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Sky Writing

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[ S K Y - - W R I T I N G ]



"Let them eat words." - Marie Antoinette, probably. Maybe. No, not really. She probably spent her last words lamenting that her head was about to be chopped off. I'm crass. Ignore me.

Hi, folks. I'm Sky and writing is pretty much what I eat and drink.


I intend to use this thread as a place to improve my craft, so I would appreciate any criticisms/comments you could throw my way. I have a lot to learn as a writer, and I think a good step in that direction is configuring feedback into my work as I go along. c:


Eh, but updates might be sporadic at best as I'm the type of procrastinator who procrastinates breathing.


[ P R O M P T - - M E ]


- - I'm always looking for new challenges when it comes to writing, so if you'd like to prompt me sometime, feel free to do so. At the moment, fanfiction is what I'm the most comfortable with, but I'd be happy to try some genre dabbling. I need to expand my horizons anyways.


- - - - - - Fandoms:


I. Once Upon A Time (a.k.a. Once Upon My Obsession With Regina Mills)

- As an aside, I haven't really caught up with the show's most recent episodes. Blame the American education system.


II. Pokémon

- I can do any verse: gameplay, Mystery Dungeon, anime, etc.

- I love writing Jessie and James. #Rocketshipping5Ever


III. Harry Potter


IV. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic

- Rarity is best pony, so I enjoy writing for her. I also like ensemble and Equestria Girls stuff.

- For this fandom though, throw any character/scenario at me, and I'll try them out.


V. The Avengers

- IS TRASH FOR HULK WIDOW, and, well, Natasha in general.

- Also, Captain Steven Grant Rogers is my actual child.

- Romanogers


*Honestly, I have several other fandoms that I'm invested in, but these are the ones at the top of my head. If you want to know, just ask. c:


- - - - - - Genres


• Fantasy

• Apocalyptic/Dystopia

• Adventure

• Romantic


And, of course, none of these are exclusive. I can mix and match as you please!



[b]Fandom/Genre:[/b][b]Prompt:[/b] (When it comes to prompts, I prefer general sentences, ones I can work with to provide my own spin to the thought. Ex. Dialga goes to the grocery story and wrecks all the aisles in an attempt to buy Fruit Loops.)[b]Specifics:[/b] (Any specific details you want me to include in the story?)[b]Other:[/b]


[ W O R K S - - I N - - P R O G R E S S ]


- - Any ideas I'd like to get to will go here as well.

- - - - Color Code: = Idea // = In Progress


My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic - Rarity is invited to help a renowned designer to develop his new line, but has to leave Ponyville for most of the season to do so. The rest of the Mane Six pass the time by preparing themselves to visit her in Manehatten; they're all brimming with excitement at their friend's own, who by letter correspondence has simply gushed with good news. When they arrive at the station, however, they find Rarity in the worst state they've ever seen her. Her coat is dull, has lost its lustrous sheen, and her mane hangs limply and unbrushed. The letters had lied. Rarity is anything but fine.

- - - The designer had been taking advantage of Rarity's generosity and willingness to work; he treats her poorly.

- - - The Mane Five struggle to get Rarity to admit that something is amiss.

Edited by Skypool

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[ P R E H I S T O R I C - - S T U F F ]

- - WARNING: Some of these are cringeworthy.


"Christmas" (9-14-14)



Once Upon A Time






Christmas during the Missing Year is difficult for Regina. Snow Queen. Hints of Outlaw Queen.










Regina returns to her rigid regality once more—head up, shoulders straight, and expression invariably distant, masked. Her lips purse. She refuses to look his way.


The polarity fascinates Robin.


“If I’m allowed to speak freely—”


“You already are, Thief.”


“I just wanted to say that you look quite stunning tonight.” (And sad. The Queen looks quite sad, too, but he keeps that thought to himself. Every Christmas she has shared with her lost boy flits across her features like a never ending nightmare, a seizure of misery. She doesn’t need the obvious stated tonight.)


She can’t help herself—she glances his way to see a small smile, a genuine one, softening his lips, and it captivates Regina as much as it repels.


It repels her, how easily this man, the thief of all people, is able to disarm her.


His eyes though are ever sparkling with childlike mischief, and she grants him a smirk in return.


“Likewise, Hood. I see you’ve found yourself a new river.”


“Ah, yes. The fountain in your courtyard functions very nicely.”


If only looks could kill.

"Needles" (12-23-14)



The Avengers






Natasha visits a secluded Bruce after the events of The Winter Soldier. Bruce/Nat if you squint.








Full Story:


It’s a small town on the outskirts of the country. Invisible, very Hallmark-y, and painted in earthen tones, in oaky browns and rusted oranges, in pale greens that gray under the ever-present sun. There are guys named Clay and Trevor and Clay Jr., but just call him Junior. The bar is the most modern establishment within a hundred mile radius. It has Internet connectivity sometimes. Very convenient. Much help.

It isn’t Kolkata by any stretch. There’s no chaos to hide in, no sick children to elevate the illusion of philanthropy that Bruce Banner is, pretends to be. He kinda likes it here though, the remoteness of it, really. Kinda hates it, too. Somewhat misses the comforts of Stark Tower.


This… this is for the best though.


He’s a magnet for danger—no, is the danger. The isolation is as good as a shield as any.


(Okay, granted that’s not the most apt of analogies all things considered.)


Except she doesn’t play defense, does she?


He isn’t as surprised as he should be when he finds her on a warm winter’s day in his signature booth at the bar, cradling a half-empty bottle with bandaged fingers and white knuckles.


“Agent Romanoff.”


She had been staring at a crack in the table before—though he doubts that she had actually been seeing it—but now she looks up to greet him with a slight tilt of the head as Bruce slides into the seat opposite of her. There are circles under her eyes, he thinks, deep grooves that have only been etched under them recently. He isn’t certain though. The harsh sun shifts, spearing in through the window and obscuring the shadows when he blinks again.


“Haven’t you heard?” she asks, more tiredly than amused. “That title’s been redacted.”


Redacted. Censored. The world isn’t ready to cope with the idea of soldiers that lie and kill to protect it.


“I’d give you my condolences if I knew you appreciated that sort of thing,” he says, smiling grimly.


“Your almost-sentiment is duly noted.”


He widens his smirk, and Natasha moves to raise her drink, maybe to land the moment, but suddenly stops, winces almost imperceptibly, stiffens. It tips him off to everything else he had been missing in the shock of seeing her.


He’s an idiot.


She’s pale in the anemic kind of way, devoid of that porcelain luster he remembers her to have. Her lips are chafed, veined with slight pops of red and flaked skin. Is she dehydrated? And drinking alcohol? She has to know how unhealthy that is, right? Natasha, that’s really unhealthy. The sunlight retreats. One of the shadows he had observed under her eyes just might be a bruise like the one feathering the side of her jaw.


He’s an idiot.


“You’re hurt,” he states because she definitely didn’t know that about herself.


“Brilliant diagnosis, Doc. I suppose I’m a female, too.”


She meets his bewildered gaze head-on, challenging it, and yes.


She does indeed have a black eye.


He’s an idiot.


“Funny,” he shoots back, but they’ve long passed the moment of playful banter and the atmosphere is quickly charging up to Level Kolkata, a.k.a. a bunch of glaring and thinly veiled fear.


And it’s not the needles they’re afraid of either.


“I’m not here for your medical expertise, Banner.”


She’ll need it though. Judging by the way her breaths are coming short and shallow, there’s at least a cracked rib or two and probably innumerable cuts and bruises that feel worse than they look.


“What then?” But he knows the answer as soon as the words leave his mouth. She levels her gaze at him, only to drop it, just a little.


I have nowhere else to go.


She had destroyed all of her hiding places and then some, had exposed every cover to a world more full of enemies than friends to save both kinds of people from HYDRA’s death rays or whatever they had called them.


The freshest blood on her hands is her own.


“S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t have much of a medical insurance, yeah?” he asks, because she’s comfortable with joking. They both are.




He moves to help her out of the booth, a little more than surprised when she leans against him, relies on the support of his arm around her as they limp out of the bar. Her auburn tresses tickle his neck, but he doesn’t push her away.


Doesn’t want to, even though he should.


“You might have just traded one monster for another,” he whispers to her once they’re out of ear reach of civilians. Their shoes knock against each other, her boots against his loafers as they fall into a steady pace. He’s taking her to his clinic, the sparse-looking residence a few buildings away from the bar.


“And what exactly are you doing?”


Excellent. They’re equally aware about how stupid of a decision this probably is.


“Are you afraid of needles, Natasha?”


She doesn’t hesitate. “Sometimes.”

"Portrait" (2-20-15)



Once Upon A Time






Portraits from Regina's past give a summation of who she is today in the present. Snow Queen. Outlaw Queen.










It’s Regina, and never has Robin seen her eyes so, so lifeless, so engrossed in nothing that he wonders if she had been living at all. It’s Regina, and for a moment, Robin sees the most crimson of reds as he takes in the hand the vile king had placed on her shoulder, the steel of his ring almost certainly carving into bone.


I own you, the gesture says. The Sheriff of Nottingham had once tried to pull that with Marian. Robin had been within inches of shooting his black heart clean from his chest. You’re mine.


“I didn’t know,” Snow whispers. A tear runs down her cheek, becomes lost in all the darkness surrounding them. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”


It’s either a prayer or a justification, maybe even both.

"Shattered Sight" (12-30-14)



Once Upon A Time






AU. The Snow Queen casts her curse, only it isn't triggered by little flecks of glass flying into vulnerable eyes. A person has to look at a reflection of themselves… and that David does, and the worst version of himself thinks like the most self-loathing version of Regina. Evil Charming.










Regina knows the exact moment that she bruises.


It's when she looks David Nolan in the eye and realizes that he is in control of every moment. He's sincere. Shattered Sight hadn't made a mockery of his feelings, hadn't conjured a lie. It told the truth.


She's going to die if he keeps this up, and maybe it's for the best.


His fingernails sink into her flesh, rake down her skin and gouge it. A scream bubbles at the edge of her throat, but doesn't make it any further. His hands are already there.


The author would finally get what they wanted.


The villain gone.


"You're a monster, Regina," he grits out because what's a good choking without a monologue? "We lost Emma because of you and look where we are now. Stuck. All the time. Surrounded on all sides."


And it's even poetic that she dies in the snow.

"Untitled" (10-12-14)



Once Upon A Time






Some Regal Believer rambling set after 4x02.










He requests that she make lasagna that night because after a year of pizza and takeouts from the Chinese restaurant on the corner, Henry has finally missed the home cooking of his mother—granted, he didn’t remember to miss it in the first place, didn’t know it existed.


But it hasn’t been just a year, has it?


It’s been a year and all those months he had shut Regina out, called her the Evil Queen, a monster. It’s been Emma, Neverland, and New York, and between the lines and the worlds, he can’t recall the last time he’s slept in his room, and it’s on the tip of his tongue, but not quite there, the last time they’d had dinner together, just the two of them, mother and son.


He hides the frown from her, but can’t stop the creasing of his brow as he observes her from the kitchen counter, moving with a cadence unfamiliar to him. She seems more restrained, less at ease with herself than Henry has ever known her to be. There’s a slight tremble in her reliably expressive hands that wasn’t there before.


And maybe it’s Robin Hood, and maybe it’s not.


He isn’t… doesn’t know.


So he stares, and he creases. He isn’t all too satisfied with the feeling of not being able to read his mom, and when she glances up at him—notices—her swirling eyes suddenly widen. She looks anxious. Her fingers revolve around each other nervously, like she’s casting a spell, but isn’t.


(It only hits him later that night, as he lies in his bedroom that isn’t his bedroom, that she’s not casting a spell. She’s reversing the curse. She’s rolling the scroll in her fingertips, watching the yellow bug cross the town line, before ripping Storybrooke to shreds.)


“Is this… is this okay?” And she can’t read him either, he thinks, because she’s asking whether this is her fault, and her voice is breaking in all the places she convinces herself that it is.


Henry nods his head fervently, tries his best to smile. “Of course, Mom.”

Edited by Skypool

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Jurassic World






Short drabble peering into the beginning of Claire and Owen’s less than satisfactory first date.









Is Clawen trash. Send help. On a side note, it’s my headcanon that the result of their first date was a fault between both of them. I think Claire might have decided from the moment he showed up wearing board shorts, that it wasn’t going to end well, and once she makes up her mind, she makes up her mind. Also, Owen should not have been wearing board shorts, like, bruh. That’s for the second date.


"You wore board shorts to our first date." (7-2-15)


It’s 6:15. He’s late.


Five minutes tardy would have been perfectly acceptable; she would have accounted for the mud that continues to cling to the roads from last night’s shower and shrugged it off easily. Ten would have been cutting it close, but still excusable. Perhaps he had forgotten something in that hut-he-calls-a-home and ran back for it. Mistakes happen unfortunately, but they happen. She can forgive that. But fifteen? Fifteen? Fifteen grinds at Claire Dearing’s easily exhaustible and always pinched nerves, sets her manicured nails to tapping the marble counter impatiently. Fifteen makes her question this decision, and she prefers not to question her own decisions unless she has to.


(If she does that and does it often, then she has to question the infallibility of the whole system she has drawn up for herself, and that would call for an existential crisis.)




There’s a knock on the door, the light rap of the calloused knuckles she has studied admiringly for the last few months under the guise of reading reports on customer satisfaction. Her earlier frustration is exchanged for anxiety again; she lets her imagination run amok. What if she’s underdressed? What if she’s overdressed? What if he’s disappointed?


Of course though, she chides herself for that one. Claire has never made herself up for any man, not even this one. Elegance is simply her chosen aesthetic, and she is, as some crudely put it, hot. With that assurance in mind and smoothing down her sleek, black dress one last time, she heels her way to the door and opens it to the sight of Owen Grady, raptor whisperer extraordinaire and her date for the night… in board shorts.


Board shorts, and they’re the obtrusive kind—a bright, ugly orange with white drawstrings dangling long and loosely beneath his brown polo shirt.


She’s going to kill him, and no court on earth will convict her because what sort of person wears board shorts to a first date?


“Hello, Mr. Grady,” she says stiffly, her nose upturned. She can almost feel her lips thinning.


Owen is roving her over with those rich, brown eyes of his. It’s admiring. It’s boyish. If he wasn’t wearing board shorts—dear Lord, she can’t get over them—she would be flattered.


“Owen,” he corrects, but she can already feel herself tensing to rebel against being on a first name basis tonight. Even so, his next words can’t help but warm her heart. They send thrills to the parts of her she had hoped were long dead, the places that don’t eschew sentiment.


Sentiment, she had decided after a vicious string of bad relationships, hurt more than ambition.


“You look stunning, Claire.“ He winks at her, flashes that crooked smile she thinks—there isn’t enough data yet to know—that she loves.


This is why she had fallen for him. This is why she is standing in the threshold—seventeen minutes later than she had intended to—now. Owen says these little things with so much conviction, yet, so much ease, that she cannot help but pause and consider him. When he says her name slowly, like he savors the very word on his tongue, he makes it a crime not to.


Even still, sentiment, she had decided long ago, hurts more than ambition.


“I’m well aware, Mr. Grady.“ She pulls out her work voice; tonight, he’s her employee, and with employees, you have boundaries. “We should be off. We’re ten minutes into the time I’ve allotted for dinner.”

Edited by Skypool

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