#pear writes

[theticklishpear]

Five Lines Tag

Shout out to @roselinbooks-official for the tag! Thank you — it's so nice to reconnect with you on the EmberWrite community. I'll be responding with lines from Murder in Saint Salma Parish, as that's currently what I'm focused on in near-final edits (a murder most curious, a pet shop trafficking mythical creatures, local gods in danger, and a painting of bigfoot that cannot be trusted not to tell the most devastating of dad jokes, oh my!).

your most recent line

Aphiruuk climbed into the passenger seat of Mary Ann’s car, asking for the window open as soon as he settled. Mary Ann obliged. How could she not? There was every possibility that Aphiruuk could breath fire, or acid, or something, and she didn’t have the first idea about how to clean that out of her car’s floor mats.

a line you're proud of

“Do you know why you are doing this?” Sylvie’s slow, measured question seeped into her, a soft question that didn’t demand an answer now but expected one with time. That felt right for this place, a place that understood so well the roles that patience and time played—that life and light and growth needed both—a place that knew that all came to pass with enough of those.

a line that makes you laugh or smile

“I’ve got books upon books of regular, boring paper and one that’s just a whopper of a mystery. Whatever you are, answer at least one fucking question.” She yanked on the old handle. The shed opened into void. The vastness of stars stretched out from the threshold with a cloud of cosmic dust, the scent of burning, and a sucking gasp. “Sure,” Mary Ann said. “Y’know, when I told Ron it couldn’t get weirder, I didn’t mean you should try.”

a line you hope makes readers cry

"Gods, Mark, we wanted it to be you. We strained our ears…just waiting, hoping, praying. But you weren’t there.” She squeezed Abe’s hand. “Someone else needed you more.”

a line that summarizes your WIP

In her silence, Sylvie prompted, “Speak, child. You need not be formal with me.” An easy statement from a god, but all the same, she felt the tension in her shoulders ease. “It’s strange. Ron offered to take the ring the first time I met him. I said no then because there were so many questions that needed answers. So many whys still hanging around. I know more now. There’s this whole world of magic that I only ever thought was story but turns out to be not only real, but part of my family’s inheritance. Learning what Valda did, I’ve felt responsible.” “It was not you who let a lich into the paths of the dead to feast upon the foundations of the world.”

Tagging: @luwianskies, @writer-on-time, @agwitow, @gingerly-writing, @beezarre — as is tradition, no pressure, but I'd love to see:

a line with a scream

a line you fell in love with

a line with a whisper

a line you almost took out

a line that's got ✨your vibe✨

[peargreen-jellybean]

too fuckin long, so sorry about that, but enjoy a 3k word count poolverine hurt/comfort ficlet from the prompt idea i posted

my writing skills suck a bit and i wrote this on my phone but i did my best. enjoy

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Logan’s woken up in alleyways, face down, with clothes torn from a brawl he instigated and the glass bottles he’d fallen onto. Sometimes, if he’s lucky, he wakes up slumped over a table in the back of a bar because the owner was too afraid to tell him to leave.

Afraid of his claws or just his name.

The buzz of alcohol never stays long, even with high proof liquor, but the tiredness of a fucked up life still lingers for awhile more after several bottles of booze.

So waking up exhausted isn’t new. It's about the only way he’s woken up for a long time.

And that’s what Logan expects, slowly coming back to consciousness.

Exhaustion. Some hard surface. Hopefully most of his clothes intact.

One eye begrudgingly cracks open.

Yup, definitely a little fucked up. His joints ache deep into the bone and his head is cotton-y.

But… Nothing feels hard or sharp beneath him. In fact, he feels… comfortable.

Huh.

Turning just a bit, he finds his face buried in softness. It smells lived in; skin, spilled food, a hint of… gunpowder? And, after a moment, he hears the soft sound of music- too quiet to be bar music but not muffled enough to be from a building he isn’t inside of.

Huh.

“Mmm.” Using his forearms, Logan props himself up just enough to leave the softness and get a look around him.

Not an alley. Not a bar. Not even a cheap, seedy motel.

A house- er, an apartment more likely. And he’s sprawled, a moment ago face down, on top of an old couch with a blanket over him and pillow under him. Neither the couch nor the general space is all that large, he’s practically spilling off the furniture, but everything feels warm and lived in. Home-y, if a little messy.

There isn’t anyone else here- the living room, a good guess- but noises, once he registers them, coming from an adjacent room says he isn’t alone. The soft music seems to filter through from there as well.

Logan flips himself over, a bit too groggy to be elegant about it, and rubs the sleep from his eyes. The feel of gritty grime on his face, more than he usually gets after a night drowning in alcohol, confuses him.

And then-

His head slumps back into the pillow and he groans. “Fucking hell.”

The TVA. The Time Ripper. The Void.

The red spandex-ed asshole who stole him from his timeline.

… Who, after everything, took him home, here, introduced him to his blind roommate- Althea, if he recalls- and offered him a place to stay and sleep for a while. And, vaguely remembering being too tired to shower, who also gave Logan some clothes to sleep in.

Groaning, only half heartedly after remembering the comforts offered and taken, Logan pulls back the blanket and, likey for the first time, actually checks to see what he’s wearing.

A gray, “I eat cement” T-shirt and blue, rubber duck shorts.

Yeah, that seems about right.

He huffs, but sits up to get his elbows onto his knees and scrub more of the sleep away from his face. Instant regret again. Both he and Wade- battle worn and disgusting- had forgone a shower in favor of just near instantly passing out. He is fucking gross; dirt, blood, and god knows what else covering him in a disgusting layer.

Logan feels a pang of shame for getting onto their couch with this much dirt and sweat coating him- maybe he can wash the blanket and pillowcase as an apology- but a clattering from the room with the music recatches his attention. The volume of whatever song is playing- a woman singing, pleasantly raspy- increases afterward.

Too interested to ignore whatever’s going on, Logan gets up to stand- with only a small groan, thank you- and, after a quick, satisfying stretch, slowly pads over to the doorway. Nothing outright sounds or feels dangerous, but from his experience and especially after the past few days, the need for caution can’t be shaken.

He must still not be fully awake, because the smell hits him only a few creeping steps from the doorway; pepper, eggs, something a bit burnt.

Food.

God, he didn’t realize how hungry he was until now. Even the burning smell is appetizing.

Popping his head in, the sight inside startles him awake completely.

With “I <3 hot dads” shorts, a red apron, and fucking crocs on his feet, Wade shifts around in front of the kitchen counter, swaying to the song he has playing from a radio somewhere. The place is a complete mess of egg shells and plates, but the table has a, rather large, plate of scrambled eggs, another plate of half burnt toast, and an assortment of other breakfast items. The smell of coffee also hangs in the air. And for the first time, maybe since knowing the man- and when he wasn’t unconscious- Wade is happily content not saying a word. He simply turns a toaster, with a fucking butter knife stuck into it, this way and that, and shakes it like he wants information from it.

It’s jarringly warm, and domestic.

Logan is again thrown for a moment.

When was the last time he woke up to clean clothes- even though he himself is gross as hell- the softness of a pillow, to the smell and sight of another person cooking breakfast in a kitchen?

Ever?

That sounds pathetically sad and incorrect, but in the doorway, watching it happen in real time, Logan feels lost and a bit raw.

Lucky for him though, Wade is still an annoying fuck and pulls him from his thoughts.

Like he sensed the presence of the other man half lingering in the doorway, Wade looks back at him and smiles wide. All bright teeth. No mask.

“Well, good morning Peanut! Did ya sleep well? I don't know about you but I think being torn apart and put back together finally got rid of the knot in my back. God, I slept like Al after she goes through waaay too many little baggies.” He motions over to the table with his chin. “I made some eggs and toast if you want. A true triumphant heroes’ breakfast! Hopefully you like them both a bit overdone. And there’s a pot of coffee over there.” He gestures to a machine on the counter now. “You can literally just drink from the pot if you want. Caffeine does not work on me, funnily enough. We don’t have creamer but there’s milk in the fridge and sugar next to the coffee maker…”

Wade goes on to babble about everything and nothing and, while Logan cannot count the number of times he’s wanted to stab the man for not shutting up, he can’t find the want to be actually irritated.

Not in the face of food, and coffee, and just… comfort.

Speaking of…

Logan clears the lump in his throat. “Thanks.” It’s all he can think to say, but he means it, even with the rough rumble of his morning voice.

Which Wade seems to find fascinating.

“Holy shit! How the fuck does your voice get even deeper? God, you would make a killing as a erotic audio book reader. Millions probably.” Wade flashes a flirtatious look before he turns back to the toaster and continues to mumble to himself, or perhaps the broken machine.

Logan huffs, but the call of coffee is stronger than his need for a comeback. The whole pot is grabbed per the offer, the sugar too, and now standing in front of the table he finds himself hesitating. No spots are occupied and nothing says ‘preferred seat’, but Logan can’t help but pause. ‘Make yourself at home’ feels like the unsaid, unfamiliar offer he can’t accept as easily as the coffee.

It feels too easy- another pathetic thought- and he can’t help but feel like he isn’t awake yet, and the reality of a cold, pavement bed will greet him if he gets too comfortable…

“Stupid fucking piece of metal crap!” Wade hisses, followed by the sound of the knife stabbing into the toaster.

Nope, probably not a dream. Logan is not a creative enough person to come up with something like this.

God, so just… sit, you fucking moron.

Picking a chair facing away from the toaster killer, Logan sets the coffee pot down- on a mat he also picked up, he isn’t an asshole- and settles in.

He feels awkward, like a kid at his first sleepover, but the eggs are there in front of him and his stomach is starting to growl. Awkwardness can wait until after a few bites, at least. There’s a lack of something important on the table though. After a quick glance around the plates and cups, and not finding anything, he looks over to Wade who seems to be completely brawling with the toaster now.

Wincing at the sight, and before he can rethink his decision, Logan clears the remaining sleep from his throat and uses that to draw the other man’s attention.

“Do uh, do you got a fork or somethin’?”

“Ah fuck, that’s what I forgot!” Wade sets, or slams really, the toaster down and moves over to a drawer, then rooting through it. “Didn’t run the dishwasher either and all the good forks are in it. Fuck…” He mumbles something else too, but lets out a triumphant ‘ha!’ when he pulls out two forks, one a little more bent than the other.

He skips, almost, over to Logan and presents the utensils. “Here you go Peanut, pick your favorite!”

Grabbing the more bent fork, Logan nods a silent thanks and begins slowly transferring eggs from the larger plate to one of the smaller, empty ones. Wade, satisfied with the choice, simply sets the other fork onto the table and goes back to the counter, and that damn toaster.

But before brawling again, he calls back, “Help yourself to as much as you want Babygirl! You deserve it for all your sexy hero work!”

Logan huffs again but grabs one of the toaster’s victims, once he’s gotten a fair amount of egg, and takes a bite of the slightly over cooked toast and just… enjoys.

The moment is pretty… nice.

Warm food. Morning sun from the window- god, he doesn’t even know that time it is. Wade isn’t quiet, hardly ever is, but he’s not overly inane or loud right now.

It’s all… good.

So… What does it?

An old memory, like deja vu, from another place and time with other people? The still lingering, ghostly sensation of his own body shredding and healing, just below his skin? Wade grumbling at the counter over the broken toaster, like a strange picture of domestic living?

It could be anything, everything.

But all he knows is that it’s twisting into something else. Something darker, and sharper, and cold.

Logan starts to tremble in his seat and the fork in his hand damn near snaps in his grip. The bite of food in his mouth tastes like blood- no, it is blood. He’s bitten into his tongue. His heart is racing, and something is tight in his chest, too tight and still tightening. Crushing.

Air isn’t breathable. His lungs won’t let it in.

Whatever stupid song is playing now is muffled by a white hot pulsing between his ears.

… He knows this.

Panic.

This is panic.

Of all the times to break, after days of one problem after another, pain after pain, this is when it happens? Now? While he’s sitting in Wade fucking Wilson’s kitchen, wearing his worn-soft clothes and eating at his table and listening to some soft song on the radio?

Yes, it is.

Pathetic.

Fucking pathetic.

He can’t focus anywhere anymore- it’s too much, too overwhelming, too fucking stupid to reason with- and burning nausea is creeping up his throat.

He’s spiraling. He’s breaking. And he can’t find the fight to beat himself out of it.

Perhaps that’s the reason he doesn’t hear the increasingly desperate ‘Logan?’s behind him or the quick footsteps moving towards the table.

He does startle, however, at a sudden touch to the side of his skull, making him gasp.

His claws gouge the surface of the table and knock over a half-filled water cup but, remarkably, they don’t thrust into the sudden presence pressing to his side.

It takes a good minute to process the situation, much slower than it usually takes him. But he feels the warmth of another person and the pressure of a hand on his head and his head is bent at an odd angle-

Wade, his mind breathes. This is his scent- gunpowder, spandex, and his own strange, unique smell. The touch to the back of his skull is his hand and the press to his cheek is the exposed skin below his shirt.

He’s cuddling him.

Uh-

And because it’s what he does best, Logan rages.

“The fuck are you doing?!” Logan snaps, and he yanks his head back from the other man’s grasp. Or, at least, he tries to.

“Eeeasy Peanut,” Wade hushes, not relinquishing Logan’s head. It's easy to forget the teasing, ridiculous man is incredibly strong. The battle lasts all of two seconds, and Wade’s stubbornness takes the victory. Logan’s cheek presses back to his hip and stays there under the weight of his hand.

“Easy, easy, easy…” Wade mumbles. He hesitates, only for a moment. “Vanessa did this… when shit got really bad.”

He’s quiet. He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to. The meaning and weight of the softly spoken words are enough.

There’s a growl starting to rumble in his chest and while he wants to fight against Wade harder- he doesn’t need sentimental crap or, god forbid, pity- Logan takes a breath just long enough to pause here in the moment, and let’s himself feel.

Wade’s hand is cradling his skull and his fingers are threaded through his hair. The weight of them is firm, but not crushing. No, they’re gentle. And they press his cheek and temple into Wade’s side, where the dip of his waist is. Even at the odd angle his neck is bent to, the shape of the dip fits to his face near perfectly and, if obliged to stay here, he would be comfortable. Wade’s body heat- much like his own, running high due to constant cellular regeneration- seeps into him. Into his skin, and then his flesh, and then his bones, settling deep into his chest.

All of it, it… helps.

The revelation startles Logan.

The weight and solidness of Wade is grounding; constant, steady pressure. His warmth slowly relaxes the painful tightness behind Logan’s ribs. Even his smell- showered now, likely before he started cooking, still strange but not unbearable- settles his mind just because it’s there.

Wade… is anchoring him.

Maybe he really should fight this harder, or be annoyed at the coddling, or pissed just because he’s being handled at all, but Logan can’t keep a grip on any of the feelings. He can’t stop the calm that pulls him in and brings him down. It’s so- He’s feels so-

…

… When was the last time he was held?

Not fucked by nameless faces, or hanging on to another person for dear life, or punch near through the stomach- Held.

Was it before- God does it hurt.

… Was it before, when he had his fellow mutant friends and family? Before that?

After?… Definitely not.

Warmth, gentleness, nothing of the kind was what he deserved afterwards. He could never reward himself with something he never showed, and no one offered it to him regardless.

Logan shudders, his breath likely teasing Wade’s skin but, if the other man feels it, he blissfully leaves the fact be.

Wade- warm, solid, annoying as hell Wade- who breaks his train of thought, unaware of it. “Better right? When Vanessa first did this, waaay back in the storyline, I fucking melted like a kid’s ice cream. It’s like the guilty, trauma victim’s morphine.” He pauses, and there’s a grin to his words now. “I also ate her out that first time, but we can wait to do that until the second mental breakdown session, Babygirl.”

Yup. There it is. Asshole.

But Logan just, non-committedly hums, although it's more of a grumble. Yeah, Wade will probably be insufferable after this, smug and a whole new level of too comfortable touching him, but right now, right here, he’s calming.

He’s- something Logan can’t quite name. Or at least, he’s unwilling to.

Call Logan weak, call him pathetic- because he truthfully is, just below the storm in his skin- and like hell does he actually deserve this, but he’s gonna savor it for as long as he possibly can.

Seconds pass, or maybe hours, and the gentle massage of Wade’s fingertips to his scalp continues during it before his hand slides away from Logan’s hair onto his shoulder.

The loss of that contact against his head is disappointing-a private thought- but when Wade shifts like he’s about to move away the disappointment quickly morphs into panic.

He isn’t ready to let go.

He isn’t ready for Wade to leave.

With pure, unthinking action, Logan latches onto the fabric of Wade’s shorts just below the hip he isn’t leaning against. He fists the material into a ball, like he’s afraid the other man will just disappear if he doesn’t hold tight enough.

Like he really is going to wake up, and be alone again with only the memory of coffee and warmth.

Embarrassment quickly reddens his face once he understands what he’s done but, instead of releasing Wade, Logan turns his face into his hip to hide. Clenching his eyes shut for extra precaution.

Weak. Pathetic.

Wade is quiet, his hand hovering above Logan’s shoulder after it was started off but, just as Logan is about to relinquish his hold of the man- he can't bear the unnerving stillness of him- Wade surprises him again.

Quick but gentle, Wade cups the back of Logan’s head and neck, turns ever so slightly to the side, and presses Logan’s forehead to the cushion of his stomach. And just lets the other man stay against him, as he rubs his head and shoulders.

Logan cries a small sound he’s never heard himself make before- something wounded, and relieved, and ragged- but he can’t be bothered to care. Not right now. He releases his death hold on Wade’s shorts and wraps his arms around the other man’s thighs, as flush against him as he can be in their current positions. His hold might be too tight, edging on painful most likely, but Wade doesn’t complain. Doesn’t do anything except this… hold him.

Thank you, thank you, thank you…

“Of course, big guy. Whatever you need.”

Ah, he said that out loud.

… He’ll care about that later. Logan will be pissed, and embarrassed, and in denial at some point, but it’ll all be later. When Wade isn’t cradling him or murmuring soft words. When he isn’t cooking warm food or listening to music on the radio.

When he isn’t making him feel like, for the first time in a long time, he’s allowed to have kindness.

Fucking… Wade.

[questions-about-blorbos]

❝The pear of anguish, also known as choke pear or mouth pear, is a device of disputed use invented in the early modern period. The mechanism consists of a pear-shaped metal body divided into spoon-like segments that can be spread apart with a spring or by turning a key. Its proposed functionality as a torture device is to be variously inserted into the mouth, rectum, or vagina, and then expanded to gag or mutilate the victim; its historical use as a torture device is controversial.❞ — Source.

TAP HERE FOR THE VARIANT OF THIS POLL.

This request was sent to us and we made a poll in response to it. Send any Blorbo-related question you want to our inbox and we’ll make a poll on which people can vote with their own Blorbos in minds

[indigosepiacarmine]

a love letter to the fragility and resiliency of all the wild creatures of the forest, set to black pear tree by the mountain goats

physical copies available at my store

[dapper-lil-arts]

Anyone else got utterly flashbanged by the episode of Applejack's parents

[pancake-umbreon]

is it just me who gets the crushing feeling of guilt and anxiety whenever mischaracterizing a blorbo and knowing full well i'm mischaracterizing them but i've already written so much for them that it's not something that i can undo so quickly

yeah this is about wei wuxian. i've read more metas for him than i have in my whole life because i genuinely feel so guilty mischaracterizing him 😭 i'm not trying to, i swear!!! it's just that the more i learn about him from metas the more i go "FUCK there's another thing i mischaracterized about him"

all. i. want. is to write him fucked up and traumatized. but then i learn that i'm actually writing it totally incorrectly and i just. :(

sigh. things were so much easier when xiao xingchen was my #1 blorbo /silly like he doesn't have nearly as much canon material to work with so i can let headcanons go crazy asfdbskdfbsdf

[theticklishpear]

Trick or Treat? 🦇

(it's writeblr trick or treat!)

It's a trick! :O Share something about Defenders of Alcadia!

To take the sting off, a bit of Murder in Saint Salma Parish:

"Now, see," Ron Hubert held his hands out to her as though trying to ward her off and said, "if I'm going to tell you about this, then you have to promise you're not going to call the cops." "Fuck the cops." He nodded, pursing his lips and thumbing the keychain of a realistic bat on the new set of keys. "Yeah, sure, okay, fuck the cops. I can deal with that. That's a good place to be. That I can get behind," he said. "You're sure about this? I can take the ring off your hands and you can forget you ever heard the birds, and you can just go back to– I don't know, whatever it is you do. Studying biochemistry or something." "I've been inside Aunt Valda's house, Ron," Mary Ann said matter-of-factly. "It's full of vampire hunting kits from the 1800s, and paintings of bigfoot, and mother-of-pearl mirrors with tags saying, 'In case of nixies.' There's an entirely black mirror with a sheet over it, and a music box that's nailed shut. She's got a crystal ball in her kitchen. I think I have an inkling what you're going to tell me, and you know what? That's fine. This can't get any weirder. My aunt had her heart cut out, and I'm pretty sure she has some kind of magic going on in the shed out back because the other night it was glowing like starlight and nebula, and yeah, Ron, it can't be weirder." Ron Hubert sucked on his front teeth and nodded again, his gaze fixed on the bank of lights overhead. "Jesus Christ, Valda." "I'd be more inclined to think Lucifer."

[figthefruitfaeth]

108 "is that my shirt?" with the pairing of your choice please zoey <3

my dear beloved lou—i love this prompt so much, thank you <3 please know i listened to moon river by frank ocean for the entirety of its creation. I hope you like it

steddie | pre-slash/confession (kinda) | 868 words

Eddie takes a deep breath. 

Blue. That's what it feels like. Spring fresh cornflowers in his lungs, the edges of an inky indigo sky staining his fingertips. Blue is the breath he takes, the old ceramic bowl of cereal he's got clutched to his chest, the veins under his skin. 

It's the color of Steve's shirt.

Eddie shifts—presses his back fully against the window frame, the cold seeping through the thin cotton a welcome relief from the heat of the day. He keeps his head titled out towards the street, but his eyes are focused in.

Steve is on the opposite end of the window, head resting against the glass, his own bowl of cereal balanced carefully on both knees. Eddie watches the last of the day curling into his collarbone, the tips of his bangs. His chest moving in slow and easy breaths, eyes just slivers of hazel in the light. A sleepy cat, perfectly content.

Yet despite the quiet peace of the moment, Eddie feels it. Has felt it all day. Something sticking, unsettled in himself. Sleep in the corner of his eyes, the dry coarse grind of sand in his back molars. He's blamed it on the weed, paranoia lurking in the silence between the hum and ding of the microwaved nachos they'd made earlier—his mind trying to makeup for a body that had, for once, slowed down. 

But that didn't stop himself from feeling it, from knowing something is off—no, Eddie shakes his head—different.

Something is different about Steve.

Steve, very carefully, spoons a mouthful of mushy multi-grain into his mouth. Grimaces, then does it again. A drop of milk lands on his shirt, seeping into fabric quicker than it landed. A spot of midnight in a sea of navy.

His shirt is blue. Which, all things considered, isn't different at all. Though he tends to favor the warmer side of the wheel chart, Steve's wardrobe is a rainbow of colors. From steel blue jackets to violet sweaters, Eddie's seen him in it all.

Mouth closed, his tongue runs along his teeth, twists against the edges of the back. Can't quite reach the end. 

A dark blue t-shirt. A little big, not swallowed in fabric but less form fitting than most of his clothes. Old, maybe  second or even third hand if the edges of the sleeves are anything to go by. Or the image splashed on the chest, which is really only a memory of a design—speckled silver to grey in uneven patches. There's still one letter legible, a sharp 't' dead in the middle. 

It looks a bit like a band t-shirt, reminds Eddie of the shirts Wayne gave him when he first moved in, before they could go the Salvation Army together. Smoke and oil clinging to the threads, a reference to a song he'd only heard once on the radio, but stuck. Settled the buzz in his head, let his body move and mean something more than disappointment. Staring in the mirror, hair barely more than a buzzcut, navy stark against his pale skin—

”Is that my shirt?”

His voice is too loud, accidentally overshot by both the shock and last half hour of silence. Steve doesn't seem to be as affected, turning his head against the glass to face Eddie with a smooth nonchalance.

“Yeah,“ he says. Eddie looks at him, brows raised. Steve looks back, bloodshot eyes blinking slowly, seemingly feeling a one word explanation is all he needs.

Eddie searches for something, anything to say, ends up with a choked cough, and then, “Why?” Which—stupid, stupid, stupid.

Glacial blue, Steve looks down at his (his or his? theirs?) shirt, then back up at Eddie.

“Must've gotten it mixed up.”

Must've gotten it mixed up.

What.

Eddie blinks. Feels a bit like a dog as he shakes his head, mouth opening and then closing up tight in quick succession. There's no way Steve Harrington mixed up his clothes. The man spends 30 minutes a night picking out his outfit for the next day. He missed a group movie cause he couldn't find the right jacket. He almost had a conniption when Dustin tried to wash his colors with his whites. 

Steve always wears the gold and red striped socks when he needs a bit of luck and never just throws something on. Steve doesn't ‘mix up’ clothes, not unless he's dying, not unless it means something—

Oh.

“Oh,” he says out loud, dumbly.

Steve smiles like their afternoon—a hazy, sticky sweet honey in his hands.

“Yeah.”

And then Steve winks, and turns back to the window.

Eddie bites his lip, feels his mouth tearing away into a smile anyway. Turns back to the outside before he does something crazy, shovels in another spoonful of nearly disintegrated cereal, watches night settle in. Lights from other, distant homes click on, warm yellow windows bobbing along in the pitch black darkness. 

In the morning, when the sky lives up to its infamous hue, and the weed has left them their usual jittery, overthinking selves—Eddie will ask him other questions, will need more replies filled with complex, compound sentences.

Eddie takes a deep breath.

Navy.

And for now, that's enough.

writing prompts!

[peargreen-jellybean]

this is so stupid but i wanted something soft and angsty and more in Wade’s pov and i’m such a fucking sappy loser

so instead of being productive i wrote 4k words of Wade taking care Logan. christ

Rated E for Everyone Buckle Up It’s Wade’s Train of Thought (he is horny and swears and he gets stabbed)

[questions-about-blorbos]

❝The pear of anguish, also known as choke pear or mouth pear, is a device of disputed use invented in the early modern period. The mechanism consists of a pear-shaped metal body divided into spoon-like segments that can be spread apart with a spring or by turning a key. Its proposed functionality as a torture device is to be variously inserted into the mouth, rectum, or vagina, and then expanded to gag or mutilate the victim; its historical use as a torture device is controversial.❞ — Source.

TAP HERE FOR THE VARIANT OF THIS POLL.

This request was sent to us and we made a poll in response to it. Send any Blorbo-related question you want to our inbox and we’ll make a poll on which people can vote with their own Blorbos in minds

[kunikidaslove]

*Neatly folding this and putting it into my wallet*

[howifeltabouthim]

. . . he gave me an impassioned discourse defending Shakespeare's plots, saying that outrageous coincidence was more natural than carefully formed, reasoned action.

Iain Pears, from Arcadia

[celorangeine]

small post 😜 first time posting traditional art in tumblr. it's bennie playing guitar. is he actually playing. we.....may never know....

+ more bully unrelated doodles

[theticklishpear]

Trick or Treat? 🦇

(it's writeblr trick or treat!)

A treat for you! To keep with spooky season, here's a moodboard for The Witches of Duck Cabin!

"You're using me." No escaping magic this time: a truth, then. They knew what they were about and I had fed them new truths to weave into themselves. They may not have known exactly what Lake Ashem was before — I saw it as the rib laid the threads before me: they'd known the myth of my mother, but not the full tale of her abandoning her post to dive into the lake and rescue the dreaming — but they knew now. Eleanor's eyes glinted and Marjorie's fingers worked faster at the thorns, ripping them with the vigor of one taking the spine from an animal. The brambles beneath the cottage roiled, a mass so full of spines it would shred a person to pieces to storm across them without proper permission. The curl growing on Eleanor's lips was enough to tell me the witches of Westfold would never share secrets with a sheep. I leveled the sealing stick at Eleanor as she stood, the glass globe in one hand and the gem of the diadem flashing upon her brow. The cottage snarled, dropping the lights low and igniting the fireplace with a sudden wind of purple flame. Marjorie lifted to her feet, the forked branch in her hand once more and her teeth turning sharp and terrible as she smiled, wolf-like. The gold filigree decorating the interior and laced through the thatch of the roof overhead screamed as magic coursed through it. It was a grace that the rune on the end of the sealing stick couldn't be rubbed clean off, for I surely would have as I beat the door open and leaped over the swath of thorns erupting from the threshold stone. Magic surged from the cottage, following me across the meadow as I ran, dark and withering. The shadow-drift lurked in the sheen of the moon streaking through the night, a skinny sheep cropping the grass contentedly, unaware of the danger behind me. The drift called me friend, whispered, "Beware, beware," as all the trappings of home always did, and there was nothing I wanted more than to hear those words from the moss draped over the branches around the lake. The power of the cottage surged beneath my feet, ready to swallow me whole, bones and fear and all. The sheep stood up. Like something that belonged more in Clarette's nightmares than upon the soft green grass of this cozy little mountain pass, the skinny sheep rose up with its ears flicking this way and that, and then I saw its teeth, and it was not a sheep, nor any other sort of beast, but rather the third witch of Westfold, Darby Ettencourt, with clawed hands and dark port-wine birthmark staining her face and arms. Her hair laced through a wolf's skull and its empty eye sockets flared with orange fire as she stepped toward the shadow-drift with out-stretched hands.

[peargreen-jellybean]

dp x w idea i want to draw but idk if i should. pretty nsfw but nothing super graphic, down below 👇 (thoughts?)

wade in the kitchen, cooking something either really good or a bit fucked up

no shirt, no pants. wearing a “spooning leads to forking” apron tied back tight. skimpy underwear on his hips. still wearing the suit’s mask and boots

logan gets home- after a day of bringing home the bacon or hero work- and stops dead in his tracks at the sight of wade shifting around the kitchen. he’s used to various states of nudity from wade. but he hasn’t seen this much warped skin exposed and barely covered with lace-y underwear before. with a big bow, from the ties of the apron, tied up just above the curve of his ass

logan croaks a ‘what are you wearing?’

wade happily explains that the laundry is being done, including most of their clothes and the suit (and damnit he forgot to add fabric softener, it makes the suit feel so nice against his elbows). the first load (haha) will be done soon

logan clarifies he means the partially sheer, lace underwear

still happy to explain and unaware of the inferno fire gaze behind him, wade babbles about vanessa, a pegging session, a different pegging session with him wearing her panties, they were too small but the fabric was nice and the night was awe-some. he online shopped, jacked off a couple times in between, got a pair in the correct size, ruined those one night whoopsies, got another pair, those got stabbed thru with a machete, bought another pair and those are what he’s wearing. they’re his laundry day outfit

logan cannot. stop. staring. the shimmer of scarred skin and the muscles that move beneath it have always been rather attractive, but the tease of being almost completely bare increases the attractiveness of everything tenfold. his wide shoulders. the dip of his back. his curving hips. the apron’s ties ghosting his ass. his long legs

oh logan is fucked, and he cannot bring himself to really mind

———————————

at this point, i don’t know that i would do to continue this scenario bc it can go soo many directions. but the idea of a scantily clad wade oblivious to a very into it logan will not stop rattling around in my head

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

Hey there

What do you think of the show pulling a Philip J Fry on Alix as per Thomas’s Twitter? And how season 5 began with “thanks for saving our lives, now get the fuck out of reality”? Personally, I would have made the duo a trio and try to get all hands on deck

I thought it was super weird and didn't really understand the in-universe logic for why Alix needed to run away. I do get the meta logic, but we'll get to that in a bit. For now, let's focus on how the show tried to justify it. This is the dialogue when Alix gets her mission:

Ladybug: Once we have retrieved the Miraculous of time, you won't return it to me. You'll have to continue wearing it in order to protect it, until Monarch is defeated. Alix: Keep it? That means... Ladybug: (crestfallen) You won’t be able to return to this time right away.

Alix keeping the miraculous makes sense, but her not being able to return to her own time doesn't. What are they worried about that doesn't apply to Ladybug and Chat Noir, too? It's not like Alix's identity was outed at any point. The miraculous would have been perfectly safe in her pocket, so that's a terrible reason to send a 15-year-old girl wandering through time with no support system.

This oddness is not helped by Future Alix's presence in both this episode and Chat Blanc. It shows us that Future Alix can mess with the past for some reason, meaning that there's no reason for her past self to go on a solo mission. If things get too bad, then Future Alix can just come back to the past and fix it.

It would have made way more sense if future Alix wasn't a thing and if the rabbit was the one miraculous Monarch didn't get, leading Ladybug to give the rabbit to Alix for safe keeping. Alix would then offer to go back to the past and change things, but Ladybug would refuse and say, "You can't change your own past! But you can protect our future. Now that Monarch is so close to reaching his goal, I need my hero of last resort to make sure he doesn't win." Then Alix could either go off to monitor the time stream or Fluff could say that it was time to start Alix's training so she knew when a situation was dire enough that it was time to interfere, thereby implying that Alix might help, but wouldn't in most cases.

Of course, those fixes fall flat since Monarch does win, but I guess that's fine since neither version of Alix stopped it? Why the wish was fine, but Chat Blanc wasn't is beyond me.

This is the problem with introducing a time traveler to your show and not giving them clear rules that prevent them from helping. It fills the story with plot holes, which is the meta reason why Alix was shipped off. The writers quickly realized that the villain really couldn't have time travel powers, so they got the miraculous back to Ladybug and then removed it from play because they had no idea how to handle time travel given how badly they've mismanaged it so far.

Almost everything that happens in Evolution is there for a similar reason. Nothing about its plot makes sense and it seems obvious to me that the events of this episode are just a sloppily attempt to fix time-travel plot holes and to make season five's plot work even though it goes against established characterization.

For example, this episode sees Gabriel give up saving Emilie because he's too tempted by the idea of beating Ladybug. This makes no sense because Gabriel has never put defeating Ladybug above saving those he loves. He's actually given up potential victories when the cost to his loved ones was too high. It's not like the writers forgot about this trait either because they bring it back to "redeem" him in the final. If he hated Ladybug more than he loved Emilie, then the season couldn't end with him listening to Ladybug and changing his wish, so him choosing fighting Ladybug over saving Emilie at the start of the season makes no sense since his character supposedly gets worse as the season goes on.

This one-off sloppy change to his character was only there so that the writers could give Nathalie an excuse to no longer support Gabriel, which is really dumb because Nathalie doesn't see Gabriel pick Ladybug over Emilie. Given that Ladybug always wins no matter how clever Gabriel's plans are, it's straight up insane for Nathalie to assume that this time was any different. Just look at this dialogue, she has no idea what happened in the burrow! She just randomly assumes the worst after three seasons of blindly following him to the point where she is actively dying because of her blind faith in Gabriel:

Nathalie: (on-call) Gabriel, did it work? Gabriel: No, Ladybug tricked me! She stole the Time Miraculous from me! (Nathalie coughs from her sickness.) You have to help me! Come up with a new plan! Ladybug can’t get away with this! Nathalie: (on-call) You had the Time Miraculous. You could’ve chosen to save Emilie! You could’ve chosen to save me! (coughs) But instead, you chose your obsession with Ladybug and Cat Noir. You're insane, Gabriel! Gabriel: (stuttering and panicking) I-It’s not my fault! It was Ladybug!!

I'd like to take a moment to remind you that one of the times Gabriel gave up winning for the sake of a loved one was when he chose Nathalie over defeating Ladybug! Why is Nathalie so certain that he acted differently here???

Circling back to your terrific trio idea, while I do like the idea of there being a larger team (but not a team of 18), Alix is the last character I'd chose for that team. It's nothing against her character. I like Alix! The problem is that her power set is broken. If she was there, then we'd be asking why she doesn't just undo the events of the season four finale or use her powers to track down Monarch's identity because canon has failed to explain why those aren't options.

To be perfectly honest, I don't think that the time traveler we see should be one of the modern kids. It just introduces too many plot holes. I think Bunnyx should be someone from the past who is watching their own future and interfering based on very clear rules that leave them almost no room to help. I think it's fine if Alix is the holder who will follow this random person from the past, but we should never see future Alix and current Alix should never mess with current affairs. Which basically means that I'd never use the rabbit for an episode focused on Ladybug and Chat Noir. I'd use it for "filler" episodes that are just about Alix learning to use her powers, which is a pretty huge deviation from the show.