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Entry tags:
- dear evan hansen: connor murphy,
- fragile dreams: ren,
- marble hornets: tim wright,
- mushi-shi: ginko,
- original: chip abaroa,
- original: erika fisher,
- undertale: asgore dreemurr,
- undertale: chara dreemurr,
- ✖ camp camp: max,
- ✖ disney: mickey mouse,
- ✖ ensemble stars: kanata shinkai,
- ✖ ffxiv: tataru taru,
- ✖ fragile dreams: seto,
- ✖ little witch academia: atsuko kagari,
- ✖ no.6: shion,
- ✖ one piece: monkey d. luffy,
- ✖ original: kyouko kougami,
- ✖ original: yuka ichijou,
- ✖ the adventure zone: lup,
- ✖ the adventure zone: taako,
- ✖ undertale: muffet
i know it's just a number but you're the eighth wonder [ OPEN MINGLE ]
Who: Tim and EVERYBODY WHO WANTS IN ON THIS CAUSE IT A MINGLE
What: Nail-painting. Destressing. We have earned something Nice for ourselves.
When: February 12th
Where: Just outside the Storyteller's Temple
Warnings: Probably nothing of note? Will add if needed.
There's a man sitting cross-legged outside the Storyteller's Temple, general hub of interaction that it seems to be turning into. He still looks like shit, granted, his face a colorful patchwork of bruising and a fresh bandage slapped around his middle, but that hasn't stopped him from making the best of things. A few vials of some various colorful fluids might not be familiar to everyone here, but after everything? Screw it, thinks Tim. They've deserved a break. He deserves a break. The kids here, especially, deserve a break. It's time to celebrate the fact that they are no longer in danger of freezing in the dark and living out the remainder of their days in a bleak, sunless existence.
And he liked colors, as a kid. In the blank white walls of a hospital, where everything was drained of variation and bleached white and left bone-blank, the occasional bursts of color allowed in packages of crayons and colored pencils at art time were treasures. They stopped giving him crayons after he drew the man in his room one too many times, a tall black shadow in the back of every drawing that had the doctors exchanging looks with tightened jaws and the clearing of throats that too clearly spoke to their disapproval.
It dogged him, even once he stepped out of those empty walls, his wardrobe as consistently drab and dull and monochrome as his life. It dogged him with featureless rooms and
Fuck that.
Fuck that especially, because it means that kids like Ren grew up without colors in their lives, and it means that they've had precious few simple little pleasures in the past month, and it means that they are all owed a goddamn break. And if he's bound to be a freak no matter what he does, he may as well be one with a spot of color or two.
So today, to celebrate? We're painting nails.
Fuck it. We're painting nails.
It's safe to say that Tim's new at this, particularly when he only has one good hand at the moment, but he'll still seem quite open to sharing with whoever happens along - especially if you're a kid.
What: Nail-painting. Destressing. We have earned something Nice for ourselves.
When: February 12th
Where: Just outside the Storyteller's Temple
Warnings: Probably nothing of note? Will add if needed.
There's a man sitting cross-legged outside the Storyteller's Temple, general hub of interaction that it seems to be turning into. He still looks like shit, granted, his face a colorful patchwork of bruising and a fresh bandage slapped around his middle, but that hasn't stopped him from making the best of things. A few vials of some various colorful fluids might not be familiar to everyone here, but after everything? Screw it, thinks Tim. They've deserved a break. He deserves a break. The kids here, especially, deserve a break. It's time to celebrate the fact that they are no longer in danger of freezing in the dark and living out the remainder of their days in a bleak, sunless existence.
And he liked colors, as a kid. In the blank white walls of a hospital, where everything was drained of variation and bleached white and left bone-blank, the occasional bursts of color allowed in packages of crayons and colored pencils at art time were treasures. They stopped giving him crayons after he drew the man in his room one too many times, a tall black shadow in the back of every drawing that had the doctors exchanging looks with tightened jaws and the clearing of throats that too clearly spoke to their disapproval.
It dogged him, even once he stepped out of those empty walls, his wardrobe as consistently drab and dull and monochrome as his life. It dogged him with featureless rooms and
Fuck that.
Fuck that especially, because it means that kids like Ren grew up without colors in their lives, and it means that they've had precious few simple little pleasures in the past month, and it means that they are all owed a goddamn break. And if he's bound to be a freak no matter what he does, he may as well be one with a spot of color or two.
So today, to celebrate? We're painting nails.
Fuck it. We're painting nails.
It's safe to say that Tim's new at this, particularly when he only has one good hand at the moment, but he'll still seem quite open to sharing with whoever happens along - especially if you're a kid.
[ooc: yes this is a mingle for painting some nails feel free to top-level all over]
no subject
[This stops her reign of shoe terror and she leans back, almost scared? Worried? As she works back through the last five minutes to figure out what happened here. This got away from her pretty fast. Why does she suddenly have a birthday, after all her attempts to turn the conversation away from that? She doesn't want to think about the fact she might die before then, how she can't get much older, how birthdays aren't for someone like her-
May 2nd.
She said that's her birthday and her first instinct is to somehow give it back? Like it's possible to return her words for store credit or something.
May 2nd.
There's a nice, warm feeling that accompanies those words, but it's time to hide. This should be Seto's birthday, Tim's second birthday-maybe she can pass it along or not think about it again. Go #teamren. And if there's anything to be gained from this minor existential crisis she's having, she quickly follows up with-]
When's your birthday? You have to tell me now-that's something you have to do.
no subject
[That's an interesting way to put it. Not don't want one, or, you don't have to. It's - can't. And then she cuts herself short.]
June 19th.
[Because fair's fair. He owes her that answer too. But he's not quite done yet, either.]
Why "can't" you, kid?
no subject
Was his heart that kind? That he could see past what, to her, is painfully obvious? What she thought was easy to see in her actions and words-that she wasn't like him? That she was weaker and like one of the many that must've died in his lab?
The question confirms that, at least. She has to push it away and pretend like she didn't hear May 2nd and think I get to live to May 2nd and maybe I'll see the next May 2nd.
But if he doesn't know, she can't let him. That explains why he wanted to be with her too-because he doesn't know. And now that he's an adult, once he knows, he might leave her. She'll have to leave him. He gave her a birthday and she has to survive and she can't.]
It's nothing. It's okay.
[She replaces May 2nd with June 19th and repeats it over and over and over. All she needs is an actual calendar and then learn how to read it. June, June, June.]
I'll find a dope roast for you-you'll be very happy.
no subject
[It doesn't seem much like "nothing," but he knows better than to push kids into saying something they'd rather not. At the very least, he can leave the door open for her to venture down that avenue if she ever feels like it. Assuming she ever does.]
Then I'm gonna have to find one for you too, you realize. For May 2nd.
no subject
If she's lucky, he might forget this ever happened, but he repeats that date like he's trying to remember too.
So she doesn't say anything at all. Yeah, she's sure. It's nothing. She can't think about it right now, so she'll let the silence settle between them, turning her attention back to his shoes.
You bet she's going to spend the next however long painting these things from front to back. Even the remaining bits of sole won't escape her little brush. Enjoy all the ridiculous images, Tim. This is what you get.]
no subject
[May 2nd. Good a day as any.]
[In theory, you only get older once a year.]