#ray's a bit of a poet himself

[saevus-brutalis]

fine you get more, gay

should I ask about fights or differences again and then get mad at you for it? yes, but I'll go with 2 and 4 🤲 feed me

coward [ship tag game]

2. do they like each other's friends? do their friends like them?

neither Vince nor Ragan really get to meet each other's friends and if they do, it's not often for a long time. both Vince and Ragan are from two very different worlds thus they have completely different assortment of friends.

Vincent's inner circle of friends is rather small, and most are not friends with each other or are fond of one another. those with whom he has more of a professional relationship — Dino and Jefferson — don't really give a shit about his private intimate life; it's not their business hence why they're neutral towards Ragan - if they even know of him. Reginald — Vince's ripper and an old friend from the army — ain't too fond of Ray and their relationship in general; he fails to see the good in him and only recognizes how much pain Vincent went through because of him. he thinks he makes Vincent too soft which will end up killing him in the long run. he does nothing however to ruin their relationships, but doesn't fail to voice his doubts.

when it comes to Ray's friends Vincent is pretty neutral, a bit guarded though. he doesn't have anything bad to say about them but he doesn't make an effort to be super friendly with them or get to know them more. they're a part of Ray's clan and he treats them as such, helps if needed around the camp, drink a beer or two when Ray isn't around; crack a joke maybe, but in the end he doesn't really care. if Ray likes them, Vince will make sure to be nice towards them.

Ragan generally likes Vince's friends, although he has to admit Vince's choice in friends is rather questionable. his old pals or work friends make him a bit uneasy and he personally wouldn't be too thrilled to be around them alone. they just don't match Ray's vibe - too cold, too rude, too city-like. they haven't done anything to Ray for him to have a bad opinion about them, so he doesn't really have much to say about Vince's friends.

Ragan's friends are really confused and feel conflicted about Vince. they're a bit scared of him in fact, intimidated for sure. they look at their relationship with a dose of skepticism, but eventually manage to warm up to Vincent and treat him as equal.

4. how do they compare to each other's exes? are they the same "type" or an upgrade/something different?

after they separated in 2038 Vince had a few flings after he came back from the army, lots of one-night-stands, and one more serious relationship of 5 years with a rockstar, which eventually ended up in a mutual break up. Vince's type are rockerboys and nomads, so neither were really an upgrade nor downgrade, both were just from two different worlds, with two different backgrounds. Vince never really got over Ray, and while he did love Kerry when they were together it jus wasn't the same type of love Vincent had and has for Ragan. neither relationship was better or worse; both had some bad moments, but with Kerry Vince and him wanted different things from each other, and Kerry had a tendency to try and mold Vince into someone he wasn't. meanwhile Ragan doesn't try to change Vince while still calling him out on his bullshit. he accepts all the imperfections about him and who he is on the outside and the inside.

after Ragan got stood up by Vince he threw away all his feelings for him - or at least he tried - and started sleeping and dating around with whoever he pleased, trying to fill the hole in his heart left after Vincent. when he met Dante - leader of a clan he later joined after being on his own for over 2 years, he thought he finally found someone he can start something meaningful with. Dante was a really great friend, warm and funny, outgoing and loud - with him Ray didn't really have time or space to think about Vincent and dwell of what could've been. while Dante had so many green flags and seemed like a perfect guy he was a bit too perfect for Ray. many people would consider Dante an upgrade when comparing him to Vince, but Ragan thinks otherwise, and when Vincent eventually came crawling back it didn't take much for Ragan to take him back - his unpolished, uncut, rough diamond.

[silverflqmes]

agszc and the flowers they'd give as well as why they would give them?

໒⦂ 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐆𝐄.

notes. hey queen, my knowledge in flowers is baby level but!!! we’re gonna see which flowers the boys would give based on themselves and their love<3

genre. fluff

for @melukonova <3

ft. sephiroth, cloud strife, zack fair, genesis rhapsodos, angeal hewley

gender neutral! reader.

ะ ྂ ❤︎ . ˚˖ you selected.. orchid.

+ reasoning. orchids come in a variety of symbols next to the obvious luxury and beauty, such as strength, mystery — even charm and refinement. more importantly, they bring across how lucky you are to be able to love your special someone.

+ sephiroth had always thought himself to be deplorable for as long as he could remember. growing up, he had countless reminders of how unloveable he was even in spite of shinra’s hero treatment of him. when he met you, however, somehow you had brought this ray of light into his suffocating darkness and had loved him in spite of everything. he was just so lucky to have you in his life — it was imperative he showed you his gratitude. and so, from the many books he read in his days, he’d decided that gifting your orchids was the best way.

+ “it took awhile to find you these, given the state of midgar.. but the search was worth the while. as i recall.. lovers gift one another flowers as an expression of affection, do they not?”

ะ ྂ ❤︎ . ˚˖ you selected.. gardenia.

+ reasoning. gardenia is the type of flower you would use to confess when the words don’t quite reach your lips. basically, an unspoken confession to convey your love. furthermore, it represents purity and expresses beauty towards the receiver.

+ cloud strife.. was never really the best with words, feelings and emotional expression. he preferred to think of himself as an actions kind of guy, and his confession to you boiled down to exactly that. with all the worst behind him, and the whisper of advice from his parted friends, he would have set out one morning to sector five to purchase a few gardenias. flowers and their meanings didn’t come easy to him, but the words he’d received told him these were the ones. the blond’s only hope was that his message would be received and returned.

+ “here, got these for you on the way back from my delivery, they’re um.. gardenias. make sure to change their water every other day or so, if you want them to last, of course..”

ะ ྂ ❤︎ . ˚˖ you selected.. daisy.

+ reasoning. daisies represent an innocent, cheerful and pure form of love. the kind of flowers you would pick fresh from the garden or a patch of grass to bring to the person you cherish most. they can also express true love, beauty and simplicity.

+ zack fair was true to his nickname — a puppy. despite his want for leaving the countryside to join SOLDIER, the days he would spend back home were all filled with memories that he would forever carry with him. a few that stood out most were the times he’d race up to you with a handful of daisies. despite their messy condition, and the apology he would laugh out for tripping on his way to you, his actions are filled with sincerity and love.. even if zack might not know what he’s given to you. with time, however, he will have realized the depth of his gifts.

+ “ahaha, sorry y/n! i didn’t see this rock on my way over, and i might have ruined the flowers a bit.. but they still smell nice! and i tried to salvage the good ones, y’see! peak condition!”

ะ ྂ ❤︎ . ˚˖ you selected.. aster.

+ reasoning. asters, according to myth were associated with a goddess that wept because there weren’t enough stars. the tears that fell became the star shaped flowers we call asters. on the contrary, they symbolize love, charm and sensitivity.

+ genesis rhapsodos — born poet, forced to soldier. flowers and their meanings didn’t fall far from the tree for a man with vast knowledge of the arts, literature and beauty. as someone with a keen interest in loveless, having analyzed and noted it to memory, asters came to be his first choice in conveying his love for you. the gift of the goddess, he would have concluded, and a perfect fit for the one who has captured his heart — you. and so, on his way back from a mission, a singular aster would have occupied his red, gloved hand as he presented it to you.

+ “a gift from the goddess for my beloved.. as flowers have long since disappeared off the face of midgar, amidst the filth and industrialization. are you pleased with my findings?”

ะ ྂ ❤︎ . ˚˖ you selected.. alstroemeria.

+ reasoning. alstroemerias convey loyalty, devotion, support and.. honor. the type of flower you give to remind someone of their strength when they fall on hard times. but, it is also said that receiving an extra sweet one, meant you were beloved.

+ angeal hewley wasn’t exactly one for frivolous love, a stark contrast otherwise, to his friend. the romance department just never really called his attention.. well, at least until he met you. somehow you sparked feelings in him that he wasn’t sure he was even capable of feeling strongly towards another person. it was strange, different.. but a good kind of different. however there was a downside — that being his lack of experience. his familiarity with romance was minimal, but he was determined to provide! and with outside help, he was acquired flowers.

+ “these are alstroemerias.. a mouthful, i know. but they used to grow back where i grew up, in banora. they said the sweeter ones are best to gift to your beloved — so here you are.”

notes. several hours of research and inconsistent writing later, i was able to finish your request.. love how NOBODY had roses but like anyway, this is the end results for agszc with flowers woop

↳ return to main masterlist . request rules . send an ask

[dreaming-of-lu]

Hi! For you're requests can I request Legend being so in love with reader but not realizing it himself? Like he looks at reader with heart eyes and wants to be near them constantly and he (and reader) just doesn't realize it? Until one day something happens and it just slaps Legend with how in love he is? We just need more blushy Legend in the world. I love your fics so much they bring me such joy reading them!

Oh, this is such a cute idea! 😭Absolutely 100% yes! 'cuse me for takin' long to answer, writing may be a bit rusty. Word count: 570

The newest companion in the company made him feel off by some sort. It wasn't a negative feeling or anything that felt off; it felt more like he was sick when he saw them. By the three, his heart would pound when he's given a chance to be near them, listening avidly to the happy chatters that left them, even answering their questions if they were asking him specifically. His hands would become clammy when their shoulder brushed with his or when their fingers tended to graze his skin. Sometimes, his eyes would linger a bit longer than ever before turning away quickly, feeling heated under the curious stare they gave him.

The first to always volunteer to go with them into the market and would huff when someone else got ahead of him before he could take the spot. Offering his hand to them when what looked to be a deep dip, he ignored the snickers and scoffed from behind when all he could focus on was their bright, thankful smile and took the hand gently.

He would question when Hyrule would give him nudges or gentle pushes towards the reader after noticing they needed 'help' with a chore. Question the chuckles their leader gave when he followed after them, whether with his eyes or walking with them. Even the captain would tease him, making him grumble and shove the captain to the side to continue with his chores.

The entire chain was acting weird with him, and he's not liking the sudden 180 of the mood in the air.

"You're staring after them again," Legend jolts in his spot, blinking rapidly before a scowl overtook his features. He whirled on his heel, words ready themselves on his tongue at the sight of the smug look on the rancher's features.

"You look like a pup, one that's desperate for their attention," Twilight snickers.

"Alright," Legend huffs, "what is wrong with everybody and wanting to tease me? Is there some joke I'm not in on?"

Twilight blinks, his shoulders slumping, "yer kiddin' me."

"What?" Legend's brows furrowed, "What am I failing to understand?"

Twilight sighs, scratches the back his neck, mumbling under his breath, "it's not my place to make you understand."

"Legend!" His head swiveled, eyes making contact with theirs. He breathed sharply as the sun rays bounced off them, making them glow; the notorious bright smile sent his heart pounding again. His cheeks burned when they ran up to him with a giddy laugh, pulling at his arm, tugging him after them.

"Come on! I want to show you this!"

If Legend ever were an artist or writer, he would paint the scene vividly of them, from the strands that graced upon their head to the eyes that would make contact with his to the very smile that graced their soft lips to the unforgettable laugh that left them. If he were a poet, he would compare them to a flower or the sun that seems to grace the land by walking upon it. He felt like he would melt under their careful hands and gentle gaze. He imagined a life where they would be together, holding hands like this, shar-

Oh.

'Oh.' He thought.

His heart pounds faster, making him feel breathless. Each time they looked over their shoulder, those eyes looking into his, so bright and full of life.

'This is what they meant.'

[girldragongizzard]

Chapter 17: Second Megnitude

That voice, that insidious crackly hissing voice, begins reciting the most incredible clichéd pap inside his very mind.

“With a sky of dragon belly Where a fearful terror reigns While the city cowers beneath it We sing and turn your fate”

And yet, despite how ridiculous and silly it is, he feels something begin to happen.

—

Let’s establish another bit of important planning I’ve done, as I’m landing in the Eastern end zone of the Fairport stadium (it has an official name, that of some businessman, but I don’t care for it).

I’ve left almost everything valuable that I own with Rhoda. 

In particular, I’ve left my ID, name change paperwork, and SNAP and debit cards. The pendant that Chapman made me is not with me either. I still have my purse and tablet, in hopes that they’ve both got the enchantments necessary to survive whatever is coming my way, so I can use the tablet to try to talk to Säure.

Now, whether I’ll survive is a different matter, but I’ve also got a lot of things going for me at the moment.

I’m trying to focus on my uncertainty and anxiety, though, making myself a more obvious target to my adversary, hoping he can feel those emotions radiating from me. So I’m not going to reiterate just what’s going to save my hide right now.

But once my velocity has slowed enough that I can bounce around to face my incoming doom, I do so, and then I let loose with my territorial song once again, just to let him know I’m here and I’m challenging him.

“grrrrrrrrRRUMBLE-SQUAAAAAWK-NOKNOKNOKNOKNOK!!!”

I can see that the sun is about to start setting, shining through a string of poplar trees that are lined up along part of the freeway, visible just above the high wall of the stadium.

And just above that is the increasingly growing shadow of Säure, wings stretching from South to North like an incoming storm, his underside all limned silvery and gold from the sunlight.

His belly scales glow like pearls the size of Winnebagos.

They might actually be bigger than that. His size baffles me.

He roars right back at me and it’s a little bit like being hit by a cosmic oscilloscope.

I stand my ground.

—

Once she makes her final challenge, his eyes pinpoint the speck that is that whelp of queer ersatz royalty, Meghan. 

But his thoughts and intentions are dashed by the next verse.

“The smokey columns rise And dance in wind's refrain Pushed by wings of envy We sing and turn your fate”

Consciousness reeling from whatever foul Architecture these words are constructing, he does manage to remind himself that he can take his time to really burn this one, this Meghan.

He needn’t do his dive bomb routine. He can just soar and spear her with his death ray until the poem has run its course, and maybe even after that.

And he opens his mouth to do so, before his impulses can be interrupted by more words.

—

I do wonder which of us has the greater hubris. Säure or me?

He’s already made numerous mistakes, and he’s digging himself deeper and I’m sure he knows it. Right now he should be in the grips of whatever the Poet has in store for him delivered by Chapman’s speakers.

And, also, since he’s now become the new nightmare of Fairport by terrorizing nearly everyone in the city for so long, that puts him squarely in Ptarmigan’s crosshairs, if her quip about Finland was perchance a lie.

Some of the other stuff I said she said was a lie on my part.

And he’s the clear villain and maybe I’m the people’s champion. And narrative physics should be in my favor.

Oh, I hope.

However, I know that I’m far enough away from the infrastructure of the stadium that he can light me up without doing much damage to it. And I’m counting on magics and powers that are as yet untested by a direct attack on this scale. I’m counting on Rhoda’s need for me to be strong enough that her proclamation will bend everything in my favor, and this will be the only proof of that, if it works. And I really don’t know what Poetry can actually do. It seems almost childish to call on it.

Furthermore, while I think that my imperviousness to my own flames might extend to other forms of heat, that’s really only a wild guess. A fervent wish.

And then, there’s still also the question of whether I can even get him to come down and talk to me if his breath somehow doesn’t hurt me.

He could just try to land on me.

Worrying in thought takes far fewer words than what I’ve written here. I’ve considered these fears and swallowed them within the two heartbeats it also takes me to realize the Poet’s verses won’t likely be done by the time Säure attacks me.

And there it is.

His jaws move and his head becomes the largest sunlamp. I don’t even understand how that works, only that I’ve seen something similar in a movie. And it sparkles with static. It's a true laser.

My nictitating membranes have flipped up reflexively, like natural sunglasses, but I’ve still got brilliant spots on my retinas where his mouth marks the sky.

And every inch of me and the ground around me for several yards reflects that fizzing indigo-white light.

I can smell ozone, the turf smoking, and the hot metal of the goal posts baking in the laser.

And that’s without tasting the air with my tongue.

—

Once he’s started, he doesn’t even think. He just sets himself to the task as the hideous words continue to filter through him.

“We know you think you own us But your cries they reek of shame And we rise to turn and face you While we sing to turn your fate”

He can’t feel Meghan’s fear anymore, and he hopes that means she’s gone and no longer a problem for anyone. But he’s on automatic. He’s going to torch that spot of ground until he’s about to land on it.

—

The figure lurking in the control booth of the stadium watches impassively through UV blocking wraparound sunglasses that were maybe a little too pricey for not being actual laser grade safety goggles.

Even with them on, it’s nigh impossible to tell what’s happening out there. Not with human senses, anyway.

Timing here is going to be everything, and even though Säure is obviously flying in as slowly as he can it’s still a meteoric descent.

It might not matter if Meghan survives, honestly, but the world would be a nicer place if she did.

The modifications to the stadium’s electrical systems that the Janitor managed to cobble together at the last minute better not go to waste, either. That required a deal that was surprisingly costly.

Siblings sure do love to stick it to you when you’re desperate for time.

Behind the figure in sunglasses, in the darkness of the room, something large moves.

—

“No one owes you allegiance No one here feels your pain Struggle to no avail, Dear Säure We sing and turn your fate”

And that seems to be it. There’s a distinctive pause in that onslaught of supposed poetry, and his mind clears.

Just in time for him to cut off his own blitz, close his mouth, and pull up before slamming into the entire stadium.

He doesn’t feel anything more in particular. While the poem was being recited, something was happening, but now it’s not, and he has no idea what it was.

And as he rises, he steals a glance at the ground below him.

The circle that marks ground zero of his attack is charred completely black and he can’t see Meghan in it anywhere. If her corpse is there, it’s as black as the grass beneath it.

So he takes a deep breath as he works his wings, filling his blood with oxygen to feed his muscles, and to soothe his nerves.

What a nothingburger.

It’s all done and maybe now he can deal with the remaining Architects who’d swarmed his county on his terms, rather than that whelp’s.

He closes his eyes and imagines the peace of his soon-to-be newly reconstructed lair.

And that vision is interrupted by a, “wump, wump, wump, wumpwumpwumpwmprrrrrrrRRRRRRAWACK-NOK-NOK-NOKNOKNOK!!!!”

—

There’s a movie I never watched that had a super famous scene in it, like, back in the 80s. I remember my classmates talking about it on the playground, and one of my friends at the time just fast forwarding to the scene on his parents’ VCR when I visited so I could see it. I wasn’t at all interested in the movie, but this stuck out to me.

There’s a soldier in the jungle, and behind him is a muddy cliff. And as the camera zooms in, an eye appears in the cliff. My memory of it is that we see both eyes slowly opening, but I’ve gone back and checked and it’s just one eye that’s there.

I like to imagine what I just did looked a bit like my memory of that movie, the black patch on the ground slowly opening a pair of flame orange dragon eyes followed by an opening dragon mouth full of teeth.

Säure couldn’t possibly have seen it. He was too far up by then and I saw him looking away. I couldn’t see his eyes. But I like to imagine it anyway.

It’s pretty amazing just how covered in soot I became from that laser attack. But I also feel like maybe I learned something about physics.

I’ve definitely learned something about myself.

Is all this black ash all over me a layer of dead skin? Or several? Am I ablative?

Taking a deep breath after having croaked my loudest call yet, I glance down to find that my purse is now a molten wreck on the ground. All the leather is nothing but charred scraps fluttering around the remains of my tablet.

Shit.

If Säure does take the bait the Poet is about to deliver to him, and comes down here to talk to me, I’m going to have to lean on my emergency vocabulary.

I don’t think this is going to work, but I’ve got to try.

On the other hand, I also expect a few more attempts on my life, first.

—

“No applause is necessary. Snapping like a beatnik will suffice,” the Poet’s voice audibly carries a smirk. “And now that you’re my captive audience, it’s probably worth mentioning that if you take your human disguise, the bone conduction speakers installed on your horns will drop off. So, if you are done with my show, feel free to tune out at any time.”

He’s in the midst of arching his back and twisting to find Meg and slam down onto her as hard as possible when these words slice through his consciousness.

And he thinks this is easy. He can just switch to his disguise and back in a matter of seconds, incidentally allowing himself to change his position more quickly at the smaller size and weight.

But before he does, the Poet quips, “Oh, and please do attempt that at the highest altitude possible, Dear. You’ll want plenty of time to figure out how to remove your costume, afterward, won’t you?”

That gives him a pause of alarm.

Of course! He’s been played like a puppet this whole time. Why should he assume anything the poet is saying right now is the truth? It’s meant to manipulate him one way or another. He knew this while flying into the whole mess. Even if he’d stayed at home, he’d have been playing into their hands.

He can’t disregard what the Poet says, unfortunately. Which leaves him only one reasonably safe thing to do, remain in his true form for as long as possible. Morning Glory Stadium has been overdue for demolition and replacement for nearly a decade now, anyway.

Time to force that issue.

He could just land carefully, folding himself up into his humanoid form as he reaches the ground, to confront Meghan that way, but he doesn’t want to, and it seems like the thing they’re all trying to get him to do.

So, he scans the charred area of the field and its surroundings, but he still can’t find her. He likes to think of his eyesight as exceptional, as he can see clearly to the horizon no matter how high he flies. But the truth is, if something is small enough he just can’t focus clearly on it.

It hardly matters. If she’s still in the stadium, as her challenge seemed to indicate to his ears, he highly doubts she can evacuate in time to avoid being crushed.

So, he folds his wings and slams down into it with all the force of his incredible mass.

And as he does, he catches sight of something fluttering like a moth down the ball field, away from his center of impact, desperately attempting to get out from under him.

—

Maybe I don’t want to test being crushed, actually.

Just before he pulls his wings in to drop, I feel like I notice some kind of telegraphed movement and I just bolt. It’s almost as if I’m a fly that’s about to be swatted, and my body moves before I realize what’s even happening.

The greatest source of movement in my vision is now the ground as I’m sprinting up to takeoff speed, so I’m hyperfocused on that.

Blades of carefully manicured grass proceed toward me in the deepening twilight of sunset under the swiftly dropping doom above me. Every couple of divot ripping gallops, a white stripe of chalky paint flies under me. Sometimes I think I spot a bug, but I think that’s my imagination.

Wings are up, waving to feel the wind and judge a sense of lift while providing the balance I need to shift to a two legged gait, and I bring my forelegs up to my chest. I’ve still got quite a ways to go before I make it out of the stadium.

Which is good, on the one claw, because I don’t see any obvious thermals in front of me, and I’ll need that room to gain enough altitude to make it over the stadium wall before I slam into it at the velocity I’m trying to go.

On the other claw, I think Säure might just hit both ends of the stadium at the same time, he seems big enough to do it, and I’m not sure I can make it out before he does.

I take a big leap and I flap.

Two more flaps in quick succession and I’m airborne, and I just keep going. I breathe in as much oxygen as I can and I focus on that feeling of being chased I’ve experienced so frequently lately.

Either I’ll make it or I won’t, but I’m going to ride every sliver of an advantage I can think of.

And then I experience something fascinating.

Säure is big enough that he’s compressing the air underneath him as he falls. Actually, anything falling does this, though it’s more noticeable with an object that has flat sides, like a box. Drop a box on a dusty concrete floor, and you can see the particles being pushed out from under it by the wind of its descent.

Säure, like me, is normally aerodynamically shaped to avoid pushing that much air around as he flies through it. But he’s now attempting to body slam the stadium, to hit the ground with as much surface area as possible, and he can’t help but reflexively spread his wings a little as he nears impact.

And, with my wings spread, the feel of that wind is a bit more intense than I ever could have expected.

It’s warm from the compression, and lifts me up from below and behind like the billowing currents from a jacuzzi jet.

It’s almost gentle, but it makes staying upright in the air harder, and it pushes me forward at a constantly accelerating rate.

For a few even more terrifying moments I’m worried the wind will slam me into the stadium seating.

I’m now moving so fast I can’t imagine pulling myself up in time.

But as the air pressure rises, I’m less dense in relation to it, and the current also has to go up and over the stadium wall, and I’m flapping, and using my fire below me to create my own thermals, and it’s the direction I want to go, and I’m suddenly free!

And there’s parking lot, freshly heated by the now setting sun.

I don’t know if I’m quite clear yet, but it feels like safety and affords me the moment to wonder if anybody else happens to be in or near the stadium. I didn’t see any runners using the track, but somebody might be taking shelter there in the ruckus of today’s attacks.

Oh, I hope not.

And then the wind blows sharply and as hard as anything I’ve ever felt, tumbling me snout over tail, wings wrenched this way and that, just before I’m hit by a literal shockwave full of dust and debris.

There is a sound.

The entire city hears it.

Possibly the county.

They must feel it.

It has to have registered notably on the Richter scale, though I’m not on the ground to sense it that way myself.

I’m so disoriented and numbed by the whole experience, I’m not even sure I’m still alive.

—

In the darkness of trees on the lee side of Fairport Arboretum, as far from the sun as possible, Wentin steps into an unoccupied trail and opens its mouth.

It starts hacking and coughing just like a gigantic housecat with a hairball, arching its back and thrusting its face toward the ground.

Within seconds, its convulsions are productive and a person-sized lump unfolds from its throat and sprawls out on the gravel and mud of the trail.

Wentin doesn’t wait, doesn’t say anything. Instead, as soon as its charge is vomited up completely, it turns and leaves.

It has business to attend to.

The person-sized lump moves and starts to half-flail and half-brush wetness away from what appears to be a hair covered face.

“Bleh,” Ptarmigan says, instantly regretting the act of speaking as it exposes her tongue to Wentin’s digestive fluids.

Well, that plan was demolished.

—

Säure had turned and twisted, using his wings unintentionally to maneuver effectively, so that he landed on his belly, tail to the East, head facing the sunset. And he’d opened his eyes from blinking just in time to watch the shockwave of his landing slam the whelp Meghan into the wall of the Sportsplex Arena just across the parking lot and street.

That portion of the building’s wall implodes with the impact.

He starts to get up, lowering his head to glower at the mark of her destruction, to walk over and crush that structure as well.

And within two steps, he hears a voice in his ear. His left fucking ear, not his head. It’s not coming from his bespeakered horns. There’s something near his ear with an obnoxious, whiny voice.

And it says, “I forbid you from flying higher than the trees around you.”

[moonlightswritingandstuff]

eärvanwando (he who is lost to sea)

Maglor has given his family everything, but he will not give them his death. But he cannot sea-wander forever, and he finds peace in the East.

trigger warnings: mentioned canon suicide (it’s maedhros’s)

for best results (and notes), read on ao3!

He’ll certainly sing that the day was overcast, had an almost black sky. Maybe it will be a cloudy night, or a rainy day.

The truth of it is this: the dawn has just come, bright and beautiful, and the sky is blue the day his brother kills himself.

As they left the camp, the sun’s rays bloomed in the sky, and Maglor first felt the pain of the Þilmaril. Evidentially, the holy light condemned Maedhros more, because he cried in pain.

As the sun painted the sky in beautiful colours, Maedhros found himself a deep ravine, and as Maglor watched, he jumped in. Maedhros did not even look back.

(Maglor has never been able to figure out if Maedhros thought of him and didn’t care, or if Maedhros didn’t even think about him, before he jumped, or if Maedhros thought of him and expected that he would follow. He’s not sure which is worse. That Maedhros didn’t care, that he didn’t remember, or that he wanted him to follow.)

(But in the same, it’s almost pathetic how Maglor felt nothing but cool relief that his brother was dead. To this day, he does not know why. Or, well, he supposes he was relieved that he no longer had to care for Maedhros, or that he no longer had to follow Maedhros.)

Maglor also remembers the silent expectation, for him to follow Maedhros and jump into the blue, blue sea, letting the waves condemn him.

But Maglor has spent most of his life following his father and brothers as they are led to terrible actions. To Alqualondë, to Losgar, to Doriath, to Sirion. He gave his life for them, his morals, his damned goodness. 

They are not owed his death, too.

(He was at fault, too. But if not for his family, he would not have done any of that at all.)

Perhaps he will sing it this way: the sky is blue when Maglor finally decides that he will leave his family, and not follow them unto the world’s end with follied reasoning. Perhaps he will sing it this way: the day he decided, all too late, that his father’s legacy and his brother’s deaths do not mean his doom had a blue sky that was as brilliant as the day his grandmother went to sleep in the gardens of Estë.

Maglor is a poet, a minstrel, a songwriter, a composer. If naught else, he knows how to dramatize a scene.

So perhaps he will tell it this way: the last three remnants of Laurelin and Telperion - the sun, the moon, and the Þilmarils - are met with a blue sky and sapphire sea the day that Maglor realizes none of them are worth it, and they never were.

But all the beauty in the world Maglor can sing has nothing on the darkness he created; there is nothing but hot regret pooling in his stomach like a roiling sea under a storm.

Perhaps it is cowardly, when Maglor decides to wander and sing to the waves.

(His mind conjures up why he should stay, from Elrond and Elros to his father. Maglor, this time, does not listen.)

He was lost forever, the stories say. That is a comforting lie. He was lost for twelve thousand years, or so, before he woke up and realized that no one remembered him.

All the elves were gone. Only Maglor remained, and if there were any left, none of them were eldar and none of them would know anything about him. Certainly he was the last Calaquendë in the East, the light of their eyes a prophecy of doom.

And so Maglor told himself that if he were to be Doomed forevermore, a little bit of life would not be kept against him.

If given the chance, he will sing it this way: the sky was blue, and the sea too, the day he took back his life. The day he decided the regret would do him nothing.

The truth is much different: the sky was gray, but not raining, the day Maglor woke up, the sea reflecting its colour and the earth was dark and gray. There was nothing different about that morning, other than that Maglor realized the truth of it. Self-punishment had no purpose, and it had been many yén (he did not know how many until much later), and no one would remember him.

(Isn’t it funny how morning and mourning sound the same?)

And so he decided that there was no point in starving, no point in self-exile. None knew the name of once-feared Maglor Fëanorion. None even knew the name of resplendent Galadriel, or kind Elrond.

There was no point to it, and so Maglor found himself sick of wandering and sick of singing, and so he went into the world and found it anything but familiar.

And so Maglor tells it like this, to people who think it a tragedy, a story instead of a history: the sky was black, but with stars. It was midnight, and the stars shone, especially Gil-Estel. The earth opened up, a fiery chasm below, and the older brother Red jumped in, the impossible light in his hand, for it pained the unholy so.

The younger brother Blue instead traveled to the ink-black sea and threw his impossible light into the gloomy depths, and wandered the shore forevermore.

But forever is a long time when you’re immortal, even if almost-forever is less poetic.

And so Maglor… wanders, the earth solid beneath his feet. He never stops - the Edain now rule the world and will get suspicious if he spends too much time in one place - but he finds solace in it now. No longer punishment, no longer condemnation, just living. Enjoyment from wandering rather than hurt.

Maglor doubts he will cease wandering, for now, even though his mother may be in the West, and even though his brothers will not tarry in Mandos for all ages, Maglor does not want to Sail.

It is a sharp realization. It was a starry night, all of Varda’s stars visible, the milky swath across the sky bright, the sea dark as burned wood, the earth a plunging black when Maglor realizes that he was happy. His wandering is no longer of self-punishment or because he is unable to go West. It was because he loves the East.

Maglor thinks he will sing it as it is: the stars are out, and there is nothing but calm darkness and the sea in front of him, and he has found happiness in the East.

[violettduchess]

Hello sorry to bother please can I have Keith Wizard Fluff for the autumn Halloween costume challenge? Thank you Have a wonderful day 🙏🤗

A/N: I'm just going to keep working on these for a bit! Here you go @queengiuliettafirstlady 💜You are never a bother sweet Julie.

Keith x Reader

WC: 528

You read by the wan light of your rose-shaped oil lamp, breaking wax seal after wax seal, pouring over pleas and invitations, requests and letters of flattery. Merchants and royals, guild masters and city officials. All of them demanding something, some more politely than others. You lay down another scroll, turning away from all the documents a queen must deal with, each missive screaming for your attention, your time, your energy. They are tiny little vampires biting you over and over, draining you until all you want to do is throw yourself across your incredibly comfortable royal bed, the one lurking on the other side of the room, bathed in moonlight like a siren of the seas. You long to answer its call and dive beneath the thick, brocade blanket, unsure if and when you’ll ever come out.

Keith, royal mage, advisor and the man you love above all things, notices the way you gingerly touch your fingertips to your forehead, pressing against the dull throb of a headache threatening to break free. He’s been leaning against the closed door of the bedroom, watching you for the last several minutes. There is little he loves more than observing you when you aren’t aware of him, watching the play of expressions across your face like sun-kissed waves over water. But now he notices how tired you are, how the day is still weighing heavy on you. He moves quietly for a man his size, his dark green robes whispering softly with each step. 

From behind, his strong hands rest a moment on your shoulders, finally alerting you to his presence without a word. “Keith….” With a sigh, you lean back in your desk chair, head tilting upwards to look up into the sunrise eyes you admire so much. His long fingers slide their way up to your temples and then start to glow, radiating soft yellow light, a glow that echoes the very first rays of sunlight that pry apart the curtains of night. Again, a sigh escapes you, relief flooding your body as his magic soothes the pain in your head, the stiffness in your limbs. Warmth blankets you, wraps itself around you and when the light emanating from his hands slowly fades, you smile up at him, all the love in the world reflected in your bright eyes.

“Come here and let me thank you.” You reach up even as he leans down, clasping the nape of his neck and gently press a kiss against his lips. He responds, bracing himself on the wooden arm of your chair, returning your kiss with a magic in and of itself. It begins soft and slow, comforting and sweet. His lips over yours speak soundlessly of love and tenderness. When you rise from your chair, stepping around it and into the shelter of his arms, it tells him everything he ever needs to know of what he means to you, of the way you love him and let him love you. The desk and all its papers are forgotten and as you fall, locked in each other’s embrace, onto your bed, it welcomes you with soft, silken arms.

Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @portrait-ninja @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @mastering-procrastinating @namine-somebodies-nobody @queen-dahlia @scorchieart @nightghoul381 @bubblexly @keithsandwich

[jukti-torko-golpo]

Kolam : Part 1

So this is my first PS fanfic.... A two-shot. Kinda ended up long. I hope people like this. I do not know if this turned out well. I had a lot of fun though.

It was day 1455 of Arulmozhi pretending like she does not exist, she had cried herself to sleep and woken up with a splitting headache, the kingdom was gearing up for festivities and she was entrusted with the duty of decking up the palace. There was way too much noise everywhere to help with her headache and she had to use every ounce of her energy to focus on a work and get it done. So our doe-eyed docile damsel was a volcano about to erupt for the day.

Vanathi was trying to finish an elaborate Kolam at one end of a corridor. She was almost done with the job and at her wit's end. That is when Universe orchestrated the volcanic eruption.

The Chola prince and his newly found confidante, a certain Vana Prince, rushed through the corridor and before our hero could stop himself, he stepped on the Kolam and ruined a part of it. He froze.

Vanathi's eyes snapped to the ruined bit of the Kolam. It was one thing to ignore her during conversations but ignoring her entire existence and work while she was sitting there was a new low.

She stood up sharply and the expression which crossed her face reminded him of sudden tempests in calm seas. He had no idea from where did this inner poet wake up in him but he was kicked out of his mind very promptly by the sight of Vanathi striding towards him. With a short seething 'Ilavarasar...' she shoved the bowl of rice flower into his hands and marched off leaving behind two dumbstruck princes.

And the sound of a pair of anklets approaching just signalled the second onslaught of the storm.

'What has been happening here, Thambi? Where did Vanathi go? Thambi...' she trailed off when her brother turned towards her with a bowl in his hands and a messed up kolam at his feet.

'First you annoy me the entire morning delaying all my plans, then you mess up my uyir thozhi's work!! What has gotten into the both of you?? Have you forgotten your age Thambi?? What is this mischief that you are stirring up? Are you imagining yourself as Maya Kannan just because there will be a play...' a livid Kundhavai thundered.

'What Maya Kanna?' Arulmozhi was really confused now. 'Nothing...' pat came her reply trying to cover up what she had just blurted out. 'Vanathi was working with a headache and you ruined her work!' Kundhavai swiftly changed the topic.

'How would I know Akka? I was running thanks to you and I didn't notice the kolam,' the prince said as guilt started settling in his mind. He had no idea about the head ache part. 'I...well..I am really sorry,' he mumbled. 'TELL THAT TO VANATHI, THAMBI...UGHHH,' Kundhavai whisper-shouted at her brother.

Now begins a new adventure for our dashing Chola scion...apologizing to a certain woman for whom his heart acted very weirdly and he could not point out how and why it was weird to save his life. He walked to the chamber of the royal doctor and asked him to prepare some medicine for curing headache. With great impatience he waited for the doctor to be done with making the balm for the Ilavarasi.

He took the perilous nerve-wracking journey to Vanathi's chambers very uncertain of how she will react. He stood in front of her door and with a sheer lack of better judgement and and his brain ceaselessly rehearsing what to say, he walked in without announcing himself.

The curtains were drawn and the few rays of sunlight that could enter the room lit it dimly. 'Akka I am fine. Just a bit of headache. I will join the preparations right when this headache goes awa...,' the princess had been lying with her face buried into her pillow. She turned towards the door as she was speaking and she FROZE. Her anger had subsided and now she was very aware of the fact that she had stormed off from the very person who was now standing at her door.

Seeing her shocked and flustered face Arulmozhi panicked and launched into and apology while Vanathi started her own stream of apology. In her haste to get out of her bed she almost stumbled over her own dress and her cheeks reddened immediately. 'My apologies Ilavarasar, I will move the curtains...it is too dark,' she said as she drew the curtains open. She winced as her headache flared up due to the light.

'I don't mind the drawn curtains at all, Devi. I know that you have a headache. I have bought some balm for you from the doctor. please apply it. You will feel better.' These words from the prince made her face grow warm. He had thought about her? This was not a dream right? The Arulmozhi Varman had brought medicine for her? She extended her hand for the bowl rather bashfully. 'Thank you, Ilavarasar. I am very sorry for acting like that before. It was very wrong of me to speak to the Prince like that. Forgive me,' Vanathi said as her eyes teared up with guilt.

Her tear filled doe eyes sent a strange new ache to his heart and he said, 'No Ilavarasi it was my fault. I should not have ran into your hardwork. It was such a beautiful design. I will now take your leave and let you recover from the headache. I hope you will forgive me and join the preparations soon. I cannot wait for the festivities to begin.' Arulmozhi departed leaving a tear-choked Vanathi in her room.

After almost two hours of rest after applying the medicine Vanathi woke up. She emerged out of her room feeling much better. She was determined to finish the kolam this time. She made her way to that corridor and the sight that greeted her left her surprised ever so pleasantly. The ruined part of the kolam was fixed, maybe with slightly wobbly lines but fixed. And there lay beside the design Arulmozhi's ring. Maybe he had opened it while fxing the design and then forgotten about it. Vanathi picked up the ring, held it close and smiled to herself. She then happily completed the design and set off to return the ring to it's glorious owner.

Arulmozhi was reunited with Vanthiyathevan and they were overseeing the decoration of the palace courtyard. He raised his hand to direct one of the decorators and noticed that his signet ring was gone!It was his favourite ring. Where could he have left it? He was about to excuse himself and go looking for the ring when a soft voice called out 'Ilavarasar!'

'Aaah how is Maya Kanaa feeling now?' Vanthiyathevan exclaimed. She grinned up at him as he patted her head with affection. Maya Kanna? Again? Since when did the two of them get so close? Why was his heart acting in the weird way again after seeing her smile? What was up with everybody going Maya Kanna around him?

'I am sorry Kamsa Mama. I should not have stormed off from there,' Vanathi apologised to Vanthiyathevan, her voice laden with sincerity. Why Kamsa Mama? This was all too confusing. The dramatic Vana Prince feigned being deeply hurt by Vanathi's behaviour but Immediately dropped his charade when she pouted and said,' Anna please don't do this. I am already really sorry for behaving that way.' She took a quick glance at Arulmozhi and blushed deeply. His heartskipped a beat. But why? ' I am fooling around, little one. How can your Anna ever be angry at you?' Vanthiyathevan laughed and patted Vanathi's cheeks before he was called by someone to check a certain flower arrangement.

Vanathi turned towards him and her blush deepened. She was desperately trying not to make eye contact with him. Arulmozhi had given up hopes for his heart as it was wildly acting weird now. 'Ilavarasar I have something to give you...' she started. She held out her hand and on her palm was his ring. 'You had left it near the kolam,' she added coyly. 'Thank you, Devi. I was about to go looking for it.' Saying this he reached for the ring and his fingertips brushed on her palm. Her hand shook ever so slightly at the contact and she took off the moment he had taken the ring. She suddenly turned, walked up to him and mumbled a very shy 'Thank you for fixing the kolam.' This time she took off for good before could say anything.

Why did he spend the rest of the day twirling the ring in his hands and thinking of two shy doe eyes? Why did his heart start acting all strangely? Why did he find himself smiling when he thought of her blushing face? Why was she called Maya Kanna? All these questions swirled around in his mind. Would he never find the answers out? Or would he find them out very very soon?

@nspwriteups @thelekhikawrites @whippersnappersbookworm @harinishivaa @thirst4light @yehsahihai @nirmohi-premika @shaonsim I do not know who else to tag. Please tag anyone who you think would like to read this. And please leave your reviews.

[qualitystart]

so you have any crash course information on them so I'm not totally lost please? if not it's ok!

okay so. the starting point, if you have the time, is the utterly phenomenal Dorktown History of the Seattle Mariners. that'll take you through 2020. the extremely excellent mariners blog Lookout Landing also has some great history posts.

but you don't just want history, I assume - you want to know about the Mariners now. I'll try to cover as many of them as I can below the cut.

there's Julio, who took the world by storm as a rookie last year. here's a great piece on him from last fall - spoiler alert, they did end the drought. he also vlogs!

J.P. - heart and soul, o captain my captain. here's a great LL piece on him.

and his parter in crime, Ty, golden retriever in human form. you gotta see their dynamic in action: In-N-Out Burger trip, Starbucks adventure

Geno (of Casey's url fame) - "good vibes only," making Gold Glove plays every day, and an important leader

Jarred - in the words of @eugeniosuarez, "gifted child syndrome and a mood disorder but he loves his friends." currently on the IL because he kicked a water cooler after a frustrating strikeout. (he was gutted, and crying in his media availability. he cares about this team so fucking much.) his face when he's happy lights up the world.

Cal (a.k.a Big Dumper) - our incredible, talented, big-assed young catcher who rakes and works SO hard every day

Logan - very good pitcher, shaped like an inflatable tube man, undrafted out of high school and made himself a first-rounder anyway

Logan and Cal came up together and are rich with narratives, which I have detailed here.

Cabby - will annoy the SHIT out of the other team. uses the pitch clock to his advantage like no one else. in the words of the poet:

our other catcher is Murph - got a bit of the crazy eyes, we love him, he even can cartwheel!

the bullpen! here's a great LL piece - Gott has since been traded to the Mets, but he lives on in our hearts and Sauce pours one out for him before every game

and our de facto closers:

Matt Brash, who's got some nasty stuff, and Andrés Muñoz, who is very baby and throws gas

(previously we had Paul Sewald, who was traded at the deadline - good baseball move, but tough to see him go)

I am gettin sleepy and I haven't even covered most of the rotation - 2023 All Stars George Kirby and Luis Castillo, rookies Bryce Miller and Bryan Woo, plus we've got Robbie Ray and Marco on the IL (both out for the year) - so I may come back to edit this later, I'll rb it if I do.

feel free to hit me up with more questions any time, and I'm sure @eugeniosuarez and @jockcoded would be happy to answer some too - we all love telling people about the Mariners

[faerune]

a kiss on the ankle seems a lil salacious and fun to write mayhaps!! for any bg3 ship ur feeling for it!

pairing: halsin x ember warning: shockingly only implied salaciousness

It had been a long time since Ember had felt so at peace. 

Head tilted back to bathe in the last rays of golden light, she looked the portrait of happiness. A balmy summer breeze carried the scent of flowers and moss through the valley, pulling stray strands of her long flaming braid free. 

Halsin had whisked her away after their lunch today to this secluded spot in the high forest. The setting sun had turned the pond into a glowing mirror. The small waterfall which fed the pond caught shards of light as it tumbled down into the waiting reeds below. A flat piece of rock amongst the foliage, just out of reach of the shading trees, had been her resting place for the better part of the past hour. Her feet dangled into the cool waters below. From her perch, Ember could gaze out onto the valley, the lush forest and the growing village nestled along the Chionthar. 

Ember let out a long, easy sigh. 

“I doubt even the most seasoned poet could find words to describe this place.”

Halsin’s soothing voice came from below her, a gentle hand enclosing around her ankle. The sweetest, rose-soft kiss against it came not a breath after. Ember smiled, tilting her head up towards the sun once again, eyes fluttering shut. 

Halsin had been lazing about in the water since they arrived, his body sore from the work he had done today. Ember suspected that Halsin had a hand in many of the newly built homes that dotted the forest and village. Halsin’s guidance and leadership was always welcome but his true gift was that he was not just a wise soul but a man of action. Halsin gave every bit of himself to those who depended upon him. The people of this valley were lucky to have both his body and soul.

A sudden shade fell over Ember and with a bemused look realized her lover now stood above her, naked as the day he was born and still dripping water.

While Ember had left her underclothes on to take a dip, Halsin had given her a charming, crooked smile and had stripped in the afternoon sun. Ember could never complain about such a sight - his tanned skin aglow, the powerful thickness of his thighs, the muscled expanse of his shoulder blades. 

“Can I help you?” Ember asked with a delighted little smirk.

“With quite a lot of things, my heart, I’m sure of it,” he smiled back in return, his voice a pleasant rumble. 

Before Ember could reply, Halsin shook his head vigorously, his long chestnut locks free to spray chilled water all over her sun-warmed figure. Ember gasped, attempting to scramble up out of range of the spray.

Instead, Halsin caught her by the waist, pressing his wet body against her pleasantly dry one. He pressed his face into her neck as she giggled, wrapped his arms warm and solid around her middle.

“What was that for?” Ember laughed, still trying half-heartedly to wiggle out of his grip. 

Halsin grumbled, a sweet smile felt against her neck as he kissed her skin. 

“I was missing you,” he explained simply. Ember managed to turn in his embrace, the evidence of his yearning plain against her belly. She cupped his cheeks, gazing up into his honeyed eyes. Halsin leaned down into her, a flower towards the sun. 

“Poor big bear,” Ember teased, pinching lightly at his cheek.

Halsin smiled at her and leaned in to capture her lips with his.

But with just as much ease as he had caught her did Ember slip from his embrace in a brilliant flash of radiance that smelled of dried flowers. 

“Race you home!” 

Ember’s laughter light on the air, a swish of a fox’s tale disappearing into the underbrush. Halsin huffed in loving amusement and with a small shake of his head disappeared in his own bright twist of light. 

The bear lumbered after her, toward home.

[whisperthatruns]

Jail Poems

1

I am sitting in a cell with a view of evil parallels, Waiting thunder to splinter me into a thousand me's. It is not enough to be in one cage with one self; I want to sit opposite every prisoner in every hole. Doors roll and bang, every slam a finality, bang! The junkie disappeared into a red noise, stoning out his hell. The odored wino congratulates himself on not smoking, Fingerprints left lying on black inky gravestones, Noises of pain seeping through steel walls crashing Reach my own hurt. I become part of someone forever. Wild accents of criminals are sweeter to me than hum of cops, Busy battening down hatches of human souls; cargo Destined for ports of accusations, harbors of guilt. What do policemen eat, Socrates, still prisoner, old one?

2

Painter, paint me a crazy jail, mad water-color cells. Poet, how old is suffering? Write it in yellow lead. God, make me a sky on my glass ceiling. I need stars now, To lead through this atmosphere of shrieks and private hells, Entrances and exits, in . . . out . . . up . . . down, the civic seesaw. Here — me — now — always here somehow.

3

In a universe of cells—who is not in jail? Jailers. In a world of hospitals—who is not sick? Doctors. A golden sardine is swimming in my head. Oh we know some things, man, about some things Like jazz and jails and God. Saturday is a good day to go to jail.

4

Now they give a new form, quivering jelly-like, That proves any boy can be president of Muscatel. They are mad at him because he's one of Them. Gray-speckled unplanned nakedness; stinking Fingers grasping toilet bowl. Mr. America wants to bathe. Look! On the floor, lying across America's face— A real movie star featured in a million newsreels. What am I doing—feeling compassion? When he comes out of it, he will help kill me. He probably hates living.

5

Nuts, skin bolts, clanking in his stomach, scrambled. His society's gone to pieces in his belly, bloated. See the great American windmill, tilting at itself, Good solid stock, the kind that made America drunk. Success written all over his street-streaked ass. Successful-type success, forty home runs in one inning. Stop suffering, Jack, you can't fool us. We know. This is the greatest country in the world, ain't it? He didn't make it. Wino in Cell 3.

6

There have been too many years in this short span of mine. My soul demands a cave of its own, like the Jain god; Yet I must make it go on, hard like jazz, glowing In this dark plastic jungle, land of long night, chilled. My navel is a button to push when I want inside out. Am I not more than a mass of entrails and rough tissue? Must I break my bones? Drink my wine-diluted blood? Should I dredge old sadness from my chest? Not again, All those ancient balls of fire, hotly swallowed, let them lie. Let me spit breath mists of introspection, bits of me, So that when I am gone, I shall be in the air.

7

Someone whom I am is no one. Something I have done is nothing. Someplace I have been is nowhere. I am not me. What of the answers I must find questions for? All these strange streets I must find cities for, Thank God for beatniks.

8

All night the stink of rotting people, Fumes rising from pyres of live men, Fill my nose with gassy disgust, Drown my exposed eyes in tears.

9

Traveling God salesmen, bursting my ear drum With the dullest part of a good sexy book, Impatient for Monday and adding machines.

10

Yellow-eyed dogs whistling in evening.

11

The baby came to jail today.

12

One more day to hell, filled with floating glands.

13

The jail, a huge hollow metal cube Hanging from the moon by a silver chain. Someday Johnny Appleseed is going to chop it down.

14

Three long strings of light Braided into a ray.

15

I am apprehensive about my future; My past has turned its back on me.

16

Shadows I see, forming on the wall, Pictures of desires protected from my own eyes.

17

After spending all night constructing a dream, Morning came and blinded me with light. Now I seek among mountains of crushed eggshells For the God damned dream I never wanted.

18

Sitting here writing things on paper, Instead of sticking the pencil into the air.

19

The Battle of Monumental Failures raging, Both hoping for a good clean loss.

20

Now I see the night, silently overwhelming day.

21

Caught in imaginary webs of conscience, I weep over my acts, yet believe.

22

Cities should be built on one side of the street.

23

People who can't cast shadows Never die of freckles.

24

The end always comes last.

25

We sat at a corner table, Devouring each other word by word, Until nothing was left, repulsive skeletons.

26

I sit here writing, not daring to stop, For fear of seeing what's outside my head.

27

There, Jesus, didn't hurt a bit, did it?

28

I am afraid to follow my flesh over those narrow Wide hard soft female beds, but I do.

29

Link by link, we forged the chain. Then, discovering the end around our necks, We bugged out.

30

I have never seen a wild poetic loaf of bread, But if I did, I would eat it, crust and all.

31

From how many years away does a baby come?

32

Universality, duality, totality . . . .one.

33

The defective on the floor, mumbling, Was once a man who shouted across tables.

34

Come, help flatten a raindrop.

Written in San Francisco City Prison Cell 3, 1959

Bob Kaufman (1925--1986), Collected Poems of Bob Kaufman (City Lights Books, 2019)

[pixies-and-poets]

Of Verses and Curses: Chapter Seven

I was meant for the stage, I was meant for the curtain. I was meant to tread these boards, Of this much I am certain.

I was meant for the crowd, I was meant for the shouting. I was meant to raise these hands With quiet all about me....

The heavens at my birth Intended me for stardom, Rays of light shone down on me And all my sins were pardoned.

I was meant for applause. I was meant for derision. Nothing short of fate itself Has affected my decision.

Author’s notes:

Hello friends! We’ve made it to a momentous chapter! I’ve been thinking about this one for a very long time, and consider it to be kind of the centerpiece/turning point for the whole story.

It was cathartic to finally write, but this is where things start getting heavier, so... warnings for a bit of discussion on... not sure how I would define it exactly. Not quite suicidal ideation, but kind of? Wishing you didn’t exist? Depression, certainly. If you’re not in the mindset to read that sort of thing, just letting you know!

Also, thanks to @randomrabbidramblings​ for a bit of Italian help!

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven - Spotlight Born

Arm in arm, Woodrow and Phantom headed down the path away from Sweetlopek’s house and back towards town, Jinx floating haphazardly in orbit above their heads.

“Well, Tristan,” said Phantom, “I did not wish to impose on your friends any longer… but I’m not ready to retire for the night. Are you?”

Woodrow smiled up at his companion in the starlit glow of the early night; even with the warden’s exceptional height, the Phantom was big enough to have an eye level slightly above his own. “Of course not, Tom. What joy to spend more of the night by your side...”

“Are you sure? If you’re tired, I can take you home-”

“No, no. Perish the thought,” said the warden. “Seldom have I felt more energized.”

“Well, what would you like to do then?”

Woodrow thought for a moment, then stopped on the path, turning to his companion and taking both his paws into his own. “I know!” he said, delightedly. “Come, come. I shall give you that for which you have been yearning.”

Phantom’s eyes widened as the warden tugged him along, surprisingly quickly, towards another path away from town. How forward of him! Phantom had been yearning, all right, but he had not expected things to move so fast, so suddenly… it was very uncharacteristic for his conception of the poet. And yet… with a grin he awaited where he was being led. Some secret clearing perhaps, a bed of crisp leaves in the woods…

They had continued on for quite some time, and Phantom could hear the gentle babble of the river nearby. Having gone too long for his liking without hearing his own voice, he asked, “May I ask where we’re going?”

“You’ll see,” said the warden playfully. “I’m taking you to your heart’s desire. I know you’ve been longing for it. I hope it shall make you feel… at home, and complete.”

The singer blushed. Had he known Woodrow was so willing, he would have made a move sooner- had he misread the man all along? His fur bristled with anticipation, so excited that he almost felt that the world before him was beginning to glow, and then-

They emerged from the treeline, standing not far from… the grounded moon.

The world had been glowing indeed. The moon was beautiful at night, bite-marked and crumbling crescent though it was. It seemed to gather all the light of the stars and reflect them in a subtle yellow gleam.

Woodrow turned and stood in front of it, smiling. “Well! I promised I would take you here, did I not?”

Phantom suddenly realized that this is what the poet had meant all along, and not… anything else. Still blushing, he laughed to himself. He could not be disappointed, after all- a shudder ran through his body from ears to ghostly tail at the sight before him. It was so lovely up close, and Woodrow was right - it was his heart’s desire. The moonlight resonated deep within him, shaking loose the earliest memories of his current self, and seemed to beckon to the very fabric of his being.

He approached the gently-glowing crescent and put his paw on it. It was somewhat smaller than it had looked from a distance, and yet still large enough to tower above them. “Oh, Tristan…” he said in awe, “how thoughtful of you…”

The poet grinned wider. “Do you want to- well, here. Come!” And with his long arms, he pulled himself up onto the inside of the crescent. Phantom laughed again, in shock at the warden’s sudden energy and agility.

Woodrow leaned over the side, offering his paw, and Phantom looked up at him, in the soft luminescence of the moon, with the stars behind him, and the leaves sticking out at odd angles from his hat and collar, and his raincloud hovering above his ears, and his little shy smile that was growing ever more confident… and he felt at home and complete, indeed.

He took the warden’s hand, although he did not need the assistance, and floated up to join him. The two of them sat there, inside the moon, leaned back against its gentle curve, its pointed top high above them like an awning. For a while they said nothing, just existed beside each other, listening to the nearby wind in the leaves and the distant gargle of the river and the chorus of frogs and crickets.

“Oh, there was something you wanted to do whilst here, isn’t that right?” asked Woodrow after some time.

Phantom wasn’t falling for this again, and it took him a moment to remember what his companion was actually talking about- but then he said “Ah! You’re right!” He leaned over to the edge of the moon, pinched a bit of it in his paw, and with a fair amount of effort, broke off a wedge. This he grabbed with his other hand as well, and snapped it in half.

He handed one piece of the yellow moon to the warden. “Bon appétit, mon cher ami.”

“Cheers,” said the warden, as they clacked the two pieces together, and began to chew at them.

The moon was rather hard, it turned out, and it took them a while to nibble through their pieces, even with teeth as big and powerful as theirs. When they had finished, they turned to each other.

“Well,” said Phantom, “not bad.”

“Not great either,” admitted Woodrow, and they both laughed.

“It tasted rather more like burnt cheese than baked cheese,” said the ghost.

“Indeed,” said Woodrow. “I suppose if it tasted better, it would all be gone by now. Still… behold us! The rabbits in the moon, and we have eaten of it.” Jinx gave a little thunder of warning: don’t get too close to a poem now.

The two laid back in the cradle of the moon, next to each other. After a moment the warden caught a change occurring, out of the corner of his eye. He looked over at Phantom and saw that his belly had grown fully transparent in the glow of the moonlight, his gramophone visible. Usually he kept himself opaque, fading to translucency in his ghostly tail, and this was the first time Woodrow had seen him like this. He looked at the ghost’s face- his eyes were closed happily as he rested his head back on his arms.

“Ah, Tom-” he nudged him on the shoulder. “Your- your gramophone is showing.”

The ghost shrugged his shoulders, without even opening his eyes. “That’s alright.” Then after a moment, he sat up and looked at the warden. “You know, I used to be transparent like that whenever a light shone on me, and solid - vulnerable - in the dark. I had no control over it. But I learned to be my own master in time. Still, in moonlight like this - I suppose I cannot help it.”

“May I… look?” said Woodrow sheepishly.

“Of course, sciocchino.”

“May I look closely?”

“What do you want to do?” laughed Phantom. “Stick your face upon my body like a child with an aquarium?” Not that I would mind, he thought.

“Frankly, yes,” said Woodrow. He leaned in close and peered at the gramophone. “I’m sorry, it’s just… I want to see it. It’s… it’s beautiful, you know.”

“Would you like to see it even closer?” Phantom asked.

“Of course,” said the warden, although he was unsure how- but before he could ask, Phantom had stuck his paws into the ectoplasm of his own stomach, and gently extracted the gramophone. He rested it on the moon between them.

The warden stared in awe at its intricate horn, gleaming in the moonlight, and at its carved wooden base. “It’s even more splendid up close,” he said. “Alas that it’s damaged, but… ‘tis impossible to tell.”

“Therein lies the problem,” said Phantom sadly. “No one can quite figure out what is wrong with it. It simply… misbehaves. Whatever has affected its inner workings is so subtle and slight that no one has been able to fix it.”

The warden reached out a paw. “Do you mind if I…” 

“Go ahead,” said the ghost, and Woodrow tenderly rested his hand on the horn. “Beautiful,” he repeated.

“I take that as the highest of compliments upon my person,” said Phantom. “After all, what you’re looking at is me.”

“You… don’t mean that metaphorically, do you?” asked Woodrow, suddenly slightly embarrassed that he was touching it; and yet not taking his hand away.

“Not at all,” said Phantom. “I mean it very literally. It is as much myself as the rest of my body, if not more so. Sometimes I do not know if I am a Rabbid fused with a gramophone, or a gramophone given life.”

“Then you ought to put it back,” said Woodrow, his hand lingering on it for another moment before he slowly withdrew it.

“I trust you with it- but you are probably right,” said the ghost, casually lifting the relic and inserting it back into his body, where it floated once more like something stuck in gelatin. Woodrow looked into the distance, frowning. He trusts me with it, he thought, for now. But I am a notorious breaker of things… if he knew what I am, would he feel the same?

“Tom,” he said after a moment. “You said something earlier, to Sweetlopek: that you didn’t consider yourself to have existed before you met Spawny.”

“That is correct.”

“Well… it’s something I’ve been wondering about myself. Something I’ve been eager to ask you, but feared it was too personal. If you don’t mind, may I inquire- what was it like, to be merged? What did it feel like? I… have long been curious, since first learning of the phenomenon.”

“Oh? Merging interests you, does it?”

“Indeed. People combining with objects, to become new versions of themselves, to become metaphors. You said it yourself- you were made from the idea of a ghost, and so you are like a ghost now. What could be more poetic?”

Phantom smiled, resting back and looking up at the stars on either side of the moon’s sliver of a roof above them. “Well, I shall put it this way, mon ami. Do you remember what it was like to be born?”

“Of course not. I would imagine nobody does…”

“Well, I do,” said Phantom.

“But you existed before that-”

“Hardly,” he said with a scoff. “Listen, my poet. The Rabbids that crashed into the Mushroom Kingdom, they- we- were very primitive. Like your far ancestors, who settled these planets. We had no names, no real identities. Most of them still do not. We did not know speech, only the most basic of communication and raw emotion. Brains that roil with chaos, changing from moment to moment. Nothing solid. Ever-shifting feelings that tumble and turn over constantly like the very washing machine we traveled in. ….In a way, it is a blessed existence. Ignorance. Bliss.”

“I see,” said Woodrow quietly.

“And so I was not my own person, really,” said Phantom. “Just one creature among many, interchangeable. Gleeful and mischievous, but I thought not of the future, or the past, just the moment before me. It is… it is hard to remember. But I think there is not much TO remember.”

Woodrow nodded, rapt in attention. “But then…”

“Ah, but then indeed!” Phantom said. “Then I was born! When I was hit by that beam- when I was brought together with my gramophone and my balloon - it is impossible to convey. I suddenly felt everything around me, all at once, all my senses overloaded. The chill moonlight, the warm spotlights, the creaking boards of the stage, the smell of the air as if from miles around, swampwater and cemetery flowers and the buzzing burn of spotlight bulbs, and all of these things, I could describe them. I was given language - and not just one. Several. The world around me was mine to understand, to name. And of all the things for which I now knew the name, the most important was myself. I was Tom Phan. I was Phantom.”

“Incredible,” whispered Woodrow. “And this all happened in a matter of seconds, did it not?”

“Exactly,” said the other. “The first thing I was given was knowledge - but then, just as suddenly, higher feelings flooded me. Purpose. Passion. Love. And my purpose was to sing, to perform, and to fight- and my song came to me all at once, as from deep within me, but also from outside of me, around me, as if channeled through the very world itself. How could I have written it, so quickly, in my mere moments of life? And yet I had. I was one with the universe, and the universe had given me song. …And a hatred of Mario.”

“I know the feeling,” said Woodrow. “Er, not the part about Mario. But all the rest. One can never take full credit for a poem. The world gives it to thee.”

“And sometimes it refuses to give,” said Phantom. “My condolences for your inspiration.”

“Ah…” Woodrow’s ears pressed back, as he began to feel very ashamed of his lie. “I’m sure it will return soon enough.”

“I’m certain as well, and you shall soon indulge in your art once more,” said Phantom. “...I am not sure I shall ever be so lucky.” He sighed. “Well, anyway! That’s about all I can say for my birth. It is very hard to describe, I must admit. I have done my best-”

“You did wonderfully,” said Woodrow. “It is a sublime story. Someday, perhaps- I should like to put it into verse.” No no what are you saying, you hopeless fool- his own brain spat back immediately.

“Oh!! I should love to hear it.”

The two of them sat in silence again for a while. Staring up at the stars overhead, and feeling the warmth of his companion, Woodrow put his worries for the future to the side, and for the moment felt true peace… until he noticed a vibration in his arm, a slight shaking coming from the man next to him. “Tom… Phantom!” He sat up. “Are you crying? Oh- whatever is the matter?”

“Ah, mon cheri, je regrette… it’s nothing. Don’t worry yourself-”

“No, Tom,” he said softly, taking his hand. “Tell me.”

“I was just thinking of that night again. How it felt to come alive, to sing for the first time. It is quite literally what I was crafted to do, and now perhaps I never may again. I have tried to be strong, I have tried to keep going, but- but I cannot cope with it, dear poet. I am silenced, like a violin with its strings cut. I cannot stand it.” Tears were in his eyes.

“Tom,” said Woodrow, clasping the distraught singer’s paw in both of his own. “Oh, I’m so sorry… I don’t know what to say…” 

“I’m sorry, Tristan. It is shameful to break down like this. It’s only that- I have had no one to talk to about my ailment. Not really. I have an image to keep up; I must be glorious, even when I am damaged. But I do not feel glorious. I cannot well go crying to my assistant, and it’s not as though he would understand. My peers would laugh and reject me if I did not keep up appearances. But with you, I feel… I feel I can be broken. You will listen, and understand, and be gentle with me.”

“I shall do my best, Tom…”

“You know, Tristan, I…” he trailed off. “No, no. This is not your burden to bear-”

“I want it to be,” the warden said, patting him on the arm. “I can bear it.”

“Well… I will admit to you something I have spoken to no one. In my time since losing my voice… do you remember what I said earlier, about being a simple Rabbid? No purpose, no identity, no Self? Well… I often find myself wishing for those days again. That I had never been merged, that I would not know any better. I was given a purpose, and that purpose was TAKEN from me. By my own actions. It was karma, was it not! How cruel are the fates… I suppose I deserve it…”

“Oh, Phantom…” the warden whispered, at a loss. He grasped his hand again, and brought it to his cheek. “The fates are cruel indeed. I… know all too well. But… but you cannot say such things… you cannot wish to have never existed.”

“Well, you are right. That is a useless wish,” said Phantom, his eyes closed. “But… you see, there ARE those who have unmerged… after being knocked around enough. They reverted back to their components, to a simple creature with no cares in the world. And I have wondered, why them but not me? I have sought to understand; I have tried to piece together the circumstances, and I have thought, in my darkest days, that- if I could figure it out, if I could unlock the secret to erasing myself- well, what is the point of being an opera star who cannot sing? What is the point of…”

But he trailed off, because as he had spoken his last couple sentences, two things had happened. He had noticed something warm and wet on his own hand, and a trembling, and realized that Woodrow himself was crying. And then he felt even more wetness, an impossible amount for tears, pattering onto his hand and arm. He opened his eyes to see his companion shaking with sobs, and his cloud raining down lightly upon him.

“Oh, mon poète, I should not have troubled you so, I-”

It was then that the warden threw himself at the ghost, wrapping him in his arms, burying his face in his chest such that his glasses were pushed up and off, wetting Phantom’s cravat with his tears instantly, and soon they were both getting rained on. “Oh, Tom, my wondrous, dear Tom,” he murmured into his chest, and then turned his face to look up at him, his eyes red with tears and wide with passionate sorrow. “You cannot think such a way, you can’t! I have not known you for a week, and yet already I cannot bear the thought of a world without you. A world in which everything that is beautiful and extraordinary about you has been washed away. You are precious to me whether you can sing or not, don’t you understand that? You are so much more than what you were MADE to be… and I… and I…”

The former poet sighed and leaned his teary-eyed head against the former singer, seemingly exhausted by the paroxysm of sympathy and unable to say more. In reality, poems were running through his brain- poems he had written in the past, about the things he himself had struggled with. Finding a purpose, finding a place in nature, perhaps not needing a purpose, finding love and joy in the moment. So much he had written on these subjects, that would be apt to say now! The lines crashed against the wall in his brain like a battering ram, they words made ladders to climb over; the stanzas slammed into it like waves - he wanted to speak, to help him- and yet he dared not. He dared not. So he spoke without words, tightening his hug.

They held each other there, heedless of Jinx’s rain which still fell upon them, and by now they were quite drenched.

“Tristan Woodrow,” said the ghost gently, caressing his companion’s cheek as the rain began to slowly subside. “I should not have spoken so freely- it was never your burden. But… ti ringrazio. Worry not, gentle poet.” He smiled. “I am not going anywhere.”

He was quite certain the warden had fallen asleep, but after a moment came a soft reply: “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Of course. Coming to Palette Prime has turned out to be a wise choice, indeed-”

“No. I mean, I am glad you’re here. In the universe.” He turned his head up to the other with an exhausted smile. 

“I am glad you’re here too,” said the other. And soon enough, damp though they were, and in spite of the moonlight surrounding them, they fell asleep, curled around each other, watched over by a cloud and surrounded by the hum of the forest at night.

[jamietxrtt]

okay. so i just watched it twice, and here are my thoughts about ted lasso season 3, episode 1. don’t read if you don’t want to be spoiled:

I WAS RIGHTTTTTT ABOUT TED BEING THE FACE OF THIS SEASON I WAS RIGHTTTT I WAS RIGHTTTT. it HAS to be about his growth at the end of the day. that’s what the show’s ABOUT

love the opening on ted’s face while someone calls for the last warning for kansas city. how much do we want to guess the season will end the same way, with a settled, satisfied look on his face this time, while somebody calls “passenger lasso for kansas city”?

“amen big ben” WAHHHH. WHENEVER HENRY MIMICKS TED’S SPEECH PATTERNS IT GETS ME SOOOO

ted immediately joking about drinking alcohol with the gift from his son. hm.

“when you get home, will you give your mom a big squeeze for me and le her know i love her”? i’m not sure that’s still appropriate to say about your ex wife, ted

ted looks so jason-ish with stubble lmao.

I’M SO GLAD HE’S STILL TALKING WITH SHARON. THANK GOD HE NEEDS IT

the way his voice shakes on “hey doc… yeah, no, i’m fine.”

“until my dad remembered to come pick me up”..... he sounds a bit angry in this line….

JESUS HIS FAVORITE TEACHER GOT KILLED BEFORE HE WAS ABLE TO THANK HIM FOR TAKING CARE OF HIM?????? HOW MUCH TRAGEDY WAS IN YOUNG TED’S LIFE HOW MUCH GRIEF DID HE HAVE TO ENDURE

he still has the nate christmas photo up in his apartment, right where it was before, right next to the henry photo……..

“maybe my being here is doing more hurting than helping at this point” very reminiscent of “eventually it seemed like me being around so much was doing more harm than good

“are you seeing anyone?” “pass.” “ahh, you usually say no!” how many times has ted asked if she’s dating someone????

“you finally got off” “not yet i haven’t” GOOD FOR HER?????? GET IT QUEEN

rebecca and higgins just chilling and reading newspapers with each other wahhh i love when they’re friends

the way rebecca keeps referring to west ham as rupert….. oof. oh girl. even ted goes “ohhh boy”. it can’t not be personal for her

i love how whenever rebecca doesn’t know how to respond to something, she just goes “....... okay” with a kind of perplexed half-smile on her face. she’s done it throughout all three seasons and it’s delightful

“maybe they’re trying to motivate us” aww dani

BOTH DANI AND RICHARD IMMEDIATELY CROSSING THEMSELVES WHEN COLIN MENTIONS THE NUN ALSKFJLDKSJFD

“hey, lads! we ain’t gonna get relegated because we’re together! and together… we’ve got me!” AHAHHAA jamie being jamie…. love him forever

everyone throwing towels and stuff at jan mass when he mentions what’s statistically likely to happen LASKJFLKSDJLFKJDSLFJDL something about that is so sweet and friendlylike

beard and roy being FRIENDSSSS

love that ted still keeps the gag from s1 of calling the other coaches pet names, he says “what’s up, sweetie pie” to beard

roy having an inferiority complex by comparing himself to NATE???? that's very…… interesting. especially since nate spent all of last season trying to be roy.

nate in his little green car….

“good morning coach shelley” and he doesn’t even notice. wow…. he’s really embraced this. and then the “there he is, the wonderkid himself” “get out.” WOOF.

KJPR??? Keeley Jones PR????

ohh she’s representing Rebecca at her new company!! rebecca is a client of hers now!!

keeley in a office full of boring stiffs who don’t get her whimsy… aw keeley. don’t let them cramp your style! maybe they’ll be made sympathetic though who knows

and yet she still calls them all “poets and geniuses” even though they clearly don’t like her… keeley you ray of sunshine i adore you

when keeley just throws rebecca’s jacket on a couch and rebecca’s face is just like “uh…. ok” ASLKDFJLSDJFLKDSJFLKSD

KEELEY IMMEDIATELY BREAKING DOWN IN TEARS AS SOON AS THE OFFICE IS COVERED AWWWWWWWW KEELEYYYYYYY. seeing her crying and upset is so upsetting to me. like i see jamie in agony and i’m like YESSSSS but i see keeley upset and i also want to start sobbing

love that rebecca is there to take care of her though <3

and i’m kind of excited! i think this means we’re going to be able to see more of keeley’s internal world this season! one problem with her i’ve always had is that i feel like she’s always a bit too perfect-- she always knows the exact right thing to do, the exact right thing to say, she always gives the best advice. it sometimes felt like she was only ever fixing other peoples’ problems, not dealing with problems of her own. but it looks like she’s allowed to have problems this season!!! yay!!!

the boys chatting while training :) they’re so cute they’re little buddies i love them

roy: “what the fuck are you two talking about, we are outside.” beard: “HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE >:3” i love him

“EVERYONE RUN EXCEPT ROY LET’S GO” so sweet how he’s considerate of roy’s knee :) 

“wow, rupert’s really got stuck in your head these days, huh?” “no! … i mean, yes, but…” get rebecca in some therapy 2k23 on god rebecca we can NOT end the season without you having seen a therapist

barbara lady trying to crush keeley’s whimsy :(((((((

“thank you for the advice” “thank you for your bosom” “anytime” I LOVEEEE TWO FRIENDSSSSS

“this right here is the dum dum line” nate what are you, 5?

“five more minutes of this, then just run them ‘till they drop” WOOF… NOT THE BEST TACTIC TO GET THE TEAM ON YOUR SIDE

when he turns around and the secretary lady is gone and nate does his trademark little “oh my god…..” HE’S STILL THE SAME PERSON. even with all the differences in his life and his personality now he still has that little “oh my god….” think he’s had since the very first season

rupert wearing the all black suit… yes nate was trying to emulate roy with the black suit last season, but maybe he was also trying to emulate rupert???

oooof when rupert slaps the newspaper as he’s laughing, nate flinches and his smile suddenly disappears….. ooooooof oooooof

“they didn’t know what they had letting you go. nathan shelley, you are a killer” MANIPULATION MANIPULATION

nate’s face on “.....i can move it.” like he’s expected to get yelled at…. oof

not lost on me that rupert always calls him “nathan” whereas ted always called him “nate”

so good to finally see those spoilers from a YEAR AGO of the team out and about in those new kits out in london come to fruition… it’s been soooo long. those were the first s3 spoilers we ever got. wonderful

rebecca rushing to see the press conference…. baby you have to learn how to not care

“i’ve had this dry cleaned now six time. can’t believe she wears stuff like this on her eyes”

higgins’ choking sound… love that he still has that

“aint much scarier out there than a creepy clown, right?” then it immediately cuts to rupert HA

jamie with his shirt over his nose is so cute

THE WHOLE TEAM CONGRATULATING BEARD ON GETTING IT RIGHT… SO CUTE

nate’s still harping on the wonder kid thing… dang

NATE PANIC ATTACK????? god just like ted’s…… and then the spit aND THE WAY HE WIPES HIS EYE RIGHT AFTER. NATE YOU MAKE ME WEEP BUDDY

typical nate. feels threatened and so goes on the counterattack. same as jamie did back in s1. best way to get them to stop poking fun at you is to beat them to the punch and lash out at them first.

cutting between the press conference and the boys in the sewer… interesting interesting

jamie’s little “wtf?” hand after roy yells ASLKDFJLSJFLDKSJF

“coach?” “yeah, jamie.” “we’re surrounded by poopeh.” WAHHHHHH I LOVE HIM SO MUCH. MY SON

so many hurt feelings…. so much hurt…. by ted, by the team, by rebecca and higgins…. they all knew nate….. so much hurt here… god

beard WOULD like kenneth

“hey, hey, lads, lads! remember, it’s just poopeh. let it flow.” YESSSSS JAMIE TAKING ON THE TED ROLE AND CONSOLING THE TEAM YESSSSS BABY UR A LEADER ON THE TEAM NOW I’M SO PROUD OF U.

when dani says “clever, jamie, muy intellegento, jamie!” I LOVE HOW MUCH DANI LOVES HIM

also the way ted was ready to step in but both beard and roy stopped him because they knew it was time to let someone on the team reinterpret ted’s philosophy… yesssss

when rebecca calls him “coach lasso” instead of ted…..

“i am begging you. please. fight back.” but then later ted ignores that advice and does his charm and disarm that he usually goes with, and keeley sends rebecca that text “way to let ted be ted!” really reaffirms that rebecca was in the wrong there, that she had to trust how ted was going to handle it

ted going full self-deprecating in the face of nate’s insults is so perfect too. like yes, he still compliments nate, never says a bad word about him, refuses to stoop to his level. but it endears him to the public-- and, crucially, it also IS kind of a way to backhandedly get at nate. it’s a way for ted to come off looking more clever and quick-witted and smart, at the end of the day. it’s a way for him to win this battle without ever putting up a fight.

interesting too how it calls back to the advice he gives rebecca in s1 at the gala-- “just a trick of the trade, make fun of yourself, right off the bat. folks will love that.” here he’s employing his own advice. making fun of himself to endear himself to the public.

“i’ve had more psychotic episodes than twin peaks” SO interesting to me that he’s able to so freely talk about the panic attacks and make fun of himself for it here… very very interesting. not sure how i feel about that

the way nathan’s father is still upset about him swearing??? like he’s 14 or something???? his parents infantilize him SO MUCH…. i’m sure that’s where a lot of his issues regarding respect ultimately stem from

buying nate the new car… something to be said here about status and class, but i’m not smart enough to say it.

“it’s a car” and nate laughs at first because he thinks she’s kidding, but then he’s like “oh wait…. oh.”

OKAY. LOOK. I KNOW IT’S BAD FOR HIS DEVELOPMENT AS A PERSON. BUT. THAT CAR SEQUENCE WAS SICK AS HELL.

roy is looking at keeley while keeley looks down at her phone… then she puts down her phone and looks at him, and he immediately looks down at his drink…. oof.

keeley’s jacket is so spectacular. not the point but i love it

“we’re going on a break” vs. “we broke up”... ooooof

“because…. we thought you’d wanna hang out with me sometimes” AH. KEELEY SOUNDS SO INSECURE ON THIS LINE. BABEEEEEE

roy’s whole face journey before he says “we’re too busy.” is… oof. got me in my feels

keeley trying to comfort roy about his anxiety about not being a good enough coach, but then she has to stop himself…. babe you can’t do that anymore. it’s not your place. he’s not yours like that anymore.

if i had to rank these people in order of how well they’re handling this interaction, it would be: phoebe, keeley, roy. roy’s really not doing much of the legwork here. and phoebe is astounding in how she’s managing to smooth out their feelings, instead of the other way around. i NEED to meet her mom

“i think you’re being stupid” not messing around phoebe, i like it

beard never gives his opinion when ted expresses how he’s not sure why they’re still here.. unsure what that means. he thinks they should go home but doesn’t want to mess with ted’s headspace even more? he thinks ted should figure this one out himself and doesn’t want to influence him? he’s bothered by ted’s unquestioning use of “we” (“wonder why we’re still here.”) when maybe what beard wants is different from what ted wants? could be any of the above. i’m not sure

putting lego nate next to lego ted….. weeping sobbing crying

“who’s jake?” “mommy’s friend.” “..........great…..” AHHHHHHHHHH. poor ted is going throughhhhh ittttttttt

[ao3feed-bakusquad]

WIP

WIP by Inspired Poet

Will be named eventually, still a wip til I figure out a name

Bakugou Katsuki wants to be a hero. But it's not for himself anymore, not after Midoriya Izuku takes his advice and jumps off the top of a building. Katsuki's journey to be a hero has a dark history behind it, shaping his experiences for the rest of his life. But he finds his way through the trauma and guilt and even finds people who support him in spite of who he used to be. Because he's different now. And he just needs to make sure Izuku would have been proud.

- note - This is a story largely about processing grief and self-change. Yes, this will have darker themes. Please mind the tags, they are there for a reason and are all important. There are several potential trigger warnings for this story, but suicide and discussion of it are very prevalent. Some specific trigger warnings will be in the notes of each chapter, but please keep in mind what you're getting yourself into, and that I may have missed some potentials. Nothing gory or too heavy on blood, but definitely dark. Katsuki-centric and lots of angst, but I'm giving him a happy ending. Eventually.

Words: 279, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia (Anime & Manga)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Characters: Bakugou Katsuki, Kirishima Eijirou, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Class 1-A, Shinsou Hitoshi, Midoriya Inko, Bakugou Mitsuki, Bakugou Masaru

Relationships: Bakugou Katsuki/Kirishima Eijirou, Bakugou Katsuki & Kirishima Eijirou, Bakugou Katsuki & Midoriya Izuku

Additional Tags: Bakugou Katsuki-centric, Guilt, Grief/Mourning, Dead Midoriya Izuku, Midoriya Izuku Commits Suicide, Suicide, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Shinsou Hitoshi is in Class 1-A, U.A. Student Yoarashi Inasa, he's in 1-B so it's even, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead is a Good Teacher, Kirishima Eijirou is a Good Friend, Bakugou Katsuki Swears A Lot, Bakugou Katsuki is Bad at Feelings, Bakugou Katsuki Needs a Hug, Kirishima Eijirou is a Ray of Sunshine, lots of guilt and grief I cannot stress this enough, Psychological Trauma, Therapy, lots of therapy please, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, a bit of Hurt/No Comfort as well I guess, technically, Alcohol, Not a lot but it's there

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48697555

[nem0c]

Hyperion, Dan Simmons

Priest’s Tale. Actually an epistolary narrative concerning a different priest. Catholic but a Jesuit archaeologist who’s main theological precursor is Pierre Teilhard de Chardin (coincidentally someone I have read recently owing the nearby bookshop’s sometimes esoteric offering in it’s religion section). Actually an atheist and a scientist. Representative of the most common epistemological position of classic sf. Has an encounter that overturns this system of knowledge, confirms his faith in a living God, and spurs his faith in the necessary mortality of both himself and his Church. Read alongside: James Blish, A Case of Conscience

Soldier’s Tale. Limited 3rd person narration. We’re following one individual but at an emotional distance. We see the economic and political conditions necessary for the re-emergence of a noble warrior caste and limited warfare, something common in military sf, and then the changes which lead to it’s fall and the return of 20th century total war and terror and all the nastiness military sf skipped over. Kassad’s love for Moneta is the courtly romantic love that removes him from his fellow man and encourages his growth both as a knight of the FORCE and later as a butcher of men. Theological question: If a man utilises orbiting x-rays to take out a heretical Shi’a prophet, but then essentially pretends to direct Allah’s anger to prompt the remaining colonists into peaceful submission, is he at fault from a Sunni perspective? Little ‘The door dilated’ reference to Heinlein. Read alongside: Robert Heinlein, Starship Troopers (and/or Space Cadet and/or The Moon is a Harsh Mistress), Gordon Dickson, Dorsai series (even though I’ve only read Soldier, Ask Not which has an unusual protagonist and narrative for the series), Harry Harrison, Bill, the Galactic Hero

The Poet’s Tale. 1st person past-tense narration. Much discussion of the craft of writing. A lot to disagree with, particularly the notion that you’re using language as a degenerated tool to try and convey with clarity a pre-linguistic experience. Whether there are non-linguistic experiences or not, we are getting at them only through language, and a writer can hardly wield language with such craft and then claim it is a transparent medium. Contrary and excellent bit about the influence of Sapir-Whorf hypothesis and General Semantics on sf when an accident that reduces his speech capabilities and leaves him in drudge labour also reduces his experience of life to a tight cycle; and he only escapes through expanding his language use and the conceptual space he inhabits. The Shrike, in it’s appearance as Muse, echoing the Soldier’s courtly love. Does a prophecy create the future it predicts? Read alongside: Choose your favourite Samuel Delany, A. E. van Vogt’s Null-A series, any William Burroughs.

The Scholar’s Tale. Limited 3rd person narration. The relative normality of Sol’s life provides good background on the day-to-day existence of the Hegemony. The mysteries of the Time Tombs get some exploration here. Theological concern: You are a Jew and Israel (and the whole Earth) is long, long gone and dead. The exile is forever. The Messiah h’aint coming. You’re having dreams in which a disembodied voice commands you to repeat Abraham and sacrifice your only living child; who is herself ageing backwards owing to contact with the Shrike. You are an agnostic scholar of ethics. What do?

The Detective’s Tale. 1st person past-tense narration. Neo-noir and cyberpunk plot starting in a run-down slum sector of some heavy g industrial world. Nice nod to Asimov’s Robot Detective novels both in that this is about a cynical human detective learning to trust a robot, and in the aside about residents of such planets usually developing agoraphobia. The cybrid (a manufactured human body piloted by an AI that is actually present in the Cloud) is a recreation of Keats. Contrary to the personality crises and shoddy cartesian assumptions of some cyberpunk, he is adamant that he is not the same person as the real Keats, and clears up the detective’s assumptions about AI: While they may appear to be disembodied ghosts inhabiting another plane, temporarily possessing manufactured bodies, that plane is a very much real and material computer network. Using both noir and cyberpunk’s penchant for consipracy to uncover the political situation between the Human Hegemony, the Ousters, and the AI Core. As Keats plans to escape the AI Core to a section of space with extremely limited access to the network, he must inhabit this manufactured body. Ending on an AI Word becoming Flesh in order to cause an immaculate conception in the detective for the onset of a future human/AI Messiah. Edit: Almost forgot, but I like the part where the hacker character has aged out of his youthful subculture and taken a sensible job as a public sector data analyst, only to realise his own betrayal and throw in for one last stupid hack when given the opportunity.

We skipped over the Templar. He vanishes in an actual closed-room mystery but the investigation turns up some possible characteristics. A story told without the narrator’s presence.

The Consul’s Tale. Initially 1st person present-tense account of a love affair with two time structures running side-by-side that is revealed to concern an event occurring decades prior to another person. Followed by a confessional. Interrogation of the colonial ambitions underlying various Galactic Federations in print sf.

In all instances, a story dealing with the various ways of writing an sf text, encapsulating an age and pronouncing its death. The sense of approaching apocalypse is palpable, with the Shrike as its avatar. Extremely good stuff and I am tempted to read the sequel as it depicts that Fall of an era, but I can’t see how or why you would speculate in a positive sense beyond that negation. It seems the author didn’t, as Endymion still gives us a narrative of the downfall of a particular age and state, but it swaps out the secular Hegemony for the Catholic Church in space.

[noblehcart]

“🔥?” -stefirce bc she loves hearing it

Send “🔥?” and my muse will admit whether they find your muse attractive or not. @myhiraeth

"its moments like these that i wish i were a bit more of a poet. how does it go...one shade the more, one ray the less, had half impaired the nameless grace, which waves in every raven tress." blue eyes drank in her dark eyes and the gentle curve of her face framed by hair that reminded him of gentle midnights that revealed the stars. her smile when directed at him made him feel like perhaps he was witnessing a miracle though he long gave up beliefs in faith and god and miracles, but she could make him believe in it he was sure. he loved how her clever lips entranced him with even more enchanting consuming words that he found himself replaying in his head later on that night.

stefan ivanov was not a romantic.

-but he could be for her.

so he smiled. leaned in closer just breaths away from an almost kiss as he spoke again. "i am incredibly and far beyond the word attracted to you, circe london."

[violettduchess]

I noticed licht doesn't have a kiss fic yet. Sorry, I know you're busy with the broken heartstrings series rn but I'm gonna trow it in anyways for when you might have time, before i forget about it [again]

hugs ʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ and Love, V

A/N: Thank you for the request @viohasgoneintothewoods 💜 Licht has been requested several times before (hello Licht kiss anons!) but I wasn't sure how to fulfill it without it being a bit darker than some of the other kiss fics. But now that I have thrown myself into writing angst, this request fits right into Broken Heartstrings (and is a lot faster to write)! So here you go!

Word Count: 568

His name means “light.”

And when he holds you in his arms, you believe the warmth that fills your heart rivals any bright ray of summer sunshine. Peace and contentment flood you at the feel of his strong embrace, a fortress that would withstand anything if it meant protecting you. He is a bastion of love, a bulwark you can hold on to in the face of any turbulent storm.....but what do you do when those very arms are what is shaking? When the light you know he possesses begins to dim?  

His name means “light."

But the man you love is haunted by shadows. The past has a dark grip over him, long tendrils that snake their way silently through his mind, that wrap around his heart like black, thorny vines and squeeze. 

He is a paradox: delicate strength. Mighty fragility. 

In the bright light of desire, when he allows that passion to overrule any other emotion, he is as powerful as Helios. But instead of driving four fiery steeds across the sky, he is blazing a trail of kisses across your body. His lips are fire, stoking the heat in your veins, bringing a sunset-colored flush to your skin. As sure as the sun burns a beaming path across the sky, so does Licht set you aflame. His mouth is sure, his hands are steady. He is a torch in the darkness, lighting the way, leading you higher and higher towards the heavens. His name escapes your lips, the sound a comet of radiant light across the night sky. He kisses you and you are a supernova on the verge of bursting. You are Sirius, the brightest star in the heavens. You are filled with the light of his love and his adoration and his fervent need and you are unstoppable.

His name means "light."

But sometimes desire and love and want are not enough to spark that glow. Sometimes the darkness wins. Sometimes his mouth is unsure. His hands unsteady. Sometimes he does not think to reach for you at all because he is afraid that he is something foul, something that will not empower you but rather taint your goodness with something less than. He shrinks into the shadows, prefers to wrap his arms around himself, storm clouds pelting him with a cold rain that screams, “You are unworthy. You do not deserve this.” It is then your turn to reach out, through the stinging gray fog and find him. To pull him into the warm circle of your embrace, to run a hand over his soft, silver hair and press kiss after loving kiss against his chilled skin. You kiss understanding against his cheek, cold and damp with tears. You kiss acceptance against his pale forehead. You kiss empathy into the curve of his jaw. And you kiss his lips, feeling the way they tremble against yours, and give him all of your love, tender and patient. Over and over your lips touch his. Over and over you tell him wordlessly how deeply you love him. Over and over and over until the tremors that wrack his scarred body cease. Until his war-torn heart finds a steady rhythm once again. Until the haunted shadow fades from his luminous eyes. Until the well of tears has run dry. 

His name means “light.” 

And you will always find him in the darkness.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @queen-dahlia @aceuuuuu @scorchieart @bubblexly