value of properly executed speech more than most, it seemed like a very fair deal.

So Arthur Harrow accepted the pain. The glass was no more, his feet bare, beaten, full of little scars painting his skin like the cracks on old murals in ancient cathedrals, those who saw war, famine and cruelty. He remembered the little chapel he visited many years ago in Italy, where he saw the eyes of painted priests looking at him with cold dissaproval. Perhaps it was because of the fresh blood that tainted his hands, sticking to his fingernails. He spilled a lot of it for Khonshu and his ideals back when the glowing eyes and the ceremonial suit were his to wear. He couldn’t say he missed it, the fabric on his skin, the unique power flowing through his body… But he almost, almost did. Some part of him, the one that enjoyed inflicting pain on behalf of the Moon God, was still there, buried somewhere deep in the darkest corners of his mind, and at times he could swear he feels it again, hears it again, wants to commit to it again.

Your scales lack balance.

He almost chuckled at the memory. I wonder why, he thought sarcastically. I have no idea. No idea whatsoever.

The pain and blood he inflicted on himself did not, however, make him resistant. So everytime his foot, one or the other, slipped on the wet, dark rock he felt the excruciating pain of old wounds opening and new forming amongst them, fresh blood trailing his steps.

Sometimes he made himself slip on purpose, when some thoughts became too unbearable, pain seeming like the only escape, the nervous system reacting accordingly and momentarily, forcing everything in him to focus on the new flash of torture. It worked, for a while. After a few moments his brain regained its composure, both a blessing and a curse, and once again his mind was flowing through the threads of his past, making him remember everything.

Once again he put his bleeding foot in the wrong place, and the rock seized the opportunity at once. Wet, cold and with a traces of seasalt on it it deepened one of the already existing cuts. Against his wishes to stay silent, he lost the fight and cried out loud. He lost his balance, palms stretching out in front of him to stabilize the fall. But they also had to pay the price of pain in order to achieve their purpose. Arthur gasped, his lean frame nearly totally collapsed on the rocky shore. He forced his muscles, still strong, but tired at the same time, to answer to his will and slowly put himself on his knees. He could feel the texture of the rocks beneath his hands, feeding on his blood and pain, his slender fingers delicately tracing them, the vein crossing his palm defined so strongly it seemed like it wanted to escape, jump out of his skin and run away.

Harrow allowed himself to take a few deep breaths and wait. He didn’t have anywhere to be right now, after all. Time could very well stop its existence and he wouldn’t feel the difference. His mission ended – with a failure, no less. The mercy he was shown by Marc Spector was not truly a mercy, he knew. It wasn’t a tale of redemption, his final purpose wasn’t to atone for what he did, but to accept it and still live with it. In suffering, none less, but perhaps that’s what acceptance was truly supposed to be.

He looked at the rocks beneath him, his knees already aching – but he kept staring. Strands of his light brown hair obscured the sides of his vision, hiding his icy blue eyes from the moonlight, and once again he almost chuckled, thinking about how fitting it was. The very parts of himself were hiding the full picture from him, forcing him to stay in the dark.

He was tired of it, so he lifted his right hand and ran his fingers along his scalp, forcing his hair to obedience. Most of them obeyed, but, as always, some didn’t, loose greying strands falling down once again, still somewhat blocking his view. The kneeling finally became too painful and, at the same time, too pointless somehow. Arthur slowly forced his body to fall over to the right, so he could balance himself and sit properly, staring at the waves. The view in front of his eyes forced him to pull at his old memories more, so he tried to do so. He focused on his followers, fathering happily in the streets of London in the evening, talking, playing, enjoying every little piece of what was mundane and just so typical of life. He used to be a part of this community, enjoying people’s company, hearing their stories, knowing them better.

Knowing their strengths, but their weaknesses also. After all, he always strived for pragmatism in his own actions. Know your enemy, yes. But know your friend also, because he can always turn his back on you. Betrayal hurts more, and betrayal always comes from a friend.

He remember Bobbi Kennedy, for one. She was one of those focused on silent action, not words, and he appreciated that. She was focused, loyal, and pragmatic as well – doing what she had to do, when she had to. It was inspiring for those around her, so when he asked her – ask was such a peculiar word, though – to do something that would be crucial to bringing Ammit back to the world, he always trusted her to do the deed. And she did, and she never asked for praise, welcoming back with success and in silence. It’s all she did, bow her head a little, and he would respond in kind, putting his hand on her shoulder.

Billy Fitzgerald was also an example of a person he remembered well. The man was somehow like Bobbi, but there were more colors in his emotions and actions – his happiness and excitement was more evident, for example when he heard the ‘She’s here’ after so many years of waiting. But it also quickly broke itself and changed to concern and worry. ‘Mark Spector is in Cairo.’ Arthur noticed how Fitzgerald’s face has fallen at these words, and it never really fixed itself, even long after they finally entered the tomb. Arthur never really saw what happened to him, but he could’ve guessed, and somehow he felt like he actually knew. One of his men was slaughtered by the Heka priests in the field of his vision. Considering that Fitzgerald went to the wrong corridor of the maze and never came back, it was obvious.

Harrow couldn’t say he felt bad, but the death of Fitzgerald was something he noticed, nonetheless, and that cruel pragmatism of his told him that this mere acknowledgment was quite enough. Some people don’t even get that.

The waves that forced his mind into the fields of retrospection now changed their mind, unpredictable as they were. One of them hit the shore with more force than the others, and the water splashed far enough to reach his bloodied feet. Salt rubbing into the wounds made Harrow swore under his breath, his jaw clenching. Focus, focus, focus. Think of the others. Who else do you remember?

He remembered quite a few, but he also had to admit that some of his followers were so far back in the corners of his mind that he could netiher precisely track their face, nor their voice – he mostly remembered names, because he was indeed quite good at that. But he had problems with putting them to their respective owners. Back then it wasn’t a big issue – or, rather, it didn’t seem like a big issue – but right now it seemed to frustrate him way more than it should. Now, when all these people were either dead or scattered to the winds, their cause lost, their beliefs shattered.

There were kids playing in the streets, there were young and older couples sitting outside the old cafe, there were people wandering, thinking to themselves. Harrow always payed them more attention, because he knew that lonely retrospection was quite a dangerous tool, because it could very easily push a person out of their belief system. How easy it was to forget about the justice of Ammit, and the importance of the reason to bring her back when you have nothing but yourself around.

So, he always tried to pick up these strays and talk to them. Using his words very carefully, very aware of the power his rough tone of voice. He knew how to use it to his advantage. Actually, once a young woman he talked to called him on that, and he smiled by a margin when that memory came up. She was in her early twenties – a peculiar individual at that because he could remember her face very, very well… But for the love of all the gods of this world, he couldn’t remember her name. Almost like his priorities decided to totally change for this one, random person. Shy, timid, but also very observant; he could see in her brown eyes that she sees more than she makes people think she does. Definitely more of a listener, she listened carefully, taking in all the words of thought he was giving her when he took her for a long stroll on one evening. And at some point she said ‘You’re very good with words.’. With no malice, with no distaste, but rather stating a solid fact with a hint of amusement dancing on her face. And just like that, for a short while, he couldn’t say anything. He just looked at her and smiled.

He talked to her for many hours after that callout. It was the only conversation he ever had with her, but it was also the one for some reason he enjoyed the most because of how pure it was. Weirdly enough, he could swore he felt younger during that one evening. And she seemed to enjoy his company, even though he obviously knew who he was and what was the function of words and sentences he created and gave to her.

Against his better judgment, he kissed her palm when they part ways, hoping he would had a chance to talk to her again at some point. He did saw her far away, amongst other people on many days that were next to come, but at some point she dissapeared without a word or a trace.

She could’ve been a spy, he thought to himself. He realized that he never actually check her scales, never allowed them to show the balance – or inbalance – of her soul. It was weird of him to forget such a thing. So, despite of those fifty years of life experience, of gathered wisdom and skills, he could still be fooled by as little as a weird callback to his younger self. Lovesick, not-really-young fool.

He took a deep exhale, running his palm through his face. He grew tired of his memories at this point. Harrow stood up, slowly, on shaking legs, and walked closer to the waves. They gathered at his feet like snakes, biting, inflicting pain, promising to consume him whole.

Maybe that’s the thing. Maybe that’s his test.

He unbuttoned his red shirt, slowly, almost as if he hesitated. He wasn’t sure himself, and this lack of certainty stirred a new flash of irritation. He got rid of the last button with more pressure, more force, more haste, feeling the cold air of the night brushing the naked skin of his chest. He huffed, tilting his arms to allow the fabric to slide off. As soon as his whole upper posture was uncovered, the wind gained on its strength.

Charming.

Harrow put his right foot in the proper water. The pain attacked once more, forcing him to choke down a cry, jaw clenching, drops of sweat gathering on his temples. A short while, and he made another step forward. And another. And another. He allowed the sea to consume him up to the line of his hips, and then he stopped. Wondering.

What now?

As if he knew. He once again moved forward. His fate wasn't his decision to make. He allowed people to be consumed by sands of the desert and ancient Egyptian priests, and as his own final punishment he chose the judgment of the sea.

--------------------------------------------------------------------- Did he die amongst the waves, or did he come out clean and walked back home - who knows?

#I just had to #was laying in bed staring at the ceiling for nearly 6 hours just thinking about this #and had to write it #yo ho yo ho sad writer's life for me #arthur harrow #moon knight #mcu #marvel #my writing

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escargoverse-snellod · 6 months

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WRITEBLR INTRO

Yo, what up bitches, its me, ya girl, Snellod, Goddess of Snails and I... am a writer!

For just 2 months shy of a year I have been plugging away at my own original fiction, Dawn of the Planet of the Snails - A soft sci fi story featuring snails and such. It currently sits at approximately 36k words and I plan to begin uploading chapters online soon, with ideally one released a week, for so long as I can keep the schedule.

But, you see, I have hit a bit of a snag. Of late, I have been afflicted with a terrible sleep deprivation, and I do not trust myself to continue writing (as it will be dreadful, and I fear I'll just create a big ol' mess that'd be more work than I'd like to fix) and I certainly don't trust myself to do the Very Important Edit that needs doing.

But, the poison has seeped into my soul, the rot afflicted my mind, and I feel the need to be creative building. My thoughts are consumed by my sweet baby DotPotS and in the absence of being able to actually work on the damn thing, I feel the urge to talk about it.

Hence... Writeblr. I've intended to make a sideblog dedicated to my writing a while, a place to share my thoughts, updates and perhaps even extracts from my stories or my various escargoverse MSpaint doodles. Now seemed like a good time. A tradition of two means little but it nontheless makes me happy to have started both my blogs so late in the night as to be inadvisable.

And hey, a little self-promo's never hurt anyone!

Who is Snellod?

Alleged Goddess of all Snails. Confirmed trans woman writer.

My literary loves are the alien and fantastical, and such, I lean strongly towards sci-fi and fantasy of all stripes. The more unique the world the happier I is.

Additionally, I adore an adventure. I love the feel of exploring vast universes, of journeying across unknown lands. Extends to my real life too, where I'll joyously seek out small towns and villages of little note, just to go to a place I have not yet been too.

Talking of my real life, I am an obsessive lover of stories. I strive to attain cinephile status (actually studying film and television at uni! My focus is on screenwriting), I am a Doctor Who fanatic (classic and modern), still think daily of the Magnus Archives and of course, love to read. In terms of physical books, I have just begun the Dune trilogy at the behest of my brother, and with regard to webnovels, my favourites are The Wandering Inn and AUU-16. The former my girlfriend got me into, the latter I got her into.

Sidenote, read AUU-16, its really fucking good, and really fucking under-appreciated. Link here: Zynima Network.

I'm also in love with nature. Yes, being away from cities and such, I enjoy the odd hike into the country, but also just learning about the multitudes of plants and animals and bugs and birds and such of the world. In a similar vein, rather fond of spec-evo. I like to think this fondness seeps into my writing at least time to time, but I don't think I'm clever enough to do spec-evo well, at least not yet.

Oh, and one last thing. Literally incapable of shutting up. Did not mean to spend four paragraphs talking about myself, kinda intended this to be more of an Escargoverse introduction than anything. But hey-ho.

What is Dawn of the Planet of the Snails?

Beneath a kaleidoscopic sky, and adorned in a forest of titanic grass blades, swarming with predators, and home to intelligent life… this is the Planet of the Snails.

Or at least, so the tagline says. Inspired by the sage writing advice of "to write a story you're passionate about, you gotta be at least a little self indulgent" this is my very self-indulgent passion project.

When a research mission to investigate an inexplicable hole opened on a near-future Earth goes awry, its ragtag crew of misfits find themselves castaways in a land as familiar as it is utterly alien. Can they survive this hostile terrain? Can they uncover the secrets of the anomaly that lead to their marooning? And will they ever make it back to Earth to spill the beans?

A pulpy sci-fi adventure you don’t want to miss!

Its science fiction and snails!

Revolutionary!

Thrilling!

Join Arnold, Kasia, Samantha and Ty as they adventure across the mysterious Planet of the Snails… and beyond!

So reads my WiP blurb. Inspired by old adventures stories and cooked up in the middle of a classic who binge-watch, DotPotS is a soft sci-fi action/adventure original fiction. It is fun, exciting, and if I've played my cards right, at least a little camp.

I will likely be dropping more snippets and details as this blog goes on, I have plans for a Characters post, in which I give details on me blorbos, and a setting post, to tell you more about the titular Planet of the Snails.

If you're interested, feel free to ask questions, or suggest ideas for future posts on the road to release. Although, uh, I fear I haven't given much detail for folks to latch onto, be curious about. You'd tell me if my blurb was lacking, right? Right?

Eh. Issue for awake Snellod.

And what is the Escargoverse?

As of yet, highly hypothetical. DotPotS began as a simple short story, a quick dance into a universe, before dancing neatly back out. But as time went on, ideas for new arcs, settings, stories exploded into my brain and my plan for a larger world took shape.

The escargoverse will be a vast semi-interconnected universe full of strange places and peoples, a world that goes beyond the human understanding of what 'should be.'

Ever since reading Discworld as a teen, I have loved connected universes, especially when they're the passion project of one, or a few people. I have always sought my own, to be my legacy and I really think this could be it.

#writeblr #writeblr intro #original fiction #queer writers #writers #escargoverse

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