#but it was fun to write

[hotluncheddie]

for @steddie-spooktober day 4 prompt : corn maze

rated: T | cw: hospitals | tags: post s4, getting together

🌽 🌽 🌽 🌽

Eddie wakes up blurry eyed and disorientated in his now very familiar hospital bed. He spend the end of spring dead to the world, in and out of induced comas while they reconstructed his skin, the multiple processes too painful for him to be awake for. Followed was a summer of twilight and half wakefulness. Barely sentient between medicines and sponge baths and too many doctors telling him too many things.

Sometimes he’s wake up with the phantom feeling of his hand being held. Often he'd wake up with Wayne dozing on the little plastic chair beside him.

And maybe a little more often than sometimes, Eddie would wake up with Steve Harrington by his bedside. First shepherding Dustin, then bracketing Eddie’s new favourite midwestern queer Robin Buckley. Then just, Steve. Reading car magazines and folding the corners of pages he thinks Eddie might like. Or filling endless water cups, and scavenging snack in from vending machines. Or, just, staring into space.

Steve always seemed to just be there.

And Eddie was afraid to admit, even to himself, how much he liked that.

Now autumn was finally here, just starting to turn the leaves outside his window. His time awake slowly overtaking his time asleep, finally. And Steve is still there. Most days. Many days.

And at some point Eddie had started reaching for that phantom hand holding his, but in real life. Confirmed secretly by Robin that Steve was in fact there doing so while Eddie was out of it. (Gripped with a needless sense of protection and guilt over getting Eddie to the hospital in the state he did. Carried out of hell in Steve’s strong hands. Though safe, heavily injured, and Steve seemed to take that upon his own shoulders.) But Eddie only wanted those hand to support him again, wanted to find a way to thank him with words he didn’t possess. Wanted anything Steve would give him as his feelings blossomed into something he was still too scared to really look at.

But he could hold Steve’s hand. Only just allowed to push himself on a walker to the bathroom. Only just able to sit up and eat without biting his lip in pain, stopping half way to lay prone again.

He can, could, does, and doesn’t want to stop, holding Steve’s hand. And Steve gives that willingly.

But still, Eddie wakes up in his bed disoriented. Not by the bed, or the room, or even by Steve who stands beside him.

No, Eddie’s disoriented by the two items Steve has just deposited on his little table.

Steve standing by, arms crossed and hip cocked like this is English class and he needs to be ready to detach or say something snarky if his idea gets called stupid. It tugs on Eddie’s heartstrings. Eddie blinks, clears his head.

‘Corn maze.’ Steve says. Thinly veiled in his dismissal. Achingly honest in his mask.

Eddie looks at his little hospital table. A bowl of hot corn, steaming and shining with the butter melting through it, plastic spoon standing straight up amongst the kernels. And a box of Candy Land, old, with the corners taped together, well used, well loved.

‘I love corn mazes.’ Eddie says, quietly because he just woke up from another damn nap. And it’s autumn. And Steve Harrington is everything and nothing like what Eddie ever could’ve hoped for.

Steve softens. Visibly. Eddie watches it happen. His shoulders untense and his face smooths out into the sweet glowing thing of a boy who cares too much, who loves so hard he leave claw marks on everything.

Eddie wants Steve’s claws. Eddie wants them attached to the bone. But Eddie’s doesn’t want to give Steve the space to scratch. Eddie wants him close. Eddie wants him always.

‘Next autumn we’ll go for real, deal?’ Steve says.

Eddie nods, heart in his throat, rib cage exposed, heart beating for Steve Harrington and Steve Harrington alone.

He eats a bite of corn.

They travel through a candy maze.

Eddie Munson holds Steve Harrington’s hand.

🌽 🌽 🌽 🌽

Tag list (message to be added/removed): @scoops-aboy86 @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @pearynice @marvel-ous-m

@thecatkingsthrone @chickensinrainboots @cheesedoctor

[proshippers-against-censorship]

UWU stop interacting with antis. If you’re anti-censorship then act like it, you can’t stop people from having opinions <3 coming from someone who isn’t pro or anti ship because I’m not a 15 year old porn addicted gooner

This is a discourse blog. A discourse blog that speaks quite a bit about sexual topics. If a 15 year old was running this blog, I would have concerns, in all honesty, because they really shouldn't be interacting as publicly and openly with NSFW content.

However, your comment alone helps to display why, while I'm perfectly fine running my discourse blog as a discourse blog, this may not be the place for you. So let's break this down:

• No adult with any desire to be taken seriously by anyone uses the term 'gooner' unironically. That being said, you give off the red flags of being a younger teen, and interacting directly with NSFW content easily breaches the boundaries of adults.

• If a 15yo was regularly interacting with porn to the point that this is easily known, their parents can be held liable in multiple states. You could try reporting me to the police for being a 'porn-addicted minor'. Unfortunately, you will come off as a laughingstock, because I'm not a minor and I also just...don't watch porn. Unlike you, presumably, I am in a lovely relationship with a significant other who can handle those desires.

•The APA and DSM-5 do NOT classify porn addictions as real, and therefore, they aren't a thing. Multiple studies, as well, have disproven the existence of the 'porn addiction'. This idea can be traced back to - wait for it - Christian Puritanical anti-sex culture. Now, as much as church needs to be better separated out of everything, the Christian God does not run my life nor most countries, and so his religious anti-sex ideals are irrelevant.

• I'm guessing you just, don't read (shocker), but if you check out that beautiful intro paragraph that is pinned on this blog, you'll notice that I welcome opinions shared in a civil way, even if they oppose my own, and am in fact quite stern on the idea that you shouldn't lock yourself in an echo chamber. Hearing contrasting opinions can help strengthen or even change your core beliefs. But that whole idea leans on the idea that neither side is pissing their pants over discovering that their ideals don't extend to everyone, which is what you appear to be doing here. I am welcome to conversations on why you think what I'm doing is stupid, but I'm not going to bother with you unless you put on your big boy pants and be a mature person.

• You aren't 'neither', you're an anti. You scream it throughout your whole message. So if this account bothers you, why don't you do yourself a service and block it instead of being annoying in my DMs?

• This point is just here to see if you have the capacity to actually read things, since you obviously know nothing about this account despite the big ole pinned post. Go have some tea, get in a better mood, and then feel free to come back for a more progressive, civil conversation. It'd be good for you.

[blue-disco-lights]

Galladrabbles: Explicit Content

I wrote this late in the evening, and it's silly and was the first thing I could think of when I read the prompt. Dedicated to naked guitar-playing season 5 Mickey. Thank you @ohkate for our prompt this week! 🍑 @galladrabbles

========

Shortly after moving into their fancy condo, Mickey developed a real interest in living au naturel. Whether making coffee or sitting down to read Guns&Ammo, there was barely a stitch of clothing to be found.

Ian loved it. But… 

“Mick, you know these windows are see-through right?”

“Your point?

“You’ve been walking around butt-ass naked for days.”

“Literally never heard you complain before. You see me naked all the time.”

“Yeah but the neighbors don’t need a show.”

“How ‘bout I slap an Explicit Content sticker on my ass, and we carry on with our lives.”

It’s a start.

[alexnamuu]

A conversation between Diomedes and Odysseus that I imagine they had at the beginning of the Trojan War, when they were getting to know each other:

— Well, well, if it isn't the youngest King who ruled Argos that this council of war has ever heard of! The disciple with the silver eyes blessed by Athena, the war cry that terrifies the enemies! — The man's melodious voice pulled Diomedes back to reality. The young king had to hold back an irritated sigh that he would let escape his lips showing his discomfort at having someone close to him.

It wasn't a good day, in fact, since he stepped onto the Trojan lands and instructed his men to start setting up camp, he had never had a good day. Diomedes was used to the patterns of war, the dried blood under his nails, the bruises his enemies were lucky enough to inflict, the calluses forming on his already rough hand, he should stop by the medical tent and see if he could get some blister cream or something, he would do that later.

— It is good to see you again, King of Ithaca— He made no effort to look at the man who sat beside him, his gaze continued to focus on the fire. He expected peace and quiet, but it seemed like Lady Athena wouldn't give it to him anytime soon.

—You were splendid on the battlefield today, a true veteran, far more experienced than any of us— He had been warned about the ruler of Ithaca having a sweet tongue to persuade any man to get what he wanted. This made Diomedes shiver just for being a target of this "get what he wants by any means necessary" guy.

—That's right, thank you— He didn't know how to respond to flattery, maybe that's why he fell for so few. The King (His name was Odysseus, from what he remembered) didn't seem to be bothered by this fact.

— Yes, a real standout, I would say, with my audacity, that you would only lose to Achilles! Or you could even surpass him.

— Be careful with your words, Laertiades — Achilles' sharp voice cut through the silence, it seemed that the Best of the Greeks would rather be somewhere else, but Patroclus, his friend and healer (maybe something more) seemed very happy to enjoy the campfire and chat with Ajax the Great, who was Achilles' cousin, and at the beginning of the war, Peliades didn't seem to want to be away from his closest friend— Or you will be without your precious tongue.

— Don't be so skittish, Peliades, it was just a foolish comparison, forgive me — He made sure to emphasize — But you were still magnificent, young Diomedes.

— Do you need something from me, Leartiades? — Diomedes didn't like mind games where he had to put his wits to work and try to decipher dirty tricks, not after a long day. He would prefer the silence and not having to talk for the rest of the night. So anything that would make Odysseus move away, he would be happy.

— Straightforward, isn't it? — Odysseus didn't seem to mind, staring at the helmet still in Diomedes' lap. — I need a favor from you, something small, nothing extravagant.

— I don't do favors — The young King said — Much less for strangers.

— Come on, we are war companions now and the same Goddess guides us, I think we are not so strange after all — The warm touch of Odysseus's palm came into contact with the skin of Diomedes's arm, a friendly, innocent touch, nothing more than a form of bargaining. But for Diomedes that was like a burning coal, the field reflexes came into action and he slapped the other's hand away from his arm. The most serious expression now on his indifferent face.

— Don't touch me, Laertiades — The young king's voice was low, threatening — And I already said, I don't do favors for strangers, much less those who have very big tongues and words that flatter too much.

Diomedes stood up with his helmet in his hands, putting on the piece that completed his armor, his eyes staring at Odysseus with cold indifference — Do not look for me to demand favors, King of Ithaca, from what I hear, you seem eager to get back to your wife and son.

Diomedes heard a provocative whistle, perhaps it had come from the mouth of the sweet Patroclus who was known for his good heart, but had his attractions for a good fight. He decided to ignore it.

— Gentlemen — He said in farewell, starting to walk towards his own camp. With luck, that would have been the only and last interaction with Odysseus and he would only need to see the man in meetings and on the battlefield.

The distant hoot of an owl was his doubt and likely his condemnation of what would come from then on. Odysseus' sweet tongue would still convince him of many things.

[silverclaw202]

Alright trafficblr I need you to hear me out on this one

So we all know how each of the life series winners is assigned an astral roll so I started thinking and my thinking led to this

Geminitay - sunset/sunrise

(Or dawn cuz that sounds cooler)

Now here’s my reasoning.

(Granted I haven’t watched her pov of Secret life I’m just going off what I’ve seen)

1, color schemes match

2, sunrises/sunsets have a lot of diversity, they can go from a sweet calm array of colors to literally looking like the end of the world, gem herself can be so kind and inspiring but can also be ABSOLUTELY TERRIFYING

3, Gem is extremely impactful her impression on people is insane, this can be seen durring the apocalypse episode (though I guess that was more forced) and when scott sacrifices himself for her at the end, clearly he trusted her and therefore gave her what he had left, now I don’t think anybody will be sacrificing themselves for a sunset but it can have an impact, looking at it from a story telling perspective when a character is in a scene with a sunset it immediately gives an impact, what the sunset means or does can differ and sometimes it’s just there for dramatic effect,

4, Sunsets/sunrises are a symbol of beauty on earth not that their absolutely crucial but they definitely make life less boring and more worth seeing, gems personality also has that impact she can do it through her builds and through her interactions with other people

In conclusion Gem shares the ability to have an impact, no matter what that impact is it’s there and the idolization of a sunset has that same element.

I just thought that was neat :)

[seraphimhalo]

Per request of a friend: some lore on this character, Harper Sinclaire, daughter of Archangel Azrael (last name TBD)

wow I draw her alot

I mainly draw her from my alternate angel universe bc the original is a collaboration with my cousin, whose oc is Archangel Hazel Angelina, youngest daughter of Archangel Michael, and frankly i give harper more trauma in the au so :D (The silver haired angel is Hazel)

Lore: Harper died in her mother's womb during an attack. Being the Angel of Death, her father revived her mother, and unknowingly revived his daughter as well (he didn't know Allegra was pregnant). Harper already had inherited her father's abilities, but being called back from the dead/crossing another dimension tuned in her power and astral sense/connection way more. As for her mother, she would sometimes hear things from another dimension (hey, resurrection affects everyone differently in this universe🤷🏽‍♀️ i mean, it literally breaks the natural laws of life). Azrael went into hiding shortly afterwards because he was a wanted Archangel.

Harper's mother is a low-tier angel, so she was raised as such. Harper was brought up with a sort of people-pleaser mentality sincer her mother drilled in her mind that she always needed to be above other's expectations for her (she wanted her daughter to be able to keep the bargain for admission in the high-tier Academy).

Unlike her peers, Harper never got her ability, the ones listed in the Angel Catalog, and consequently, she never got to train properly. She only always had an otherworldly sense to any being around her. She met Hazel in the Academy and became good friends as they both allowed each other to feel freeer than their oppressing authorities.

This concludes the part of Harper's Lore lore that is the same in the original and the au storyline :D

[aduckwithears]

I just read this awesome meta from @queerfables about Aziraphale's bookshop being the Garden of Eden in season 2, and oh wow!! There are so many ways to interpret the season using this context - here's a take on Aziraphale and Crowley and the final fifteen. (tldr - They are both Eve)

In their Eden of a bookshop, they are safe - no one comes in without permission, Crowley can lose the sunglasses, they can do all the talking they want (blah, blah, blah), but there is still the unspoken subtext of their relationship. They both possess this knowledge but it is forbidden to speak of because it is, literally, Forbidden... but also because if spoken then something has to Change. (hmmm, Job minisode flashbacks anyone?)

Then we have the end of Ep 6. Gabriel and Beez leave the garden (to canoodle amongst the stars or whatever) as a parallel to Adam and Eve (again, covered so well by @queerfables)

But Aziraphale and Crowley? They both have parallels to Eve, and neither of them convinces the other to bite the apple.

Let's take Crowley first. In his case we have Maggie and Nina as the metaphorical serpents, arguing for revelation and acknowledgment. They only approach Crowley about this - Eve in this scenario. The apple then is actually the confession itself - Crowley dropping all pretenses and offering Aziraphale the full scope of their relationship - kiss and all. The offer to be together, to leave the bookshop/everything if needed.

Now we have the other side of the coin - the Metatron and his coffee/apple of return to paradise, grace, and innocence. Of course this is a disingenuous offer, but it sure is a parallel to the apple of the humans. He really is the bad faith snake in the garden with an offer of power and restoration that reads (at least to Crowley) like an erasure of knowledge. He only approaches Aziraphale - Eve in this scenario. So Aziraphale makes the offer to Crowley (A's exact thoughts on the offer have and will continue to be debated of course), but in any scenario he is begging for Crowley to come with him, for them to be together.

They are both asking for the same thing (to be together) but in ways that are mutually exclusive. So they both leave the bookshop... but not together. Different apples.

[drowning-in-cacophony]

count, count, count

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial Prompt 264: Counting Clocks

If it’s a hundred years until Imogen sees another bloody clock, it’ll be too early.

Still, she doesn’t take her eyes off this latest one. It’s ornate looking, an elegant frame for the face. It reminds her of the old mirror her mother had at the top of the stairs: gold tones that’d mellowed out to half-bronze by the time Imogen had come around, fantastically curved details looking sculpted from the metal, stuck around the glass like they’d never been apart. The positioning of that mirror had always creeped Imogen out though. A part-portal staring right at her every time she ascended the stairs, worse in the dark.

It's all pretty much dark here. The glistening lights are half-bronze, if she classes them a colour, hovering somewhere around her. Enough to cast her shadow into an abyss; enough to light up all the faces she’s had to keep fixed in her eyes. The second hand gently caresses the face of the ancient timekeeper. Passing a fingertip down three, looking like it hesitates on six. She tracks it all the way up, past the seven up to eleven, and can’t help the wince that goes through her as the last five beats trickle away like the perspiration between her shoulder-blades.

It passes the twelve. Like a weary sigh, a rough hand over a grizzled face; a rollercoaster for her stomach as the drop comes again. One minute she’s watched the numbers, the hand. The minute hand is much more sluggish than the light dance of the second, but it too gets an eye as it slowly, always slowly, inches closer to a total of five.

The glass that hugs the face of this clock looks sparkling. Enough to gently catch one of the lights hovering behind her, a gentle sheen that’s like sunrise bursting past the curve of a hill. It’s distracting too, so Imogen tries her best to ignore the reflection. The numbers, then. They’re dark like chocolate, and she can imagine whatever hands had made them, gently chiselling them out of metal, sanding all the edges and curves until each number stood proud alone, ready to be inset to their forever-home. Is that how clock numbers are made, on old clocks like this? Imogen, funnily enough, has never cared enough to look into it. The watch around her wrist – the watch that used to be around her wrist, an old battered face with a purple leather strap, well softened from the years of use, the holes for the buckle looking more than worse for wear – that’d had slightly raised painted numbers. Contained behind glass, decorated with a bunch of scratches from daily wear. The watch that’s currently encircling her wrist is a manacle, a prisoner’s reminder. She only gets to look at it when the clocks aren’t challenging her to a watching contest.

The minute hand’s one from five now. That slow pull, and she’s got breath trapped in her lungs, a tally running through her skull like it’s carved right into the bone. The amount of clocks she’s counted. The amount of minutes that have passed. Stacking them up Lego-brick style: how tall should she expect them to get before it all topples down onto her?

And if they topple-

Does that mean she’d have failed? The rules, if she could call them that, weren’t exactly very descriptive. The important part, though, that she understands. Count to save lives.

If you lined up every person that’d ever been born as a second, the amount still wouldn’t equal the time the planet has spun for. An eternity, infinity compared to people like increment second lines making out an hour; it feels insane to think about. Surely they should be more.

Surely she can succeed. Keep the numbers, keep the tally. It’s not going to be as much as every human life. It’s not going to be as long as the planet has turned.

Her breath’s coming a little quicker now.

The clock face stares back at her, as the hand drifts to that last section, a piece of driftwood on a current. It’s impassive. Uncaring. Flat, and in that flatness, she feels a touch of mockery. It doesn’t have to think about things such as failing. It’ll just go on, ticking away the seconds to minutes to hours, no cares in the world. Unburdened, unlike her.

She really, really could do with a break from seeing clocks.

When that fifth minute declares itself, she flinches. Pre-emptively, pointlessly: it explodes as all of them have so far, and even as a shard whips past her cheek so close it could cut, it doesn’t. None of the chunks have, but she still hasn’t gotten out of the habit of flinching.

Quickly, moments falling between slick fingers, sand through an hourglass: Imogen checks the heavy restraint to her wrist. A clock’s face that bears a sinister slant. The hour hand’s at the ten minute mark this time, a single dark line set in like a scar.

A gush in the ether around her. The next clock coming in.

Imogen squeezes her eyes tightly shut, until bright sparks erupt on the inside of her eyelids.

Even if it’s a thousand bloody years, it’ll be too soon.

[simple-seranade]

TW: body horror, death (life series, not really descriptive)

Some people love the toy gag, others are tired of it, I just find it a fascinating plot hook whether he is a toy or not. The head canon that Joel calling Jimmy a toy repeatedly actually turns him into one is everywhere and I love the concept. While brainrotting over this, I had an idea.

Imagine with me, for a moment.

Jimmy is a completely normal human, has been for as long as he can remember. He wholeheartedly knows it, and so does everyone around him. It’s just Jimmy, the completely normal human. Sure, he struggles with his self image a bit, but confidence is key! Fake it til you make it!

The life series happen. He dies first once. Twice. He’s not quite sure when or how it started, but people start calling him a canary. The canary in the coal mine, simply an omen of the death to come. A shock of yellow in the dark and grim, extinguished too soon. He thought nothing of it. It was just a phrase, a nickname. Nothing of any real importance, not definitive about him in particular.

Then he met his soulmate.

It only made sense it was through death, an explosion, the first death on the server. Tango being the coal mine to his canary, they said. The parallels grew, the amount of people mentioning it grew, the amount of times he heard the word canary as synonymous for him grew. 

It wasn’t even always bad. Tango called him Songbird as a term of endearment, and it was rarely ever said with truly malicious intent. 

But just because it wasn’t bad didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

It hurt when he bolted upright in the middle of the night, back feeling like it was on fire. It hurt as he barely choked back a scream, the skin on his back ripping open. It hurt when hollow bones and bloody golden feathers tore through the gaps. It hurt when fully grown wings developed in a matter of minutes, while Grian had described the process of his own wings growing as a weekslong process, from the forming to the baby wings bursting out to the wings being large enough to fly. It hurt when he cried, even as Tango held his hands, fretting and confused.

But he pushed through it, because that’s what Jimmy did. When things went wrong, when the universe had determined he was the perfect punching bag, he kept going, to show just how poor of a decision it had been.

So he got used to the wings. Eventually learned to navigate with the new weight on his back, stopped bumping into every door frame and tree and chest. He even started building up his wing strength and resolved to talk to Grian when this mess was over to see about flying lessons.

Then he died, a third and final time, and he was thrown to a new world. When he came to, he was human again, no evidence he had ever been any different besides the dandelion yellow flowers scattered around his spawn point. Not even scars on his back where the wings had pushed through in their golden, scarlet glory.

It was just an effect of the life server, the code had gone wrong, he was back to the way he was supposed to be. All of these explanations he heard when he asked the others, most just waving it off. After all, servers changed how they looked all the time. Nothing was wrong.

Jimmy tried to believe them, he really did. But when nightmares come of blood and hollow splintered bones tearing his back to ribbons, phantom pain still making him wince, it was difficult. None of the other changes had ever been that… painful. Real. 

Still, he kept going. Found a desert, built up a town, established a law. He was a sheriff now, dedicated to his Empire and making sure things were right. So what if a stuck-up god decided to make fun of him? So what if he was called pathetic, a toy? Those things didn’t define him. He was human, through and through, no matter what he had been just a single world ago.

Even if he was shrunk by a potion. Even if the comparisons to a plaything became more and more frequent. Even as all respect for him was lost, nothing but a mockery of a sheriff.

It was after the second time getting splashed with the lore potion that it happened. He was small, they weren’t turning him back, and he was just so, so sick of all of this. The Hermits had been brought in on the joke, and now almost everyone he talked to brought it up in some way. Tango was kind enough, he didn’t, and Scott… well, Scott said other things. 

Toy.

It was almost like the word was echoing around in his head as he sat in his sheriff’s office, despite the rage it filled Jimmy with. He wasn't a toy! He was a living, breathing human being! He didn’t have plastic skin, or stuffed intestines, or a pullstring, or soulless glass eyes that couldn’t see anything, not really, not truly. 

Every time someone called him a toy seemed to flood his mind, and tears pricked his eyes. Is that really all he was to these people? To his friends?

The air suddenly grew thick and heavy, and a lightning hot pain shot through every nerve in his body. Unprepared, he fell to his knees, barely keeping a pained screech from escaping his lips. He swayed, barely keeping himself from falling over entirely. 

Jimmy didn’t know what it looked like as his insides scrambled and dissolved and hardened and numbed and hurt. All he knew was the feeling of his bones dissipating, of the phantom sensation of something stabbing his arms and legs and torso, of his back aching as something pushed its way through, so similar yet so different to the wings he had once grown to treasure.

He didn’t see the way the tears in his eyes blended in with their growing glassiness, or know how his torso looked as the organs unspooled themselves inside of him to make way for stuffing. He doesn’t realize until later that the thing protruding from his back is a pullstring, one that doesn’t give him the option of silence if used. He had to look in the mirror to notice the stitches that had woven their way into the seams of his toosofttooplushnotrealenough body. 

He avoids reflections after that, because he is not a toy, no matter what his image says. He can’t be.

He doesn’t know why this happens. Why he seems to be forced to bend to the wills of those around him, to their perceptions of him. He knows he’s human. He has a real, beating heart, even if his chest just feels full and still from the stuffing inside of it, a complete and utter lack of organs. He breathes, filling non-existent lungs with air. He thinks, he feels, even though his head is full of cotton and his face seems empty and lifeless. 

He’s- he’s human. He is, always has been, so why does he keep changing?

Maybe one day, someone will see the signs. One day, someone will tell the shapeshifter what he is, about the powers he can’t control, about how he’s not the universe’s punching bag, not on purpose. They’ll teach him to control his powers, so that he was the one who determined his form, not the whims of others.

But today is not that day. 

Today is the day a plush sheriff squares off against a god, hides from his soulmates of past lives, and longs for the ability to cry all the unshed tears in his unbeating paper heart.

—————————————-

look, writing body horror is fun. plus i thought of the concept of jimmy being a shapeshifter without control of his powers was a cool solution because as far as he knows, he is human. and he is, most of the time. his power is just very, very easily influenced by repetition.

also i like the idea of mumbo finding him and being like “your powers are acting weird? mine did that last season, it was the moons fault” and jimmys just “my what now”

[blackjackkent]

Follow-on from my tag novel on this post speculating on the feasibility of Rion being Jaheira's bio kid, and her bio kid with Rasaad specifically (it's a rarepair but it's MY rarepair dammit):

#ETA: zenjestrr just pointed out to me that as a monk Rasaad would have Timeless Body feature which simplifies things physiologically XD#yay DND#it's more complicated than just that of course and now i'm resisting writing a whole essay about jaheira's thought processes#XD

@astreamofstars as always spoils me with prompting. XD Self-indulgent meta pondering ahead:

Fundamentally Jaheira is clearly STRONGLY torn between attachment to her kids/the city of Baldur's Gate and her natural wanderlust and attachment to nature rather than civilization. She clearly cares for Rion and the other kids in the same way that she cares for anything important to her: very strongly under the surface, but undemonstratively, and her emotions are nuanced and complicated by her own inner conflict and the amount that she has lost in the past.

Taking all this into consideration, I find it sort of hard to believe that Jaheira initially set out to have kids deliberately - with Khalid, with Rasaad (in my headcanon), or with anyone. Reasons being a) it would mean tying her down, b) she is acutely aware of the way a city (her birthplace) or a person (Khalid) can be taken away extremely abruptly and too many attachments can be dangerous, c) she has plenty of enemies, and d) in the case of any lover with a less-than-half-elven lifespan, there's a non-zero chance she would be taking care of the kid alone eventually.

This is particularly the case in the scenario of Rasaad. As I mentioned in the aforementioned tag novel, he COULD physically have kids with her pretty much right up until the end due to the Timeless Body monk feature, but that doesn't mean Jaheira would consider it a good idea. The feature specifically states that it doesn't stop you from dying of old age, just means you go out still in your prime. Hard to picture her deliberately choosing to have a kid with someone who (however virile he was) likely wouldn't see the kid's tenth birthday, given the series timeline and Rion's relative youth in BG3.

HOWEVER - there are three converse possibilities in this scenario:

1. Jaheira extended Rasaad's lifespan by making use of some low-level version of the Rite of the Timeless Body that we find in Elerrathin's Home. (subject of my previous post)

It's actually only now that I'm writing this post that I'm realizing that not only are they similar concepts but the Rite and the monk feature both literally use the SAME WORDS. However, Jaheira describes the Rite as being something that goes beyond what's described in the monk feature - "If they be learned and powerful enough, the practitioner of this ritual might slow their aging, extend their life well beyond its natural reach." So the Rite is something that not only maintain's the recipient's virility into old age but actively extends their lifespan.

The fact that both the Rite and the feature have the same name, though, only adds to my impression (in this headcanon/worldstate) that it would have been something she initially tried to leverage FOR Rasaad, to supplement his own body's natural abilities and give her more time with him (she says it's an esoteric druid thing but that doesn't mean it's true). Her dialogue suggests she never figured out how to use it to the full extent of its power for altruistic purposes, but that doesn't preclude the possibility that she could have had some success with the concepts at a lower level and closer to home.

Being able to draw Rasaad's lifespan at least closer to hers, if not equivalent, makes it somewhat more likely to me that she would see raising a family as a viable deliberate choice.

2. Emotion trumped practicality.

There is a line in the book Dune wherein Jessica considers why she allowed herself to conceive Alia with Leto when she knew Leto was a dead man walking.

And she permitted herself to face fully the significance of this other child growing within her, to see her own motives in permitting the conception. She knew what it was – she had succumbed to that profound drive shared by all creatures who are faced with death – the drive to seek immortality through progeny. The fertility drive of the species had overpowered them.

Like many things in Dune this is a rather, uh, clinical description of human behavior, but the emotional concept here is relevant, I think.

Jaheira is not (overtly) a sentimental person. But she feels things very deeply, nevertheless. I could see a scenario where the desire to see Rasaad and herself live on through children (as Khalid could not) became for a time stronger than her reservations about tying herself down.

Of the three possibilities this is the one that seems least likely/interesting to me for her character when taken by itself, but still quite possible.

3. Rion was an accident.

While a less overtly positive possibility than #1, this option becomes even more likely when Rasaad's aforementioned monk feature is taken into consideration. And actually as I've started thinking about it, I find it the most interesting likelihood, because it allows for options #1 and #2 to also resonate, and gives some context to her strained relationship with her daughter.

Scenario, then: In the late years of her relationship with Rasaad (or, more generally, any non-elven lover she might have taken post-BG2), Rion is conceived by accident. Jaheira starts pulling info on the Rite of the Timeless Body in the hopes of keeping him around longer; she's somewhat successful but not to the full capability of the rite. However, she finds herself too emotionally tied to him and to their child not to go through with continuing to raise her alone after Rasaad's death. End result is a scenario where she feels trapped by Rion but also loves her deeply, leading to the simultaneous strained relationship and deep connection evinced in BG3.

At this point, having one child and being already tied down to the city, it ends up being a slippery slope to taking in others who also need help, and she finds herself never able to quite extricate herself from the cycle or fully commit to it. She rejoins the Harpers in an attempt to re-ground herself in her adventuring life, which gives her a modicum of inner peace but also leaves Rion holding the sack when she is repeatedly called away to so-called "greater duties". End result: a fractured relationship both with her daughter and with herself, neither need able to quite take the upper hand.

Small wonder she was willing to throw herself into the battle against the Absolute, where for the first time perhaps since Irenicus, the completely necessary course was unmistakable.

TLDR: At least in my worldstate headcanon, Rion is Jaheira and Rasaad's biological daughter, conceived accidentally very late in Rasaad's life; the whole situation tore Jaheira in half emotionally and she has never quite figured out the right way to handle it.

[thegirlhoodtheory]

laments of a greenland shark, 12/3/22

[clare-with-no-i]

that “Second Law of Parties” joke in bond and free is still one of my favorite dialogue moments I’ve ever written, lol

[werewolves-are-real]

Spock gets injured and has trouble using his hands. Kirk helps him with meals.

[staceymcgillicuddy]

Day Five + Cuckqueaning

Additional tags/warnings: My first Jason as a decent human being, I think? Anyway, Chrissy gets to watch, and finds she's developing a taste for it. (Future C/E/J implied, womp womp.)

Read it on AO3

Master List:

Negotiation + Daddy kink (minor) + pegging

Genderfluidity + CNC + rough oral sex

Erotic Humiliation + bladder control + TPE

Voyeurism + the horrors

Cuckqueaning + Chrissy/Eddie/Jason

[vivian-goatman]

!Disclaimer! This is poorly researched, and also I wrote this between like, 5am to 4am... So please forgive for any spelling mistakes.

So, one day a question popped into my mind: what period did MCD take place? While yes, kind of a stupid question, since MCD is fantasy with no actual care for historical accuracy, I still wanted to come to a conclusion.

I started off thinking that perhaps MCD takes place in America, but of course that would need America to already be colonised during the time of Irene. But, there's a problem with that: America was colonised in 1492, and since MCD takes place 900 years after Irene times, it would mean MCD takes place around 2300-2400, which doesn't quite make sense...

And then I went to figuring out where MCD takes place, so, I turned to Kawaii~Chan. It is my personal headcanon that KC is Asian, which would mean Tu'La would be the MCD equivalent of Asia, and since Ru'aun is right next to Tu'La, that would mean MCD takes place in either, Africa, the Middle East or Europe, and personally, I think Europe is the most likely out of the bunch.

And THEN I came to the conclusion that O'Khasis is Britain, my reasoning for this is because Garroth's voice actor is British... That's it... Not very much evidence at all, but then again, I am a teenager with EBSA, and that's what my brain thought of.

Other potential evidence for O'Khasis being Britain is the architecture & the focus on what's basically Christianity.

From there, I focused again on the time period MCD takes place in, so I started out with when Britain was last invaded (due to the fact that we see O'Khasis getting invaded by Tu'La in S2), which was 1797, and then I searched up when Britain was first invaded, which was 400 BC (or BI in the world of MCD /j).

I went on to search when the medieval period happened, which was between 1066-1485. During the Medieval period in Britain, Britain got invaded in 1387.

So: in conclusion, I believe MCD took place between 1400 and 1500, and Irene's time took place between 500 and 600.

...Which aligns with my original idea before this very shallow research... So... This was basically useless, but writing this was fun nevertheless!

Have a good day/night/afternoon!