#I still like the idea so I'm sharing it

[familyofpaladins]

okay so I came up with this idea long before season 4. Possibly after I first watched the show (which was after season 2). And while its aleady poven wrong, theres a couple things I want to add to theories about what's happening in season 4, but i will put those thoughts (and any season 4 spoilers) under a cut. But the rest you can read as a story idea or au if you want

(Also, sorry for typos and lack of capitalizing, I typed it in a note app first and it doesnt automatically capitalize new sentences)

ok ok so this idea is basically MK is a stone egg baby kinda based on the idea of hatching an egg under a toad makes a basilisk, but if you sit a mystic monkey on a rock and have him wish for a successor he hatches one ANYWAY idk if this stone is already magic or not. but wukong sits on a stone on a mountain near the city and looks over the city. he admires the view and kinda wishes how he had someone to spend it with. but also he's lonely and maybe is kinda preparing to end his immortality. but he doesnt want to leave the city/world unprotected, and that maybe he could train someone to take over for him. but this is all just a passing thought! he barely even realizes that he thought it! he turns into a bird and flies back to ffm little does he know that in his thinking, some of his magic was absorbed by the stone. but that alone isnt enough to hatch a baby.

the stone sits on a hiking trail. A hiking trail that a certain pig likes to hike when he needs to get out some of his frustration when it's been a bad day in the noodle shop. He likes to sit on the nice big stone and look at the city. He can see his shop from here and he knows no matter how bad a day he had, the shop is worth it. And maybe he thinks about how the building had been passed down through his family, but who was he going to give it to? (not that he's anywhere near old enough to give up the shop, but… he didnt have any family.) hmmm maybe he should hire some help? hmm other places deliver. maybe he could get someone to do that? absent thoughts, and relief gained, the pig continues home. none the wisher that the stone has taken in his thoughts and wishes

And maybe the pig comes back on the trail with a scholar to show him the view, and maybe the scholar complains about his ankles and asks to sit down. and maybe he starts to tell stories of the Monkey King and maybe the pig is a little less than attentive , and the scholar wishes for someone who enjoys the tales as much as he does. And after they finish enjoying the sunset they continue on their way. none the wiser to the stone that holds warmth from more than just the setting sun.

More people come and sit on the stone to look at the beauty of the city and bask in its warmth. A couple with their baby daughter who has too much energy for their house of collections. A big blue guy who is trying to cool his temper by going on hikes and befriending the wildlife. and maybe they all come back at various times. and they sit on the stone.

And the stone has been storing their energy and wants and desires until one day

one day the pig is hiking to his favorite spot. but before he gets there he finds a little lost child on the path. who would just leave a child on the trail?? he takes the child back to the city. no parents are ever found and well, they've gotten a little attached to each other. it's not for another couple months that he has a chance to go back to the trail and is very disappointed that his favorite spot to sit is no longer there. (who moves a stone?!)

As for the monkey king. maybe he senses something (but doesnt know what exactly) when the stone hatched. or maybe he's observing the city again when he's drawn to a noodle shop. Inside he sees the pig and the scholar and a child. He thinks what ever he sensed was the pig and scholar, since they so closely resemble his old companions. However the child steals his attention as he climbs the stool onto the counter to swipe the noodles from a bowl with out the other two noticing at all. the King finds the kid amusing and decides to check in on him anytime he decides the visit the city. and finds he does so more and more often and the kid reminds him of himself.

And as the years go on, he thinks that maybe just maybe, he could retire and this kid could be his successor. yeah, that seems like a good plan! the kid was just like him, but also better. who better to give his powers to?

SPOILERS FOR SEASON 4 BELOW

okay. so obviously this idea is wrong firstly in that in canon MK's stone came from Moneky King's stone, whereas my idea had it be a completely different stone.

Canon also makes it seem like someone deliberately made MK. But I do wonder if the person or whoever or whatever realized what they were doing though, and didnt realize they succeeded and that's why MK was able to just wander up to Pigsy's shop. Maybe. Idk

I DO THINK that the whole reason Monkey King started watching Mk was because he sensed Something about the kid (even if he didnt consciously realise it or pinpoint what exactly he was sensing) and decided to keep watching him. And after a while decided that if anyone would be his successor it should be this kid! (Genuinely unaware of the link they share)

[flwrkid14]

Eternal Bonds: Tim and Danny’s Infinite Realms Marriage

In the Infinite Realms, marriage is an unparalleled commitment. Unlike the mortal world, where love can be fleeting and easily undone, marriage in the Realms is something far more sacred. It’s not just about vows or ceremonies—it’s about merging souls, creating a bond that not even the vast stretches of time can sever. The very idea of marriage in the Realms is rare, almost mythical, because it requires two beings to love each other so profoundly that they’re willing to bind their very existence to one another.

For the ghosts and entities that reside in this realm, eternity isn’t just a poetic idea—it’s a reality. Time is meaningless when you’re no longer alive, when your very essence is bound to the afterlife. And because of this, relationships are viewed through a different lens. There’s no such thing as divorce, no “time apart.” Once a couple is bound, their souls are intertwined forever. To dedicate your entire being—past, present, and future—to another means accepting that their joys, sorrows, triumphs, and failures will be yours too. It’s a partnership where breaking the bond is simply impossible.

It’s why marriage is such a rare occurrence in the Realms. The ghosts, who have already lived one life and often seen the frailty of mortal promises, don’t enter into this kind of bond lightly. It’s only for the strongest of loves, for the most steadfast of commitments. Because once you marry in the Infinite Realms, that bond holds through eternity itself.

And yet, despite the gravity of it all, Tim and Danny find themselves willing to make that very commitment. Tim, a mortal tied to a world where things end, where nothing lasts forever, steps into the unknown. His love for Danny is so deep, so unshakable, that he agrees to a traditional Infinite Realms marriage. He knows full well the weight of it—he’s not just vowing to love Danny in this life, but in every life after. In swearing to this bond, Tim is offering his entire being to Danny, for now and all of eternity.

For Danny, this choice means even more. As a halfa, he exists between two worlds, knowing both the mortality of the living and the permanence of the ghostly afterlife. His love for Tim is powerful enough that he’s willing to make this eternal commitment, knowing that there’s no one else in any world—mortal, ghostly, or beyond—he would rather be tied to. For Danny, the bond is as natural as breathing. It’s a connection that deepens their relationship in a way that transcends the limitations of their two worlds.

Their marriage isn’t just a declaration of love—it’s a merging of souls, a binding that makes them two parts of the same whole. It overwhelms them with the sense of safety and belonging that they’ve both craved in their lives. In each other, they find the kind of love that doesn’t just endure life’s difficulties but thrives beyond them. Their bond ties them together forever in a way that no one else could understand, but to Tim and Danny, it’s everything.

They are each other’s home. And in the Infinite Realms, there is no greater honor, no stronger connection, than to be bound by love for all of eternity.

[nenoname]

Details in Stan's letter that still haunt me

(how long will I continue thinking about a two page letter that's technically not even that long because Stan's handwriting is fricking large? .....you don't need to worry about that.)

The bro code only shows up in the Lost Journal pages, and to me Stan's message feels like it purposely echoes Ford's "miss you" in the college photo (and for some reason the message doesn't appear in the website version of the photo?) ....or alternatively Stan simply noticed how distressed Ford was about this entire thing and wanted to support him in a way so he can be sappy but without the kids knowing, or both!

Stan's claim about the Oregon lottery contradicts what the Lost Legends website said about Tate McGucket's ability to predict the winning numbers!! ...but also breaking into the Lottery HQ is definitely a very Stan thing to do and it's not the first time small gags have been retconned

Despite spending most of his letter nonchalantly destroying him, the taunt about ripping a dollar bill in half is the only part where Stan is directly responding to Bill. Maybe it's the two of them having similar ways of thinking but it's rather specific considering Bill taunts the reader about it...

And after Bill spends an entire book calling Ford Sixer despite normally using a pretty wide range of nicknames for him, Stan then spends his letter mainly referring to Ford as Sixer, even though post-Weirdmageddon he tends to use a mix of nicknames. And it's not like he'd gotten to see Bill himself for long, let alone see him steal that childhood nickname (that is only used twice in the actual show btw!). Did Ford tell him what happened or...?

With all this and the website's "still on your mind" message, what I'm getting at is my tinfoil hat theory of Stan somehow seeing some of the pages the irl readers saw, even when it should be personalised to the specific reader, and he's been lying about it for some reason. Considering that the book flat out doesn't make an attempt at convincing Soos, I find it a stretch that whatever Bill was telling Stan via the book was an attempt to convince him either.

Wouldn't be the first time Stan's skimmed through a book and lied about what it meant to him.

(...Now I kinda wanna see a story about the family reading their versions of the book and making fun of it while Stan is improvising every single one of his pages and blatantly ignoring Bill's attempts to mock and taunt him)

But also I'm fascinated by the letters that only showed up on the website (aka the Soos+Wendy+McGucket+Pacifica ones). I'm assuming that Mabel had stuck them on after Stan's letter... but they were basically eaten by the book itself because seeing Stan's letter kick-started Bill's breakdown which takes up the rest of the book

[somnimagus]

i'm trying to get back into drawing more often again, so i tried to do a quick redraw of an old thing to warm up, kinda. original under the cut

[id in alt text]

you could probably just look through my archive to find this one, but i think it's more satisfying to see them together. this one is from... 2021.... eugh... passage of time

[mrschwartz]

The Reluctant Genius of Alex Turner by Keith Cameron (Q Magazine, July 2007)

[deoidesign]

Someone killed my boss last night and he sent me this I'm so fired

god I can't wait to make this comic.

[weisshapt]

i follow rivers

pairing: mad sweeney x reader

warnings: explicit. bathing and sex as forms of worship.

summary: It was as though your quiet exaltations, in tandem with the way your hands moved across his neck, shoulders, and back called to him, to his godhood, reaping the same effect as if you’d put out a plate of bread and cream. It told him, instinctively, that there was an offering to be had, and strength to be gained in its having.

read here or on ao3

Disgruntled banging against your door sometime in the afternoon had you shooting up like a bullet, tossing the book you’d been attempting or pretending to read carelessly onto the coffee table. 

You’d been up all night, all morning, nerves too spiked to have even tried to sleep, despite having made a valiant, though undeniably distracted effort. You’d done as asked, even if it had been one of the hardest tasks you’d ever endured. But you did it, because he asked. You’d half—more than half, really—expected him to show up in the middle of the night, and you’d been ready, first aid kit set out and a whole list of questions prepared, questions you ran through again as you all but sprinted to the door. They vanished from your mind in an instant, however, when you saw him. The damage the fight had done to his face was bad enough, but it was the look in his eyes that silenced you. 

He looked furious, that was for sure. But he also looked worried, and there was even a glint of defeat. He appeared almost vulnerable. It wasn’t an expression you were used to seeing, and not one you’d hoped to see again. It wasn’t as bad as it had been a few days ago, but that knowledge did little to lighten the weight that was settling into your chest. 

You didn’t say anything, despite having so much you wished to, and simply moved out of the way so he could enter. When he did he was careful, like he thought one wrong step might cause the entire building to come down on your heads. Every move he made appeared to be second-guessed or weighed, even the way he looked at you, when his gaze brushed you at all. Sweeney was skittish, and it scared you. 

He wasn’t bleeding anymore, you noticed, as he let himself fall onto your couch. Even if he had been, you knew you wouldn’t have said anything. Not this time. Having him here in the day at all was strange on its own, especially under this circumstance. 

Your body moved without thought until you were sitting across from him on the coffee table, too wary to do anything other than stare at him. 

He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees and head in hands, but then he moved back, fists clenching and unclenching in his lap as he finally really looked at you, one hand reaching for yours and holding it tightly. He stayed that way for a moment, but then, before your brain had a chance to process the movement, he was tugging you forwards, pulling your body onto his lap. Your forehead smacked with an audible crack against his. Ouch. He shut his eyes and let out an angry breath through his nose, lips pinched together like this was just one more in a line of unhappy accidents.

Instead of leaning away to rub at the now sore spot, you left your forehead against his, noses almost touching and your hands coming to his neck. You wanted to bandage the cuts on his face, but Sweeney didn’t need you as a nurse right now. He needed you as a believer. He needed you as just a figure of care and calming physical contact. Calloused hands came to rest one on your waist and the other in the crook of one elbow. 

“I fuckin’ lost it.” His voice was rough like sandpaper when it broke the silence. 

“Lost what?” Thumbs mindlessly moved back and forth beneath his jaw, your own voice was quiet when you responded. 

“My lucky coin. I fuck-I gave that cunt my coin. I didn’t mean to. It was the wrong coin. It wasn’t meant to be that coin. Grimnir. He was too close to you, and I-“

You leaned back to look at him. “Did he know? I tried not to think about you. I sang a fucking song in my head the entire night to keep you out of my thoughts and I didn’t look at you, but then the fight started and I couldn’t not look. I’m sorry.” 

A pang of guilt shot through you and you closed your mouth. He was the one who was upset and in need of comfort. Not you. Your nerves could wait. 

“You did beautifully, lass. As best as I could ever have asked of ye. I just didn’t like him being so near you. It distracted me.” 

You opened your mouth to apologise, but he was quick to cut you off. “Not yer fault. It’s mine.”

You wanted to ask if he was okay, but that felt stupid, given the situation.

“What are you going to do now?”

“I have to find the bastards. Get my coin back, and my luck with it. Until then I’m a disaster waiting to happen.”

“I could give you a ride-“ His grip tightened considerably and he shook his head once, and hard, cutting off any further offer you might have made. 

“No. No you fuckin’ can not. Last man who tried that didn’t make it two miles. You’ll stay here.”

“Sweeney.”

“Don’t argue, lass. Not this time. Please.”

Please. He never said please. He just made his demands and you willingly acquiesced. But the concern and almost fear in his voice, in his eyes, and in his touch had you nodding. 

“Okay. Okay, I’ll stay here. But without your luck, how will you manage to find them without getting hurt?”

“Finding ‘em won’t be the issue. Can’t do much about the getting hurt. Not without my coin. Don’t have the power.”

You thought for a moment. Power. He needed power. Worship was power, he’d said. Worship, you could do. 

“Maybe I can help.” You tipped his head up to look him in the eye before rising, with as much grace as you could manage, and tugged at his hand. 

His tired eyes darkened in understanding, and the side of his mouth twitched upwards, just barely, as he let you pull him to his feet. 

He followed you slowly, feet not quite dragging as he allowed himself to be lead through the small apartment, turning at the door to your tiny bathroom, made only more ridiculous once he was standing in it. You smiled softly to yourself at the sight as you pivoted away from him to draw back the shower curtain and turn on the water. It would take a good minute or two to warm up, maybe longer. 

Returning to face him, you frowned faintly at the conflicted, confused, and cautious expression painted across his features. You raised one hand to brush a thumb over one of the cuts in the side of his face, and for a moment, his eyes closed. It was only just a moment though, and then they were back on you, waiting. Watching. 

Both hands were working now, smoothing down the fabric covered planes of his chest, and then underneath the soiled denim of his jacket, slowly pulling it back and off down his arms. When his arms came free, you folded the jacket over itself once, then twice, then set it down atop the lid of the closed toilet seat. The flannel shirt came next, unbuttoned just as slowly, patiently, before it came off and joined the jacket. Onto the suspenders, then the wife beater, slightly awkward as his arms raised and you had to stand on your toes to pull it up and off. 

Out of the corner of your eye you noticed, as you sank down to your knees to unlace his boots, the way his fingers twitched, but his hands weren’t shaking as much anymore. You meant only to glance up to ask him to lift his leg so you could pull off his shoes but the intensity of his gaze held yours and you felt a hum somewhere in the air. 

You stayed like that for longer than you meant to, looking up at him, before the feeling of steam gathering on your arms brought you back and, finishing with his boots, you stood up again to focus on the fastening of his jeans. When it came undone you slid the fabric down his legs until finally he was completely bare before you. The sight was enough to make your skin warm and your head light. How fierce your god was in his beauty, how wonderfully made and worthy of worship.

Reaching a hand back to the water, you determined it had reached an appropriate temperature and stepped back as much as you could and motioned for him to squeeze past you to stand in the tub. His head came up above the curtain rod. It might have been comical if the moment were open to comedy.

His head fell back as he stood under the stream, letting it run down his neck (he’d have to bend at the knees for it to reach his head) and again, the sight of him immobilized you temporarily. How long? How long since someone, anyone, had cared for him, tended to him like this? The hum in the air seemed to settle against your skin as you pulled off your own clothes and stepped in behind him. Your hands ran up, then down his arms, back up and over his shoulders before descending down again. Moving them around his waist left you in a mock embrace which turned true as you let your forehead rest against his back and held him there for a moment. 

One breath, two, and you pulled away, reaching towards the small hanging caddy of bath supplies, fingers closing around a half empty bottle of body wash and an exfoliating net. As you squeezed out some of the soap he was turning, carefully, moving his body so you stood face to face. Or, face to front, seeing as you were nowhere near tall enough to put you at his eye level. Still he said nothing, content to watch you and let you do what you would, hands at his side. This might have been the longest he’d ever gone without touching you, especially given your shared states of undress. Perhaps it was the trace of disbelief in his eyes, the minute way his brows knitted together, that kept them where they were. Or maybe it was just curiosity.

With the net lathered you brought it up to his chest, and from there you set to your task, slowly working the soap into every inch of his skin. Up his neck and across his torso, down each arm, against his palm and between his fingers. Another squeeze from the bottle and you descended to give the same treatment to his legs and feet. With one hand gripping to your arm he helped you stand again, and thankfully, mercifully, despite the slipperiness of the tub, the both of you remained steady on your feet. Pushing him to turn around again, you scrubbed at his back, following after the net with your other hand, pressing against the skin in a way you hoped passed as soothing. He didn’t complain.

You let him stand there under the water for a moment, rinsing off the bubbles that had gathered across his skin while you poured out a dime or two of shampoo and rubbed it between your hands, and when you reached for his head he leaned back against you to let you work it into his hair. You noticed then that his eyes had closed, when you did not know, but they remained shut even after he leaned away momentarily to rinse out the shampoo, and as he came back again so you could follow it with the same amount of conditioner.

You spent more time than was probably necessary on this particular step, but with  the way every breath left him in a slow, heavy sigh as your fingers massaged and your nails softly scratched at his scalp, you couldn’t bring yourself to stop. When you eventually did, he moved again, first to rinse the conditioner from his hair, and then to bring water up to his face. 

You stepped out of the shower first, walking around to shut the water off and to grab a towel to dry him with. His clothes stayed on the toilet lid. You’d wash them later.

No words passed between you as he let you drag the soft fabric of the towel over him to dry his skin, and you only looked back up at his face when you took his hand to pull at him again, to lead him again, this time to your bedroom.

Standing there in front of your bed, you trailed your fingertips over his face, the touch just barely there and he stared at you the whole way. 

Pulling his chin down, your lips pressed against his gently. The kiss was chaste, one of Sweeney’s hands hovering over before settling at your waist, not quite pressing and not quite pulling. Yet. 

Finally, you spoke, low and quiet, staring up at him with your hand still cupping his cheek.

“I believe in you, Sweeney. You have my prayers. And my offerings. You have me.”

Now did he act, a groan leaving his lips before they closed over yours, and the way he hauled you into his body and held you close caused your breath to hitch. The grip on your hips tightened, as though he thought you might change your mind and walk away, even now.

Backwards he walked you until you felt the foot of the bed hit against the back of your legs, and down you tumbled, the full heft of his body knocking the air from your lungs as he settled there in the cradle of your thighs. With what breath you did have you continued to whisper praise and prayer into his ear, delighting in the visceral, physical reactions the words elicited as he buried his face in your neck and you your fingers in his still wet hair. 

It was as though your quiet exaltations, in tandem with the way your hands moved across his neck, shoulders, and back called to him, to his godhood, reaping the same effect as if you’d put out a plate of bread and cream. It told him, instinctively, that there was an offering to be had, and strength to be gained in its having. 

His mouth overtook your own again as his hips ground against you slightly, your lips parted in a moan and he took full advantage, tongue tangling with yours until you could taste the full warmth of him that was still always somehow so fresh, like lying in a field on a summer day. 

Each drag of him against you pulled a whine from your throat, which only seemed to spur him on more, to take him deeper and deeper into the sensations your pliant body offered up to him. Where before, when he’d first come in, he’d appeared scared to touch you, now his hands couldn’t get enough of your skin, trying to be everywhere at once. 

It almost pained you to push those hands away with how good they made you feel, but you’d had a plan when you came in here. He needed to be patient. 

His confusion at being pushed away was helpful in that it gave you the opportunity to roll him onto his back, legs settling one on either side of his hips, his hands coming back to run up and down the skin of your thighs. That you could allow. You leaned forward slowly, languidly, movement like molasses as you slid one hand up his broad chest, the heat of his skin sinking into your palm.

“Why the rush, Buile Suibhne?” You could feel him jerk up into you at the sound of his name rolling off your tongue in such a husked whisper, so close to his ear your lips brushed its shell. It was the first time you’d said it, having practiced rolling it over your tongue for days in a desperate hope you wouldn’t butcher it when the right moment finally came. Practice, it seemed, that had paid off. “I want to take my time with my worship.” 

You looked at him then, the look in his eyes burning straight through your mind as much as your body. With a smile you placed a kiss, simple and quick, on his lips, moving down to mouth at the thick column of his throat before he could pull you back for more.

You felt him moan more than you heard it, vibrating against your lips and your teeth and, while he was distracted, you moved lower, making your way down the sun-kissed skin like you were playing Connect the Dots with your lips against each of the freckles that dotted his chest. When you came across a scar you paid it special attention, but kept moving, further and further downward. Eyes flitting back to his face you found him staring you down. The connection of your gazes set something to trembling inside of you and you held him there, watching him watch you as you continued your descent, kissing along the trail of fine, fiery hair.

One hand moved to smooth up the length of his thigh. You could feel how the hard muscles roiled and rolled beneath your touch. Another kiss to the skin just above his pelvis and you looked back up again to admire for a moment the beautiful flush that had spread across his chest and up his neck as you took his hard length in your hand. 

Still you could feel him staring. The weight of his eyes felt like a physical blanket over your body. It was a shot of opium pouring straight into your veins. 

Your touch was gentle as you ran your fingers along him, pressing gentle kisses along his shaft. 

“We have all night. I want to take care of you. Will you let me?” The words weren’t as much a question as they were a plea. There was prayer on your tongue and his eyes shut as it washed over him. Rather than wait for a verbal response, you lowered your mouth over him, gathering the liquid at the tip of his already weeping head with slow kitten licks. The salt of him in your mouth and those bottom notes that brought to mind morning dew and the electrically-charged air that preceded a storm were heavy and intoxicating, perhaps even addictive. Closing your mouth over him you gave a long suck, wanting more of his taste, more of his pleasure, more of him. 

He hissed above you, one hand coming to rest on your head, not pressing or pushing but just touching running softly, almost affectionately, over your hair.

You sunk down further on him, taking in more and more with each pass of your lips. He was heavy against your tongue and you revelled in all of it. Your nerve endings were thrumming and you thought you just might be getting as much out of this as he was. Taking a man in your mouth had never been something you’d been particularly passionate about doing, but Sweeney was no ordinary man. He changed everything. 

His chest was heaving, every breath in and out full and hard. Still, you wanted more. You needed more. Hollowing your cheeks and relaxing your throat, you took him as deep as you could, feeling him slide against the back of your throat. 

“Fucking fuck, lass. That’s good.” His voice was rough and his fingers had tightened in your hair but the sharp pinpricks of pain were in no way unwelcome. 

You kept him where he was until oxygen became crucial, until you just started to heave, lights beginning to dance at the edges of your vision. When you pulled away with a gasping intake of breath, you glanced upwards to his eyes and the look he was giving you would have knocked you on your ass had you been standing. Flushed and drunk on sensation as a result of your actions, he was truly beautiful. But it was the look behind the mossy green of his eyes that pulled at you. The adoration, the disbelief, the ardent desire. Sweeney always made you feel wanted. But this look? This look made you feel worshipped. Was this what it was like for him? This electricity singing beneath your skin and setting your blood ablaze like you held a forest fire in your veins? It was a head rush of epic proportions and it was delicious.

You could see the way he restrained himself from bucking his hips and just fucking up into your mouth. You wanted him to finish like this. You wanted to taste him. Your nails dug into the curve and cut of his hips, the bite of them a sharp contrast to the soft, constricting heat of your mouth. Your movements sped up slightly, still on the slower side but the intensity of it all was pressing harder and harder. For a split second you wondered if it was a sin to pray to one’s god for said god to cum in their mouth, but by the low whine he gave, you didn’t think he minded.

His resolve was breaking. You felt it in the minute motion of his hips. You felt it in how he began moving your head back and forth in small, faint pulls. You felt it in the way he twitched against your tongue. God but you wanted it. It was as though the continued beating of your jackhammer heart relied entirely on watching him come apart beneath your ministrations.

When he finally let go, he did so with a quiet shout of your name, and it was beautiful in a way nothing else in the world could hope to match. He filled your mouth and you drank from him greedily, savouring every drop and reluctant to let even one go to waste. To do so, you thought, might feel like sacrilege.

Pressing a kiss to the side of his hip, it was with a pleased expression that you slowly crawled back up his body to bring your lips back to his. His tongue was reaching for yours before your mouths had even fully connected. When you pulled away he made to follow, but with a hand on his chest, you pushed him down again. 

“Bad luck to interrupt a ritual before it’s finished.” 

Sweeney sighed beneath you. “You’re too good for the likes of me, little bird.”

You knew it wasn’t just a compliment. He really believed it, and it grated on you, tugging at your heartstrings. 

“You deserve so much more.” He wouldn’t believe you, but you’d say it anyways, on the off chance that one day he might. 

He wanted to argue. Ever the fighter. So you distracted him. Bringing your arms together, your hands sat side by side on his chest. Pushing your breasts together to win a not-quite-argument was probably playing dirty but it was effective. Your chest immediately had his attention and you nearly laughed. A shift of your hips over his had you both inhaling sharply. He was still hard. Or was he hard again.

As his hands travelled from your thighs to your waist and back again, you snuck one hand behind you, lifting to line him up beneath you and slowly—agonisingly, painfully slowly—lowered yourself down, feeling every inch of him as he filled you to the brim and then some. Sweeney’s head was thrown back and his hands, which had moved up your breasts, gave a hard squeeze. It was hardly the first time you’d taken him like this, but that feeling when your bodies fully connected, that pressure as you adjusted to him never got old.

The rhythmic roll of your hips started slow, remained that way for a time, but as the air seemed to swell and swirl around you as he moved with you, the dizzying feel of him lead you to speed up, wringing mewls and whimpers out of you that you might have been ashamed of any other time.

The slide of him inside you felt better than could possibly be healthy, and already you could feel the coil begin to tighten low in the pit of your stomach. But he was holding back, waiting for you. Such a gentleman. That wouldn’t do. You pulled at him until he sat up, carded your fingers through his damp hair and trailed your lips up his neck to suck at the spot just below his ear. 

“My god. I am yours. I am for you. Everything I have, everything I am, everything I will ever be.” The words just seemed to pour from your lips and you knew as they did how truly you meant them. They were a bone-deep truth, making their home in the marrow of you. “My worship and my warmth. My bread, my belief, and my body. Every breath I take, I breathe in your name. You have my pleasure as you have my promise. I am yours, always, to do with what you will.”

His choked cry was muffled as he buried his face into the skin between your breasts, pressing hungry kisses to your sternum.

“Let go. Please. I want you to.” You wanted him to finish first, wanted to watch him break one more time, but if he didn’t hurry up you’d beat him to the punch and that just couldn’t happen. Hands moving to his face, you forced him to look at you.

“Suibhne.” His name on your lips was drawn out into a long whimper, a moan, a plea, low and breathy and it seemed to do the trick. His hips were jerking, thrusts erratic until they stilled, and you pressed down, wanting to feel every inch and when you did it was heaven. The sight of him, the feel of him erupting inside you, it was everything you needed to push you that final step over the edge and you came with a cry, arching your back in a sharp angle and holding him as close as he held you, as though the tight press of his skin against yours was still an unbearable amount of distance. Sweeney’s arms, locked around your waist, muscles like tectonic plates and nearly as strong, reminded you even now of the divine nature of the being beneath you, and of the ease with which he could crush you. The danger in the knowledge was more thrilling than it should have been, but there was also some semblance of comfort in it. In such strong arms as his, how could you be anything but safe?

When he laid back onto the rumpled sheets you followed, collapsing on top of him, head resting on his heaving chest and with your ear pressed against his skin you could hear his heartbeat. Above your head, Sweeney was muttering something in some old tongue, the words lost on you, but you could feel his voice, his full, usually booming voice, vibrating against your cheek.

He was stroking your hair away from where it stuck to your face, skin slick with sweat, and the kiss he placed on the crown of your head had your heart doing a funny sort of flip, as though despite everything, it was still the most intimate thing either one of you had done tonight. Coupled with the overwhelming feeling of safety and security you felt as he held you, and you knew you were in trouble. 

Rather than ruminate on that, however, you simply lay there with him in silence, letting the slow rise and fall of his chest lull you to sleep.

[hephaestuscrew]

"With a goddamn harpoon": The significance of Minkowski's weapon of choice within the narrative and characterisation of Wolf 359

TL;DR: Despite its initial comic role, the harpoon becomes a important symbol of Minkowski as a character; it is particularly associated with her desperate need for control, her desire to keep her crew safe, her stubborn determination, and her occasional unpredictability. These associations add to the narrative significance when Minkowski kills Cutter with the harpoon. 

[Tagging people who said they wanted to be tagged: @browncoatparadox @captain-lovelace @goblincaveofvibes ]

~~~

Ep21 Minkowski Commanding

First appearance 

We first encounter the harpoon in Minkowski Commanding, which is a significant episode for Minkowski's characterisation because it's the first big departure from Eiffel's point-of-view into Minkowski's. It's arguably the most Minkowski-centred episode in the whole show, so it stands out when we think about her as a character.

EIFFEL (over comm) Um, Minkowski? Why is the armory wide open, and also, apparently, robbed? Where's the tactical knives kit? MINKOWSKI Don't worry. I've got that. EIFFEL Oh. And the M4 carbine? The, like, really-dangerous-in-space, select-fire M4 carbine? MINKOWSKI Yeah, I've got that too. EIFFEL And this empty rack I'm looking at right now with a label that says "harpoon" suggests that... MINKOWSKI Yes. I have it, Eiffel.

The harpoon is introduced as part of a list of over-the-top weapons that Minkowski takes on her plant-monster-hunting mission. It's initially just a funny moment to emphasise how seriously she's taking this mission. The weapons arguably increase in unlikeliness as Eiffel lists them, and it's a comic image to think of Eiffel deducing the situation from the empty rack labeled 'harpoon'. It could have been an entirely throw-away joke that was never brought up again. The M4 carbine never comes up again. The tactical knives kit is mentioned in Knock, Knock, but not in a plot-significant or symbolic way. 

'Goddamn harpoon' speech

So why does the harpoon become such an iconic part of Minkowski's brand (and I'm pretty certain it was seen as significant by fans long before the finale)? It's got to be because of the next time it's mentioned, when Minkowski talks to the plant monster in the same episode:

MINKOWSKI (getting psyched up) You wanna play with me, huh? You wanna run rings around me? The joyless, boring, predictable old Minkowski? She can't stop you, right? Not someone as smart and powerful as you. You've got her pegged. Good. Get complacent. Get smug. That's right when you'll find me waiting for you. With a goddamn harpoon.

There's so much to say about this speech and what it reveals her character. For one thing, it's all projection - we have no real indication of what (if anything) the plant monster thinks of Minkowski. We don't even really know how much understanding it has when listening to her talk. She imagines that this silent adversary would call her "joyless, boring, predictable". I suspect that these are all things that she's been called a fair bit in the past. (To be honest, I wouldn't be surprised if they are all things that Eiffel called her at one point.)

But the harpoon is proof against - if not the accusation of joylessness - the idea that Minkowski is boring and predictable. Boring and predictable people don't opt for a harpoon for fighting on a spaceship when plenty of more conventional weapons available. A harpoon is unexpected, and there's a kind of power in that.

Another interesting thing about that speech is that the whole thing would make at least as much sense - if not more - if it was directed at Cutter. In Sarah Shachat's episode commentary on Minkowski Commanding (part of the bonus material available to buy here), she says that Minkowski "is really speaking to Cutter in this moment". It's made clear that Minkowski's behaviour in Minkowski Commanding is not just about the plant monster itself. She tells Eiffel, "I have to take it seriously! If I can eliminate one threat, just one, then we are that much closer to going home!" 

The specifics of the plant monster's location, abilities, and origin are mysterious, but - unlike many of the other forces threatening the safety of Minkowski's crew - it is at least tangible and harpoon-able and not light years away. Hunting the plant monster is a way for Minkowski to assert control when so much is outside of her control. It's an attempt to demonstrate that she is - as she puts it - "in charge of this disaster". Minkowski treats the plant monster as a physical symbol of all the threats her crew are facing, and so the harpoon becomes a physical symbol of her fierce (if sometimes misguided) determination to take control of the situation and fight back against those threats to protect her crew.

The line "you'll find me waiting for you. With a goddamn harpoon" is one that sticks in the mind, especially since - with one notable exception - 'goddamn' is about as potent as swearwords get on this show. And it's the harpoon that she uses to give specificity to the threat. 

Absurdity

A harpoon is powerful and threatening, which is exactly what Minkowski is trying to convey to the plant monster, but in this context - not only on dry land but on a spaceship - it's also kind of absurd. From the way we hear it fire in the finale, we can tell that it's more like a speargun than a hand-thrown harpoon spear, but it's still an out-of-place weapon for space-based combat. Minkowski's already been shown to have a penchant for archaic weaponry, after her drunken enthusiasm over the cannon during the talent show incident, which is largely played for laughs. Similarly, in the episode commentary for Minkowski Commanding, Sarah Shachat says that the harpoon was introduced mostly just because it was funny; "[including a harpoon] was me sort of embracing the Moby Dick of it all. And I had no idea at the time how much importance that silly harpoon would take on." 

Eiffel makes a Moby Dick reference himself ("10 days of Captain Ahab's Space Walkabout"). I haven't read Moby Dick so I can't properly analyse the significance of this reference, but the initial prominence of the harpoon (traditionally a whaling tool) enables that connection. It feels like a good example of the classic Wolf 359 thing where something comedic has the potential to take on a deeper significance. It conjures an image of Minkowski as a Captain with the potential to be consumed by a single-minded mission to destroy... A potential that she resists in the conclusion to Minkowski Commanding when she chooses to leave the plant monster alone. The harpoon also fits with the sprinkling of nautical imagery and language in Wolf 359 (e.g. the repeated use of the word 'boat'), as well as the retro-futuristic feel of the Hephaestus.

We never learn why there's a harpoon on the Hephaestus. It seems like yet another of those bizarre unexplained quirks of the station, like the items in the storage room where Eiffel finds Box 953. Even when the weird mysterious features of the Hephaestus are depicted in a comedic way, these features are still a demonstration of the fact that the characters are in an environment that they don't understand and that their surroundings have been shaped according to the whims of Command.

I think we can assume none of the members of the Hephaestus crew brought a harpoon up with them. For whatever reason, someone at Goddard Futuristics must have decided to put a harpoon in that armory. Like most things in the crew's lives, the harpoon is owned by Goddard Futuristics. So the way Minkowski uses the harpoon could be seen as an instance of reclaiming something from Goddard and their control over her surroundings (in a similar way to how her crew are able to utilise the maze-like structure of the Hephaestus to their advantage when hiding first from the SI-5 and later from Cutter and the crew of the Sol).

Other mentions of the harpoon

The harpoon doesn't actually make another physical appearance until the finale, when it truly comes into its own. But there are a couple of little hints before then that it has become a part of Minkowski's brand amongst the other characters as well as to the listeners. These mentions remind the listener about the harpoon, so we don't forget about it before its big comeback in the finale.

Ep27 Knock, Knock

EIFFEL [to Minkowski] Like getting rid of all the weapons, for a start. We should gather up all the guns, the tactical knives, your harpoon. Put it all in the arms locker, seal that sucker up, and put the key in one of Hera's service canisters.

In this quote, Eiffel refers to it as "your harpoon" - the only weapon he ascribes ownership to here. He sees it as something she's laid claim to. He also thinks the harpoon is worth mentioning specifically, which suggests that he thinks that Minkowski would reach for it first if she was feeling particularly violent. This reinforces the idea that the harpoon has become a symbol of Minkowski's character. This connection is also strengthened by the fact that the harpoon is also never mentioned in relation to anyone other than Minkowski using it.

Ep45 Desperate Measures

LOVELACE [to Kepler] Yeah, right. Nobody knows this station like Alexander Hilbert. He knows every nook, cranny, hidden room - everything. And as back up he's got the only woman's who's ever turned outer space monster hunting into a recreational sport. You'll never see them coming... until all of a sudden there's a harpoon in your face, and you end up on the operating table of the finest medical sadist that Goddard Futuristics ever produced.

Lovelace mentions the harpoon and specifically refers to Minkowski's plant-hunting exploits, even though she didn't witness them. So we know that someone has told her that story. And what she's taken away from hearing the story is an emphasis on Minkowski's harpoon and an admiration for her determination. I don't think Minkowski was the one to tell Lovelace about her plant-monster-hunting mission, because I don't think she's necessarily proud of it. I suspect it was Eiffel who told her - he's the most natural storyteller of the group. In Mutually Assured Destruction, soon after meeting Lovelace for the first time, he says "Nobody's told you about the Plant Monster yet? So, funny story..." And I believe  Eiffel would have told the story of Minkowski's plant monster hunt in a way that conveyed both the ridiculousness of her behaviour but also a kind of awe at her boldness and persistence.

The tone of "all of a sudden there's a harpoon in your face" is pretty similar to "That's right when you'll find me waiting for you. With a goddamn harpoon". Once again, the harpoon is portrayed as something that the Hephaestus crew's adversary won't expect, something that will play a key role in that adversary's defeat. You might almost think something was being foreshadowed here…

Characterisation through Weaponry

When we think of the harpoon as a symbol of Minkowski as a character, it seems worth drawing a comparison with the only other Wolf 359 character who I think has a form of weaponry as a big part of their brand: Jacobi and his explosives. While a harpoon certainly has a lot of potential for violence (a potential which Minkowski utilises), it is targeted and intentional in a way that bombs don't tend to be. It's harder to have collateral damage with a harpoon, and I think that reflects a difference between Minkowski and Jacobi's approach to conflict.

A harpoon isn't really designed for combat - it's for hunting whales and other marine animals. It feels significant that Minkowski's key weapon of choice - the one she threatens the plant monster with and kills Cutter with - isn't the weapon of a soldier. She took an assault rifle with her to hunt the plant monster, but that wasn't the weapon she held onto. She's not a natural soldier, even if she'd sometimes like to think she is. 

Maxwell's Death

When Minkowski kills Maxwell, it's with a gun, not a harpoon. She's trying to be a soldier there. She's trying to do what she has to. I don't know much about how a harpoon is fired, but I've a feeling that there's less uncertainty about whether a harpoon was fired deliberately than a gun; the ambiguity around Minkowski's agency in Maxwell's death is a key part of the story that wouldn't work with a harpoon. But perhaps more importantly, I don't think there's meant to be a sense of victory or relief in Maxwell's death, unlike Cutter's. The harpoon - as a weapon that has become strongly identified with Minkowski as a character - is saved for moments when Minkowski is asserting her power in an active way that she isn't conflicted about. 

Ep61 Brave New World

About a third of the way into the finale, there's another indirect mention of the harpoon:

RACHEL Y-yes, sir… Umm, we also picked up some chatter on their weaponry supplies… Firearms, explosives, something about a harpoon…

This is a nice little reference which reminds the listener of the harpoon in anticipation of its big moment later on in this episode, while once again playing with its incongruity in a list of more typical combat weapons. Given that Minkowski and co. have guessed that they are being listened in on here, their choice to talk about the harpoon might be seen as their way of having a bit of fun, or it might be seen as their way to imply the same threat that Minkowski made to the plant monster. Cutter had warning, but he didn't heed it.

Which brings us, of course, to the harpoon's most significant moment:

Cutter frowns. Then he hears it: CLA-CLUNK! His eyes widen.  MINKOWSKI Let's see you catch this.  FWUUUMP! An ENORMOUS THING IS SHOT. A moment later, Cutter COLLIDES AGAINST THE WALL, IMPALED.  MR. CUTTER ... a... harpoon? That's not... how this is... supposed... to... He struggles for a few more moments...and then he stops.

This scene is a classic instance of Wolf 359 utilizing the audio medium to leave a significant element of the situation unknown to the listener until the right moment. We don't know that Minkowski is carrying the harpoon. We don't know that she's readying it as Lovelace talks. When we hear something fire, there's a moment where a listener might or might not have realised exactly what just fired. It's Cutter who delivers the glorious revelation. It gives the moment an additional burst of triumph that Cutter's final words are an expression of shock, not just that he has been defeated but at the weapon with which the killing blow was struck.

Human unpredictability 

It's not just that Minkowski kills Cutter with a harpoon; it's also that she wouldn't have been able to kill him without it. He can catch bullets after all, so Minkowski and Lovelace's guns are basically useless. Cutter thinks he's therefore invincible, but he hasn't accounted for the possibility that Minkowski might have a less conventional weapon on hand, one which fires larger projectiles that he can't catch so easily. The fact that she's carrying an unexpected weapon - a weapon that might have seemed ridiculous - is what allows her to defeat Cutter and therefore to survive. 

It's a repeated theme in Wolf 359 that the protagonists' strength is not that they are the most powerful or they behave in the most logical ways, but that they are complicated and human and unpredictable and very much themselves - all of the things that Cutter and Pryce don't want in their 'ideal humanity'. When Minkowski kills Cutter with the harpoon, it's a victory for human unpredictability and individual idiosyncrasies.

Making good on her promise

Thinking back to Minkowski Commanding, we can see that the threat Minkowski made to the plant monster absolutely came true with Cutter. He got complacent. He got smug. (I'd argue that smugness has always been one of his key attributes.) And he found her waiting for him, with a goddamn harpoon. The return of the harpoon for this moment suggests the defeat of Cutter is a culmination of some of the motivations and traits that Minkowski showed when hunting the plant monster, now channeled in a more suitable direction. She continued trying to get them "that much closer to going home". Her - sometimes absurd - determination provides a throughline from an episode that was mostly comedic (Minkowski Commanding) to a dramatic emotionally powerful finale. As Sarah Shachat put it in her audio commentary, Minkowski "makes good on her promise [that she makes in her harpoon speech in Minkowski Commanding]. That's why she's a hero."

It's significant that Cutter dies from an unlikely weapon that is so strongly identified with Minkowski. It makes that moment feel like truly hers (although she is of course right that she couldn't have done it without Lovelace - that's called being part of a crew). 

As the Commander, it feels apt that Minkowski is the one to kill the long-standing 'big bad'. Pryce is arguably the same level of antagonist as Cutter, but he's the one that we've been aware of since we became aware of larger sinister forces at work in this narrative. 

And if Minkowski has a personal nemesis, it's Cutter. He's the one who recruited her into the hellscape that is the Hephaestus. He played on her ambitions to get her where he wanted her. She trusted him the way she trusted the official chain of authority at the start of the mission. And that trust was extremely misplaced.

The significance of Minkowski being the one to kill Cutter is highlighted by the fact that she kills him with a weapon that only she uses, a weapon that links us back to her behaviour 40 episodes earlier. The sense of control that she was desperately seeking in Minkowski Commanding might not be completely within her grasp by the end of the finale, but she's reclaimed a piece of it by defeating the man who has been exerting control over her life for so long. And she did it with that goddamn harpoon.

[basketobread]

PLEASE i feel like i'm re-sharing more fan art than i am creating my own art HAHAHA thank you guys sooooo much for all your generosity!! seriously, i CANNOT thank you all enough!! 😭❤🙏

[pink-flame]

You're my neck of the, neck of the woods Leave you, babe, I never could Ginger and gestures of goodwill go forth, let go Of sorrow and sadness and spite I'm somebody taller tonight

Neck of the Woods - Maisie Peters

[mic-check-stims]

Walkshipping board for that one anon from forever ago who asked about my ships

X-X X-X X-X

[cuubism]

hello friends. despite my 9 million existing dreamling wips i'm feeling the need to branch out a bit for the sake of my mental variety. what pairing other than dreamling should i write a little something for? could be romantic or platonic

other way of phrasing i guess: any pairings you really want to see more fics for in the fandom?

[chemzee]

So uh. MelDan ammirite? This (kinda) blew up on Insta and other socmed I use so ig I'mma upload this here too lol

It started as a crackship (and it's still is, I kinda like to jokingly them imagine them pretending to like each other but actually wanting to skin each other alive, a little ooc for both of them, but it's mostly just for fun) but rn I'm exploring the potential ""relationship"" through a more angsty lense.

No text version below

[icewindandboringhorror]

recent lounging babey images

[fiepige]

Me: My concept for Venom!Hobie is dark and depressing cause there is no way Hobie would ever get a symbiote and be happy about it

Also me: What if Hobie had a symbiote that could take the form of a cat and it would chill on his shoulder?

[idk-bruh-20]

Irondad fic ideas #107

You've seen the Twitter fics where folks go out of their way to make whole Twitter profiles and properly-formatted tweet threads

You've seen the social media fics with Instagram posts so legit-looking they even have user comments and screenshots of IG stories

You've seen Youtube fics and fake Buzzfeed articles and everything in between

Now get ready for, in this same style, a Tumblr fic*

Featuring, for example:

Peter has a Tony Stark fan account that has been active for like a decade

Flash has a Spider-Man fan account that regularly harasses Peter's account. He leaves comments, asks, makes his own posts about Peter being a fake intern, and has a whole tag on his blog dedicated to #peter's lies (or maybe #penis lol I feel like Flash could get some uh. not intended results for that one)

Spider-Man has an account. Tumblr users discover which account is his WAY faster than he wanted them to

Maybe he saves someone and quips about his most recent hyperfixation, and the person he saved happens to be on Tumblr and happens to notice at 2am an account called wallcrawler posting about that exact same piece of media

Maybe there's a villain with truly unholy looking shoelaces and Peter without even thinking about it quips, "Nice shoelaces, did you steal them from the president?" only to then realize what he's done and someone's caught it on camera and we see Spider-Man rapidly go through the five stages of grief

Stark Industries has a tumblr! They also have a tag dedicated to #kid sightings, #cryptid of si

If they also have tags #tony stark has a heart, #irondad moments, and #stark jr., well.. their boss doesn't need to know

The Twitter apocalypse happens, and a bunch of Avengers migrate over to Tumblr

(Which Avengers do you think seem, perhaps, a little too familiar with this website already...)

(Tumblr sleuths clock Clint's secret blog within the hour. Nat, who has become acclimated to the website very quickly, reblogs Clint's post where he's whining about it with just, "You're supposed to be a spy." It goes viral immediately.)

Y'all know the wild ads we get on this hellsite? Pikachu man? Shaving? What kinds of ads do you think the MCU might have

*to be clear, we're talking about a fic with screenshots of carefully crafted fake tumblr posts and conversations! not a tumblr account roleplaying as various characters and interacting that way!