to the two people who requested a one word prompt:
I'm experiencing a minor writers block due to the first thing I did after a two months break from writing being writing at least 400 words per day for 6 days straight lmao. so I'll probably be a little slow with it! sorry about that :3
but I will get to it! I promise, hehe :)
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Thinking about the way noir and Hobie were most likely treated because of how they look and being severely underestimated because of it.
Hobie looks and acts like a punk. He is just unserious enough to not be taken seriously. The dude is smart enough to recreate a dimension jumping watch from scraps, that people WATCH him steal and go “ugh sorry about that, he’s always like that”. And they treat him like an instigative child. Meanwhile this man is staging an interdimensional coup and is essentially a rebel freedom fighter in his own world. He is incredibly strategic and a genius while also being kind and sticking to his guns. And as a reminder, without knowing Miles or how his powers worked for even two minutes he was able to accurately help him improve his abilities! Man is observant and a quick thinker! But he’s quiet about it!
Noir dresses and sounds like an ‘oldtimer’ bc he’s from the 1930s. People probably went “ah yes grandpa” with the assumption of a mild mannered, old, and jaded private eye. Probably thought of as behind the times and not as intelligent because of lack of experience with technology. But overall first impression was of a sensible hardworking guy, and at worst melodramatic. In reality, dude is more than mildly neurotic, has severe anger issues, and prone to getting into fights. A raised socialist activist, who has very little to lose, and has canonically burned down the Statue of Liberty, shockingly he is a bit of a wildcard. And more than likely got kicked off/quit the ‘elite strike force’ for those reasons. But he’s also resourceful, smart, and quick to adapt.
Both of these characters are going to be a force to be reckoned with when they get together. Very much house on fire that burns down the entire neighborhood type relationship. I’m very excited.
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i think the primary reason why K/S has such overwhelming appeal is and always shall be that it is, at its core, a soulmate bond that has to be forged. the only way a t'hy'la bond can manifest is through shared toil, hardships, and undying devotion; it must be given effort and put together piece by piece - but at the same time, by the nature of its creation, it alters all realities on a cosmic level, to the point that Kirk and Spock must meet in every universe.
t'hy'la is not spontaneous. it is not a soulmate mark, it doesn't spring to life at first sight or first touch or first word. it is destined - because it is chosen, time and time again. you cannot have one without the other
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So I named TLP after the book The Little Prince because I went to a French school so we read that book constantly so I thought it would be funny if I made little drawings of TLP Donnie if I had named au after different French books I read as a kid!
It was hard to think of some that were actually French and not just translations lol turns out a lot of the books that I thought were French were really just English books with French translations :P
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the plot thread of colin and missing penelope on his tour hits a lot harder when you watch 1-8 without a month long break. him having feelings for her but not knowing what they are yet are handed to us right away at the start of episode 1 until he says it himself in episode 5 then goes into a deeper thread of him understanding that his yearning for home also meant a yearning for penelope herself because home is where penelope is🥺
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#serireiweek2023 Day 3: firsts/love languages
I started late so I made it a comic and will catch up on the other prompts later maybe
Extra (2):
because they're both receptive to touch but I think Reigen is also very 'acts of service' love language
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ghost stares at the ceiling, chest heaving in a harsh pant; sweat ice on his clammy flesh and soaked into the sheet he restlessly kicks away.
ears still ringing, his fingertips blindly drift down to trail along his vivisection scar. he half-expects blood to smear in their wake. his own line of solomon, who ordered him split in twain; half of him given to a grieving mother and half left with the grieving to be.
just for both his broken halves to be rejected.
what did it make him that his mother grieved him more than she loved him? that she begged to be relieved of him more adamantly than she begged to receive him? why did his worth spill out with his drawn blood? why was his pain lesser than hers?
his hand flexes, digging into the raised scar like it’ll part beneath his fingertips to plunge into his mangled insides. no one knows the cruelty of reforming the halved; his name, his being, not nearly as important as his body when he was stripped from himself. no one knows the pain of healing and understanding losing pieces of yourself means losing your value along with them.
how many more pieces did he have to lose before he was halved once more? before his very presence incurred grief so strong it was better to be rid of him than cradle his bloodied remains?
did the infant fight himself? did he age always at odds with himself; his halves never truly whole? he hopes he wasn’t, that he was spared the loss of self; the fear that one may be welcomed over the other.
who will he lose when the inevitable comes? when he’s ripped apart again? simon? or ghost? is it better to be cursed with choice just like his mother or live with an aftermath chosen for him? does it matter if in the end, he convinces himself there was nothing of him left to lose?
his head lolls to the side and the wild buck of his chest slows. he watches johnny beside him, his face lax with the rare peace of sleep; his cheek squished against the pillow, his lips pursed as long breaths escape him.
johnny. soap. never torn asunder but two all the same.
he carefully reaches out and ghosts his fingers along the jagged scar on his chin. even in sleep, he presses into his bloodied touch. he’s never fled his half-flesh, never shies away from his gore as it spills unbidden from his cleaved torso. he holds on where his mother let him go; cups his stomach to hold his insides in place and never minds the blood that drips through his fingers.
simon will never let him become his own solomon and cannibalise himself. he will never let him question which half of him has more value; which pieces he can afford to lose before he’s cast aside.
ghost’s soap. simon’s johnny. his.
whole, in any incarnation.
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