#undried-ink

[rassicas]

So if I’m remembering correctly, Inkfish can’t go into water because of the difference between the osmotic pressure between their ink and the water, and also because of their permeable skin they have to go between forms. But what about inkfish that have been sun-dried. If I can remember correctly, cap’n cuttlefish was sun-dried and due to being sun-dried, he could no longer produce his own ink nor could he transform freely anymore. If being sun dried prevents those things, could a sun-dried inkfish go into water…???

[image: screenshot of a document, from the script for my "inklings and water" video. the highlighted text is before the outro and after the section about octavio. the text reads:

Another thought I had is what if drying out an Inkfish strengthens their skin and makes them more water resistant. We know that older inklings can sun dry to preserve their bodies, a process that makes them lose ink. From that same nintendo dream interview we learn cuttlefish can only kind of sort of not really change forms anymore, and once this old man got completely sucked dry by a bear he lost the ability to shapeshift altogether. So hes inkless and cant shapeshift so maybe he can resist water better? Just an idea. wild speculation. for all we know the water could undry him and kill him.

i cut out this section at the last minute because i thought it was maybe too speculative? but if i had known how many people were going to comment about sundrying i would've left it in

....i also accidentally left out my personal explanation for why octavio is seemingly floating in and breathing in water (him floating in the snowglobe is just for gameplay reasons/easier to animate), which was supposed to be text on screen. whoops.

[amethysttribble]

Makalaure entered the quiet, oft-abandoned green drawing room on the far side of their palace in Tirion intending to quickly exit through the opposite door.

Halfway into the room, though, his feet drew to a stop as he saw a familiar, light head bent over the desk. Was this where Tyelkormo had been hiding all day? His brother had startled when he paused and turned around to glare at him. He looked ever so slightly guilty.

“What are you doing?” Macalaure said with a grin, shifting his intentions and striding over. He bent over the desk to try to get a look but Tyelkormo was fast.

He immediately dropped his quill with a ‘clack’, causing ink to splatter everywhere, and snatched up the papers, pulling them to his chest.

“Ah, your shirt,” Makalaure said, standing back up. With ink that fresh, he could stain the front of the whole damn thing!

Tyelkormo was unmoved, though, perhaps because- now that Makalaure studied him- he was in an undershirt, one so roughspun it could only be one of the ones he made for himself while with the Hunt of Orome. He continued to petulantly glare, clutching his papers close, as the undried ink no doubt ran. Makalaure raised an incredulous eyebrow.

His little brother looked away as he answered.

“The Scriptures of Orome are not meant to be written,” he said, shame and guilt radiating from him, but Makalaure just smiled again, delighted.

“And yet you write them,” he breathed out, smirking.

Tyelkormo had been so staid in the rules of his Vala recently! And mind you, the laws of one such as the Lord of the Hunt were more strange and permissive and at odds with Elven society than, say, Varda’s, but still… To see his wild little brother so throughly reined in- a feat that not even their father and mother had ever been able to accomplish- after just one year in the Vala’s train was galling.

Downright concerning, in some ways, though Nelyo cautioned him to just leave Tyelkormo be. He’s figuring things out for himself, Maitimo had said.

Which Makalaure might have been more sympathetic to, had be not spent the two years prior to this one getting non-stop accounts from every family member about how Tyelkormo had all but set fire to Tirion in his bad behavior while trapped at the University. He’d promised father he’d complete a course of study before abandoning all that Elven hands had learned and made for a Vala’s hearth. He didn’t make it past the third semester.

Now, his little brother looked positively quelled as he cringed away from him and from his own illicit papers.

“Not for anyone to see,” he muttered, “just for my purposes.”

“And what are those purposes?”

He intentionally made his voice slightly suggestive just to make Turko turn crimson.

“Study,” he spat, “and reference, and, yes, appreciation, but not like that, you fucking asshole.”

Makalaure snickered and waved his anger away, saying, “Yes, yes, I believe you. By Eru do I believe you. But, Turko! What a wonderful discovery! You are a Noldo yet, you are Father’s son yet. Committing blasphemy to eek out just a bit more knowledge.”

That made Tyelkormo’s face pull uncomfortably, and Makalaure watched. He truly looked chastised, and almost fearful. As of being Father’s son was bad thing. What were these acolytes telling him?

Makalaure reached out and thumbed at his little brother’s nose, trying to wipe that serious look off his face. It worked long enough that he was able to turn away and start to say, “Well, what can you expect? We spent so much time writing out poems and philosophical tracts and translations for our recitation lessons, I think it’s quite ingrained in us to want to transliterate into Tengwar whatever we are trying to understand.”

Makalaure collapsed upon the couch, hand cradled in his palm as he leaned on the arm.

“You know, I had a similar issue? My classmates at Alqualonde would mock me for attempting to notate every piece of music we made, even the free and spontaneous ones. I couldn’t help it! I see everything in terms of ink and parchment.”

And he watched as Tyelkormo let out a long but quiet breath of relief.

“Exactly,” he said. “I do understand the point and the importance of maintaining our traditions orally, but I can’t help but think that records are necessary. Communal debate over the scriptures is one thing, and I think I am quite eloquent there-“ Of that, Macalaure had no doubt, Tyelkormo was uniquely skilled at open argument and debate.

He was suddenly hit with the desire to see his brother debate the other Acolytes of Orome on their scripture, and despaired that the Vala of the Hunt kept his practices more secretive than most.

“-but I was trained in annotation. I often wish I could sit and work through my thoughts myself with a copy of the text. But, ah, but Tilion would laugh at me to even here me speak. Everything comes back to ‘text’ in the House of Feanaro.”

“There’s nothing wrong with text,” Makalaure argued. He’d spent quite a lot of his career dedicated to text! When he was studying in Valmar, he set himself to transcribing songs and stories no one else could seem bothered to want to save and preserve and disseminate to a wider populace. Ingwe’s court laughed at him good-naturedly as well, poking fun at the oddities of Feanaro and his sons.

Another oddity, how the teasing could be meant so gently and infuriate Makalaure so.

Most did not understand why the House of Feanaro cared so for preservation, and the ones who did understand? They were dismissive and cruel.

Tyelkormo was still obviously fighting with himself over this, while Makalaure had made peace with it long ago. Naturally. He had only just recently left their father’s house, and seen that the world and it’s peoples were bigger than their father. A hard thing to remember, to be sure, so large was the presence Feanaro occupied without even trying.

Makalaure knew how overwhelming that could be. He was many years graduated from the Alqualonde Music Academy, but he still remembered how frightening and intimidating that was. Tyelkormo was still in the thick of it.

He hadn’t yet reconciled that while the world was large and Feanaro was- wonder upon wonders- not the master of everything, he also wasn’t wrong about everything, either. While there need not be infinite pride in being his son, there was no shame either.

“Turko,” Makalaure said with a whistle in his voice, and his brother looked up from the still-hidden pages he was frowning at. “The Hunt of Orome, you come from a different… academic tradition than most of them. That’s a good thing, and I believe Your Lord would agree. He encourages debate of his scriptures in his hall, does He? Well, perhaps spend this holiday transcribing your scriptures, and making your annotations, and maybe make the manuscript illuminated. I know you have the skills, Mother ensured that. Present your papers to him. Make your argument. If his rebuttal is good, well, you have an answer to the quandary that torments you. If your argument is better, He will acknowledge that. Be bold, Turkafinwe!”

And that made Tyelkormo laugh. Makalaure considered that a success.

“I’m told I’m bold enough already,” he snorted, rolling his eyes. “Do you know how many fights I have had to have in Father’s honor? They all think because they know his tale, name, and a bastardized version of his beliefs, they can say whatever they want!”

“They are fools, and they deserve to be hit,” Makalaure sniffed. He’d never gotten into a physical confrontation- his touch was gentler than Tyelkormo’s- but there had been many a biting song or poem written because of this exact thing.

No one insulted their loving, vexing, genius, foolish father correctly.

“Be bold, be bolder,” Makalaure told his little brother, rising from his seat. “You are the son of Curufinwe Feanaro, nothing can or should quell you. I will not ask to look at your scriptures, so, by Eru, write them. Study them. This is the path you have chosen, do walk it as Turkafinwe Tyelkormo. Hasty and brash and stupid and self-assured, and very brave.”

He made sure to flick Turko’s forehead on his way out.

At his back, he was happy to hear the quill be picked back up and also, “ah, shit, my shirt.”

[valraev]

Growing Pains and Learning Lessons

I failed my first set of dice.

I've heard of people dusting the inside of the mould with gold flakes or mica powder, and I've done a reverse petri effect by dropping a single drop of alcohol into the mould before pouring, so I thought I could paint the inside with acrylic paint and get a cool effect too. My acrylic paint is the Arteza pouring paint, so it's very liquid and made a cool effect inside the mould too, which seemed exciting.

When I pulled the set this morning, they looked like Swiss cheese, with the bottom numbers half eaten away by the undried acrylic paint. I don't know if having let it dry a little first would have helped, but I doubt it; it might just have stuck to the inside of the mould.

So here's my lesson of the day: don't coat the inside of your moulds with acrylic.

Oh, and another thing I think I've finally learned is: the Jacquard Piñata alcohol inks are extremely saturated, and more than you think. If you're looking for more desaturated colours, that's something to take into consideration.

[agirlnamednix]

I feel like I haven't stumbled across this place in my travels but somehow respawned here instead of my last bonfire after my most recent defeat.

The panic of suddenly finding myself in a place I don't recognize doesn't even register outwardly; I know what this is, and I know that I'm safe here. It might look different than I'm used to, but all the hallmarks of sanctuary are here: the coiled blade stuck into a pile of ashen bones, blazing brightly in the gloom. I drop my weapon, still clutched in aching fingers, stiff from yet another death. I drop to my knees gently, nestling my rear into the natural seat formed by my feet folding over each other. I take a deep breath filled with embers of souls. The light of the fire is warm and gentle. I close my eyes and let its heat wash over me.

After a while, I slowly stand, my bones creaking and protesting at the effort. My eyes are still closed. They flutter open hesitantly, adjusting to the surrounds. Several things catch my eye around the edges of the small enclosure which I'd not noticed before my deep reverie.

A flower sways gently in the breeze in the corner. Its petals are bright blue, the stem thick with the vitality needed to force its way through the stonework beneath it. As I look at it, I hear garbled laughter from a distance, remember colorful plains and forests, the shock at the twist ending, and the undeniable urge to bury my face into a soft blanket at the end of the day. I feel my heart blossom into its own joyous bloom, filled with the nectar of love, understanding, and validation.

A staff leans against the low wall nearby. The tip is gnarled and splintered, scorched and scarred. But as my eyes trace along the length of the shaft, I can see the stories written into the grain. Stories of pain and loss, but also incredibly strength and tenacity. The struggle to survive. The death of a loved one. The undying spark to survive. The passion for tales of worlds beyond our own... I feel my heart surge with purpose: I will survive, I will become stronger, I will stand tall at journey's end with my head held high.

Across the fire from me sits the shadow of a large dog that seems to puncture through reality itself. It is still. It is silent. The edges of its form shift and flow, though always seem to never move. I gaze on its form and know deep love, powerful desire, and the smell of ink as yet undried. I can see starlight speckled across this splatter of night in the glow of the bonfire and know suddenly with irreducible confidence that...my story is not over. In fact...

It hasn't even begun.

All that came before was backstory. All that weight I carry from a life viewed as misspent, I left behind when I last fell. That battle to which I've lost time and time and time and time again...it's not necessary. Side content. Optional DLC.

I effortlessly slip back from my imaginings to the current version of now-me, typing what is truly in my heart for an audience of those I will never meet and who will forget my words once the next post slides into view on their screens.

I feel that my back hurts--I'm slumped over my desk tray; it should be closer to me so I'm more comfortable. I adjust to give my back the rest it deserves.

I can feel the skin of my legs taking on the texture of the cloth covering on my couch. I sit up straighter, push my tray away from myself, and fold my legs underneath me for support. Sitting cross-legged provides me with a boost of euphoria; I've come a long way to be able to do this again.

I pull my tray back toward myself to keep typing and notice my cup of coffee sat undrunk on my desk ahead of me. I lean forward, using my tray for support, and clasp the handle of my mug in my fingers. I bring it back to me, take a long draught, and set it down next to my keyboard.

Next to my keyboard is my phone. It's dark in here right now--I'm straining at the glow of my screen in the gloomy half-light of a dawn that hasn't filtered through my windows yet. I flip open my phone, open my smart home app, and turn on my worktable lamp; just enough light to keep me from straining, but not enough to wrack up my energy bills. My eyes twinge at the new source of light, but relief I hadn't even known I'd needed flows into them soon after. My face relaxes...

And a smile starts at the corners of my mouth.

I have written these things into existence. I have such control over my story as to write every single event as I move forward. Other people may act in ways I cannot control. The world may move a direction I don't expect. Events may occur which I had not predicted. But what would life be without the challenge? What would life be without trials in which to test myself?

I can't do it alone.

And so I won't.

Instantly I'm back at the bonfire in that dark place so new to me. New tests lie ahead. New enemies and pitfalls. But as I gather my gear back up and step around the undying flames, I know that I'm not alone.

The flower blinks from view only to appear behind my ear, whispering tell of a life enriched by my inclusion in it.

The staff finds itself in my hand, steadying each step I take, the tip that strikes the earth marking the path I've taken.

The dog rises and its fur suddenly blazes a resplendent white...lighting my way into a new, dark, scary, wondrous tale.

I smile again.

Now fully equipped, I step out from the safety of the bonfire into a bleak world that doesn't have a place for me...but that's only because my place is wherever I choose to be.

And I have no words for how happy that makes me.

This is a neutral post

Feel free to stop here and rest before journeying to the posts below.

[stillbornedprincess]

dream life: in the town, the marketplace stalls sit plank to plank on a usual day. Merchants stand and each of them promote the same outfit of the same cut of the same fabric of the same fashions. The day goes by, thirty of the one hundred townsmen purchase one garb , and walk away.

Gradually, one merchant of the whole folds their shop and waves Salam to the others; for his register is full and notebook of recipts has had its one page worth of due

By Maghrib one merchant remains. 9/10 of the retired merchants place one of their coins into the fist of 1/10. He uses the pennys in order to purchase one dress from the last working merchant.

Finally! Fair business. Time to fill the last segment of his receipt diary. Meanwhile, The congregation in the mosque is building; the iman is warming his throat.

The merchant finds his pen by his diary and positions the pen so he can write. In this life it has ink no longer, it has served far too long. In this dream the merchant figures the ink from a day of work seven years before is stil undry. Of course, he rushes to print one receipt onto to-day’s allotted leaf. He jumps above his stall to fold it below him. His feet meet the ground shortly, supporting one leg each, supporting a shouldered torso with arms strong to hold the compressed stall.

There is no time to place the planks back at home. all the retired merchants conclude the structure can be left at the mouth of the mosque, and wait until the end of salaht-tul-Maghrib.

[janeylfoster]

Gifts

All I really need is the approaching night turning to undried ink in my rain. I need the splinters of headlights, tail lights dancing in the puddles and nestling down in red fleece I’ll rush. I won’t be long.  And I’m not.  And next door to the pharmacy I blur around under fluorescence for a while, conscious of my pocket once again. It rubs up against my thigh, reminding me and later all I…

[lilianduleroux]

Lilian Duleroux - A Gothic Portrait

Lilian softly plays with the pen between his fingers, thoughts escape from him, taking refuge in caves of his mind that he does not dare to enter. A whole day's work has left him exhausted, his fingers trembling after so much writing, his eyelids drooping under the weight of the sleepless hours, his legs numb from a long day of barely moving from his seat.

Beneath his hand, the gleam of undried ink glistens on the scroll he has just completed. It will be a few more minutes before he can seal it, wrap it and put it away with the others. It is during these moments of solitude that he is seized by a melancholic feeling of longing, which speaks to him of distant reminiscences. When a tender current from an unknown whisper shakes the candle's glow, it begins to draw strange shadows on his desk, and on the skull that holds it. That change in the luminescence of its hollow features made it seem to Lilian that the skull was smiling, and the absurdity of this foul thought made him smile too.

[abyssfate]

❝ If all these things that you say are true, you should be someone I always knew. ❞ from Zephyr

❛[ SILENT HILL SENTENCE SENTENCE STARTERS ≻ accepting

`STONES ETCHING GROANED AND CRACKLED LIKE ANCIENT MUSCLES MOVING. Carved orbs once STILLED // MERELY A WHISPER OF GRANDER APPEARANCE pulsated and wet with the Princes usage of the idol crafted in honor to him (CENTURIES OLD // BUT MERE SECOND COMPARED TO THE ENTITY IT ENCAPTURED LIKENESS OF). Darkness a spilling miasma thick like the morning fog off the sea-- - scented of undried ink-spills and something unfamiliar YET EVER-PRESENT.   “&– -Do you doubt my word true, mortal? You suspect truth is whatever you may be aware of, but I, the Prince of Knowledge, am aware of a great many truth beyond your perception. And the architect of a great many more.” A voice that hummed and devoured all other presence of SOUND radiated no malice towards what another might consider DOUBT IN HIGHER POWERS (INSTEAD, A ROLLING CHUCKLE ENCIRCLED AROUND THE AIR).   “&– -Our time is not comparable either. We have met- in that which has not come to pass for you yet, in that which will never, and that which may be. It just happens in this.... selection of events, you stand before me for the first time. At least in the parts of your mind tethered to your.... ease of access, but more is locked.”

`STRINGS WEAVING, SNARES BEGINNING TO SET. Crumbs leading to potential feast should it be followed, and Hermaeus Mora dangling the keys to MORE (TO GIVE A MIND SOMETHING TO QUESTION LEAD THEM ON THE PATH TO FIND ANSWERS). And all paths to knowledge lead right on back to HIM.  “&– -But much as any who seek to know, our meeting was nothing but inevitable. Your desire for knowledge has not gone unnoticed before the Great Eye-- - you've spent centuries past your... once written, but amended demise enthralled by the workings of the past. The Dwemer.... their amalgamations of machinery and magic. There is that which I can offer to satiated you more, answers to that which you question.” // @starvingtongue

[tidesfate]

GROW AND GAIN; THE OLD ANTECEDENT DID NOTHING BUT, FOR IT COULD DO NOTHING BUT. Every act, every decision, every catch-- - all for more. Trades, exchanges. A crumb it did not have, for a boon or burden. A pawn in exchange for ones that grew useless. THE MORTAL REALM IT ONCE ADORED, SEALED FROM IT FOR SOMETHING IT DID NOT HAVE. The deals it has made with self, and the irony of he whom was sphere hand of very thing fell as part of this exchange. IT REFUSED TO REMAIN ENCLOSED.

PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE ARE AS ONE TO THE ALL SEER, AND YET IT FLOWS IN TIMES CURRENTS. What has been done stretches before it infinitely-- - and there are times even it plucks the bygone. Eye for an eye, that which stares back into self // AND THEN RETURNED TO A SHELF OF MEMORIES. Fanciful moments of remembrance can net, but it let not self be entangled and surfaced amongst them. Monarch of Memory knew, the souvenirs of reminiscence merely suffocated the foolish who chose not to breath, to proceed, to CHANGE.

BUT EVEN THE GREATEST BEAST COULD BE HOOKED, IF FOR A MOMENT. The hand of the past grabs a tentacle, and it is forced into a chasm of once-was. INUNDATION. A seconds hair, a pupils fractional width-shift and a subtle twitch against contact. “&– - And what pathways would you suspect to walk? An long untreaded trail does not remain unchanged.” The right spine-- - the tendril bunches boneless // BINDLESS BOOK, READING WORD THAT BLEED ONTO ITS BASE. Contact, and exposure. Emotions knotted at old friends chest, and knowledge knows as it does that Clavicus KNOWS ITS EYES WILL PRY THE TRUTH, OPENS SELF UP FOR IT.

VILE PRESENTS HIMSELF BARE, BUT HERMAEUS MORA ONLY GIVES IN PIECES. Fragments of self, a presentation. Pieces, only ever pieces. The extension of attention sloughs off // SLIPS THROUGH THE OTHERS FINGERS, FLUID AND FLOWING. Much too much-- - shifting, changing, ALWAYS CHANGING. Oozing shadow, a living silhouette, ink undrying. A hare, a snake, a crab, a mortals mock. In between each MALFORMATION AND MUTATION, claws and tendrils and a mound of WHAT ONCE WAS. “&– - Is this what you seek? I know the answer. You seek what I once was, you seek a memory of a whole you once knew. That is the issue with viewing from below-- - you can only see so far.”

IT DENIES, BUT IN A MANNER IT ALSO GIVES, DOES IT NOT? The snippet circles, never staying the same for more then a handful of seconds. Even when its GAIT HALTS TO STAND BEFORE, that is all that becomes stationary. There's that lilt, that familiar tone-- - once a syrup, for with it came ENJOYMENTS // REWARDS REAPED. Once they dripped from self, and even now droplets came; contracts and deals were little different. “&– - And in that the problem persists. A refusal to change... you knew me more, once. There is a single knowledge you had that remains unchanged-- - I require what I have not already. A return of what was will not provide....” But how long since it had TRULY BEEN PROVIDED? The plate runs ever the more empty.....

𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐌𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 might bleed into the worldly occupation of the other. bored with the likes of the human realm and missing the fun of old : MAUDLIN. he knows that they both know that the earth is too dry for their own two beings - a tremor of something new. they could recreate life.

FIELDS OF REGRET paint the backs of his eyelids purple. bruising with life and everything real and fleshy. horns pierce the temples of his physical form : in some sense , or another , he bares himself before the god of knowledge. he has not yet appeared to be anything beyond the heart of himself. not to him. here , his heart is too old , and yet swells with something NEW.

FEAR has clotted inside of his own chest. disdain , even , for the loss of his friend. an inability to reach forward - to catch or to cradle. he has lowered himself to the realm of mortals , yes , and yet ever does he reach UPWARDS. toward the power he could have. would have. had he not taken the earth as a lover , he would. and had he not - vile doesn't think further. he doesn't lower himself.

a pale hand thrusts upwards - willing itself farther than the realm he exists so easily in. out of the light and into the grey in-between. pulls on the past to manifest himself here. a hand grasps the tentacle before him : needy and FORSAKEN. slithers down its length and yet still clings on. ❝ TEMPORARY - and yet how i could walk apocrypha should i stroke the right spine. ❞ a bold statement : he has not attempted such travel in many years and yet assumes such a path should open itself all the same.

❝ i see the WHOLE of you , too , ❞ a sorry yank on the hold he has. ❝ you can pretend that you are beyond me , mora , ❞ fingers soften : now gently stroking. ❝ but i could rise to you , should i wish to see from such a HEIGHT but frankly - the view down here is grand. ❞ eyelids are heavy. voice almost the heavy saccharine tone of one who wishes to make a bargain. ❝ for old time's sake , ❞ vile begins again , little hope sitting in his own throat , ❝ SINK down to me. ❞

[undried-ink]

I saw this meme in a post I reblogged a while back and my hand slipped, whoops

[ventrue-in-control]

Fy uchelder,

The time is 11:54AM. In a few minutes, I'll be on my way to Cardiff. I tidied up the kitchen and gave Daisy a treat for not climbing a me while I was making a sandwich. Checked that there are no windows cracked open, there shouldn't be any sunlight waking you up. I think all is in order.

Thank you for letting me stay these days. I only wish I could stay longer.

Bore da a chysga’n dda.

Caru ti.

H.L.M.

[On the back of the note, stamped on by the undried ink of a note that's no longer there are the remains of the phrase "Byddaf yn gweld eich eisiau tan y tro nesaf y bydd y lleuad yn tywynnu arnom ni'n dau.", just barely legible.]

[By the time jack wakes up the appartment is quiet as ever and the bed just as empty. Normally hed get up take a shower brush his teeth a couple of times but now.. he just lingered in bed a little longer. Taking in the clear absence and trying to place how he felt about it. Shitty just didn't quite do it.]

[Eventually he got up. Petting daisy as she came by to great him on his way to the kitchen. Maybe she could tell he wasn't feeling great. Maybe she just wanted another treat. Jackie didn't think too long about it as the note caught his eye. He grabbed it, read it of course. But then he read it again. And again. Tracing the letters with his fingers with every word. He only put it back down because he didn't want to get bloody tears on it.]

[Of course thats when his phone rang. Work always had a tendency to need him at the worst moments. He picked up the phone while he went back to the bedroom to fetch his journal to put the note in.]

"Aye Mczyne speaking? .... mhm.. what do you mean you cant have lilac as the lighting? ...... NO PERIWINKLE IS NOT LILAC ARE YA DAFT!??! .... oh so you're just lazy then. ........ .. remind me what I pay you to do? Thats right! I pay you to do the lighting exactly how I want it so i do not careee if you have to custom make it. You know we have the budget for it! .... god for fucks sake. What else should I be aware of? .... mhm... "

[cowboyx2]

tubbos hands are covered.

there’s burns that wrap around the palms, they reach the wrist and a sleeve envelopes them. they were once red and angry, rubbed raw quickly after getting them. bandages slipped off and stayed off. they’re now a pink of sorts, the edges are a white full of forgiveness. tubbo swears he’ll glance at them and they’ll be red and angry once more

his knuckles are scattered with radiation burns. when the snow comes in and you can feel the cold in every move you make, they hurt. they stay locked in a single position and tubbo cannot move them. they crack and bleed into the snow and he pretends it doesn’t hurt. he did this to himself, he isn’t allowed to complain

tubbo’s fingers are covered in pen. from blueprints he’s run his hands over too many times, tapping his fingers on undried ink, doodling small messages in between, drawing with micheal. tubbo thinks it’s silly that even now he can’t keep markers off his hands. maybe he hasn’t changed that much

when it’s late and tubbo hasn’t slept he sees his hands covered in blood. he’s not sure why or how but it’s not his and he needs to get it off. but he cannot move, he stares at his blood covered palms, knuckles, fingers. the dirty crimson color is dripping onto the floor and tubbo can only stare. it’s his fault they’re bloody, it’s his fault, his fault, his fault, his fault

[mariamushroom]

Can we please just normalize messy hands and take pride in them?

Like I love walking past people and seeing their hands covered with ink smudges and paint splatters across their skin. I want to imagine their stories of filling up their fountain pen, resting their hand on undried paint, or smearing their left hand utterly in the charcoal when they were writing the an exquisite story. I want to read their little reminders written on their hand and arms, I want to visualize the tiny doodles covering their epidermis.

[asknarashikari]

Minific of Touma’s boyfriends carrying him to bed because he fell asleep on desk again (also Touma talks in his sleep about how cute his partners are)

Mei sighed when she saw the sight of her overworked boyfriend snoring over his manuscript, the undried ink from his writing already smudged on his cheek where he accidentally fell asleep on them. 

“Mou... this is why I told you to start working on your edits earlier...” Mei groaned, moving over to Touma’s desk. “Oi, Touma. Wake up, you can go sleep in your own bed...” She tried shaking the man awake, to no avail, huffing when he didn’t even stir.

“Mei, have you seen where Touma is, Ise is asking for- Oh...” He cut himself off when he saw Mei’s grumpy glare at their partner. “He blew himself out overworking on his edits again huh?”

“Yeah...” Mei sighed. “I’m half-tempted to just leave him there, to be honest... this is what he gets for not listening to me about doing them earlier.”

“Now, now, I’m sure Touma can finish on time, dear,” Rintaro soothed her. “Kento! Will you come down here please?” he hollered up towards the stairs.

“Alright, just a moment,” Kento called back. A minute or two later, he joined them downstairs, his hands slightly wet from his cleaning up the kitchen. “Oh, he’s out already?” he asked when he saw Touma snoozing on the desk. “I thought he’d be pulling an all-nighter tonight...”

“Well, obviously he’s not working anymore at this rate,” Mei complained. “Let’s just get him to bed so we can go to bed too...”

“Right, right...” 

Rintaro and Kento both moved over to Touma’s desk, with the former going to one side and the latter to the other, They took hold of Touma’s splayed arms and looped one around each of their shoulders, heaving him up to his feet- though, since he was asleep, he was dead weight on them both. Together, the pair maneuvered Touma’s long frame through the bookstore, and up the narrow staircase. Mei, who had gone up ahead to keep the front door to the apartment open for them, met them at the top of the stairs and took Touma’s shoes off before the duo of swordsmen set off for the bedroom.

Rintaro and Kento gently laid Touma in the bed, upon which he faintly stirred. “Hehe... Rintaro, you��ve got chocolate all over your mouth... so cute...” he mumbled in his sleep. 

“Is he... sleeptalking about how cute you are?” Kento asked, mystified, watching Rintaro’s cheeks turn pink. 

Rintaro stammered, but it was Kento’s turn to become embarrassed as Touma continued his sleeptalking. “Kento, don’t hide your face now, you’re adorable when you smile like that...”

Then, as Mei joined them in the bedroom, Touma giggled in his sleep as he murmured, “Yes, Mei, you look really pretty in that dress... should dress up more like that...”

“...What?” Mei asked, confused at his mutterings.

But Touma said no more, rolling over and snoring lightly, much to the amusement and bemusement of the trio. “I kinda wish I recorded that, in all honesty...” Kento said, stifling his laughter.

“All this talk about how cute we are...” Rintaro flustered, fussing with throwing the covers over Touma, “And he has no idea how charming he himself is...” 

“Aw, he got to you, didn’t he?” Mei tittered softly, much to Rintaro’s chagrin.

“M-Mei, please...” Rintaro’s cheeks turned a brighter shade of red.

“Mei, stop teasing him already, okay?” Kento yawned and stretched out. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to join our cute boyfriend in bed now...” He crawled in next to Touma, curling up next to him under the sheets.

Rintaro and Mei sighed in exasperation at Kento. “You go ahead of me, okay? I’ll get ready too.” Rintaro told Mei, moving to the dresser to get changed for bed. 

“Alright, Rintaro.” Mei managed to wriggle her way between Kento and Touma, the former pouting a little but making room and wrapping his arms around her. 

Soon after, the lights in the room switched off, and Rintaro shortly joined them in bed, lifting the blankets and sliding in next to Touma so he was the one at the outer edge. The novelist, despite being in a deep slumber, turned over to face him, his forehead resting on Rintaro’s chest. 

After a moment of silence, Rintaro lifted his head up to peek at the others over Touma’s body. “We’re not letting him live down the sleeptalking are we?” asked Rintaro sleepily.

“Nope.”

“No way.”

[nsu-mosaic]

"Slipping" by Angel Chaisson Mosaic 2021 David Middleton Poetry Award First Place Winner

At night I borrow a sculptor’s hands

and succumb to the artist’s mind.

My clay skin yields to expert fingers,

each inch pliable and primed.

The mind’s muse needs no template,

or so the mind should claim—

smoothing out my cracks and bumps

to prepare me for the flame.

But there’s such a thing as overworking—

the most fervent artist’s flaw.

Even tender hands can stroke too much

and strip their subjects raw.

Secure me to the spinning wheel

and squeeze my shoulders in,

throw until my form is lost and

stretch my legs too thin.

Beyond repair, cast aside in

a graveyard of attempts,

torn portraits and chipped statuettes

all held tightly in contempt.

I see my mangled countenance

there in the moon’s sick hue,

as sunken eyes slip down my face,

slick with undried glue.

But I am not alone illumined tonight.

No, the artist’s corpses sniff me out—

These women with patchwork flesh

and voids inside their mouths,

bodies stitched and scabbed with ink,

mottled skin soaked deep in bile,

teeth tattooed on each bony knuckle

to hide their face and help them smile.

I cannot run from the feral hands that

splinter my legs and knees.

The brittle clay cracks under pressure

but these paragons ignore my pleas.

They torch my damaged skin—

terracotta ashes set me free—

finishing the artist’s work,

inhaling asymmetry.

[writing-with-olive]

How I Write Tag game

Thanks for the tag @maryhdz05!

Im bolding my choices and italizing when I pick both:

present tense or past tense / first person or third person / double spaced or single spaced* / action or emotion / similes or metaphors / OCs or existing characters / fluff or angst / music or white noise / character or plot / make them cry or make them laugh / tea or coffee / happy ending or bittersweet / morning or night / comic sans or times new roman

*i actually do 1.5 lol

I'll tag @bebewrites @undried-ink @lizard-is-writing and anyone else who wants to do this, no pressure