#I write shit

[vileidol]

Bdubs: sleeping, clock powers

Etho: “did that make you jump?”

Grian: watcher lore, person who knew all the powers

Martyn: listener lore & always listening in

Jimmy: normally no longer seen by this point in the series

Tango: flee with extra flee, decked out deepfrost citadel

Scar: wanted punching since the start, everything’s a rollercoaster & awful innuendo

BigB: Creaking

Gem: astrology? aware of traps and hard to kill

Impulse: cyberpunk teleportation? playing multiple sides?

Lizzie: ldSHADOWlady

Ren: ultimate theatre kid

Scott: sacrificial lamb? sneaky & always listening in

Joel: parkour!

Cleo: ZOMBIEcleo

Pearl: luna moth & fly me to the moon

some theories courtesy of @dredgesnails

[ashyblondwaves]

Girl are there fics of katniss and peeta interacting before the games but canonically? If not can you write it pretty please

HI! I'm sure there are, and I have even written one myself a long time ago, but here's another for ya!

Cracked Wheat

The bell over the bakery door gives a tired jingle when I step inside, a low sound that barely cuts through the thick smell of rising bread that assaults my senses. The warmth of the place hits me next. Soft, humid, and rich with flour and sugar. It smells like hunger, like a memory. Like a hand-me-down mercy I never asked for.

I shift the burlap sack on my shoulder, the two squirrels inside already weighing me down. They’re not the best catch, but they’ll do. The baker’s usually fair, especially with me.

Only it’s not him behind the counter today. It’s the baker’s son, Peeta.

He’s dusted with flour, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a streak of something across his cheek. His blond hair’s a mess, like he’s been up since before dawn. For a second, we just stand there, staring at each other across the counter like neither of us knows what happens next.

I tighten my grip on the sack. “Your father’s not here?”

He shakes his head once. “He’s out back. I… I can do the trade.”

His voice is quiet. Careful. Like he doesn’t want to scare me off.

I hesitate. I could leave. Come back later. But that would look strange, and I don’t have time to be careful about things like that today.

So I walk up and set the sack on the counter.

“Two squirrels,” I say. “One’s a little thin, but the other’s decent.”

He nods and unwraps the cloth slowly, like he’s afraid of breaking something. His fingers brush over the fur, gentle. Too gentle. Like he still sees them as alive.

“I can give you a loaf of rye,” he says after a pause. “And a couple cracked wheat rolls. They’re from yesterday, but they’re still good.”

It’s more than fair. I nod, even though part of me bristles at the charity tucked in his tone.

He disappears into the back, and I take a breath. The kind that settles low in your stomach. The kind that reminds you today is Reaping Day.

He returns a moment later with a paper bundle, warm and faintly sweet-smelling. He doesn’t hand it to me. He just places it on the counter between us, like the bread needs to buffer whatever’s been hanging in the air since I walked in.

“You’re up early,” he says, not quite meeting my eyes.

“So are you,” I retort.

Silence stretches between us. Not empty. Just... full of things neither of us are willing to say out loud.

Outside, I hear a child’s old wagon wheels creak by. A woman shouting for her child. The district waking up. People getting dressed, braiding hair, holding their breath.

I should leave.

He clears his throat. “I guess... good luck today.”

I freeze. Not because of what he says, but how he says it. Not pity. Not nervous chatter. Just purely honest.

I don’t believe in luck. I believe in snared rabbits and working lungs and not getting caught. But I believe he means it.

“You too,” I manage.

That’s when I finally meet his eyes. Blue. Wide. And searching for something I don’t have a name for.

There’s a softness in them that rattles me. Like he already knows something’s coming. Like he already mourns it.

I can’t hold that look. Not today. Maybe not ever.

I look down at his hands instead. One of them is still resting on the counter, near the edge of the paper bundle. His fingers are dusted in flour, the skin around his nails rough from kneading dough. They’re worker’s hands. Steady, strong.

Hands that once gave me life.

My throat tightens before I can stop it.

I hate that I remember that moment so clearly, how the bread burned, how he tossed it to the pigs, how I thought I was going to collapse in the rain. I hate how often I dreamt about it afterward, how I clung to the idea that someone, even once, might have seen me and chosen kindness.

I don’t want to owe anyone anything. Least of all him.

“Thanks,” I say, forcing the word out. It burns a little. I don’t know if I’m thanking him for the trade, or the bread from all those years ago. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

He blinks, like he didn’t expect me to speak again. Then nods. Just once.

The silence stretches again, this time thinner. Fragile. Like if either of us says one more word, it might shatter.

I reach for the bundle. My fingers brush his by accident.

It’s barely a touch, not even skin, just the edge of his knuckle against mine through a fine layer of flour. But I still feel it, sharp and real, like a match strike.

He pulls his hand back fast. So do I.

I hate how my pulse jumps. I hate that I even notice it.

Outside, someone laughs. It’s loud, shrill, drunk already, maybe trying to forget what day it is. A door slams. A baby starts to cry.

The world keeps moving.

“I should go,” I mutter.

Peeta just nods again, his lips parting, as though maybe he wants to say something. But nothing comes out. Maybe he thinks better of it. Or maybe he knows, like I do, that there are no right words for this kind of day.

I turn and head for the door. This time I don’t hesitate. My hand’s on the handle, the bell already tilting, when I hear him say, too soft to be sure I was meant to hear it…

“Katniss.”

I stop. Just for a second, but I don’t turn around. I don’t trust myself to.

So I walk out instead, the bell giving its sad little jingle behind me, and the door swings shut between us like a closing promise.

Outside, the sun is just starting to claw its way up the sky, but the world already feels gray.

I clutch the bread to my chest, like it might steady me. It doesn’t.

I don’t know what I expected. I don’t know why I feel like I left something behind. Maybe I should have said something else. Or turned. Or stayed.

But I didn’t.

Because I’m not the girl who says things. I’m the girl who survives.

And I know better than to reach for something that can be taken from me.

The early morning air hits harder than I expect for July, even with the warmth of the bread against my chest. It bites through my jacket and settles into my skin, sharp and unforgiving. Maybe it’s always like this on Reaping Day. Or maybe I’m just noticing it more today.

I keep my head down as I walk. Eyes on the gravel. Don’t give anyone a reason to talk to you. Don’t stop. Don’t think.

But I’m already thinking.

About the flour on his hands. The way he said my name. The space between us that felt heavier than it should have.

It’s stupid. I shouldn’t be thinking about Peeta Mellark. Not today. Not ever, really. We don’t know each other. Not really. Just a few exchanges, half-glances, and silences that weren’t supposed to mean anything. That can’t mean anything.

Still.

He remembered my name. And I remembered the way his eyes looked when he said it.

I pass the old fence near the square, the one with the hole I use to slip into the woods. Someone’s hung a strip of cloth over it, black and fraying. A mourning ribbon. There are always a few on Reaping Day.

I tighten my grip on the bundle. It’s cooling now, but I hold it like it matters. Like it’s more than just bread and rolls. 

I don’t know what Peeta meant by saying my name. Maybe it was a goodbye. Or a wish. Or nothing at all. Just a sound caught in his throat.

But it sticks with me. Lodges under my ribs and refuses to be shaken loose.

I hate that.

The closer I get to home, the more the world pulls at me. Prim’s face, waiting. My mother’s silence. Buttercup mewling like the sky’s falling. I focus on those things. Real things. Not blue eyes and soft voices and warmth I didn’t ask for.

By the time I step through our front door, the bread is almost cool. I set it on the table, but I don’t mention exactly who it came from.

And I don’t think about how my fingers still remember the shape of his.

[habizuh-studios]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65511361/chapters/168631840

The bookmark was gifted with multiple lives. Nine, to be exact. They should be used sparingly, to defend and find the book at all costs. Unfortunately, the bookmark is Atsushi, so the lives aren't used for something so noble.

OR: 5 times Atsushi died and 1 time the agency found out. Not necessarily in that order.

[itsarandomblog]

sometimes i gotta remind myself i wrote those stories for myself, not for the reads or views.

like, oh i love this idea. imma write it down and share it with someone who'd be willing to listen, even if I'm the only one reading it and voting on it lol

[ladylancing]

Un día te despertaste

pusiste a andar la cafetera

te cepillaste los dientes

y mi retrato ya no te evocó

mañanas de otoño frente al mar.

Un día me desperté

puse el agua para el mate

me cepillé los dientes

y no supe que tu retrato

iba a ser la única forma de verte guiñar un ojo.

Un día los lobos salieron a correr

sin presa y sin manada

rompiendo todo a su paso

huyendo sin saber bien de qué

aullando sin saber qué decir.

Un día elegiste la crueldad más salvaje

de decirme cuánto me querías cuando me querías.

Y de mentir por omisión

sobre lo transitorio de mi suplencia.

Un día no supe que le di un último abrazo a tu tía

que vi la última ola del mar alejarse

que tiré mi último dado

que bajé por última vez la música del auto.

Un día te despertaste

pusiste el agua para el mate

te sonrió la chica a la que le mantuve tibio el lugar

y te diste cuenta

de que olvidaste cuándo fue la ultima vez

que pusiste a andar la cafetera para las dos.

[strangenewwords]

Chapter Update

Angsty bastards. Or well one of them is angsty. Like made of literal angst.

[charbeloved]

when you write, use c.ai, and roleplay with real people

[cloudabserk]

WARNING do NOT start reading books and comics or watching movies or looking at art!!! you will start wanting to create art yourself. or god forbid. writing.

[milkcryptid]

do people have no shame anymore?

[vulpinesaint]

quiz enjoyers! i am now inviting you to come create something in my workshop❕

[gunpowdercarousel]

I don't need therapy I need rabid gay people freaking out in my inbox

[ashyblondwaves]

Can you write Peeta giving katniss a bath after a particularly messy day in the woods and she comes home happy but muddy?

This is such a fun little prompt! I had a blast with this one, thank you!

Move Me, Darling

Rating: Soft M

I’m on the porch painting when she comes home with mud from her boots to her forehead, twigs in her hair, and the brightest smile I’ve seen in weeks. When I see a smile like that, I don’t even care if she tracks dirt across every surface in the house. 

I should’ve known the overnight storms would make for a muddy visit to the woods for Katniss today, but she insisted she go. Perfect conditions for finding mushrooms, she’d said. She must’ve found them, because her game bag is full, and she looks like the cat that caught the canary as she trudges up the cobblestone to our house. 

She stops at the edge of the porch and raises her eyebrows, as if daring me to say something. I set my brush down and give a smile back that matches hers.

“So,” I start, meeting her at the bottom of the first step. “Do I want to know what happened to the rest of the woods?”

“Well, most of it’s in my boots,” she says, plucking a twig from her braid. “And my hair.”

“Successful hunt, or did you roll down a hill for fun this time?” I ask with a smirk. 

“Both, actually,” she snorts, rocking back on her heels.

She looks so innocent. Younger, somehow. Like the girl I remember from school.  

“Should I get the hose or draw you a bath?” I finally ask. 

“Depends,” she grins. “Are you joining me?”

I can’t help the smile that breaks out across my face. These days are few and far between, where Katniss is at ease with herself, carefree enough to just have fun in the woods, and truly be the young adult she actually is. 

“I think I can do that,” I say with a nod. 

She steps closer, reaches for me with her grubby fingers, and grins. Before I can dodge her, she presses a damp kiss to my cheek, leaving a perfect muddy handprint behind on my shirt

“There,” she says, walking past me and up the porch steps, undoing her braid as she moves. “Now you match me.”

I watch her disappear inside, one muddy boot already half-off and clunking against the floorboards as she goes. There’s a trail of damp footprints and tiny leaves in her wake, and I don’t care at all. Not when the culprit is a happy Katniss. 

I press my hand to the kiss she left on my cheek, but not too hard. I like the reminder.

By the time I head inside, she’s already peeled out of her jacket and is working on her shirt, dirty fingers made stiff by drying mud. 

“You’re leaving a path of destruction, you know,” I say, brushing past her toward the stairs. “At this rate, I’ll be scrubbing the floor until next week.”

“Then you better make the bath worth it,” she tosses back without looking up, her voice half-laugh, half-dare.

I’m already smiling as I take the steps two at a time.

The tub in the upstairs bathroom is old but deep, claw footed and charming. Just big enough for the two of us. I twist the tap, test the water with my fingers, and reach for the jar of mint leaves we keep under the sink. She likes those. She says they smell like early mornings.

The water’s steaming by the time I hear her pad up the stairs. I turn to find her in the doorway, shirt loose and hanging open, her breasts on display. Her cheeks flush from the way I am looking at her, but she stands her ground.

“You gonna gawk or get in?” she asks, arms crossing with a smirk that tells me she already knows the answer.

I extend my hand toward her, and she takes it willingly, shimmying out of her shirt and letting it drop to the floor as she moves closer to the aromatic bath. Once she’s out of her clothes, I take her hand again and help her step in. She hisses at the heat, but it’s followed by a soft moan as she sits and submerges her body in the water. 

“That good, huh?” I ask, watching the way her eyes flutter closed. Her head tips back against the porcelain.

“Mmm,” she hums. “Almost worth getting stuck in a landslide for.”

“You what?” I say.

“Nothing. Get in here,” she says, cracking one eye open.

I strip without ceremony, her gaze shameless as it drifts down my body and lingers. The water is hot when I dip my good leg in, waiting just a moment to acclimate myself before fully sitting down. The warmth soothes my joints immediately, and I can see why Katniss let out that sound. It feels good. 

She shifts, her legs brushing mine underwater. It could be accidental, but the look she gives me says otherwise.

“You smell like mint and mischief,” she murmurs, reaching to trail wet fingers along my jaw.

“You smell like forest and trouble,” I shoot back, dipping my head to kiss the inside of her wrist. “Irresistible.”

Luckily, the mud was contained mostly to her clothes, so the water is only slightly murky from what was on her hands. I use a wet wash cloth to rid her face of the mud, and she leans into my touch with every swipe, sighing in that way she does when she’s content, and with a new wash cloth, I move downward. 

I start with her shoulders, gliding the warm cloth over her skin in slow, deliberate strokes. The faint sheen of dirt lifts easily, revealing the soft skin beneath. She closes her eyes again, her head tilting just enough to give me better access to the slope of her neck.

“You’re going to spoil me,” she murmurs, her voice low and lazy.

“Good,” I whisper back, tracing the line of her collarbone. “You deserve it.”

Her breath catches when I move lower, the cloth passing over the swell of her breasts with the same reverence I might give something sacred. I don’t rush. I let my fingers linger as I rinse, the barest pressure guiding the warmth of the water down her sternum, between her ribs, across the plane of her stomach. Her skin twitches under my touch.

She doesn’t speak now. Doesn’t need to. Her body does, in the way she sinks a little deeper into the tub, in the way her legs shift slightly, brushing against mine under the surface.

I lift one of her arms, careful, like I’m handling something fragile, and run the cloth along its length. Then the other. Her hands rest on my knees now, grounding us both, the water lapping gently between our bodies.

“You cold?” I ask, my voice hushed.

“Not even close,” she says, opening her eyes.

“Good,” I smile and lean in, pressing a soft kiss to her damp temple. 

“Your turn next,” she says, turning her face toward me, her lips nearly brushing mine.

She shifts, the movement sending a small ripple through the water, and takes the cloth from my hand. Her fingers graze mine purposefully as she does, her eyes not leaving my face.

“Lean back,” she says softly.

I do as she asks, resting against the curve of the tub while she wrings out the cloth and begins her work. Her touch is different from mine, more teasing than reverent, but no less gentle. She starts at my neck, brushing away the sweat and faint trace of paint from earlier in the day that somehow always manages to get in places they shouldn’t. The cloth is warm, but it’s her hands I feel more than anything else. Sure, slow, unhurried.

“Oops, I missed a spot,” she says playfully, tapping the center of my chest.

“Oh? Better get it, then,” I murmur, keeping my eyes closed.

She presses the cloth there, dragging it down the line of my sternum with maddening precision. Her knuckles brush skin as she rinses, and I open my eyes, unable to help the small intake of breath that earns me a satisfied look.

“Hmm,” she murmurs, letting the cloth trail lower before shifting to my side, wrapping one arm around me for balance. Her breath is near my ear now. “You're flushed.”

“I’m in a hot bath with a beautiful woman,” I say, my voice lower than I intended. “Kind of inevitable.”

She huffs a quiet laugh, but I feel the way she presses closer, her chest against mine now, slick and warm and bold. The cloth floats, forgotten, as her hands settle instead against my shoulders, then trace lightly down my arms, curling at my wrists.

We sit like that for a long moment, the only sounds the gentle splash of water and the quiet stutter of our breathing as the heat wraps around us. There's no rush. There never is with her. Not in moments like these.

“Stay a while,” she whispers.

“Try and get rid of me,” I say with a nod, brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek. 

Her legs shift again beneath the water, draping over mine now, her knees bracketing my hips. Skin against skin. Warmth against warmth. She moves like she’s always known how to unravel me, and I let her, breath hitching as she settles more fully into my lap.

Her fingers slide up my chest again, this time without the cloth, tracing the line of muscle, the dips and rises she’s memorized in the moonlight, she now reacquaints herself with in daylight. The air between us crackles, but her movements stay slow, indulgent. Like she’s savoring. Like she wants to draw this out for as long as she can.

“You’re staring,” she says, voice soft but sultry, lips brushing just shy of mine.

“I’m memorizing,” I murmur back. “Every freckle. Every breath.”

She doesn’t argue, just tilts forward and kisses me, slow and deep, like we’ve got all the time in the world. And we do. The water laps against the porcelain with every shift, every gentle press of her body to mine. Her hands move again. First down my arms, then my sides, anchoring herself as she deepens the kiss, tongue brushing mine with a languid tease that makes my stomach clench and my fingers grip her hips beneath the water.

She gasps against my mouth when I pull her just a little closer, the slick heat of her skin sliding over mine, and for a breathless moment we just stay there, touching, tasting, breathing each other in.

Her forehead rests against mine, our noses brushing.

“We’re going to overflow the tub,” she whispers, smiling like she doesn’t care one bit.

“Let it overflow,” I say, catching her mouth again before she can respond.

The water has cooled by the time we pull apart, our breathing uneven, our skin flushed for reasons that have nothing to do with temperature anymore. She leans back just enough to look at me, her eyes heavy-lidded and full of heat.

“Come on,” she says, her voice husky and low as she stands, water cascading from her skin like silk. She doesn’t reach for a towel, she just holds out her hand, bold and bare and beautiful.

I take it without hesitation and let her help me from the tub.

We step carefully onto the mat, her fingers still wrapped around mine, leading me out of the bathroom and down the hall, dripping footprints in our wake. The bedroom is dim and warm, the sheets already rumpled from this morning. The scent of mint still clings to her skin, but it’s mixed now with something headier. Something wholly hers.

She turns to face me as we reach the bed. There’s no rush in the way she moves, just certainty. Just intent.

She brushes a hand along my jaw, tilting my face toward hers.

“No more interruptions,” she whispers. “Just us, here, together.”

“Just as it should be,” I murmur. 

And when she pulls me down with her, I follow willingly.

[lilchapters]

my first post,

i write fanons and cannons, i write shit for u to read <3

follow if u like the shit i write bcs they'll be moree

[stealingpotatoes]

the illness post is still getting notes (???!! <3) and that means people are still telling me to get better soon, which is really nice but im gonna be too powerful if i get any better

[ladylancing]

Hay demasiados baches por Libertador

y todos los árboles son sauces sin hojas.

Cerraron todos los restaurantes.

Apagaron los semáforos

Incendiaron los autos que quedaron estacionados.

Asi que giro por Cerviño

paso a comprar velas

busco un martillo.

Con el fuego atras y el olor a melón

me ocupo de los huesos que tienen tu marca.

Doy 206 golpes.

Ahora queda

enyesar, descansar, construir de nuevo.

Y en mi reposo voy a soñar que crece

un jacarandá en Libertador.

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.