#liminal scrawlings

[liminalweirdo]

guys, in regards to reading comprehension, if it's something you struggle with — read the whole thing. If it's something you don't struggle with, yes you do — read the whole thing.

don't respond or comment or whatever before you have read the whole thing.

The number of times I've gotten responses from people who clearly didn't read beyond the first few sentences of what I wrote is genuinely staggering. Think about it: if you don't have time to read someone else's thoughts, why should anyone take time to read yours? Communication is a two-way street.

Take your time reading. It's okay if you have to take time. You don't need to be 100% ready with a response right away, ever, in real life convos or online. You are allowed to take the time you need to absorb information and develop a response. Anyone who says otherwise is an asshole.

If you have a physical copy of something, highlighting or underlining is extremely helpful. There's even studies that show that you take in more information if you're holding a pen in your hand, as if to take notes. Also, TAKE NOTES! It's fun and extremely helpful.

If you don't have a physical copy, try highlighting with your mouse or your keyboard as you read. It makes you slow down and absorb what you're reading. Highlight a sentence at a time, and move forward sentence to sentence. There are even programs that allow you to do this with any running text. It's usually called focus mode.

TL;DR read the whole text before you respond to something, for the love of spiders georg

[liminalweirdo]

POV you're reading a job description in 2024

HELP WANTED: Writer/Editors who are also skilled in Search Engine Optimization AND administration AND scheduling AND cleaning toilets AND feeding the boss's cat. Also you must be fluent in four languages and they are English, Quebecois French (ONLY. Other French dialects are not sufficient), Old English, and Ancient Greek.

Also you need to have exactly 3 years 364 days 6 hours 23 minutes and .72 seconds of experience and NOT A SECOND MORE OR LESS. Oh, and also you will need to have a skill completely unrelated to this job so i hope you are ready to be on security duty as well as have skills in professional diving.

It's work from home, so you only have to come in 4.5 days of the week. We offer benefits and they are a 25 dollar pre-paid visa card that you can enter a raffle for every other year at the staff Christmas party that's totally voluntary but one that we will put a really weird amount of pressure on you to attend.

Also, sometimes we will have donuts in the staff room! Be aware, there is no health insurance but don't worry because we're super short staffed, so if you're sick you probably only have to come in for 7 hours of your 8 hour shift. You will also get 5 hours of unpaid vacation time per year which you can use to go to the bathroom while you're at work!

PS This is an UNPAID internship but

[liminalweirdo]

did anyone else struggle with changing their name? did your chosen name feel awkward at first, or am i going with the wrong one? something that doesn't suit me?

like my deadname is still mine and i almost don't want to lose it, but it's also not me? so i feel nameless. like what am i called?

my chosen name, the name my partner calls me, doesn't feel like mine. it's not the one i'm used to hearing come out of his mouth. does this... get better, easier?

the name i'm trying is one i like but it doesn't feel any more like me than my deadname so... idk advice?

[sleeparademon]

DONT TOUCH MY STUFF!!!!!

[glassrowboat]

Can You Trust Me Blind? Dottore.

Summary: Dottore brings a woman home for the night.

Warnings: Smut, blood, Dottore

Word count: 2,100+

Hair twirled around his finger, spinning round and round in circles the same way Dottore would take his own bangs as they slipped out of the multitude of clips and pins he tried to use to wrangle them up and out of the way, only for those two strands to inevitably fall in his face again. It was annoying. A hassle dealing with it as he tried to scrawl out notes between the blue stands blocking his vision, but the locks in his hand seemed far easier to tame as he played with them.

Soft, well taken care of, and a complete mess as it sprawled out across the pillowcase. It wouldn't be a surprise if there was a knot or two jumbled up in there.

His fault, of course.

Dottore was the one who slid his hands into her hair, tangled his fingers in it like he was grasping at a knitted scarf being slowly wrapped around someone in the dead of winter as he tugged her head back. The length of her neck exposed without a hint of shame. A perfect canvas. Just like snow after it fell, painting the world anew.

Every footstep tainting the pure landscape that went on for miles.

To taint. To mar. To ruin.

The scent of perfume had overwhelmed his senses at the time, even had Dottore halting for a moment to burry his nose into her collarbone where she had no doubt dabbed it before heading out for the night. Flowery, feminine, with a faint hint of vanilla to it that was quickly masked over by iron.

Red on his teeth, on her neck, on the sheets below as he rocked into her.

A scream filled his ears.

This wasn't like him, taking a woman back home, let alone to his bed. It had to have been over seventy- maybe even eighty- years since Dottore had gone off and done something as stupid as this. Breaking all rules of common sense (something he had once considered to be a good friend of his) and welcoming her in with little to no trepidation even as the door slammed behind her.

She had looked around curiously, eyes going over the place like she was trying to suck in every last detail of the liminal space. He never was one who bothered with decorations, so there wasn't much to recall. Maybe a photo here, a trinket there, or a jar full of something no one truly wanted to question Dottore about. Nothing out of the usual for him. However, it was nice to see someone showing such a good trait, a healthy one in this wretched world, rather than glancing back at the door like they were already having second thoughts.

She wouldn't have even been the first if that were the case.

This woman had spent a good hour by his side before his sudden...impulse. Yes, that was a good way to put it, he thought as the strands of hair fell from Dottore's fingers.

One of Pantalone's parties Dottore had only agreed to go to because the banker had stuck his foot down and demanded that he come and talk to possible sponsors for the lab himself rather than having the Ninth do all the lip service. A shame, truly, seeing as that's what the man was best at. Might as well do what you're good for in this world. That's how Dottore saw it, anyway.

He had stumbled across this one along the way.

Dottore had been grumbling to himself about having to deal with it all, especially after having to explain the current project he was working on in a way that could only be explained at a kindergarten level of intelligence for the third time as this oaf of a man kept asking the same question in different ways (like changing the font would give it meaning anew), when she had made a snide remark as he passed by.

“I'm sure your little friend there is the type to attempt putting a square peg in a round hole.”

And oh, he couldn't have agreed more.

She wasn't a sponsor herself, or hadn't seemed to be one. Actually, she waved off most of Dottore's questions about her with what could only be described as practiced ease, instead choosing to fixate on his earring. Eyes locked on the thing as she tried to figure out what was in it. Making a guessing game of it. Primordial water? Sap from the leylines? Ligma? Gatorade? …Whatever that is.

However, she proved to be preferential company over the people who were better off waving their wallets in the air than even attempting to listen to his grandiose ideas. Not even the jingling of mora in hefty sacks had been able to keep him from sharing a glass of whiskey with her. The sound of ice clinking against glass and her voice proved to be far more entertaining.

Digs at Pantalone's ‘friends’ as the banker liked to call them, making fun of their outfits (mainly on her end), and insulting their intelligence proved her to be a great way to spend the otherwise dull evening.

Decent company.

That's all it was.

That's all it was supposed to be, even as she toyed with his earring like she had any right to. Blue light reflecting off her skin.

Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to stop her.

Somehow, that hour passed by like it was nothing but a handful of seconds.

Somehow, he leaned in and kissed her as she was making another remark. Something about a Lord this or that ‘needing to let go of the fact he's bald, because we can all tell he's wearing a toupee’ when he could taste the drink on her painted lips.

Just like he could still taste her blood.

She had said right after “I don't think that shade is your color” with a laugh as her thumb brushed over his bottom lip. No doubt trying to smudge the lipstick off.

Dottore couldn't even recall his retort, no doubt he gave one, but right now his mind was running the same scene that just happened on his bed on loop rather than bothering to remember his own words. If it was truly important, he'd no doubt recall them later. After this film in his head stopped reeling, or the tape itself broke from overuse.

Thighs wrapped around his waist, squeezing him tight between soft flesh he couldn't help but worry about bruising under his touch that was urging him closer and closer as Dottore filled her to the brim. Her nails dragging along his back. Hisses of both pain and pleasure bubbling in Dottore's throat as he slowly stilled.

Her moans bordered on pornagraphic as this woman apparently had no issue being loud. Much less in his space of all things.

Their kisses as she tugged him closer. Rushed, frenzied, even when he wanted to take a step back, a big breath, and truly savor this moment as her dress slid off and onto the floor.

It all reeled back to when Dottore stood before her with the cravat he usually wore in hand.

Blue fabric hanging in between them as he pinched it softly.

The reason he didn't even get the chance to see her eyes roll back into her head from pleasure alone.

Dottore was the one who slid it off his neck. Untying it the same way he did every night after being enraptured by his research for days on end before coming home and crashing into bed. A practice so well memorized he could do so with his eyes closed. Ironic, being he was the one to ask to blindfold her.

Half of a sentence was spoken before she just stopped to stare at the cloth. Eyes darted from him and back down to it in a repeated cycle until Dottore had asked the question again.

Louder that time.

Clearer.

Leaving no room for doubt.

“Is this something you're willing to do?”

She had stumbled over herself as she got out an “okay” and “yes.”

That had to be the least sure of herself he had seen her all night.

She hadn't moved much as Dottore slid the cloth over her eyes, only reaching her hand up to rest on his arm, fingers playing with one of the leather bands on his arm as he tied it in place. Like it made it easier to take her mind off the fact she was, quite literally, going into this blind as he made sure to double, even triple, check it wouldn't budge. Not easily, at least.

But still, she let him do it.

A neat bow sealing the deal.

The idea to joke she was like a gift quickly passed as her hand fell back down as the sound of Dottore's mask being placed on the nightstand filled the otherwise quiet space. A soft, subtle click. Only their breathing and that. Echoing as if it were pans clanging against each other.

“Is that why you wanted me blin-”

“Yes.”

What she was going to ask was obvious. After all, if he was in her shoes, Dottore very well would have done the same. Asked questions. Pried into matters that don't concern him.

Red eyes had bore down on her, blue cloth covering away the chance of seeing her looking up at him with the possibility of fear crossing her face.

No panicked looks. Not this time.

It was better this way, he learned. Less chance of someone seeing the scars that plague his skin and….this was why he typically preferred doing this with someone he already knew.

Someone who already knew what to expect from him, who wouldn't suck in a sharp breath as Dottore's hand slid along the curve of her waist to reach behind and tug the zipper of that dress down for her. The little tag between bare fingers as she spoke up again.

Good, she wasn't trusting him blindly.

Maybe she was smarter than he thought, but that doesn't say much when she's in his bed.

“You know, people usually go for biting and scratching instead of something like this when hooking up with what's essentially a total stranger.”

“Yet you agreed. Why?”

“I'm already here, am I not? Would be a real shame to blueball the both of us.”

How crude, but he couldn't help but to agree as Dottore pressed a kiss to her lips even while chuckling against her skin.

And another as he slid his tongue over her lips and pushed her down onto the bed. A small grunt came from her as her back hit the mattress. The zipper already tugged down as she tried to shimy the dress off even as the mattress creaked under her with every move. Old springs that needed to be dealt with.

At the time, he had wanted to promise not to hurt her, not in a way she wouldn't enjoy, anyhow, but now she lay beside him clearly passed out. She has been for the past two hours, thirty-four minutes, and forty-three seconds now. Her back to him. Moonlight peeking in through the window, leaving dust participles visible in the otherwise dark space as the beams shone down on her skin. Lighting up the tiniest bits of blood as bright as an apple seeped through the bandage he placed on her neck after she fell asleep.

All the more visible like this.

He couldn't help but trace his fingers over the cotton.

She really just let some stranger, a harbinger, him of all people no less, do that to her. To feel her pulse under his lips and still dare to break skin. To leave her in the dark as his hands wondered.

Either this girl was incredibly stupid or had no self-preservation instincts.

Maybe both.

For now, this woman was asleep. For now, he wouldn't have to worry about her reaction to what lay under that mask. The scarred man she chose to tumble into bed with. So, for now, he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close.

Dottore couldn't say he would be surprised either way. She sure did seem like the type that could go either way. Laying there like nothing was wrong even as he reached over her and picked up his mask again. Cold to the touch as a familiar weight filled his hands before it slid out of Dottore's fingers again as he set it back down on the table.

The scent of flowers, vanilla, and blood filling his nose.

He didn't understand this woman in many ways. A bit of a flirt, one who thought it far too entertaining to crack jokes, and who seemed all the willing to listen as he rambled on.

She stopped and listened to him.

And all Dottore could ask himself with this information was: what sort of woman was she that she would choose to lay with a monster?

[bettyfrommars]

The Nightmare Factory: Origins

nightmare!eddie x Reader

Masterlist

a little peek into how Eddie got the job

Sigh, yet another blurb that turned into 2k. There is mention of Reader in this, but no actual interaction. We get to meet the notorious Kevin and get a glimpse at the inside of the building where nightmare!eddie works, as well as run into a few of his future co-workers. I love those of you who have shown interest in this; let me know if there are certain things/events you'd like to see. wc: 2.2k

18+ONLY, mature themes, horror, nothing bad happens but there will be mention of gore and scary things. Nightmare!eddie, Gareth, a ventriloquist doll, liminal spaces, mention of spiders and creepy dolls. A severed foot. I write these like a fever dream and then post them, so I hope it makes a decent amount of sense.

---------

When Wayne told Eddie that there were positions open at the Nightmare Factory, it just so happened that he was tired of slaving over a grill every day and ready for something new.  But he wasn't interested in working at a desk or on the janitorial team—he wanted to travel and scare the shit out of a few people.

From the trailer park, he could see the tall stacks in the distance, jutting up into the sky, pumping out industrial black smoke from somewhere inside the factory. He never realized how much elbow grease went into producing nightmares.  

The Nightmare Factory had not always been there.  One day, it just appeared, as it was prone to do in various locations all over the world.  Months ago, he was having a smoke out behind the diner where he worked the kitchen, when a creepy doll head fell from the sky and bounced to the ground.  It rolled to the edge of the nearby dumpster and wedged there.

He yelled for Gareth to come out so he could tell him what just happened.

“It’s raining heads,” Eddie blew a raspberry laugh after he said it, and the two of them bent to get a closer look.

The plastic doll head had long, patchy, auburn hair that fell over its face, and it was missing a glass eyeball.  Eddie picked it up and stood to full height, turning it around to give it a look.  A thick, slimy centipede slithered out of the empty eye socket and crawled over Eddie’s finger, making him yelp and throw the thing.

He shook his hand out, making sure the centipede was not still on him.  Not too far away on the pavement, the head now looked molded and rotten, as if it had been made of living tissue.

“It’s that fucking Nightmare Factory, I’m telling you,” Gareth insisted, wiping his hands on his apron. “It just showed up a couple days ago, and yesterday I saw a frog walking on its hind legs with a mouth full of vampire teeth.”

Eddie licked his lips, thoughtfully.  

Soon enough, he was driving to the factory in question with his resume next to him in the seat, wearing the nicest shirt and pair of jeans he owned, and he even had his hair tied back—at Wayne’s urging.  “You’re not a drug dealer anymore, son, you need to look presentable.”

Upon arrival, an ornate, iron gate opened at the entrance, and he followed in what appeared to have once been a car.  The metal was dented all over like a piece of balled-up paper, and the blue paint chipped in areas to expose the dull yellow underneath.  The passenger window was nothing but saran wrap secured with duct tape, and there were a few aluminum cans tied to the bumper with string.  The cans were pock-marked and rusted, and the vehicle drove at a tilt as if the tires on one side were too small. 

On the back window, there was white writing, scrawled as if with a non-dominant hand.  Eddie squinted at the lettering, saying it out loud as he read: JUST DEAD.

He parked the van in front of one of the visitor placards right next to a wood-paneled station wagon.

On the outside, the factory looked like an old, abandoned steel mill you might see from the freeway as you passed, but inside—it offered the aesthetic of a pristine, marble floor museum.  A museum without any artifacts or art—just bare, cream walls, one long hallway of doors, low, fluorescent lighting, a reception desk, and a pair of mysterious double doors to the right.

Eddie’s footsteps echoed in the empty hall as he made his way over to the reception desk.

The secretary was bent over behind the desk, possibly jotting down a note, when Eddie cleared his throat to get her attention.  She had on a light blue, pillbox hat from the 60’s with a matching suit, and wore her hair in a short, platinum blonde bob.  

When she looked up at him, he realized her face was made of fiberglass—her pink lips and wide, a tiny, sharp nose, and blue eyes frozen in time.  There was a lightning-shaped crack down her cheek that feathered out down her neck, and he realized then, with one glance down at her stiff hands, that she was a broken mannequin.

“Do you have an appointment?” She asked without moving her mouth; lips slightly parted and turned up at one corner.

“Um, yeah, no,” Eddie stammered, taken aback when a few small spiders crawled out of the crack on her face.  “I’m here about the job opening.”

“Ah, well then you’ll need to meet with Kevin,” she confirmed, running her beige, plastic hand down some scribbles on a big appointment book.  “He is the only door on the 3rd floor.  I’ll let him know you are on your way.”

“Oh great, thanks,” Eddie moved his hand to flash her the devil horns, but then he realized that might not be appropriate, faltered a bit, and then chose a thumbs up instead.  “I like that color blue on you, it matches your eyes.”

The receptionist couldn’t blush, but she did give a high-pitched giggle at the compliment.  

There were two sets of elevator doors, and while he waited in front of one for it to open, the one next to it dinged, and a group of tall, thin men in black coats with no faces and hooks for hands stepped out. They seemed to glide on the air more than walk, and he wondered if they had any feet.  One gave a wave of his hook to Eddie and mumbled, “morning,” as they moved to enter one of the doors across the way.  

The hallway to Kevin’s office had a clear, aquarium floor with colorful fish fluttering around in Eddie’s path, and he stopped to admire them for a minute as a smile stretched around his face.  There was mellow jazz playing from a speaker somewhere overhead it reminded him of the waiting room at the dentist office. It wasn’t long before a severed foot that looked like it had been sawed or bitten off at the ankle floated through the aquarium beneath him, and Eddie’s smile dropped.  The toe was nearly bitten off by little fish nibbles.  

“This fucking place,” he whispered to himself, one fist in the pocket of his leather jacket, as he took note of the portrait painting on the wall from the early 1900’s of a woman in a dress sitting in a chair, and it looked like her eyes had been cut out, offering two perfect ovals for another pair of eyes to peep out.  

The door to Kevin’s office was open, so Eddie rapped his knuckle on the wall and stuck his head in. “Hello? Kevin? I’m here about the job?”

When he didn’t get a response, he pushed in a bit further, with caution.

The inside looked like the library of some distinguished gentleman; a big oak desk backed by floor to ceiling rows of books; a globe on a brass stand; oil paintings with ornate frames; a cigar smoldering in a glass ashtray near the cream-colored phone with the blinking red light on it.  

Eddie made one last attempt: “Hello?”

“I’m right here, you knob,” a tiny, irritated voice said.

Eddie turned to follow the sound, and the chair behind the desk spun around to reveal what appeared to be a ventriloquist doll in a blue and white sailor suit, sitting atop a few thick encyclopedias so that he could reach the top of the desk.  It had a big, abnormal grin on its face that hinged at the chin, and eyebrows too high on the head, as if he were eternally shocked, framed in a swirl of brown, plastic hair.  

“That's me. I am Kevin. Go ahead, sit,” the doll extended his arm, motioning to one of the two chairs in front of his desk.  They were both small, plastic chairs meant for children, and Eddie eyed them with trepidation.  Before he could sit, he had to move a thick book titled “Ruling the World for Dummies” and set it on the desk.  His hips barely fit as he shoved down into the seat, angling his head all the way back to look up at Kevin.

He slid his resume forward on the wood as if he were a middle school kid handing in his homework.

Kevin hopped from the stack of books onto the desk in his shiny black shoes and looked over the piece of paper—his featureless fingers flexing.

“A mechanic and a line cook,” Kevin’s eyes clicked as he looked at the typed out words, and then found Eddie’s eager gaze over the top of the page.  “So, no nightmare experience?”

Eddie’s brain scurried for the correct answer. “Well, not professionally, no. But I’m a quick study, and my life is kind of one big nightmare, if you know what I mean,” he rubbed his sweaty palms up and down on the knees of his jeans while Kevin returned a blank—albeit perpetually alarmed—expression.  

“Can you work weekends?”

“Yes.”

“Evenings?”

“Sure. Well, except some Fridays and Tuesdays.  My band, we—” 

“What about portals? Do you experience motion sickness during interdimensional travel?” Kevin interrupted.

“I don’t think so, but I’m not sure.” Eddie moved his eyes around the room, keeping his head still.  

“Are you willing to sign an NDA in regards to this facility, and any activities that take place herein?”

Eddie considered that for a second, wondering how strictly they enforced the non-disclosure agreement.  At the end of the day, he really didn’t talk to many people, but it was hard for him to keep his mouth shut around those he did interact with.

“Sure,” Eddie shrugged.

“Great. Swell.” Kevin dropped the resume, letting it slip off the desk and flutter to the ground without a second thought. He bent down to pick up the cigar that was still smoldering and stuffed the fat end in between his grinning lips.  The smoke he inhaled came out his ears.  “You’re hired.  Benefits start after 30 days. Come back tomorrow around the same time and someone will give you a tour and set you up with a locker.”

Eddie moved to stand up and thank him, but his ass was stuck in the chair, so he sat back down for the time being.

“Do you know what type of nightmares you want to specialize in?” Kevin asked.

Eddie hadn’t considered any of that.  “Um, what are my options?”

Kevin rolled his eyes and put his cigar back down.  “Do you even have any idea what we do here?”

“I’ll be honest, man,” Eddie raised an eyebrow, offering a bit of a smirk. “I'm just looking for a paycheck. But I’m a hard worker, I’ll take anything you throw at me.”

What Kevin didn’t tell him was that Eddie was the only applicant they’d had all week.  Work conditions were rather dismal at the factory as of late, and the turn-over rate was astronomical; there were Nightmare Scholars with several degrees still slumming it as closet monsters and ghosts that tapped on windows pretending to be a branch.

But, Eddie was fine with it.  He wasn’t interested in a career in nightmares—his music was all that mattered to him back then.

Back before your nightmares were all he cared about.  

“At the end of the hall on the first floor, there’s a bulletin board with the positions that are available.  You’ll need to pick one, and then Walter will get you enrolled in whatever classes you need.”

“Walter?” Eddie asked, looking around, as if the Walter in question might appear at any second from out of the bookshelf.  

“You’ll meet him tomorrow,” Kevin’s head turned to the side, but his body stayed facing forward.  “He’s a swamp monster; big guy.  He’s in charge of all the new trainees. Man’s got a particular foul odor about him, but damn his wife is a great cook.”

Eddie’s wallet chain clinked against the plastic chair as he forced it off his hips like popping out a cork, and he thanked Kevin with a wave.  

Little did he know then what a pain in his ass Kevin would be.

Little did he know that, some 2 years later, he’d be so dedicated to the work that they’d be offering him a promotion.  

They offered to put him in a training position, or behind a desk sorting dream journal entries, but he had no interest in such things.  They could keep their promotions.

He needed to stay on the ground, in the trenches.

Until he could find a way out of your dreams and into your arms.   --------

-------

[liminalweirdo]

Reminder that capitalism is designed to make you tired and feel like you have nothing -- no energy at all -- left to give to friends and loved ones, and your community, and even strangers but! every time you do reach out to help someone else we collectively defeat capitalism a little more

[liminalweirdo]

i mean i'm disabled and can't just "go out" without preparing, and also there's an ongoing pandemic so like: water, something to eat, pain medication, hand sanitizer, rubber gloves, spare masks, ID cards, cash, probably a book, hand moisturizer bc if my hands get too dry it's a sensory nightmare, mini first aid kid or at least bandaids. If i'm gonna be outside for a long time, spf.

I think being able and willing to go out without a lot of stuff is kind of a privilege, tbh. I used to be able to do that, but not anymore.

@ people who carry bags everywhere what do you put in them what is there to bring other than chapstick, keys, phone and maybe a tampon why are you packing a suitcase to be outside for 5 hours

[party-hearses]

pairing: dieter bravo x gn!reader (no use of y/n, no reader descriptions)

rating: explicit, 18+ MDNI

wordcount: 600

summary: you (kind of) write dieter a letter.

warnings/tags: ANGST, mention of drugs and alcohol. i think that's all but please lmk if i forgot anything!

a/n: this is for @beskarandblasters phoebe bridgers/boygenius drabble challenge! and who would have guessed that not only is it the first thing i've written in almost 6 months, but that 600 words still took me far too long to complete. beta’d by the best bro in the entire world @bastardmandennis but she’s perfect so all mistakes are my own. comment and reblogs are appreciated if you enjoy!

You watch, tongue between your teeth, as Dieter’s chest shallowly rises and falls from his crumpled place on the couch. 

Sunglasses still perched on the bridge of his nose, matted green robe tied loosely around his middle. 

The color of stomach bile, of envy, of resentment.

Crushed cans and empty liquor bottles litter the room like confetti — a party you’re no longer invited to, a celebration you’ve all but been cast out of. The light of the moon, too-full and too-round, bounces off the shimmering glass, casting brilliant beams of light across the angles of Dieter’s sleeping face. 

I love you, I don’t know why. 

A seedling planted at the base of your spine the moment you first pressed your lips to his, the growth nurtured by passing joints back and forth under the liminal space between late night and early morning, ‘I’m sorry’s murmured into the damp skin at the nape of your neck. 

Watering the sprouts of something that feels too much like exhaustion, until they stretch to a length that feels too much like suffocating. 

It was always going to end this way. 

Dieter — too charming, too personable, too manic, too much. Held hostage to his own impulses, all he knew how to do was put his teeth to your throat and take. Consume.

He stirs under the light of the moon, hands searching for something, anything, to ground him, the raucous shouts and clinking glasses of the party gone, now. The infinite emptiness of the room swallowing him whole, now. 

In another universe, you might have stayed to grasp his hand, to whisper i’m still here against his trembling fingertips. 

Are you still here? 

In another universe, he might have never taken you back to his trailer to pick you apart at the seams in the first place, to make you blush and squirm and whimper under the searing muscle of his tongue.

The possibilities filter past your eyes, a View-Master slide of every wouldbecouldbeshouldbe superimposed over the Dieter in this universe. The Dieter who wrapped the same tongue around the black hole of selfish, teeth scraping each letter into the tender flesh of your palm. 

Just another wannabe ingenue, chewed up and spit out by the fame machine, with nothing to show but a blossoming cocaine addiction and too much credit card debt. 

And what choice did either of you have, really, when you saw him on a pedestal and he saw you as an equal. A matching desperation to be seen, to be taken seriously in an industry that you didn’t take seriously. 

I know you, I know you, I know you on the back of every breath of sticky smoke exhaled over the twinkling view of the city from the rooftop. I know you, I know you, I know you. 

It was always going to end this way. 

His unruly brown waves are matted to his forehead, sweat-damp skin glistening like you’re looking at him through the lens of a kaleidoscope. 

You wonder how bad the hangover will be, how much his hands will shake as he rolls the first joint of the day, how long it will take him to notice. 

It can’t even be called a letter, really. A scrap of paper, what might have been a receipt at one point in time. Faded, sticky, oil-stained, now. Folded in half and tossed to rest on his chest, still rising and falling rhythmically. 

The loopy scrawl of your handwriting, weariness evident in every stroke that connects those four words. 

You don’t know me. 

It was always going to end this way.

[bleaksqueak]

sorry weird question but does things like gender reassignment work differently in the veil? They know how to do surgery im assuming but are they more advanced with the utilisation of magic? related question which was anwsered for prothetics im pretture sure though I wasnt able to find anything on other mobility aids so I was wondering if there were things of the sort that are more advanced than ours/different feel free to ignore if this gets touched on in the comic, I just thought it might be unlikely (which might be an incorrect assumption sorry) and was curious

That isn't a weird question, no worry! So, while surgery is sometimes necessary for certain dire situations where magic alone cannot aid (or, for example, someone has expended all of their aetheric capabilities during the middle of an emergency), Magi and Maven both often rely on both restorative and surgical magics and potionry for medical assistance, using practical medical tools and practices in unison when needed. With that said, things like gender reassignment are taken care of by the veil's apothecaries! The more simplistic potions aren't dissimilar to the glamour potions Maia (illicitly) sells-- things like hair, nails and skin care are available to the patient's desire, from rugged to fair and all in-between. The brews are made custom and exact, though some ready-mades exist, those are more akin to normal shampoos and aren't for, say, quickly growing a full bushom beard or flowing locks. The more complex brews are what outworlders would consider to be gender reassignment. These can only be made by exceptionally skilled, Eidolic magi as they require working with a variety of exceedingly potent Liminal ingredients and using a sample of the patient's pure aether to use within the brew itself as the core binding. The liminal species required for this brew only grows in the deep zones where reality seems to ebb and flow, thinking of itself more a suggestion than a fact, so any apothecaries or botanists looking to harvest often need to seek the assistance of a pair of reapers when their stocks have run low since this exact species and others who grow alongside it are exceedingly difficult to grow in even an Eidolon's garden. Difficulty in making and obtaining aside, the brew can be flavored-- thankfully, so it's a pleasant experience to drink alongside the comfort of finding oneself soon. The lasting effects of each type of potion varies (Nightingale's Hymn, a potion for a softer voice, must be taken daily for example), so upkeep is required. Old texts point towards seemingly miraculous, permanent healings and permanent transformations into one's true self, but either the techniques used by the ancient magi responsible for these splendors have long since been lost, or it's a load of Baloney scrawled down by a bunch of ancient lush bastards.

[mandowifey]

Hey! School has been really getting me down. I'm taking short winter courses so all the work is compiled into 5 grueling weeks. When I'm not bogged down by school, I love making super specific playlists, reading books and writing down beautiful quotes, going to local punk shows with friends, using fashion to reinvent myself everyday, and seeing movies in theaters (crying in a movie theater is one of my favorite activities haha.) My pronouns are she/her :-)

Feel free to write anything! Love your work <3

I'm so sorry to hear you are down from school! (Also thank you for the sweet compliment!)

I assign you; James Sandin.

Note; This is SFW, and unedited. It was meant to be a short drabble!

X x X x X x

"Are you sure you don't want us to wait for your Uber to get here?"

Rubbing your hands together as you shivered, your eyes sparkle as you look at your friends. All of you dressed well for the show you'd attended. You had anticipated drinking and in foresight opted to get a ride there. Now sober and cold, you regretted the attempt of being responsible.

"Nah, you guys go ahead! It said twenty minutes, I'll be fine." You shudder and tighten your coat around you.

One of your friends hugs you before parting ways. Time was flying by and going slow so often these days with your busy schedule and limited free time. While exhausted regularly, you still tried to indulge in the things that brought you joy.

At this time of evening, the streets were quiet and foot traffic was liminal. Your phone pinged and you checked it, hoping the alert meant Joseph, your uber driver, was approaching.

'Car accident on 14th, gonna be an extra 15 minutes.'

Groaning, you rub your arms before looking around. You spot a little bar with a bright neon sign telling you it was open. Now that you had 30 minutes, you jog across the street and shuffle into the bar. The warmth inside made you groan with relief. A few patrons regard you before returning to their conversations, mostly white noise to your ears as it mingled with the soft alt-rock music playing from ceiling speakers.

Once you sat at the bar, an older woman behind the counter approaches you and smiles.

"What can I get you?"

"I'll take a coke with ice."

The woman seemed confused, but obliges you. You trade the glass for 3$ in cash and take your phone out once she stepped away.

"And how about for you, handsome?"

You had been flicking through a couple of social media apps when you heard a husky rumble to your right. Looking up, you spot a handsome gentleman in a nice suit about two chairs down from you. His cheekbones were prominent and caused a gaunt appearance to his face. He was much older than you, and you could not help but linger as you watched him speak.

"Rum and Coke, on the rocks."

His hand reached up to remove the Bluetooth from his ear and put it in his suit. You must have been gawking because his head turned in your direction and he smiled. The lopsided smirk tugged something within you.

"Hey, were you just at Hell’s Nova?" He took cash out to pay the woman as she brought his drink.

You realize he was speaking to you.

"Oh-uh. Yeah, actually how did-"

The man lifted his hand and tapped a finger to his wrist, which prompted you to look at your own. A dark purple wristband with 'WELCOME TO HELL' scrawled in red clung loosely around you. Your face burns immediately.

"Duh." You laugh.

"I actually had a meeting nearby. Client's daughter performs there. Sorry, rude of me to run my mouth before introducing myself. I'm James."

The lights above the bar catch his beryl orbs and fill them with glistening specks. You were lost within them, even from a distance.

"I'm Y/N." Your face hurt from the blush spreading over them.

Grabbing his briefcase and drink, James moved another seat down so only one separated you. Your heart thunders as you catch a whiff of his cologne, no doubt as expensive as his suit.

James exudes a sort of calm you'd only read about. The man was like a tempered river, peaceful and comforting. He smiles again as he gets situated in his new seat. Sipping his drink, you smile and fidget, feeling like you needed to fill the silence.

"So you-

"Do -"

You both stop, having nearly spoken over eachother. After he apologized and laughed, you conceed to let him go first.

"So what do you do?"

You fiddle with your phone and smile. You explain how you mostly are focused on classes and your education. Then segway into explaining your love of poetry and how you'd found time to see the show with friends. James smiles the whole time, those peircing eyes of his not once leaving yours.

"And where do you see yourself going after all this schooling?"

That was not as easily answered. You try to think on the fly but can only let out a soft laugh and shrug. He smiles at that too. When you ask about what he does, James explains his work in loose details, while ordering another drink.

In his company, you lost track of time completely.

You learned he also took poetry classes, and he could even recite passages from some of your favorites. He additionally revealed he has two lovely children, and that while his marriage was coming to an end, he still cared for his soon-to-be Ex wife and had nothing but good things to say about her.

When your phone buzzed, it tugged you out of the warm embrace of a comfortable conversation and you gasped.

"Shit! My rides here."

James' smile lost some of its spark.

"Well, it was great getting to meet you, Y/N." He smiled and reached inside his jacket as you moved and gathered your things.

Blushing, you smile at him and were about to agree when he held a card out to you. Pausing, you gently take it and realize it's his personal business card, including a work and cell number.

"What-"

"I'd really like to hear from you again." He smiles, unaware of the pounding in your chest. "And whenever you are done with schooling, I'd be happy to hook you up with work."

Your smile was nearly painful. It took everything to not lunge and hug him. "Thank you, James. You'll be hearing from me." You promise. He gives you one last smile and watches as you hurry out the door.

The entire ride home, you rub your thumb along the business card, giddy for the possibilities it gave you.

[liminalweirdo]

Once the bloodwork person asked me if I was scared of needles and I said "Not really but I'll probably look away," and she said "so will I."

got blood work done today and i just remembered a time i got blood work done as a teen. after the nurse drew like 6 vials of the stuff, i asked him “is all that mine?” and he said “not anymore” and walked off

[savetooru]

lightship

finally back from braving the white cotton sea — on my flight home from tokyo i was lucky enough to be assigned a window seat and the view was surreal. staring out the porthole was looking at proof of concept: we taught ourselves how to fly. i don't have the energy to directly address why that was so important for me to accept but let's just say being in a different city does inexplicable things to the brain. the wonder of travel is that ideally, you have less time to get in your own head: wake up early, see the sights, eat your fill, stumble back to your lodging; exhale. after all, you could be anybody. you aren't anybody. god. doesn't it irk you how who we are in anonymity often feels like the truest version of ourselves? when you're sitting alone on the cosmo clock — somewhere close to the summit of rotation — it's easy not to worry about the length of the shadow you cast. the whole ride takes about fifteen minutes, so for those fifteen minutes you get to be a blur of probability. you've just crossed off number nineteen on your clumsily, carelessly-crafted bucketlist; for the moment you are every bit schrödinger's glorious, humble outline. the tough part is always in embracing a graceful aftermath. the return from liminal spaces and eyes-of-the-storms where choice is a pointless notion to turn over. the doors must open, the wheel's carriage emptied for its next passenger; nothing but indecipherable scrawl on fogged up glass left behind. you alight the metal box and you know the act has defined you in some profound way, but there's nothing you can show anybody to prove this. (the cat lives! now what?) all this to say yokohama's toasty 8°C gets you frigid clarity right up until the second it's time to punch back into discernible reality. go figure. so far my genius plan to best the mortal coil amounts to the following five precepts: brush before bed, take your meds early, drink less caffeine, figure out what you like, invest in more hugging. *shakes head* *grins self-deprecatingly* totally inspired, i know. a little sorry to end off on a [pensive acoustic guitar cover] note. i have photos from the trip! i took some neat ones and would like to share them soon. any other week i swear i'd be the type to wage war with melancholy, but for now? 以上です。 p.s. i'd be remiss if i didn't share how upon landing back in manila i finally gave in to reading running on air because i wish i caved earlier. ao3 user eleventy7 somehow just puts it all so succinctly, no? see — "going away is easy. coming home is hard."

[sleeparademon]

[liminalweirdo]

the weirdest thing about living in canada is that this is literally the "no opportunities but we will happily euthanize you if you're poor" country, but people think we're a good place to move to because we have "free healthcare."*

*if you're reasonably healthy AND you have health insurance, healthcare is "free". It will take you 10 years to get a family doctor and you will have to wait six weeks to see them every time you need an appointment. Prescription medication is not covered if you don't have insurance, hopefully you don't really need that heart medication. Don't worry though, you can always go to ER and wait for 8 hours to be told that the machine they need to diagnose/treat you isn't working and to come back tomorrow, or you can die in the waiting room or on the waitlist for treatment.

[liminalweirdo]

that ad that tries to make it seem like it's a great idea for people to "leave the photo so the person taking the photo can hop in" as if fucking camera timers don't exist. like you "invented" something that already exists, and made it terrible.

the way no photos will be genuine at all anymore is so tragic. candid pictures are just gone

everyone will look perfect because you've replaced all their faces with different moments in time and you'll be looking at family photos, and and your parent will be like ''remember when you and your siblings were all home for christmas?''

and you'll be like ''no''

and they'll be like ''oh yeah i guess that didn't really happen.''

no fucking thanks