#hey *I* wrote a thing

[thehandmadeshark]

I had a professor in college who did his anthropology fieldwork in Palestine. He is a Jew, but he was in his 20s, olive skinned, had a longish beard, fit the "look" of a member of Hamas. This was probably the 1990s, maybe early 2000s. He wasn't Palestinian, let alone a member of Hamas, he was a Jewish American doing anthropology fieldwork in Palestine.

He was regularly harrassed by the IDF. He told us a story about being stopped at a checkpoint, being told to get out of his car so they could search it, and then watching as they disassembled his engine piece by piece. When it was completely taken to bits, they said they had finished their search and found nothing suspicious and he was free to go.

I don't remember other stories, but that one has stuck with me.

He is firmly anti-zionist, and very much a practicing Jew.

That's what I think about when I hear about the Israeli state. A young Jewish American man watching IDF soldiers take his car apart, just because they could and because they assumed he was Palestinian.

Free Palestine.

[elskanellis]

“I don’t know why you’re mocking me.” 

“You’re not normal about Potter. No one acts like this!”

“Pansy. He’s a celebrity. He’s universally adored. Everyone takes note of whose robes he buys and where he dines and — and — where he holidays, and for how long.”

“No, honey, that’s just you.” 

50 words, for @drarrymicrofic prompt honey

my very first microfic! this is a belated birthday gift for @goblinmatriarch. my darling, you are a rainbow of delights. i'm not normal about you but i can live with that.

[balladofthevisibleboy]

[grapehyasynth]

I used to call you my best friend way back before you were my everything (now I'm sucking your neck)

When the performers get to what appears to be the main event, Wille inhales sharply and his elbow slips off the console. The movement jostles Simon, who looks over at him, their faces very close.

“Have you - have you ever had someone do that for you?” Simons murmurs. He doesn’t pause the video.

Wille shakes his head. “No. Um. Half of it? I guess. But - no.”

Simon’s quiet a moment longer, and his voice sounds strained when he next asks, “Would you want someone to do that for you?”

“I-” The honest answer is fuck yes. The honest answer is we’re parked along a public street and my skin is on fire and if anyone ever touched me like that I think I would-

“Would you want me to do that for you?”

Wille drops his phone.

In which Wille and Simon are friends and flatmates at university and Simon is just being a generous friend when Wille is up in his head about sex.

Read it on AO3

[seerofmike]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Apex Legends (Video Games) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Crypto | Park Tae Joon/Octane | Octavio Silva Characters: Crypto | Park Tae Joon, Octane | Octavio Silva, Loba Andrade, Eduardo Silva (Apex Legends), Torres Silva Additional Tags: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Breaking and Entering, Hacking, Paranoia, Enemies, Octane | Octavio Silva Needs a Hug, he sure fucking does, sorry thats a funny tag, Pre-Relationship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brat Octane | Octavio Silva, yeah he is, it's actually torres not duardo but he doesn't have a character tag i guess??? Summary:

“Why are you helping him if you know he doesn’t care about you?” Taejoon asked.

“He does care about me.”

Octavio was either blind or in deep denial. “You know that’s not true.”

(Or: When searching for evidence of a plot against him, Crypto instead accidentally stumbles across a recording that indicates that Duardo Silva is not who he says he is.)

[dreamerslovechaos]

😊 — Ace Attorney

There's a bunch of passages I can think of but I'll go with one of my favourites and funniest oneshot ideas. I'm actually planning to publish this one at some point so I'm just gonna give you the pitch I gave my girlfriend wayy back. My views on Phoenix Wright characterization (namely that he is a pro at avoiding his own emotions) are heavily reflected in this one LMAO. The summary: "Miles get asked on a date. Phoenix stress bakes. Lang suffers."

phoenix: *dumping five kilograms of flour into a bowl** maya, brain going a million miles a minute, trying to get a reaction out of him: if they hit it off, do you think miles is going to go home with him? do you think he likes him? phoenix: *dumps five tablespoons of sugar into the bowl* His exact words were- maya and phoenix in creepy sibling unison: "Shi Long Lang Is A Colleague Whose Knowledge And Intuition I Respect Greatly." Maya: Okay but by colleague he could have meant 'a friend' which is basically edgeworth-speak for "I find him hot" and maybe he- Phoenix: *glares and whisks the flour even harder, getting about half the bowl onto the table and the other half on his apron* *cut to miles and shi-long lang on a date* miles, holding up a sheaf of case files while complaining about the poor candlelight: ...this is a date? shi-long: ... miles, beginning to Slightly Panic: like, a date date? shi-long: ……………………….

if you guys like the idea feel free to ask me for more because these idiots live in my head rent free. I need to talk about them to Someone.

Send me an emoji and I'll pitch you one of my WIPs!

[dweam-en-eff]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Video Blogging RPF Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF) Characters: Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF) Additional Tags: POV Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Crack, Humor Summary:

Dream and George are idiots in love. Sapnap decides to do something about it.

[everythingsdestiel]

I wrote a little smutty one shot for any one else who’s lives have been taken over by Alex and Henry.

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[jennifershelby]

Happy book birthday to me!

[odekiisu]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Star Trek: The Original Series Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock Characters: James T. Kirk, Spock (Star Trek) Additional Tags: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Nipple Play, Nipple Clamps, S&M, Jim is a masochist and Spock is a hopeless romantic, And they wouldn't have it any other way Summary:

Jim is babbling, a string of ‘no’s and ‘please’s and ‘stop’s falling from his lips.

Neither ‘no’ nor ‘stop’ is their safeword. Spock is under strict orders from Jim to ignore them.

[thehandmadeshark]

I want to bite and kill and tear

I worked 3 hrs overtime and I've had one Strong Drink on a Very Empty Stomach and I am ready to ricochet off the walls

[baroque-hashem]

CIGARETTE LIGHTER

you picked me up

in the parking lot

of a gas station

off of I-45.

I was wearing red,

which made my hair

ignite alongside

the summer sun.

In your junkyard coupe

with the school pride sticker,

you lifted me from the pavement,

and put me in your vest.

I was nestled, close

to your heart, and there

I could feel you breathe

and every breath was me.

You inhaled me

like cigarette smoke.

I was filling your lungs

with my name.

My body was the lighter

that started your spark,

but when you were lit

I wound up on the roadside,

cast aside,

no longer cool

enough for you

to put in your mouth.

[qiinamii]

i came all this way for you

[lost-in-fandoms]

"Tell me again."

Max hums, moving his hand in slow circles along Daniel's back, feeling his chest move against his side, his face hidden in the folds of Max's t-shirt.

He bows his head, pressing a kiss against Daniel's hair, shifting against the hotel's pillows until he's comfortable again.

"It's going to be sunny," he says, voice low, letting Daniel's curls tickle his lips and nose. "It's going to be sunset, orange, the trees all golden in the way you like."

Daniel's back shifts under his hand, his fingers twisting in Max's shirt.

"We'll be sitting in chairs, because you have old man knees, and would complain about sitting on the floor."

He twists away from the halfhearted poke in his side, then settles back.

"They will be those garden ones, the ones with the straw?"

"Wicker," Daniel corrects him softly, voice scratchy.

"Yes, wicker." He tugs Daniel even closer, not knowing how it is even possible. "With pillows, so you can curl in them like a little cat."

He smooths his hand down Daniel's back, like he does with Sassy, when she stretches out beside him on the bed, similar to how Daniel is now. Does it again when he feels Daniel's shoulders uncurl slightly.

"We will be drinking your weird beers, the expensive ones that taste worse than all the others."

"Craft beer isn't weird," Daniel argues, just like Max was expecting him to. He sounds like there's something stuck in the back of his throat, and Max kisses his hair again.

"It is weird, Daniel. Beer does not need to be that expensive."

He gives him space to reply once more, but Daniel doesn't.

"We will drink your weird beer, and we will talk about that time we ate pasta in your hotel room."

It wasn't just one time, but Max knows he doesn't need to specify. They're both thinking about the same one, illegal spaghetti ordered from room service, hidden from their trainers, sauce on the corner of Max's mouth, cleaned by Daniel's thumb first, Daniel's mouth later. And even if they aren't thinking about the same, it doesn't matter. Every plate of pasta shared, in every hotel room, would matter just as much, stepping stones in their story, just as important as that first kiss.

"And it will be rainy," Max continues, voice even lower. His t-shirt is damp, stretched by Daniel's tense fingers. Daniel's back is shuddering, even when he holds him closer and closer and closer.

"It will rain, and you will have a blanket, because you always get cold, even more when it is humid."

The thing that was in Daniel's throat is in his too now.

"We will talk about how stupid everyone was. We will say it was all unfair. But we will not be angry anymore, because it will not matter anymore."

Daniel's hair smell like Max's shampoo, even if he usually doesn't use it, because he hates how dry it makes it feel. Max can taste salt on the back of his throat as he shifts his head slightly, trying to at least keep his ears dry, now that his cheeks are a lost cause.

Daniel's breathing is a stuttered rhythm against his ribs.

"We will cook eggs," Max pushes on, pressing every word against Daniel's skin, hoping every one feels like the i love you that it is. "Because we will have chickens on your farm, like a real farm, so we will be good at cooking eggs. And you will drink your wine, and sing your songs."

His voice breaks, sudden betrayal, just as Daniel trembles in a sob, but Max pushes through. They've both always known how to push through.

"And I will ask are you happy and you will say yes," he says, making it sound like a promise, because it is a promise. "And we will not regret any of it."

He knows they won't. Not the angry moments, not the painful moments, not the annoying little moments they will never even remember. They will take all of them and throw them into the jar of their lives, little pebbles, and colorful marbles, and shards of glass smoothed out with time and love and distance, all mixed together.

"We will sit on your chairs, and they will have nothing, and we will have us."

He holds Daniel closecloseclose, because he's never learned how to let go of the things he cares about, has always clung to things with his teeth and desire bared, and he has no intention of starting now. He has no intention of starting ever.

Even if this is not the way he wanted things to happen, he doesn't believe in letting go, especially when it comes to Daniel.

He swallows, clears his throat to try and dislodge the tight knot of feelings there, raises a hand to swipe his thumb along Daniel's wet jaw.

"We will have chickens, and a garage full of dirt bikes, and I will ask Grace to teach me how to make the pasta sauce you spilled all over the carpet when you were five."

Daniel nods against his chest, fingers relaxing. His breathing is still uneven, Max's t-shirt is still damp, but he can feel him going lax against him, relaxing bit by bit.

"We will," Daniel murmurs, voice shaky enough it sounds closer to a question.

"We will," Max tells him, firm. Would be happy to tell him again and again, until Daniel's voice doesn't shake on it anymore. "We will eat so much food, and we will become fat, and we will be happy. We will."

Daniel nods again, then shifts, wiggling in Max's hold until he can properly climb on top of him, pointy elbows planted on the bed, above Max's shoulders, trembling fingers tracing the wet lines on his cheeks, red-rimmed eyes soft.

When Daniel kisses him, they both taste like salt, exhaustion and the future.

[hellogoodbyeitsme]

Damian + Jon: [playing Minecraft]

Dami: I've secured us some suitable living conditions. We will be safe from enemies now.

Jon: nice oneeeee now help me mine for iron plz you need armor so bad noob

Dami: don't call me that. I've killed people in real life.

Jon: ya ok noob

Dami: 😡😡

(some time later, when they return to the house) (to paint the scene: it is small, square in shape, and it's obvious Damian had no idea how to build a proper house, since a lot of it is made with dirt, which is a very convenient block but makes for an ugly.. ugly build)

Jon: aren't you like.. into art? Why did you build it with dirt??

Dami: it's about functionality right now, for safety. Tomorrow I will begin renovations. Obviously.

Jon: right..

[they enter the house. There is a chest, a crafting table, a furnace, and a double-bed at the side of the room]

Jon: omg... you put our beds together?? Omg I knew you loved me 😭😭😭😭 woooow 😭😭😭😭

Damian: [immediately breaks one of the beds to move it away to the other wall] now you've made it weird. It was for convenience.