#the urge to write

[centurysremedy]

lowkey thinking about starting to write fics again after like yeaarsss hiatus but i'm so nervous to get back into it </3 i have so many ideas for so many fandoms T^T how do you guys get the courage

[lovecrimeagh]

Sawyer dies of his wounds and Jack convinces him he's fine until the very end, because Jack can't fix him and loves him enough to lie to him. He walks with him, reads to him on the beach, flirts back, kisses him and says he's seen it before many times, it's normal that it hurts, Sawyer will be just fine tomorrow to give him shit about fussing. Sawyer dies in his arms and Jack does too, for the most part.

[sleepymarimo]

uhhh it’s kind of criminal that i don’t have any self-ship art with zoro!! we must fix that!!

[miss-thorn-in-your-side]

Been thinking of this for a while - a cool way for me to measure *good* art is art that gives me that swoopy feeling in my stomach followed by the urge to create something myself. It can be a song, movie or visual art piece.

On a slightly related note, I also think that the ships and fanfics that are the most passionately defended and written are a good indication that the source material was good art.

[finnslay]

Me: just gonna read a wolfstar fanfic

Mars: its a good fanfic we're just going to read it...

(12/188 chapters in)

Mars: Okay so what point of veiw should we do?

Me: Let's do switching or we're gonna get bored

Finn: did you finish reading already?

Mars: oh, no. It's just sparked extreme inspiration

Finn: right... did we sleep last night?

Me: ha- no. We were reading and plotting

Finn: I give up with you all

[remembertheplunge]

I don't want to quit writing. I don't want to go to sleep

December 11, 1980

Easy day, Studied, ran, did some early BRC work. Also, had an enjoyable talk at Don Jose’s with Mike   and Teresa, a recent bar passer. Nice to know someone who made it.

Watched Airport on the tube tonight. I love that movie.

Should be hitting the sack. Staying up too late leads to a sleepy kid next day.

Good night

Tonight, I just don’t want to quit writing. I don’t want to go to sleep. How’s this. I’ll write down something I learned today—well, I learned a lot. Maybe the most important thing…hmmmm…I’d say it had to be meeting a recent bar passer. I learned it can be done.

But, there were so many things I learned today. So wondrous and yet so easily overlooked and written off and forgotten. Why, I wonder, does the good flow by without so much as making a ripple. I guess there is a reason. Have faith my son. NOW, GET THY SELF SOME SLEEP.

3/9/1991 journal  margin note to above entry: specifically to “tonight , I just don’t want to quit writing. I don’t want to go to sleep.”

In 1991, I wrote  “Ode to all the young men with Aids. When I wrote the December 11, 1980 entry,  Aids was unknown, at least to the conscious. It was brewing —killing—even then. What would the world be like had it never occurred? If they (the people who died from Aids) were all still here?”

Note: 

BRC was the Bar Review Course that you took after finishing law school to prepare to take the Bar Exam. I finished law school in mid December 1980 and sat for the Bar Exam in mid to late February 1981.  I took the BRC course in the interim time. I passed the bar the first time that I sat for it.

I’m not sure how I knew Teresa, but Mike and I were best friends in Law School.

I started volunteering to work with men with Aids in 1986. By 1991, I’d seen first hand the death and destruction that Aids was causing for so many.  So many were young and the death came relatively quickly and violently. They didn’t wan to “quit writing and go to sleep” at age 31.

Don Jose’s was probably a restaurant in Fullerton California near our law school.

Airport was a movie that came out in 1970 based on the book by Arthur Hailey. 

[bigfemboyenergy]

NO YOURE RIGHT THIS IS SO GOOD

idk man but something about Stanley "taught himself extremely advance physics/math/probably many other things while running a relatively successful business" Pines and Stanford "is wanted in almost every dimension with a judicial system of some kind" Pines is sooo fucking funny to me

[rjthirsty]

I want to write a deep, introspective post, but I hate typing on my phone and can't seem to remember when I'm at my computer. But just know! IF I did, it would be glorious.

[neverlandwonderland]

amor de mi vida

[kawareo]

Frog...

Illustration for the previous chapter of Godsbound!

[king-nyx]

writer brain is buzzing after seeing that Season spoiler. wdym? what does any of it mean? will we ever find out?

[humanjarvis]

saw this tweet saying caleb is so submissive he’ll dom mc if that’s what she wants from him and had to write about it in light of his affinity 105 secret times.

like. he’s never gonna straight-up tell you what to do. never gonna give you the answers to his lewd ambiguities. he’ll tease and taunt and goad and nudge and make you figure it out yourself (that way he can praise you for it) 

so. that part of fiery embrace. he draws you in with the lure: “i’ve been using your favorite body wash. it was when…you were away for that intensive training course. we couldn’t even talk on the phone or do video calls.” 

his voice drips with mockery, a promise that he’s taking you somewhere you’re not sure if you want to go. but against your better judgment, you take the bait and ask what he’s implying. 

he looks down briefly as if considering something, decides on it, then smirks back up at you. you hold your breath when the corners of his mouth rise.

his hand squeezes yours as it moves across his body, and he lifts it delicately, placing a falsely innocent kiss to your wrist as he levels you with a challenging look. “you already know.”

and you swear your insides burn. burn with shame and scandal and intrigue and outrage and lust. 

you’re so overwhelmed by him—by his nerve, by his gall, by his casual eroticism—that your soft, quick pants fan his face in gentle waves. 

and caleb knows. knows you better than you know yourself. of course he knows the effect his words will have on you—that’s why he says them.

so as lilac eyes track your every movement, caleb expects you to whine, to say he’s embarrassing you with his dirty acts. expects you to tell him to stop being mean, to make himself useful and help you. your flustered reaction, the way you paw at him like a conflicted cat, will tell him you caught his double meaning—you just don’t know what to do with it—and he’ll coo at you for being so smart, so good. and he expects to indulge you, because his timid little baby can’t face her big feelings. not without him to guide her through them.

so when you pounce on his relaxed body, nearly devouring his lips with yours, caleb’s startled gasp is music to your ears.

cradling his head in one hand, you push your mouth flush to his, fluidly changing angles to make sure all of him is in your grasp. as his large palms steady you on top of him, you swipe your tongue across his bottom lip, and he welcomes you in with a heady moan. 

your tongue flicks against his as you lap at his mouth, tasting and sucking and only slightly trying not to swallow him whole. 

you lose track of how long your lips are on his, and when he pulls away to breathe, you don't let him escape. you need him. need him to take the burn away after such a lewd admission. 

it’s only when you feel the swathing pressure of his evol tugging you back that you release him begrudgingly, watching him catch his breath with lust-filled eyes. 

“you—” he chuckles huskily, staring at you in wonderment. “you liked that, huh? naughty littl—”

his attempt to regain control of the situation is foiled when you regain control of his lips. 

this kiss has all the passion of the last, but as his groans and whimpers reach your ears, you slow your frantic pace. it’s sensual as it is fervent, now, with him reciprocating as best he can through shaky huffs of air. 

with a final stroke of his tongue, you gasp as you detach yourself a second time, whining as the string of saliva linking your swollen mouths snaps. with insatiable urgency, you bring your hands back to paw desperately at his bare chest. “i’m here now. can you use it again? please, caleb. wanna see you.” 

[awhoreintheory]

Circus Boy

Directly inspired by @erinwantstowrite 's art!!! post

Request from awesome amazing cool Anon

Over the years, circuses have lost their spark.

Dick would know— he’d literally grown up in one. Back then, the circus was a symphony of effort and artistry. Weeks, sometimes months, were spent perfecting routines. Performances were designed to dazzle, to inspire awe, no matter the country or culture of the audience. The comedy sketches weren’t just filler— they were genuinely funny, capable of drawing laughter even from the most reluctant parent dragged along by an excited child. Every act had a rhythm, a purpose, and above all, passion. The performers took pride in their craft, and the audience responded in kind, feeding off the energy, cheering and clapping until their hands were raw and their throats sore. 

Now? Now they were dull. Predictable routines recycled ad nauseam. Costumes that looked like they were bought in bulk from a clearance rack. Tents and stages slapped together with the barest effort to resemble grandeur. The magic, the joy—the soul of it all—had been replaced with a singular, glaring goal: profit. No one cared if the audience laughed, gasped, or even paid attention, so long as they paid their entrance fees.

But recently, whispers of something different had started making waves in Gotham: a circus gaining a reputation for being... well, different.

Dick’s curiosity was piqued. He hadn’t planned to go, at first. But the memories of his youth, of what the circus used to mean, stirred within him. Before he knew it, he’d wrangled (read: blackmailed) together as much of the family as he could to go see it. Which, wasn’t a whole lot considering quite a few were out of state currently, but it was enough to make him smile.

“Why must I come along? I do not see the point,” Damian groused, arms folded tightly across his chest as the group approached the circus grounds. Despite his protests, he made no move to make a stealthy exit.

“You’re coming because it’ll be good for you,” Dick said, ruffling Damian’s hair just to annoy him. Damian promptly swatted his hand away, glaring daggers at his adoptive brother.

“You don’t even know if it’ll be good,” Tim chimed in, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “What if this thing is as boring as all the other ones you’ve complained about?”

“Then we’ll all get funnel cake and call it a night,” Stephanie said brightly, making it clear where her true excitement lay. “I’m in it for the food, anyway.”

Dick pouted. “You didn’t have to say the quiet part out loud!” 

“Don’t underestimate funnel cake,” Duke added with a smirk. “It might be the only thing saving this trip if the show’s a flop.”

Dick rolled his eyes, but his grin didn’t waver. “You’re all so cynical. Just... trust me, okay? I have a feeling about this one.”

Sure, a lot of the decorations seemed cheap thus far, but Dick can’t blame them. They’re clearly low budget, with only two shows a week, versus the seven to ten a week Dick was used to. The difference was the genuine passion and excitement in the eyes of the performers. And they were just doing pre-show stunts on the street to rouse excitement! 

Tim hummed thoughtfully. “This place has been gaining rapid popularity,” he said, the subtle edge in his tone making it clear he was already analyzing every detail. Dick saw his fingers twitch as if to take a picture. 

Dick glanced over at him but didn’t comment. He recognized that tone— Tim was in detective mode, quietly piecing together threads no one else could see yet. He did, however, take the opportunity at his siblings' distraction to subtly herd them in the direction of the tents, eager to get a good front-row seat. Damian noticed, but he didn’t do much more than roll his eyes.

Steph, however, rolled her eyes dramatically. At Tim, not Dick. “Can you just enjoy one thing without looking for a criminal conspiracy, Tim?”

Tim matched her with a roll of his own eyes, the two slipping into a bickering match that’d put an old married couple to shame if they weren’t so aggressively gay. Meanwhile, Dick let his attention wander to the stage, studying the equipment with the practiced eye of someone who’d lived this life.

Suspended high above was the trapeze rig, its bars wrapped in worn leather, the steel cables taut and secured to thick iron frames. The safety net below, while a little faded, looked sturdy enough to do its job. Not brand-new, but serviceable.

To one side, a highwire stretched across a dizzying height, its slim cable shimmering faintly under the tent lights. The rigging showed some signs of age— slightly dulled bolts and scuffed counterweights—but nothing that made Dick worry. It would hold, even if the daredevil walking it would need nerves of steel.

A teeterboard sat center stage on the ground, its spring mechanism ready to launch performers into flips and vaults. Nearby, a stack of brightly painted crates and barrels hinted at comedic skits. Clowns would probably tumble over them with exaggerated flair, while a sturdy seesaw-like prop suggested slapstick gags involving plenty of unintentional (and intentional) falls.

The whole setup had a charming scrappiness to it. The equipment could use a little TLC, sure, but Dick had no doubt it would hold up under pressure. He could tell the performers had put their trust in it, and that meant something.

For a moment, Dick felt a flicker of nostalgia. The way the crew moved, the crisp efficiency with which they handled the gear— it reminded him of home, of the way his parents had always treated the stage with reverence, as though it were sacred ground.

“Do you see how high that wire is?” Duke muttered, his voice tinged with a mix of awe and apprehension as he followed Dick’s gaze.

“I see it,” Dick replied softly, his heart tightening. He couldn’t help but wonder who had the guts to walk that cable, let alone pull off any stunts on it. He’d definitely have to stick around and chat them up, maybe have a little friendly competition. 

“Awe, man,” Duke sighed, visibly disappointed. “Guess we weren’t excited enough.”

Turns out “early” wasn’t early enough because the seating area was packed. The whole first three rows were aggressively claimed, forcing the group to settle for seats in the middle of the fourth row.

Steph and Duke promptly excused themselves to grab popcorn—or, more accurately, for Steph to scout for funnel cake. Dick had to respect the consistency.

Damian glanced at Dick, then at Tim with a withering look. “Drake, cease your ramblings. They sour my mood.”

Tim blinked, clearly taken aback. “Wait, just me? Steph was talking way more!”

Steph, who had been halfway out of earshot, whirled around with mock offense. “Excuse me? I wasn’t the one turning this into an episode of ‘True Crime: Circus Edition.’” 

“Yeah, because you’re too busy planning how to steal funnel cake from children,” Tim shot back, crossing his arms. Damian’s eyebrow twitched. Dick wondered why peace was but a mere illusion. 

“Oh, please,” Steph quipped. “You’d be the kid I steal it from, Drake.”

Before Tim could come up with a retort, and Damian became a convicted felon, the lights dimmed, cutting their bickering short. A hush fell over the crowd as the familiar low hum of a drumroll began to build.

The ringmaster strode into the center of the stage, clad in a dazzling coat of crimson and gold that shimmered under the spotlight. If you looked any closer than that, you’d see how tacky and cheap it was. His booming voice carried effortlessly across the tent.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls! Welcome to a night of wonder, daring, and delight!” the ringmaster announced, his voice ringing through the tent as the steady drumroll built the tension. “Prepare yourselves for the extraordinary, the astonishing, the absolutely unbelievable! The show begins... now!”

The drumroll reached its peak, and with a dramatic flourish, the spotlight swept upward to reveal the first performer perched high above the stage. A man in a sparkling gold costume waved grandly to the crowd before swinging onto the trapeze. The audience clapped politely as he performed a few rudimentary tricks— basic flips and graceful swings that showcased control but lacked flair.

Two more performers joined him, each clad in similar glittering costumes. They moved with confidence, transitioning through formations and passing between trapezes, but the moves were predictable and lacked the edge Dick was hoping to see. Certainly, nothing that would make this rinky-dink circus as popular as it got so quickly. 

Tim leaned toward Dick, his tone flat. “You dragged us here for this?”

“Underwhelming,” Damian muttered, his expression neutral but his tone sharp.

Dick didn’t respond immediately, though he couldn’t disagree. The tricks were technically fine— safe, practiced, polished— but there was no spark, no passion. No magic. He resigned to going home disappointed and also to the inevitable flaming via siblings. 

But then, just as one of the performers finished an awkward landing on the platform, the ringmaster’s voice boomed again.

“And now, prepare yourselves for the prodigy of the skies, the one and only Amazing Arach-Kid!”

The spotlight shifted upward again, revealing a much smaller figure poised on a separate platform, high above the others. It was a boy— young and wiry, dressed in sleek crimson and black, his face obscured by a half-mask (not dissimilar to their domino masks, actually) that glimmered faintly in the light. For a moment, the crowd was silent, uncertain what to expect.

Without warning, the boy leaped.

The gasp from the audience was audible as the kid— Arach-Kid?— launched himself into a dramatic triple flip, his body twisting gracefully through the air before he caught the trapeze with flawless precision. The crowd erupted into applause, the energy in the tent shifting instantly.

He didn’t stop there. Swinging with a force that sent his trapeze soaring higher than any of the others had dared, he released at the peak of his arc and spun into a double somersault. Instead of catching the next trapeze, he landed neatly in the arms of one of the adult performers, who looked genuinely startled by the boy’s precision. He grinned, waving excitedly at the audience as they roared with applause. 

From there, the routine transformed. Arach-Kid became the centerpiece of the act, seamlessly incorporating daring flips, twists, and transitions between trapezes. He was passed between the adults with perfect timing, their previous mediocrity eclipsed by his sheer skill and energy.

“Whoa,” Duke murmured, leaning forward in his seat. “He’s... good.”

“Who is that kid?” Tim asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

“Better than the rest of them combined,” Damian said bluntly, though his tone carried the faintest hint of approval.

The boy ended his routine with a jaw-dropping quadruple somersault, catching the final trapeze one-handed and hanging upside down with effortless control. Gasps and cheers erupted from the audience, their applause thunderous as he let himself swing for a moment, letting the crowd bask in his daring. Then, with a fluid motion, he swung back, releasing the trapeze bar for one final flourish.

Dick leaned forward, his breath catching as the kid’s body twisted into the unmistakable maneuver— the signature move of the Flying Graysons.

The crowd roared as he executed the technique perfectly, his form flawless, his timing impeccable. He landed with a clean dismount, arms raised triumphantly, and offered the crowd a playful bow before darting off to the wings. Even with the stage empty, shouts and applause echoed for a long time after the boy left. 

For a moment, Dick couldn’t move. His stomach churned as memories of his parents on that same trapeze flooded his mind. No one else knew that move. No one could. His parents had created it, and Dick had learned it from them. It was their legacy— his legacy.

So how, in the name of all that made sense, did this random kid just pull it off perfectly?

The lights shifted again, smoothly transitioning to the next act: a somewhat clumsy but undeniably entertaining tightrope routine. One performer started with a wobbling walk, arms flailing for comedic effect. Another joined, balancing precariously with a broomstick for support. The final performer added a unicycle to the mix, pedaling shakily across the thin wire as the audience laughed and clapped in delight.

It was… objectively funny.

But Dick barely noticed. His good mood had evaporated, replaced by a heavy knot of unease in his chest. At this point, they must have a hive mind with how they immediately filed out of the tent without a single word exchanged. 

“That was—” Tim started, breaking the tense silence.

“Dick,” Steph interrupted, her voice low, “did he just—?”

“That was your move,” Tim finished firmly, his eyes locked on Dick’s.

“It’s not possible,” Duke added, glancing at the now-empty trapeze rig. “Right? It’s your family’s thing. There’s no way some random kid from Gotham knows it.”

“I am more concerned with how he knows it,” Damian said, his voice cutting. His eyes darted to Dick. “This is your domain, Richard. You must have answers.”

Dick didn’t respond right away. He couldn’t. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his breathing shallow. In disbelief, he muttered, “I don’t.”

Steph frowned. “Okay, well... what do we do? Do we just ignore the fact that some kid pulled off your impossible secret family move?”

“No,” Dick said sharply, his voice colder than any of them expected. “We don’t ignore it. We find out who he is, how he learned it, and what the hell is going on.”

Tim’s brow furrowed. “Do you think someone’s trying to get your attention? Like, deliberately?”

Dick shook his head, though his face betrayed his uncertainty. “I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, it’s... it’s possible, but...” He exhaled through his nose, frustrated. “I need answers. This isn’t something you just pick up on YouTube.”

The group left the small but packed circus, their earlier excitement replaced by a shared tension. The cool night air did little to clear their heads as they walked in a tight huddle, glancing over their shoulders as if the boy would materialize out of the crowd.

“Something’s not right,” Tim said, breaking the silence.

“Obviously,” Damian muttered.

“I mean it,” Tim snapped. “Moves like that— you don’t just do them. It takes years to learn without a teacher.” He glanced at Dick. “You’re sure no one outside your family knew it? Like, absolutely sure?”

“Positive,” Dick said firmly. “The only people who knew it are gone. Except me.” His voice dropped as he added, “Or at least, they’re supposed to be.”

The group exchanged uneasy looks, about both the situation and Dick’s reaction to it. It takes quite a bit to rattle him, so to see him, well, rattled was weird. Beyond weird. It was downright wrong. 

“Either way,” Duke said cautiously, “we’re going to figure this out. Right?”

“Oh, we will,” Dick said, his voice grim. “We don’t leave things like this unanswered.”

As they disappeared into the Gotham night, paranoia settled over them like a second skin. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t going to stay a mystery for long. 

[miedei]

the bau come over to dinner at you and roommate!spencer's apartment and make some observations <3 (aka spencer is sososo used to receiving love from you and they can't wrap their heads around it)

drabbles mlist | roommate!spence fic

The BAU team knows Spencer Reid. They know him to be brilliant, sweet, and kind. They also know him to be excessively clumsy, like a puppy unaware of it's now-long limbs.

They see him flounder in the office, in various police departments. They see him knock over chairs, mugs, stacks of paperwork.

They see it so often, that this sight in front of them is truly alien.

Spencer is moving through the kitchen with practised ease. His hands move without his eyes following them, grabbing and organising little jars on the counter. And, of course, he weaves his way around you, as if his body was crafted to work alongside yours.

Emily and JJ sit on the well-worn sofa, each half-heartedly holding up a conversation as they stare unabashedly through the open kitchen door. Their eyes track him as he passes behind you to get to the sink, softly brushing his hand over your back to let you know that he's there. They watch him handle plump tomatoes with care, washing them under the water with deft fingers as he rambles to you.

It's a strange feeling, to watch him so comfortable. To have never seen him in such a state. The two of them love Spencer, and they know he loves them, but this is something they've never experienced with him. They lock eyes, exchanging small smiles as they settle in to watch further.

Hotch and Derek are arguably the members on the team who have worked the closest with Spencer. From the day Gideon recruited him for the team, they've worked case after case with the younger man. Although they are so close, they've never been able to spend much time at his home, usually opting to gather at Rossi's.

It's a shock to finally see inside his apartment, and see this.

The two stand on the balcony, leaning against the railing as they take in the room beyond the french doors. Spencer has now floated to the cabinets in the living room, calling out softly to you as he attempts to locate the dish you're looking for.

"Is it the flat one we got last weekend? The one with the Delft Blue artwork?"

"No, the one next to it! Same size, but different— Oh, that's it! Thanks, Spence."

They observe as you appear in the doorway, delighted smile spreading over your face as you're presented with said dish. You turn back into the kitchen after planting a peck to Spencer's cheek.

The two profilers watch intently, expecting a flush to creep up Spencer's face any second, but— nothing. He barely acts as if anything is out of sorts.

They look on incredulously as Spencer doesn't cease his chattering, now delving into the history of Delft Blue pottery as he wanders back into the kitchen after you.

The endearing sight of Spencer in his home clues them in. This is his element, here in this apartment, with you. The disconcerting actions don't deter them. Instead, they also wander into the kitchen, playing at getting refills as an excuse to glimpse more.

Penelope is seated across from Spencer, Rossi across from you. The small dining table is barely big enough to fit the eight of you, but no one seems to mind. The surface is overflowing with plates, a seemingly random mish-mash of dishes laid out in front of them.

A record is playing softly, a rendition of Hungarian Dance No.5 melding in with the conversations that float around the room.

Both David and Penelope were just in a heated debate about the taste of scotch (she insists it's disgusting, despite allowing him to refill her glass every time), but their attention has been snagged elsewhere, and neither seem to be in the mood to look away.

Across the table, two heads huddle in closely. Spencer is angled towards you, his hands coming out to grasp your cutlery, and repositioning them repeatedly around your plate.

"...and if you place your knife horizontally, then your fork with the tines pointing to the top of the plate and the base of the knife, that means you don't want to engage in the conversation. A Victorian noble would never say it out loud, so they signalled instead."

Spencer is leaning into you without a care in the world, his entire body focused solely on his demonstration. He bends at the neck, bringing his face closer to yours as he shifts the cutlery again.

Rossi can't help but elbow Penelope, gesturing to your face when she looks at him questioningly.

Your eyes flicker from the plate to Spencer's eyes, wholly captivated by his words and movements. The lack of space between the two of you doesn't seem to register, or you don't care about it. Instead, you're listening carefully, interjecting with soft questions as he cycles through multiple iterations of cutlery placement.

The two of them can't seem to tear their eyes away from the domestic little scene. You are comfortable, not bothered by anything as the pair of you reside in your little bubble.

Penelope can't help but grip Rossi's arm when you reach a hand to brush a lock of hair away from Spencer's eyes, but he doesn't miss a beat. The sight in front of them is evidently commonplace, unremarkable to either of you.

It's run of the mill, comfortable and intimate. But not for a pair of roommates. Something else.

[khaire-traveler]

I'm a big supporter of "the gods love you, regardless of how much you're able to do to worship them", but at the same time, it's difficult to forge a relationship with any deity (or even other people) if you don't allow yourself to be known by them. If you don't have moments of vulnerability, moments of silliness, moments of small joy even, then it's difficult to forge relationships or take them to a deeper level. Loving gods (or even other people) can be a scary thing for some people (hell, it was for me), but if you don't allow your heart to be exposed, even just a little, then you're not going to get back as much as you're hoping to.

Anything that's worth anything in life is going to require some level of risk, as terrifying as that feels sometimes, and in my opinion, having a deeper connection with a deity is one of those things that's worth the risk.

My point isn't that we aren't loved by the gods if we don't do a ritual everyday or pray every hour; my point here is that we cannot deepen our bonds if we aren't willing to dip more than just our toes into our deity relationships. Love your gods, and know that you are loved, but they can't really help you if you won't let them in, you know?

[girlfictions]

Hiba Abu Nada, from I Grant You Refuge (trans. Huda Fakhreddine)

Hiba Abu Nada was a novelist, poet, and educator. She wrote this poem on Oct. 10th, 2023. She died a martyr, killed in her home in south Gaza by an Israeli raid on Oct. 20th, 2023. She was 32 years old.