#bad idea tag

[vroomian]

I was listening to epic the musical and what if Yrz/Odysseus/ Penelope though

Yrz is reborn into Ithaca and escapes the Trojan war by being a palace clerk and also too young to go to war. Yrz, being himself and therefore utterly unchill, works up the palace ranks by being very good at his job, until he’s placed directly at Penelope’s side.

Penelope being kind competent and just, is Yrz catnip. It takes maybe a year for him to have his oh fuck I like like her moment. Instead of confessing and taking advantage of a woman who’s desperately missing her husband, Yrz instead throws himself into being the best support she has. He manages. He organizes. He plays with Telemachus, and becomes the only male role model the boy has!

Yrz even starts praying to the gods. We’ll say he knows for sure that the gods are real. So he goes down to the temples of Hera (marriage, protecting women and children) and Aphrodite (love, lovers) and Athena (odys personal patron) to sacrifice and pray. He gets a reputation for being very devout and almost a priest lol. He asks all of them for the same things: protect Penelope and Telemachus, and bring odysseus home unharmed.

His prayers are so frequent and so firm that they actually catch the arte of the gods. Aphrodite is first because yrzs love is deep and insane, and she notices that shit. One day while Yrz is praying in the temple she does the whole disguise herslef as a mortal thing to see what’s up.

[stealingpotatoes]

heres a crappy venn (??) diagram explaining the dynamics in the tl4j time travel au bc it's easier than trying to write a full plot

[umblrspectrum]

happy solvermas

[arrowsperpetualcringe]

Scribbled somehting together of... The sillies

This comic a mess, but I had the idea and I had to draw something before I lost motivation-

Emmet + Interpol + AZ ???

yes PLEASE 😭🙏🏾

basically, the jist of this idea is- like.

You that shitpost of Emmet asking AZ about Ingo?

Make it that, but it's AZ feeling empathy that he can't hide, because he knows what it's like to wander the earth in search of someone you love— and he knows that there's no way Emmet is going to find him, not in 10, 100 or 3000 years...

Heheh

[corethetrueidiot]

help

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

What a lovely family portrait👨🏻‍👨🏻‍👦🏻🖼️

Enhanced image of A-Yuan's first sword flight.

[welcometogrouchland]

Extremely bad batgirls comic I made featuring Steph's sex life and Cass' ability to read everything but the room

[oh-gh0st]

i heart these rivals so much. maybe they'll kill each other. maybe they'll kiss. maybe they'll make ou

[madabapf]

Part 12 content warnings at the bottom of tags First Prev Next

First Prev Next Bonus

it's almost 1 am but i don't wanna wait another day so here ya go lmao

always glad to see cultured people in the monkie fandom :)

[jewishrat420]

No one has ever flirted with Steve the way Eddie flirts with Steve.

And it's not like no one flirts with Steve. God, no, it's not like no one flirts with Steve. Steve can't walk into the grocery store without at least three sets of heads turning and focusing all their attention on him.

And he's not even trying to be cocky about it. That's just the reality he was gifted when he came out of his mother's womb looking like the world's freshest Adonis. Honestly, he wouldn't be surprised if they changed the colloquialism to "Steve."

Regardless. For as many people like to flirt with him, make themselves known, filtering in and out of his orbit like willing planets, no one knows quite how to get him going like Eddie. Maybe it's that they're not as confident as he is, maybe they're scared of the rejection Eddie was born facing and will die knowing.

Maybe they're scared of ruining their chances. Maybe Eddie isn't.

For whatever reason, Eddie doesn't seem like he's scared. Even though there was a long time before he knew Steve was bi, was just as into the flirting as Eddie was, even though there was a chance (not like it'd ever happen, but the unknown was there) that Steve could have beaten him up just for calling him "sweetheart," he did it anyway. He got right up into Steve's space, close enough that Steve could get high off the remnants of the joint he'd smoked earlier, and gave him a look that offered everything.

And, God, Steve wanted it. He wanted it all.

And so that began months of what Steve has so aptly referred to as torture. Apt, because he knows what it's like. He has the scars and the fear of ice cream and needles to prove it.

But this... this is a different kind of torture. Mental, emotional, spiritual, whatever you call it-- this is meant to tear him apart from the inside out, meant to make him want to rip his own bones out from his body and offer them to Eddie if it meant the other man making a fucking move.

And Steve would, is the thing. He would absolutely make the first move-- it's what he usually does, anyway, and he's got a pretty damn good success rate for it.

But, for whatever reason, this feels different. This back and forth they have, the constant teasing, the sliding in and out of each other's orbits, unable and unwilling to refute the most fundamental laws of gravity... it's something special, at least to Steve. Something sacred.

Which is why, when Eddie calls Steve "Harrington" for the first time in months, his first response is to pout.

They're about halfway through splitting a joint, the sweet smoke curling around wisps of hair and parted lips and filtering in and out of the holes in their sweaters. The air outside is getting colder, thinner, sharper, as the winter months dreg on. But inside the trailer, it's comfortable and warm. Safe.

Steve's being a bit of a hog, and he's man enough to admit that. But he had a shitty day at work and all he wants is to feel nothing other than the weightless relaxation of a good high buzzing through his bones. Sue him for taking a little more than his fair share of the good stuff, even if it is Eddie's.

"Steve," Eddie whines, reaching his hand out and curling his fingers in request. "Give it over."

"No," Steve responds, just on the edge of whiny. He brings the joint to his lips and takes a long, slow, deep drag, feeling the sweet heat of the smoke burning in his lungs, taking up the space where oxygen should be. He goes a little dizzy with it, feels his eyes lower. "Mine."

Steve can't see it, but he knows Eddie's rolling his eyes. Can sense the shift in the air, can sense every little fucking thing about Eddie at any given moment.

"C'mon, Harrington, you're being a brat."

And, normally, Steve would find another aspect of that sentence to freak out about. Would zero in on the word brat and relish in the flare of heat it sends shooting up his spine like firework sparks. Would squint his eyes at Eddie and tilt his head in the way he knows makes him look good, would give him his cutest little smirk and say, "Who, me?" and would preen in the response it gets.

This time, though, he's much too focused on the other name Eddie used for him. The one he hasn't heard come out of Eddie's mouth since before he realized that Steve was, as he put it, "actually a good dude."

He doesn't realize he's pouting until the sudden silence in the room starts to creep in, make a home in the buzzing in his ears. He didn't realize that he didn't say anything, and neither did Eddie, and now they're sitting in a mess of their own making. Of Eddie's own making, really.

His next words come out without effort, without intent.

"Don't call me that."

He chances a look over at Eddie, at the risk of appearing as vulnerable as he feels, and to his distress, he can't get a read on the man. His dark eyebrows furrow, brown eyes squinting slightly, and his lips part like he wants to speak. He licks them. Steve's eyes follow the motion unintentionally.

"Call you what?" Eddie says on an exhale. "A brat?"

Steve shakes his head. "Harrington. Don't like it when you call me that."

Eddie kind of softens, then, and Steve didn't realize he had stiffened until he isn't anymore. He sort of sinks into the couch, spreads his legs imperceptibly wider, and Steve wouldn't have noticed if it wasn't for the way his left knee brushes against Steve's just barely. Just enough for those heated sparks to send a couple pinpricks across his skin.

"No?" he says, looking over to meet Steve's gaze. His cheeks are flushed, whether from the weed or the heat of the room or the heat between them, and Steve's sure that his look the same. "What do you want me to call you, then?"

Steve's definitely blushing now. He looks away from Eddie, tucks his chin to his chest, lets the joint between his fingers burn away. Eddie takes it from him, gently, and brings it to his lips. Steve hears the paper crackling as he inhales.

His voice is quiet, almost meek, when he speaks. It's completely unlike Steve, completely unlike the persona he used to so proudly take on-- but then again, Eddie is completely unlike anyone that Steve has ever met. He's more real, more human, and in turn, Steve is too.

"...You know."

Eddie makes a little noise, then, something in the back of his throat that was born and died within the very same second it was released. Something soft, almost pained, like his body couldn't help the reaction it had to that sentence.

Steve watches the thin, long line of Eddie's arm reach forward and press the joint into the glass of the ashtray. He follows the motion until Eddie's hand settles into the rips over his knee, fingers intertwining with the thread. His pinkie is dangerously close to Steve's own sweatpant-covered skin, and he feels the contact as if Eddie were touching him.

Eddie's hand twitches like it wants to move, and Steve resists the urge to grab it, hold it within the warmth of his own palms.

"Do I?" Eddie says, his voice quieter than it was a moment ago. That thick silence fills the trailer once more, settling in between the soft buzzing of the lightbulb in the kitchen and the muffled humming of the crickets outside. Steve hears Eddie take a stuttering breath. "Tell me."

Steve sighs, feeling his chest burn as his heartbeat picks up. His throat pounds with the pulsing of it. He places his own hand on his right knee, pinkie finger edging closer and closer to the space where Eddie's meets his. Eddie's hand twitches again.

"Like it when you call me sweet things," he says on an exhale, as though getting it out all in one breath would make it easier. "Like how it makes me feel."

Eddie lets out another one of those noises, then, something more like a cut-off groan. His hand curls into the fabric of his jeans for no more than a second before he releases it, and Steve gets to watch as the blood blanches and then returns to his knuckles.

"Sweet things, huh?" he muses, voice only slightly strained. If Steve didn't know any better, he'd say Eddie is nervous. "Like... Stevie?"

Steve hums. "Yeah. I like that."

Eddie's pinkie moves closer. Barely. Imperceptibly, if not for the way Steve is tuned into his every movement, like a dog to the sound of their owner's keys.

"Yeah?"

Steve hums again.

"What about... sweetheart?"

Steve closes his eyes. Lets out a shaky breath, inhales a smoother one.

"Yeah."

Steve feels something brush against his pinkie. Something warm.

"Honey?"

Steve nods, biting his lip. "Mhm."

Eddie lets out a quiet little laugh. "Even big boy?"

Steve returns it helplessly, feels the edges of a smile pulling at his lips. The air feels cold on his teeth, as though he's burning up from the inside out and anything outside of his own body is a cooling salve.

"Especially big boy."

Eddie laughs a little louder, and the jostling of his body brings his pinkie even closer to Steve's. Completely pressed against his own, now.

Steve swears he can feel his heartbeat through it. Or maybe it's his own.

"What about..." Eddie takes a breath. "Love?"

Steve's own breath hitches. He opens his eyes, looks at where their skin is touching in more than one place. He feels it, feels every point of contact where the cells that make Eddie are existing with the cells that make Steve. Wonders, maybe, if they stay here long enough, if they'll merge and mold over time. Become one.

"Yeah," Steve breathes. "I like that one a lot."

Eddie hums, and the room falls back into silence for a moment. Steve's skin burns where their fingers are touching. He moves his hand to the right, just barely, just enough to let Eddie know that he feels it. Just enough to ask Eddie if he does, too.

His response is overwhelming.

Eddie moves his hand to the left, solidifies all the points of contact between them, and Steve feels like he's exploding. Feels like a bubbling pit of lava that's set to burst, to overflow, like it can't hold back anymore. Like it's tried for so long that it's hurting, now, pressurized and boiling and hot, way too fucking hot.

And then, Eddie crosses his pinkie over Steve's, and Steve thinks he's dying.

He takes in a sharp breath like it's the last one he'll ever get, and he doesn't even have it in him to be embarrassed about it. He knows Eddie is right there with him, knows he's not the only one feeling this irrefutable pull like gravity between them. Knows, hopes, it's only a matter of time before they collide.

Eddie hums again. He taps his pinkie once over the smallest of Steve's knuckles, almost like he's making a decision. He takes a long, slow breath before he speaks.

"You know which one's my favorite?"

Steve's throat clicks. "Which?"

"Look at me."

Steve turns his head to the right for no more than a second before Eddie's lips are on his.

It's hungry, it's indulgent, it's immediately addictive. It feels like breathing.

Eddie presses his whole body against Steve's, and he can feel the way his tendons flex where his hand is covering the back of Steve's. Where their pinkies meet, their fingers intertwine and cross over one another like the roots of a tree, their bodies the whole mycorrhizal network.

The next word is spoken against Steve's lips, and Steve can feel the way his mouth forms around it. Decides, from this moment on, that he never wants to hear it another way.

"Baby."

Steve's exhale is more of a moan, a dying sound that, like Eddie's before, lived for only a moment in his throat before pushing through the wall of his lips. Eddie takes it, holds it in his own mouth, swallows it down hungrily and slides his tongue against Steve's as though asking for more.

"That's--" Steve pants, getting his hands on Eddie's hips and pulling until he's seated in his lap. "Mine too."

"Yeah?" Eddie asks, his lips still pressed against Steve's. Their words are muffled against each other, but they don't need to hear them to understand. They only need to feel the outline of them, the shape of the consonants and vowels against and around each other's tongues. They only need to press their bodies together and know, intimately, the meaning in each other's hearts.

"Yeah. Want you to call me that forever."

This time, Steve feels Eddie's laughter against his lips. His chest. Feels it bubble up in the space between his ribs, feels it flow into his mouth like a river, swallows it down like the first glass of water after a run. Feels his own creep up behind his teeth in return, gives it back to Eddie like an offering, who takes it greedily. Hungrily. Gratefully.

"Think that can be arranged, baby."

[vroomian]

Alastor/Hana abo au. The moment Atlas really falls for Hana is very much a ‘kick his ass baby I got your flower’ moment. Hana and Al are out on a “date” (aka Al is dragging Hana around town in a fit of gleefull mania) and they’re at a bar when Vox randomly accosts them. I’m thinking this is after the ‘alastor has an alpha’ reveal takes place so Vox is steaming mad.

He’s also. Ignoring alastor completely. Posturing at Hana, talking about Alastor like he’s some thing to be won, to posses, like vox has any right —

“This is an alpha thing,” vox says, condescending. “Omegas should stay out of it.”

And you can imagine how that goes over with Al. It’s like vox thinks that by gaining an alpha, alastor is somehow diffrent. Like he’s no longer dangerous.

Alastor remains the radio demon. So it’s a fight vox is aiming for it’s a fight Alastor is glad to give him. He attacks. Vox, the whole fight, is not giving Al the respect he deserves. He’s too focused on sneering at Hana for “allowing” her omega to fight at all.

Hana, fruity drink in one hand: idk chief, my omega seems to be kicking your ass.

Al wins that fight. Obviously. But as he straightens his clothes he realized that Hana never once attempted to step in or protect Al. She had complete faith in Alastors own skills and ability. It was the main reason Hana was worthy of Alastors attention and Vox was a useless worm.

Hana, unconcerned with the way Alastors world just rearranged itself: here babe I got you a whiskey.

Al:

Al: thank you my dear.

Hana: you said you wanted to visit Rosie?

Al: indeed I did!

And then they leave arm in arm with vox a broken mess on the ground behind them, forgotten.

[that-nerd-who-writes-fanfiction]

I need a fic where Lancelot gets hit by a curse that makes him extremely honest/completely removes his thought to speech filter.

Like, he doesn’t blurt secrets but he’s got no sense of fear for saying things he probably shouldn’t and just starts saying all the quiet parts out loud.

Merlin’s immediately worried about him. I kinda imagine it like:

Merlin: Do you think you’ll say anything about..?

Lance: your secret? No. Definitely not. It’s your secret to tell. Arthur should know how much you do for him even without it though. You should remind him you’re not obligated to do so much if he keeps taking advantage of your kindness.

Merlin: That…

Lance: I clearly mean it. It’s your choice of course. You know I love you too much to betray your trust.

(I’m a sucker for Mercelot but take that however you want)

Then when they all get back to Camelot and one of the towns people is struggling to fix a cart with a broken wheel.

Lance *goes over to help and starts berating the knights*: we’re knights. We’re supposed to help people. If you just want to beat people up, we’ve run into plenty of bandits that would probably take you.

And we all know he doesn’t like the structure of statuses and how power is distributed in Camelot so while he’s still respectful to Arthur as a king, the rest of the lords not so much. He avoids them as much as possible to avoid causing unnecessary problems but when Arthur asks if he’ll be at a council meeting, he’s gotta say no:

Lance: I don’t think that’d be a good idea.

Arthur: why not? I could use someone honest on the council.

Lance: I am honest with you. Mostly. You definitely shouldn’t ask what I think about magic until I can be tactful about my answer. But If I get a chance to be honest in the same room as Lord NoName I’m going to ask him if he doesn’t want to pay taxes because too much of his coin already goes to his mistresses and his wife will find out if he’s forced to document it.

Arthur: …

Lance: …

Arthur: … I don’t know which part to focus on first. If Lord NoName isn’t there will you attend?

Lance: he’s not the only one. Personally, I think they should hear it, but I don’t want to be callous about it. Their wives deserve better and forcing them to find out through gossip and rumours just seems unnecessarily cruel.

Arthur: I’ll call a round table meeting later.

Lance: Probably for the best. You should give Merlin a seat, he’s braver and has done more for you than anyone. I’ll see you later, sire.

I can imagine the magic thing would keep coming up too, just little comments about how he’s frustrated that he’ll be used as an example for why magic should be banned when it’s not all bad and can actually be quite amazing.

Everyone’s confused but he just asks Leon if he likes being alive because he wouldn’t be without the Druids and the cup of life.

Heaven forbid anyone says anything bad about Merlin. He never out’s Merlin’s secret as promised, but he absolutely makes sure everyone is aware how much Merlin does for people out of the goodness of his heart.

I also want him to shit on Uther at some point. About his parenting style or how he ruled Camelot, I don’t mind which.

I imagine someone mentioning how well Lance is handling the curse and “taking it like a man” and getting immediately shot down.

Noble: he’s handling it well, taking it like a man.

Lancelot: Hypocritical coming from you, Lord He-Payed-Less-Than-I-Did-Even-Though-It-was-Proportional-To-Everything-Else. (I don’t pretend to understand how a fictional court set in about 5 different historical eras is run) Actually, not complaining about a situation that sucks isn’t a manly trait at all. All of the problems we’re dealing with are because something happened and someone “took it like a man.” Tax evasion, wars, uneven distribution of wealth, *putting reports on the table for each one* The last time someone “took it like a man” we ended up with an entire people being murdered because a king fucked up, lost his wife, and didn’t want to admit fault and grieve like a sane person.

Everyone’s just silent for a moment.

Lance: … *thinks about what he said for a second*

Lance: No, I stand by that. I’ll apologise for my lack of tact, but not the content.

Meanwhile, watching in horror and barely contained glee:

Arthur: Should have let him sit this one out.

Merlin: Absolutely not. This might become the most productive council meeting we’ve had in years.

Anyway, I just want Lance being able to lean more into the unhinged side of his character sometimes.

He’s still got to fundamentally be a good person, he’s just less filtered in watching the casual stupidity of the nobles, or more honest about people not thanking servants enough (especially to the knights who seemed to forget that they were once common born too) and isn’t afraid to call people on their bullshit when necessary.

Everyone learns to appreciate it too so when the spell wears off, he’s less anxious about giving his opinions on things.

Just let Lancelot be the unfiltered chaotic good that he is.

[silvertherogue715]

Yippie more O' Medusa drawings!!

Probably one of my last big batches for a while :')

@naffeclipse, happy early birthday and i hope you enjoy your blorbos!

Previous art of these two: First - Second - Third - Bad end

EDIT: absolutely kicking my feet and giggling over every single comment/tag you guys leave THEY'RE SO SWEET THANK YOU SO MUCH

[crumb-crumblet-s-crumbington]

🪤

[verflares]

i thought i felt your shape, but i was wrong. really all i felt was falsely strong, i held on tight and closed my eyes. it was dumb, i had no sense of your size. it was dumb to hold so tight.

also on inprnt :]

[sesamestreep]

it’s wild to me that like every modern adaptation of Sherlock Holmes (and by modern I mean “made recently” not “set in modern times”) is like Hell Bent on coming up with a Reason™️ that Watson stays with Holmes and trots around with him on adventures all the time despite the inconvenience and the danger and all, and so it’s like “oh, Watson’s a gambling addict, he loves uncertainty and mystery” or “oh, Watson’s an adrenaline junkie, he gets off on being constantly in danger from criminals” or even like “Watson’s atoning for sins of the past of BEING IN THE WAR by solving crimes with Holmes now” or WHATEVER. And it’s like, girl, maybe he’s just in love! Did you think of that?? Maybe he’s got a crush and it’s making him do stupid things. Maybe he’s just got bad taste and his type is guys who don’t know how to refold newspapers properly but can identify different types of cigar ash by sight, smell, and taste. And wrote a monograph on the subject. Maybe he’s down bad is all. I mean, Keep is simple, stupid!!!