if you aren’t following my personal blog, you probably don’t know that I’ve been mildly obsessing over watching this show since may 2016 (and have been “almost caught up” since like december, but they keep airing new episodes). it just took me this long to post art of it because headcanons are hard, man :0 these are still subject to change, and I may have forgotten some canon details, but it felt good to be able to do some art again!
One of my least favorite things is when a younger person is interested in something or just like, talks about some general subject and an older person is like ????? what??? you weren’t even alive/you were so young when X!! like imagine if you started talking about how much you love Shakespeare and some rando time traveled just to tell you “But you weren’t even alive when he was writing!” like did you know that it’s a lot more fun if you expand your interests to things that haven’t existed exclusively in your lifespan & that the past will inevitably affect the present so it’s good to be aware of it
(sorry for spamming you with asks) Is anakin known by everyone as ani in this au?
AT LAST THE NEXT PART IS DONE. \o/ And holy crap it’s like 3500 words?? When did THAT happen.
I will confess I’m a little nervous about posting this one, because I made up some bits of Naboo handmaiden/Tatooine slave culture to fill the story out better and I’m not sure how well it all came together/works with canon. I hope it at least works for you guys?
So pretty much as soon as airbenders popped back up again in Korra I was just like “Aw yes now my air baby can exist without being related to Aang!"I never make fandom OCs but I am super attached to Mida and it made me happy :’D
Smoke bellows from the kitchen as the fire detectors all go off.
“FROST! Shut those damn things off!” J growls at the screeching noise but keeps his attention on you.
Flames poof from the stove as you attempt to make dinner for the both of you. You were the type of person who could burn water, but you had been taking cooking classes at the local college and thought you were getting better. (You may have been a bit delusional.)
You throw on some spices hoping it’ll cover the charcoal taste and slap the two crispy portions on steak on plates for each of you. You cringe a little at the site of it. J likes his meat nearly raw. Almost everything about J was primal, including his eating habits. You quickly put the plate infort of J seeing him cringe slightly before blatantly lieing to you.
“Looks… delicious Doll.” Ok so he didn’t lie well.
You flush crimson embarrassment growing as you join J at the table both preparing for your first bite. ‘Oh god. I dont know if I can do this.’ You eye your ‘steak’ sideways poking it with your fork like it would poof into ash at the first touch. It didn’t. Before you can muster up the courage to taste your own fucked up creation you hear J make the fakest 'mmmmm’ you have ever heard before he choked.
“Delicious Baby Doll. Your a natural. ” You stare at him in disbelief as he tryes to choke down another bite.
“J… J stop. I don’t want to be the one responsible for the death of the King of Crime…. Im not equipped to handle that…” You look at him pleadingly to stop his charade.
He stares deep in your eyes before he starts to break out in his iconic laugh.
“That sure woulda been one hell of a way to go! I can see the papers now.” He waves his hands in the air like he’s reading a headline. “ Joker the infamous crime lord found dead after fed a toxic meal.” He cracks himself up nearly falling on the floor.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah chuckles. I’ll have Frost go pick up some Chinese.” A bit irritated but mostly happy at J’s kindness to you, you skitter off to tell Frost to pick up some dinner.
You can see Earth from here. And I guess they do that on purpose. So you remember. So you can never forget why you got sent up here in the first place. We can see when the storms come. They swirl over the surface like candy pinwheels with sugar arms. The snowy ones are the best. Fluffy like the whipped peaks of the lemon meringue pies my nan made every time it got a little warm.
And we try to name them ourselves.
But our guesses are never right.
And no one cares.
Have you ever been angry?
Like the type of fury that begins as a hot seed in the base of your stomach. And the thing or person who provokes the anger, waters the seed with hateful words. Their taunts tempting you. And it all hatching inside you like the birth of a tree.
The heat of it branching out from your stomach into your veins, causing your blood to race; the muscles in your limbs twitching with furious electricity; the trunk of the tree squishing your stomach, making you nauseous with resentment; sharp twigs and heavy roots pricking your insides, poking at a sore heart.
That’s what happened to me.
They sent me here for a bad temper. Well, that’s what my entry card says.
And for setting fires.
I called them making stars.
Newspapers never report the truth. They’ll print anything for a buck.
My whole town thinks I just went around setting things on fire for the hell of it. The articles had the nerve to say that.
But they don’t know. I’m making living and breathing sculptures. They take some of the anger away.
My favorite sculpture was on my bedroom ceiling. Every morning before I got here, I used to let my eyes settle into admiring the sky above me. I’d formed a midnight sky on my bedroom ceiling out of clay, paint, old sheets and other things I’d rummaged up from the garage and attic. A bumpy purple blackness crawled over the white surface like a moss canopy. I’d formed a large white moon out of broken dish plates our neighbors, the Green family, threw out when they moved. The jagged cream disk floated in a dark abyss above me. The stars in my sky dangled from sturdy fishing wire and were odd-shaped balls of smooth, fire-colored glass I’d made in art class last year. Draped over me was how I imagined the sky to be if it hardened around us, trapping everyone on Earth. I’d started it in 7th grade when I decided to become a sculpturist. Neither of my parents looked up or commented as it grew from a tiny splotch in the right-hand corner to a full blanket over the universe that was my bedroom.
I miss seeing that every morning.
Now, there’s only grey above me.
And if the sky hardened. We’d get stuck in this Internment box frozen forever. A new non-moving moon.
The Internment place is for liars. It rotates around the earth for every lie you’ve ever told. And there are a lot of liars here. We’ll be turning for a long, long time.
And they won’t let me go home.
I started collecting matchboxes when I was six-years-old, and my pop left one between the cushions of the living room couch. I would sniff the strip that you rub the stick across. It smelled like gum and ash and newborn fire. I loved that smell. I could catch the scent in my dreams, and know my pop had lit a cigarette wherever he was in the house.
I burned down a house.
I told them the truth. It was an accident. I just wanted to see the fire float through the air like stars. So I made a roof sculpture.
I wanted a bonfire that floated through the air. I wanted my own universe. I wanted to feel alive.
But it was windy. And next door, there was a little girl in the house. And when my bonfire sculpture reached its full height, it started to spit, and spread. The whole thing got out of control.
My parents didn’t even take me to the ship that brought me here. They packed me up before the sun came out, and set my things outside. My father couldn’t stop shaking his head like his disappointment in me had become a neurological twitch. He packed his yells and scolds away like the boxes of historical books in his office. He said nothing, rubbed at his beard and kissed his mother, my nan, on the cheek. Lena, my baby sister, was the only one that hugged me after he placed my suitcase in the trunk.
My mother barely looked at me as her mother-in-law and I sailed out of our neighborhood in a green Chrysler before dawn. The Internment officers followed us.
My mother believes I’m bent like a piece of metal, a twisted version of the daughter she raised. My older brother Donovan didn’t drive up from college to say goodbye or offer support during my trial. He couldn’t reschedule his finals.
We drove for thirteen hours. To the South. A place where they pick up the bad kids.
The old, Spanish moss trees lined the highways. Their thick and ancient limbs left heavy slices of darkness over the car. Like a black quilt of interlocking shadows. I thought they’d cut them all down to make everything look the same.
There are no trees in Internment. Just grey. And lies. And those have no color, but taste like bitterness.
My mother would hate this place. It smells like the South. And she hates that. She always said you can smell it fifty miles out before hitting the southern line. I’d ask her what it smells like. She’d give the same answer every time, “The stink reminds me of rotten magnolias, dried blood and floating dust. It makes me mad.”
I’m going to be here a long time. And I’ve become a different girl. Sometimes I don’t recognize my reflection. At home, I wasn’t the cute, friendly girl who sang in the choir, participated in book club or took up knitting. I was the girl who thought about kicking the neighbor’s dog when his howling interrupted my concentration when sculpting. Or the girl who’d rather gnaw off her own arm than let one of the sweaty-palmed high school boys hold it. The girl who felt high school programmed her to think like everyone else, erasing her own unique thoughts and impulses, turning her into pre-packaged meat like the rest of ‘em. Sliced, wrapped in clear saran wrap and sent out into the world with a sticker on their foreheads.
I can see stars falling from the sky now. They soar through the air like hot glittering clouds. I imagine them as tiny bonfires. Tiny perfect sculptures. Pure vessels.
I wonder who they scorch below.
And I wish every night that they’ll hit us, and turn all our bodies and lies into ash and dust.
thefreeexploringmind asked you: For Hearing!verse: Kurt starts ranting about something to Blaine, but he forgets Blaine can’t actually hear him.
asked you: can I prompt something more of Kurt with Blaine’s friends? because obviously Sebastian still doesn’t like Kurt and I would like to read more about it
asked you: their first fight?
asked you: can i prompt you to write about the conversation that kurt and blaine have after kurt’s conversation with sebastian at the party. like how does blaine respond when kurt brings up the doubts that sebastian made him think about.
Set to coincide with the events in
From his spot in the center of the room, Blaine looks around, eyes seeking out Kurt’s. He’s been standing off to the side all night, aloof and completely too good for a silly high school party. Hell, Kurt’s too good for a silly high school boyfriend. He’s always a bit insecure around Kurt, but tonight is different. Ever since Kurt showed up wearing those skin tight black jeans and that blue silky button down that’s rolled up at the sleeves, Blaine’s had butterflies in his stomach. Tonight, he looks so much older and more mature than usual, making it seem like there was more than just a year between the two of them.
Summary: Clarke tries to avoid Finn, and runs into Bellamy.
Clarke was going to kill Octavia. Literally. Octavia would not be alive come tomorrow morning, because she’d promised Finn wouldn’t be here and now whoopdy fucking doo look who had just walked through the door.
Clarke was going to kill Octavia.
She’d only agreed to come to this party because Octavia had pulled the puppy dog-face, and unfortunately for Clarke, that face was irresistible. Octavia had also promised that it would be a super low-key party and not the huge rager they had found themselves at, which is why Finn wasn’t supposed to have been there.
So that was how Clarke found herself standing in a swarm of drunken bodies, wearing a short blue dress that made her eyes look super blue and showed off her awesome boobs.
Your ghost tracks water in as though you have been walking on it. Enraptured, as you always were, knowing that your accomplishments were nothing short of divine. And now here they are, your bare footprints, through the kitchen and up the wooden stairs, onto the white bedroom slats and into the bed. Where they come to rest, bare and beyond help, upon my heart.
Much like light, they trickle down easily, from my waking heartbeats into my bloodstream. Except they’re cold instead of warm. Bracing instead of embraced, and not as sweet. You used to ask me how the air can smell like ice on a freezing day. Now you ask about forgiveness, about what happens when you’re gone and you can’t know if it’s for good.
They have a shape, those ghostly footsteps, that changes as the blood flows. They mingle, diluting me, making my heart work harder. Ever since I can taste you in ice, I’ve been sucking the cubes. A sign of sickness, of a lack of red blood cells. I can’t make them fast enough. Because I can’t run after you with these breaths and make them count.
There are days when I want to run to the river and reach out a hand. Here I am and here you could reach for me. Just swim towards the light. But it’s you pouring the light into me now, you with your ever illumined face. You without the heart to say goodbye. Because goodnight was good enough, after all, we’re both just sleeping and waiting.
I have your footsteps. They frighten everyone else away. Sometimes they sing in my blood, like water birds who mistake the slant of sun for spring. Sometimes they call to me, and then I make my way out of the bedroom, down the darkened stairs, onto the cool kitchen tiles. I’ll gently prise ice flowers from the window pane. And take you outside.
A/N: It’s a miracle that this story is still mostly on time. BUT IT’S MOSTLY BECAUSE OLIVIA IS A WONDERFUL HUMAN BEING. I have been working a lot and it’s killing my writing, so if you have nice things to say, come say them?
The coins in her fingers clatter noisily from her fingers down to the cold linoleum floor, slipping from shaking hands as she tries to stuff the change from the cab into her purse. She can barely remember how she had gotten to the hospital; all mixed in a blur of phone calls and stifling Los Angeles heat. Finding Hannah’s hospital was almost impossible, with her rushed phone calls with friends only told her one thing: Mamrie had made them all swear not to tell Grace where Hannah was and if that was true, they would all be sworn to secrecy until they died.
Or until Mamrie killed them if they told her, whichever came first.