#vapourise

[ultra-phthalo]

5am Soundwave edit. Airachnid stop talking.

[total-derangement-of-the-senses]

Song of the Day

17 Dec., ‘21

[prcserpina]

I adore your blog xx

that really means a lot. thank you so much xxx

[sneakronicity]

vapourise replied to your post “vapourise replied to your post “Strange Behaviour (Clint/Natasha)” ...”

Don't worry about it at all it's still super adorable �� I haven't written Fic I think since 2014

Aww, thanks!  That’s super appreciated!

And I know that feel, man. Hopefully some day you will get muse again!  *roots for you*

[sneakronicity]

vapourise replied to your post “Strange Behaviour (Clint/Natasha)”

Oooomg I have missed your Fic so much

Awww, thank you so much!  This made me smile. :)  I’m a little rusty, so hopefully I haven’t lost my touch!

[dosenherz]

@vapourise is such a wonderful soft woman and i love how she reminds me that strong-baby is just another name found through the tender and how we should strive to re-connect to this tenderness day by day because war is won with the soft grinning through a mud-streaked mouth and you taking my hand in your hand and how the trees love you all the same.

[dosenherz]

i. her eyes enter this room one step ahead of her body in grey motion and then everything is static noise and her gaze. this is not a cloud, i tell myself, and few things are left to touch where the sadness didn’t turn her bruises.

ii. her eyes are dried swimming pools and the deep blue clings to her lashes like minutes to tiny clock arms. the howling is tucked underneath her left leg. it sticks to her like forgotten newspapers and sweat and there’s still no summer rain to pull this taste out of my skin.

iii. her eyes remind me of the opposite of wanderlust except that there’s no word for this in any language my mouth knows because longing should be for something and not fallen out of places (and people) (and times).

iv. her eyes look like they’d dance in every smile and that’s odd enough. i feel my fingers dragging forward and maybe they want to close her pain away (now it aches everywhere because the blue still cuts us deep) (we’re sorry, but the person you’ve been calling is unavailable) (this is how you walk out of reach to let the hurt seep elsewhere). the wound is an ugly red in here.

v. the chair chafes the insides of my knees when i hurl myself against my want. her eyes are puddles of something thicker than water and i must have moved anyway because suddenly i’m touching the side of her jaw set in stone for every breath she doesn’t dare to take.

vi. i’m sorry, i don’t tell her, i shouldn’t touch clouds. i’m sorry, i don’t tell her, but your sadness keeps washing over the blue trapped in my bones. i’m sorry, i don’t tell her, i don’t know how to leave this for another life but i know i could know you the way someone needs to know clouds like me, like you.

(she watches my tongue scramble for words. there’s grey in her eyes like a hurricane gone stale and then - not light not day not what to say - a thing akin to half a smile starts blooming ‘round frayed seams. laughter, heavy on her lips, and some coffee bitter sadness spills over her brims. my mouth turns frost then blue, a shiver, two, and then she says: well, love. how couldn’t you?)

- tiny beasts softening: jollin. (bird friend series)

@vapourise

[dosenherz]

concept: helen of troy does countertop dancing in the middle of the night (gotta run, gotta burn). hair and ivy tangled in the shower like lovers fallen to your feet - lighter spots flicker in front of your eyes; might be milk or dew or you. you got a headache last night from an army of vanilla candles lit in your head (the taste is foul and sweet on the roof of your mouth when you swallow around breakfast cereals). the red blooms on your front teeth and now people think behemoth, think witch, think woman. (the blood is yours though, wounded little thing, i know you can’t breathe with the children’s bandaids they stuck across your lips or, where the light leaves you behind) you strapped laughter in its iron cage and it’s wailing (love). don’t you hear the cracking there. a line of atwood catches fire in your throat. and no one taught you what to do when you are burning. (more birch than bird but both with frost bites on their lids.)