#and thats enough

[americasass-rogers]

also Empanada constantly reminding Creation/Tubbrine that he is in fact important wheter he thinks so or not.

"I want to be important"

"you ARE important"

"Sunny cares, morning crew does, I do"

"what's your name?"

"unimportant"

"it IS important"

"you are important"

[itty-bitty-sunshine]

Does immortal yn know about the virus? Your last comic shows they probably got killed by Moon but deleted his memory of it. How would Moon react to knowing he'd hurt them so badly before, but they forgave him and erased his memory of it? Does immortal yn figure out a way to help get rid of the virus?

They do!

(After all, it couldn't have been Moon to do something like that, right? It had to be something else, surely.)

And they do figure out how to deal with it, though it takes a lot of... trial and error from their part

To be fair, how ridiculous is it to link an anti-virus to an arcade machine?

Moon would not be happy about it. They may have forgiven him, but that's all more reason to not forgive himself. He hurt them and they let him for his own sake. They cared for him every step of the way.

He would never hurt them. And he did.

Also, they did not delete it! That's not their memory (memories) to erase from existence no matter how bad it is; they just took it away

[daisybeewrites]

just finished S5E8 of the Dragon Prince…

i am not okay

[lostgoblin]

A Good Morning

[bubblewhale]

Sometimes i leave this blog for a hot second, then i come back and think to myself. Yup.

This is it. This is my fandom.

(It's the Naruto fandom).

[troolyart]

Both Simon and Stanley were married before?! Spill the beans! I want to know what happened and who their married partners were! 👀

Warning for homophobic behavior!

Not from the boys, obviously.

Yes, they were!

For Simon, it was an arranged marriage. He did not want to get married, but he couldn't risk falling out of favor with his family more than he already had. After finding out about who he was spending time with, a certain young man, the arrangements were made without his knowledge.

He and his wife never consummated their marriage because as it turned out, his wife was a lesbian. So they played their respective parts fairly well until, eventually, Simon didn't care about his parents wishes anymore and amicably divorced his wife. Thankfully, she completely understood. His parents did not. It was only a few years after that, that the Entity found him standing on top of a bridge.

Stanley's marriage was fine for the first year or two before it started to turn sour. He had gotten used to people leaving him by now that it almost didn't come as a surprise. A few fights here and there, not physical of course, but emotional enough to make him feel bad. He wasn't cleaning up enough around the apartment, he never kissed her in the mornings, he was such a bore. Even when he tried to fix those things, she found more to add to the pile. What finally broke the camels back was when she accused him of cheating on her with a man. That could have been easily disputed. But when she said that he was disgusting for even being with a man at all was when he finally snapped and yelled at her, filing for divorce the next day. It only took a week for the Entity to drag him into Itself after that.

And now Simon and Stanley have each other. Forever. And it wasn't easy to get to the point where they liked each other, but it happened. Sooner or later, they're going to have to either take the rings off...or wear them for someone else. (´-ω-`)

[nycteres]

Ira Deorum

WIP Prologue for longer fic | Fandom: BG3 | CW: Mildly implied child neglect.

Trying to actually write my dumb little BG3 Protag fanfic. 😭 Idk how far I'll get but i needed a place to store this that was easier than google docs lmao.

Bards and poets alike - the egocentric windbags that they are - have often said, ‘Home is the first grave’.

Aphrodite walks down a dirt and clay road - one she hoped she’d never have to set foot on again - and tries to put the saying out of her mind.

Red road dust licks at her heels. It’s clumped along the straps of her sandals, adding new grit with every step for the last several miles. The hem of her skirt is similarly soiled, clay and linen tangled together, swishing around her ankles sad and deflated.

Half-buried before she’s even reached the doorstep.

By the time the farmhouse comes into view, her tail drags across the ground. It carves little furrows, kicking up more dirt; covering the vibrant purple of her skin with a layer of rusty brown. It hooks on stones and pebbles and she lets it. A yoke she must drag forward. Feeling less like a Tiefling and more like a workhorse with every step.

No one greets her, not when the steps groan loudly at her weight. Not even when the door swings open on tired hinges, with a protesting creak.

Her mother stands in the kitchen, in the same spot she always has, as if she’d never left it in all those years. Sorting beans with quick hands and a tired air.

“Oh,” She startles when seeing her. Bringing a hand up to her chest and letting loose a dramatic sigh. “You gave me a fright there, we weren’t expecting you till tomorrow.”

“I walk fast,” Aphrodite says, doing what she must. Laying her pack down on a nearby chair and folding her mother into a hug.

She’s just a small as she was last time. Fitting neatly into the space at Aphrodite’s shoulder, hands creased and rough as they fiddle with her blouse, fastidiously tugging at garments that are still well in their place.

Her mother’s complexion is of a similar color, if faded by time and sun. Not an eye catching, violent purple, that Aphrodite takes pain to contrast against fine silks and glittering metals.

Her coloration is almost dun. A muddy violet, chapped and wind worn, one that looks dull even against Aphrodite’s third best traveling cloak. The one made of sensible, dark brown wool. The kind that wont offend her parents with its excess. It’s only concessions to her tastes being the scarlet flowers one of the acrobats in her caravan had embroidered around the hood.

Everything in the farmhouse is muted and weathered. The hug is too, even if Aphrodite lingers out of the vague sense that this is what she owes, as a daughter. Whether she wants to give it or not.

They break away after long enough has passed. Counting the beats in her head until she can unwind her mothers arms, step out of their reach with pity and gentleness and relief.

“In any case, we’re always glad to have you.” Her mother says, going back to her beans with a gentle pat to her shoulder. “I could always use the help. You know how they are.”

“Hard to forget.” She says, sunny; with a drawling trill to her undertone.

Aphrodite’s sarcasm is deftly ignored. The shelled beans falling into the container in little stuttered taps, like rain on a tin roof. Echoes that fill the awkward silence.

“It’s worse than any of the others I’ve had.” Her mother offers. “You’re welcome to try if you feel that confident. He’ll be in the bedroom. It’s a task getting him to come out some days.”

“Really?” She can’t help but needle a bit. “A seasoned veteran like you, done in by a single child?”

“I said it to that priest so he could write it down for me in our letter. And I’ll say to you again now. He’s an odd one. There’s something off about that boy.”

Aphrodite hums, a soothing two tone sound she uses on particularly uppity clients. Falling into the usual song and dance, an worn groove of Deflect, De-escalate and Disengage.

“Why don’t you show me where he is? I’ll see what I can do while you finish up.”

Her mother shoots her a particularly nasty and tired look. One that says that Aphrodite knows exactly where the bedrooms are located and should need no guide.

She doesn't back down, but rolls her eyes. Leaning against the solid oak dining table. One of the few pieces of furniture that doesn't look like it’s old enough to have seen the second sundering. The one that she sent them money for, when their last table broke.

“It’s five steps down the hall, it’s not going to kill you.” She cajoles with a nasty and tired look of her own. “He’s - what? - three, he’d probably be more worried if a stranger came in without him knowing who they are.”

She gets her way in the end. Even if the acquiescence comes with a disgusted sigh. Her guide stomping down the hallway with ill grace.

The door to the third bedroom is thrown open with little fanfare. When Aphrodite steps through, it’s like swimming against a current of Déjà vu. Old memories superimposed against the current floor plan.

It looks different now than when she was last here. Housing one child instead of several. None of the triplets’ effects randomly clutter the floor. There aren’t lutes and lyres and badly whittled flutes to serve as a tripping hazard to unwary visitors. But parts of it are still same in the end.

Faded curtains, a rickety pallet bed. An endless pile of mended blankets to ward off the chill.

“I’m afraid I offended him by trying to get him into a change of clothes this morning. He’s refused to come out since then.” Her mother - their mother - gives another deep exhale. A new kind of weariness in her tone, surprising after eight children. But maybe it shouldn’t be, if one considers what little time she had actually spent with them.

“You’re welcome to try your hand at it,” She offers with a shake of her head, heading back to the kitchen. Not remembering or not caring that she had asked for an introduction.

Aphrodite shuts the door quietly behind her. Cutting off escape routes. Intimately familiar with which hiding spots a small child might favor.

She doesn’t find him in the chest of drawers, or behind the shabby little dresser in the corner. But the creak of a floorboard alerts her to her quarry. Taking pains to move slowly, she steps closer to the bed, sinks to her knees and shuffles under it as best as she can.

He’s wedged against the wall, pillbugged into a stiff little shape. Horns dusted with all the cobwebs that accumulate near the edge of the baseboards, where no one ever sweeps.

“Hello there,” She greets him, taking pains to keep her voice soft and pleasant.

Her brother doesn’t respond. Watching, waiting. With black sclera and bright pupils, a blazing orange that hearkened back to the eternal fires of Nessus.

Not even the shadows can hide the ridiculous coloration of the rest of him. As pink as she is purple, contrasting sharply against the cream linens and homey ginghams that cover their home.

“Well,” She says dryly, not bothered yet by his lack of response. “At least you got some of my good looks.”

“Fate has preserved you from looking like father, in any case,” Aphrodite whispers conspiratorially, knowing children love nothing more than being included in a good gossip session. “Cherry red is very passé I’m afraid.”

He doesn’t respond. But she can see his nails digging gouges into the wood. Still, tense, quiet.

Aphrodite switches tracks. It's the mark of a good conman, knowing when tailor your approach to the current audience.

“My name’s Aphrodite. I’m one of your sisters. Why don’t you come with me, and we can get you something to eat.”

She holds out her hand, dusty with the filth that accumulates underneath a bed. Prepared to wait for as long as it takes.

Which is a while, in the end. A long, expectant silence. Broken only by the roosters crowing outside.

“I promise I won’t make you change clothes.” She whispers conspiratorially. Playing her trump card.

Basking in the success of the moment. When that little hand folds into hers, and lets itself be shuffled out from underneath the bed, cobwebs and all.

His name is Adrammael. A name that is as predictably long and awkward as all of his other sibling’s names. To speak nothing of her own.

Their parents don’t even have the grace to remember which one of them came up with it.

“It’s practically child abuse to make you write that out, when you start learning your letters.” She says to him one evening. When they both sit inside the run, warming themselves in the sun.

“You look more like a Dram to me.” Aphrodite decides with firm certainty.

If Dram has any opinions on the subject, he doesn’t care to share them. Preoccupied with burying his face into one of the chickens that he’s coerced into sitting in his lap. Making one of those odd guttural, humming noises he seems so fond of, muffled by a mouthful of feathers.

Aphrodite would rather swallow a particularly hot coal than admit to her mother being right about anything, but in the privacy of her mind, she is forced to admit. There really is something off about that boy.

Dram takes to her easily enough despite that.

She takes to him too, despite the myriad of difficulties that have stopped their parents from doing the same.

Chief among them being that he doesn’t speak yet. No matter what sort of threat or bribe he’s faced with.

Dram does not speak, even though he’s of the age to. But to everyone’s annoyance - even hers - he has no problem with screaming. He screams when he’s angry and when he’s upset and when they make him wear certain articles of clothing.

He’ll run away if the dinner contains certain vegetables he’s not too fond of. Crawl under the table to hide when they have visitors. Press his hands to his ears and start up a slew of truly concerning vocalizations if he’s forced into a situation that isn’t to his liking.

He’s a terrible handful of a child - despite having practically raised her seven other siblings, possessing more than enough experience with kids of his age - and there are times where Aphrodite fantasizes about going back to her old caravan. Letting her parents sort this one out by themselves. Learn the consequences of not using any kind of protection for once in their lives.

It’s a beautiful fantasy. If one that falls apart pretty quickly.

Crumbling to pieces a little more every time she wakes up and finds him in her room yet again. Waiting to follow her around the house from dawn to dusk. Trailing after her skirts with a solemn stare that seems out of place on his round, little face.

The thrill of it wears down sooner than she thought. Banished completely when she gets him to sound out a word or two after trying for weeks on end. Realizing that it’s not that he can’t, but that he doesn’t want to.

The way he doesn’t want to try yams and the way he doesn’t want to be around their father any more than she does. Scurrying under furniture when he enters the room. The tip of his tail poking out from his hiding places like an over sized rat.

It doesn’t help that her parent’s fall back into old routines easily enough.

Aphrodite’s here after all. No need to look after your own child once the free labor has arrived.

A resentment that grows and festers. Bubbling over when she sees him scoot a stool next to the cabinets one afternoon. Clambering up to the counter in the stumbling, uncoordinated way children of that size navigate the world.

Clumsy, but practiced enough to manage on his own.

A child who had learned to get into the pantry to feed itself, since her parents were still in bed and she hadn’t thought to offer him lunch yet.

Aphrodite watches him gnaw on slightly stale bread. Letting a solid century of grievances darken her thoughts and spur on her pettiness.

Home may be the first grave, but she's not very inclined to bury the hatchet alongside herself.

“Dram,” She says carefully, setting him down from the counter. Reaching for that foreign power that perches on the back of her mind and delights in her rash decisions.

“How would you like to go on a trip with me?”

Dram doesn’t say anything. Keeps working on his snack with single-minded determination.

But his hand winds itself into the fabrics of her skirt easily enough. Tail twining around hers, more at ease with Aphrodite than he is with anyone else. Despite how little time she’s spent with him in comparison to their parents. Barely six weeks, by the time she thinks to start scheming.

“I think you’ll have fun.” Aphrodite pats his head, knowing he won’t mind too much in the end.

“I certainly won’t. Considering how I’ll have to give up most of my social life.”

She sighs dramatically - heartfelt and whiny - in a way she feels that befits someone going through great sacrifice. Letting it all out before she’s forced to move on more actionable concerns.

“But first, we need to eliminate the chance of any surprises of this kind happening again.” Aphrodite relishes the thought. Urging him towards the run. Letting him play with the chickens while she drafts an amendment to a particularly tricky contract, and tries to puzzle out the worth of a foreign body part.

Fae did have an unsettling lust for such things. One which she planned to exploit in her favor.

[codecicle]

MY FAVORITE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS' PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE!!!!

[sharkuraa]

there are two songs that i can never listen to without being absolutely overcome with soojin/younghwi feels, and its paladin strait by twenty one pilots and death with dignity by sufjan stevens. those two songs are the closest to evoking the mundanely profound emotional connection and melancholy they share as characters. its actually kind of insane

[adventures-in-poor-planning]

Today I saw a pic of a baby cowbird next 2 its nest "parent" and it was so much bigger!!!!! Which is the sort of thing that gets normal people upset about the injustice of nest parasitism but makes *me* worry if baby cowbirds get bird dysmorphia

[sheogorath]

as someone who has never believed im capable of getting better, i think some people genuinely can't grasp the concept that some people really don't know how to heal, and it's hard for them to feel compassion for those people. to them, it seems like those people are lazy or selfish, they're just not willing to try. but how can you be motivated to try - and even if you are how can you even know where to begin or what to do - if the idea of "getting better" is so abstract and unrealistic? and that lack of understanding, that feeling of not being understood and the pressure of being expected to achieve a goal you cant conceptualize only makes you want to sink deeper, because if you can't even imagine being able to do it, the only other thing you feel like you can do is disappoint the people around you who don't or can't understand your struggle, and only think you should get better, but not think of how or what thats like for you.

truthfully i dont know what my point is, just be patient with the people around you even if (to you) it seems like they dont care. whether it's mental illness, substance abuse, or physical disability/illness, whether theyre in therapy/rehab or not, whether they say theyre trying or just flat out tell you they cant/wont. just be patient, be kind, try to understand them. everyone deserves compassion.

and if you too don't know what getting better looks like, just know i see you. i understand you. youre not alone and i love you no matter how hard - if you feel like at all - youre trying. thank you for still being here.

[sm-baby]

you heard him

[beeanddoddi]

19th march 2024

the van is getting the holes welded today. the widows are the next fix and then we can get her road worthy.

[doctorsiren]

The books reveal that Ford is actually a secret partier

(Available as a print on my Etsy Shop)

(wips under cut)

[psychotic-quirks]

burns so many bridges bc fuck you

[3rdsday]

Tommy basically said "the DSMP was good because it was, and still is, loved" and that basically sums up my feelings on the matter too.