hiya, my name's charlie/runaway (i like both equally! no need to stick to one), my pronouns are they/xe/fox/he/it (in order if preference; do alternate between them though). you might've seen me before: this isn't the first blog i've ever made, but the other ones are deactivated
i'm into sky cotl and fnaf at the moment. i like theorising, drawing (i'm not that good at it, but i'm learning), and writing. i have an ao3 account with a bunch of sky cotl fics
tags:
#runaway draws for art
#runaway writes for writing
#runaway reblogs for reblogs
#runaway yaps for text posts
#runaway replies for asks
most posts are tagged with the fandom and the characters and/or ships as well
an important disclaimer: i have avoidant personality disorder (avpd for short), which causes me to have a very limited social battery and a lot of trouble when it comes to interacting with people (strangers and friends alike) in general, so i may seem unenthusiastic, rude, or uninterested when i'm really not. i also tend to have episodes when my symptoms intensify, and during these i often ignore people completely. in the worst cases, i may delete stuff or deactivate
additionally, i would highly appreciate it if you used tone tags while interacting with me, as my brain tends to jump to "people are mad at me" if there is no indication of this not being the case. my friends know more details, but for a casual tumblrer who wants to talk to me, this must be enough
close to finishing jane eyre and the cousin reveal was so good??????????? like i did notice that the whole two girl cousins and one guy cousin was a parallel to the beginning and i did ask myself if jane and these three could be related cuz otherwise why bring up the damn letter (i am once again trying to get in the author's head) but like MAN the way i CHEERED
gave up in the middle of chapter 3 last week but i came back to project hail mary the book and forced myself to finish the chapter and i REALLY fucking dislike the writing
And when blood stops trickling down the cold stone walls and watering the desiccated land, flowers don’t bloom. They just don’t. You have Light delivered in the largest quantities possible and scholars invited to study the soil; flowers don’t bloom. They just don’t.
relationship: tsadi & the other elders
tags: angst, hurt no comfort
600 words
you can read the fic here or below the cut
Flowers Don't Bloom
And when blood stops trickling down the cold stone walls and watering the desiccated land, flowers don’t bloom. They just don’t. You have Light delivered in the largest quantities possible and scholars invited to study the soil; flowers don’t bloom. They just don’t.
It’s nothing out of the ordinary, you’re told. It’s just Darkness, good old Darkness — oh, you know it so well! She’s your older sibling, this Darkness; you have seen thousands of times Light leave people’s eyes forever, glassy emptiness staring at the starless sky. You have seen thousands of times crops and animals fall down before they had the chance to fulfill their role. You have seen thousands of times creatures drop into the sea, giving up so close to the end of their journey because it’s your realm reeking of death that they needed to cross. You have believed yourself cursed to be the Elder of the realm that always dies.
Yet, it has always survived. Newborns would yell almost loud enough to coax the resting from their graves, and crops and animals would straighten their backs proudly, and creatures would soar high up, so high up that from down below, you could no longer see them. Flowers would bloom again.
They don’t. They just don’t.
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” the Stubborn One says from across the table, their hand reaching out to touch yours. You move it away.
“What can I do to help?” the Weak One asks from where they are standing on your right, tentative fingers on your shoulder. You wince.
“Neither do mine,” the Misguided One confesses, eyes on the sea, not daring to meet your gaze. They are afraid of you, you know. You ignore their confession.
Scholars sigh and shrug, and tradespeople wipe the sweat off their foreheads, and flowers don’t bloom. A ship goes missing. Monsters ravage the cities. In the villages, people fall down with glassy eyes. Oh, how you hate the glassy eyes!
Flowers don’t bloom.
“They will,” the Stupid promise, and you raise both of your fists. You only lower them again because the Stupid are children. Still. Despite the numbers. Children. They never change.
They don’t. They just don’t.
“Time will show,” the Unwise One points out, not meeting your gaze. You look away, too, ashamed of having let blood water your flowers for so many years. How are they supposed to bloom now, if all they know is Darkness, disease, and death?
They don’t.
The Light-taker says nothing as they stand with their back turned towards you. They probably don’t even remember what flowers are.
They just don’t.
They don’t bloom, they don’t bloom, they don’t bloom. They only wilt, only wilt, only shrink like the elderly, thin stems bending and dry leaves crumbling, only die, only die, only die.
“I can’t forgive you,” the Stubborn One whispers.
“We don’t have enough Light,” the Weak One admits.
“Forget about flowers: our whales are dead!” the Misguided One yells.
The Stupid don’t look.
“It is too late,” the Unwise One concludes.
The Light-taker leaves. The world breaks. Darkness comes. People fall.
* * *
Children bring the flame.
They dance and sing, run and fly, ask and answer; they set free what was never meant to be caged, give what was never meant to be taken, they are docile and strong and correct and smart and wise and Light-bringers. You know they carry life, and you touch life, for the first time in forever, and you drink it all in, in the hope that maybe, just maybe—
ik you said it was attention seeking but if it’s true you should be honest about it. There are people who care about you, and we don’t want you to suffer in silence. Ik we don’t really know each other, but I do care.
And when blood stops trickling down the cold stone walls and watering the desiccated land, flowers don’t bloom. They just don’t. You have Light delivered in the largest quantities possible and scholars invited to study the soil; flowers don’t bloom. They just don’t.
relationship: tsadi & the other elders
tags: angst, hurt no comfort
600 words
you can read the fic here or below the cut
Flowers Don't Bloom
And when blood stops trickling down the cold stone walls and watering the desiccated land, flowers don’t bloom. They just don’t. You have Light delivered in the largest quantities possible and scholars invited to study the soil; flowers don’t bloom. They just don’t.
It’s nothing out of the ordinary, you’re told. It’s just Darkness, good old Darkness — oh, you know it so well! She’s your older sibling, this Darkness; you have seen thousands of times Light leave people’s eyes forever, glassy emptiness staring at the starless sky. You have seen thousands of times crops and animals fall down before they had the chance to fulfill their role. You have seen thousands of times creatures drop into the sea, giving up so close to the end of their journey because it’s your realm reeking of death that they needed to cross. You have believed yourself cursed to be the Elder of the realm that always dies.
Yet, it has always survived. Newborns would yell almost loud enough to coax the resting from their graves, and crops and animals would straighten their backs proudly, and creatures would soar high up, so high up that from down below, you could no longer see them. Flowers would bloom again.
They don’t. They just don’t.
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” the Stubborn One says from across the table, their hand reaching out to touch yours. You move it away.
“What can I do to help?” the Weak One asks from where they are standing on your right, tentative fingers on your shoulder. You wince.
“Neither do mine,” the Misguided One confesses, eyes on the sea, not daring to meet your gaze. They are afraid of you, you know. You ignore their confession.
Scholars sigh and shrug, and tradespeople wipe the sweat off their foreheads, and flowers don’t bloom. A ship goes missing. Monsters ravage the cities. In the villages, people fall down with glassy eyes. Oh, how you hate the glassy eyes!
Flowers don’t bloom.
“They will,” the Stupid promise, and you raise both of your fists. You only lower them again because the Stupid are children. Still. Despite the numbers. Children. They never change.
They don’t. They just don’t.
“Time will show,” the Unwise One points out, not meeting your gaze. You look away, too, ashamed of having let blood water your flowers for so many years. How are they supposed to bloom now, if all they know is Darkness, disease, and death?
They don’t.
The Light-taker says nothing as they stand with their back turned towards you. They probably don’t even remember what flowers are.
They just don’t.
They don’t bloom, they don’t bloom, they don’t bloom. They only wilt, only wilt, only shrink like the elderly, thin stems bending and dry leaves crumbling, only die, only die, only die.
“I can’t forgive you,” the Stubborn One whispers.
“We don’t have enough Light,” the Weak One admits.
“Forget about flowers: our whales are dead!” the Misguided One yells.
The Stupid don’t look.
“It is too late,” the Unwise One concludes.
The Light-taker leaves. The world breaks. Darkness comes. People fall.
* * *
Children bring the flame.
They dance and sing, run and fly, ask and answer; they set free what was never meant to be caged, give what was never meant to be taken, they are docile and strong and correct and smart and wise and Light-bringers. You know they carry life, and you touch life, for the first time in forever, and you drink it all in, in the hope that maybe, just maybe—
what do you enjoy doing in your free time? or used to enjoy
Lots of things, and not always the same ones. But we both loved playing the piano.
We learned to play when we were little. Back then, we still felt like one being, and had a hard time functioning separately. Learning stuff like hand independence actually helped us figure out how to tell ourselves apart. If we found ourselves a little too out of sync, we could play until we found that harmony again.
In a position like ours, you don’t get a lot of “free time”. Even when we were making art or playing sports or going to parties, that was part of our job, and music was no exception. Everything was some kind of opportunity. But even then, it didn’t feel like work. Whenever we played, we were free.
And the best part? Thanks to you kids, we still get to play from time to time. So bring a piano the next time you see us. Let’s play together.
do you ever look back at your relationship with someone on the internet and just think oh my god i’m so fucking glad i clicked follow they make my life so much better
