#wrote this in thirty minutes

[minthandsoap]

The Interview

1250 words

Interviewer: Welcome to or welcome back to The Late Night at Godolkin! Tonight, we've got some heavy hitters in the studio - none other than the power couple themselves, Jordan Li and Marie Moreau! Ranked number two and seven, respectively, these two aren't just powerful, they're practically campus royalty! So, Jordan, Marie, how does it feel being our very own God U's favorite couple? Pressure much?

Jordan: (chuckles) Favorite? Not surprising, we’re fucking amazing, so nah, it’s no pressure.

Interviewer: (laughs) How modest! The whole campus has been talking about you guys. So, spill- tell us how two souls like yourselves, amidst the chaos of campus life while being superheroes, found their way to...well, this? Tell us your origin story!

Marie: (blushing) Oh, you know, we didn’t exactly get along at first. First time I met them, we didn’t immediately… click.

Jordan: (chuckles) Yeah, she stormed into my office, demanded to speak to Professor Brink, and insulted my intelligence all within the same breath. Not before flirting with me first.

Marie: (nudges Jordan playfully) That is not what fucking happened and you know it, Jordan.

Jordan: (raises an eyebrow at Marie) Yeah? What was inaccurate about what I said then?

Marie: (rolls her eyes) Shut up, oh my god. They (Jordan had) rejected me from Intro to Crimefighting so, of course, I had to come in hot. But it ended up working out for us anyway.

Jordan: Yeah

Interviewer: (teasingly) Great how that worked out for you guys! So, who made the first move? I’m feeling like it was Jordan? Tell me it was Jordan (laughs)

Marie: (laughs softly) Actually, it was me. We were “studying” (air quotes) in Jordan’s room and (we) decided to take a smoke break. Well, Jordan did and they had asked me if I wanted a hit (of weed) as well. Anyways, like an hour and a half later, I’m high off my fucking mind and I kind of just turn to Jordan and ask “I think you’re pretty, cool, and fun! Wanna go out?”

Interviewer: Awwww oh my god, that’s so cute! And Jordan you probably immediately said yes right?

Jordan: (smiling) Nah. I told Marie to wait a few hours after she came the fuck back to Earth to ask me that again. She (Marie) didn’t remember asking me that. Kinda had geared her to ask me again. Definitely said yes the second time though.

Interviewer: So I have to ask: there are still many on this campus and to be honest the entire country who find both of your respective powers to be… interesting. What do you have to say to that?

Jordan: (raises brow) If by interesting you mean fucking weird? I mean it does suck. I wish that people could see me as me and not some freak show you know? But in the meantime, they can all just suck my gigantic *bleep* and my *bleep* cause I could give less of a *bleeping bleep* and *bleep*everyone who wants to *bleeping* say *bleeping* otherwise.

Interviewer: (laughs nervously)  Wow… you are passionate about this topic-

Jordan: True

Interviewer: —so Marie, what’s your response?

Marie: (smiles) Yeah, I agree with Jordan. I don’t particularly like the fact that my powers are seen as unhygienic and whatnot but it is what it is. So yeah, everyone can go suck it!

Jordan: You’re so cute babe.

Marie: (smiling) I know!

Interviewer: I love it! So, shifting topics slightly, what do you guys like to do for fun then?

Marie: (looks over to Jordan) What do we like to do for fun? Uhhh… what do we like to do for fun Jordan?

Jordan: We like to fuck. Hard.

Marie: (slaps Jordan’s arm) Jordan! Be serious right now.

Jordan: (shrugs) I am serious though.

Interviewer: We’ll just cut that out and try that question again-

**************

Interviewer: So what do you guys do in your free time? Movies? Dinners?

Jordan: I am being silenced so no comment. 

Marie: Yeah we have movie nights and stuff. We also train a lot together! Jordan’s been really helpful to me with that (rubs Jordan’s thigh)

Jordan: We also like to fu-

Interviewer: Moving on! So, asking some stupid questions that I got from Google-

Jordan: (interrupts) Why are you asking us stupid questions?

Marie: Jordan my god! I will hurt you, stop it!

Jordan: Oh baby, please do.

Interviewer: (nervously chuckles) Anyways, the question is: “If you had to be shipwrecked on a deserted island, but all your human needs—such as food and water—were taken care of, what two items would you want to have with you?”

Marie: Probably my knife and my journal. 

Interviewer: Yeah? Why those two things specifically?

Marie: Well, my knife goes with me everywhere, if I need blood, it's (the knife) the fastest way for me to get access to it. And I’d bring my journal so I can document everything. Keep track of how many days have passed, my thoughts, my feelings etcetera. 

Interviewer: Makes sense! Jordan, how about you?

Jordan: Easy. My phone, earbuds, and Marie.

Marie: (raises an eyebrow at Jordan) First of all; the question said two items not three and second of all, I am not an item.

Jordan: (grins) Didn’t say you were babe

Marie: But you implied it when you grouped me in your answer… with two other items Jordan.

Jordan: (grins fucking wider) No you did, just now. You referred to yourself as an item, not I (shrugs)

Marie: Jordan I will seriously fucking hurt you.

Jordan: (leans to Marie) Again, please fucking do.

Marie: Weirdo.

Jordan: I don’t deny.

Interviewer: Okayyyy so Jordan, why those three—sorry two items then?

Jordan: Bringing my phone so I can try my hardest to get the fuck off the island. My earbuds just in case I can’t escape, I can at least listen to good music while I suffer in my personal hell. And Marie so we can fu-

Interviewer: (shakes head frantically) Alright, I’m just going to move on to my last question then. (chuckles extremely nervously) How would you describe your partnership?

Marie: I’d say we're each other's anchors, a reality check when things get too…crazy. Jordan pulls me back from the edge, and I help them stay grounded. We challenge each other, support each other, and most importantly, have each other's backs.

Jordan: Definitely. Marie inspires me to be better, to never lose sight of what's truly important. And she's got this incredibly unwavering faith in me, even when I doubt myself. I couldn’t ask for anything better than that to be honest. I love her (Marie)

Marie: (smiles) And I love you!

Interviewer: Beautiful note to end with! Thank you, Marie and Jordan, for sharing your beautiful story. 

Jordan: Thanks for having us Jayda

Interviewer: (eye slightly twitches) It’s Justine.

Jordan: Oops

Justine: And thank you, to my listeners, for tuning in tonight and every Friday for The Late Night at Godolkin. Next week, we’ll have our very own Dean Shetty gracing our podcast and sharing her insights. Goodnight everyone, see you next week!

AND CUT 

******************

The air crackled with a sudden awkwardness in the podcast booth. Justine, the producer, dropped her headphones with a huff, the silence deafening after their segment. "Look, guys," she said, crossing her arms, "I know I said you could loosen up a bit, cuss here and there, but I didn’t mean in every damn sentence. This is a professional podcast.

"Well, shit, Justine," they drawled, "should've fucking clarified that from the start then-"

“What they mean,” Marie interrupted quickly, giving Jordan a pointed look, “is that we’re sorry and it won’t happen again Jasmine.” Marie finished flashing a warm smile in her direction.

“It’s Justine!” Justine snarled before storming off.

“Whoops.”

[elsecrytt]

masochist gojo. gojo who's in love with pain, so much that it feels like pleasure, he can barely distinguish between the two anymore.

gojo who's so starved for touch. who's had an infinite space between himself and the whole world for so long, for so many years, every day in and day out.

gojo who's survived off glancing presses when a barista hands him a coffee, the rare hug from his students (who are mostly orphans) that he can't bring himself to decline.

gojo who craves more but can't bring himself to accept it except in fleeting moments with strangers or students.

his hands that long to be held. he wants it so bad that he teases a cursed spirit, laces his fingers with its own, right before he utterly crushes the being in battle, untouchable all over again.

gojo whose skin is hungry for someone else's. he hasn't felt the warmth of a hand in his own in so long. not since - since his youth.

gojo who sometimes wishes he could get hit. who sees the impact of curse techniques on his infinity and feels a wild, strange desire for them to go straight through and strike him.

he imagines it, vividly, being impaled by a long spear (inverted spear) that goes straight through him. how it would lance his flesh so cleanly.

being struck so hard, across the face, in the stomach, enough to knock the wind out of him.

enough to feel it with his whole body.

gojo who wants to be touched so bad he doesn't even care if it hurts anymore. infinity couldn't protect him from geto's betrayal.

gojo who keeps infinity up not because he doesn't want to get hit, but because he's terrified of what he might do when it happens.

gojo who got hard whenever geto sparred with him. he still doesn't know if it was because of geto, or because he had no infinity back then, no way to block the strikes.

he dreams of his youth. bruises littering his pale, pretty form like kisses, proof that he was human, there, that there was someone who could reach him.

dark purple things that turned pretty colors as they healed. he remembers pressing into them, relishing the hurt, feeling like he was getting hit (touched, reached, connected) all over again.

nothing ever touches him again. not like that. not like anything.

he never feels it. he never feels anything.

satoru gojo who wants, so very very badly, to feel something.

pain is a choice for him, always a choice. he alone has the privilege of deciding whether or not anything can touch him.

he could try to let more strangers touch him. one night stands, discreet arrangements. he had a pretty face and a body to match. there was no shortage of willing partners.

he lets them touch him, lets them hurt him. lets them drool over his body and use it at their leisure. they tell him he's beautiful, and he believes them.

white hair, blue eyes, sprawled out with a lean, unmarred body full of bare flesh for them to bite and scratch and bruise. he finds people who will do it, do it hard, fuck him up until he's lost entirely in the feeling of being touched, having someone against him, with him, above him.

it makes him feel like a piece of meat. it makes him feel good.

or he thinks it does, anyways.

sometimes, when he's gone particularly long without sleep, when his partner has gone particularly hard, he gets a real rush.

heart racing out of his chest. a cold sweat that overwhelms him. breaths coming in labored gasps. he can heal himself, he's physically fine, so this must all be in his head.

he acknowledges that information, distantly, like it's not happening to him. it doesn't help.

it feels like part of his body has been ripped away from him, something vital and important, and it's about to get up and run away.

always, always, it happens when his partner is no longer touching him. when he lays alone in the sheets, by his own volition, because of course these partners are not meant to be attachments.

love is not a privilege, though, not for the strongest sorcerer. it's a curse.

it's the only curse which infinity cannot protect him from.

so gojo stays untouchable. distant.

but the hunger doesn't go away. never.

he likes to imagine that suguru swallowed this one last curse before he died. something sweet and bitter, like losses at the arcade, sunny days at the beach, walking together with shoko, nanami, haibara.

but even suguru couldn't have absorbed this curse. it's in his bones, deep, longing and wanting even after he's dead and gone.

gojo is hungry. he is so, so hungry. and he has nothing to eat that will not leave him just as empty as before.

touch-starved. love-starved. pain-craving.

if someone could hurt him then it wouldn't matter that he was terrified of attachment. they could latch onto him, into his heart, under his skin. bury themselves in his chest like they belonged.

they could kill a hundred and twelve people and it wouldn't matter, because he wouldn't be able to kill them.

gojo is hungry, so hungry.

please feed him.

[oh-snapperss]

creature comfort

“We won’t win today,” Cleo says, and Etho knows she’s right. Knows their time has been running out since the first secret was whispered to them in voices all too familiar, has known that this day was coming, has known that all this time, it’s not been a question of if–it’s been a question of when. 

They’re going to die today. Distantly, Etho wonders if the domesticity they’ve worked for will die with them, or if it will follow them back home. 

Will his home ever be a physical place again? Home is where the hearth is, where the warmth is, where the world is shut out and it’s just the three of them. 

Home is where Cleo is. 

“That’s alright,” Etho smiles instead of voicing all of that, wishing, of all things, that he didn’t still have that awful cough that Cleo had insisted he rest over for a few days. “We’ll be alright.” 

They’ll be dead–and what are the dead, if not alright? The dead don’t have coughs, or pain, or fear. They’re just dead. Etho thinks he might not mind it so much, this time. He’s finally learned to spend his time wisely, and he’s built a home no flaming arrow could ever take down. 

Just by the cow pen, there’s a stupid little porch Etho had built a while back. They’re nowhere near it now, but every night he and Cleo had watched the sunset, drank a final cup of tea, and turned in to sleep over gossip and giggles only they could draw from each other this time ‘round. Before, Bdubs had made him laugh like that–now, Etho wonders how long before there’s a sword at his throat. 

Even so, while Cleo laughs and watches him set Scar’s porch on fire, Etho hopes he might have the privilege of watching the sunset from the porch one last time. He’d survive the day, if only for another sunset with Cleo. 

BANG. 

Tango’s gone–Etho knows it in his heart. Surely he should feel an ache for him, should ask how he went. Instead, it’s easy to accept it. 

The wardens are fun. That’s all they are, now. Before, they had been terrors, then the answer to a desperate prayer he and Grian had made. The carnage of those terrifying beasts feel muted compared to before, but with the wind flying through his hair, the elated cries of Cleo in front of him, Etho can’t care. Not this time. They lead two clear to the middle of the server before they’ve decided to finish having their fun, and Cleo’s just stepping up some rocks when she says it. 

“You’re my favorite, you know that? You’ve always been my favorite.” 

He does know, he does know now. He’d guessed it that first sunset, when Cleo sat down with a giddy smile to recount their day. He’d thought it, when she’d wrapped a blanket around his shoulders after his failures and rested her head on his shoulder without a word. He’d lived it, when she had shouted that she would kill him if he tried to kill her–but was reassured otherwise that night on the porch again, with the curse ebbing from his bones. 

Today, he knows it in the blatant rebellion against what’s supposed to be the end, the dread, the fear. 

“You’re mine too.” Etho grins back, and knows that they’ll see his smile even through the mask–knows they’ve come to recognize it in his tone and way his eyebrows scrunch together. . 

They wind up in the sky base with Grian–Grian, who hasn’t quite reached the same conclusion they have. Etho knows by the shadows under his eyes he won’t give up, that he’ll fight clear to the end. Once upon a season, Etho had been the same. 

Not this time. Never this time. 

Around ten minutes to sunset, Etho and Cleo set down their dripstone and bows, and sit on the edge of the cobblestone wall. 

“I don’t think we’re gonna make it back to our base for it this time,” Etho jokes, nudging his shoulder into Cleo’s. Cleo laughs, a carefree thing, and wrinkles her nose. 

“I don’t think we’re gonna make it back for it any time, if we’re being honest.” She leans back, one hand half behind her to support her weight. 

“I know,” Etho says. He brings his leg up to his chest, wrapping his arms around it. Behind them, cobblestone is placed–Grian, ever the survivor. “It was nice, though.” 

“It was nice!” Cleo beams. “Are you alright with this?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Etho hums. “‘s not so bad. Dying with a friend.” 

“It won’t be,” Cleo agrees. 

Because that’s just it, isn’t it? Etho’s never died like this–he’s died at the flames of an arrow shot while protecting his king, he’s died in fights after his allies were killed. Hell, he’s died hand in hand with a soulmate hellbent on killing him now–but he’d been in a frenzy then, a rage-induced thing meant to burn up the place that had never been a true home to them. 

He thinks he won’t mind dying with someone. 

The sun sets in brilliant hues of orange and pink, and they sit together, this final tradition not lost in the face of inevitability. Just as the first star twinkles, Grian comes over, hoisting them back to their feet. 

“They’re coming,” he says. 

It’s time. 

They shoot a few arrows, break some dripstone, all to no avail–but that’s alright, he’s got Cleo, and they’ve got him. 

But oh, the games are never kind, are they? Etho slips, his foot landing weird somehow–and he’s whistling through the air towards the ground at a speed too fast. It knocks the breath from his lungs when he lands–does he hit the clutch? Stars, he doesn’t actually know, because there’s arrows shot at him, shouts of glee from the hunters, and suddenly Etho’s not Etho, he’s just prey–and prey only know to do one thing. 

Run. 

Etho flies forward, dragging his sword out. There’s not many safe spaces left on the server–stars, Grian had even mentioned their base was but a crater in the hill. 

But the porch… the porch was intact. Supposedly. 

He enderpearls, and enderpearls again, and it’s still not enough. The screams behind him are closer, and closer, and then further–and oh, Etho knows it’s time. He’s dead, he’s gone, he’ll be but a wisp of the wind in a few minutes whether he likes it or not. 

And he won’t die by Cleo. 

Cleo, Cleo, Cleo. Oh, he’d not meant it to be like this. He’d meant to die with a smile, right by her side–just as they were meant to die by his. This wasn’t the plan, this wasn’t the plan. A sob claws its way up his throat, the beginnings of the blind panic he’d never meant to feel tonight. He’s going to die, alone, without the comfort of his Cleo. 

Home. He wants to go home. 

Home is in the air, a hundred blocks above him. He’ll never make it–but he can make it back to the porch, the one place of peace. Now, he can feel the twinge of something broken in his ankles, probably from the fall–and the cuts, the bruises, the blood scent thick in his nose. He’s so tired. 

He wants to die at home, he wants to die at home. 

“Oh, he sounds like a wounded animal… let’s put him out of his misery.” A voice said. Cold fear grips Etho’s heart, and he stumbles forward–the porch is in sight!

Let him die at home. Let him die at home. 

A shadow fills his vision, and Etho’s not even had time to lift his shield before blinding pain fills his stomach, and it’s over. 

He’s not allowed that creature comfort of dying at home. 

[catscidr]

includes — dottore, gn!reader cw — crack….. u prank him n get him good. wrote this for shits n giggles el oh el

getting dottore’s attention while he’s working is a skill few have. the only people that were able to pull his focus away from his work were his segments and the tsaritsa herself— you wish you could include yourself within the list but you were only successful every so often.

your strategy was to continuously talk to him, effectively distracting his train of thoughts until he has to entertain your ridiculous questions (or conversation topic).

it almost always ended in you getting a nasty glare from the man himself, but if he wanted you gone he would have done so already. so, you allow yourself the luxury to bother him whenever you aren’t getting poked and prodded with needles and other medical equipment.

“dottoreee, how long are you going to play potions for?” you sigh dramatically, making a show of how uttely bored you are by rounding his desk and lying across it (where there aren’t any chemicals resting in vials).

the harbinger’s jaw tightens as he internalizes a groan, pausing his writing for just a second to recollect himself.

he murmurs your name quietly, an unspoken threat veiling it, “i’m not in the mood for your games today.” dottore sighs as he jots down notes from… whatever he’s working on. you huff, devising a plan in your head to get him to pay attention to you.

this carries on for longer than he’d like it to, your incessant attempts at carrying a one-sided conversation getting on his nerves the more you try.

“hey dottore, what’s omega up to?”

“hey dottore, what’s that pink liquid in that beaker?”

“hey dottore, ever thought of actually getting a ph.d so your title isn’t a scam?”

“hey dottore, can i just call you ‘ttore now?”

“hey ‘ttore, would you prefer if i called you dottie instead?”

“hey dottie, i heard that there’s remains and bones that come from mind goblins somewhere in sumeru.”

dottore puts his pen down with more force than he needed to, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand. when he opens his eyes again, he’s met with your innocent gaze staring at him, waiting.

“wonderful. what do you want me to do with that information?” he says blankly, staring right back at you; decidedly unimpressed. silently seething at your persistence.

you muster the strength to stop yourself from smiling, giggles bubbling up in your throat.

“mind goblin these nuts?”

he throws the pen at you square in the face, effectively making a bruise bloom on your forehead immediately. running is your best option, but you won’t outrun him for long.

better find omega soon so he can help you hide from his boss’ wrath.

[incorrectgliyeraba]

Rating: General Audiences Relationships: Elphaba Thropp/Galinda Upland, Elphaba Thropp/Fiyero Tigelaar, Elphaba Thropp/Fiyero Tigelaar/Galinda Upland, Fiyero Tigelaar & Galinda Upland Additional Tags: Polyamory, Love Confessions, Lesbian Galinda Upland, Bisexual Elphaba Thropp, Getting Together, Movie-centric, Coming Out, Shiz Era, Elphaba gets the love she deserves.

Galinda finally confronts Fiyero about Elphaba and confirms what she's known all along, and finally realizes some truths about her feelings for Fiyero and Elphaba, and one major one about herself too. Including that she doesn't mind sharing, not if it means giving Elphaba the love she deserves.

[vee-lociraptor]

I DID IT I DID THE THING

[she-who-the-river-could-not-hold]

scrosciare [a bellarke ficlet]

scrosciare - the action of rain pouring down or of waves hitting rocks and cliffs [from this prompt list] Clarke-centric, implied Bellarke | setting: season 3 inspired canon divergent, if the plot had simply been a survival story and Arkadia was a settlement just like the others | wc: ~900

The water churning below the cliffs echoed the anxiety that’d taken deep root in Clarke’s body. Crashing violently, upheaving, tumultuous. It was life on Earth personified in her and expressed in the waves below. She watched it in a daze. Hypnotized by the swirling, angry blue below. When Octavia had said the color of it reminded her of Clarke’s eyes, it hadn’t quite felt like a compliment.

She had to keep telling herself that they were doing the right thing, that Floukru coming to help them was not the destined disaster that Luna so clearly believed it to be.

Maybe she was right.

But the war against Azgeda was impending and Arkadia, while comfortably established as a settlement on the ground now, wasn’t prepared to fight. Trikru was of assistance but they needed more. Reluctant or not, the numbers spoke for themselves and alliances had to be made, no matter the feelings on either side.

A spray of saltwater speckled Clarke’s face as one of the bigger waves crashed against the wall of rock below. As much as she missed the woods surrounding Arkadia, the trees she’d come to covet, she couldn’t deny the pull of the ocean. The ground had always been a mystery, but water was something else entirely. Rain had been startling but welcome. Lakes and rivers a source of resources. But the ocean––she’d never imagined something like this. Angry, powerful. A source all of its own. How Luna and her people had come to connect with it baffled her; it left her intimidated if she was honest. Clarke had felt a lot of fear since reaching the ground, but this seemingly bottomless body of water was unsettling in ways she struggled to describe.

“Don’t fall in,” voiced someone behind her. Teasing, but not.

“I won’t,” she answered Bellamy, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite it all.

He carefully emerged into the corner of her vision and she took the moment to steal a long glance at him. The dampness of the air had flattened his curls down, though they fought valiantly to return to form. Despite his good-hearted warning, she couldn’t miss the grimness etched into the squint of his gaze. The firmness of his jaw, clenched in that sort of way it had been for a while. A detail she never missed. Impending war did that to people. Especially the more his status eclipsed those previously in the command in the armies and his sister continued to pull away.

“Well, you’re standing pretty damn close to the edge. Can’t blame a guy for getting nervous,” he said, eyes finally flicking to her. Catching her in the act of staring.

Clarke quickly looked away. “I imagine some people wouldn’t mind.”

Biting anger, lashing against nothing. Maybe she was the ocean. Did that make Bellamy her rock, her cliff that she raged against?

“Hey,” he said quietly, startling her as he carefully reached out and touched her. He’d been doing that more since he’d admitted his anger to her. Since she’d initiated a hug that still lived in her skin. Maybe he was the waves, leaving imprints behind and shaping her forever. 

“We’re going to get through this. Together,” Bellamy continued. “And we––” (here a deep breath) “––I would definitely mind if you fell in. If you want to see the ocean more, we can come back some day after all of this. Maybe one day there will be trade routes and someone will have to keep relations good between everyone. Maybe there will be towns here again, like it used to be back before the bombs. We can come back then and actually explore it all, but in order for that to happen that means you’re not allowed to fall, or jump, into the ocean.”

It was an image of a future that made tears prick at her eyes. Would she see the ocean differently if they were no longer at war? Could it instead be a source of respite, villages dotting the horizon and people walking alongside the ocean? 

Could it be her and Bellamy… guns and strategy left behind alongside the weight of humanity?

It took a few hurried blinking away of tears to realize that he had gently pulled her further away from the cliff's edge, only then registering that she really had been standing frighteningly close to the soaring cliffside and ocean below.

Bellamy’s hand was warm against her arm, his solid presence a comfort she hadn’t realized she’d needed so soon already. Not long had passed since their recent embrace before going to meet Luna, but she feared she was craving more than before. She’d been introduced to his touch, as well as the ocean in a short span of time. And like the rocks below, knew she’d be forever changed by it.   

“Thank you,” Clarke said quietly, quickly wiping at her eyes as she turned to face Bellamy. When he looked at her curiously, she gave him her own watery smile. “For forgiving me. For all of it, really. I’m not sure I deserve it.”

“You needed it, it’s yours. I’ll always give that to you,” he answered, voice rough yet soft. 

They fell into amiable silence, a quiet filled with promise. His hand still lingering on her arm as they turned to both gaze out at the crashing waves, filling the quiet with the suddenly comforting, repetitive churn of the water below. 

Being like the ocean didn’t have to be a bad thing. They’d simply need its resolve so that one day their futures could intertwine again.

[myovergrowngarden]

Cold Enough (a poem by Stephanie Rose Hold)

It’s not even cold yet But it’s cold enough to miss you To need you It’s cold enough to be stricken by nostalgia To be behind on work because I’m lost in thought Lost in every moment we’ve shared Everything you claimed as ours In the time you spent keeping me warm When the weather turned far harsher than this

It’s cold enough to want apple cider, Morning tea, and pumpkin spice Even though I know I would spoil the flavor with salt When the first taste touched my lips and I wept Into the dark of the mug Short one pair of hands Short someone  To share the taste of these drinks That in my mind are yours

It’s cold enough to be lonely To be miserable beyond repair Even though we haven’t even split up Our hearts remain joined in affection And in the promise of another adventure A season that the two of us will spend  Alone in the heat of passion But your body has been dragged a thousand miles away And without it I am unable to fathom the warmth that could have been That should have been by now

It is cold, And I love you And I’ll see you again So long as I can brave the winter That hasn’t even begun

[recalcitrantlycaffeinated]

I don't always make cartoons based on my real life experiences, but when I do I make them on paper that has an ominous drawing of an apple on the back and I make the font so small no one can read it without zooming

[eyeofthechasm]

URGH. I FINISHED THIS. I wanted to whittle away and die while doing this but. Its done. Somewhat shittily but it’s. DONE. Renzo dailogue meme. Augh.

Spoilers, closeups and IDs under read more

Slider responses bc I don’t wanna clog up the ID

(Marker is a small, white drama mask with upturned eyes and a large smile)

Slider 1: Has never cursed - Swears constantly

Answer 1: Marker is basically on top of Swears constantly

Slider 2: Stiff and formal - Full of slang

Answer 2: Marker is all the way to Full of Slang

Slider 3: Simple vocabulary - Purple Prose

Answer 3: Marker is near the middle, though leans more towards Purple prose

Slider 4: Monotonous - Practically singing

Answer 4: Marker is 3/4 down the slider, closer to Practically singing

Slider 5: Talks around feelings - Emotions on sleeve

Answer 5: Marker is almost on top of Talks around feelings

Slider 6: Minimal body language - Gestures excitedly

Answer 6: Marker is closest to Gestures excitedly

Slider 7: More of a listener - Dominates the convo

Answer 7: Marker is closest to Dominates the convo

[magicicephoenix]

it’s a bit hard to reach out to someone when you’ve no idea how to do so.

or: the ink demon asks something of audrey

— — — — —

this fic’s a real short one, so i’ve decided to also put it here. enjoy :)

“join me,” he hissed, holding out a clawed hand to her. his voice was dark and deep, rumbling deep in the walls and floors. it felt like the world around her gave a shudder at his words, like just his voice alone could so easily destroy everything in his path. his tone oozed with malice, with eagerness, with danger.

but despite everything warding her off, all the walls bricked up in front of her, there was something else in his proposition. something small, pleading, and desperate. with the way it echoed in his words, it sounded an awful lot like he’d instead said, “help me.”

and as she continued to stare at his outstretched arm, tensed and strained in the air, it seemed more and more like he was crying, “save me.”

so she heaved a breath, quieted the anxieties running through her mind, and took his hand.

his claws curled inwards to grip her hold, sharp tips inches from breaking her skin. he leaned over her, his exhales cold on her face, and declared, “finally,” with a triumphant, satisfied air. he repeated it a few times, as if to relish in his victory.

but she saw how his body sagged, heard the undercurrent of relief in his voice, and had the feeling he was really whispering, “thank you,” over and over and over again.

[souptimewithfrogs]

So I work at a tool store, right? In the South. I'm mostly at register so I get to talk to all of the customers. Something that caught my attention recently is the confidence of folks to express violence after Trump's win. I was lucky enough to be off the days following the election but I was back to work that Friday.

I remember a customer coming up with a socket set that was missing a few pieces, and we had a bit of conversation. Theft is fairly common at my store, much like it is throughout all of retail. I mentioned this, and how it was especially common for this type of item. His response was, "Those people need the crap beat out of them." Honestly, I'm not sure if this man's casual call for violence was a result of the election or a consequence of being in the South, but it struck me as unusual. I didn't really have a response for him, so I just checked him out and he left. I've had a few other customers come up and talk about the election results, but that one stuck out to me.

I've seen so many people online pleading for their friends and their community to just survive and to keep living. I've had conversations with my friends who are afraid to ask who their parents voted for out of fear of knowing that they voted against everything they believe in. One of my friends has diabetes and she's worried that she'll be able to keep getting her medication after this.

I honestly don't know the most about this stuff, but what I can see is on one side people are pleading for their lives, and the other is calling for violence.

[transphilza]

had a dream abuout wilbur last night where he was streaming (Already unrealistic) and he started ttalking about why people found his face aesthetically pleasing and smiling into the camera cutely as demonstration and tben he started role playing a gunfight where if the viewer disagreed that he had a pretty face they had to “GET DOWN ON THE GROUND NOW” he was very intense about it but i vividly remember being shocked by his yelling and then relaxing because i in fact did not have to get down on the ground

[oh-snapperss]

"look at the moon.." + ethubs for the writing prompts 👀?

hi leo!! oops i universe au coded this. my bad!

"look at the moon" + ethubs (x)

note: this is part of the universe au that i share with @team-clockers! you can find the rest of the posted parts of the au here.

Words: 882

CW: none!

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“Bdubs, does the moon look big to you?” 

“Heh?” Bdubs squints suspiciously over at Etho, who’s paused his work to stare over at the horizon with squinted eyes. The sun is just barely down, already past Bdubs’ bedtime–not that he really minded, not this once. They’d spent most the day plotting out their horse course, and honestly, Bdubs had struggled to sleep ever since they’d returned from last life. Call him crazy, call him weak–every time his eyes closed, his side was pierced by arrows, or hot air rushed by his face as he fell towards the netherrack, or the scream of the wither shattered his focus before agony tore through him and–

Yeah, maybe Bdubs wasn’t so timely on his sleeping habits. But nobody needed to know that! Five minutes here or there, nobody would ever notice. And here, now, when he had only just barely gotten to speak to Etho since returning from the game? He wasn’t about to complain about being up later… too much. 

Even so, Etho’s starry eyes seem clouded, more so than normal, and his eyebrows are pinched together. Bdubs has to squint to even make that out, given the setting sun is just behind Etho’s head like some sort of strange, blinding halo. Hues of pink and orange streak out behind him, as the sunset starts to fade. 

“The moon, Bdubs. Look at the moon.” Etho repeats, and this time Bdubs does so with a frown and a roll of his eyes. Etho has always been attached to the stars, dragging Bdubs out at the most ungodly of hours to point out new constellations forming, or older ones fading. (“Look, see? New stars there. And there. And one gone over there… wonder which world it was.”) 

The moon is a normal size. 

…or….

He tilts his head, studying each of the craters on its surface with careful consideration, trying to discern what might be different. A chill runs between his shoulder blades and he spins on his heel to face Etho again, somewhat glad the sun is below the hills now, so it won’t hurt to look at Etho. A few red streaks remain, reminiscent of the sky in the game, after so much blood had been spilt that the very sky seemed to be filled with it–

The moon. Look at the moon. Think about the moon.

“What about it?” …the craters. He shouldn’t be able to see the craters in such careful detail. “Seems normal to me!” He forces a grin, straightens his back as if to shake off the shivers racing up and down his spine. 

“Seems big, doesn’t it?” Etho’s head is tilted too, eyes no longer squinted, but rather focused on the moon now behind Bdubs. This time of night, Bdubs never can tell which of the stars are reflected in Etho’s eyes, or which are there already. Maybe there’s no difference. 

This time, when Bdubs cranes his head around to glance at it, he knows Etho is right. “Pshh, you’re bein’ ridiculous!” Don’t look at the moon. Don’t think about the moon. “It’s just a moon!”

“I know, but-” 

“But it’s late, Etho. I gotta sleep!” Sleep is pronounced like shreep. Not because he needs to or thinks it should be, or really even wants to, but just–he doesn’t want to think about something else going wrong, not now, not when he’s only just gotten his Etho back and not when he can’t even get through a night without the nightmares or–

Etho’s gaze stays transfixed on the moon for a few moments more, but he drops it with a shake of his head to finally, finally catch Bdubs’ eyes. “I know, I know… king of sleep can’t be up late, right?” 

“That’s right!” Bdubs puffs his chest out. There’s no pride or feeling in it. “King of sleep, you know I gotta, baby!” 

Etho laughs, and it’s fuller than any breath of air Bdubs has taken the last few minutes. “Riiiight, of course, c’mon–” He holds his hand out, and Bdubs’ breath catches. “Wanna just sleep out here since it’s late? I think I’ve got a bed–” 

“Yes!” Bdubs shocks himself with his enthusiasm, quickly trying to dial it back. “I mean, yeah, it’s late, I got a bed on me too, could stay here-” 

Etho’s eyebrows aren’t so knitted together anymore, instead squinting at him with what Bdubs knows is one of those heartstopping smiles he hasn’t seen since the games. Even with the mask, he can tell. “Yeah… yeah, I’d like that.” 

“Yeah?” Bdubs breathes out, eyes wide. He places his bed (and if it isn’t facing the moon, who’s gonna say anything?) and Etho places his own right next, below the stars. There’s no roof, or anything, but for once, Bdubs couldn’t care less. 

“It better not rain,” he comments anyways, as if he wouldn’t get soaked a thousand times if it meant Etho would stay. 

“It won’t.” Etho responds easily, some kind of authority in his voice, and somehow… Bdubs believes him. 

Perks of being the first player, he figures. 

And when Etho tugs the old green blanket over them both, and pulls Bdubs as close as he’d been held in the games, Bdubs knows–

They’re gonna be okay. 

(And the moon isn’t big.) 

[angst-is-love-angst-is-life]

You guys ever wake up in the morning and go ‘…what the fuck did I do last night’

[ezrisdax-archive]

Oh if you’re in the mood to write, Porthos and Constance with musketeer!Constance?

I miss them so much 😭

god I miss them every day....

~~

It wasn’t the first time Constance had been told she didn’t belong somewhere.

She knew when she joined the garrison that not everyone would be as welcoming as the men she was used to. Treville was certainly willing to give her a shot on Athos’ word at least. Moreso than D'Artagnan, Aramis', or Porthos' word.

The jeers and taunts weren’t really anything new, just a new thing to ignore. She held her head as she turned them out; no matter that made the mockery worse.

It was the sound of leather hitting flesh though that made her turn. The man who had just been calling her something vulgar now on the ground behind her.

Constance raised an eyebrow and looked over to Porthos who stood there with teeth barred and gloved hand clenched.

“I could have handled it.” She told him, walking over the now out cold man to frown at Porthos.

Porthos was scowling. “Shouldn’t have to. Besides, I owed him for the things he said about me when I joined up.”

Constance paused her scolding. “I suppose he more than deserved it.” She took a step back, on to the man’s hand and even out as he was he groaned in sudden pain.

Porthos snickered, sharing a sly grin with Constance.

“Should probably go before he wakes up.” Porthos admitted, offering Constance his arm.

She reached over to loop her arm through his. “Come along Monsieur Du Vallon. You  can inform me of others who have slighted you.”

Porthos was the one who raised an eyebrow this time. “Planning on fighting the whole lot of them?”

“If that’s what it takes.” Constance admitted readily.

Treville sighed the next day when they ended up in his office. Constance brushed her hand against Porthos’, her eyes bright and grin wide.

“You’re a bad influence.” Treville informed Porthos gravely and then squinted at Constance. “Or you are.”

“I prefer to think I’m standing up for my fellow Musketeer.” Constance said with a minute shrug.

She was here now; where she belonged and wasn't leaving. The presence at her side a warm welcome and the future stretched out between them.