#the prompts are coming easy

[mischievous-thunder]

Wade: I was sleepy two hours ago.

Wade: But I ignored my sleepiness and now I can't sleep.

Logan, sleepily: Is this why you woke me up so dramatically? So that I entertain you? At 4 a.m.?

[starflungwaddledee]

did you remember to leave space for all your phantom limbs?

⋆｡ ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☀︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ˚★⋆｡˚ ┊ ┊ ⋆ ┊ ★⋆ ┊ ◦ kirbytober 2024 #03 ★⋆ miracle // phantom // magic

[hood-ex]

The desire to write a Dick-centered fic based off the commandments listed in the song "Cry Little Sister."

Thou shalt not fall

Thou shalt not die

Thou shalt not fear

Thou shalt not kill

[sysig]

Growing closer than expected (Patreon)

[horsemeatluvr23]

the truest hermit, tfc. (alcohol marker and fineliner)

[sockeyesidequest]

And here he is! I have a handful of poses I want to do still so stay tuned!

[thebrigeedadraws]

Day 18: Pirates

"...Pirates?"

"Aye. Dad's the admiral uv'our fleet. Mum's the bookkeeper. One siblin's our ambassador an' the other's our head scout."

"Giant...magic...AND pirates?"

"Fathach's been known as the 'pirate nation' fer a few centuries now."

"..."

"..."

"Pirates?!"

"Yer really hung up on that one, arne ye?"

[artemis-73]

Suptober Day 8: Witch's Brew

All Charlie wanted was for the big finale of the Moondoor season to be epic. It was starting to get colder, and with the chill came a hiatus. No one wanted to freeze their butts off in a field, after all. Dean had assured her that what she already had in mind was perfect, but she wanted an extra something to make the season stand out from all the ones that had come before it.

When she researched possible special effects, beyond the fireworks and smoke machines, she'd found a single message board post with a handful of replies of someone talking about their final LARP session before they had to move across the country, where they'd paid a pretty penny for a transfiguration potion from a local apothecary. They'd done the entire session as an actual orc.

That was where the maybe-probably witch came into the picture.

In a local Facebook group for gamers, someone had mentioned in passing getting a tincture for their carpal tunnel five years before. Apparently the witch had been surly but fairly priced, and the cure had worked.

Charlie had messaged them for an address and hoped that it was still accurate.

The shack--really, it couldn't be called anything more--was crammed into the back alley of a butcher shop. It looked abandoned except for the freshly-painted "Meg's" in swooping letters on the door and the tiny neon sign in the window that declared the shop open.

Charlie was surprised the door didn't shriek like something out of an old horror movie. Instead, it swung open easily to reveal a cozy room with burgundy walls and rows of rough wood shelves covered in vials, jars, and flasks.

There was a bar-height counter on the far side of the room, upon which sat an old timey cast iron cash register and a flickering candle that smelled like tobacco and cinnamon.

"Hello?" Charlie called into the empty room, hesitant to step in.

"Do you need a hand-written invitation?" a muffled voice drawled from somewhere behind the counter. There was the distinct sound of glasses clinking together. "I'm a little busy!"

"Sorry! I'll just take a look around."

"You do that."

Even though she had no idea what she was really looking for and would much rather have asked the witch, she forced herself to start perusing the shelves in silence. All of the containers were clearly labeled, but they were small potatoes: arthritis, chapped lips, dry eyes, indigestion.

A muffled curse came from behind the counter.

"Um, do you--" Charlie started then stopped herself. She didn't want to be a bother, but... "Do you need some help?"

A frustrated huff then "Fine."

More hesitantly than was warranted for someone who had offered to help, she rounded the counter and was surprised to find a hole into some sort of cellar.

"Here," the familiar voice said before a box of potions was lifted high enough for her to reach.

It was heavier than it looked, but she managed to get it up onto the counter. She turned around, not sure if there'd be another box, but was met instead with a woman--Meg, presumably--darting up the ladder. Charlie nearly leapt out of her skin.

"Hello," she said a little breathlessly.

Meg arched one unimpressed brow at her. "Hi. Can you--" She gestured to the customer side of the counter.

"Right. Totally. Sorry." Charlie backed away.

She'd expected an old crone, but Meg was, well, not that. She looked to be about Charlie's age, and she was wearing leather and had mischievous, dark eyes that gave Charlie butterflies like she was teenager again.

"Did you find what you need?" the witch asked as she swung the door over the hole and locked it.

"Actually, I was wondering if you could help me with something more...custom?"

Meg visibly perked up at that, though she tried to hide it. "Maybe. If the price is right."

"It will be."

"Well, why didn't you lead with that?"

"You're, like, really intimidating," Charlie word-vomited like an idiot. "And hot. Oh my god. I'm so sorry. That's weird. That's so weird. I can leave."

Meg smiled, sharp and amused, and tilted her head like she was looking at Charlie for the first time. "I'll take the compliment if you're serious about forking out some cash."

Three hours later, Charlie left the shop with a potion that would make her sprout wings and levitate--which was totally fucking awesome--and Meg's number. To report on how the session went and in case she ever wanted another potion, of course.

[wraithinkorporated]

Blorbotober Day 6 | Boxing

[shinybulbasaur]

idk, it really sucks to see lectures on how "anyone can do art if they practice" from people who gleefully say that they hate math/science and that they refuse to go near it. like I'm not saying that everyone has to be good at math, but like, as someone who does both it's really weird and uncomfortable seeing the difference in how people talk about these things. "do it bad" should apply to science fairs just as much as it does to painting

[heyitslapis]

When your OCs are nervous to meet each other's parents/family for the same fear (what if they hate me?) but for opposite reasons

[mischievous-thunder]

Logan: *Is feeling sleepy earlier than usual*

Wade: *Decides that it's the perfect time to loudly watch a video titled "40 creepiest facts about ghosts and spirits to deprive anyone of sleep"*

[oathtorn]

// sometimes I think about how many times in bg3 you get conflicts that don't have an objectively "best" outcome. I think about freeing the 7000 vampires, for example. Freeing them is the ethical thing to do, because they are all innocent victims, but it remains true that leaving thousands of vampires loose, even in the underdark, is a bad bad idea. Not only are they traumatized people, but they're predators who have only their instincts to help them survive in an unfamiliar land that isn't exactly bountiful in terms of wildlife. If they don't do well, they'll die or be slaughtered, and if they do they'll ruin entire communities or ecosystems, depending on whether they feed on people or animals.

[minecraftbed]

a desertduo fic based on the songAugust by flipturn

it’s so them right im not delusional

August: a song about a relationship that only works out during the month of august, wherein it seems perfect. After august it falls apart, until the next august comes around. 

title: octagonal

wordcount: 971

rating: T

ao3: HERE

“Hey, catch.”

Grian barely had time to finish pulling off his sweater before something equally as red entered his peripheral. He jumped backwards with a squeak and a fluff of wings, the object landing by his feet with a thud. An apple, shiny like glass under the desert sun.

“That wasn’t… you can’t just throw things at me, Scar—” the words were annoyed but laced with amusement as he adjusted his tank top. “—and expect me to react on time.” 

“Well,” Scar bit into his own fruit like an animal, juice running down his fingers, down his wrist, down his arm. “What if I’d been an enemy?”

“You aren’t.”

“And…! —And what if that had been TNT.”

Grian sighed. “Then I wouldn’t have wanted  to catch it, would I?” 

Scar took a second, canting his head and staring at him, apple frozen in motion towards his mouth. Then, the lightbulb went off. “Oh…” a chuckle. “Oh, I guess not.” 

It was contagious; the way they bickered and laughed, the constant back and forth as they worked. Hands splintered from planks of wood, then calloused from rough sandstone bricks. The foundations of their new …home… were beginning to take place. 

(Really, it was Grian doing the work. Scar stood around shirtless and thought up ways to scam people.)

The sun, high in the sky, unchanging as they changed beneath it. 

————————————-

The new world was different.

Grian noticed it from day one; the shift in tone, they went from orange to blue. 

It didn’t help that there was the looming threat of what everyone was calling ‘the boogeyman’. As if they were twelve. As if the insatiable, sudden need to kill one of your friends was as light as the stories parents told their children so that they would go to sleep.

Maybe it was, Grian hadn’t experienced either. 

But he felt the effects. People stood further away during conversations, hands itching by their sides ready to draw. No one wanted to be alone, either, but it was worse to be alone with another. Anyone could turn. Anyone could kill.

The curse brought on an ultimatum: them or you. And who in their right mind wouldn't choose the former? 

It was dark when he saw Scar for the first time. Part of him knew he should be cautious, memories burnt fresh into his brain of blood on his sword, in his hair, his skin. Together they had taken down everything and everyone, including themselves. Behind that annoying lopsided smirk and fake diamond armour, Scar hid what he was capable of. 

Grian wasn’t scared of his violence. No, no. His words, they were a completely different thing to fear.

“...So I can’t put you on the back of a llama and take you to the desert?”

It hurt, in an unexpected way. The type of way where you end up angry at yourself for not preparing on time. His mental walls were only half constructed, architecturally weak, and Scar had found the point to prod on his first try. Grian laughed, shrill and light as his heart crawled further inside. 

He needed severance.

“Hey… have you tried transferring a life yet?” 

The new world was different.

“No, I haven’t!”

He would be different.

————————————-

His throat stung, dehydrated lips cracked. Grian’s scream would unendingly echo throughout the ravine.

He waited, and waited, and waited. Alone in the desert, dizzy with heatstroke, uncertain of what was to come. When Scar finally showed up, he wasn’t sure if he was real or a mirage; he spoke to him anyway. 

The flowers. Lilacs and poppies. Grian clutched the wilted bundle in his fist, torn between them and the new shade of Scar’s eyes.

“Can we still be friends?”

Could they? Did Grian care if they couldn’t? It was just stupid rules of a stupider game. Half of everything was made up on the fly, and the other half broken whenever someone felt like it. They were too carefree, when nothing was there to enforce them. 

Grian didn’t want to admit it, but somewhere along the muddied lines, his obligation had grown into greedy devotion. He needed Scar, and Scar needed him. At least if they got any more parasitic the vultures would have something to feast on. 

“I think so? I still owe you my first life,” and the one after that, and the one after that.

They rearranged their sleeping quarters that night, silently communicating as they pushed two beds together. It was sticky and humid, but their hands stayed entwined until morning. 

Grian left the flowers on the windowsill, with thought that they would dry. 

————————————-

Grian had never experienced the boogeyman curse, but he had felt the effects.

“At least his bed is out here, so we don’t have to ruin his lovely house.”

That was something, right? 

They had built the obsidian spawn-camping death trap OUTSIDE of his lovely house. For that, Grian deserved a pat on the back. Joel gave him a funny look as the words left his mouth, the absurdity of the situation crawling down his spine. 

They needed these lives. Scar… Scar had too many. He didn’t need them like him and Joel did. —- Hell, he would lose them himself soon enough. All they were doing was stopping such an important resource from going to waste.

The method was… justified. 

So when Scar refused their offer, backing away from his beloved mountain, spewing lies, silver tongue tangled, Grian didn’t feel bad, loading his crossbow with bolt after bolt. Each one finding a place in flesh, in armour. Scar had made his choice.

At the end of the day, his heart was just a muscle behind his sternum. 

And Grian only knew how to touch skin when it was to brush away stray grains of sand.

[boombambaby]

Goooood Kuzcorific morning, Kuzcoteers!

I don’t know about you, but I am WAY overdue for some prime Kuzco-worship time!

Yep!

A manicure, a nice soothing skin toning session, floating in my private indoor lake with some music playing in the background— you know. Some serious R&R.

Sooo that’s the goal for today, Kuzconians! Feel free to jump in, and join in on your own version of ‘Kuzco’s the best!’ worship at your own leisure. Nooo talky or bother-y me though, kay?

If you need me? At all, for anything?

. . . Don’t!

[batsplat]

don't really have time at the minute but do feel like. it's perhaps worth at some point just kind of going into a little bit more detail for that stretch of 2015 between assen and phillip island because there's just some little bits of context here and there that are worth keeping in mind