I’ve seen other people do this in the self ship community, so I thought I would make my own. ^^ Feel free to reblog this and have fun!
1. Did you fall hard and fast for your f/o(s)? Or was it more gradual? 2. What’s the scariest moment you have had together? 3. Do you want to get married? Have kids? What about your f/o(s)? 4. What’s one of the more casual dates you and your f/o(s) have had? 5. What’s your favorite physical attribute of your f/o(s)? What’s their favorite when it comes you? 6. What’s your favorite thing about your f/o(s) personality-wise? Theirs when it comes to you? 7. Do you share music tastes or not? 8. Who’s the night owl and who is the early bird? 9. Are you morning cuddler or kissers? 10. Which of you can hold your liquor? Which of you can’t? 11. Who is the better cook? 12. Who is better with musical instruments? 13. Do you have pet names for each other? If so, what are they? 14. Who is more protective? 15. Who would level at whole city if the other got hurt (realistically or metaphorically)?
How do you think the IPRE settled in together when stuck in the Statblaster? Like before and/or after they get along?
There is… SO MUCH potential here…
The Starblaster was not designed with a hundred years in mind. The trip was only supposed to be two months, which is the only reason any of them could come up with for why there is only one bathroom on the entire ship. And no one can get Merle out of the bathroom once he’s locked himself in there. He’ll insist that it’s time that he pampered himself and turn the room into a personal spa for hours. All pleading, yelling, and threats are met with only delighted laughter and the slight hint of lavender.
The first time Taako and Lup have a fight - a real fight, with screaming and wrestling and things catching on fire - the rest of the crew can see their lives flashing before their eyes. It’s terrifying, and everyone is afraid to leave the bedroom they’ve holed up in. Davenport is frantic; they’d insisted on being chosen together or not at all, he thought they liked each other, what is he going to do if they kill each other every cycle… The crew ventures out a few hours later to find the twins in the kitchen, sharing an entire plate of chocolate chip cookies. Taako asks them where they’ve been, and Davenport locks himself in the cockpit for a few hours.
Lucretia is not the best at interacting at first. She can, and she does, but she’d rather be writing and so she almost always is. And she writes everything - including entire conversations between other crew members, word for word. A rule has to be established that Lucretia’s notebooks are not to be stolen for any form of blackmail or sabotage because they keep disappearing only to show back up in the middle of an argument. Lucretia makes the effort to keep slightly less accurate notes. (She only sometimes resorts to blackmail herself.)
It soon becomes apparent that Lup and Barry are research enablers, meaning that neither one will be the Voice of Reason when it is three in the morning and the research would be better served by the researchers getting some sleep. They once manage to keep each other going for three days straight on nothing but coffee, and Taako has had enough. He drags them both to his room, tosses them on the bed, and lays on top of them to trap them. He has done this to Lup many times; it’s an adjustment for Barry. It happens often enough that Barry gets used to it.
Nobody can agree on music. There’s an entire month where wildly different musical genres are played over the intercom at high volume in a passive-aggressive standoff. Everyone knows that the classical and opera music is Davenport. To everyone’s shock, Barry is responsible for the metal contributions. No one is sure who keeps playing “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” - everyone thought it was Lup until she suddenly turned and blasted the nearest intercom speaker to pieces when they were entering hour two. Davenport knows that the feud is over when someone mutters a line from a song from his favorite opera, and they all join in; the performance becomes increasingly enthusiastic and dramatic, and the crew butchers the song mercilessly.
There are bad days where the worst happens, again and again, and while those never get easier, the crew falls into a routine for those too. Everyone takes comfort in different things; Magnus likes physical contact and will cuddle with anyone who’s willing. Davenport stays alone for a while, until he has the composure to face his crew again. Barry doesn’t like to break down in front of the others but he does break down; eventually, Lup and Taako are allowed to see those moments. Merle does his best to remain positive, even goofy, in the hopes that it’ll raise a laugh out of the others; Lucretia eventually convinces him to talk to her honestly, and it helps. It always helps Lucretia to talk to Merle, to try and sort out what she’s feeling. Taako has to be reminded to eat, and to leave his room. Lup is angry, powered by rage until she wears herself out and then she’s quiet; it helps to have someone close by, and Magnus is always willing to sit extra-close.
Eventually, they all have the same favorite day. The first day of the new year - no matter what the last year was like, the first day of the new year is always good. Everyone is home again, and whoever was missing is brought inside and put in the middle of the big couch in the living area, immediately squished between everyone else who can physically fit. All of the furniture is pushed together because no one wants to be any farther away than they have to and usually Lucretia (but sometimes someone else) brings out all of the journals from the past year. And they recount everything - good things, bad things, inside jokes and injuries - so whoever was missing doesn’t miss anything. Eventually Davenport has to go back to the cockpit to navigate whatever new world they’ve ended up in, but just for a moment what’s happening inside the Starblaster is much more important than what’s happening outside of it.
True story: I finally got around to listening to Tarjei’s playlist for Julie, so I put it on shuffle while I was walking my dog, and I was like, cool, I hope this lends some fascinating insights into his acting process or how he portrays Isak’s character, and then “Livin’ La Vida Loca” immediately came on and I doubled over laughing in the middle of the street
INFP: Special order soap. It tastes like bug spray and menthol. This soap was made for certain purposes; being eaten was not one of them. You congratulate yourself on being such a rebel as you begin to see the lights. 8/10
ENFP: Children’s soap. It smells and tastes exotic, but you’re not completely sure what it’s supposed to be. The happy koala on the bottle isn’t much of a clue. It’s a bit astringent. It burns as you swallow. You’re glad your tongue is clean, though. You hiccup, and a bubble leaves your mouth. 5/10
INFJ: Dishwasher soap. Stronger than its cousin, dish soap, but significantly more likely to kill you. It leaves a soft white powder residue on the burns it creates on your tongue. This is somehow your aesthetic. It tastes like a chemical burn and a Tumblr moodboard. You’re pleased. 10/10
ENFJ: Dish soap. It smells like what someone who has never seen a real, whole coconut before would imagine that coconut to smell like. It’s a bit slimy. No matter how much you heave, you can’t seem to get the residue off of your tongue. It begins to sting. 4/10
ISFP: Hotel soap. Completely horrible. No matter what you do, you can’t get the taste out of your mouth afterwards. You look at the crumpled wrapper on your borrowed bathroom counter. You can’t decide if it’s brown or gray. It was complimentary, so you really have nothing to complain about, you remind yourself. There are bubbles in the cracks between your teeth. You hope this will trick your dentist into thinking you actually flossed tomorrow. It does. You feel triumphant as he scrapes the oily residue off of your incisors, perplexed. You’ll never tell. 9/10
ESFP: Handmade soap. You smushed some stuff around in a bucket, and this is the resultant creation. It tastes like oil-flavored toothpaste. The ingredients you bought off of eBay probably weren’t poisonous. You’re not sure how to get the stuff out of this bucket and into a usable container. It will have to do – you decide this is probably more rustic anyway. As one hand shoves another chunk into your mouth, the other increases the price of your soap tenfold on your Etsy store. You smile in the dark, the light from your computer giving your soapy teeth a pallid glow. Multicolored spots begin to dance in your eyes. You take another bite. 7/10
ISFJ: Microbead soap. Tastes like a ruined environment and clogged waterways. You’re not sure if fish are capable of feeling sad. The beads scrape and scratch at your gums as you swish before you swallow. You feel them peel away every unnecessary dead cell in your mouth. You look into the empty bottle, wishing there was more. You open another. Your head begins to vibrate as your stomach begins to twist. You comfort yourself with the knowledge that your blood will finally be clean. 6/10
ESFJ: Bar soap. The original. The classic. It tastes like your childhood – at least the parts when your mother caught you when you swore. Nutty aftertaste with mild notes at the beginning, but now that you’ve finished chewing, it just tastes like soap. You remember why you hated it. You spit it out. You wonder if you’ll go blind. 5/10
ISTP: Hand soap. Perfumey and bland. It eases down your throat as you slurp from the opened bottle. You wonder if it has been watered down. You wonder whose soap this is. You wonder how you ended up in this bathroom, in this house. Your stomach begins to quelch as you stagger outside. You lurch towards the next house, wondering if the soap in another bathroom will taste any different - if it will have answers. It won’t. 3/10
ESTP: Shampoo. Creamy and metallic. It goes down smoothly as you chug from the aesthetically-molded plastic bottle. You hurry. When it’s empty, you quietly slip from this shower, from this house. You move through the night towards the house next door. Maybe their selection will finally satiate you. You will never be full. 9/10
ISTJ: Expensive department store soap. Salty and vaguely acrid. It tastes like licking a grandma. There’s a hint of alcohol – probably the perfumes. You look around your dimly-lit bathroom as you sit on the edge of your tub and feel dead inside. You look at the delicate lettering on the elegant packaging and feel alive. You take another bite. It flakes into beige icing between your teeth. 6/10
ESTJ: Laundry soap. It smells absolutely fantastic, but is so concentrated that you end up in the emergency room. It tastes like deception and suds. Tiny bubbles line your lips. You realize you forgot to start the dryer before the ambulance came. You can no longer tell if it’s the soap or you that’s foaming. It’s soft. You wonder if you’re finally clean as you begin to fade. 2/10
INTJ: Novelty soap. The fragrance of this bar is particularly powerful. The smell is so strong that your brain is tricked into thinking it’s the flavor as well; this prevents you from noticing your discomfort as it slowly erodes away at your lips. You stare at the box, trying to decide if Blue Strawberry Bonanza is a typo. You’re not sure. The prize inside lends extra crunch, but you’re spitting bubbles for an hour afterwards. This is the worst $27 you have ever spent. 7/10
ENTJ: Straight lye. It hurts. At a pH of 13, it’s obviously very efficient – but it will wash you away as well as the grime. It burns. At least you didn’t waste your money on one of those useless scented soaps. Now it hurts AND burns. You reassure yourself with your pragmatism as you begin to die. It tastes like blood. 0/10
INTP: Holiday soap. Special, fragrant, and full of glitter. It tastes horrible when consumed, yet this is your fifth sip. You take your sixth. You look at the leering gingerbread man on the peeling sticker and don’t understand why he can’t taste the way he looks just this once. You decide to give him another chance. It doesn’t work. He tastes the same. 2/10
ENTP: Car wash soap. You’ve never felt so alive, so powerful. The industrial foam fills your mouth, your throat, your lungs. It tastes like wax and fire. This is what it means to be an extrovert. The suds drip from your eyelashes just long enough for you to see the brushes heading towards you. They’re coming. You’re not afraid. They said that you shouldn’t, that you couldn’t. You raise your fists above your head and push out a gurgled scream. You’ll show them. 1/10
You ever think that due to the sheer amount of people artemis has pissed off people accidentally get in contact with Artemis sr? Like some mob boss calls a meeting w Artemis sr about being scammed out of a deal and is just instantly “nvm I was thinking of the gremlin sized one nvm. you’re free to go sir”