Distored

My ears fill to the brim 

submerged in the porcelain basin,

mimicking the poor man’s sensory 

deprivation tank—breathe in

and the wall tiles become pointillism— 

what larger painting they curate, 

per usual, is above my pay grade.

-

Staring at the dark heavy center of the light fixture,

I notice an eye—pupiled and dilated. 

It watches as my hair defies gravity

and comes to life: The cursed Medusa,

tickling the top of my neck, the side of my face—

dancing to sounds muffled by water.

-

Just like when I’d try to sink to the bottom

of a public pool and my body would float

towards the blur of the sun, 

distorted by miniature waves—

fittingly, just like the weight of two decades 

on those memories, heavy and distorting.

This might be an extremely stupid question, but when y’all read encanto fanfic do you imagine the characters in the exact art style of the movie, or like in a more realistic way? Something in between? And don’t even get me started on trying to imagine the young triplets and/or baby grandkids with barely any in-movie reference to what they’d look like.

Really curious because when I read fics, the way the characters look in my head depends on the tone/subject matter of the fics, and I’m like is that weird?? Do other people do this??

alrighty!! i dunno what exactly i’m gonna get done tonight, but it’s gonna be something!!

🌹❤️

I'd actually forgotten about this WIP until I searched the word "heart" and scrolled until I saw something I didn't immediately recognize, and now I'm slamming my hands against my computer like dammit past!me, where is the rest?!!

This is from a ficlet called Molecules, in which Dean happens upon a sensory transfer spell allows the subject to experience someone else's senses for a brief time. It doesn't quite work as planned, but nobody is complaining :D

“Alright, so...” Dean ushers him into the kitchen, flicking on the overhead lights before he gestures toward the table. “Take a seat. I won't be long.” "You're really not going to tell me what it is?" "I did tell you," Dean grins, and shoots him a deeply irritating wink before ducking back out of the room and calling back. "It's a surprise! No peeking!" Frowning, Cas sits at the table. Dusts off the grains of salt that have been spilled there and wonders what on earth Dean could possibly be planning. If it's a practical joke of some kind, like the constantly escalating prank wars he's seen the brothers get into several times over the years he's known them. Of course, it's also possible that it's a gift like the tape he still carries with him. Though that hadn't been labelled as one until many months after he'd received it. It had been shoved into his hands as he was on his way out of the bunker with a gruff, "For the road," and a complete lack of eye-contact. He’s been waiting a couple of minutes, trying and failing to guess at what Dean is up to, when he feels a wave of benevolent magic shimmer across his skin and sink into him. It tingles and hums for a moment, a heady, pleasant quiver, before fading to leave something else behind. An echo of a feeling. Nervous excitement. Anticipation. Hope. All are abruptly overshadowed by a surge of contentment and chest-aching love so overwhelmingly strong that he can’t help but suck in a startled breath and grip the edge of the table. When he looks up, he finds Dean in the doorway. Concern, then. A rush of it, shading the edges of that love but not overpowering it. “Cas? Are you okay?” “I feel... I feel strange,” he admits, and looks more closely at Dean. A barely visible thread of light is running from the center of his chest, and Cas follows it with his eyes until he sees it disappearing into his own. "Dean, what did you do?" "You kept mentioning how much you missed being able to taste food and stuff, and I... Well, I found this spell." Reaching out, Dean touches the gray brick wall to his side, and Cas feels the rough surface scrape against his own fingertips.  “I had some help modifying it to exclude vision and sound, 'cause I figured that would get confusing fast. But my sense of taste, touch, and smell? All yours for the next couple of hours.” “Taste, touch, and smell?” Castiel echoes, and Dean grins at him. Castiel feels the love again, heart-thumping hard, but this time it’s his own. “Are you certain it worked?” “Why, you seeing double? Hearing echoes?”  Concern washes over him again, and he shakes his head. “No,” he says carefully.  Dean beams. “Awesome,” he says. Castiel smiles back, and he feels another surge of love. Love. Love. Happiness so strong he thinks he might cry if he thinks about it too hard. “So,” Dean goes on after a moment, stepping down into the kitchen and heading toward the fridge. “What do you want to try first? I can't promise five stars, but I'm a pretty decent cook these days.” “Could we... do you think we could go out somewhere for coffee?” "Really?" Dean asks, and clicks his tongue. In his chest, his heart flutters. Castiel feels it. He feels it. "That's it?" Castiel glances down at Dean's mouth before meeting his eyes again. "Yes," he says with a smile that comes more easily than any that have come before. "For now."

[for this ask meme | other responses here]

After the Mission ch4 preview

“Is there anything I can do to help?” John asked, after Cortana had disappeared.

“Can you give me permission to go kill Doctor Halsey?”

“Kai.”

She shrugged, and smiled slightly–the first time she had since she’d broken down. “Worth a shot.”

“Not really,” he said, and stood. “Come on, Spartan. Let’s get you out of here.”

–/scene–

(AN: John you’re such a hypocrite LMAO. you tried to murder Halsey and we all know it)

Smut Dialogue Prompts That Make Me Feral

 1. “Let me see those eyes.”

2. "Open your mouth for me.”

3. “Please kiss me.”

4. “Use your words.”

5. “Tell me what you want.”

6. “You look so good beneath me.” 

7. “You can take it.”

8. “I can take it.”

9. “You take me so well.”

10. “Spread your legs wider.”

11. “Louder. Let me hear you.”

12. “Keep your eyes on me.”

13. “Touch yourself.”

14. “Do you want my fingers?”

15. “I can’t get enough of you.”

16. “You taste so good.”

17. “Hands behind your back.”

18. “Swallow.”

19. “You are doing so well.”

20. “Breathe through your nose.”

21. “Don’t hold back.”

22. “Show me how much you need me.”

23. “Say my name.”

24. “You can do better than that.”

25. “Does that feel good?”

26. “I want you to ruin me.”

27. “Do you think you deserve this?”

28. “I want to have my way with you.”

29. “Touch me there. Right there.”

30. “I will never get enough of you.” 

thinking i would have a free day tomorrow and realising i actually have more work to do than i previously thought i had 😭

🌹🎸

Hmmm this one will work for the next chapter of Fortress.

Here's some young!Cas pining over Dean at Robin's party... yes, the one he told Dean something about while they were camping.

Robin's backyard is a long, narrow space that leads down to a swimming pool, with a big open fire pit in the middle, and Dean is sitting on the other side of it with her guitar in his lap, carefully adjusting the tuning pegs and playing the six strings one by one until the pitch is right. His fingers are quick and clever as they move across the fretboard. Even though he's just tuning the guitar, not even playing anything, Castiel finds himself absolutely transfixed. It's not news to him that he's attracted to Dean. It's not even news to him that he's got a particular thing for Dean's hands. But this... Dean is in his element, here. Confident. Skilled. When he catches Cas' eye across the crowd, he grinning and relaxed despite the attention of more than a dozen people being trained firmly on him--something he claims to enjoy, but more often than not seems overwhelmed and embarrassed by. "Any requests?" he calls out, and three people independently ask for some Bon Jovi song. He laughs and tells them to be gentle if he forgets the words. Castiel watches him play and aches down to his core. “Ohh,” someone says from beside him, and Castiel takes far too long to realize that it's in reference to him. When he does, he feels a cold prickle of fear shooting from his scalp to the base of his spine. “Don’t panic. I shan’t say a word.” Glancing over, he realizes that the someone is Balthazar. Castiel barely knows him--they only share one class, and since he arrived in town late last year after his family moved from somewhere in the UK, he's tended to spend all of his time hanging out with the small subset of upper-middle class kids who seem to think the public school they've been stuck in is beneath them. He's always been nice enough, especially compared to some of his friends, but he's also just... kind of a snob. And he’s currently looking at Castiel with an expression that seems to be equal parts pity and amusement. “How long?” he asks, leaning back and kicking one foot up onto the opposite knee. “Excuse me?” “How long have you been pining for the Ken Doll?”

[for this ask meme | other responses here]

28

🌹📱

Sorry for the delayed reply, anon! This immediately made me think of my WIP called Teachable Moments which contains a lot of texting and phone calls, and is frankly nothing but a very self indulgent porn-with-some-plot fic set sometime shortly after Advanced Thanatology (in an alternate version of canon where he came back human and asked Dean for "help" in "understanding" "how to masturbate")

This scene comes in the second of six chapters, when Dean has gone to help another hunter who needed an extra set of hands on a case in Arizona, and Cas is back at the bunker. I couldn't decide whether to include the texting section or the phone call section, so this is an extra long excerpt containing both. Enjoy this mildly nsfw snippet!

Dean has barely shut the door behind him when his cell buzzes in his pocket, and he groans as he digs it out, half-expecting to see a message from Murphy asking him another basic-ass question that he should already know the answer to. When he sees Cas' name on the screen, the tension drains right out of him. Cas: How is the hunt going? Dean: Murph is a mess but I knew that going in. Too damn hot out here though. Cas: 😔 Dean: It's fine. Motel has good AC at least. Sprung for a nicer place than usual just in case. Cas: Just in case? Shit, Dean thinks. Chews his lip while he types out his reply. He knows there's no point trying to make something up--he's too tired and overheated right now to come up with anything convincing, and Cas will just wheedle it out of him anyway. Besides the fact that he knew when he was checking in that he was going to have to say something if he wanted a repeat of last Thursday. Dean: Yeah, you said you wanted to do it again, so… Dean: Just figured I should stay somewhere where I wouldn't feel weird about going bare-ass on the sheets Cas: I see. Dean: We don’t have to though Dean: It's fine if you changed your mind Cas: I want to. Dean: Yeah? Cas: Yes. Absolutely. Cas: I was actually trying to think of the best way to ask, so you've saved me the trouble. Cas: Are you busy right now? The three messages come through in rapid succession, Cas typing faster than Dean recalls ever seeing, and if he were a lesser man he'd call Murphy right now and tell him he can dig up the bones on his own. Unfortunately, no matter how much his downstairs brain is currently demanding it, he can't bring himself to leave the guy in the lurch. Dean: Now’s no good. Meeting Murph at the cemetery in 30. Cas: Later, then? Dean: Sure. Want me to text you when I get back? Cas: Yes. I’ll be waiting. Dean’s chest feels cracked open at those words. I’ll be waiting. Cas is going to wait for him. Cool, he writes back, feeling anything but. Cas just sends the sunglasses emoji in reply. Fuck, Dean thinks, staring down at it until his screen goes dark. This is a bad idea. *** Ghost: busted, he texts Cas several hours later, letting the door to his room swing shut behind him. The cool air of the room is instantly soothing. He pulls off his dirt-stained jacket and tosses it onto the chair by the wall, and by the time he’s started toeing off his boots with a plan to hit the shower before he calls, his phone is ringing. “Cas?” “That took a lot longer than I expected,” Cas tells him, and there’s a quality to his voice that sends every drop of blood in Dean’s body directly to his dick. His voice is thinner than usual. Breathier. He sounds as though he’s been balancing on a razors edge for hours. Like he’s been waiting for Dean in only the strictest sense; waiting to come with him, but more than happy to get himself to the precipice alone. “You said you were gonna wait,” Dean breathes out. “I did. I am. I haven’t come yet.” “Fuckin’ hell, Cas. I, uh… look, I just walked in the door, I was gonna shower before we—“ “Could you—“ Cas starts, then stops. Dean hears him swallow, the click of his throat loud down the line. “Could I what?” “It— never mind, it’s probably ‘crossing a line’.” Dean’s not sure how to tell Cas that they crossed the line three shared orgasms ago. He can’t even see the line at this point. The line is in a whole other state. “Ask,” he says instead. “If it’s too much, I’ll say so.” There’s a long pause. “C’mon, cas,” he says, pitching his voice low. “If you want something, ask.” “Could you bring the phone with you?” “Into the shower?” “Into the bathroom. You could put it on speaker, and I could…” Cas lets out a stuttered breath. “I could try doing what you did, last time. Just to… to see if I like it. Telling someone what to do.” “You want to tell me what to do in the shower?” “If you’re amenable.” Dean’s throat is bone dry. “Um. Yeah. That’s… yeah, we can do that.” Cas lets out a low sound. “Thank you,” he says, and then, without skipping a beat: “Take off your clothes.”

[for this ask meme | other responses here]

Old Crow

This is just a little drabble I’ve written about two OCs of mine who like to live in my head but annoyingly they don’t do anything while they’re in here. So in an effort to change that, I picked a little prompt, and wrote a little slice-of-life drabble for them. I imagine that this is fairly early on in their more personal relationship (Bea was raised in a temple devoted to Ailyah, so they’ve always been aware of one another in an impersonal way, but only recently has Ailyah decided to Choose Bea and make herself Bea’s problem)

I’ll tag @aethersea since they asked to see what I wrote for these two ages ago 😅

---

“I said pass it to me, not throw it across the room!” “Well, what do you want? I don’t have fancy thumbs like you, and these old bones aren’t as dexterous as they used to be.”

Beatrix glared at the crow perched on her windowsill, who had just tossed a small pouch of ground hawthorn bark toward her (which had spilled all over her worktable). She opened her mouth and closed it a few times, searching for any kind of clever response. “You’re a goddess!” She cried finally. “I definitely am,” the crow said, fluffing her feathers in the most insufferably smug way. Beatrix swore that if the avian face were capable of it, she would be smirking. And anyway, Beatrix thought, you’re the Elder goddess. Wouldn’t your bones be as dexterous as they’ve always been? She didn’t have the time or energy to argue about the ages and relative fitness of gods today – she needed to finish Mrs. Whitlow’s heart medicine before her trip into town tomorrow, and it needed at least six hours to develop proper potency. Sighing, she closed her eyes and counted to ten before scooping as much of the powdered bark back into its pouch as she could. The rough wood of her old worktable made it nearly impossible to save all of it, and she made a mental note to ask the carpenter’s apprentice Rowan about a new one tomorrow. Luckily, only a pinch was needed for the heart medicine, and Beatrix added it to the mixture before returning to cleaning the mess. Suddenly a small gust of wind, bitingly cold, whipped around her hands and swept the remaining powder out of the crannies of the table and back into the pouch. The crow flapped from the windowsill to Beatrix, who wordlessly extended her arm for her to land on. She nipped at Beatrix’s ear, which made her smile. “Thank you, Ailyah,” Beatrix muttered. “What was that,” the crow said. “I didn’t hear you dear, speak up for an old bird.” Beatrix’s smile dropped into a more familiar annoyed grimace. “O great and merciful Ailyah, Goddess of wisdom, Keeper of Your Healers, I give You my unending thanks for –” “All right, that’s enough,” Ailyah snapped, returning to the windowsill. This small victory made Beatrix smile again, and Ailyah’s eyes gleamed with approval at her chosen healer. There was some mischief and fun in the serious girl after all – with patience and work, she could bring them out of her. And in the meantime, having a straight-man whose praises were mostly sarcastic was the most fun the old crow had had in years.

Chapters: 1/1 ( 2159 words) Fandom: Free Guy (2021) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Antwan/Walter "Keys" McKeys Characters: Walter "Keys" McKeys, Antwan (Free Guy) Additional Tags: Workplace Relationship, Workplace Sex, Cock Warming, In Public, Boss/Employee Relationship, Anal Sex, Under-Desk Blow Jobs, Desk Sex Summary:

Keys was working through a subscriber issue with Mouser when his phone buzzed. He didn’t think anything of checking it with Mouser still over his shoulder.

Antwan: I need you up here for that special assignment.

“What special assignment?” Mouser asked, giving Keys a look. “I mean, I know you’re a Harvard guy—”

“MIT,” Keys corrected him, hastily shoving his phone into his pocket.

“You’re an MIT guy, but you work in Complaints. We never get special assignments.”

Feeling his cheeks start to get hot, Keys said, “Sorry, but it’s top secret. I can’t say anything about it yet.”

Luis

Luis was deported more than a year ago while I was preparing to move to NYC.

Luis was jumped at the Southern border.

You see, Luis was born in El Salvador but grew up in the same hometown as me. The same hometown he has tattooed on his chest. But he was deported at the Southern border and the gangs could tell that's not where he's from.

They took the little money and cheap phone his mom helped him get while he was in custody. They think he has a rich family in the States, but the only thing his mother is rich in is faith and tears.

Luis and I have no family in Mexico, so he made his way through Mexico to Guatemala trying to make it to El Salvador. But there, the place they call his homeland, there's no one willing to let him in.

Luis has a daughter my age. She's not going to college. But she has a name whiter than mine and a white mother to prove it.

Luis was in possession of half an ounce of weed when he was arrested. I've seen kids here smoke more than that on a school night.

Luis has given up, He spends whatever money his mother sends him on alcohol and drugs. He calls his mother so drunk he can't speak and I watch her scream his name into the phone:

Luis, que paso?

Luis, contestame!

Luis, please . . .

One of my first memories of Luis was when he was living on my mother's couch with both of his kids. He never got to fight for custody, but for that week he got to see them. My mom told him I was always complaining about never going anywhere, so he took me with his kids down the street to the Liquor. His daughter and I got skittles, and he bought a six-pack of beers to share with his son over TV that night. I didn't understand then why they were so happy, just to be in each other's company.

Luis and I grew up in the same town he has tatted on his chest close to the American flag on his shoulder.

Luis and I have the same hair and eyes and skin.

Luis was taken from his family. I decided to leave.

I watch the clock tick as I take my first college exams. I wonder if the clock ticks the same for him. Does it tick slower? As he's further from the sun. From everything he knows. Does time feel longer because he doesn't know the next time he'll see his mother? His daughter.

Will he die from the alcohol or the gangs before he can touch the sand he used to play soccer in?

Before I finish this exam.

Thank you all for checking out my blog and reading my writings. I hope you enjoy it and share it with your friends 😘

Yes i am multilingual so i write in different languages all the time.

You.

All I ever wanted was a “pink cloud summer” with you

when you lived in the Marina,

by movements

as I sat in all of the the bathroom floors

of the places we lived.

Back then, both you

and I

had to “Suffer Through”

and now I hope you can have a second to listen to

Movements;

A song called Love Took the last of it…

this is my way of breaking our test of no contact,

and you can block me in your phone

if you want,

but I know that both you and I

are worthy of redemption arch.

I’m achieving mine

and I hope

you keep trying to get yours.

You deserve it.

This is Taylor,

but I go by

Tay now,

and I have

my own special pronouns.

You don’t have to suffer in silence

if you don’t want to,

and you don’t have to block me on everything if you don’t have to…..

I still think highly of you,

and I hope you’re okay…

you have my number again and I have yours if you want resources

because I have mine together

for when shit tries breaking apart again.

No more “colorblind”….

and yes.

We’re both probably autistic.

No one wanted to tell us that;

because were supposed to

“know better”.

Here's a scenario:

At a later point of the school year, everyone in Class E knows what Chiba's eyes look like.

Except for Sugaya.

When he attempts to guess what they look like for the umpteenth time, the whole class spectates. But the cheeky ones chose to mess with him by purposely giving him all the wrong hints.

Chiba was not amused at all when he later saw a drawing of his face with Korosensei's beads for eyes.

Being a lot of things.....

I am a creative, and a creative of color at that. I riddle my speech with color, laughter, song, and passion because these are the things that get the people going... and because it's what's familiar to me. A song to ease the pain, color to brighten the somber moods, laughter to distract from tragedy, and passion because if not passion then RAGE.

It's creativity as catharsis, as I need some way to speak my truth but if I don't make it entertaining before I speak, I'm bound to upset someone myself or others, and even then, there's always someone who isn't pleased. My shred of peace is learning not to care.

However, what many in my position won't tell you is that as a creative, my success is truthfully only marked by survival. I'd love to say it's the art I've been able to create or the people I've touched but in reality, it's my ability to remain here. I've grown to be many things because while chasing dreams I've had to acquire several skills to be deemed worthy of engagement, of an audience, and even of existence. All these skills and I still left feeling useless, less than, and perpetually just shy of meeting the criterium for success.

I have no regrets for what I've done to survive but my question, now that I've acquired and acquiesced the need for these skills, what now? But, in the words of 3 Stacks,

"Y'all don't wanna hear me, ya just wanna dance."

Nightmare LSD

Pure acidic methamphetamine; essentially an elongated ride on the glitch & hop of P.C.P. Floating up high - the exhaust of a train. Stuck inside a chimney, not flaming smoothly. Budging along from the pent up smoke below, Completely displaced from time of space, Unsure of the voltage’s hit; Conscious effect, most-now or next?

The relaxed laughter from psychedelics Is hardly there, evilly giggling -  Due to the other toxins ingesting you Pure meth does present grotesque things In a visual way; Combining these drugs, makes horror and gore Seem amusing due to the edge of the suppressed fence. Briefly mellow slipping to crude humour Enticing the potential state of subtle fear,  Of how far you’ll fall into the inescapable

Hell below, no matter the level of consciousness (Notably since, at any drop-point, you can lose all awareness of supposed sobered thought.)

Some people toy around demonically Forcing a worse case that could take place The bubble wrap sky that pops inside Spontaneously, no forewarning of sound Bi-week was caused from a long ago trapped-pop Closing down, sloping right vague-round On edge with fear of negative - stimuli; and unknown amount of substance let out A ditch uneven - or legs shifting in height Seeing your form, yet only attached to your eyes Anxiety at all can exponentially cause the nightmare to surge at the right-all-time

(Pace and peripherals, awareness please keep the reactive P.C.P. away from me)

Watch out, pussballs beneath your tread Am I dead? The air could host a tornado, Yet although you might see the clouds Your chemically-caused sensor detect Would still then make everything unawake Raindrops could petrify you They’d go through and freeze your blood Making the droplets cauldron-inside Spewing out oppositely, biologically  Instead of seeping down naturally, it feels as if your flesh and blood turn into sludge Mucking away dis-coordinately; The peak hits you, hand upon hand Two compounds take turns around; Elongating all substance-intoxicate, Stirring you  Perhaps insane Especially when - if - you can awake From the momentarily craved R.E.M. state.

When upon eyes not shut The visuals are already amidst Warping around; no voice, touch or sound Movements of then are purely the appearance of P.C.P.’s (does-give) drunkness Slow down, don’t analyse, only realise The glitch and the hop spawned from Pure acid-meth The gas off-spew from the drugs’ ingest

Gasiously commenced, a whole four-five Spinning and lagging Lacking connect; All three active Make nothingness make too vague-much sense Back track; Afraid of the sidewalk’s shape

Floating eyeballs no bodily sensations at all Awareness there, downwards disconnect on Checkpoints visual - brain transfer. Chained to objects meters away; Flattened posters leering in your face

Am I sitting or standing? Is the radius moving, or is it me? Shadows lurking without the shade; Please go, Please leave, how long will this sensation remain? Freezing in time, was that two blocks or five? Coordinates mirrored convex & concave Sheer terror hit, then stops to..Question, what - Where am I? (Okay, well right) awareness re-sight These petrifying toxins, the “relaxation sensation” must have collided - “Might as well go,” even with a momentary eyedroplet of chemical hope.

To course-correct when things aren't working out isn't like driving straight then swerving to another lane. It's like a sudden hit of the brakes and a sharp u-turn.

Suddenly you're going backwards, suddenly all progress was lost. And yet on your way back, you see how beautiful it once was and see where things went wrong and you realize "This is where I turned the wrong way and this is where I start again."

humblyperfect

Smiling Taehyun gifs today or nah? 🤔