this was in my drafts i'll probably delete it

Oblivious!Lance
  • Lance: hey Pidge do you think I'm fat?
  • Pidge: ha ha good one lol
  • Lance: no I'm serious
  • Pidge: what? the fuck?
  • Lance: I am aren't I
  • Pidge: Lance you put fucking Flat Stanley to shame do not get me started
  • Lance: that doesn't sound much better...
  • Pidge: laNCE I WILL PERSONALLY-

You can do what you want, but remember that people talk.

I happened to hear a phone call recently, and I will give this cast of characters names to make it easier to share with you. Mary and Elaine are friends who work in the same industry. Roger used to work with Elaine, and is now seeking employment with Mary.

Mary knows Elaine may have worked with Roger, and she also knows that Elaine has a great understanding of their industry and is really good at analyzing the strengths and weaknesses of her coworkers. So Mary calls Elaine and asks her, “What do you think of Roger? Would you hire him?”

Not only is the answer no, the answer is filled with stories of Roger’s incompetence on every level. It’s already clear that Roger isn’t going to get the job, but when Elaine mentions, “Yeah, and Roger was honestly just really mean to me the whole time we worked together.” the final nail is in the coffin.

Sorry Roger, better luck next time? Try not being such a douche, I guess.

But I realized, as I shamelessly eavesdropped on this call, that these calls happen all the time. They happen between former coworkers. They happen between old friends and neighbors. They happen in IMs between tumblr users.

Roger will probably never know that call happened, and perhaps he should have assumed it would. But maybe nobody told him: people talk.

Hi

I’m desperately attempting to finish that Halloween fic I promised you all like… a freaking week ago (it’s a looong story, literally and figuratively, trust me), and in my currently very frustrated state, I just want to complain and wish that I was a better artist because at least with art you can show people a WIP and say “hey guys, here’s a WIP, you know I’ll colour it in and neaten it up and it’ll get better” but when you’re a writer, it’s all or nothing, you can’t post up some garbled rambling and say “hey guys, here’s some nonsensical notes about a plot, but I’ll fill in the prose later” or 

can you?

I dunno, here’s an entirely unedited snippet, please forgive me:


It was silent evenings that were most difficult to pass. Those nights that stretched like decades into the darkness, devoid of warmth and light. It was on such evenings that her hunger gripped most painfully, an incessant writhing that clawed at her insides, crying for iron, screaming for flesh.

On most days it was a simple matter of braving the stares and whispers, venturing into town and paying a visit to the butcher. But dead muscle and stagnant blood drawn from primal cuts made days ago did little more than fill her stomach like sawdust in the hollow of a doll.

To appease the craving, she bred rodents and rabbits, captured crows and lured stray pets. Small prey that knew no better, innocent as as the small white bones that they yielded once she stripped them of their insubstantial sinew. She wept for their sacrifices as she drained them, still struggling in her hands, and then buried them neatly beneath the briars in the manor garden, listening to the echo of their fear when she lay in bed and pretended that she could still remember how it felt to sleep.

Their shrieks were loudest on nights like this.

And tonight… the hunger was insufferable.

For at the edge of her consciousness, something beckoned her. Something sweetly fragrant, its scent pure and potent.

Something forbidden.

It was lost and afraid, and as it wove back and forth like a fish trapped in a net, its strength waned and its distress blossomed, surging towards her in ambrosial waves.

Leave, she begged it silently. Leave me be.

But it stayed and sat still, resigned to death, accepting of its pitiful fate.

Merciless, the hunger roared through her veins and too weak to refuse, she rose to claim the offering left upon her doorstep.

It was a boy.