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celestialvoid-fanfiction · 5 years

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The Romance We Wrote

Stiles and Derek work for the same publishing company—Derek as an author of children’s books and Stiles a contract illustrator. They’re paired up to work on a lot of projects together but have never met. When one of their works becomes a bestseller, they finally get the chance to meet.

Commission for @loveyprophet

His desk was covered in stacks of paper and folders, drafted stories held together by the colourful paperclips his sister had bought him as a joke, various notebooks and scraps of paper with reminders or ideas written on them, published copies of his books, colourful sticky notes, his laptop, and a coffee mug that had left a ring scorched into the wooden table top over time.

Derek sorted through the files, pulling out the pale blue folder of his latest project.

It was another collaboration with Stiles Stilinski, a contact illustrator. He and Derek had worked together on several projects now and Derek loved working with him. They had never actually met in person, but they had spent months sending emails back and forth and every draft or manuscript that they passed back and forth had fun little notes written in the margins.

Derek had memorised Stiles’ handwriting at this point, and every time he saw one of his illustrations he was mesmerised. It didn’t matter what it was, he knew the art style—slightly sketchy linework and soft colouring, not bold colour and blocked out shapes.

Stiles had a way of making his art look enchanting and inviting. And every illustration made Derek’s stories come to life.

Derek’s laptop chimed, a notification lighting up the screen of his phone beside him. He picked up his phone, reading his sister’s name before setting the phone aside again and turning back to his work.

He rifled through the collected pages of the drafted story and the sketches Stiles had made up for him—character designs and quickly drawn backgrounds that he wanted Derek’s feedback on. The manuscript pages were filled with scrawls of colourful pen.

Stiles had explained it once: red was unsolved—things that needed clarity, yellow was ‘to be confirmed’—typos and corrections or suggestions, green was solved, and blue was ‘just pretty’.

Most of the pages were full of blue—messages to Derek or little doodles in the corner of the page that always made him smile.

There was a quiet knock at the door.

“Come in,” he said, glancing up from his work to see Lydia step into his office, her long strawberry-blonde hair pulled back from her face.

“Laura just called,” she told him. “She says to tell you to look at your emails.”

“I will,” Derek replied.

“Now,” Lydia said with finality.

Derek let out a measured breath and pulled his laptop forward, opening up his emails to find several unread messages. He found the email from Laura and opened it.

Congratulations—your story, ‘What’s Mine is Yours’, is on the bestsellers list for the second month running.

Because of this, the company has set up a deal with a few local bookstores and libraries for you and Stiles to do meet-and-greets, reading sessions, and book signings—this is not optional, Derek.

I’ve attached a schedule of the dates and places as well as airline tickets for the few signings that are out-of-state.

Dress code is casual and don’t scare the little kids.

Love,

Laura.

Derek typed out a quick reply to let his sister know he’d read the email and downloaded the attachments before turning back to his work.

He picked up the piece of paper and froze, a wave of realisation washing over him.

He was finally going to meet Stiles.

Stiles span around on his chair, turning from his desk to the lightbox he had set up nearby, he grabbed a pencil and began to sketch out an illustration.

His desk was a mess of paper—sketches, pieces of paper, drafted stories he had to draw illustrations for. Scattered among the mess were coloured pens, pencils and markers, and a tablet that was connected to his computer.

He had stacks of sketchbooks full of illustrations, doodles and drafts—he liked to sketch things out on paper before transferring them to digital copies and refining the illustrations before putting them into the manuscript drafts or emailing them to Derek.

The rest of his office was full of cardboard boxes—packed full of sketchbooks, reference books, and folders of old projects. Their office was being renovated, which meant they had to move all their filing cabinets and storage boxes.

Pages of drafted stories and notes lay around him or pinned up on the wall, covered in Derek’s neat cursive writing—the writing that always gave him butterflies in his stomach and made him smile whenever he saw it.

His computer screen lit up, catching his attention. An email notification showed up in the bottom corner of his screen. He clicked on it and opened the email.

Hi Stiles,

Congratulations—your story, ‘What’s Mine is Yours’, is on the bestsellers list for the second month running.

Because of this, the company has set up a deal with a few local bookstores and libraries for you and Derek to do meet-and-greets, reading sessions, and book signings.

I’ve attached a schedule of the dates and places as well as airline tickets for the few signings that are out-of-state.

Dress code is casual.

Best wishes,

Laura Hale.

Stiles smiled slightly, a feeling of triumph settling in his chest.

What’s Mine is Yours was one of the first books he worked on with Derek—the story about two dragons – Plush and Snug – and their hoards, one of pillows and the other of blankets, learning to share.

It was also one of his favourite stories.

Derek had a way with words, a way of making everything seem so magical. He could take a story—a world of magic and adventure—and refine it into a couple-hundred words for children to read.

He opened the attachments, printing them and pinning them to his wall before pulling out his planner and writing down the dates and times—flagging them with colourful tabs.

He sent back a reply and sat back in his chair.

His delight gave way to panic as reality set in and he realised he was finally going to meet Derek.

The first meet-and-greet came around faster than Derek thought.

He’d spent the morning pacing back and forth in his apartment, fussing with his clothes and changing several times. He eventually settled on a faded grey Henley and dark jeans.

The event was at a local library—not too far from his apartment—so he decided to walk there to try and calm his nerves.

When he arrived, he stepped over to the front desk. He offered the young librarian a friendly smile when she looked up at him and opened his mouth to introduce himself when a familiar voice rang out across the library.

“There you are.”

Derek looked at the librarian apologetically before turning to look at his sister. “Hi, Laura. Nice to see you too.”

“Come on, we’re setting you up in the children’s corner,” Laura said, making her way through the rows of bookshelves and over to the corner of the library where the children’s section was.

There were two rows of low shelves with children’s book lined up on them and another shelf running along the wall. The space was open—a few plush benches were pushed up against the walls for the adults or the children to sit on while they read.

The clear floorspace by the window had been filled with a bunch of blankets, pillows and cushions for the children to sit on. There were beanbags and stools for the parents and two stools in the corner for Stiles and Derek.

They’d set it up with a table for when they signed the books, copies of the book stacked up on the table with a few on display while boxes of stock were hidden beneath the table.

A young man stood by the window, dressed in a blue-and-grey hooded sweatshirt and jeans. His dark brown eye caught the golden sunlight that streamed through the wall of windows, swirling like pools of golden liquor. His chestnut-brown hair was a tousled mess and he was covered in moles that charted constellations across his skin, a sweet smile lighting up his face as he met Derek’s gaze.

Stiles.

Derek was starstruck as he stared at the young man. He was more beautiful than Derek could have ever imagined.

“Hi,” Stiles said, smiling sweetly at Derek.

“Hi,” Derek replied, breathless. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

A soft, rosy-pink blush coloured Stiles’ cheeks. “You too.”

“The reading circle starts in about half an hour,” Laura told them. “Lydia’s going to be here in a minute to help with book sales. You just have to read the story, say hi to the kids, and sign the books. I’ve got to run, but I’ll be back in an hour or two. If you’re good, I’ll even bring you coffee.”

She took a step to leave before turning back.

“And, Derek?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t scare the little kids.”

Derek screwed up his face at her.

Laura laughed before turning to walk away.

The reading went well.

Stiles sat nearby as Derek read the story, listening to his deep, soothing voice.

He watched as the crowd of children—who were sitting on the cushions or with blankets draped around the shoulders—watched on, mesmerised.

Once they were done, they made their way over to the table where Lydia was selling copies of the book.

There was two seats behind the table, but Derek took one glance at a little girl who was too small to look over the table and shook his head. He sat down on the floor in front of the table, greeting the kids, signing the books, getting hugs and taking photos.

Stiles joined him, sitting down beside him.

The kids lined up, looking shy or smiling broadly as they handed over their copies of the book to be signed.

Stiles and Derek opened each of the books to the first page and wrote messages inside for the children before signing them. Stiles left the occasional doodle at the bottom of a page, watching as the kids’ faces lit up with joy when they saw them.

After a while, things started to quiet down. A lot of the children had left, but one boy—who looked to be barely five years old—lingered in the corner of the room with his big sister, clutching a toy to his chest.

His sister talked quietly to him before taking his hand and walking him over to Stiles and Derek.

“Hi there,” Derek said softly. “What’s your name?”

“Corey,” the boy muttered quietly.

“Hi, Corey. I’m Derek.”

The boy bowed his head bashfully, tightening his hold around his toy.

“What have you got there?” Derek asked.

“Plush,” Corey answered, loosening his hold slightly to show Stiles and Derek his toy dragon—the same dragon from their book, the one who hoarded pillows.

“Wow,” Derek whispered, a bright smile lighting up his face.

Stiles watched in amazement as the quiet boy slowly opened up to the man.

“It’s my favourite book,” Corey said quietly. “My brother reads it to me before bed every night. And for my birthday, my sister made me Plush.”

Derek looked up at Corey’s sister.

“You made him?” he asked.

The girl nodded.

He watched as Derek’s pale aventurine eyes glimmered in the daylight, full of surprise and amazement.

“That’s incredible,” Derek said.

A sad look settled on Corey’s face as he bowed his head.

“What’s wrong?” Derek asked, craning his neck to look the boy in the eye.

“I left my book at home,” Corey admitted.

Derek looked around—there was no one else there, only them.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Derek whispered as he reached under the table and pulled a copy of the book out from one of the boxes.

“We don’t have any money on us,” Corey’s sister object.

“This one’s for free, but you can’t tell anyone that,” Derek said, winking at the boy. He opened the book to the first page and signed it before offering it to Stiles.

Stiles smiled as he took it from Derek, looking down at the familiar cursive of Derek’s writing as he read over the message Derek had written.

Down the bottom of the page, he wrote his own message and drew a quick sketch of Plush before offering the book to Corey.

The boy’s eye flew open wide.

“Really?” he whispered.

A soft smile turned up the corners of Derek’s lips. “Really.”

“Thank you so much,” Corey said, trying to juggle Plush and the book. He paused for a moment. “Can I… Can I have a hug?”

“Of course,” Derek said.

Corey passed the book to his sister before rushing into Derek’s arms and hugging him tight. He muttered quietly as tears welled in his eyes. He pulled back from Derek and hugged Stiles, his tears falling down his pale cheeks.

“Come on, Corey,” his sister said softly. “We’ve got to get going.”

Corey pulled back, steadying himself on his feet before taking his sister’s hand.

She began to lead him away but he stopped, turning back.

“Thank you,” he said one last time.

“You’re very welcome,” Stiles and Derek said in unison.

Stiles waited until Corey and his sister were gone before turning to Derek. “Isn’t your sister going to notice there’s a lack of profit?”

“What lack of profit?” Derek asked, pulling his wallet out of his pocket and handing the money over to Lydia.

She put the cash in the small box they were using as a till, a sweet smile turning up the corners of her lips as she looked at Stiles and Derek.

Stiles felt a rush of warmth settle in his chest, a soft smile playing across his lips. If he wasn’t in love with Derek before, he sure was now.

He’d fallen—hard—and there was no going back.

Stiles sat on the hotel bed, resting his sketchbook against his knees as he leant back against the headboard. He had a pencil in his hand, the tip scratching at the paper.

They were days into the book tour and had flown across the country to continue the readings. They had been put up in a hotel room with double beds.

It was a large room with light grey walls. A table and two chairs sat in the far corner of the room by the large glass door that led out onto a small balcony and there was a small bathroom by the door. The beds had small tables beside them and a plush grey headboard that ran the length of the wall the beds were pushed against. Behind the plush headboard was a small shelf with a strip of lighting that lit the room.

Across from the beds was a large television, the screen lit up with light and colour. The volume was turned down and neither of them were watching—it was just background noise to break the silence between them.

Derek sat on the other bed, reading over a manuscript and making small notations and edits. Usually other sounds in the room would drive him mad, but there was something about Stiles’ presence—something about the rhythmic scratching of the pencil against his sketchpad—that seemed to calm him.

Eventually his curiosity won him over.

Derek set down his pen, looking over at Stiles.

“Do you draw every night?” he asked.

Stiles looked up, slightly alarmed. “If I’m annoying you, I can stop.”

“No, you’re not annoying me,” Derek said softly. “Quite the opposite actually.”

Stiles looked down at his sketchbook. “Kind of. I try to draw every day. A lot of the time I don’t, but I figured we’ve got a lot of downtime right now so I should probably get some practice in.”

“What are you drawing?”

Stiles’ face flushed bright red.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Derek said reassuringly. “I was just curious.”

“It’s a little embarrassing,” Stiles admitted.

“I’m not one to judge.”

“It’s you,” Stiles admitted.

“Me?”

“I need more practice drawing people and you have a really nice face—and I can’t believe I just said that out loud,” Stiles rambled.

Derek let out a low chuckle.

“Can I see it?” he asked.

Stiles let out a measured breath and turned his sketchbook around to show Derek.

Derek’s face fell, his amused expression giving way to shock and awe as he looked at the sketched portrait.

It was like looking in a mirror—although slightly distorted by Stiles’ sketchy art style, the art style that Derek loved. It was a perfect likeness—thick dark hair, a soft beard that cast a shadow across his jaw, and wide-set eyes were pale—shaded a little with his green pencil and so lifelike. It was as if they caught the light, the shade of his eyes shifting from hazel to green – clear, bright and focused. The hint of a smile turned up the corners of his mouth, softening his stern featured.

“That’s amazing,” Derek muttered, shocked.

A rosy-pink blush coloured Stiles’ cheeks as he turned the sketchbook back around, looking down at the drawing.

He paused for a moment, then with one quick movement, he tore the page out of the book.

“What are you doing?” Derek asked, alarmed.

Stiles quickly signed the bottom of the page before holding it out for Derek to take. “Here.”

Derek blinked in surprise, taking the page and looking down at the sketch. He felt a strange warmth settle in his chest, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

He looked up at Stiles.

“Really?” he asked.

“Really,” Stiles said.

“Thank you.”

Derek looked down at it one more time before carefully sliding the drawing into a folder where it wouldn’t get damaged.

“You seem distracted today,” Stiles said as the two of them returned to their hotel room. “What’s on your mind?”

“It’s nothing,” Derek said quietly.

Two weeks of meet-and-greets and book signings passed faster than Derek would have liked.

Tomorrow was their last reading. After that they’d fly back home and return to their jobs, only ever talking through emails or the notes in the margins of their drafts.

The thought made Derek’s chest ache.

He’d gotten so used to being with Stiles the past two weeks that he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to not see his face—he didn’t want to imagine it.

“It’s clearly something,” Stiles argued, sitting down on the edge of his bed. “You said you didn’t judge me, and I’m not going to judge you. So if you want someone to talk to, I’m all ears.”

"When you're in the room, I find it so hard to focus on anything else," Derek blurted out.

Stiles was taken aback. His lips quivered as they moved around unspoken words. After a moment, he sheepishly said. "I’m sorry. I don't mean to be a bother."

"No, I didn't mean it like that." Derek paused for a moment, letting out a measured breath before saying, "I like you."

Stiles blinked in surprise.

"I know it sounds stupid since. I mean, we never even met before this book tour, but it..." His voice faltered and his words trailed off, shaky as he lost confidence. He dropped his gaze, looking down at his feet. "Never mind. Just forget I ever said anything."

"But it feels like we've known each other forever," Stiles finished.

Derek looked up, meeting Stiles’ dark eyes.

“I feel the same way,” Stiles continued, his voice quiet, shy. He fell silent for a second, swallowing hard as he looked from Derek to his hands in his lap. “I like you too… I really like you—and I… I’d never be able to live with myself if I didn’t tell you how I feel. But if you want to just go back home tomorrow and just go back to work and pretend like this never happened, then I can do that… I can try…”

“And what if I don’t want to?” Derek asked.

Stiles looked up at him. His shock gave way to a soft smile.

Derek took a step forward, stepping over to Stiles’ side. He gently cupped Stiles’ face in one hand, his tender touch sending shivers down Stiles’ spine. He leant forward, closing the space between them and bringing their mouths together.

Stiles let his breath fall from his lungs. His eyes fluttered shut as he leant into the kiss.

Derek’s lips were soft and warm, the kiss tender, slow and sweet.

Derek drew back, licking his lips as he savoured the kiss. He grinned at Stiles’ euphoric expression.

Stiles tilted his chin upwards, chasing his Derek’s lips. He felt Derek chuckle against his mouth as he brought them back together again. He looped his arms around Derek’s neck as he brought his lips back to Derek’s.

He fell back against the mattress, pulling Derek down on top of him.

Derek smiled against his lips, his body pressed against Stiles’ as they lay on the bed. He kissed him lightly—lovingly—slowly drawing back and resting his forehead against Stiles’.

A soft smile played across his lips.

“I’ve been meaning to ask…” Stiles started slowly, slightly out of breath. “Do you want to go out for coffee sometime?”

Derek burst out in laughter, his eyes sparkling as he met Stiles’ gaze.

“I’d love to,” Derek whispered, leaning forward to kiss Stiles again.

[AO3]

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dontcallmecarrie · 5 years

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Hi!!! Love your new snapshots!!! Sorry if this is a stupid question but if it’s 1995, then why would any of their actions affect Tony and Sam being born - shouldn’t they be alive already? Sorry if I missed something!

Friend, that’s not a stupid question. It’s just that the rules around time travel and the butterfly effect are both really, really screwy in By Myself But Not Alone.

In this case, yes, Sam and Tony both are already running around in 1995. But the concern that’s being addressed is the worry the Time Travelers Anonymous/ Avengers crew have about where the line is, in regards to acceptable changes to the timeline.

Where they’re at in that scene, their concerns are chiefly focused on events in the MCU canon timeline— aka, mostly focused after 2000. The debate about bringing in Bucky and telling him ‘yeah, so turns out we’re also from the Bad Ending Timeline and we want to fix everything’ versus not has to do with what changes could possibly arise, compared with what he wants.

After all, Bucky’s the first one to wake up in this world. If he’d wanted to, he could’ve picked up Steve and made his way home, could’ve had a nice, peaceful life after the war, or joined SHIELD, etc.

But he didn’t.

The rest of the team’s seeing the choices he’s made in this timeline, and they have a pretty good idea of what he wants. To an outsider/someone who doesn’t remember the Bad Ending Timeline, the Winter Soldier’s just a cryptid, if a kinda helpful one at that. The ultimate good Samaritan who’s in the right place at the right time, who’s prevented accidents and saved countless people over the years, directly or indirectly.

Because here, the Winter Soldier isn’t the Fist of HYDRA when he shaped the century; he’s James ‘Bucky’ Barnes, a very tired and very cranky supersoldier who is Done with this bullshit. He doesn’t even know what the hell’s going on anymore, he just woke up right after dying and is now in the perfect position to give HYDRA the ultimate middle finger.

So he does. He very carefully, very deliberately tampers with events he remembers earlier on in the timeline, and that’s the story of how Operation Paperclip turned into a clusterfuck and why SHIELD and HYDRA have been sworn enemies for decades now, and why HYDRA is a shell of what it could have been.

But he’s also very, very careful with how he went about it, and that’s what the Time Travelers Anonymous team is picking up on. They’re not the ones who have to worry about whether or not some allies might or might not be born, for the most part. Granted, nobody in that scene’s quite sure how old Spider-Man or Shuri are, but this type of concern is still very present whenever they talk about what changes they need to make.

Bucky, however, is another story entirely. If he’d wanted to, he could’ve eliminated just about anyone in the MCU from existence, simply by preventing them from being born. It wouldn’t have even needed to be intentional: for instance, all he would’ve had to do would’ve been to get a message to Howard at the right [wrong] time, of ‘I know where Steve Rogers is’, and boom, no Tony Stark in this particular universe.

So, to the team from another world, they can very easily pick up on just how much effort he’s made in avoiding that exact scenario, times a hundred. Which is why they’re debating about approaching him or not; because if he’s so meticulous about preserving the timeline, he might either become an excellent ally, or hypervigilant about their own actions. Not to mention the possibilities of the butterfly effect happening again, because they’re already seeing the effects of temporal changes in this world, such as the Problem of Howard Stark.

All in all, the entire crew of time travelers just want to protect their new home, it’s just that there’s a lot of concerns about how to go about it. On the one hand, they want to prevent the bad stuff from happening, but on the other, some of those hardships were necessary to produce the world they live in. Like Steve going into the ice, or Tony’s ill-fated trip to Afghanistan [even if the decision for that particular instance is one everyone’s going to regret for years afterwards].

#I got an ask!#replies #Naught replies #By Myself But Not Alone #My writing #behind the scenes

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gold-from-straw · 5 years

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Backstage of the Universe - ch5

In which Erik is a ball of angst, Mona is a paperclip (among other things) and Charles always says the worst thing he could possibly say. Read from the beginning on AO3 if you prefer!

When Charles walked into the kitchen that morning, his hair falling over his brow, blue eyes flushed with concentration and the last vestiges (he hoped) of illness, Erik’s mind seemed to freeze, the coffee pot still tilted over his mug. Charles glanced up as he lowered himself onto a seat, his face alight with triumph, and caught Erik’s gaze. The moment stretched to infinity, elastic and fragile, and Erik shattered it, turning away to add milk to his cup, his hand not shaking though by rights it should have been.

Raven had found him that first night, her eyes calm. “Sit down asshole.”

“I thought you weren’t angry with me any more,” he smirked.

“No, not at all, but that doesn’t mean I don’t remember. And now I’ve got a clear head I know exactly what I need to do. Now sit your ass down.”

She told him how Charles looked when he’d been a breath away from death. How his skin looked yellow and waxy, swollen and oedemaed with infection. How Hank had made the decision to inject him with the serum because Charles had been insensate and Raven had been hysterical.

Now Erik turned his head, startled by Bart’s raucous laugh. Charles smiled at her, a bite of Raven’s pancakes hovering on his fork, and Erik had to leave the room, take himself away from that tableau as delicate as spun glass.

‘Try to avoid breaking him any more,’ Hank had said, but Erik had never meant for any of this to happen. Charles had meant the world to him since the moment he’d pulled him from the ocean; Erik had been powerless to turn away. And then Cuba had happened, Charles lying broken in his arms, and Erik had wanted to tear the world apart, find someone else to blame, because it couldn’t be—

“You did this,” he said to himself in the mirror, and Charles’ voice, tight with pain was what he heard. Erik was nothing but a weapon, nothing but rage, and that serenity Charles had given him was just an illusion, a hope as easily stolen as his mother’s life.

And all because of Erik.

Raven was right. Every time Erik came near Charles, he broke him a little more. Erik wondered if it was his fate to bring the greatest pain to those he loved the most, and laughed. Of course it was. This is what Shaw had made him - a weapon with only his anger to rely on, only the fight.

He would help settle the children, and then leave, before he could do any more damage.

Erik tried to keep out of the way, stay aloof and as uninvolved as he could. After all, if he was going to be leaving them soon, it wouldn’t do to let the children get attached.

It became clear very quickly that it was way too late for that. He’d thought that Bart’s insistence on him staying was down to an over-tired child’s tantrum, but in the days that followed, she refused to leave his side.

Then he’d told himself that she was out of the ordinary, but Martin and Vogel shadowed him too. Cross and Gripps, of course, were never far behind, although they preferred Hank’s company. Cross because Hank was always ready to talk about science at any opportunity, and Gripps because Hank’s brilliant blue fur was perfect for filling with colourful butterfly clips and barrettes.

And although Mona adored Charles and Raven both, she seemed just as likely to appear as a teddy for Charles or something totally random for fellow shifter Raven, as a piece of metal for Erik to hover and twist absently above his outstretched palm.

He hadn’t realised it was her at first - he had simply found a paper clip in his pocket and started stretching it into strange shapes, walking down the hallway. Charles, back in his wheelchair and off the serum, paused, frowning, then yelped “dear God, Erik, put the paper clip down, that’s a child!”

Erik, startled by the wave of pure panic Charles projected (and, honestly, the strangest sentence of his life as well), dropped the paper clip. Sure enough, it turned into a rubber ball the moment it hit the ground, bounced to Charles and landed in his lap as Mona.

“Hello Charles!” she squealed, cuddling him tight. “Did you see Erik shifting me? It was so much fun!”

Erik’s initial assessment that the children were immune to their powers had quickly been proven incomplete. It seemed to be more complicated, and hard to predict than that. Erik, for instance, could control metal around them, even lifting Bart into the air by the buckles of her dungarees. But as soon as she picked up a weapon, all their powers seemed to pass around or through her, having no effect as the adults held out their hands and begged her to be careful in impotent panic.

They still had very little clear idea of where their powers came from; they tested negative for the X-gene, and otherwise seemed to be human. Apart from the shapeshifting and inability to eat anything other than emotions, and so on.

Svlad took the longest to warm up to his new life, and seemed to avoid all of them as much as possible. Erik was content to leave him to it, after all, he didn’t much like the company of others. But Charles couldn’t leave well enough alone.

“Svlad,” he said at breakfast one morning, smiling kindly at the little boy. “I thought you might want to do some work today, learning how to control your power.”

Svlad’s face drained of colour and he stared around the table at all the other children, who refused to meet his eye. “No! I’m… I’m sorry, I’ll be good I promise, I…”

“Svlad… oh God, no, I didn’t—“ Charles’ eyes widened. “Oh, you poor child, I won’t—“

He reached out to Svlad, who stumbled off his chair and raced away. Raven looked from face to face around the table. “What was that?”

Charles was looking wildly at all the children, then turned frantic blue eyes on Erik.

Erik just looked flatly at him, his fury banked to its usual red glow. “Really, Charles, I bring a bunch of children in from a CIA testing facility and you think offering them the chance to test their abilities is going to be a treat for them?”

“I… I was trying to be kind…”

“Schmidt was kind too, at the start,” Erik said through gritted teeth.

Charles stared at him, his face almost grey, then turned his chair and wheeled jerkily out of the kitchen. Erik focused on his breakfast, and not on memories of kind smiles that promised pain.

Tagging you lovely people who interacted with the last chapter! @lavenderchaitea, @iwillshipyouman, @thewritersspeaking, @highfunctioningsociopathsworld and @slytherclaw134689

#Lyn's Writing #Backstage of the Universe #cherik #Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency #x-men: days of future past #hurt/comfort #emotional hurt/comfort #kid fic #blackwing

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mercyasakura · 5 years

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As a papercrafter, I usually build up a lot of scraps over a short period of time. Unfortunately, these scraps begin to make me feel very guilty and I must use all of them as soon as I can, sometimes to a point of distraction. There have been many times that I’ve just couldn’t make a new project without tackling the scrap collection situation. I hate throwing things out, so I came up with a way to really use up smaller bits, extra random die cuts and other doodads to make more useful items.

Embellishments, the ultimate in adding a little pizzazz to any page or project, can be made using those guilt-driving scraps of doom–I mean paper! It’s actually like a puzzle, very zen and relaxing. And it’s really satisfying to be able to recycle smaller pieces rather than waste them. And putting small projects together sometimes sparks an idea that leads to larger ones. It’s a good way to change things up and get reinspired, to rejuvenate the creative juices, so to speak.

Some extra rubber stamped images I usually have around because I like coloring and hate cleaning rubber stamps.

More of my random crap.

Random paper dies and cut outs.

Pile of die cut circles and geometric shapes, mostly.

When I say I have a lot of scraps, I really do mean it. First I dumped a large box of random paper on my table, and organized it roughly by type… and by type I mean either a focal point (like any of the rubber stamped images, stickers, colored chipboard pieces, etc), medium sized die cuts that could be the second layer behind the focal point, and then, a larger geometric piece of paper that could be the base of the embellishment.

Little pieces I found from the piles and glued together using glue stick.

Example of the super simple ones I did.

Another option as I had a lot of these little colored hearts.

Sample of the tags and the piles.

When I started these, I was just trying to keep them super simple and just get an idea of how they can work together. As I created, I added more and more layers, but as I look back on them (as I write this blog post) I could of even gone even further by adding ribbons, placing these things on clothespins or paperclips. These were a totally fun learning experience.

An extra from a paper pieced stamp project I did before.

All the layers I put together. The butterfly rectangle was from some paper quote I found. The doily I inked using distress inks.

Close up completed tag.

Inks I used to color the circle doily.

Kitty paper pieced item.

Both completed tags together

Having a lot of previously stamped images really gave me a number of great options for these embellishments.

Viva Las Vegas Stamps had this fairy stamp. I had this die I bought from Amazon for less than $5 and the banner I just freehand cut out.

Another option for the Viva Las Vegas Stamp.

I’m sure I will be doing more experiments in making these little add-ons to journal pages.

These were further samples of what I ended up making that day. I’ll be adding these to my photo albums and possibly to some of the boxes I have. They were super fun to make with and create a myriad of possibilities.

Using up Scraps As a papercrafter, I usually build up a lot of scraps over a short period of time.

#Embellishments #journal embellishments #papercraft #recycling #recycling scraps #scraps #things to do with scrap paper

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mothershipresidencies · 4 years

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Lucy Steggals

Deer Moon

In the absence of a corkscrew I have just opened the last bottle of wine bought for the burning with a black screw and a pair of acid yellow pliers.

They are the same pliers I use to extract scalpel blades from the holder when they are blunt. Deer Moon the moment is now. I have changed my screen saver to the only image I have of you looking at me. I have abandoned the blood pen and I am writing to you on a digital white blank page. When I was nearer you, I made a small cuttlefish ship from all the white things I found. For sails it had a feather and a head phone port from an iPhone.

I think I am going to open the grey book that I never got to the middle of. I am going to begin at the end. Holding it closed is the perfect egg-shaped stone my Mum found on the beach that is clothed in yellowing layers. They tell you not to sit on the rocks there now because those faces are dangerous, they crumble and kill.

17th

I buried some of the ash at the base of the oak tree and put the rest down the compost loo to dispel odors. I never did see an albino deer but after I left when I got to where I was going, I saw for the first time a jet-black squirrel.

16th

I am digging a shallow grave with a round silver spoon borrowed from the Mothership. It’s a sunny spot, up high. However hard I bend and twist I can’t see the man, only soft white chalk curves. I am too close to him. At the base of the hill in the Abbey I balanced a feather on the palest solitary blushed rose and breathed in deeply. I know people come here to conceive bit I am sure today that’s not relevant.

On the way here we went to a place where miniature people were scurrying about wounding trees and building beautiful bridges that go nowhere. A man with gold tooth offered us half a chocolate digestive and stopped us reversing into a ditch. My feet are black with ash and face is warm from the suns gaze. I am happy in this corner between the wall and the window watching the acorn rain. In the graveyard a bush swallowed me. I held tightly to a spindly twig, gently so as not to break it.

The table in front of me has almost nothing man made on it apart from a camera a phone and an armless Kewpie with seaweed for arms. Cuttle fish ships sail across it.

No more dead dust. I am stroking my body with oiled stones from the sea. We walked barefoot on the beach and spun seaweed. Sometime soon I will fill a bath with it and just float. I am laden with pebbles and drift wood but I am going to hold what happened here lightly like a cloud of tiny spiders. If you look hard enough at the rock face the sky looks more solid than the land.

15th

Yesterday people came with stories of other people. The parents who moved house without telling their children and fitted the new house out exactly like the old one. The man who had a motorcycle accident and reclaimed himself using his old shirts as an anchor. A collective tale of unwanted dolls from faraway places in plastic tube coffins. Together we got lost and sank onto a bog. We ate a thousand small fish, perfect in death, that had jumped out of the sea with curry, cake and a Turkish type of delight from Greece. After dinner we burnt the pleated moon under a full harvest moon, roasted a single marshmallow and breathed in frankincense and myrrh.

14th

Today I passed through the glass and deliberately had my coffee, a blood grapefruit not more than three meters from where I had it yesterday. I am facing the oak tree dead on. If I lean one way I can see the solitary swing, lean the other and through the leaves are three others. Two forwards and backwards and a perch with rings.

The single swing is hung from the sturdiest branch, it spins in a chaotic unbalanced, skin chaffing way. I have been looking at it for days. All four rely on the oak tree, I think we are going to be friends for a long time. It like me is not perfect it is scarred and gnarled in parts. I wonder if this is a mast year the year a tree produces more acorns than the deer and squirrels can eat? I have finished and hung my pleated ring in the window. Through that which is seen I filmed myself swinging.

Later I felt you standing there in the clearing did you come to say goodbye.

13th

Hovering in the window are two hole and one-half blank pages. One is a doorway that reflects the sky back to me. I have started pleating the paper from 1996 ‘I swear to take a man I love to the William Morris room’ heading backwards to 1993 ‘I am a pimple on the clear complexion of the earth’ It feels less like destroying more like mending. Together they went to Dorchester to by wax thread and needles. We met by the sea and ate overpriced fish. The dog was sick under the chair. The ink is dry and I have lost my thread let’s start again.

I have paper now also scissors and a stone. paper wraps stone, stone blunts scissors, scissors cut paper do you need all there or just two of the same? You have not appeared. I am going to thread the wax string into the sail needle and see what happens.

12th

Frank, Dickon, Nick, Simon one and two, Benji, Luke, Ben, Rob…Fold, Fold, Fold… ‘I hate me’

I have dismantled 1994- I think I might turn it all into a giant clown’s ruff, for Lucky.

They predicted I would marry but would have many other men in the kitchen making breakfast. I would be hippyish, would hate my kids and make them wear clothes from Oxfam. I would cut out butterflies and hang them from the ceiling, wear weird cloths and leave all the windows open. I am scared the blank pages will steal my words. To late I have cut the cord shall I rearrange, edit extract or just eat it?

There is a pile for travel, Nepal, Cherbourg; one for small notes from the school board; a permit for treks of enchantment; a reference to a burnt eyelid; letters from Belgium,; my first pill packet; a paperclip; old photographs; cards from dead people; tattoos to be applied at the same time by friends across the channel and poems and quotes from Chaplin and Rossetti.

A small dent has appeared on my third finger sort of like an old bee sting with a worn-out center. I am writing this a studio where other people’s archives are hiding, trapped in liminal space. I am afraid of blankness. It hovers, lurks waits to punch, suffocates. It’s a full moon on Saturday. Burning rituals have happened here before. Ash can feed fallow ground. Can it be a fond farewell?

The lady with the grey dog wouldn’t burn here diaries. She keeps them for memory and to give to her daughter to read so she understands her… but she only has sons. My brother stopped by for tea today.

A red admiral butterfly flew in earlier. She said it might be her mother. The moon and the Deer are here to help me.

11th

I am afraid of you blank page because of the old ones. Left-handed people should not use fountain pens. The sky is hammering on the corrugated plastic roof it wants to be heard. I am sitting in a corner outside is a perfect clearing with a single swing. This morning I felt something I turned and caught a flash of the rear end of a deer. There were more, two are dappled with multiple moons. I arrived with a box of supplies packed by my mum inside it she had put an old embroidery hoop and an image of a small girl holding a hula hope int a spinning glass frame. It’s on the table if you spin it catches the evening sun and turns the room into a carousel. I also bought the Dorset diaries 15-18 1993-1996 from the side all you see is the edge. Diaries are not tidy things, stuff slips out. ‘We don’t grow up we just layer’. I am going to fold the page back make the first of many creases. Why do we keep them? unhealed trauma someone said recently. I think I just saw an albino deer, a sign of divinity, transformation and soul purification. I stare out the window longing for it to return. I am both doe and fawn being chased by a blank white page. My hand is bloodied now there is no turning back. I can slay with a pen. Stay on the deer tracks. If there is a point on a circle you can get to it two ways. At home in a glass dome I have a broken pulled glass fawn with an old clay pipe for a leg. Almost I stand it up holding my breath as I replace the lid so it doesn’t fall. Another thing on the table here is a terracotta faceless woman hunched over in a headscarf and shawl. I made her at the same time as the diaries. She is the sister of another figure bent almost double. I don’t know if she still exists? If so she is in the blue mountains near indigo valley. She has travelled further than me. It’s dusk the deer have returned. I have switched out the lights and am laying, waiting. I no longer fear blank pages because I am already wrapped. I have cut my eyes on thorns and fallen down banks in bad shoes. I turned my coat to amour but now it is returning to fur. I am still wary of predators but am looking across at a wide-open space near running water with a swing where deer’s come often to graze.

Deer Moon meeting you was a gentle joy and I miss you.

I must order more red ink.

Much love

Lucy

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the-kings-tail-fin · 7 years

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How Cars changed my life

Gonna gush a little about personal stuff here...

Let’s see, I was 11 when Cars first came out. I didn’t get to watch it before it came out on DVD, but when I did, hoooo boy did I watch it every. single. day. I loved it from the beginning. And at that age, you know kids are super impressionable. I felt so connected to the characters, and the more I learned about the American car culture, the more I appreciated the little details in the movie that perfectly paralleled real world automotive culture. I would spend hours watching the Barrett-Jackson auctions on TV, practically drooling over all the pristine classics. I grew to love the muscle cars of the late 60s and early 70s more and more (especially the Mopars). I knew I had to get closer to the culture instead of just viewing it through a screen. I started asking to go to car shows, which my parents agreed to, as they’ve always been car people. The Carl Casper Custom Auto Show was always the closest to where I lived, so I went to several of those and met a lot of really great, friendly people that were just as passionate about automotive culture as I was and still am. I had to be a part of this.

Fast forward 3 or 4 years. I think I was 14 (15 maybe?). I had the opportunity to invest in a car. Some dude wanted to sell his 1986 Pontiac Fiero for $300. I’d previously taken apart an old motorcycle and sold the parts on eBay, so I had the money. The car didn’t run when I got it, and it had water damage. Pretty rough. After a month or so of working on it in the dead of a Midwestern winter, my dad and I got it running. And it was fast. It had the 6 cylinder engine, which was hella impressive for a two-seater fiberglass-bodied car. Too fast for little ol me, according to dad. So I sold it and made a profit. I began looking for something else.

A year later, I was able to buy a reliable Ford Escort for $300. Nothing fancy, but I was able to complete my driver’s ed training in it. A fun little car, but again, nothing special. And I needed something that was gonna set me apart and exclaim to the world that I was a car enthusiast and belonged with the culture.

In the beginning of the summer between my sophomore and junior year of high school, my prayers had been answered. It wasn’t a muscle car, it wasn’t even a Mopar. It was an old rusted 1983 Chevy pickup truck. The fenders were pretty far gone, but mechanically, it was in pretty good shape. I spent 3 months in my garage with my dad’s assistance replacing rusted panels, installing a new carburetor (the old one had the butterflies being held open by a paperclip -- not the best of solutions), adjusting the timing, and doing more body work.

I was having bouts of depression along this same time, so it helped a lot to get out of bed and have something to do, and keep my mind occupied as I fought against it. I would talk to this truck, sing it songs, just anything to feel like someone cared and knew what I was going through. It became more than a project, my Scotty became a friend (he’s a Scottsdale, get it?). A place I could go to and get away from the things I needed to run from.

Here’s what it looked like at the beginning of all this (I can’t find the picture before I stripped the grill and trim off) -

Three months. Midwestern summertime (90+ degrees and humidity you can practically swim in). I was a 16 year old girl who wanted nothing more than to have something of her own to be proud of. I was still watching Cars nearly every night (trying to hide it from my parents because I didn’t want them to know I was/am so obsessed with it) and still noticing new details I’d never noticed before. Every day I’d go work on this truck. For 3 months.

Piece by piece it came together. Every day he looked a little better. And every day I would feel better. There would be relapses occasionally, where I just couldn’t bring myself to go outside, but every time I was able to pull through. Because he was there, and he was my purpose.

And, boy let me tell you, was all that work worth it. This was the finished product, and I have never been more proud of anything.

Yep, that’s the same truck. No professional help whatsoever. You should have seen the look on the boys’ faces when I pulled up to school in this! I finally had my classic truck. It might not be a 60s or 70s classic, but it was mine and mine alone.

I didn’t beat the depression for another 3 years or so, but Scotty was right there with me the whole time. And maybe it’s weird to find solace in an inanimate object, I don’t know. Occasionally he’d bust a line or something, and I’d have to fix that piece of him, and occasionally I’d have a break down and choose to go for a drive to try and feel better. He never let me down when I needed him most. And he looked good doing it.

Throughout all of this, I learned a lot.

- First, automotive work like this is not easy and it takes a long time without the proper tools (especially if you have no idea what you’re doing to begin with). Still, it is incredibly rewarding.

- Second, if you want something bad enough, you will work harder than you thought possible to attain it. And it might take a long time and have its ups and downs, but don’t lose sight of your goal.

- Third, a single event, no matter how small it may seem to others, can change your life (for the better!). Pixar decided to release a movie in 2006 about anthropomorphic cars. One kid saw it, and was able to save a vehicle like this from rusting away. One kid saw this movie, and loved it so much they adopted a life time love for something they previously held no interest in. One kid saw it, and used its inspiration to defeat a mental illness.

Now it’s 2017. Cars 3 just came out and was the sequel I’d been hoping for since 2007. And you can bet I drug my adult self to the theaters to see it all by myself. It’s 2017, and I still have my Scotty sitting at home, well taken care of, with just a few more miles on him than when I bought him and fixed him.

All because I saw a movie when I was 11 years old.

#long post #personal #1983 chevy scottsdale c10 #cars #disney pixar #inspiration #cars 3 #im american made but i like chevrolet #life stories #my scotty

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