I’m so grateful having known that Charlie played the guitar “alot” during his chemistry tests with Morfydd because now I get to imagine his giant mitts wrapped around the neck of a guitar and I’m sure there are modern AU guitar playing fics for this.. oh here they are ;)
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Fool’s Gold - Christiiiiine - The Passenger (Movie 2023) [Archive of Our Own]
Chapters:
1/1
Fandom:
The Passenger (Movie 2023)
Rating:
Mature
Warnings:
No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships:
Benson/Randy Bradley
Characters:
Benson (The Passenger Movie 2023), Randy Bradley, Randy Bradley’s Mother, Elliot Sheppard
Additional Tags:
Benson Lives, Prison, Suicide Attempt, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con
Summary:
It’s been a week.
A week of waking yourself—and your bunk mate—screaming, images of Randy—dead and lifeless in the bathtub, eyes half-open and glazed over, hair caked in his own blood—shifting through your head like cards in a rolodex.
A week. And then Randy comes to visit.
AKA Benson lives and is sentenced to life in a maximum security prison. Randy fails to cope.
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This is a poem I wrote my class but I liked it so much I rather share it.
The Yellow Fields of the Sun
A yellow field, tall and reaching toward the sky.
An imitation of our star burning north.
Our connection is close but too far to fly.
Its face is dark as nigh.
Stretching its limbs down into the place of worth.
A yellow field, tall, reaching toward the sky.
With many uses, like food to get by,
May not be edible to me, its beauty waves back and forth.
Our connection is close, yet, too far to fly.
Though you may fade over the hill, your memory is my ally.
Giving me a reason to set forth.
Yellow field, reaching towards the sky.
Your hair feels smooth as silk and with the looks of gold you imply.
Holding close your warmth.
The connection is close, too far to fly.
I’m always on standby.
My calm before the storm.
Our yellow fields, reaching towards the sky.
Our connection is close, but too far to fly.
I hope you enjoyed. I’m sorry if it was too short let me know if you have any questions or suggestions!
:3
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New art style study!
My sonic oc again!
Tried a different brush and a more hard on style than messy, I hope you like it just as much as me!
If anyone wants a sonic oc, ask me and it’s free! I’m taking art as a hobby and I like to do it so don’t be shy!
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when you remember one of your friends calling your character your drawing rn a DILF and you can’t un-hear it.
I cant see it man! Not that i want to or judging yall’s type but like really???
anyways, this is an animation im working on and will probably post soon
-yes this is an oc theres just a lot of clock/ object head characters out there ^^’ -
[ click for better quality if you want :) ]
as always enjoy (our weirdness) 💛
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my yasbm responses because I have offically deemed the site as swag cash money and you should look at it
click images if you want to see them in full
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the cold air in ottawa settles quite distinctly at night. it doesn’t seem to rush him the way moscow winters used to, doesn’t bite straight through wool and marrow. instead it lingers, thoughtful and patient, pressing its palm against the back of his neck as he stands on the porch and stares up at a sky wide enough to swallow him whole. ilya keeps his hands buried in the pockets of dark sweatpants, shoulders slightly hunched, as if bracing against something even less visible than wind. his backyard is quiet, the river beyond locked in a sheet of dim silver. he measures his breathing to the rhythm of it.
he’s always needed the sky for this. needed the illusion of height, of distance, of somewhere to send the words that sit too heavy in his throat with every passing second of everyday.
when he was twelve, the sky over home suddenly felt smaller. or maybe he did. he recalls standing on packed snow behind their home, looking up at an expanse the color of unpolished steel, trying to calculate where a person might go when they choose to leave the world. at that time, he had not yet understood that grief is not an event but an architecture ; you build yourself around the missing piece, reinforce the weak beams, learn which doors not to open. in years following, he made himself useful. useful boys do not get leftbehind. useful boys win, score goals, gulp back tears until they calcify into something sharp and manageable. he became sharp. he became exceptional. he became someone no one could discard without consequence.
the league gave him a larger sky but the same instinct. prove first. feel later, if at all. therapy has begun to pry at that, gently, annoyingly, asking him to sit with emotions he would rather body-check into the boards. and still on nights such as the current, when something inside him swells too large for language, he steps outside and looks up. he tells her about the captaincy. about the river. about the man asleep in his bed inside the house. he tells her things he doesn’t know how to say to the living.
ilya hears the door slide open behind him and doesn’t turn immediately. he knows the cadence of marcos’ steps now, the unhurried quiet of them, the way he occupies space graciously, without demanding it. the porch boards give a soft creak as he comes to stand alongside. close enough that their sleeves almost brush, but not quite touching. ilya keeps his gaze fixed skyward, but in his periphery he registers the slope of marcos’ brows, the subtle pinch that forms there when he is concerned but trying not to intrude. the sunset’s last light catches on the slight bump of his nose, gilding his profile in amber. he says nothing at first. he never rushes ilya when he retreats like this. what he does is stay, he gives him time.
that steadiness undoes him more effectively than any argument ever could. marcos has always been like this — publicly composed, monumental and solid, yet in private offering touch devoid of calculation, benevolence without counting favors. ilya has built entire systems around the idea that love must be earned through excellence or endured in brief, controlled bursts. hookups are simple ; they begin and they end. no one lingers long enough to see where he ruptures. but marcos lingers. in hallways, in kitchens, in the hushed drag of night when their foreheads press together over the glow of phones. the attraction hums furtively and constant, a current beneath ice, but it terrifies him precisely because it is not only that. if he were to reach for marcos the way he reaches for others, it wouldn’t be contained. it wouldn’t be temporary. ilya has never trusted himself with something he can’t survive losing.
[[MORE]]he swallows against the lump formed in his throat, feeling the archaic ache rise in his chest, an adolescent bewilderment being left behind by someone who was supposed to stay.
some nights he comes out here with victories cupped carefully in his hands like offerings. he tells her about lifting the cup for the first time, about the way champagne burned his eyes and how he absurdly wished that she could see him on that ice. he recounts good dinners, loud bars, faces of teammates and rivals and the rare people who make him feel less alone. he catalogues his life for her as if she were merely abroad and awaiting updates. but in the stretches where there is no bright headline, when the good news thins and the quiet grows claws, he goes silent. he thinks about how young she was. how the world had not been kind to her, how the people meant to love her had instead been bitter and unyielding. he knows, with a certainty that feels almost defensive, that she was not weak. he has inherited too much of her endurance to believe that. sometimes he imagines that whatever darkness took her was something she couldn’t fight, a current too powerful even for her tenacious heart. and there are moments — fleeting, shameful ones — where he wonders if, in leaving, she found a mercy that life had never granted her. the thought both comforts and devastates him. he misses her with an animalistic ferocity, and yet he hopes she’s somewhere untouched by the cruelty that shaped them both.
the frigid air burns his lungs with every inhale. beside him, marcos exudes warmth, an ideal counterpoint to the cold. it occurs to ilya that this, too, is kind of a big moment. not a cup or a contract, but the realization that he wants someone to witness him when he’s not performing. he drags a hand out of his pocket and scrubs it over his mouth, amber hues still fixed on the stretch of darkening blue above them. his voice, when it finally encroaches on his vocal chords, is low and unvarnished, stripped and offered without its usual taunt. he tilts his head slightly toward the man alongside, enough to acknowledge him without breaking the spell of the sky, ❛ is how i talk to her. my mother. ❜
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Drabble n°X
“Oh, no.” Seb stopped you before you could press your card on the terminal, drawing a frown to your face. “It’s already paid.”
“… lucky me,” you shrugged while taking a sip of your coffee. “May I ask who did it?”
“Umm,” he looked around the café, his eyes searching. “She must have left.” He mumbled.
“Is a she?” You smirked.
“A beautiful one. Brunette with green eyes. Soft features. Strong accent at times.”
The description ignited something burrowed in you, but the alarm on your phone told that you didn’t have time to analyze the threatening thought.
“Make sure you thank her next time you see her.” You nodded before you grabbed the bagged goodie. “See you on Monday,” you blew the barista a kiss before you walked out. The car keys warm on your hand as you unlocked the car.
The day was spent between meetings and visits to ongoing projects to make sure the designs met their deadline. But as it progressed, your mind kept dissecting Seb’s description of the woman who had paid for your order in the morning. And every time your heart hoped it was her, your mind convinced you it was wrong. She’s been clear when she walked away.
Yet, a part of you -when the loneliness froze your bones, dreamed of her return.
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I feel like tumblr is the right place for this
Credits go to my pc for taking almost a full minute to load the area
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elphaba has a very bad day - howtowords - Wicked - All Media Types [Archive of Our Own]
Chapters:
1/1
Fandom:
Wicked - All Media Types
Rating:
General Audiences
Warnings:
No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships:
Elphaba Thropp/Galinda Upland
Characters:
Elphaba Thropp, Galinda Upland
Additional Tags:
Galinda Upland is Called Glinda, Fluff, Bad Luck, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Developing Relationship, Shiz Era (Wicked - Schwartz/Holzman), Roommates, First Kiss
Summary: For seemingly no reason at all, everything goes wrong for Elphaba one day. Not in a catastrophic way, of course, it’s all just small inconveniences and annoyances, but they add up over the day. But just as the day comes to an end, something good finally happens.
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I had a dream so you have to suffer too.
Because now I can’t stop thinking about Cosmo and Wanda singing “It starts with sorry” to/with Timmy Turner.
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the megstiel playlist is now in order of:
the beginning - more saucy/grungy songs that are centered more around lusting, more of seasons 5 & 6 core.
the middle - they actually are falling in love so more like season 7 core, all of the lovey dovey stuff.
the end - meg dies, season 8 core, very sad, but also kind of lovey dovey
canon divergence - meg and cas’ feelings towards each other when meg (or my meg at least) came back from the dead.
i just wanted to organize it, i promise i’ll actually do some writing soon!!