#things that i wrote

[vilevenom]

groppy groppy groppy groppy groppy

Please?

Hello Anon!! Thank you for your prompt ❤️ I absolutely love Groppy, but I have such a hard time writing it, sadly 😅 I used your prompt to try and help me get over a bit of writers block I'm currently suffering from, so hopefully it makes muster! It's short, but sweet! Enjoy~

It was the anniversary. Branch never forgot. How could he? After all, he was the reason his grandmother was no longer alive.

Quietly, he walked through the woods, a small candle clutched in his hand to help guide his way in the early morning twilight, while a small satchel over his shoulder weighed him down. He never stayed close to the village on the anniversary, too worried that some other troll would come along and interrupt him. No, this was a sacred tradition he held with no one but himself, in the most secluded spot he could find, while remaining close enough to the village to stay safe.

Once he thought he was a decent enough distance from the village (even further out than the hole he'd begun digging for his bunker), he settled himself between the roots of a tree. Carefully, he dug into his satchel, pulling out a well loved picture frame first. He brushed his fingers against the frame reverently, before setting it carefully against the base of the tree, propped up so it was in no danger of toppling over. Next, he pulled a few books out, between the pages of which carefully pressed and preserved dried flowers had been stored, just for the occasion. He set the flowers gingerly around the photo, affixing one just so to the top right corner of the frame.

When he was finally satisfied with how the flowers were arranged, he shifted back, allowing just enough space to set the candle down without worry of setting the flowers on fire. He then set his hands on his knees and took a deep breath, before quietly murmuring, "Good morning, Grandma," into the crisp morning air.

He sat like that for a while, quietly conversing with the photo, explaining to the memory of his grandmother how his life was going, and apologizing for failing her, until the sun began to rise above the horizon and the flame of his candle guttered out against a cool breeze. He figured that was about his queue to pack up and leave, when he heard a twig snap in the underbrush not far from where he was sat.

Quickly, Branch stood up, pulling a sharply whittled stick from his hair, a snarl on his face as he brandished it. "Who's there?!" he all but snarled, hackles rising as the bush in front of him began to quake.

"Phew!" A bright pink head popped out form the bushes, small twigs and leaves caught and tangled between strands of hair, "There you are! Man, you are one tough troll to track down!"

Branch visibly deflated, his arms dropping to his sides as his posture relaxed. "Poppy? What are you doing out here?"

"Looking for you, silly!" Poppy chirped, turning to pull herself free from the bushes, and somehow managing to tear the bottom hem of her dress as it caught on a particularly stubborn bramble. She scowled at it for a moment, but otherwise did not let it dampen her chipper mood and bright smile.

Branch sniffed in an uninterested manner, tucking his stick back into his hair. "And, why exactly, were you looking for me?"

"Because! I have an invitation for you," Poppy said, digging into her hair before offering a thick piece of cardstock to Branch, which was absolutely covered in glitter.

"No, thank you," Branch grunted, nose wrinkled as he gingerly pushed Poppy's hand and glittery invitation away from his person.

"Awww, come on, Branch," Poppy sighed, wiggling the invitation at him, "It's not like you have anything better to do!"

"As I matter of fact, I do," Branch growled, folding his arms over his chest with a scowl.

"Oh, yeah? And what might that….be," Poppy trailed off as her gaze obviously caught on the flowers and picture frame set up amongst the roots of the tree they stood next to. Branch swallowed thickly as he immediately side stepped to try and block them from her view.

"None of your business," Branch ground out, even as Poppy shoved past him to get a better look at the make-shift shrine.

"Who is that?" Poppy asked, pointing at the picture as she turned her head to look at Branch, open curiosity on her face.

"My grandma," Branch bit out, already wishing this conversation was over and that Poppy would go about her marry way and leave him alone.

"Why do you have a photo of her, with all these dead flowers?" Poppy asked, an air of confused disgust as she said the word 'dead'.

"They're not dead! Well…I mean, they are. But they're pressed! It's a way to keep flowers so they don't get all rotten and gross," Branch huffed, bodily moving in front of Poppy again to try and push her away from the roots.

"Okay…but why do you have them all set up around a picture of your grandma?" Poppy continued, not seeming to be phased in the least as Branch shoved her backwards.

"Because she's dead!" he finally snapped loudly, giving Poppy a hard shove, which made her stumble backwards. She looked like she was in a bit of a stupor as Branch sucked in a deep breath to try and calm himself down. "She died, so I was…ugh. It's none of your business!" He turned away, hunching his shoulders around his ears as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Now, go away."

"Branch…" Poppy's voice was soft as she spoke, and Branch could hear the faint sounds of her foot steps in the grass as she approached again. He braced himself in preparation for her to try and hug him, only to let his shoulders drop in surprise as her footsteps continued past him. He turned his head to see what she was doing, about to snap at her to leave again, only to watch as she carefully knelt in front of the photo, patting down her skirt so it lay neatly over her lap.

"Hello, Mrs. Branch's grandma, Ma'am," Poppy said quietly to the photo, earning a surprised little sound from Branch. "You should know that your grandson is a really stubborn troll, who needs to learn to have fun once and a while."

At that Branch made an indignant sound and marched over to Poppy, dropping into a cross legged position next to her with a scowl on his face. "I do not! I have fun!"

"Digging holes in the dirt is not 'fun', Branch," Poppy scolded, though she didn't look up at him as she reached out to fix a couple of the flowers that had shifted in the morning breeze.

"It can be," Branch groused, almost sulking as Poppy chuckled quietly next to him.

"Sure it can. Anyway…It's nice to meet you. I'm Poppy," the pink troll offered, addressing the photo.

Branch watched as the princess began to speak animatedly to the photo, much as he'd been doing before she'd arrived. It surprised him a bit, that Poppy could so easily shift gears from trying to gang press him into going to a party, to quietly speaking to his grandmother's photo like she was right there. He supposed he wasn't the only troll who spoke to lost loved ones - he was just more private about it.

Poppy's rambling speech slowly seemed to come to an end after a few minutes, her final sentiment to Branch's grandmother being, "He's a good troll. I think he just needs to let loose a bit sometimes."

Branch snorted at the very idea, but couldn't help the small smile that curled his lips. He wasn't sure how, but Poppy managed to make his heart feel just a little bit lighter on a day that it was meant to feel heavy. And, perhaps, if he still had his colors, she would've made him shine just a little bit brighter.

[ekebolou]

A Haunting, pt. 5

Five parts because I'm a wordy bastard.

Also, Gaelic is a living language and it's important not to imply it's some kind of dead or fantastical cultural artifact by using it as a 'fantasy' language, but I used it this time because I want you to be able to drop it into a dictionary and at least have some idea of what's being said, while maintaining the sense that knowing exactly what's being said isn't how the characters are experiencing it and isn't vital to the story. So I did use some Gaelic.

Latin is fair game.

and I dunno, maybe I'm crap at endings.

Cole’s hand squeezed the back of his neck in confirmation, and he lingered just long enough to brush lips against Dominicus’ cheek before the feeling of his body’s nearness dissipated in the dark. Dominicus heard only the slightest shuffling as Cole passed on the plan, and finally, a sliver of light let them all find each other long enough to grasp hands, before being closed off again.

Cole was in the lead as they crept up the stony hall, all the way back to where the path split. They curled like a worm around the fork, Odhrán at the end with the lantern backing them into the rightward path, so their line still ‘faced’ the exit path, Dominicus at the head. Shuffling back to be well-hidden by the split, pressed against the wall, Cole broke away for a moment. Dominicus’s heart pounded unusually fast until he returned, hand searching out hand in the dark.

This time, Dominicus pulled Cole in, but for reasons unclear even to himself, instead of explaining his plan, Dominicus kissed him, before pushing him into second place in line.

Well, it was very dark. That was a good moment for it, wasn’t it? Anyway, Cole had kind of kissed him first, earlier, back in the little cavern. And nobody could see.

Each hand’s grip tightened on the others when the faint glow of distant light broke the shadows’ hold.

The Second Years’ were closer than the light made it seem, because the whisper that broke the quiet was as loud as if directed right into to each of their ears.

“Hsst!”

The light bobbed to a stop, then swept, low and slow, over the ground.

“I didn’t see that the first time we went past.”

“Well, it’s hidden, isn’t it? By the wall.”

There was a pause.

“There should be some light – it’s not that far.”

“I fuckin’ hate this place. It’s still creepy.”

“Maybe they’re not that dumb.”

There was an incredulous snort, but another pause.

“They would have signalled, up the other way, if they had caught them.”

Dominicus’ stomach slightly dropped when he heard a third voice break into this whispered conversation between two.

“I hope this isn’t a waste of fucking time. I’ve got a test tomorrow,” it yawned.

Three was a lot. There were six of the First Years, but surely they were expecting no more than five. The way the Second Years spoke suggested more than one waited at the entrance accessible from the Second Year dorms, which meant their numbers were, at the very least, supposed to be evenly matched. But with the differences in experience, in training, between First and Second Years –  at even numbers, the Second Years outmatched the First Years considerably. If the odds were any worse than that, the First Years’ situation would be dire.

This made Dominicus very angry – and his hand hurt. Anger had tightened his grip, but that wasn’t why; it hurt because Cole had tightened his.

“We made them scared shitless of being caught. I bet they put out the light before they reached the cavern. It’s a good sign.”

“Dim the light,” came the order, and the rosy glow of the Second Years’ light dimmed. Apparently they hadn’t had time or access to a shuttered lantern, and were relying on some kind of drape, because some light remained, definitely more faint, but like the sun in such pervasive darkness.

Dominicus squeezed then pulled his hand free, crouching low, but soon he felt the hand that had been in his rest on his back, hearing the shuffling as Cole crouched beside him. Together, they snuck towards the break in the passage.

“Bring the torch – ‘my enemies’ gifts’ you know,” said one of the Second Years, followed by a dark laugh and the sound of wood scraping against stone, then lightly smacking skin.

The Second Years passed the break. Galen felt for Cole, then felt past him tugging whichever of the four it was in the lead to pass them both, and head back to the entrance. In a passage so narrow they could feel each other go by, the thought that the Second Years’ must have heard them or felt them too was agonizing, but the rosy light, blocked by shifting bodies, continued to sink further into the left hand passage, towards the little cavern.

Again finding Cole’s neck, Dominicus pulled him close, and since he apparently wasn’t going to leave, shared his plan. He felt Cole’s grin against his cheek.

But they had to move quickly, and quietly.

There was, of course, the opening of the path, just before the little chamber, that had so unnerved them – here, the Second Years, if more familiar, would know to completely shroud their light lest they lose the element of surprise. Dominicus, facing the path towards the exit and relying on the echo, started to whisper indistinct Midraeic, breaking in now and then with his most precisely pronounced Ainjir words.

They heard the shuffle of the Second Years to a halt, but the Second Years didn’t turn back – they resumed heading for the cavern. Creeping up the passage behind them, Dominicus continued his whisper, doing his best to make it sound like more than one voice, aided now and then by Cole matching his tone, slightly farther away. And every second word, Dominicus dropped his volume lower, and grew closer to the edge of their dim circle of light, the twisting passages turning their words into a confusing blanket of near-far echoes.

“…hate this fuckin’ place…” one of the Second Years mumbled, followed by a soft thud.

On cue, the group reached the widening edge of the cavern, and the faint light disappeared into darkness.

And this was stupid – Dominicus knew it, it had been stupid when he planned it – but luckily, Cole was at least as stupid as he was. The moment the light disappeared, a voice boomed through the dark:

“FEALLTÓIR”

Though the startle was enough to draw the shade from the light, it all happened too swiftly to do anything but blind the Second Years, who found themselves barrelled over as something crashed into their knees. The fallen lantern smashed in smothering darkness.

The voice had not stopped, either, but continued, wavering between a growl and a shriek

“DÚNMHARFÓIR DUBH, NA DÍCHREIDMHIGH”

The shouts of surprise from the Second Years first gave way to curses, first on the First Years, then on the caverns, and then to each other, to shut up and stop panicking and find the speaker – it had to be one of those little snot-pebbles, those self-satisfied little pipsqueaks. But by the time they had calmed themselves, and regrouped, and at least one of them had slipped and cracked his tailbone and been persuaded to stop cursing the fact, they found themselves alone, in an increasingly silent, velvety darkness.

Now it was a game of who would blink first – they (the First Years) had to be here, there were only so many ways to go – but as the Second Years stilled after bouncing fruitlessly off the walls and each other looking for their prey it grew increasingly cold, and increasingly, it seemed, lonely.

And it was only after total silence had fallen, and even the injured one had quieted his panting breath that they heard a gentle whisper – not quite low, not quite high, bouncing softly down the passages, as if moving from first this one, then that one…

And it was speaking more Old Ainjir.

Dominicus, shivering uncomfortably in the puddle by the wall, could only understand about every other word or so, but he assumed the Second Years knew more. At any rate, it was a lament, a sad and pleading tale, a searching and loving and losing tale. And in the dark, in the quiet, melding with the voice of the waters that murmured through the tunnels, it was chilling.

And so was the water. He meant to be here, thinking if the stumbling Second Years heard a splash when they stepped, they would move away rather than towards it. But still – it was cold as Hell. So it was mostly because he thought he was otherwise going to die of the cold if he stayed in the puddle that Dominicus slowly stood and tried his best to edge his way out, moving with painful slowness to neither stir the water nor barrel into someone, one hand holding the wall to his back and the other outstretched to at least, perhaps, sense the warmth if he was getting too near to anyone....

But it didn’t work that way. His cold hand could feel nothing – Hell, he could hardly feel he still had a hand – yet by sheer uncontrolled fate, the strange blessings of the Prophet to his faithful – his cold hand caressed the jaw of the injured one, who leaned half-over his own knees to try to ease his bruised back.

The Second Year screamed.

The Second Years all screamed.

And they ran.

It was a miracle Dominicus wasn’t trampled, and Cole wasn’t discovered, for which Dominicus promised to be duly thankful if he ever made it out of this freezing hole. Cole had been hiding just past the break, which all of the Second Years at least had the sense to feel for in their desperate scramble to get out of the caverns, so they could take the branch that would lead them back to the dorms.

Dominicus finding him wasn’t as miraculous; once the Second Years passed, Cole stood in the center of the passage that would lead them back the way they had gotten in until Dominicus, wet and shaking, ran into him.

They dared not speak until they found the others and were out of the blasted passages, but kissing was mostly silent, and, ostensibly, warming, so they did do that. At least a little bit.

They shuffled their way carefully down the passage until the faint promise of light turned into the four cadets, bravely but with utmost reluctance, waiting in the same alcove they had been at the start of the night.

“Yes, they lived, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” Murry intoned as Galen and Cole came around the corner again.

“No!” Glasan said, hand held out imperiously, only shaking a little bit, “You heard the fuckin’ thing – we’ve angered it!”

“Glasan,” Taig sighed, running a hand over his face, “That was obviously them.”

“I don’t fuckin’ believe it,” Odhrán said, chewing his free thumb while clutching the lantern as high to his chest as he conceivably could without burning himself. It was not at all clear to anyone what it was, exactly, he didn’t believe, but he also wasn’t moving towards the exit.

“You said we could ask!” Glasan insisted.

“He doesn’t know Old Ainjir!” Odhrán said, pointing to Galen.

“You don’t know Old Ainjir!” Taig said.

“None of us know Old Ainjir!” Glasan cried, “That’s the fuckin’ point!”

Galen looked at Cole. Cole smiled at him, but said nothing.

“We saw the ghost.” Galen muttered. “You are fine. It is… happy.”

“Didn’t sound happy,” Glasan muttered. The four cadets exchanged glances. Then they looked at Cole.

“Don’t look at him,” Galen snapped. “He is useless. Look at me. It was mad at the Second Years for tricking you. You are fine. Let’s go, you have the only light.”

They didn’t move, but at least switched their staring to Galen.

He sighed. “I have… asked the Prophet to reach the spirit and… touch it back, or whatever.”

“…Are you su—”

But before Odhrán could finish, Galen stepped back from the group, clapped a fist to one side of his chest, and drew a line from one shoulder to the other, then a vertical line in the air, then again, with the other fist, in the other direction. The whole time, he muttered continuously in Midraeic, clearly intoning a reference to each one of the four in a sing-song mess of syllables, indicating with each the vertical line gesture.

“If there is any lingering curse, the Prophet protects you. The ghost is appeased. You have touched the dead. By proxy. And are, uh… cleansed.”

The four again exchanged glances, smiling. Odhrán finally lowered the lantern; Glasan let out a theatrical sigh, and patted Murry on the back. In spite of his protests, Taig seemed relieved.

“And if we do not fuck off out of these tunnels I will ask him to curse you and invite the spirits back.”

Now they moved.

And Dominicus let himself shake again – it was ungodly cold being wet in these tunnels. Cole stayed close – Dominicus saw him fingering his coat buttons, loosening them quite slowly, as if contemplating offering it to replace Dominicus’ soaking one – but, of course, that would be a step too far. How? Dominicus wasn’t sure, but was in equal measure sure he would have to refuse it, or possibly insult him, or start a fight. Why?

…There were witnesses. That would be… tender. And all of the sudden, Dominicus shivered violently. Cole grabbed his hands and started to rub them between his own, bringing them up to breathe on them as they slid through the dark after the pathetic gaggle of other cadets.

Once again on the surface, they had to stagger their leaving, so as not create too big a target for any eye that happened to catch them – after all, unlike trespass into forbidden areas, cadets sneaking off into bushes after hours was something only the most hardened officers cared about. They had all been young once, after all, and most of the First Years were still four to a room. It was certainly better for morale not to keep one’s roommates awake.

Galen and Cole, of course, were the last to go.

“I think he was trying to thank you,” Cole said, watching Taig crouch-run (totally unnecessarily) off into the dark towards the First Year dormitories.

“What the fuck kind of thank you is that? He just mumbled about it being a nice night,” Galen said, unable to keep the slight chatter of his teeth down.

“Tits, you’re ashen.”

“Eha! Fuck! What are you doing?” Galen slapped Cole’s hands away from the buttons of his coat.

“You have got to get rid of at least some of those wet clothes – cut it out, you madman. This wool will dry fast if only you get the water out of it, just give me a moment. If you don’t, it’ll be wet all tomorrow, too.”

And, of course, Cole had Galen’s jacket unbuttoned almost the moment Galen stopped getting in his way – he did, after all, have a lot of practice. Galen looked ready to fight about his shirt, but Cole sighed at him – sighed! Like that! At him! Like his mother! – and he got that off, too.

It was, Dominicus had to admit, much warmer under Cole’s jacket.

“Don’t touch my pants,” Dominicus said, watching Cole twist his jacket as if trying to break it. “Be careful with that.”

“I do have other interests, you know. Your pants are your own trouble,” Cole said, “and if anything this will make it more pliable and less scratchy, and you’ll owe me thanks. They make these pieces of shit out the cloth cows wouldn’t tolerate. If I can do the work to break the cloth without pilling you might actually want to thank me, even.”

That was a ridiculous assertion – imagine, him thanking Esras Cole for anything, but still.

Dominicus sat and watched him; above ground it was actually fairly warm, despite nightfall, especially sheltered from the wind. Of course, Cole’s jacket – definitely too big for Galen – was warm from his body, too, and that was a warmth Dominicus had learned to appreciate, even if he wasn’t particularly happy about it. But it wasn’t the warmth that was making him sleepy – not sleepy, perhaps content? It made him sink his back into a deeper curve, let more of the bushes support him despite their poking branches, so he could watch Cole bent over his task, hair shining in the moonlight, sleeves pushed up so every twist of the fabric brought cords of muscle out in his forearms like it forced silver streams of water from the cloth. Absent everything else – absent the Academy, absent their contest, absent the pressure of his faith and the strangeness of the Ainjir – he could watch that for a long time.

But thanking Esras Cole?

“I didn’t know you knew Old Ainjir,” Galen said. It had been clever; he could admit Cole could be clever.

But Cole smiled and it was fake. “I don’t. I know some poetry – some poetry knowing requires some Old Ainjir – and it seemed appropriate.”

Galen wished he had said nothing, or Cole had ignored him and not replied at all, but he didn’t know what to do with that wish. It just sat on him, like a walnut too big for a squirrel’s mouth, and he was the stupid squirrel that wouldn’t let it go.

“I didn’t know you knew how to dispel ghosts,” Cole said, holding up the coat to see his work – thank fuck, Dominicus thought, a little more squeezing to do. “Your Prophet doesn’t do such things.”

“What do you know about it?” Dominicus snapped, and while it was infuriating, at least this time the smile was real. The stupid bastard must have done some reading. Or… listened to him. Possibly.

“What did you say over them?” Cole asked, this time ignoring Dominicus, as he occasionally (very occasionally) should.

“Bread recipe.”

Cole stopped his work and looked at him.

Dominicus shrugged. “Bread recipe. Bonum panem fert. Panis plana allium…”

Cole laughed – loud enough to cause Dominicus to start, but really, what if they got caught? Who cared? He was comfortable. All the leaves were falling in Cole’s jacket, which was warm, and not his, and would fall all over Cole’s floor when he shook it out. It almost made up for the fake smile, that laugh.

It almost made him want the leaves to fall on his floor.

And maybe they would.

At some point, anyway.

“Thank you for coming,” Dominicus said, surprising himself with how painless it was. That had nothing to do with anything. It was only proper, the little Catillia-voice in his head agreed, probably insincerely.

Cole paused his squeezing a second time, a smile that seemed just as surprising passing quickly over his face before he buried it – he buried it so very deep. “You pursue interesting entertainments.”

“Can’t fuck all the time,” Dominicus said.

Cole lost it, this time struggling to smother it. He fell back on his butt, chucking the jacket at Dominicus. “Virtue’s Tits, Galen – how they would love you, if they weren’t so scared of you.”

“What is scary?” Dominicus scowled.

“That face, for one. It was remarkably brave of your little tentmate to get up the balls to ask for your help.”

“Then he is at least as stupid as he is smart.”

 “If you say so,” Cole replied.

“I do,” Galen snapped, infuriated to find himself doubling back to defend his idiot tentmate to his idiot… “Why are you so…?”

But he couldn’t finish that thought either, instead just fiercely bundling his damp jacket in his fists and holding it out in Cole’s direction.

Cole, the absolute bastard, said, “Be careful with that.”

Dominicus flung the bundle aside, shrugged himself out of Cole’s coat, crawled the short distance between him and flung himself into Cole’s lap. Straddling him, Dominicus seized Cole’s shirt and kissed him ferociously. Cole’s hands first found his back, then butt, then hips, drawing him closer.

Just when Cole thought he might drown, Dominicus let the kiss go, yet Cole dragged after him, desperate to drown. “Shit – Galen–”

“Shut up,” Galen said. “You have nothing good to say. Nothing good will come of this.”

Then, completely bafflingly, he kissed Cole again, though more gently, every bit as hungry. This time, he released Cole and stayed close, forehead pressed to forehead, hands cradling Cole’s jaw to keep his face turned up towards him. Cole, who had closed his eyes – like a normal person – was as he found himself so often when they kissed, forced to confront Galen’s gaze fixed on his face, inches away, seeing everything, always seeing everything, probably seeing more than Cole ever wanted anyone to see. It made his chest burn, and he wasn’t sure whether that was good or not but he knew he hated it, and never wanted it to go away.

It was terrifying. Why was it always terrifying and exhilarating and…

“I have made my pants your trouble,” Galen said softly – and indeed, wet as he had been, sitting on Cole like he was, soaked a very warm area in shivery cold. “Now tell me of your other interests, Esras Cole.”

Cole had never been as good a talker, once certain other things were in play, but, if only to defend his own honor, and because it didn’t require much thought, he repeated a few lines of the poem he had used earlier, to help chase their enemies away.

He wanted desperately for Galen to start kissing him again, but instead Galen said, “Tell me what it means.”

For many reasons, not least of which he was very ready to be fucked, thank you, Cole had difficulty bringing up the right words. “It was what it sounded like. Like the story. The lovers parted, unable to find one another, in danger apart.”

“Eha,” Galen smiled, “you do know Old Ainjir.”

“I know poems,” Cole said, quite against his will. “Just enough Old Ainjir to get by with them.”

“Then say more poems,” Galen replied, “and less stupid shit, and you will be easier to like, too.”

Cole might have liked to fight back – or at least defend himself – but Galen was kissing him again. And he would say all the poems he liked, as long as Galen kept kissing him.

[etriva]

Poker Face (1259 words) by fabrega Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Ted Lasso (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Roy Kent/Jamie Tartt Characters: Roy Kent, Jamie Tartt Additional Tags: Season/Series 03, Bisexuality Summary:

They're talking about Keeley and her new girlfriend when Jamie asks Roy: "D'you ever think about being bi?"

[stephrabig]

Hell yeahhhhhhh

[inkskinned]

because sometimes there are invisible tests and invisible rules and you're just supposed to ... know the rule. someone you thought of as a friend asks you for book recommendations, so you give her a list of like 30 books, each with a brief blurb and why you like it. later, you find out she screenshotted the list and send it out to a group chat with the note: what an absolute freak can you believe this. you saw the responses: emojis where people are rolling over laughing. too much and obsessive and actually kind of creepy in the comments. you thought you'd been doing the right thing. she'd asked, right? an invisible rule: this is what happens when you get too excited.

you aren't supposed to laugh at your own jokes, so you don't, but then you're too serious. you're not supposed to be too loud, but then people say you're too quiet. you aren't supposed to get passionate about things, but then you're shy, boring. you aren't supposed to talk too much, but then people are mad when you're not good at replying.

you fold yourself into a prettier paper crane. since you never know what is "selfish" and what is "charity," you give yourself over, fully. you'd rather be empty and over-generous - you'd rather eat your own boundaries than have even one person believe that you're mean. since you don't know what the thing is that will make them hate you, you simply scrub yourself clean of any form of roughness. if you are perfect and smiling and funny, they can love you. if you are always there for them and never admit what's happening and never mention your past and never make them uncomfortable - you can make up for it. you can earn it.

don't fuck up. they're all testing you, always. they're tolerating you. whatever secret club happened, over a summer somewhere - during some activity you didn't get to attend - everyone else just... figured it out. like they got some kind of award or examination that allowed them to know how-to-be-normal. how to fit. and for the rest of your life, you've been playing catch-up. you've been trying to prove that - haha! you get it! that the joke they're telling, the people they are, the manual they got- yeah, you've totally read it.

if you can just divide yourself in two - the lovable one, and the one that is you - you can do this. you can walk the line. they can laugh and accept you. if you are always-balanced, never burdensome, a delight to have in class, champagne and glittering and never gawky or florescent or god-forbid cringe: you can get away with it.

you stare at your therapist, whom you can make jokes with, and who laughs at your jokes, because you are so fucking good at people-pleasing. you smile at her, and she asks you how you're doing, and you automatically say i'm good, thanks, how are you? while the answer swims somewhere in your little lizard brain:

how long have you been doing this now? mastering the art of your body and mind like you're piloting a puppet. has it worked? what do you mean that all you feel is... just exhausted. pick yourself up, the tightrope has no net. after all, you're cheating, somehow, but nobody seems to know you actually flunked the test. it's working!

aren't you happy yet?

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

the fact that shakespeare was a playwright is sometimes so funny to me. just the concept of the "greatest writer of the English language" being a random 450-year-old entertainer, a 16th cent pop cultural sensation (thanks in large part to puns & dirty jokes & verbiage & a long-running appeal to commoners). and his work was made to be watched not read, but in the classroom teachers just hand us his scripts and say "that's literature"

just...imagine it's 2450 A.D. and English Lit students are regularly going into 100k debt writing postdoc theses on The Simpsons screenplays. the original animation hasn't even been preserved, it's literally just scripts and the occasional SDH subtitles.txt. they've been republished more times than the Bible

[regicide1997]

"No more Mr Niceguy!" —Ms Niceguy, coming out as trans

Give me your money:

[adriles]

when we’re done with our overwhelming grief we’ll eat i guess

[caramiaaddio]

all this talk about goncharov but i dont see anybody posting the soundtrack??? like how are you gonna talk about this movie without the music

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

you’ve been katsuki’s for as long as you can remember.

sure, he had never outwardly called you his girlfriend, but when you were both seven years old, he came up to you. chest heaving slightly from running up and down the hill where he had gotten you a freshly plucked out bouquet of flowers. the roots were still clinging to them and he got dirt all over your hands from forcibly grabbing them and shoving the bouquet in them before you could even form a sentence.

“since you accepted the flowers, you’re mine now.” he mumbled, his little hands tightened into fists at his sides and chubby cheeks a cute shade of pink, staring at you as confidently as he could.

a grin grows on his face when you respond with a simple “okay !” and a bright smile. the grin on his face never disappears even as his mom scolds him for getting you both all dirty.

you were katsuki’s in middle school too, when the boys in class decided to play kiss, marry, kill and he had somehow gotten dragged into it. the girls in your class tried their best to seem uninterested, claiming the boys were being childish, but you noticed how hard some of them were straining their ears trying to hear what the guys were talking about in their own little corner of the room. you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little curious as well.

katsuki was as ruthless as you’d known him to be, choosing to kill any girl that wasn’t to his liking, which ended up being all of them. much to the other boys’ chagrin, claiming he had no taste.

then your name was brought up.

at that, his eyes widened and he turned in his seat to see if you were watching. you had never turned your head away so fast in your life and you were pretty sure you heard something go “crack”.

he clicked his tongue. mumbling something about how stupid the game was before muttering out a “kiss yn, marry yn and kill that other bitch.” before getting up and stomping away, claiming he had to go to the bathroom followed closely by the whoops and hollers of his two friends behind him.

you both made eye contact when he walked out and you think you’ll never forget how red his cheeks were.

you were katsuki’s when he was the one to walk you to and from school everyday, claiming you would somehow get lost without him. you were katsuki’s when he had begrudgingly shoved homemade valentines day chocolates into your arms, mumbling something about how you had been upset nobody had gotten you anything last year, conveniently leaving out the fact he had scared off all the other guys trying to offer you anything.

you were katsuki’s when he grabbed your hand during the winter because he said you’d “end up dying of hypothermia with the way you’re chittering over there.” and you were his when you were the only person he laughed around. loud, genuine laughter that you and only you could squeeze out of him. you were katsuki’s when he randomly kissed you goodnight at your door one night and he’s been doing it ever since, and gets all pouty when you turn away from his kisses to tease him.

“are we dating ?” you had asked him. you’re both in high school now and you’re in his dorm room. your legs are on his lap and he’s got a comfortable grip on your leg, which tightens after he registers your questions “hah?” he looks utterly confused and a little insulted as he looks back at you, his entire face scrunched up in confusion. you pinch his nose and he swats at your hand.

“are we dating ? like—am i your girlfriend.” you say again and katsuki’s face scrunches up even harder. he huffs and looks back at his phone, landing a little smack on your leg still placed in his lap. “ ‘course yer my fuckin’ girlfriend.” he spits out, obviously irritated. then he looks back at you “I haven’t made it obvious ?” he says sarcastically. one of his eyebrows lifted as he pokes at your leg still very much in his lap.

you simply shrug “s’not that. it’s just because you’ve never actually asked me out before, so i was a little confused on where we stood.” you mumble. he stares at you while you speak and he stares a little longer before sighing. then he leans towards you and flicks your forehead.

“ow !”

“dumbass.” he murmurs. there’s a slight pout on his face and his cheeks are light shade of pink when he looks you in the eyes again. he grabs both your cheeks with one hand and smushes them together to push your lips out and presses multiple wet kisses onto them that have you squealing and squirming. his wet lips are pulled into a smirk when he pulls back and you try your best to at least look a little angry, you really do. but it’s useless when he looks at you like that.

“of course you’re my girlfriend” he reiterates. his smirk’s been replaced for something softer, something more sincere as he gazes at you with so much unadulterated affection it makes your head spin a little. “you’ve always been mine.” he says it in a teasing tone and his hand is still smushing your cheeks out and it hurts a little but his eyes are still the same. they’re warm and soft and so, so enamored with you and only you.

when he finally let’s go of your face and pulls you fully into his lap, you realize katsuki’s been yours for as long as you’ve been his.

you smile brightly at him but turn your nose up when he leans in to kiss you again. “i still haven’t heard what i wanna hear though, mr. bakugou.”

he rolls his eyes and pinches at your thigh as he mumbles out a “don’t call me that.” sighing, he looks at you intensely and you suddenly feel very shy.

“will you be my girlfriend, ya shitty girl ?” and he says it as a joke, you both know it is cus his lips are already forming into a smirk the second he finishes his sentence. and you’re pulling at his nose the moment you register it, but you’re both smiling hard. he laughs and you’re sure you’ll never get tired of the sound. “what’s your answer, pretty ?” he asks playfully and you pretend to really think it over just to mess with him, and giggling out a “yes!” when he suddenly pounces on you. flipping you both over and tickling you mercilessly, calling it revenge for you “taking too damn long to answer.”

you’d been katsuki’s for as long as you can remember, and you hope you can be forever.

[lazylittledragon]

'i'll just do a couple of doodles of mombin™/platonic stobin parents' nevermind, borderline graphic novel

[vilevenom]

One more quick little thing before I head to bed for the night! This one is for @em-doods, because we got to chatting about some sweet, sweet JD and Clay sadness ❤️ If you haven't gone to check out her adorable trolls art, I highly recommend it! I especially recommend checking out this post here, as well as this one, since those are the versions of BroZone's parents referenced in this ficlet~

It's relatively short, but I hope you enjoy it, anyway!

One of the last things John Dory had expected when he'd settled himself on the beach outside Bruce's resort was Clay plopping himself down next to him. Truthfully, they'd been getting along much better in the few months that had passed since Floyd had been rescued, but there was still plenty of tension between the middle and eldest brother. They'd talked through a small handful of issues, such as Clay's bitterness about John taking all the fun out of him being the 'Fun Boy', and John's incessant need for their past performances to be 'perfect'. However, the two still did not tend to purposefully seek out each others company.

"Uh…hello?" John chuckled rather awkwardly, offering Clay a lopsided smile, "What's up?"

Clay simply stared out at the ocean for a moment, before turning his gaze to John Dory. "Tell me about Mom and Dad."

John blinked, a bit taken aback by the sudden demand without preamble. "Sorry, what?"

Clay rolled his eyes, but didn't seem particularly annoyed by John's confusion. "Tell me about Mom and Dad. I don't really remember a whole lot, and I know you've got a memory like a steel trap."

"Oh. I suppose you were only about nine when they were taken, weren't you?" John mostly muttered to himself, rubbing at his chin. "Okay, sure. Uh, is there anything in particular you wanna know?"

With a short shrug Clay leaned back on his hands, turning to stare back out at the ocean. "I dunno…Got any fun stories from when we were kids?"

John thought about that for a moment, before snapping his fingers, a grin spreading across his face. "Yeah! When we were little, Mom used to make up all sorts of fun little dances while she was doing chores and things around the pod. She liked singing well enough, but she loved dancing. One of my personal favorites of hers was her laundry dance. When you were old enough to walk on your own, you started trying to mimic her dance moves. You usually wound up falling over and tugging whatever laundry Mom had just hung up down, and getting all tangled up." John let out a fond laugh, shifting to sit forward a bit. "She'd laugh and help you get untangled, all while you cried about messing up the dance."

"Is that why you got me doing the choreo for BroZone?" Clay sniffed, a small frown on his face.

John sighed, his joy at recalling his mother quickly dampened by Clay's apparent need to constantly remind John Dory of what a horrible brother he'd been. "Maybe a bit, yeah," he admitted quietly, letting out a little puff of air. "You loved dancing. With Mom, especially. I guess, maybe…maybe it was a bit to keep her spirit alive with us. With the band." He sighed, rubbing at his face, "That sounds selfish."

Clay snorted, shooting John a wry smile. "It totally does, man."

"Shut up," John laughed, shoving his brother gently in the shoulder. Clay swayed slightly, but made no move to retaliate. John chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, before blurting, "You look like her."

Clay startled slightly, turning wide eyes on John. "Excuse me, what?"

"Sorry, I-ugh," John raked his fingers though his hair in mild irritation at himself. "You look like Mom. You take after her. A lot. The rest of us sort of take mostly after Dad, but you look so much like Mom. And it's way more apparent, now that you're older."

"Do I?" Clay sat up and glanced at his hands, flexing his fingers.

"Yeah, bro. Mom was super into books, and she had all these amazing ideas," John sighed wistfully, watching the waves roll into the sandy shore, "She was super smart, and really kind. And she was just ridiculous. Any time one of us would go to her with some stupid little kid idea, she'd do her best to help us achieve whatever it was, even if it was practically impossible." He laughed, before he began to rummage around int the pockets of his vest, finally pulling out a well worn photo. "Here! I almost forgot I had this on me."

Clay accepted the photo reverently, eyes wide as he took in the still frame from so long ago in their past. A very young John Dory was stood next to a tall, lean looking troll with voluminous teal hair. Clay barely recognized himself in the photo, a trolling no older than perhaps five, propped on her hip, shyly waving at the camera. "Is that…?"

"That's you and Mom, yeah. I think this picture is right around your fourth or fifth hatchday. You were starting to get a bit too big to be carried around, but you kept getting jealous of Floyd, so Mom would make a point of carrying you around as much as she could."

"Oh," Clay murmured, startling a bit as a wet drop hit the corner of the picture. He tipped his head back to find the sky devoid of clouds, only to quickly touch his face and realize he'd begun to cry.

"Even despite being in that cage, she always did her best to make sure everyone always had a smile on their face," John continued quietly, not noticing his brothers plight. "After Mom and Dad got taken, you started trying to do that. Fill that void that Mom left behind, trying to make everyone laugh or smile…" Finally, he looked up to find Clay with silent tears pouring down his ruddy cheeks. He looked alarmed for a moment, reaching out hesitantly, not quite sure if his touch was welcome, only to jerk in surprise as Clay fell into his side with a sniffle. With mild trepidation he gently settled his arm around Clay's shoulders, giving him a little squeeze.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the soft crashing of the waves on the beach, and Clay's quiet, hiccupping sobs.

"I forgot what she looked like," Clay admitted after a time, not moving from his brother's hold.

"Sometimes I forget, too," John sighed, rubbing Clay's shoulder, "It's why I'm so glad I managed to get hold of our old photo albums when I went back to the tree. You can keep that one, if you want."

"Can I?"

"Of course. I've got plenty more, back in Rhonda."

"Thanks, JD."

"Anytime."

[ekebolou]

A Haunting, pt. 3

This is inappropriate materials for minors. NC-17. If you don't like fuckin', you won't like this chapter. That's pretty much all there is. Don't read if dicks touching make you feel poorly.

If you do like fuckin', I was a bit rusty, I think I re-used some tropes I used with these two before. But, uh... they do a lot a fuckin'. that's my excuse

the real question you should be asking yourself, at the end of this one

is what happened

to the fucking plum

Cole was not in the lead, and it was slightly thrilling to not be in the lead. He wanted Dominicus to lead them back to his room (fate favour him, not Dominicus’ room, that was for sure), but he didn’t want to get in front and look like he was in a rush. He could, of course, try to stop Dominicus – or at least hold him up – but he knew in that very point of his gut that if he tried, Dominicus would resist, and if he resisted, then they would fight, and if they fought, Cole would lay down right there and let Dominicus fuck him. It would be untoward.

It had its appeal. But a little extra walking to wherever it was Dominicus thought they would be sufficiently concealed and they could skip straight to the end.

It turned out to be not that far to walk: there was, outside the library, a set of well shaded half-porches, or porticos, many of which had been shut as the collection expanded, leaving a series of well concealed and nigh-abandoned leafy and enclosed but spacious nooks. At the edge of the second, Dominicus turned, and Cole, facing him as he passed, dodged his outstretched hand to back into the shaded stone corner. Dominicus pivoted just as quickly to follow and was there the moment Cole’s back hit the wall, pressing against him.

There was always a pause, a calculating moment, though – as Dominicus decided how, this time, they would kiss.

He was getting better. He liked to practice. Cole liked to be practiced on. This time, Dominicus pressed forward, then softened; he waited, and when Cole’s lips parted, pushed, but their tongues met gently between them.

Fuck, he was getting good.

For Dominicus, it was in part that he understood kissing much better than he understood anything else about what was going on between them. Well – there were something Dominicus obviously didn’t need to understand very deeply – but kissing seemed a great deal clearer, cleaner – worth thousand stuttered words and questions. Especially in a stupid language like Ainjir.

Or course, sometimes Cole made Ainjir sound… well.

Everything grew hot and confused – absolutely everything, even the deep things, that had nothing to do with his gut or his skin or his… also, well. And it really wasn’t hard to understand, that was a lie he told himself and let himself tell. The feeling was pure and obvious and he was starting to feel he couldn’t face it, and if he thought about it, it was worse. So he kissed.

Dominicus kissed, and when Cole felt the moment change (he was good at feeling the moment change), he brought his hands, which had been pressed against the wall behind him, forward to Dominicus’ hips. He was right, of course, and he felt the little puff of breath in their kiss as he first stroked, then gently pulled Dominicus’ hips against his.

It was fast (and it always seemed fast) that they were ready, but it took time – it took convincing to be certain. His hands roamed up the coat, then down, then just under the edge, feeling the shirt and under the shirt Dominicus’ skin, and then lower on the way down, pulling him forward – and so he worked, slowly.

Dominicus’ hand touched Cole’s neck, and then brushed under his jaw, the perfect guide to the kiss without seeming to hold him, to force him. His other hand moved from the wall to Cole’s hip, where it rested, then fiercely squeezed. And then Cole felt the slightest turn in the pressure – Dominicus’ hips ground Cole’s back into the wall, and the hand on his hip pushed down.

Cole reached up and broke the kiss, opening his eyes to watch the total absorption on Dominicus’ face break as well – he always looked a little mad about it, and Cole always seemed to grin into that anger. Cole kept a grip on Dominicus’ wrist by his face, and moved his other hand to press against the front of Dominicus’ pants.

They were always ready fast.

And – at least when he had done it right – Dominicus always seemed to fall for moment. Cole knew he could start unbuttoning not because he felt magnificent stiffness (he did), but because Dominicus seemed not to push but to lean into him. He moved his kiss to Cole’s neck, every bit as pressing, as demanding, but somehow also wanting. Dominicus wasn’t the only one stiff, but it was shocking, chilling in the best way, every time to Cole that there was this… not need, not just wanting, but something like an asking.

Cole could fuck a dozen cadets before he found one he would even think of letting fuck him. He was good at both, and being good at both, he knew what he wanted from it. It was… slightly amazing that it was this. He was pretty sure – he should probably just say absolutely certain that Dominicus Galen had never fucked anybody in any fashion before meeting him. And while he would have loved – was even naturally inclined – to think he had simply raised up the lover he wanted in an experienced and, in the strangest way, slightly naïve fellow cadet, Cole also knew that it wasn’t his own doing – or all his doing – that made him so want what Dominicus gave.

But oh, he wanted it.

Cole’s hand on Dominicus’ cock was a tease and an invitation, and Dominicus, never quite certain he should really listen, absolutely did listen. His hands were on Cole’s body, first, because it was his body, and then, once he had a little bit more of a grip on his thoughts, unbuttoning Cole’s jacket, pushing aside fabric, searching…

Because if Cole had wanted to suck Dominicus’ cock, he would have done it (out of the pair of them, only Cole did that – Dominicus wasn’t there yet but it was an ever more distinct image in his mind. He thought he could be really good at that).

If Cole wanted just touch, they would have fought – fought and jerked each other off at the end. For some reason that was always how that worked out. It was, if either thought about it, truly weird.

Cole always darkly hinted there were other things, but if Cole had wanted something other than this, he wouldn’t have come to the library with this little vial in a pocket cleverly tailored to be hidden in his coat.

Cole saw him find it and laughed, hand below squeezing harder while the other pulled Dominicus by the back of his neck into another kiss. Then both his hands disappeared (they still kissed – Dominicus was loath to give up a kiss) and Cole was unbuttoning his own pants.

Dominicus wanted him naked. He forced Cole to stop by yanking his jacket down. Cole turned, once the jacket was off, and together they pulled his shirt up and over his head, but before he let it drop to the ground, Dominicus bunched the material tight in his hands. Cole was facing the wall now, hands pinned in front and slightly to the side as Dominicus twisted the tough material of the shirt. He used the bundle first to pull Cole’s body close to his – they had been apart long enough – then pushed him forward again, grip on Cole’s shirt easing.

Dominicus liked the stone; Cole like the way Dominicus fucked him, but the stone would royally fuck up his face, which was going a bit too far, so this was just a little indulgence of sensation.

Ripping free an arm, Cole braced with his forearm against the wall, his other hand finishing the job of unbuttoning his pants. Dominicus took the vial with his teeth, freeing both hands to sweep over Cole’s back – Dominicus could bend him over. He felt the pliability in the way Cole moved his body, but he didn’t want Cole to be that far away. He wanted to be warm. He wanted to be near. He wanted to hold Cole’s body as he joined it.

So he took the still-stoppered vial out his mouth, used both hands against Cole’s hips to draw him back, away from the wall, meeting Dominicus where he stood, then pushed them both forward, like a bellows spewing breath, until Cole stopped him, standing firm. Both Cole’s forearms rested against the rough stone wall, hands bunched into fists, his face close enough to easily rest his forehead against it, too. Dominicus pressed against his back, rested his forearm just outside of Cole’s, vial gripped tight in his hand. His other pulled Cole’s hips back, so Dominicus felt himself, hard and full against Cole’s ass.

He kissed just under Cole’s ear, and Cole blew out a strained breath.

“Fuck.”

Well, yes.

Dominicus retrieved the bottle with his free hand, but brought the stopper up to Cole’s lips. Cole laughed and pushed back against him, and Dominicus pushed back, Cole’s forearms shifting down against the stone as he did.

“Ah,” Cole breathed, “do it.”

But the command was his to give; Cole bent slightly to grab the tiny stopper in his teeth, and Dominicus pulled down to yank the vial open. He had to withdraw slightly, use both hands to do this right – Cole was particular. Dominicus supposed he would be particular, too, if it came to it (would it come to it? That was much less distinct an image than maybe one day using his mouth on Cole). For all of the urgent noises Cole was making, Dominicus had to go a little slowly. So he did. He oiled himself, and – using great restraint, he thought, given the kinds of sounds Cole started to make – oiled Cole.

“Fuck!” Cole said again, once he had spit out the stopper. The best Dominicus could manage was to make sure the bottle fell somewhere soft-looking.

Careful to line up, he pushed himself into Cole gingerly, until he felt Cole push back, a breath shuddering out as Dominicus’ hips stopped against his back. Dominicus pulled back, slowly, once.

Cole moaned. ‘Slowly’ went away.

This was the part he didn’t have to think about. It felt so good – he pushed forward, drove his hips upward, drove his cock in until Cole’s body stopped him. The sound – the sound – it was not fully a moan, but it was something full of breath, and Cole gasped at the end, drawing in as Dominicus drew out.

Dominicus, though, was not in a rush. He loved the feeling, and he knew Cole loved the feeling. Cole unravelled over him, pushing down, drawing Dominicus’ body against his, moving himself to try to draw Dominicus on to fuck him harder. But Dominicus was not in a rush.

Now that they had begun, Dominicus leaned forward, pressing his chest to Cole’s back, hands braced against the wall on either side of Cole’s forearms. He grabbed both of Cole’s hands – their fingers intertwined – and pushing his upper body against the wall, thrust his cock up into him again.

It was almost a whimper, if Cole could ever be said to whimper, and Cole forced a breath out between his teeth as he pushed back into Dominicus, away from the wall, just so Dominicus would do it again.

Dominicus obliged.

Cole was not, at the moment, thinking, but he would think, later, that it was so strange how Dominicus never seemed to hurry, never seemed to let the urge to come get the better of him, but was, every inch, deliberate in his fucking. Nor could Cole rush him – he thought sometimes, that if he begged, Dominicus would still not do anything at a pace that was not pleasurable. Which was not to say that they lasted long – they never lasted long. Honestly, it was more about frequency than endurance, which was also something that made Cole marvel. He had been rather proud of his endurance, but at this moment, he didn’t fucking care.

Domincus might not rush but he did falter, his pace a little ungainly as the urge to come caught up him. This was when Cole was pitiless; he forced his body down, rocking into Domincus as his trusts became shorter, burying his cock deep, and he came.

There was a pause of only a moment, Dominicus’ breath heavy on his shoulder, until Dominicus dropped a hand down. Cole helped guide it to grip his own cock; Dominicus was willing, but still somewhat… shy. Rather than annoyed, Cole was happy to guide; he liked the way Dominicus responded, the way he fit as Cole told him to fit, hand just the right amount of tight. And he liked the way that despite this malleability, it was still definitely Dominicus’ hand around him: his calluses, his rough spots, his soft inner palm.

His hand held the outside of Dominicus’ and they pumped together, before Dominicus’ cock grew soft. He pulled away one it did, but only as much as was absolutely necessary, pressing again into Cole’s back, body covering body.  His lips rested against Cole’s shoulder, letting him feel the slight chill of his steadying breath, and Cole knew that he was watching – he was always watching.

Cole let his head fall back against Dominicus, felt Dominicus’ lips on his neck – a soft touch, just lightly grazing skin with the edge of his teeth, and Cole felt his gut abruptly tighten, a gasp forced out of his throat. Then he was leaning forward again, forward against the wall, and not long after, coming against the wall.

Dominicus let go, but his hand didn’t go far, straying up to Cole’s hip, moving slowly forward against his stomach. They were both, instantly, so tired; not for the first time, Cole’s chest strung with a fraught and painful wish that they could sleep together – wake up, do it again, sleep again, however long they wished. It was… unusual.

But they didn’t have time, and Dominicus had yet to admit to any such inclination. Maybe he didn’t feel it. Maybe it was the sort of silly fantasy a good fuck could bring about, which was something Cole had long thought he had grown immune to. Maybe he just hadn’t had a really good fuck in a really long time. 

Cole freed himself enough to turn in Dominicus’ grip to face him, grinning. He watched Dominicus watch his body move, refusing to give any but the least possible space to it. Eyes and hands travelled up, lightly brushing Cole’s skin in their survey.

Dominicus…wasn’t thinking very much. He didn’t know what to think. Like his slowing heartbeat, he felt little pangs of fatigue hit him like warm water each time he blinked. He was looking at Cole’s collarbone, moving up to his face, thinking about what it might be like to actually go to bed with him instead fucking all around the campus like rabbits. He was thinking about what it might be like to wake up with him, when he caught sight of Cole’s lips and leaned forward to start kissing him again.

A few long moments later, in a break for breath, Cole said, “You know, usually you do this part first.”

“I did. Shall I stop doing it now, then?” Dominicus asked, throwing a challenging look back at that grinning face.

“Only because I’m cold,” Cole said. “You’ve still got most of your clothes on, at least.”

Dominicus grunted, but didn’t move back to let Cole gather his clothes – he leaned closer, arms resting against the wall on either side of Cole’s head. After all, Cole was right – he was warm.

This close – and it was hard to be this close, Dominicus could see something like a flash of… maybe delight? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure how to read many Ainjir, though he was getting better – much, much better, in the case of Cole. Cole buried things he felt; he didn’t seem like the type of person who buried things because he was all too free with expression and humour and even sometimes displeasure, but there were things buried in there he didn’t seem keen to let anyone know he felt. So Dominicus saw the flash of delight in his eyes, and resisted the urge to push forward again, because it was Cole’s decision whether to act on it or not. He buried things for a reason, it was his business to bring them out.

“Are you offering to warm me up again? So soon?” Cole asked sardonically, and honestly kind of ruining it.

Dominicus had wanted to dig at that sincerity he saw, even if he knew it wasn’t his place. But, then, when he thought about it, he didn’t want anyone digging at his sincerity. He didn’t want to deal with sincerity. Now that he was thinking about sincerity, in this particular situation, it was making him anxious. So he pulled on arm off the wall, to get out of Cole’s way, and then fell back against the other wall to fix his own clothes as Cole pulled up his pants and picked up his jacket and shirt. Watching Cole move was a much better use of his still-fatigue-slowed thoughts. And then Cole paused before he threw his shirt on, brushing some of the places where the stone of the wall had left soft imprints on his back.

Dominicus would have done that for him. And then, yes, they would have warmed him up again, very soon.

“Come with me to the ghost-thing tonight,” Dominicus said.

Cole turned to look at him. His expression was devastatingly inscrutable – far, far too hard for so casual a question, but it lasted only a fraction of a second.

One day, Dominicus would break him in that second, and that wall would not go up again. He felt it with a hunger equally inscrutable, even to himself.

It was only a moment, and it passed, and Dominicus briefly was aware of how stupid he felt asking.

“And be like those perfect idiots?” To Dominicus’ surprise, Cole smiled and shrugged, putting his shirt back on. “All right.”

And like a perfect idiot, Dominicus smiled back; he couldn’t help it.

[etriva]

"You know, Ikora suggested a state marriage," Zavala says. He and Caiatl are enjoying each other's company over another working dinner, time they've deliberately carved out of their busy schedules for each other. Zavala's statement probably feels like it's out of the blue, but he's been thinking about it a lot since Ikora mentioned it again, about how so many people saw the relationship between him and Caiatl before he did.

"State marriage? You and Ikora?" Caiatl asks, her eyes narrowing.

"Oh, no, no. You and I. She suggested it for us, to solidify the alliance between our peoples."

Caiatl laughs. "Why would I buy the cow when I am getting the milk for free?"

Zavala, who had just taken a sip of tea, does a spit-take. The spray only narrowly misses Caiatl, but the rest of their working dinner is not so lucky.

"Where did you--" Zavala begins, mopping up his mess.

"Valus Forge."

Right, that makes sense, Zavala thinks. But wait, no. "In what context could that possibly have come up?"

"There have been... discussions," Caiatl says carefully, "On my War Council. Given the various splintering Cabal factions, it was suggested that we further strengthen our coalition with the Vanguard. I asked Lord Saladin about it privately, and he... explained the phrase." Seeing the look on Zavala's face, she continues, "He gave me real advice as well, of course. But the human phrase, it stuck with me."

"I can see why it would."

"Although, if I am being honest, I am not entirely sure that I know what a cow is," Caiatl admits. While this is the least surprising thing she's said this whole conversation, it still surprises a laugh out of Zavala. This makes Caiatl laugh too, and then they both dissolve into a fit of giggles.

[aslyran]

Visions

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.