#prosey and rambly

[exx-bee]

The swingset he had sat on to stargaze was one of the few things of this new world he understood. And Gordon guessed that was because, like him, it wasn’t new at all. The entire playground stood, an endless reminder of what had been lost. A symbol. A grief. A prayer. A promise. 

It had remained. The swingset, rusted and broken and forced into complacency of horrors remained. 

~~~

freehoun oneshot, emotional hurt/comfort and gordon having a bad time! good ending, i promise :-) ft. companion art below

[tragedykery]

I truly believe writing beginnings doesn’t get enough hate. I can come up with ending sentences and once I get going writing is alright but starting a scene/piece? absolutely horrid. death. misery. 0/10 would not recommend

[revelisms]

Get to Know Me — Favorite Fics Self-Rec

As a bit of a year-end reflection (and belated birthday celebration for myself, which just blew by me last week), I wanted to put together a small collection of personal favorites from the fics I've written so far.

It's been a tough year, and it's had me coming back to these pieces again and again for various reasons. Art has always been a constant in my life, and there is something in the completion and release of it that I find inspirational to look back on.

Feel free to drop me an ask if any of these pique your interest. I ramble in these, about these, and generally about most things—which is a roundabout way to say, yes, I have lots of thoughts on them, and I'd love to hear yours :-)

*Note: NR = Not Rated, M = Mature

light ascending (Ghost Band)

WC: 7k | T | Tumblr, AO3 — On the eve of his papal ascension, Terzo confides in a sister of sin. Or: A character study of Terzo through the eyes of Mariella, a priestess-in-training, set during a purification rite.

even if the world burns (Ghost Band)

WC: 1k | NR | Tumblr, AO3 — Terzo, Omega, and messy love. Or: A short and prosey examination of Terzo's relationship to Omega and others.

on legacies (Ghost Band)

WC: <1k | NR | Tumblr, AO3 — Few things in the Ministry's grounds haven't been touched by Primo's shadow. Or: A character study of Primo, as he was to himself and to others.

low doses (Arcane)

WC: <1k | NR | Tumblr, AO3 — Silco, half-living on Singed’s operating table, wrestles with the aftermath of Vander’s betrayal. Or: A microfic on revenge, rebirth, and reclamation.

in sun, I will rise (Arcane)

WC: 7.5k | M | AO3 — A lost girl, a crimelord, a soldier. It's not family, not quite—but it could be. Or: A character study of early-days Jinx, Silco, and Sevika.

fate is a sundress, ripped at the thigh (Arcane)

WC: 8k | T | AO3 — Silco is gone. Piltover is imploding. Jinx is, slowly, trying to find connection. Or: A fic about grief, family, and relationship rebuilding.

all gilded and golden (Legend of Zelda)

WC: 3k | M | AO3 — Zelda reflects on her lineage, legacy, and self. Or: Snapshots of Zelda's and Link's characters through the lens of queer identity and gender.

Divider by coolcatsgraphics

[recitedemise]

If either of them tonight had cared for the prosey, they might have wondered to the reason for his artful language. It's fit for the libraries, he's heard before, and those anthologies of poems so besottingly kept. He'd speak in sheafs of hyacinths and in ribbon-bundled daffodils to mark his place, and how enduring are his rambles. How tireless his tongue! Whole kingdoms have fallen where their leather-fashioned bibles have stayed the course, and perhaps that's why he would speak so nicely:

Gale's dying. The things that leave his mouth are the proof he's lived.

Evidently, Connor would bask in it warmly, in the dips of his timber and the gentle, singing curls in his 'a's and 'i's. But he's a scholar, last Gale checked, and is weak as if required to the bends of a tongue. Still, it stuns him to his marrow, the endless, voracious depths of his soft, soft heart. Gale's fraying doesn't scare him, not his cracking, his welting, or that weeping, wet stretch of bled-through gauze. Rather, he'd feel blessed and humbled, considering this wizard like some cosmic blessing, but to believe him at all something a skip from divine—

Through the shadows, Gale blinks at the shiver that takes his hand.

Carefully, the mortal thing breathes. Connor's touch offers colors in the back of his eyes. Stunned, Gale looks on in his wonder at the kaleidoscoping green like emeralds caught surging to the void in his chest. It rocks thickly up his sinew, a fluttering of relief throbbing deep and arctic, and the simmering affection in this wordless deed? Clutching that tendril, Gale's weepy, tender pulse spills messily through his ribs.

"That was..." His voice quavers. "Rather, I feel I should warn you not to make a habit of this. It's dangerous, I'm sure you realize, to go offering yourself freely to whatever downtrodden wizard would pull at your heartstrings.

"That said, it doesn't escape me, the sobering thought of where I'd be without your kindness. You would take such leaps of faith for me, Connor. It's—"

His black-blue nailbeds are no longer bleeding, he realizes. "I can scarcely understand why at times."

Connor listens as the wizard continues on, each sentence he speaks like it was ripped straight from between the pages of a book written by those with the heaviest of hearts, aching with feelings that begged to be liberated and live on parchment. Words lasted longer than men, more often than not. It was timeless, and broke barriers, it was the way that creatures communicated to one another in such complex ways that the standard animal was not blessed with.

Truly, it was blessing to sit right here, next to an undoubtedly brilliant mind imprisoned in a body so temporary and fleeting. Corrupted, too, as the curse instilled upon him threatens to gnaw away at his very being in such a way that biological decay can't compare to.

An inky black tentacle slips down from Connor's sleeve, wrapping around their hands and keeping them held together like they were being bound.

The tendrils within the undead's ribcage shudder and clench tightly as Connor's true self is pulled from--all of what he is, who he is, is being undone by the process unfolding. Swirling sickly green light travels down the tendril and to Gale's hand, travelling upwards to his arm until making its way right to his chest, where the orb within him is so delicately nestled.

Life transference was a difficult spell for many--said to be painful for a plenty few. But there is no pain for Connor. Just the feeling of being unthreaded, pulled apart and undone by the strands of weave that keep him together.

It's an act of sacrifice.

Hollow eye sockets still remain locked onto the wizard, up until the point where it finishes.

"I am open book. All of what you want from me, you may have it. All you need to do is ask."

Connor then tilts his head down to their hands.

"I trust you."

[impossible-rat-babies]

AND THERE IS MY WRITING GROOVE holy hell

[rxng]

(( tbh i’m pretty sure i have minors following me so that’s why i’m trying to be better with this stuff

despite the backbone of this being just... smut. 

[spikybanana]

Deep breath,,,, okay. Thanks for coming up with this ask game @heartofspells! (speaking of— forgive me if I've simply missed it but you don't seem to have told us yours? what's up with that!) and thank you for tagging me @tracingpatternswrites @sliebman10 !! am honoured to be considered enough of a writer for this haha, since I've barely completed anything besides microfics, but hey I rly hope some of these happen at some point so!

We all have those lists, right? The ones that just build and build, filled with ideas we don’t know if we’ll ever actually make something out of or not.

Tell me about those (if you want and are willing; i understand sometimes ideas sit closely for a reason).

Which ones are you the most excited about?

Waltz No.19 this is technically a wip not an idea, and was going to be just the figure skating fic but now I'm dumping my brain into it. it's like I can't make something niche enough. you mean you'd willing read thousands of words' worth of stilted prose about a sport I don't even do? how about wolfstar being asexual? oh and did I mention I'm making remus half-chinese? anyway this fic lives in my head so much I don't even know how to talk about it anymore?? again I'm a baby writer so this will take months but eh. I'll wait for it. (tysm for friends who've let me ramble a bit about this one I love you)

What’s one you don’t think you’ll ever follow through with, and why?

oh oh OH there was that one where wolfstar accidentally had a child in first war but sirius didn't know about it, and it's PoA compliant only because remus modified his own memories. then one day in grimmauld place sirius finds remus sitting with a vial containing his own 12 years of lost memories. i don't think there's a single happy thing about this so lol, no.

Are any of them just left to rest because you need to talk them out more and haven’t? If so, maybe someone will see this and help! 

these... I don't know when or if these will ever happen. I don't even know if these are the kinds of stories that fics are. but uk.

this time-travelling magical realism ish thing of historian? sirius accidentally falling into the life of the young werewolf who lived during the fork in the road of an ancient-ish community's fate. at the same time remus, who is desperately trying to hold together a world that's falling apart, wakes up in a dystopian future, and is recruited by mcgonagall's office for intel about remaining scraps of werewolf communities. it'll be prosey it'll be pretty (hopefully) and I have no idea what this is. I really have not read/written nearly enough for this ahaha if I write it now it'll be so boring

I watched tick tick boom three times in a row and started a fic where remus lupin goes to new york and meets jonathan larson. remus is busking on the streets when jon picks him up to play at the workshop for a musical called Superbia. there's. no. plot. just the fact that jon and remus are the same age and also andrew garfield. I'd love for this to be some sort of andrew garfield trivia easter egg crack fic but I actually know nothing about andrew garfield. also it got sad because remus is Running From Himself etc etc

oscar wilde-esque sirius??? quiet gentleman remus who sirius initially sneers at for being so plain and conforming but ends up discovering whole worlds with?? I'm just waiting for that oscar wilde phase to tick off to make this happen

on another note, I suck at talking to people so much. but others have told me I'm an alright listener ...? so if any of you ever want I'd love— I'd be honoured— to listen to rambles about ideas

and um open tag! but pls tag me back if you see this and do it!

[sincerelybeatricestitch]

Rp with billythekidscout

(I know that this isn’t using Bea, but I don’t have a blog for Karlson and this account’s p much dead anyways) 

@billythekidscout

In the outskirts of town, there existed a veteran's graveyard. 

Headstones stood at attention, just as their inhabitants had so many years ago. Crypts loomed above all others, imposing their god-given authority on those surrounding them. There were names, dates, scripture, all beautifully etched into stone. Looking over the marble-studded garden, it was easy to forget that their passings had not been peaceful. They did not rest, but bled out on smoke clouded battlefields, their loved ones worlds away. They were alone, and most likely, they were afraid. 

But what did it matter? They were dead. The wars were over. The nation had moved on, and even the cemetery had lost its sacred status. The stone was chipped, the grass was brown, and in the dead of the night, its iron gate opened with a protesting grimace. A pair of boots, each a different fashion, stepped onto the cobblestone pathway. A gas lantern hissed and light oozed from its chamber, recklessly throwing shadows about the property. The person that held it was not supposed to be here. Each step she took shook the caskets beneath her, the bodies of the decaying writhing in contempt. This was their land, and she was invading. 

But to hell with the dead when the living was dying. The girl shut the gate behind her and made her way down the path, algae eyes turning this way and that. A vault. She was looking for a vault, and within that vault would be a message from a contact to her boss. That was all she knew, and if she valued her health, all she needed to know. She didn't mind. Work was work, money was money, and the knot of hunger in her shrunken stomach didn't care one way or the other. However, as moments of searching turned to fruitless minutes, she began to realize that wasn't all she needed to know. Even with her lantern, all of the mausoleums looked the same, and she hadn't been given a proper description. Yes, she had been told it would be easy to open, the spot had been used once before, but as she forced her meager weight against door after door, not a single one budged. Her heels kicked gouges into the soil as she kicked and struggled with her latest attempt before throwing down her cap in a fit of frustration and sinking to the wounded earth.

"Goddammit, Freddie, you son of a bitch," she spat, running a hand through her hair. Somewhere, a bell tolled once, twice, three times. Three in the morning. She had been searching for nearly an hour. Teeth gritted tightly, the girl rose. She snatched her cap off the ground, adjusted her coat, and stalked to the next monument. 

"Please, God, let this be the one," she whispered, eyes turned upwards. She put her back against the door and pushed. Something groaned. Something moved. The door swung open.

"Ah, finally!" she panted, grinning towards whatever deity had answered her call. The vault was teeming with darkness, but as she forced her lantern inside, it fled like vermin. The kid adjusted the flame before taking a good look inside. A swear lodged itself in her throat and she felt her heart lurch. She had expected a body, of course, but the man that laid on the stone slab before her was perfectly preserved, and as she took a closer look, appeared to be breathing. He was alive. 

"What in the fires of hell..." she whispered, eyebrows furrowing. She took a hesitant step forwards, and then another. The man was donned in clothing from the previous century and a healthy layer of dust. She bit her lip. There had to be an explanation. There had to. Maybe he was a madman who decided this was a good place to rest. But, no, the dust was too thick. He must have been there for quite some time. The girl swallowed and very carefully reached out before retracting her hands. No. No, whatever madness this was, it was certainly unrelated to her work, and she didn't have to get involved. She curled her fingers into a fist before letting to her side and backing away very, very slowly. If he was asleep, she did not want to wake him. Right as she felt the breeze against her back, though, her foot caught a crack and the girl went tumbling down with a cry and a swear. The lantern clattered against the stone floor and the light went out.

Shit.

[marinerofthestars]

the zodai tag

bit of a late arrival to this fandom, but better late than never, i suppose!

1. How did you hear about the books? about a year ago, i was doing research on the zodiac for an urban fantasy project i’m working on, tales from omphalos, when i found the house ophiuchus info page on the zodiac website. unfortunately life got in the way and i forgot the series for a while, but a little while ago i remembered zodiac’s worldbuilding and got sucked right back in!

2. What is your favorite moment from the series so far? it’s hard to choose just one moment, but i’d have to say skarlet and rho’s first meeting in black moon for how atypical it is. we know skarlet is the hypotenuse in rho and hysan’s love triangle, but she doesn’t act like the stereotypical petty Other Woman at all. she’s charismatic, she’s genuinely fun to be around, and she has sympathetic motives and ambitions. above all, she’s actually super nice towards rho, and doesn’t let her feelings get in the way of their political collaboration. (and then thirteen rising assassinated her character. yes i am still bitter about it why do you ask)

3. Which House are you from? house leo!

4. What do you like about your House? artistry pride is something i’d really love to be a part of as an aspiring author, i have blaze and trax (both criminally underrated characters imo) as my housemates, and our zodai wield FLAMING SWORDS in battle. what’s not to love?

5. If you had to change Houses, which House would you pick? since leo really vibes with my passion for art, this is definitely a tricky question! probably either libra (police brutality is a thing of the past with bind, and their government seems like they have their act together), scorpio (much waterworld. much ambition. much cool tech. wow), or sagittarius (diversity, democracies where the voices of the young and non-complacent can be heard, and really vibrant cities are all things i appreciate)

6. Which system would you most like to visit? capricorn, no question. the zodiax is THE single most location in the entire zodiac bar none to me - an ancient complex the size of a planet, its oldest curators having access to transportation systems most inhabitants don’t even know about? an archive of humanity’s collective knowledge, so massive it has hotels and restaurants within it because leaving to sleep or eat is just so impractical? LET ME TOUR IT. LET ME UNCOVER ITS MYSTERIES I KNOW THEY EXIST (i think history is rad okay)

7. If you got to choose, which Zodiac technology would you like to have? probably...the tattoo? i don’t have anywhere enough knowledge about neuroscience/engineering to design my own, but assuming that i did, i’d love to design a tattoo that can interface with my brain and with digital art software, so that i can turn whatever ideas i have in my head into artwork!

8. Which character would you want as a best friend? skarlet. she’s six feet tall, buff as all hell, super attractive, prefers diplomacy to violence but still perfectly capable of kicking ass, and an outspoken risers’ rights activist. what’s not to love? (though knowing the type of people i usually hang out with, i’d probably end up with like. twain or gyzer as my best friend. one can dream though)

9. Which sign would you like to date? aries, because as previously stated skarlet is awesome. (a sentiment i will continue to reiterate) failing that, either libra for their sense of justice, scorpio for their ambition and passion, or aquarius for their innovative mindset.

10. Who do you hope Rho “ends up with?” (If anyone at all!) firstly, thank you for acknowledging that rho might not be interested in romance after everything she’s been through. (aromantic rho? arho?) secondly: skarlet.

this might be a little controversial, but i feel like in some regards, rho has far more chemistry with skarlet than she has with hysan. (ms. russell. i am sorry but. i have. Issues. with ‘centaur smile’ and the context surrounding it doesn’t make it any better) all of their interactions are marked by a noted admiration on rho’s part, and it’s not just merely admiration of her frankly enviable body (there’s more than enough of that, but it feels respectful somehow, there’s no five-page purple prosey ramblings on how the sweat glints on skar’s brow as she lifts weights, unlike with some people - sorry, mathias), but admiration of skar’s personality.

her charisma. her ambitions. her drive to fight for people who’ve been beaten down for millennia, to give a voice to the voiceless. to use violence as a last resort, not a first strike.

even at their absolute worst in thirteen rising, even when they’re butting heads, they don’t let it get in the way of doing what needs to be done. hell, skarlet even points out that she wouldn’t be giving rho such a hard time if she didn’t respect the hell out of rho, if she didn’t think she was tough enough to take it. there’s a sort of unspoken bond between them, a slow orbit that they’re both caught in. at the end of the series, they part way on relatively good terms, and with the hope that maybe, just maybe, that orbit might become something more than just professional acquaintance.

also their oppositional dichotomy of cardinal fire/water signs is an awesome aesthetic that i really wish was brought up more than it was in canon :( 

11. If you could record a Snow Globe, what would you put in it? only A snow globe? you’re not exactly giving me a lot of slack here in all seriousness, if i had to choose one moment to record in a snow globe, probably the moment i first came up with the idea for the urban fantasy project i mentioned above, tales from omphalos. i’ve never been devoted as much time to or invested as much energy in a project as i have with tfo, and i’d like to keep an easily accessible record of my original vision on hand. and hey, if by some chance i manage to follow in romina’s footsteps, get tales from omphalos professionally published, have it become a big success with a respectable fandom, i’d like to look back every once in a while, and remember how it all began.

12. If you had the chance to tell Rho anything, what advice/encouragement would you give her? - lies, especially lies of omission, are necessary a lot of the time to get ahead in politics and life in general use that being ahead to help out the people and groups you care about - don't trust the immortal child-aristocrats or expect them to behave in a way that won't inevitably screw you over - if you must play nice with them, figure out how to decrease gemini’s horrific income inequality, and see what you can do about exporting cell rejuvenation therapy to the wider zodiac - ferez is right, risers are the future and you need to acknowledge that going forward - skarlet is excellent at garnering support and bridging generational gaps, and while fernanda purecell is a bougie running dog, she’s got her head screwed on the right way regarding politics and institutional riserphobia; together, the three of you should be able to make some headway towards making amends for past wrongs - i don’t care if family heads have suffrage, matriarchal aristocracy (aristocratic matriarchy?) is NOT a democracy or a form of government that looks out for the rights of men/NB people/agender people/multigender people/intersex people/you get the idea - romance is by no means an exclusively two-player game, and skarlet has said she would be open to an arrangement; however, if you MUST insist on ignoring that polyamory is a thing, go for the six-foot risers' rights activist - i’m sorry about all the bullshit with your mom. whatever the end result was, whatever her intentions, it does not excuse the way she treated you and your dad and stanton. it’s okay to feel like shit because of what she did to you, and not being able to wall it off doesn’t make you weak or anything dumb like that - you’re already far stronger than she ever was. i know how much it sucks - i was in the same situation as you once - but believe me when i say that things do get better. you’re not alone here, rho. - please you gotta fight the gender binary you live in the FUTURE you gotta do it you gotta-

BONUS QUESTION 13. How would you react if your friend became a Riser? let them know that I love and support them no matter what their house, that being the way that they are is totally valid, and that anyone who says otherwise will have to answer to my fist in their face. if they’re unbalanced, make sure they have access to any resources they need (possibly including memory recap vlogs, definitely including medication and therapy to help out with any health issues they may develop).

[dateamonster]

someday im gonna post this whole rambling prosey weird Thing on the vampires feeding on a loved one as a metaphor for the self-imposed punishment of seeking out someone who can’t love you in the way you need to be loved/deifying your bad breakup but right now... the world isnt ready for that

[mirage-coordinator]

remember that one week where we all shipped mr smiley and mr frowney

[jestbeeextras]

Unfinished: Searching for Starlight

Originally written: 16 Feb 2017

I think I've shared this one before at some point, but I can't remember. I nearly put it on ao3 as is but decided against it.

I was in a bit of a dark place and working some stuff out, I had just read, or re-read, Litany in which certain things are crossed out and I guess I was stuck in that feeling. Anyway, I decided against finishing it for fear of where it might go. The text in the doc is purple because its quite purple prosey, and I don't know how many times I can write them LITERALLY bumping in to each other. Lol

---

Mornings are nothing but haze. Dan is always lost, still stuck in the clinging tar of his night times. He’s like an abandoned road under a starless sky, desolate and alone. He rises on his couch, stumbles from a dirty cushion to dingy sheets and lays on his back, contemplates the crack in his ceiling.

He’s trying to remember all the things that he should but he’s coming up empty. There’s a faint memory of damp, heated skin and humid pants against his collarbone which is something akin to feeling, he supposes, but mostly it’s just numb and void and it’s definitely the way he likes it.

The distance is better, the desolate, separate roads and starless skies are better. Because stars are meant to shine, and Dan is a black hole, a singular point where all light disappears. And stars make him feel insignificant, small and inconsequential.

He has to drag himself up at some point, but only once the morning has given way to the afternoon and the sun has tracked a path over its highest point. It needs to be going down when Dan greets it, because anything on its way up would fall at the mere sight of him.

And this is routine too.

The coffee shop on the corner is routine, and the shift at the bar and the beer he throws in to glasses and slides into ungrateful, dirty hands. The chatter that floats into dead air is routine and the bearded man shooting eyes at him, and buying him hard liquor before going home to his stoic wife shouldn’t be routine, but it is. Dan feels the burn of the alcohol on the way down, but it helps him stop feeling much else so he doesn’t mind.

It’s here the routine varies. Between destruction and vague attempts at creation. There are the nights, when the final patron has departed and he’s staring at a row of glass soldiers filled with blessed numbness, that he’ll decide to self destruct. To blow away the remaining fragments of hope he’d had that today would mean anything other than the inevitable, and he’ll fix himself a drink, and another, and he’ll lose himself on that desolate starless road he’s so often wandering down.

Few times he manages to break ranks, drag himself home bone tired and weary and perch on his couch as if poised for something. With nerves and muscles bundled so tight, he’ll set pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard and he’ll leak words until the sun is nearly up. He’s searching for starlight maybe, somewhere, always coming up empty, or wanting. These nights, of pointless creation, he’ll file away somewhere, or leave loose leaf pages scattered and haphazard around his tiny flat, crinkled, misused, and unseen. He doesn’t glance back to them, but keeps them as a reminder, to keep searching perhaps.

Dan is forgiven for being surprised that he’s only twenty two. It’s worn him down the last few years, and he’s exhausted from making it this far. He’s pretty convinced he wouldn’t make it another twenty two. Or ten. Or two. He’s got no definite plans, but tiptoeing a line between creation and destruction night after night isn’t going to last. He would offer up his own destruction if the creation meant anything. But all he has to show for his perfect demolition is a flat littered with torn up pages, protruding hip bones, and a penchant for straight vodka and skin that isn’t his own.

He’s studying the glinting bottles today, weighing up his options. He’s been over them a thousand times before tonight and no doubt he’ll go over them another thousand after it, but he persists, because he won’t fall into inertia, it has to be an active decision. He has to choose to self destruct.

But suddenly there is a manager at his hip, stuttering around clipped sentences about trivialities while his fingers slide into the belt loop of Dan’s jeans. Dan lets a sigh slip past his lips, and it’s almost relief, because the decision to give up on creation for the night is easier when he doesn’t have to blame it on loneliness. It’s a poor substitute for something real but they’ve reach an impasse where they both know it’s nothing, and empty, and pointless, but neither cares enough about the hollowness of their coupling to put an end to it. It’s not all the time, but it’s sometimes.

Dan sets a smile on his mouth. It isn’t real, but it’s the ghost of something real, and he pours himself a drink. It’s quick and heady and they don’t use a bed. Instead Dan perches on the top of a drinks crate in the cellar head and the man at his feet kneels on the cold concrete floor.

When he comes he doesn’t see stars, but he squeezes his eyes tight shut and does enjoy the darkness on the inside of his eyelids and the faint pulse of his blood in his ears. It reminds him that it’s still pumping through his body, that he’s still existing. It’s not comforting, but it’ll do.

Afterwards Dan downs another mouthful of something acidic and burning. It rests in his stomach, queasy and thick, until it enters his bloodstream and helps him to forget.

And then its back to his couch, and the crack in his ceiling, and the routine starts again.

-

Objects in motion stay that way until external forces are applied. Resistance, friction, opposition. Dan's existence isn't so much motion as it is a slip stream, a meander through a pointless narrative he's always trying to pin down. He'd been drinking until the rising sun tinted the tips of rooftops visible from his apartment window in pink, and then laid unconscious and not dreaming for a few hours before rising in a fog.

He should be worried that he's sluggish. That his head is clogged and fuzzy and his tongue feels coated and thick, but it's all such repetition that he stopped worrying about it long ago.

He shuffles into clothes from the night before, needing them only because he doesn't want to be accused of public indecency. He's already indecent, but he covers his bare skin, pale and jagged over his bones, to save onlookers the trouble of looking. It’s not like he feels attached to it, his own body merely transportation for his rambling mind.

Back to the coffee shop, and the sugary caffeinated air. He orders it black, with an extra shot, hoping that the stimulant will enter his bloodstream. It’s a more acceptable drug at this time in the morning, but he knows he’s just counting down the hours, until he gives in or the muse takes him.

This morning there’s a collision. As he turns from the counter, hot salvation in one hand, lid lifted to allow the steam to escape and the liquid to cool, he meets resistance. His front pressed up to another person’s while hot coffee is expelled from the cup in a burning stream that coats both of their shirts. It’s seeping through to his skin and the added irritation of being practically scolded on top of the thrumming headache at his temples is enough to make him yell.

He looks up into bright blue eyes beneath a shaggy black fringe and his whole world focusses in. He’s in pain, and the world is sawing at his already frazzled nerves and he doesn’t like the extra shock the sight brings him.

The guy is smiling and apologising, telling Dan he’s the clumsiest person alive and all Dan can see is blue eyes and black hair and he feels disorientated.

“I’ll buy you another one,” the guy says, swabbing at Dan’s shirt with a handful of useless paper towels.

Dan wants to bat him away, save him the energy of trying to clean up a mess Dan’s involved in. It’s an old shirt, and old skin, and he doesn’t care if he’s burnt. It’d be one more injury to stack on the others and it barely matters in the grand scheme. The fact that the pain has whitewashed his brain is neither here nor there because the face of this stranger is more vivid than anything else he’s allowed himself to be exposed to recently.

He’s been living in a grey world, the shades of it too subtle to distinguish the differences between his nights and days. This guy is a whirlwind of colour, furious hands moving over Dan’s shirt and Dan using his own to move him away.

When he takes the guy’s shoulders into his hands, he’s more gentle than he can ever remember being, scared his destructive fingers will mark this elusive thing.

“Don’t worry.” He’s saying, and his voice is cracked. These are the first words he’s spoken today, besides the order for his coffee. “It doesn’t matter.”

But this is a dismissive the stranger won’t accept, he’s already spinning them back to the counter, still apologising and moving with an ease that makes Dan notice his own creaking bones.

“Um, what were you drinking?” He asks, face turned in expectation.

“Coffee,” He manages to croak, straining for control over how dry his throat is, how rasping he sounds. He swallows around his words.

“Black coffee,” the stranger is saying over the register, and then “caramel macchiato.” Which makes Dan chuckle, because of course this unbelievable and unexpected being has all that sugar and all that foam and all that extra nonsense in his coffee.

“Why order coffee if you don't actually like coffee?” Dan hears himself asking. He's engaging with this person, conversing like a normal, albeit sarcastic, human being. He's dipping his toe into the theory of social interaction, and he's rusty, he hasn't done this in so long.

“I like coffee,” blue eyes says simply, shrugging off Dan’s tone, which must sound confrontational despite his best efforts.

“Coffee with a bunch of sugar and stuff in it doesn't count.”

“Who are you, the coffee police?”

Dan wills the smile on his face not to appear, not to crack through his weary and jaded facade, but it happens anyway. He knows it's the one that makes his dimple appear, fills his cheeks, crinkles his eyes. He doesn't think he's worn that particular smile in quite a while. Not since--

“If I were,” he quips, so he doesn't have to think, “you'd be in trouble for assaulting an officer.”

And his stranger laughs. The tip on his pink tongue poking from the side of his mouth, head crooked slightly backwards, eyes lighting up. Dan thinks he probably doesn't deserve to witness something so beautiful.

He definitely shouldn't be lingering in the conversation once the coffee is pressed into his hands but there is something about the warmth of the stranger that's drawing him in. There is nothing of the drink he had last night left in his system so the gentle vibration running through him at the sound of this guys voice is a mystery. A wonderful enigma Dan wants to capture in over egged prose, scatter this man in the spaces between words.

His brain hasn't been this quiet while sober in a long time.

“What are you?” He asks. Quite accidentally out loud.

“Not the coffee police either,” the warm voice rolls back, across the distance between them as they move from the counter. “Though nearer. I actually work here.”

Dan raises his eyebrows.

“I know.” Thin fingers push their way through a black fringe and the pads of Dan's own itch to follow them. “You think that would mean that I'd be able to navigate the place without crashing in to someone but… There you go.”

Dan can feel his head nodding and is almost surprised at the laugh that makes it way out of his mouth. He certainly hadn't agreed to make the noise, not consciously anyway.

“So that's what I am. Coffee barista. Well… Coffee barista slash graphic novelist.” This is said all in a rush, with a slight frown as if his stranger doesn't know why he's saying it. “What about you?” He settles for eventually.

“Pub down the street. The Three Bells?”

The dark head nods.

“I know the bells.”

“Know it, or know of it?”

There is a smirk that Dan probably deserves. And anyway, he doesn't even know why he's bothering to ask, it has no bearing on this temporary meeting, this fleeting encounter that will no doubt be a mere memory by morning.

“I know it.”

“Ok.”

There's a moment of silence and Dan wonders if this is the space in normal conversations where one should make a move to leave. They aren't moving to sit together, there's no reason why they should, and they're half blocking the gangway between what the counter and the seating. Dan shuffles his feet and tries not to look indecisive.

“That's a new one.”

“What is?” His enigma doesn't make a move to leave, so Dan doesn't either.

“Asking if I know about a gay bar, to establish if I'm queer. Effective but… A bit round the houses isn't it?”

Dan swallows. It hadn't really been what he'd meant. Not really. It's inconsequential what this person does or doesn't like, who or what he is, when he means nothing to Dan, never will and definitely shouldn't. Not if he knows what's good for him.

“Not that I'm not enjoying this little meet cute we've got going on,” Dan says in lieu of answering properly, “But I have to get going.”

“No problem,” there's a confident smile set on pale pink lips and Dan has the sudden and intrusive idea that he wants to wipe it away with his own mouth, “meet cute?”

“A bad one.”

“Is that your slash then?”

“Excuse me?”

“Me. Phil. Barista <i>slash</i> mediocre graphic novelist. You…. Staff in a gay bar slash… Movie writer?”

Dan laughs for a second time and wonders if the sound can really be coming from him when he can't remember actively making it. It sounds wrong anyway, alien, separate from him.

“Dan. Beer slinger slash shitty novelist.”

The confession startles him. It's an admission of a dream only, not a fact. A half truth, sitting flush up against the lie but not quite there.

“Well, Dan, nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, err, likewise.”

“Is this the part of the meet cute where I ask for your number and, noticing that you wouldn't want to embarrass me any further than my own clumsiness already has, you take pity on me and actually write it down?”

Dan glances around him just once. The coffee shop looks the same as it always does, the tinkle of cups echoing in the distance, below the din, the smell of caffeine thick in the air. And yet.

Yet here Dan is, enacting a perfect replica of an everyday encounter. Bumbling through his own timeline, swerving against someone else’s and taking the moment to decide if the two narratives should converge. If feels like a next chapter to a book he thought he'd stopped reading. Not a sequel, just… A potential beginning.

He could type the number into Phil’s phone but instead pulls a beat up biro from his back pocket and, resting his coffee on the edge of a shelf, smudges the digits onto Phil’s palm, holding the back of his hand gently and pressing pressing the nib down. With it, Dan leaves the decision of where this chapter is heading to Phil, not knowing on which side he's pinning his hopes. A beginning or another inevitable end. They're the same of course, but the former has more delay, and perhaps more pain traded for it.

It's a blip. An anomaly to an otherwise steadfast routine. He barely thinks of it again.

Instead, he tries his hand at adding words to paper on his coffee table. But, unsuccessful and only barely annoyed about it, he spends the rest of the day wavering between sleep and awake beneath his threadbare sheets. Later, bleary eyed and a bundle of frazzled nerves stretched over jangling bones and translucent skin, he returns to his humdrum. To the night time and that endless road, starless skies calling to him between shots of something stronger than he is. He's not lost, he tells himself, because he didn't even know where he was headed.

---

If you like this, and you are so inclined, you have my permission go take this, extend it, remix if, make it your own. I would love to see what you do with it.

[its-cartooncrazy]

I’m writing something?

I don’t know what it is but I would tentatively call it a character study? Maybe even a fic? (I’m an artist why)

But basically I had a lot of emotions about Blake so I had to write them out and it got pretty dramatic and kinda prosey (which probably means it’s gonna be bad, I should stick to rambling paragraphs rather than trying to do something like this)

[trashcatsnark]

Okay, so I got V’s good ending. And though it was a lot different than I thought it would be and I’m still bummed about Saeran/Ray. In term’s of V’s happy ending, it really delivered what I wanted. I’m very happy about the direction his route takes (for the good end). However, I also learned from this that, well, as much as I do adore V, we would not be a good couple. 

Firstly, I have similar issues as him when it comes to not valuing myself and focusing more on those I care about. I offhandedly chose an option that I would legitimately say during a moment and Jumin straight up called my ass out for being like V in a negative way. (Jaehee also called me out for not taking pride in the things I do, thanks..)

Secondly, V is very poetic and deep and I am so not. I don’t like the weird overly prosey poetic ramblings. There were so many times during Rika and V’s poetic conversations that I just wanted to yell at them to cut the bs and tell me what they’re trying to say. Don’t get me wrong, I get it, but like when you bog down your conversations with so much flowery over the top prose, I just get annoyed and zone out. So, many times during this route I was just tapping through the visual novels, trying to get past that kind of stuff. (I cut off his mom’s dialogue so many times, cause apparently this is hereditary). 

Thirdly, I just never really felt romantic towards him until the ending, which I should point out I feel his little mini speech towards mc during the end, he’s much less poetic about it. He talks like a real person for a bit and is just like, yeah I’m learning to love myself and I wanna love you too. But throughout the actual route, yeah I cared about him deeply, but it was never a “I wanna be his girlfriend” type thing. It felt more like, “Holy fuck, I want you to not die and have a happy life.” Which is my feelings towards most human beings, cause I’m not a complete dick.

Still, he’s a sweetie and this route emotionally devastated me. So, I’m gonna play casual story again and flirt with Yoosung. 

[extraplanaire-blog]

vibrates sideways i wanna write dumb and prosey shit someone come hit me up so we can plot something and i can ramble write

[meadowlarkx]

for day 7 of @aphukraineweek - war (in this case, the khmelnytsky uprising of 1648)

I was hoping to write another thing for this instead, but it didn’t happen... so have short prosey ramblings??

"I know how Fortune is ever most friendly and alluring to those whom she strives to deceive, until she overwhelms them with grief beyond bearing, by deserting them when least expected. Are you trying to stay the force of her turning wheel? Ah! dull-witted mortal, if Fortune begin to stay still, she is no longer Fortune."  - Boethius, The Consolation Of Philosophy

The sun is rising in the sky, clear and not-quite-warm, moving slowly but surely until it locks into place at its zenith. Like May, moving towards summer. Light pours down on Irina through the thin grey air – white and peach and gold, glittering red as she wipes the edge of her sabre, soft-shining in her dirt-smeared hair: yellow plaits unraveling like a half-knitted project that a child tugs at until it’s a long untangled scribble of red yarn again and has returned once more to the start.

(“Yes! I remember who I am. I am the eldest child of Rus, Ukraina…”)

Her ash-streaked hair is the color of blighted wheat.

As the blood scatters across the ground in clean sweeps, painting the half-solid surface of the deep river mud near Zhovti Vody (burgundy on a slate grey background), white and yellow daffodils spring up in its wake.

  But the cheers rouse her. She casts aside her work; she stands and shades her eyes with the slow immediacy of habit.

Her lungs are still straining at the blue-red cloth of her kaftan. Her lynx eyes cut across to Khmelnytsky.

(“There is nothing left for you to do here,” and Irina wants nothing more than to keep at it until the kill, to lead the first of the overwhelming forces, ahead of even Kryvonis, to cut into Feliks’ soldiers with the sweet necessary pain of cleansing and raise the sapphire banner of Saint Michael high above their steaming bodies.

“Better,” Khmelnytsky quips, “to strike the first blows and then retain some measure of dignity. Show them you meant to do it.” (He’s careful not to mean it too much and insult her. Chernenko is mercurial: one month adoring; the next, wary. – And he will forget this advice, and soon.)

If I went back, I’d show them exactly what I mean to do, Irina thinks.

“Leave dignity to Łukasiewicz,” she says, and her grin is the same shape as her earrings, a crescent of hard, bright silver. (But she stays where she is.))

Irina looks back and – she inhales cold earth-scented air and

Her breath catches in her chest.

Her colors are waving over the encampment.

The mulberry flag glows and flickers like the flame of a torch – like fires or lanterns that can bring her Dnieper boats to shore when it’s a dark night and too near the cataracts. Beyond the earthworks, the grass rolls on and on.

She can hear the uproar somehow faintly and yet in detail – the carefully traced edges of a hand once splayed on paper. Shouts, screams, cheers, snippets of song. The disparate corpses scattered across the mud near her, the daffodils – rebirth – at her feet, seem to disappear from sight: fade and sweep away, leaving nothing but the broad expanse of space stretching ahead of her, diluted and sunlit and endless.

She’s crying now, face upturned, hot tears rising beneath her chest and cheeks, swelling into her eyes. Her face is streaked. Damp breath inhales a moment and she herself doesn’t know if she means to sing: her throat, nose, are too choked up. She sobs and claps and stands despite her knees giving out, and she cannot look away. Her mouth is moving; she is too happy to smile, too happy to call it ‘happy’ – people jostle her shoulders; it’s like standing in a sea.

There is a bonfire inside my ribs, she thinks, and cries.

(I am the cold gilded lightning of the archangel’s sword; I am separate, apart, myself, no less than you; I am the fire that devours/detonates rotten forest and raises jade-colored seedlings from the ash.)

Irina weeps over the mud and thanks God.