he;loooo it's been so long now so this is definitely going out on a limb but you made an amazing wwx fanart for a fanfic by verse and your art was titled "cursed is how he lived and cursed is how he died" and the fic has been deleted now, do you by any chance have a copy of it? I remember it was so fucking good and I'm so sad it's gone now
Hello hello!!!
Oh yes it was such a stunning work! Definitely one of my favorites
Still remembering parts of it, i also looked for it everywhere and was really sad when i noticed it was deleted 😔🙏🏽
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Prompt 209
Now Jason was planning on, well, a lot of things, when he came back to Gotham. He had a lot of plans, several of which had to do with the old man and even more that had to do with cleaning up Crime Alley, making it safer and all that.
What he was not planning on was to find some sort of lab in the basement of where he was planning on setting up a safehouse. Nor was he planning on finding several literal children in cages inside said lab. Oh and Lazarus Waters- but children! With muzzles! Being experimented on!
Now he’d like to say he had a plan in what happened next, but if he’s honest everything had gone Green and he didn’t remember what happened next, only that he’s back home with said children and covered in blood. Oh and everything smells of smoke.
… And apparently there’s more of these things dotted around Crime Alley with the rest of these kids, er, siblings? Family? Fright does mean family? Okay kids, he’s not turning into Bruce but you can stay here while he deals with this… however long that takes.
He better not be turning into Bruce he swears-
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Growing older I've realized that it's not only people that leave ghosts, but things can too. Anything that was once important and vivid, alive as part of life, which was there and is now gone, can leave an almost physical shadow—at my family's lake cabin yesterday I watched my friends jumping off the dock, and noticed they were diving from a place I never do, my sister never does either. When we were children my uncle's boat was moored alongside there, as much a part of our summers as the man who drove it. He never comes to the cabin anymore, my aunt divorced him; the boat was sold. But my sister and I still by habit swim around the boat, as though the invisible frame of it were still floating there. We move through a landscape of the present laid on top of the past, with history and memory repeating in action as well as thought. My friends saw the dock with fresh, innocent eyes, and so they were able to dive right through the ghost of the boat that I saw. I think maybe a haunting is an imprint of love lingering in the fabric of the perceived world, no matter the form, beloved objects just as much as beloved persons lingering beyond their passing away from the present.
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One final point for the evening: on January 6, 2001, Al Gore was still the sitting vice president of the United States. He thus had to preside over the certification of the electoral votes in Congress, after SCOTUS had handed down its terrible decision in Bush v. Gore that directly cost Gore himself the election. He therefore had to go and personally confirm the victory for his rival after being agonizingly cheated out of it.
What did Gore do? He went there and he did that. He did not launch a coup. He did not order his insane followers to attack the Capitol and disrupt it. He did not whine endlessly to the media. He did not fundraise for his personal debts by claiming election fraud, even though in his case it had actually happened. He went there, took it on the chin, and did his constitutional duty. The end.
The two parties are not the same.
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So This Was A Little More Angsty Than I Recalled...
We’re probably both going to be bruised black and blue by the time this is over, Ezra thinks, blocking a hard swing and throwing it right back. The sun was setting when they started, and it’s nearly dark now.
Sabine’s eyes glow too gold for comfort in the dusky night. Just like he has every day for the last month, he bites his tongue and holds back his questions.
Hera and Zeb won’t tell him about whatever happened to Sabine on Malachor, Kanan and Okadiah are as lost as Ezra is, and if Ahsoka knows anything, she’s not telling. When Ezra brought it up to Mom and Dad, they just told him to be there for Sabine.
He’s been trying.
Sabine has not been cooperating.
So after a month of being there with no success, Ezra gave up and decided that it was time for some non-optional friendship bonding time, but even his best efforts at finding a so-bad-it’s-good holofilm like they used to watch together, even after making some really good movie snacks, all for her, she sulked and complained the whole time, being so—so—infuriating that before he knew it, they were yelling in each others’ faces about tropes.
Ezra stopped yelling, stopped the film, took her by the arm, dragged her outside into the Atollon landscape, and said that they were going to beat the crap out of each other.
(For Mandalorians, sparring is training, recreation, and even courtship. He figured… maybe it would work as therapy, too?)
He doesn’t feel bad about throwing the first punch, because she hit back twice as hard. Ezra thinks his lip is split from a hard hit to the front of his helmet, and Sabine’s knuckles are scraped raw and bloody. They circle each other, slower now than when they started. Her hair has blown out of her braid and sticks to her face in the heat.
It’s a little bit pretty, but now definitely isn’t the right time to think about that.
Sabine rolls one shoulder—he thinks it’s where he landed a decent punch.
“Had enough, tin can?” she demands, but the tension has started to drain from her body and she sounds a little closer to playful than he thought she could ever be again.
“Not if you’ve still got that attitude, wizard girl.”
“You’re gonna regret that,” Sabine warns. She settles into a stance, rocking a little, coiled like a spring.
“Probably,” Ezra agrees.
She draws a breath, and Ezra must have blinked or something, because in the space of an instant, she’s flown at him. He can barely see her in the dark and even the night vision in his helmet doesn’t help.
But he has a split second of advantage. In pure chance, she overextends, and he slams into her, sending them both tumbling through the Atollon dust.
She’s up on her feet again right away—or at least she would be, but Ezra snags her wrist, and drags her back down, flipping over so she’s neatly pinned beneath him.
All he needs is a knife to hold to her throat and it would be a near-perfect replica of the scene in the holofilm that started their stupid fight in the first place.
Sabine doesn’t say anything. She just lies on her back in the dust, looking up at him with the eyes that always seemed to see through his mask, but now they don’t look like they’re seeing anything. He hopes she’s processing her emotions and not disassociating.
Ezra is about to move off of her when something catches his eye, and he brushes some of her hair away from her face. It clings—not with sweat, but with blood. There’s a cut on her cheek.
“Did I hurt you?” he breathes, not sure what he’s even saying, and he draws away.
Flying up, her hand seizes his wrist, gripping painfully tight, even as her sharpening gaze fixes right where his eyes would be.
Ezra swallows dryly. The look she gives him is making him feel a thousand things that he doesn’t really want to sort out, now or ever.
“Sabine?” he asks. “What…”
He trails off. Her thumb slides to the little space between his glove and his sleeve, pulling the cloth back. Never looking away from his face, she pulls his arm up and softly kisses the pulse of his wrist.
“You’re dangerous, Ezra,” she smiles, breath on his skin.
Then, like the Spectre she is, Sabine is gone.
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A southern drawl
My mother had a Southern drawl
This information would not be surprising to anyone I told about my mother
She was born in Texas
Lived in Texas
And died in Texas.
My mother talked about hot weather, and pesky wasps
She thanked the church, and grumbled about her mother
She planned birthdays at the pool, and made reservations at the big table for cicis
Bought me a my little pony cake, despite the extra strain it place on her wallets weight
She said hawt dawg, and mornin, and called me baybee
Made fried catfish, and cheesy spaghetti, and beans
My mom made fun of her mother's absent-mindedly racist remarks while calling her a dyke in the same breath
She shared my laugh
My momma had a southern drawl
This should not be surprising
But as her child who never got to remember her voice
For some reason I didn't know what to expect
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