#and i feel like that shows in my writing
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bri-cheeses · 5 months ago
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One of my favorite tropes will always be James just solidly thinking that Barty and Evan are dating, then being beyond confused when Barty mentions being single or something because like what do you mean they haven’t been in a slightly unhinged and much too codependent relationship for years?
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somnimagus · 1 year ago
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My page for @sheikahzine; about Impaz's duty to her village, empty of people and full of memories.
[id in alt text]
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fowlfics · 1 month ago
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the laws of tragedies, by @annabelle--cane
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necrotic-nephilim · 6 months ago
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as much as I love the common "Tim worships/stalks Jason" trope in TimJay fanfiction because it's Good and making Tim a weird little freak is Fun, I think the underutilized dynamic is where Jason is the one weirdly obsessed with Tim and makes it Tim's problem.
Like, the moment Jason is confronted with the information that a third Robin exists, the first thing he does is cover his wall with pictures of Tim so he can just obsess and torture himself over it. That is the behavior of a man who is Unwell over Tim's existence and I love it.
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red hood: lost days #4
And as much as a shitshow as The Titans Tower Incident™ is characterization-wise (though I think it has far more merit in depicting Jason's character than people give it credit for but I digress-) there's something very fun about the fact that even after kicking his ass, Jason respects Tim and is impressed by him.
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teen titans (2003) #29
And on top of that, Jason can't seem to stop trying to ask Jason to Tim to work with him in some capacity.
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robin (1993) #177
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batman: battle for the cowl #2
While Battle for the Cowl is an exceptionally bad comic, especially for its characterization of Jason and the "be my Robin" bit is taken deeply out of context, I do think it's interesting how obsessed Jason is with believing that Tim is extremely competent, only held back by being "brainwashed by Bruce". (hence him leaving Tim for dead later on in the comic.) Jason seeing a darker side of Tim and wanting to bring that out of Tim, wanting to see what Tim could be if he let go of his loyalty to Bruce is so fun to me, tbh.
And in Robin #177, Jason seems genuinely upset Tim doesn't want to work with him. Jason sees such a raw potential in Tim and is obsessed with it, constantly wanting Tim to work for him and see Tim be the type of person Jason is. And despite Tim rejecting him, Jason doesn't shoot to kill Tim. I just cannot get over the fanfic potential of Jason obsessing over Tim, tracking him and seeing what he's capable of and what he could be capable of. Wanting to make Tim see things the way he does. To Tim it's corruption, to Jason it's freedom. Tim trying to 'save' Jason is fun and all, but Jason trying to corrupt Tim? That's even more fun to me. Watching that power struggle between them, Tim unable to get Jason off his heels as Jason gets more and more possessive and bold with each attempt.
And when Jason sees Tim successfully get Gotham back under control after a gang war, he's impressed. He praises Tim, even. And then Tim just. Breaks him out of prison.
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robin (1993) #182
The way they're constantly trying to see something in the other that isn't there, hoping the other will come around? That is the most fucked up hate/love dynamic ever. Jason keeps coming back to Tim, keeps trying to find ways to get Tim onto his side. They're always chasing each other. And I think Jason would be the one to confess love first, the one to do anything to make Tim his. And when you consider after all of this, Tim has his Red Robin arc and is at his lowest, getting the closest he ever gets to considering murder? I think it'd be so fun to see Jason take advantage of that and worm his way back into Tim's life and finally push Tim over the edge.
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randomminty · 27 days ago
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Five billion octopath 2 scribbles i feel sick
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drgnflyteabox · 3 months ago
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red ochre [1]
series masterlist part one -> minium || part two -> woad and weld
pairing: viking goap x fem! nun reader summary: you become the unlikely treasure of two vikings who raid your convent looking for gold w.c: 4.3k tags/warnings: religious themes (DLDR), minor suicidal ideation, mention of viking raids (slavery, violence, death), kidnapping, threats, dubcon bathing + touching, mean simon (ish), established goap, reader is underfed and beaten in the convent (corporal punishment), difficult travel, some food description
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Near the coast the wind scratches at you when it blows, full of sand and salt.
Once, you'd imagined this as your calling; committed to asceticism, married to God, serving under the abbess. Enclosed, you find yourself stifled more than devoted, pressing your face to the stone barrier that blocks the convent from the outside world.
Isolation, never being quite full, the slow and steady stripping of your identity. This is your life - hollowed out, like meat sucked from a crab, cracked open and used and hollow.
You couldn't have predicted Christ to be such an inconsiderate husband.
"Girl!" the voice is the crack of a whip in empty air. You don't jump, but the hair on your body raises, the welts on your thighs sting.
"Yes, mother?" you put your chin down to your chest, turning, pressing your back to the wall. Demure, submissive, utterly devoid of fight. And still, her grip finds you hard as iron and rough as the rock you'd just been touching, pulling you hard enough to make your shoulder ache back toward the heavy wood doors of the dormitory.
"You shirk your duties again, child? Leave your sisters to pick up your slack?" you didn't mean to, truly. It's only that you ache so deeply you're afraid you might never recover from the feeling.
"Please forgive me, mother, I lost track of time," you murmur. Your uniform is damp from the spray outside, and you relish in the scent and feel of it. Freedom, that's what it is. "Allow me to make up for-"
"Hush!" spit touches your cheek. You don't wipe it away. "You'll finish the tapestry tonight. No matter how long it takes you."
Desperately, you wish for God to strike you down. If you're there, father. You close your eyes. Please, please kill me now.
He doesn't listen, and the abbess pushes you to supper.
Dark bread, boiled turnips, fish and wine. Average, filling, but you'd hoped for more of the crumbly white cheese from yesterdays supper.
You know not to complain. And truly, you are grateful. With your family, it had been gruel upon gruel, often bear, and rarely flavour. Salt kisses your tongue now, and the wine makes your sore muscles relax.
The monks have it harder; you'd visited them once as a girl with your father to pray, but there was still labour to be done here. Cooking was often your job, as was doing the washing and the tilling for the vegetable garden.
Today sister Colette had assigned you weaving so that you wouldn't be out of practice. The muscles in your back and fingers ached from it already, and dread made your stomach sour to the food you ate at the thought of more work.
Mealtimes were quiet, as required. The other women eat mousily, looking down at their plates and pulling their food apart into small little bites, trying to make it last. Obedience, poverty. How silly it was now that you'd dreamed of this.
"Sister?" a whisper, next to you. Margaret was almost a friend, too pious to really confide in but so kind it was impossible to ignore her. "What were you doing?"
"I felt compelled," you shrug, lips oily from the fish. "I felt confined."
"Oh sister," Margaret pushes her bottom lip out, dark eyebrows pulling up. "You should never feel confined here."
You knew, and yet you did. It was like living in a stone coffin. All the work felt pointless since your heart had strayed from God. Even now, touching Margaret's elbow to comfort her in her worry for you, you're sick to death of even clearing plates.
There was one secret they hadn't found. None of the sisters, not even the abbess, had found your secret booklet.
Paper was more valuable than gold since the church needed so much to copy and produce texts. The writing room at the very top of the convent, where you were so seldomly asked, was full of it and guarded by lock and key.
Over months, you'd scrounged, stealing enough to make a booklet. In it, you felt sustained. Free. Titillated, sometimes, when your hand found its way beneath your soft worn blanket under your shift and you drew indecent drawings of men coming to save you. Of the farmboys from your village.
They were nothing like real art, not so detailed, but they lit inside you a spark of life. Without them, you'd be snuffed out.
Candles line the hallway toward the workroom, where you'll likely spend the rest of the night. It's near the very entrance of the convent, so that visitors may see the sisters hard at work and find reason to donate.
Really, it's a temptation. Those massive doors, ready to open and let you free.
But what could you do, really? If God were a kind man and Christ a good husband, they'd turn you into a horse so that you might run, might feel your hooves beating the earth and the coarse air on your skin.
Regrettably human, you sit to work on the tapestry. Curse the abbess and let the holy father hear your thoughts. This is worse than hell, you think. Your fingers cramp and the chair is hard, flat wood. It's made to be uncomfortable on purpose, everything is. After you finish you only have a thin mattress to look forward to, even thoughts of drawing hunky carpenters doesn't draw you out of the misery that is embroidery in the dark.
Is this string strong enough to hold you, should you hang yourself? You're being dramatic, but you feel you've earned the right.
Footsteps walk down the hall towards you. They're sure, heavy. Maybe sister Catharine, tall and splendid, is coming to release you from torment?
"Hello," you say jovially. Please be sister Catharine.
"Look what we've got here, Ghost," it's a male voice. You freeze. The accent is unfamiliar. Had you missed the visit of a monk, an abbot, a priest? "Darlin' little lass, all by herself."
Shivers overtake you. It hurts to straighten from your hunched position, but you have to do it to see properly.
You come face to face with a skull, towering over you from the doorway.
A scream builds, filling your chest, hanging off the tip of your tongue.
Stopped only by the glint of candlelight against a blade, and the quickness of the another man reaching you.
You shake, all sound stuck in your throat, feeling arms as strong as petrified wood circle your arms and pull you toward the door. The pressure, the scrape of rock against your feet, it's unreal and barely registered against the terror that builds when you look to your left and see the skull, sewn into cloth, with the soft clank of bones hanging from his waist.
His eyes find yours, dead and mellow in the eyesockets, piercing through you. Blood rushes through your ears, deafening you, until you leave the room and reality sets in.
Devils, come to sack the convent.
Who will likely kill you and all your sisters. Even the abbess, with her punishment cane and severe face, doesn't deserve that.
You shriek, finding your voice, twisting like a cat in a bag. Their hands tighten against you, growling orders at you to be still, girl.
It's then that you hear the cries, the crashes. Sounds of chaos, a cacophony of harsh voices and the search of the convent. Some of the women weep, some pray, you scream.
"Hey!" Skull snaps, shaking you hard. "Behave and we won't kill you." You comprehend that, but the animal urge to struggle for your life still has a grip on you.
The other man twists towards you, lips snarling. "Ye want to die, then? I'm not opposed to slitting ye open throat to cunt, if that's what ye prefer."
You still, sag, mouth turning downwards in misery. Sweat sticks to your skin, from fear and exertion.
"Good girl," Skull says.
The nuns have been crowded back into the dining room, cowed and cowering, trembling lambs against the storm of awful armoured men ravaging the sanctity of the space.
Some have already found gold, crosses and busts of saints and reliquaries. The abbess weeps to see the bust of Mother Mary, thrown so roughly to the ground that baby Jesus snaps off.
You watch it all happening, eyes wide, shaking despite yourself. Adrenaline makes your legs cramp in their position, curled, back to back with another sister.
"Cap," a younger man runs up, hands full with an ornate chest. "What'cha think of this one?"
"Lookit this one," the man from earlier is giddy, slapping the young one on the back. He holds St Augustine, gilded in gold and jewels. "Not too shabby, eh, Gaz?"
"Not too shabby at all," Gaz grins back at him, turning towards the third man.
"Good job, boys," he says. He's mustached, tall, steadier and calmer than the rest. A leader, clearly.
It smells of smoke, or blood, but you can't see anyone bleeding.
Maybe that's their natural scent, violence clinging to them cloying like they'd bathed in it before coming.
"Soap," Gaz calls. He's run through the library, tossing shelves to the ground, taking one or two books. Walked through the dormitories, throwing open the chests at the ends of each bed. "Take a look at this one!"
A little booklet. Your booklet, tiny in the hand of the devil.
Anxiety crawls up your spine. There's no way they'd know it was yours, but you're still afraid of another kind of raiding, should they discover your sin.
The men laugh, looking with hungry eyes, glinting, mouths stretched and wet.
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Look at the ground, be quiet, be still. You want to survive, you want to draw again and feel the air against your skin. You're scared of these men, huge and muscled as they are.
They wear furs, leather, clinking chainmail, wrapped shoes. Weapons hang by their sides and are clutched firmly in hands, though no nuns nor abbesses have been harmed.
Yet.
"Gold ain't the only treasure, eh?" Soap looks down at you while others use pillowcases for bags, stuffing their bounty inside with loud clangs.
His foot nudges your thigh, and you shift away as much as possible, still looking away, still scared.
Skull comes back. Soap calls him over and calls him Ghost, so you switch the name in your head.
Ghost is big, but he glides through the air.
"See that, Ghost?" Soap nudges him, the way he nudged you. Eyes crazed.
"Mm," Ghost grunts. He hasn't looted, not like the others. Just walked through the halls and gathered one or two other stray nuns shuddering in various corners. "You want 'er?"
You blanch, breath leaving you.
"Can we?" He looks back at you and leans down, thick fingers finding your chin, tilting your face up. "Pretty little hen, so scared, aren't ye?"
"Take 'er."
With Ghosts permission, Soap moves his fingers from your face to the meat of your arms, dragging you up, using your stupor to help him.
"Dinnae worry, hen, we'll take good care of ye," it's not reassuring. You think you feel your knees hitting each other from the force of your shaking. "Awe, don't cry."
Two rivers have sprouted form your eyes, tracking searing hot salt down your cheeks, hands twisting in your habit.
The men regroup. You were right about the mustached man being a leader, and learn his name is Price. He commands them like any armyman you've ever seen, clearly holds a lot of authority.
You're the only nun that's a part of the spoils.
The only one tied with coarse rope around the wrists, chafing, tossed between Soap and Gaz through the convent until you reach those big wooden doors.
Those doors you'd dreamed about opening, those doors that you dread opening now.
"Keep walking," Gaz says. He's mellower than the others, but you'd be a fool to underestimate him.
Or ask him for help.
Reality hasn't set. You're in purgatory, stumbling across the wet grass in just wool socks, growing wetter by the minute from mist and dew. The men hoot and cheer and clank their gold, throwing fists and weapons in the air.
A bloodless victory, unless they change their mind and decide to kill you.
Soap jumps, accidentally pulling you forward in a jerk that brings you to your knees. The tears come back, and the pebbles nearing the beach digging into your knees makes you sob.
"Careful!" Ghost barks. Behind you, he reaches under your armpits and helps you up. His hands are still rough, but he lets go of you quickly to yank the rope out of Soaps hands. It doesn't help that it's still near-pitch outside, not yet morning, hard to see.
"Ach," he rubs a hand behind his head, watching you cry and walk like a deadwoman. "Got a little over-excited, darlin. Forgive me."
"I'll be better to ye, don't worry," he falls in beside you, using a knuckle to brush away your tears.
When you reach the beach, you see a few boats, supplies, but that's all. No camp, nowhere to sleep. Did they jump straight from the boats, marching up the hill to the convent to pillage?
God, they're so big. Warriors. Why just you?
"Right," Price calls them to attention. You're stuck next to Ghost, sniffling, shivering a little, praying mentally for the first time in a long time. Dear God, please help me, please strike these men dead and let me run back up the hill.
You miss what Price says, whispering under your breath with your eyes closed and palms together until Ghost puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes you forward again.
"Walk, then get on the boat," his voice is a growl.
"Dinnae worry," Soap chips in. "We brought meat."
They did - dried fish hangs like your laundry across each boats. The gold is loaded alongside you, stuffed to one side, and you're left trying to avoid the men tossing things in your direction.
Ghost ties your wrists to a wooden loop on the side of the boat.
It was built for this. For prisoners, slaves, taken in conquest.
"Ready?"
"Ready!"
Price shouts, the men answer. It's loud, a cacophony of voices and waves and the scrape of the boat against the sand.
You're going, going, gone. Floating. Adrift. Tied to the side of a viking ship with nothing but your thick, woolen habit and woolen socks. At least they provide some warmth, the air colder over the water.
Eyes look you up and down, not just from the two that took you. Gaz smiles to himself and punches Soap in the thigh, then they play wrestle.
You wonder what will happen to you- are you being taken as a slave? A prize?
The positive side to your time spend as a nun is that you know how to work, and you know that if something awful happens, you could find a way to meet God early and put yourself down.
Blood rushes in your ears again.
You register from somewhere outside of yourself that you're panicking again, caught wanting to run and having nowhere to do it. Tied down.
A hand touches your nape, and you turn with wild eyes and desperation all over your face to Ghost.
"Take a breath," he says, low enough that only you hear it, firm and commanding. "In and out, girl. Do it."
You do, if only to save yourself passing out. In and out, in and out, you breathe.
"That's it," he leans down, brown eyes finding yours. The skull is bleached yellow, old, but you try to ignore it. "You're alright."
"No I'm not," you shock the both of you by speaking, voice high and wavering. "I'm not, you're going to kill me or worse-"
"You think we'd take you just to kill you?"
"You're a heathen, aren't you?" you gasp again, wiping your face on the fabric of your sleeves. "Sister Catharine says heathens sacrifice virgins. Please don't."
He startles you by laughing, a ragged thing ripped from his chest.
"Not gonna sacrifice you, lamb," his hand squeeze your nape, his thumb rubbing the edge of your jaw where he can reach. "Gonna be a long journey, you'd better settle now."
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It's hell. You were mistaken before, and you'd do anything now to go back to embroidery. You'd let the abbess cane you bloody, you'd kneel and pray with the passion of Christ himself if it meant you could come off the boat.
The boat, the men. The godforsaken fish, too-salty, not much better than the biscuits Soap insists on feeding you by hand.
"Your hands are tied, pretty lamb, how are ye gonna feed yourself?" He breaks it up, wiping crumbs from your cheeks.
You hope Ghost will step in, but he doesn't. He watches, a specter, still wearing that mask on his face. You wonder if it's because of you, or if he's just like that. Private, hidden. Intimidating.
"Open wide," Soap seems fond of holding your face, squishing your cheeks and puckering your lips. He's extra zealous since catching a sea-bird, keen on making you taste it.
The thought makes your stomach roil, despite being sick of the fish and biscuits. You turn your face, trying to avoid him, whimpering when he squeezes a little too hard.
"Come on, hen," he leans closer. "Fresh meat is good, no?"
"Johnny", Ghost saves you again, finally. Pulls on Johnny's shirt until he's sitting back on his heels. "Let her be."
"Awe, just wanna giv'er my catch, Si," if a heathenish, kidnapping devil could whine and pout like a child, it would look like this.
Horrific, is what it is. You tuck your face into your elbow and close your eyes.
You've been doing that most of the journey, closing your eyes and breathing deeply like Ghost taught you. Or Simon, what you've heard Johnny calling him.
Dread sneaks in every once in a while, wakes you up from fitful sleeps or seizes your ability to speak. Nobody else has spoken to you, not even Gaz who keeps glancing at you. Nobody but Simon and Johnny.
"Here," Simon says. You look up.
In his hand, an apple. Your eyes go wide, prickling, and you look even further up to him.
His eyes reveal nothing. Brown, flat.
"For me?" you ask.
"You see me offering it to anyone else?" from the corner of your eye, Soap is staring at you, smiling.
"I can have it?" an apple. You could dance. Days and days of travel after living in the same town and then the same convent to taken by force on a boar. An apple.
"Take it before I give it to Johnny," he grunts.
Suddenly, you feel a kinship with Eve.
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Seasickness luckily doesn't affect you, and the melancholy is kept at bay by the apple. You think of it when you think you can't take anymore, remembering it's sweetness.
Simon becomes the safest person, and often if you feel scared your eyes find him.
When a minor storm rocks the boat, pelting rain, waves beating against the front, you tuck yourself close to his side and let Johnny take your hands into his.
Too easy to lean into them, to accept Johnny wiping your face gently with a cloth and eat fresh fish from Simons fingers. You're exhausted, and Simon doesn't push.
He just remains steadfast against chaos, even when Johnny fights with another one of the men and he has to pull them apart by their shirts.
"Si'down!" he barks, the loudest you've ever heard him. It makes you flinch, hiding again, until he sits heavily down beside you and you scoot as close as possible again.
"Not the smartest, are you?" he looks down. That hurts. You're just scared, is all. "Doesn't matter who's there, you'd cling right to them, wouldn't you?"
No, you want to say. But you just hide your face in your arms and cry again. You want to tell him the apple was special, that you know nobody else has one or got one, but you don't.
Your heart beats hard against your ribcage, that dread coming back again, feeling heavy and small under the weight of your predicament and his judgment.
"He didnae mean it," Johnny croons. He strokes your hair away from your face, thumbs finding your tense brows and smoothing them out. "We know you're a good girl. S'why we took ye."
You sniffle. The rocking of the boat has become both maddening and soothing.
You wonder when this journey will end.
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Your clothes are stiff with salt, wetted and dried and re-wetted. Your skin itches, wrists burning, welts unhealed from before when the abbess has caught you sneaking mead.
She had accused you of indulgence, of trying to get drunk. Truthfully, you'd just liked the taste of honey and missed it.
Nuns didn't eat honey, at least not there. Cheese and wine were already over the top, God forbid anyone ate anything sweet. That's why you loved the apple, had held each bite long on your tongue, letting the sugars sit there a moment to savor them.
"Hey," someone nudges you, bringing you out of your half-sleep. Easier to be less conscious, less aware, trying not to feel your anguish and your physical pain. "Come on, get up. We're here."
"Hmm?" You're so tired, hissing and whimpering when your wrists are jostled.
Untied. They're being untired. Your head lifts too quickly, making you dizzy. Gaz is squatting in front of you, holding your leash.
"You awake?" he squints, tilting his head. "You look rough, sorry 'bout that. You good to stand?"
Too many questions. You're forced to lean on him heavily to try to stand. He's as solid as the others, just leaner. Kinder, honestly, as he mostly carries you off the longboat.
Muscles like a new foal, you take a seat on the soft wet sand and slump onto a crate. It's a struggle to walk on solid ground.
Men move around you, dumping and lifting and talking. Less excited than the last time they were on the beach, but there's still a buzz aflutter.
"Can I bring'er up?" Johnny is looking at you, his hand on Simon's forearm. Their affection is the quiet kind, something you only noticed the last couple days of the journey. Small touches, murmurs.
"Go ahead," Simon touches him back, moving towards Price when Johnny comes towards you.
"Awe, lamb," he coos, hauling you up with an arm around his shoulder. His other arm goes to hold your waist, squeezing. "Dinnae worry, I'll get ye in a bath soon 'nough."
He's not lying - after a painful, difficult walk, you make it to a wooden cabin. Looking around, there are a few of similar make, a little town.
"Go on in then, sweet hen," he pushes you just enough for you to shuffle your feet in the door.
Modest wooden furniture greets you, a one-room house with a large bed, fireplace, and table. The rest is beyond you once you spot the tub.
"Sit, let me get it ready for ye."
You nearly fall asleep, or maybe you do, because when you open your eyes Johnny has steaming water filled to halfway in the tub, wooden slats fragrant. He's crumbling a dried flower in as well, humming to himself.
"Alright, s'ready," he helps you up again. Modesty is forgotten, you're too tired and weary to care when he slips the woolen habit off and leaves you in a plain shift, finally untying your wrists. "Pretty girl." He says it under his breath, like he can't help it.
The water is better than the apple. You hiss when it touches your wounds, your sore muscles.
You're tired to your marrow, could weep about it, eyes still opening and closing. Around you, Johnny searches through various bags and chests until he finds a bar of soap.
The soap is better than the water.
"Feels good?" he whispers, dipping his hands in and lathering up. How he's up and about, you have no idea. Even his hands near your bare breasts don't phase you - that's how wiped you are.
"S'good," you mumble. "Thought I ws'gonna die."
"We wouldn't've let that happen, sweet girl. Too precious, our treasure," a kiss, on your shoulder. He rubs the soap on your skin, your arms and down to your fingers, washing them each one by one.
"N'ver want to do that again," and then, because you forget he's your captor. "Please."
The attention is soft, patient. The soap washes away salt and dirt and sweat, even tears when he wipes your face with a rag. This is a second baptism, a better one, with gentle hands massaging your scalp and the barest brush against your nipples.
"Sit up," he pushes you forward, rinses your hair, washes your back while you're there.
The rag swipes over your cunt when he gets there, once, twice, eyes boring into you. Your exhaustion mutes the squeeze of anxiety in your chest, closing your eyes to avoid his gaze.
"Right, all done," he helps you back out and into a long, thin shift.
The bed is soft, so soft, covered in furs and actually stuffed enough to cradle your body. You sink into it immediately, just barely registering the door opening again.
"She asleep?" It's Simon, carrying luggage.
"Aye," Johnny says. You hear them kiss, wondering if they think you're asleep. "Anything else?"
"No," he's gruff, to-the-point. Drops bags in the corner with a clank and a chest by the door with a thud. "She give you trouble?"
"Sweet as a lamb, our girl," he sounds proud.
You open your eyes, one last attempt at self-preservation, and see them looking down at you.
Simon swipes a thumb over your cheek, under your eye, still wearing the skull.
"It's alright, go to sleep," he murmurs. Johnny leans his head on Simons shoulder. "Perfect girl, knew we did good takin' you."
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sugarcoatednightshade · 1 year ago
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thinking about how Humans Are Space Orcs stories always talk about how indestructible humans are, our endurance, our ability to withstand common poisons, etc. and thats all well and good, its really fun to read, but it gets repetitive after a while because we aren't all like that.
And that got me thinking about why this trope is so common in the first place, and the conclusion I came to is actually kind of obvious if you think about it. Not everyone is allowed to go into space. This is true now, with the number of physical restrictions placed on astronauts (including height limits), but I imagine it's just as strict in some imaginary future where humans are first coming into contact with alien species. Because in that case there will definitely be military personnel alongside any possible diplomatic parties.
And I imagine that all interactions aliens have ever had up until this point have been with trained personnel. Even basic military troops conform to this standard, to some degree. So aliens meet us and they're shocked and horrified to discover that we have no obvious weaknesses, we're all either crazy smart or crazy strong (still always a little crazy, academia and war will do that to you), and not only that but we like, literally all the same height so there's no way to tell any of us apart.
And Humans Are Death Worlders stories spread throughout the galaxy. Years or decades or centuries of interspecies suspicion and hostilities preventing any alien from setting foot/claw/limb/appendage/etc. on Earth until slowly more beings are allowed to come through. And not just diplomats who keep to government buildings, but tourists. Exchange students. Temporary visitors granted permission to go wherever they please, so they go out in search of 'real terran culture' and what do they find?
Humans with innate heart defects that prevent them from drinking caffeine. Humans with chronic pain and chronic fatigue who lack the boundless endurance humans are supposedly famous for. Humans too tall or too short or too fat to be allowed into space. Humans who are so scared of the world they need to take pills just to function. Humans with IBS who can't stand spicy foods, capsaicin really is poison to them. Lactose intolerance and celiac disease, my god all the autoimmune disorders out there, humans who struggle to function because their own bodies fight them. Humans who bruise easily and take too long to heal. Humans who sustained one too many concussions and now struggle to talk and read and write. Humans who've had strokes. Humans who were born unable to talk or hear or speak, and humans who through some accident lost that ability later.
Aliens visit Earth, and do you know what they find? Humanity, in all its wholeness.
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buggachat · 11 months ago
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“I like the way you write the characters, it’s sooo much better than that shit way the writers of the show write them” is a compliment that’s very confusing to receive as someone who likes the way the characters are written in the show and is trying to mimic it
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dennisboobs · 15 days ago
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:) i certainly have no issue dressing in drag :)
^guy who has no issue dressing in drag btw
glenn said that dennis' drag name is victoria von hemen btw
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#glenn howerton#guy who should get to dress in drag#im just. ill never be over the fact that glenn wrote Two episodes in season 3 that involve dennis doing drag#i know he doesn't really want to write for the show but there's something so special abt how early sunny was an actor's sandbox#esp hearing glenn talk abt how den is like. an outlet for him and a way to play around with shit he would never do for one reason or anothe#my point being that i think its been a while since he was able to utilize dennis again in that way#but 16 was a definite change. especially with dtamhd it feels like dennis is becoming more glenn again. like he was in the early days#theres a pretty good stretch of the show once it got into the double digits that feels like den was. co-opted.#but like i wonder how it feels to explore sexuality and gender via your character#it must be similar to doing that through fandom and OCs but there's a whole other layer to it here#esp when its not Just being presented as comedic as it was in past seasons. like dennis is Actually queer and this is a normal plot point#its not the punchline like den's femininity often is its literally just part of what makes him able to help mac and dee#id argue we've gotten this in the form of. dennis doing dee's makeup and shit. but#anyway. glenn. now that you have two of your former writing assistants in that writers room i hope you get to do drag again 💀#its been 16 years. show us the new and improved victoria.#i honestly can't imagine pitching something like that to a room of people Without some sort of comedic twist but#man.#ada speaks#iasip#it's always sunny in philadelphia#rcg#i won't ever forget the way he lit up talking abt queer dennis jhksvfjhksvdfgjhkds#love u king...... i hope you get something in s17 that you Certainly Don't Mind
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omegalerc · 5 days ago
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everybody these two gifs together is the main important thing to be discussed today. that is an discord e-daddy and his kitten who meows for nitro
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somerandomdudelmao · 1 year ago
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@tapakah0
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This little bunny means the world to me
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chrliekclly · 9 months ago
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waddles-ex-machina · 22 days ago
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some more comic panels I liked :>
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icewindandboringhorror · 4 months ago
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I made a few new wax seal stamps out of clay (like the ones I did for my worldbuilding stuff forever ago), this time just of random symbols that I thought might look good done in the style of painting over the raised part of the wax or etc. :0c Some of them aren't carved deep enough to really show up that well, but overall they worked okay for being clay lol
#wax seal#crafts#wax stamp#stationery#Window one is kind of stinky.. I was imagining like a swirly night sky sort of looking thing so it would be a surreal contrast of a night#sky with a window in the middle that shows a daytime sky - but the silver and purple wax kind of mixed too much together#with the black and it just looks very plain black and not all that starry or anything hjbhj.. Of course the eye is probably my favorite#since all I ever do is draw eyes and still like eye imagery for some reason. The four leaf clover is very lumpy and skrunkty but also it wa#the smallest in size out of all of them so was easier to do multiple stamps of just to try it out.#The heart with eyes wax is actually more swirly in person. I wanted it to be a mix of light pink and red and white. and the wax#did kind of all blend together but in person you can definitely see MORE of the intentional swirlyness. in this it just looks plain pink.#I was going to do one eye in the heart but it looked weird. but now two seems too plain. i could have done 3?? in a pattern.. hmm#alas. I wish I could make actual metal ones. With the clay i have to paint them in a thin layer of olive oil before stamping because#otherwise the wax just kind of gets stuck in the grooves of the clay and then you can't pull it up. Very wacky ''unprofessional'' looking#set up where I'm hot gluing circles of sculpey clay to short stumps of a wooden dowel that I sawed apart with a serrated bread knife#and then using an old paintbrush to put olive oil on them whilst holding a spoon over a yankee candle flame hjbjh#ANYWAY.. I think if I were middle class/rich/etc. this would be one of the main things in my crafting room is like.. SO many colors#of wax. and all different custom made stamps designed by me. which could be much more elaborate in actual metal.. muahaha.... >:)c#RHGghhh... I actually don't want to talk much about it since (this is probably just my Obsessed With My Own World Artist Delusions) I#think I have a really cool idea for a game that could genuinely be successful if i ever get to make it and I don't want to give#everything away and spoil the whole plot/concept in hopes that one day I can actually do it - BUT - a game that I'd like to make after the#visual novel I'm making now has partially to do with the main character working as a sort of writer/scribe/artist assistant in an elven#city (set in my world/with my worldbuilding species and versions of elves and etc) and I was thinking of maybe incorporating#somehow being able to collect little writing type items like these like.. you can get different wax seal patterns or pens or etc. when I do#stuff like this in Real Life it always makes me think of that like.. ouh... this is good research.. what it shall be like to be a littol#elf collecting wax seals and such.. indeed... GRR i need to be finished with my current game NOWWW... i MUST work on other#thingss... aughh... ANYWAY.. yay. accomplishment to do One Single Thing other than Sit In The Summer Heat And Rot#though also hilarious as this was the first cool-ish day that was below 80F in a while hgvh#waking up like 'wow.. i actually feel okay today?? like I could do things?? how mysterious.. I wonder why..?? :0'' Its The Weather You Fool#Tis Always The Weather
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clockwork-carstairs · 3 months ago
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do you ever think about how matthew fairchild was such a sunshine coded character—a golden boy, floated through school, charmed everyone with his infamous smile; a starry-eyed dreamer who had faith in most things that weren’t himself. and how because of one moment of naivety he lost years of his life to devastating self-sabotage, believing himself worth nothing, deserving of nothing, drinking day by day to numb out the pain—because he believed people could only ever like him when he wasn’t sober, when he wasn’t fully himself. and how despite visibly not being okay, nobody ever really said anything about it until he basically hit rock bottom. and do you ever think about how matthew would’ve given up his love for cordelia in a second if it meant james could be happy, when james wouldn’t do the same? you knew. i told you in the letter. and how he joked and deflected so much to hide how sad he really was, because he believed no one would care enough to see it. i did not know that i looked sad, to you. because i think about it a lot and it makes me very sad
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semperama · 5 months ago
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for the kissing meme: buck/eddie, 24.
-as a reward
Buck makes it all the way back to his loft before he breaks and texts Eddie.
Don’t do it, man, he says. Don’t let them get to you.
Sure, Eddie’s been getting nothing but shit from the entire 118 since he came back from Texas sporting a mustache. And sure, Buck has joined in on the teasing—he had to, even if he felt like he needed to have his fingers crossed behind his back the entire time. But after Eddie laughed off today’s latest round of 70s porn star jokes and promised he’d come in for his next shift clean-shaven, Buck felt—something a lot like panic. Churning stomach, shaking hands. When Eddie said goodbye in the locker room, thumping Buck on the shoulder, Buck almost reached out to stop him, reached to run his thumb across his upper lip, because—no. No.
I knew you didn’t hate it, Eddie texts back a couple minutes later. And Buck groans, even though he’s not shocked something gave him away—the flush in his cheeks or the way he laughed a little too loud at everyone else’s Freddie Mercury jokes or the way he couldn’t stop looking.
Come on. You know we all have to get on your case. But you should keep it.
The time has come, Buck. You’ll live.
And sure, Buck gets it. It was a—a crisis mustache, or whatever. A temporary change, and now that Christopher’s back and everyone’s together and everything is good, why does he still need it? But Buck just—he can’t explain it, can’t examine it, but it feels like he’ll be losing something if Eddie loses the facial hair. It feels like someone scooping up the last bite of a dessert he never got to try, or learning he missed the window on a museum exhibit he really wanted to see.
Please? Buck types it out and sends it before he can think too hard about it. Please. For me?
Eddie doesn’t respond to that. Ten minutes go by, then twenty. He probably got in the shower, probably is shaving it off right now, all that dark hair swirling down the drain. Tomorrow Buck will go over for dinner and video games with Chris, and Eddie will look…normal. Everything will be back to normal. Why does that feel like something Buck can’t handle, doesn’t want?
He’s halfway through prepping dinner, forcing himself to go through the motions so he’ll stop feeling shaky and fragile inside, when someone knocks at his door. He wipes his hands off, frowning, and goes to the door, and—it’s Eddie.
It’s Eddie, with a mustache.
“’For me?’” Eddie says.
Buck should feel ashamed, hearing his frankly unhinged message parroted back to him, but he’s too busy sighing with relief and—reaching, reaching out like he wanted to before, his palm cradling Eddie’s jaw and his thumb swiping across the hair at the corner of Eddie’s mouth. It’s better than he thought it would be, a little spiky at the ends but…soft too. Soft enough he wants to rub his lips against it.
So he does.
“Buck,” Eddie says, amused, his lips brushing Buck’s, the mustache tickling his skin. It’s not quite a kiss, not yet, but—it could be. It will be, soon.
“Shut up,” Buck says, heat flooding his face. Then, “Thank you.” And then he tips his head down a little and presses his mouth to Eddie’s in earnest, tonguing his top lip and groaning at the prickle, the newness, just what he wanted, what he asked for.
Eddie wraps an arm around his waist, iron band of muscle, and walks him backward into the loft, lets the door fall shut. “For you,” he murmurs against Buck’s mouth.
Buck moves his head left to right, lets the hair rasp across his cheek, his mouth, his chin. He licks again, kisses again, wants to burrow in and stay. “Thank you,” he says again. It’s silly. Stupid. But Eddie did this for him, and now Buck wants to give him everything, anything.
“Buck,” Eddie says, all fondness and gravel. “Just kiss me.”
He doesn’t need to be asked twice.
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