#light gallows humor?

[cripplemagics]

usually my humor is pretty light (minus my dark humor about the chronic illness shit lol) but i did just laugh myself out of a dissociative state by watching compilation videos of smosh making 9/11 jokes.

[macabresymphonies]

Look, I'm not really on the "Smirk's 14 is back bby" train just yet, but I did notice that Alice of all people has been making some strange jokes all throughout the show so far.

Yes, Alice is like a Family Guy episode, she shoots jokes at mach speed to see if anything lands, but with stuff she's been saying there's seem to be a strange overarching theme of her referencing Entities (or avatars if you prefer). We're not the only one noticing this, Sam very much did too:

TMAGP 06 Sam: Okay firstly, this place is making you really morbid. (...)

I know that she references creepy stuff all around and with Smrik's 14 basically covering each fear on earth we might lean into confirmation bias, but it might be significant in the future so it's better to consider it now than later. With that, let me compile all of Alice's morbid "jokes" so far and how they seem to relate to Fears from TMA:

The Dark

TMAGP 01 Alice: Boooo! Your pathetic addiction to vitamin D will only make you weak.

The Flesh/The Spiral

TMAGP 01 Alice: Listen to me: bones are a lie peddled by Big Milk to keep you buying. No such thing.

The Stranger

TMAGP 01 Alice: Don’t boo me! I created you, and I can destroy you!

The Spiral (specifically mention of molding a person like clay, like in The Great Twisting)

TMAGP 01 Alice: You'll see. Anyway, hurry it up, time to mold you like clay into the perfect government drone for the Office of Incident Assessment and Response.

The Spiral

TMAGP 02 Alice (sardonic): Time isn’t real.

The Spiral (specifically MAG 74: Fatigue)

TMAGP 06 Alice: Have you considered simply bypassing your mouth altogether and injecting the beans directly into your bloodstream? Sam: Great idea. Why didn’t I think of that? Alice: Not enough coffee beans in your blood.

The Dark (very blatantly)

TMAGP 06 Alice: Oh Sam. The sun is the enemy. It rules the world of light but we who dwell in darkness feel only its wrath. Get the curtains.

The Flesh

TMAGP 06 Alice: Then we draw lots and one of you gets eaten at the Christmas party.

The Flesh (again)

TMAGP 06 Alice: “Would you like tea Celia? Coffee perchance? My heart carved from my chest and arranged on a little doily? Please, Celia, cut out my tongue so I can always be there to lick your stamps for you!”

These seem... strangely consistent, whenever she goes her gallows humour bit it's either reference to hating on the sun (light), humorous "I'm baltantly gaslighting you" stuff or reference to eating/getting eaten/cannibalism. Take that as you will, these could be "easter eggs", but they might as well be clues.

[peppermintquartz]

Hi! If you could, would you write a ficlet for BuckTommy? Maybe a rainy night ficlet? 👀 Thank you so much!

Tommy wakes up to the sound of rain and no Evan. He finds the younger man seated in the kitchen, staring out the window. None of the lights are on.

Unsure of what Evan is up to, Tommy deliberately bumps against a wall to alert Evan of his presence. If Evan doesn't turn around, that means he's lost in thought, and Tommy may go back to bed to wait.

Evan glances over his shoulder. "Hey. Did I wake you?"

"No. Just wondering where you were," Tommy says. He grabs a kitchen chair and sets it next to Evan, but doesn't sit until the latter tugs his hand down. "What are you doing?"

"Thinking about Peru."

Evan has been to so many places. Tommy himself has been a a few interesting places, even outside of his deployment, but he has yet to explore much of South America. "What about Peru?"

"Tin roofs. When it rained, you could hear music. It was calming." While Evan doesn't share a lot about his nomadic days, he does sometimes reveal bits and pieces of himself that Tommy hoards jealously. "I'd lie awake in bed and just listen, picture the raindrops dancing on the roof."

Tommy combs his fingers through Evan's curls. The rain isn't too heavy, just a steady rain that Los Angeles sorely needed. It will ease the tension in Harbor for a bit, hopefully. The guys at work are already betting on the week the first wildfire will hit. Gallows humor.

While Peru sounds exotic and exciting, Tommy knows that Evan was traveling to find himself, find a purpose. He had been through that phase too, though he did not go all over the Americas. No, he enlisted and let the government send him across the world to fly planes in a war that should never have been.

There had hardly been any rain there.

Rising to his feet, he extends a hand to Evan. "C'mon."

Evan takes the hand, perplexed. "What are we doing?"

Tommy then drops to one knee to remove Evan's socks. Evan doesn't put up a fight about that, although he is very bemused, right up until the moment Tommy unlocks and opens the door to the backyard and pulls Evan after him, into the rain.

Laughing, Evan puts up a token protest, but lets himself be wrapped up in Tommy's arms and they sway along to the music of rain pattering on the roofs, the squelching sound of their bare feet on wet grass, the joy of being in the moment together, dancing in the rain.

And the hot shower afterwards makes everything ten times better.

[destieltropecollection]

Destiel Trope Collection 2024 | Day 11: Enemies to Lovers

Bad Education | @verobatto Rating: Explicit Word Count: 20,061 Main Tags/Warnings: Buttler!Castiel, CEO!Dean, enemies to lovers, boss/employee relationship, character development, comedy Summary: When a multimillionaire grandfather wants to give his grandson Dean Winchester a lesson, he will search for a desperate method by hiring Dean's worst nightmare to be his butler. Will the charismatic Castiel be able to educate the most egocentric, selfish and rebellious rich dude and turn him into a perfect CEO? Or will they kill each other before that happens?

Better Than You | @verobatto Rating: Explicit Word Count: 21,950 Main Tags/Warnings: Light internalized homophobia, office au, coming out, rivals to lovers, childhood friends, fluff, angst, happy ending Summary: Dean has many goals in his life, but there's just one that bothers him to death: to defeat the perfect Castiel Novak at any cost. This is a self-discovering journey, in which Dean will try his best to win against Castiel and not to fall in love with him in the meantime.

Maybe not a comedy (according to Jack), but he likes the happy ending | @seidenapfel Rating: Mature Word Count: 67,602 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - Space, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Canon-Typical Violence, Angels, Demons, Angel Wings, Hell, Purgatory, Heaven, Slow Burn, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt Dean Winchester, Fluff and Angst, Angst, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Angst with a Happy Ending, Castiel's True Form (Supernatural), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, mention of Sam Winchester/Jessica Moore - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, possible Meg Masters/Charlie Bradbury, Additional Warnings In Author's Note Summary: Dean Winchester is dead. He died ten years ago, when he sold his soul to Demon Corp in order to save his brother’s life. He has lost everything, even his dignity. All that is left is a brutal tool to torture other lost souls on Inferno just like himself. Castiel’s orders are simple. Free one random soul from the pit on Inferno in order to bring it back to Angelus Associations’ headquarters on Paradiso. No one expects him to be successful, but, as a soldier, he never questions his orders. The moment Castiel lays eyes on the human overseer, everything changes. Castiel has found his mission, the man he needs to save. An adventure begins that takes Dean and Castiel from planet to planet, from Inferno to Purgatorio to Paradiso, and beyond. It’s a journey to find themselves and each other.

Vampirenatural: The Rebellion - Rogue | @Taymarpigeon Rating: Explicit Word Count: 225,822 Main Tags/Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, World of Darkness, Human Dean Winchester, Detective Dean Winchester, Vampire Castiel (Supernatural), Angst, Smut, Gallows Humor, Sexual Humor, Sexual Tension, Human/Vampire Sex, Blood Drinking, Blood Sharing, sickness and injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Kiiiind of Mafia, Kiiiind of Murder Husbands, Russian Castiel (Supernatural), Implied/Referenced Suicide, non-consensual biting, BAMF Dean Winchester, BAMF Castiel, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Acts of War Summary: From clubs to underground caverns, seedy motels, haunted hotels and exclusive mansions, Los Angeles has it all. It's a place for the pretty and the hopeful, but beneath its star-spangled façade are shadowy corners harbouring the vagrant and the vagabond alike. It's a world of corruption, sex and violence, Detective Dean Winchester has learnt to navigate with ease. Eight years at Santa Monica PD could never have prepared him for the underbelly of this so-called City of Angels though. Dean knows the shadows, he knows them intimately, but is he prepared for the World of Darkness?

[xappetites]

one thing leads to another

Russell Adler x f!Reader (Bell) | Adler is half convinced Bell's using tenderness as a battering ram on purpose, he also needed someone to understand him more than he would ever admit, shit's fucked but that's par for the course, as always i sort of added a year between finding Bell and the rest of the game | word count: 1,672

London is a mess, but then again, all cities are. And this one has the benefit of both being friendly ground but not exactly home, in case the whole thing goes sideways. 

Besides, it’s not like Adler’s an amateur. He wouldn’t have started this game without the certainty that he’d be able to handle it, roll with all of the possible outcomes. 

No, this was calculated. 

He purposely picked the side of town where metro police drag their feet, no matter how urgent the call. And he’s carrying a trusty sedative in a hypodermic needle retrofitted into a pen, so all he really needs to worry about is Bell.

Quite frankly, Bell’s all he’s been worrying about for the past eight months, though for the most part he can justify it as just another job hazard. The rest he blames on being a sexually active human with an average libido and moderately good circulation. 

Sure, he’s seen her bleeding out, sweat drenched and bruised from several rounds of interrogation. Feverish, mumbling, staring into his soul like she could tear into him with her eyes alone. And she still slides silk soft over the ridges of his brain.

It was easy to ignore, all things considered; in that dark room with nothing but the microphone and the bell. To watch her, past whatever attraction he can’t shake, looking closely for results. But now she’s out in the world, fully convinced that she’s known him for decades; now she remembers a different Russell Adler. The one he was before the crooked line of his life proved to him that he wasn’t one for an easy ride; the man who would banter mid firefight, with the kind of gusto that makes him roll his eyes coming from Park and Lazar over comms. 

And sure, that means she’s comfortable enough to follow his instructions without much back-talk and she's amenable enough that she’ll take initiative to do what’s best for the mission on her own. She’s efficient and useful; and she claws that old playfulness out of him kicking and screaming. Even if he tries to resist, to ignore her easy jabs, the gallows humor, it’s those damn eyes and the light of affection in them that forces him to respond just to focus on something else.

It’s so obvious that even Sims commented on it, how he hadn’t heard chatter like that from him in years. So maybe that’s why Adler wanted this meeting to be private; why he asked Bell to slip away from Park when he called. Selling it as an added challenge when he dared her to find him in London with nothing to go on but the arrival time of his flight. A test of skill and loyalty.

Just as Park’s had Bell here for a week. Officially, for a briefing of the few leads MI6 has in Berlin. Off the record, offering proof of concept to the powers that be: one shining, sweet success to prove what programming can do. Work. That’s what’s behind Adler standing alone in a no name club, not the impulse to hog Bell all to himself, or the unspeakable notion that he misses her.

He’s too professional to let it show, and he knows what needs to be done, but that’s the filthy truth of him, the way his hands itch for skin on skin contact. The manufactured familiarity that allows her to touch him all the time —hands solid on his shoulders or her thigh pressed against his in the back of a cab. All the more tempting for being forbidden. More nagging in the back of his mind because he’s stealing her from the man he’s hunted for so long. 

The sensation makes Adler lay his palms flat on the bar top, check his watch. All he can do at the moment is wait. 

Two more minutes to his midnight meeting with Bell. Two minutes that are nothing in the grand scheme of his standing stakeout record of several months. Minutes that he watches tick like molasses over his wrist. Anticipation settling horrible in the pit of his stomach with the possibility that, once out of Park’s watchful eye, Bell will abscond back to Perseus. And won’t that be a fun one to explain. A betrayal he can already taste, that hurts in a way that it shouldn’t. Burning as it goes down like the whiskey that’s suddenly shoved his way over the bar. 

“I didn’t order this.”

“Your missus said you looked thirsty.”

The bartender tosses a wry smile his way too, nodding in the general direction of a very smug Bell. Who, at least, has the decency not to appear out of the smoke like this is a private eye movie, she just simply is there, close enough to touch, when she wasn’t the second before.

“You made it,” he greets her, watches her grin grow slow and tilted over her mouth. Her hips angled to squeeze in next to him, lean her weight on the bar and steal a sip off his drink. And Adler hates how proud he sounds, how his shoulders lose tension when she takes the first, poison-taster gulp of liquor like a half apology for ambushing him. 

“You doubted it?” 

“Park can be hard to sidestep.”

Bell outright giggles then, smile blinding in her satisfaction, but she doesn’t offer anything else. She won’t spoil the magician’s trick. 

“So what’s your story?” She asks instead, dipping closer still, until Adler can feel the ghostly touch of her hair against his cheek. “If this were to go tits up. Who are you tonight?”

“Well, you already told the bartender, I’m your husband.”

“Got you sore about that?”

There’s laughter in Bell’s voice, a tease of her fingertips straightening the collar of his jacket. Of course he’s fucking sore, with the way the thought goes right between his legs, aches in the pit of his stomach. Here with her lips on the rim of his glass, her body nudging insistently into his personal space like picking at a wound.

“Just wondering how believable it’d be for me to have a wife so beautiful.”

“Please, Russ, you’re the most attractive man I know.”

She moves, digging out a cigarette and flagging the bartender for an ashtray, and the extra inch of distance is such a deep relief that it takes Adler half a second to realize she’s smoking when they were supposed to have culled that out of her.

“I thought you’d quit,” he tries, as a thin, icy stream of uncertainty slides down his spine. He tries to be rational, smoking is the least dangerous of Bell’s old habits; complicated by the physiological dependence on nicotine to boot. This doesn’t have to be a sign of impending doom, he just has to keep an eye on it.

“In this line of work? It wasn’t meant to last,” she pauses, takes a drag and holds the smoke for long enough to notice she’s having his exact brand, familiar and comforting. “Besides, you give me cravings.”

The eyes, it’s always the fucking eyes. The way they catch on his scar, climbing along until she’s staring him down with nothing but open, honest desire, and a sort of sadness underneath. Like she’s given up on the magnetic pull she feels for him as soon as she admits to it.

Bell knows he’d put the job above anything, knows that’s what nuked his marriage. She knows because he told her, made her privy to things the likes of Sims only suspect. It was easy too, once he got started, to let the words get away from him; maybe not during the first session, but by the twentieth? The fiftieth? He’d find himself in the jungle of Vietnam and in the weeds of his personal hang ups all the same. 

We fought together, bled together. 

A mantra that to a degree poisoned him too. Enough to make him need this, once at the very least, to hold Bell steady by the back of the neck, tasting the smoke and the surprise on her lips. Then he has to do it again, since Bell’s crushing the cigarette out so she can pull herself closer by his lapels, run her fingers through his hair with a whisper of ‘fuck Russ’. And he is absolutely fucked in so many ways.

Fucked in the ease of walking beside her back to his hotel. And in how she sighs against his mouth when her cold hands sneak under clothes in the elevator. Adler feels his heart beating in double time as he finally works himself inside her, inch by inch so he can’t hide from this. He could regret it, he already does, as he struggles to make this last as long as he can, but he can never pretend it didn’t happen. 

He’ll always have the way she clings to him, his name stumbling out of her when he hits the angle that makes her melt, to weigh on his conscience. He’ll keep coming back to her shoulder, still slick from the shower as he rested his forehead on it, because that was the third time he’d come that night and it never lost its edge to feel her around him.

These are the things Adler knows will haunt him. Keep him up at night until he finds the next excuse to have her, in a different hotel and a different city, with the same burning desperation.

And it’s what he sees, clear as day, playing in her mind that night as he tries to drag Perseus’ location out of her. Every kiss and every single time he drew meaningless shapes over her skin while she was curled up against his side.

The way he demands the information but has not let go of her hand, the fact that they both know how this ends. And he can only fucking hope, with her brilliant eyes burning through him again, that she can forgive him for falling for her.

[sarah-sandwich-writes]

Election Day Pecan Pie Cookies

Ingredients for Cookies:

1 3/4 cups All-purpose flour (All purpose? Can it fix this?)

1/2 teaspoon Baking powder

1/2 teaspoon Ground cinnamon (is this it?)

1/2 teaspoon Salt (ha—we have plenty to go around)

1/2 cup Unsalted butter—melted and cooled (it'll be a long time before this cools)

1/2 cup Brown sugar—packed, light or dark (doesn't matter—we all fumbled this)

1/4 cup White granulated sugar (yeah mostly white though, yeah)

1 teaspoon Pure vanilla extract (nobody's pure, okay? This is half the fucking problem. The puritanical pursuit of the unproblematic candidate is what landed us here)

1 Large egg—room temperature

2 Tablespoons Unsalted butter—melted for spreading on cookies

1/4 cup White granulated sugar (good god more?)

1 teaspoon Ground cinnamon (that's more like it)

Ingredients for pie filling:

4 Tablespoons Unsalted butter

1/2 cup Brown sugar—packed, light or dark

1 cup Chopped pecans

1 teaspoon Pure vanilla extract

1/4 cup Heavy cream (can't get any heavier)

1/2 teaspoon Ground cinnamon

1/4 teaspoon Ground nutmeg

1/8 teaspoon Salt

Step 1: Make the Cookies

The process matters. Wet and dry ingredients should be mixed separately before combining. Sugars are wet. The egg is added last, after wet and dry have been combined.

That was your chance, by the way, if you wanted to debate and argue about what to add. Before wet and dry mix, before the egg is added—that's when you point out the flaws of your own pantry. But once everything is mixed, whether it's what you wanted or not, you shut up about your misgivings and make do with what you have. We always lose when we fail to support whatever's in our bowl when we're done mixing. We pick and we pick and we pick until everything falls apart. They know better. They don't fall into this trap. They understand the process. It's time we did too.

Remember this for next time. And remember, for better or for worse, there will always be a next time.

Step 2: Make the Pecan Pie Filling

They won't tell you this but be careful what saucepan you use. The nuts will scratch your non-stick coating even though the nuts are the entire point. You want the nuts, so you have to pick a pan that can handle them. The pan that says it loves nuts and then lists all the nuts it can't abide is not the right pan, even if it says pecans are okay.

When it comes to a boil, wait a minute, and then take it off the heat. Don't boil over. Don't burn yourself to the bottom of the pan trying to withstand the flames.

Step 3: Share and Eat

Drive over to your mom's (she took so much pride in her yard sign—you know she's hurting) and make sure your sister is there (she always takes these things personally) and your brother too (he thinks he's a political aficionado but you know the truth—he's your little brother) and all the better if your dad's home (gallows humor is a family favorite, and pecan pie is his).

If you're very, very lucky your older brother will be there too. Gallows humor is nice 'n' all, but sometimes you just need to sit with someone who genuinely believes in the good in people, even in the dark.

Notes:

Scoop flour into the measuring cup and level it off. This is how you get an accurate measure.

Eat your fill. It's neither consolation nor reward. It's living. This is living.

Get some sleep. The kitchen doesn't care what you've bled into it and there's no prize for whosoever withstands the heat longest. I'll take care of the dishes. This is the moment you rest. Rest. For as long as you need—be it weeks or months or hours—but promise me you'll come back sated and swinging.

We have work to do.

Actual recipe below and here's the link if you prefer.

Pecan Pie Cookies

These pecan pie cookies taste just like pecan pie in a cookie, except with more cinnamon! These are cinnamon thumbprint cookies that is rolled in pecan cinnamon sugar. They are filled in the middle with pecan pie filling.

Prep Time: 40 minutes

Cook Time: 10 minutes

Servings: 18 cookies

Author: Stephanie Rutherford

Ingredients

Cinnamon Cookies

1 ¾ cups All-purpose flour

½ teaspoon Baking powder

½ teaspoon Ground cinnamon

½ teaspoon Salt

½ cup Unsalted butter melted and cooled

½ cup Brown sugar packed light or dark

¼ cup White granulated sugar

1 teaspoon Pure vanilla extract

1 Large egg room temperature

2 tablespoon Unsalted butter melted for spreading on to the cookies

¼ cup White granulated sugar

1 teaspoon Ground cinnamon

Pecan Pie Filling

4 tablespoon Unsalted butter

½ cup Brown sugar packed light or dark

1 cup Chopped pecans

1 teaspoon Pure vanilla extract

¼ cup Heavy cream

½ teaspoon Ground cinnamon

¼ teaspoon Ground nutmeg

⅛ teaspoon Salt

Instructions

Cinnamon Cookies

In a medium bowl, mix the flour, baking powder, cinnamon, and salt. Set aside.1 ¾ cups All-purpose flour, ½ teaspoon Baking powder, ½ teaspoon Ground cinnamon, ½ teaspoon Salt

In a large bowl, mix the melted butter (make sure it is cooled to room temperature), brown sugar, sugar, vanilla, and egg. Then, add the dry ingredients and use a rubber spatula to mix until just combined.½ cup Unsalted butter, ½ cup Brown sugar, ¼ cup White granulated sugar, 1 teaspoon Pure vanilla extract, 1 Large egg

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line two cookie sheets with parchment paper. Let the cookie dough rest while the oven preheats.

Use a small cookie scoop and scoop the cookie dough. Use a teaspoon to press a hole into the cookie dough. Then, use your hands to smooth the outside of the cookie dough.

Bake for 8-10 minutes until the edges are very lightly golden. Use the teaspoon and repress it into the cookie. Cool the cookies on a cooling rack.*start the pecan pie filling while the cookies bake.

In a small bowl, mix the sugar and cinnamon. Use a pastry brush to brush the melted butter over the top of the cookie. Roll the top of the cookie in the cinnamon sugar. 2 tablespoon Unsalted butter, ¼ cup White granulated sugar, 1 teaspoon Ground cinnamon

Pecan Pie Filling

In a medium saucepan, melt the butter and brown sugar together. Add in the pecans and let it coat the pecans for 30 seconds.4 tablespoon Unsalted butter, ½ cup Brown sugar, 1 cup Chopped pecans

Add the heavy cream, vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt. Mix these in and let the mixture come to boil and let it boil for 1 minute before taking off the heat. Let it cool while cookies bake.1 teaspoon Pure vanilla extract, ¼ cup Heavy cream, ½ teaspoon Ground cinnamon, ¼ teaspoon Ground nutmeg, ⅛ teaspoon Salt

Use a heaping teaspoon, scoop the filling and pour it on top of the cookie.

Notes

Flour- Make sure flour is spooned and leveled or use a kitchen scale. Compacted flour can dry out the cookies and cause them to not spread.

High altitude baking- Add an extra 1 tablespoon of flour.

Pull out dairy ingredients 2 hours before baking.

[rockscanfly]

Sometimes I write things! Usually if there's a fandom I love and I don't see the specific kind of stuff I'm interested in reading that's when the writing bug will hit me. Hence, a lot of rarepairs or rare dynamics. Sampler of works I'm proud of below, sorted by fandom:

Red Dead Redemption 2 (currently most active fandom. i'm engaged in an ongoing campaign to bring more bottom!Charles Smith to the world)

the stars are not wanted now: Charles Smith, Sadie Adler, and the two deaths of Arthur Morgan.

Snow Bunny: Three years after the dissolution of the Van der Linde gang, Arthur and Charles pass a long winter together. Arthur calls Charles something new in bed, to rave reviews. Later, he earns a new nickname of his own. (or, Arthur Morgan-Smith's Guide To Surviving The Canadian Winter, Cowboy Style)

Once Bitten, Twice Shy: Running it alone for over a decade doesn't tend to make you very good at communication. When Arthur's un-buried ghosts darken the doorstep of the home he and Charles have built together, Charles’ instinct to pull away ignites a conflagration that threatens to burn that home to its foundations. (or, Arthur considers reconnecting with his former mentor. Charles loses his fucking mind)

Young Justice (pretty much every fic is about Kaldur, my forever girl. My oldest and most prolific fandom, have some WIPs but TBD on if they see the light of day. )

Recovery: No one's really been okay since the invasion ended. Artemis is back on the Team and back to school in Central City, M'gann and Connor are helping the Team stay afloat, Roy's quit the business to take care of Lian, and Dick has retreated back to Blüdhaven. With all this, everyone can't help but notice how Kaldur's reacting to the last year of trauma, and to it finally being over. (Or, in better words, how he's not reacting.)

Gallows Humor: Five jokes that only Artemis and Kaldur laughed at. (or: A Treatise On the Effects of Exposure to Organized Violence in Early Adolescence)

and four a.m. knows all my secrets: (five beds Kaldur has lied awake in and one where he found rest)

Atlantean Cryptanalysis For Beginners: Concept: the little eel faces on Kaldur's hands change their expression depending on his mood (or, Artemis is great at detail, and everyone else is a moron. Nothing is new)

I Saw The Harbor Lights (They Told Me We Were Parting): It’s Kaldur’s last night before he puts his and Dick’s plan into action. And he’s going to spend it with his boyfriend. (or, In Which Kaldur And Roy Go On A Date And Everything Is Beautiful And Nothing Hurts)

I have other fics that I've enjoyed writing, but these are the ones I want to pin for easy access.

[somefanficrecomendations]

December Monthly Roundup

Here's December's fic round up!

DC/BATMAN

Worlds Saddest Breakfast Club by motleyfam   (gen)7k, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd-Centric Following a couple of Very Bad Weeks™ (which may or may not have involved being kidnapped and mildly tortured), Jason decides the best way to cheer himself up is to break into the Manor for a 3 a.m. snack. Turns out he isn’t the only one awake.

Batstream by RandomReader13 (gen), 6k, Bats on social media, Humor   “I want it on record that I think this is a terrible idea and I’m only doing this to mitigate the damage." AKA Red Robin decides it's a great idea to livestream patrol while Batman's off-world. It goes about as well as you'd expect.

cards on the table by wesslan (gen) 67k, WIP, Fortune Teller AU, Tim Drake-Centric  Tim's parents faked their deaths and fled the country years ago, but neglected to take him with them. He spent some time on the streets, and now at 16, he makes a living as a fortune teller, stalking and hustling the shit out of Gotham's elite by telling them eerily accurate fortunes based on the information he gathers about them.  His life is peculiar but he wouldn't change a thing. When he gets booked for the big Wayne Halloween party, however, he finds himself getting all tangled up with the Waynes, and the more fortunes he tells, the tighter the snare becomes.  or: Tim just wanted to scam Gotham's elite, not end up on the Batfamily's watchlist. But it seems they just won't leave him alone..

(a not so) lonesome town by wesslan   (gen), 10k, 2-part series, Sentient Gotham, Jazz music. Two works in which Gotham City is sentient and adopts enough kids to rival Batman himself (Batman is one of them).

Banshee in a Well by liverobinreaction (bugbee) (gen), 43k, Meta Tim, Resurrection Powers   Tim is five years old when he drowns in his parents' pool. He dies quietly, waiting for parents who love him, but will never be there, to realise that something is wrong. They never show up, and he sinks into oblivion.  When he wakes up and claws his way out of the water, the sun has set, and the lights of his house are on. He is cold and wet and his lungs burn.  But most of all, Tim is alone.  (If you die and no-one is there to see it, were you ever alive in the first place?)

HUNGER GAMES

right here in the old therebefore by californianNostalgia (Katniss/Peeta) 14k, Canon Divergence, Ghosts There’s a ghost at the Hanging Tree. Katniss sees him first when she’s six, her hair in braids, the song about the growing gallows fresh in her mind. This changes nothing. This changes some things. (In which Lucy Gray killed Coriolanus at the lake.)

How Rue Became the Mockingjay by aimmyarrowshigh (multi) 5k, Different 74th Victors AU Katniss Everdeen and the girl from Eleven are ruining their best-laid plans – the Capitol’s and the Rebels’. So Caesar, they say. Announce the change. An alternate chronology for The Hunger Games.

CROSSOVERS

Annabeth and the Nine Step Career Plan by feeling_the_aster_9145 (Annabeth/Percy), 76k, PJO x DCU, Annabeth gets Lex Luthor arrested, BAMF Annabeth. Annabeth Chase does not accept limitations. Everyone knows that. If she wants something, no matter how impossible, she will find a way to make it happen. Though, perhaps she will allow Bruce Wayne and his ridiculous paranoia-induced company restrictions a small portion of the credit. Actually… now that she thinks about it, the man may have had a point in his worries. Wayne Technologies does not accept college interns. Annabeth always has a plan B.

A Lesson in Superiority by Nation-Ustria (gen), 96k, WIP, Batfam x Harry Potter, Damian Wayne is Harry Potter, Wizarding Politics “The good news is, he’s not cursed,” Constantine says. “And the bad news?” Dick asks sharply. Constantine squints. “I wouldn’t call it bad news so much as, er, news.” He turns to Damian with something like a grimace. “You’re a wizard, kid.” “...I’m a what?”

[writingquestionsanswered]

Hi!

Do you have any tips about writing a dark comedy?

Thanks! :)

Dark Comedy Tips

*** Content warning for dark themes and references to methods of unaliving ***

1 - Employ Well-Timed "Gallows Humor" - Gallows humor is humor that treats serious, frightening, or painful subject matter in a light or satirical way.

One of my favorite uses of gallows humor is a literal one, and it happened in real life. Upon the signing of the Declaration of Independence--which was treason against the English crown--Benjamin Franklin reportedly quipped, "We must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately."

The musical 1776 drew the gallows humor out from there...

Hancock: Alright, step right up, gentlemen. Don't miss your chance to commit treason. Franklin: Hancock is right. This document is our passport to the gallows. But there's no backing out now, for if we do not hang together, we shall most assuredly hang separately. Hancock: Gentlemen, forgive me if I don't join in the merriment, but if we are arrested now, my name is still the only one on the damn thing!

This scene qualifies as dark humor/gallows humor because there was a very real threat that these men would be punished--perhaps even hung--for their participation in the revolution and declaring independence from the British crown. Despite the very real threat, they're making jokes about it.

2 - Be Thoughtful About Jokes and Timing - It's super important, though, to be thoughtful about the types of jokes you make and the timing. Moments of real tragedy, where the reader is likely to be really upset, are not usually the best time or source for dark humor.

So, for example, the above scene from 1776 wouldn't have hit right if they'd just learned that one of the other congressmen had in fact just lost their life at the gallows.

And don't be an edgelord. Dark humor isn't about making deliberately outrageous jokes in an attempt to shock or offend people. You don't want to be heavy-handed.

3 - Meaning Matters - Ultimately, you want to avoid making jokes for the sake of making jokes. The goal with the humor is to hold up a mirror to how effed up the situation is. Franklin's quip about the Declaration of Independence being a "passport to the gallows" for anyone who signed it illustrates how truly absurd it is that simply signing a piece of paper to declare independence from a parent nation would be reason enough to end someone's life. It's a lot more nuanced than that, probably, but you get the point.

So, think about what you want the reader to take away from the story. What are you trying to say? What does it all mean? The bulk of your jokes should be building upon or delivering that message in some way.

4 - The More Absurd the Better - Absurdity based in reality is another common element of dark humor. Over-the-top escalation of conflict, boundaries pushed to their plausibly ridiculous limits, preposterous plot twists, logical conclusions taken to illogical places, and brutal emotional honesty... Hyperbole can be an effective tool to illustrate the absolute nonsense that is so much of human existence.

5 - Consistency is Key - Last but not least, it's important to be consistent. Dark humor isn't something you introduce suddenly. It should be there from the beginning, in whatever capacity it can be, so as not to give the reader tonal whiplash. They should know right from the start that this is a dark comedy. Your really want the dark and light elements to be woven seamlessly together.

Happy writing!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

♦ Questions that violate my ask policies will be deleted! ♦ Please see my master list of top posts before asking ♦ Learn more about WQA here

[scotianostra]

Happy Birthday Scottish musician and singer Alastair Mcdonald born 28th October 1941.

Alastair is primarily a Banjo-playing folk/jazz musician, probably most famous for his recordings of Jim MacLean's folk songs, such as The Barras and The massacre of Glencoe, but also for some humorous songs, such as the jazz comedy song Sam the skull, about a Glasgow cat.

McDonald has mainly recorded songs written by other songwriters, for example Robert Burns and Jim MacLean, but has also written songs himself including Culloden's Harvest and The Village Green at Gretna and more reworked traditional songs, The Bell Rock Light, Mingulay Boat Song among others.

Though quite well known – he has toured US, every state except Hawaii and Alaska, also touring Canada, Israel, Denmark, Thailand and several more countries – not much is spoken of him in media.

Much of his work in recent years has been political song, usually socialist and/or republican, such as his tribute song to John MacLean.

At 83 Alistair is still performing, the multi-talented musician will appear at the Abbotsford Hotel in Ayr on Novemer 5th courtesy of Ayr Phoenix Folk Club.

I’ve chosen one of Alistair's more patriotic songs, this is about Sir William Wallace and is called The knight of Elderslie

When Scotland was in darkness and at English Edward's heel

There rose a lad to lead us and to make the tyrant reel

He raised up his arm for freedom showing nerve and Scottish steel

William Wallace, the knight of Elderslie

Sing now of Wallace, the knight of Elderslie

Guardian of Scotland, of truth and liberty

With the loyal Andrew Moray how he danced the English down

At Berwick and at Stirling, he provoked a royal frown

And mercenary traitors from Carlisle to London town

Knew of Wallace, the knight of Elderslie

Sing now of Wallace, the knight of Elderslie

Guardian of Scotland, of truth and liberty

But the skies grew black at Falkirk as the English arrows sped

And many a mother's son did lie among the bloody dead

And when tithe took Judas' money that was placed upon the head

Of Wallace, the knight of Elderslie

Sing now of Wallace, the knight of Elderslie

Guardian of Scotland, of truth and liberty

Then the noblest heart of Scotland was revealed for all to see

When they hacked him into pieces underneath the gallows tree

But the butchery and slaughter cannot scar the memory

Of Wallace, the knight of Elderslie

Once again, the land's in darkness as we hang our heads to mourn

And remember how the Braveheart caused oppression's tide to turn

But Scotsmen, aye, stand ready and prepared for Bannockburn

Thanks to Wallace, the knight of Elderslie

Sing now of Wallace, the knight of Elderslie

Guardian of Scotland, of truth and liberty

William Wallace, the knight of Elderslie

Guardian of Scotland, of truth and liberty

[aikoiya]

DPxDC - Ship Names

♡ = Romantic

◇ = Platonic

Jazz Fenton/Jason Todd ♡ = Anger Management

Sam Manson/Damien Wayne ♡ = Vegan Rights/Gothic Order

Dani Fenton/Damien Wayne ♡ = Serious Chaos

Dani Fenton/Damien Wayne ◇ = Gremlin Children? Chaos Children?

Danny Fenton/Dick Greyson ♡ = Green Elephants?

Dani Fenton/Jon-El ♡ = Hero's Legacy? Super Chaos?

Dani Fenton/Kon-El ♡ = Clone Wars

Damien Wayne/Dani Fenton/Jon-El ♡ = Super Serious Chaos?

Danny Fenton/Kon-El ♡ = Super Dead/Super Ghost

Danny Fenton/Kon-El/Tim Drake ♡ = Super Dead Tired

Danny Fenton/Damien Wayne ♡ = Dead Serious

Danny Fenton/Sam Manson/Tucker Foley/Tim Drake ♡ = Everlasting Insomniacs

Danny Fenton/Tim Drake ♡ = Dead Tired/Brain Dead

Danny Fenton/Cass Cain ♡ = Dead Silent

Sam Manson/Cass Cain ♡ = Green Thumb?

Fem!Danny Fenton/Jason Todd ♡ = Lazarus Romance?

Danny Fenton/Jason Todd ♡ = Dead on Main/Double Dead

Danny Fenton/Jason Todd ◇ = Mostly Ghostly

Jazz Fenton/Bruce Wayne ♡ = Parent Syndrome

Tucker Foley/Damien Wayne ♡/◇ = Desert Sons

Clockwork/Alfred Pennyworth ♡ = Old Timers

Danny Fenton/Alfred Pennyworth ◇ = Old Souls

(Old) Jazz Fenton/Alfred Pennyworth ♡ = ???

Kara Danvers/Jazz Fenton ♡ = Psyche Report

Barbara Gordon/Jazz Fenton ♡ = TeleHealth

Danny Fenton/Duke Thomas ♡ = Ghost Lights

Dan/Roy Harper ♡ = Kill Shot

Dani Fenton/Rachel Roth ♡ = Chaos Crows

Dan/Bruce Wayne ♡ = Fire Bat?

Danny Fenton/Stephanie Brown ♡ = Haunted Eggplant?

Vlad Masters/Bruce Wayne ♡ = Vampire Bat

Sam Manson/Tim Drake ♡ = Blue Hour?

Sam Manson/Rachel Roth ♡ = Nevermore

Tucker Foley/Kon-El ♡ = Super Computer

Sam Manson/Barbara Gordon ♡ = Hacktivists

(Adult) Dani Fenton/Bruce Wayne ♡ = Wanderlust

Jazz Fenton/Cass Cain ♡ = Speech Therapy

Dan Phantom/Jason Todd ♡/◇ = Red Dead Redemption (this one's a joke... mostly...)

Dani Fenton/Jason Todd ♡ = Street Punks?

Dani Fenton/Tim Drake ♡ = Travel Photos

Jazz Fenton/Dick Grayson ♡ = Night Birds

Danny Fenton/Bruce Wayne ♡ = Frost Bat

Danny Fenton/Bruce Wayne/Talia al Ghul ♡ = Royal Frost Bat?

Vlad Masters/Talia Al Ghul ♡ = Royal Blood or Royal Plasma?

Penelope Spectra/The Joker ♡ = Gallows Humor or Kevorkian Clown or Suicide Joke (These are ones I made up myself & I'm honestly so proud of them! But dude... how freaking toxic is this relationship? O.o Don't know if there's any "official" ones though.)

Danny Fenton/Rachel Roth (Raven) ♡ = Halfworld Royalties/Corvid Crowns

Danny/Kaldur'ahm (Aqualad) ♡ = Cold Current

Danny Fenton/Koriand'r (Starfire) ♡ = Phantom Star

Danny Fenton/Cassie Sandsmark (Wondergirl?) ♡ = Wonderspirit

Alfred the Cat/Maddie the Cat ♡ = Feline Fine?

---

I'll add more as I discover them.

If anyone happens to know more, I'd be thrilled if you informed me so that I could add it to the list.

I'd also like your opinions on what to name the ones with question marks. If you think you have a better name, I'd be pleased to hear it.

If I agree with your assessment, I might even add it to the list.

I really like Lazarus Romance for something.

DP Character HC Masterlist

[thana-topsy]

Hey so no pressure whatsoever to answer this sleep-deprived ask but I have (once again!!) been reading Breathing Water for that Comfort Fic dopamine, and I realised that to travel from Winterhold to the Nightgate Inn they would have to pass through my absolute favourite location, the Wayward Pass shrine!

It's an interesting little shrine to Arkay and I was wondering what kind of reaction you think Teldryn and Neloth would have had to it? I can imagine of course as more daedra-leaning worshippers they might not look twice but it's always where I take my OCs and wondered if you had any thoughts

Hope life's treating you kindly <3

Thank you SO much for this lovely ask and this interesting prompt! Idk if you meant it as a writing prompt, but that's where I took it. (I love that BW is a comfort fic for you, that is such a high compliment). But anyhoo, I even fired up Skyrim to go wandering around the freezing north to get a feel for the area. So here you go! Please enjoy a retroactive cut scene of this leg of Neloth and Teldryn's journey.

---

“Admit it, we’re lost.”

“We most certainly are not.” Neloth cast a guidance spell, the snaking purple light fettering out a few feet ahead of them. He dropped the charge and pursed his lips. A sweeping gust of wind rolled up the mountainside from the sea and nearly pushed him over, adding insult to injury. 

“I told you to buy a damn map from the innkeeper!” Teldryn said, holding a fireball in his palms for warmth. “But oh no, of course the Great and Powerful Master of House Telvanni is beyond something as tried and true as cartography.”

“Will you shut it,” Neloth snapped. “I need to concentrate.” The cold was getting to him—a deep, bone-numbing cold unlike anything he’d ever felt—creeping death at its worst. He cast a quick flare of his warming spell, reserving his magicka while briefly returning feeling to his toes and fingertips.

“That looks like a pass over the mountain,” Teldryn said, his voice weak beneath the howl of the wind.

Neloth squinted through the snow. “Where?” 

“Up there, look where I’m pointing.”

Neloth stepped beside him to follow the line of Teldryn’s finger. Sure enough, there appeared to be a gap in the mountain’s sheer rock face. 

“If we hike all the way up there and it’s a dead end, then I’m–”

“Yes, yes,” Teldryn interrupted, waving him away as he began to trudge forward through the deepening snow drifts. “You can eat me first when we run out of food.” 

“Gallows humor!” Neloth called after him with a humorless laugh. “At a time like this?” When no response came, he began to follow silently in the path Teldryn had carved through the snow.

It took them an inordinate amount of time to reach the top of the mountain, battling against the growing blizzard the entire way. By the time they reached the pass, Neloth had moved beyond the point of shivering, frozen to his core. They paused in the shallow grotto, panting and regaining some of their warmth. 

“Oh,” Teldryn said with quiet surprise, prompting Neloth to look up. 

Seemingly cut into the rock, partially hidden from the elements, a single skeleton lay in front of a shrine along a stone slab, carefully arranged, accompanied by various offerings—a longsword, armor, dried herbs, bits of gold and jewelry. 

“It’s a shrine,” Teldryn said. 

“Obviously.” 

“To Arkary, it looks like.” 

“Which one is that?” Neloth asked, and received a withering look from Teldryn in response. 

“You’re joking.” 

“Partially, yes,” Neloth said with a twitch of his lip. “God of cycles and death and what-have-you. I’m not that out of touch, Teldryn, please. Have a little faith.”

“Faith, right,” Teldryn grumbled. He brushed some of the snow off the statue at the center of the altar, then picked up one of the pendants that lay by the skeleton. “They say a body that’s received the proper blessings of Arkay is immune to necromancy,” he mused to no one in particular. “Seems useful, honestly.”

Neloth pursed his lips, eyes narrowing. Yes, he’d heard such things, but never had he been presented with the opportunity to test the theory. Purple light swirled into his palm, a micro-rift into the realms of Oblivion, and with a small push—subtle enough that Teldryn wouldn’t immediately notice—he directed the rift into the skeleton that lay across the altar.

The rejection was strong and immediate, like a door slamming shut inside of Neloth’s head, followed by a wave of nausea that he only barely managed to swallow down. He dropped the spell and turned to brace himself against the opposite wall, taking deep breaths through his nose.

Teldryn set the amulet down then turned slowly towards him, expression hidden behind his chitin helmet and goggles. “Tell me you didn’t just do what I think you did.”       

“The opportunity for an experiment presented itself,” Neloth argued through the taste of rising bile in the back of his throat. “All in the pursuit of knowledge.”

“And did you come to a conclusion?” 

There was smugness there that Neloth didn’t appreciate one bit. He hoped his scowl conveyed as much. “Let’s just keep moving. At this rate we’ll be corpses ourselves, and I don’t see a priest of Arkay anywhere to lend a helping hand.”

“Whatever you say,” Teldryn said, still far too smug. “Lead on.”

--

Shoutout to @paraparadigm for the "door slamming shut" imagery inspiration from her fic "Always Read the Fine Print".

[carnalapples]

happy dadwc friday! a kisses prompt for this week: Kisses on the back of their hand

Happy Friday!! And thank you for the prompt 💕 This week I have Sebastian/Templar Hawke for @dadrunkwriting:

When Hawke kneels by her sword and prays, Sebastian burns. His throat burns with something bitter and acrid, like a shot of heavy liquor, and the way it would sit in the mouth after, the regret. His chest burns with a low, slow flame, beginning in the stomach. He is jealous, singularly jealous, of the easy way in which Andraste’s blessing comes to her, fully realized in the glow that comes to her eyes and her sword and lines the air she breathes. 

(When he asked her why she did it, Hawke shrugged. It was efficient, she said. That much power, at a cost. He called her shallow and hypocritical, and she bared those sharp teeth and that sharper wit. Any more so, she asked, than the majority of the Order?

He had kissed her then, nothing to blame it on but his own volition. And her sharp teeth were pressing into his lip for half a second before she kissed him back. He had thought at the time, that it would make it easier for her to be so entwined with it all, his faith and his desire, to break away from her in one go.)

Despite taking on the burden of a templar, she has left behind their calling, and Hawke rarely comes into the Gallows, so Sebastian is alone when he goes to lead service in the chapel, and to meet Bethany, who attended regularly long before he added himself to the roster. He finds himself looking at Bethany on these visits, searching for any trace of resentment in her eyes, any reluctance when she lights the candles. Any hint that she too begrudges Hawke her easy answers.

She turns to him with a question in her eyes, and he looks away, shamed. He clears his throat. 

“Is everything well with you, Miss Hawke?”

“I’m Enchanter now,” she says with a soft smile. “And I cannot complain.”

“I suppose not,” he murmurs, glancing back at the templar behind her, hands twitching at their sides. 

“And you? Is all well?”

“Yes. Elthina has agreed to let me take my vows in the fall.” Bethany’s brows jump at that, and he feels a mild flare of annoyance. 

“Oh,” she says. “I had thought…” But she does not continue the thought, merely stepping aside with a sideways glance for the next penitent in the queue. No matter. They are both capable of filling in the blanks on their own.

When Sebastian becomes a full brother, Hawke comes to see it. He did not expect her to; her own vigil was a solitary thing. When she asks him why he did it, he is silent. How can he distill the essence of the answer? Because it was time. Because when he imagines her, he imagines her as the statue that looms over the chantry, and cold stone can be touched but not loved. It was a mistake, he says instead. He strayed from the path, and now he is where the Maker intended.

When it is her turn in the queue, Hawke brings her dry lips to Sebastian’s hand and places one firm kiss to the skin. And then it’s her open mouth, wet and hot, for one second, before she lets go. He barely avoids yanking his hand back, the flush already settling into his skin, as she smirks softly, out of anyone else’s view, and then straightens, offering him a shallow bow before making her way to the back of the crowd. 

He is invited to her home that evening. He respectfully declines. “You could at least make it a bit more difficult,” she says, that dry humor never leaving her voice. Before he can fully understand her, she is gone. 

She never used to come to service without her mother, but she does now, sitting in the second row, back straight against the wood, long legs slanting down to the floor. Her eyes follow him across the room and back, and every time, she is in line to seek his blessing, and Sebastian begins sweating from the moment he concludes the sermon at the thought of her mouth on his skin.  It keeps him up at night, wondering when Hawke might show up next. In his thin, hard cot, he presses his own lips to his hand and breathes in, low and slow.

Today, Hawke waits at the edge of the room for everyone else to leave. “That was a nice canticle,” she says. “I always liked Exaltations.”

“It’s fallen out of favor,” he says. 

“Yes. Not enough things to exalt.” As banal as if they were discussing the weather. “I’m having a dinner at the estate.” He’s already moving to decline, but she touches a hand to his wrist, and Sebastian falters. “It’s been a year, Sebastian,” she says, softer, dulled. 

He takes her hand and brushes his thumb over it, and she smiles. It has been months since he came to dinner at the Hawke estate. Hawke leaves and he fills the hours with empty actions, mind gone blank until it is time to dress and to make the short walk down to her home. 

It is a small dinner of her closest friends; Hawke takes the seat to the right of the head of the table, conspicuously empty without Leandra’s presence. 

“When Mother met Father,” she begins, “she knew how it would end. That’s what she told me.” She takes a sip from her goblet, engraved in the style Leandra preferred, obscene with imagery. “But how could she have had any idea?” 

They share their memories of Leandra one by one. Fenris tells a charming story about trinkets arriving on his doorstep, Isabella a remark about how well she kept her figure that has Hawke sputtering with laughter. Sebastian remembers her kindness, how she was ready to be a mother to anyone. But as the dinner winds down, all the while he is thinking: that Leandra met Malcolm and knew he would ruin her.

“Help me up, Brother,” Hawke says, and Sebastian feels an acute pain in his head. Her cheeks are flushed from the drink, and still she is sure enough to hit him where it hurts. As the others file out, she slings one arm over his back, and together they navigate up the wide stairs, each of them slowed by the other. They make it to the large doors that haunt Sebastian’s dreams and he deposits her on the bed. She makes no move to undress or to lie down, instead just looking up at him with a curious stare. The hour is too late. It’s too late for them. He should leave, but he doesn’t.

She doesn’t look chosen. She looks tired. She looks lonely. Sebastian smiles. Her hands are still where they lie in her lap. He lifts one, seals his mouth to it, over the back, his pulse strong in his lip, and she curls her fingers. Her cheeks have hollowed out, her stare hot. Even beneath the wine, her mouth tastes of lyrium, dry and bitter.

[corn-fanfiction]

love confession during an actual confession for damien karras maybe? could be sad, if you want.

And it will be sad, anon. It will be.

Confessions (Damien Karras + GN!Reader)

Rated: T

Tags: religious themes, hurt no comfort, confessions of love, CATHOLIC GUILT!!!!

-·=»◆‡«=·-♡·=»◆‡«=·-

Picture it: August, 1971. Georgetown, Washington D.C.

The leaves are changing. The times are changing.

You are changed, and you don’t think it’s for the better.

A heaviness fills the hole in your chest as you pull open the heavy doors to the church, allowing the first fallen leaves of the season to tumble inside. It's late afternoon; the church is mostly empty, save for a few people praying either at pews or at candle stands. Distantly, you can hear singing in Latin as the choir practices a room over. Midday sun sends multicolored beams through the stained glass windows to catch dust in the light. The pity and hollowness of this room reflects the voided aspect of your life that is soon to come. You find some strange comfort in that.

You know he's minding the confessional. You have most of his schedule memorized, and you're not proud. You give the sign of the cross upon entering the nave, then turn to step quietly into the booth, despite the fact that the ancient wood creaks and announces your presence and purpose to the entire world.

Damien clears his throat through the partition.

"Go ahead," he instructs in that low, calming voice of his. God, you don't even want to speak. You don't want to hurt him. Perhaps it's vanity that convinces you that you'd have that effect on him at all.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been...three weeks since my last confession."

Upon hearing your voice, he grows deadly quiet. And even when you're finished speaking, there is an unbearable moment of silence.

"Why the long wait?"

You fidget with your hands in your lap.

"I've been...afraid to confess my sins...here."

"This is the safest place to confess and receive forgiveness. There is no judgment here."

"No, Father. There is. Because it's here. Because it's you."

You can almost feel him stiffen. His breath is either hitched or silent.

"I will not judge you. It's not my place."

You chuckle humorlessly. "I'm pretty sure the big man upstairs already knows. Of course, I can't imagine why He'd put me in this position."

He sighs. "It's not His work-"

"I know, I know, it's the evil in the world. But still. You can't...feel what I feel, so pure, and for whom I feel it for...so kind, and not think it divine. Even if I know it's not."

"...You still have not confessed your sin."

His voice has grown thick. With what, you can't be sure. You almost don't want to know. Knowing might keep you from your purpose here.

"I love. I yearn for someone I can't have. But God has put him in my path, made him kind and close to me. Put it in my mind that he could even possibly reciprocate my feelings. But I know he can't. Why would an Evil do that to me? It doesn't make sense. Just to hurt me? I don't inflict pain."

"No, of course not," he attempts to comfort, but neither of you can stop the tears that begin to pool at your eyes. "Sins can be small. Sins can be harmless to others. By coming here, you show that your heart longs to repent."

"God won't hear me when I ask him to stop this. Maybe coming into His house, speaking to His servant..." Guilt eats at your gut. "But I know it's wrong, because I knew you'd be here. I know I wanted it to be you to hear this from me...and that, I think, is inflicting pain. Two birds with one stone, I guess," you laugh, referring to gallows humor to mask your pain.

"You consciously came to inflict pain?"

"No. I came to speak the truth, knowing it would cause pain. Which is worse? To lie, or to deliver a painful truth."

"Well, lying is a sin..."

"Then I won't lie. I'm sorry for what I'm about to say to you. I love you, Damien. I'm so, so sorry that I do. I know it's not fair to you to be the object of my desire, or to hear this. But you have to hear it as much as I have to say it. This is what I beg forgiveness for. Perhaps more than the feeling itself. I can deal with the emptiness. I can't handle hurting you."

"But you must."

"I must."

Silence. Something has dropped out of you and plummeted into hell itself.

"Well, you were right- per usual. It is painful."

Having already been dealing with the complex feelings of this reality, you're almost relieved that he's validated your fears.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's not your fault. I'm sorry if I...did anything to spur this on."

He thinks this is his fault?

"It's your existence, and that in and of itself is not bad. You help, you heal. But I think I'm one that can't be saved."

"Why not?"

My god, you think. He's crying. He's crying over you.

You'd rather burn in hell to have just spared him this.

"Because I can't stop this." You sniff, wipe the tears from your eyes, content with their perpetual presence. "I'm so sorry. You'll never see me again."

Your hand reaches for the handle but you hear him move.

"Wait-" there's panic in his voice. "You can't leave."

You heart stops. "I have to."

"No. It's not fair. There are ways, things we can do to...curb these emotions. We have to be stronger than this."

We we we we we we we we-

"No. I can't. And I don't think you can, either."

You hadn't planned on coming in here and calling him weak. But if you're on a roll of telling difficult truths...

"Please," he begs.

You can't stay here. You stand.

"I'm sorry. Please know that I've never been sorrier for anything in my life."

Before he can respond, you've left the booth, fleeing from the church and leaving him, alone to cradle his head in his hands, feeling like a damn coward for keeping his own truths inside.

-·=»◆‡«=·-♡·=»◆‡«=·-

I'd apologize anon, but...I think we both knew this is how it would go. Thanks for the req!!! 🩷🩷🩷

[solarpunkpresentspodcast]

Is This the Last Dance Before the Lights Go Out?

I hate to say it, because it’s not very solarpunk, but it feels a bit fin de siècle here right now. Like we’re in the last days of normality before we fall off the cliff. Every time we have a nice moment—in the late spring splendor of the garden, for instance, or even just when walking the dog through the fields—we stop, Spouse and I, and tell one another to enjoy it. Because feels like that in the midst of the cataclysms that are about to strike us, we’re going to look back at these little things and wonder how we could have taken them for granted.

And it’s not just us who’s feeling this way. Lately, when we have dinner with friends or chat with our neighbors, at some point, the group converges suddenly upon such thoughts. Be grateful for these moments, we murmur to each other, where we can relax together on our backyard patio, drinking cold white wine, and watch the sunset. Understand that they’re a luxury. Such days are numbered and once they’re gone, not all of us, and maybe not even any of us, will see their likes again.

Who can blame us for seeping in this bittersweet gloom? A perfect storm doesn’t just seem to be looming, it feels like it’s adding elements to itself all the time.

At first it was just the global warming we are still failing to address. But now it’s clear that this global warming is not just bringing deadly heatwaves, droughts, bigger and more frequent storms, sea level rise, and flooding, it’s also threatening to collapse patterns of ocean circulation within the next decade or two such that northern European temperatures will drop to resemble those in Anchorage, Alaska, Newfoundland and Labrador, Canada, and Kamchatka, Russia. On top of all the other disastrous effects this would have—including sudden massive heating of lower latitude areas along the Atlantic—just imagine what would happen if farming were no longer possible in such heavily populated places like Britain, Ireland, northern Germany (where I live now!), Poland, and all of Scandinavia. Food prices soaring all over the world, anyone? Plus widespread famine (and not just in Europe) and the collapse of major economies? If we were young enough to start over again and had the money to move, I’d say we decamp back to my home state of California before climate change turns us into actual refugees. I’m sure I’ll kick myself in five, ten, or fifteen years when saying our garden full of potatoes and the neighbor’s Muscovy ducks and alpacas will be what gets us through the winter here without starving is not just a matter of gallows humor.

Meanwhile, we’re balking at getting the renewable energy revolution going fast enough soon enough to avoid environmental disaster. And why are we balking? Because it’s “too expensive” or because we just don’t want to change anything about the way we live, although these arguments are ridiculous because the cost of doing nothing is astronomically higher and the changes are coming anyway.

We’re also refusing to reverse the widening wealth gap that’s ultimately what’s driving people into voting for the far right, neo–Nazis, and other politicians with authoritarian urges and the desire to destroy democracy… even though these people and political parties will only add fuel to the fires that need to be put out.

Then there is all that misinformation and all the conspiracy theories that seem so perfectly constructed to stop us from working sensibly together to tackle the existential environmental, economic, and social problems that are making it increasingly harder for us to thrive, or often, even to survive.

On top of all that, here in Europe, we have the added issue of the political failures of the post–Cold War period that have had us sleepwalking into a dangerous situation with a resurgently imperialistically hungry Russia. After the Wall came down and the Iron Curtain opened, European politicians thought we could just be friends and trading partners with Russia. Because Russia’s interest in selling us natural gas and crude oil would weave them into our economic world and make them value our markets enough for them never to want to wage war on us ever again. Thus would we lull them into peaceful capitalist prosperity and democracy.

Cozy in that lazy thinking, Europe dropped its guard, domesticating itself rather than its enemy. Its armies grew thin and its stocks of weapons and military machinery thinner. Today, countries like Germany would need the greater part of a decade to build up enough weapons, equipment, and trained manpower to wage even a strictly defensive war. It’s not much different for any other country in Europe. Which is not the position you want to be in when one of your neighbors starts dreaming of their glorious imperialistic past.

To hear politicians and analysts tell it, unless some political miracle convinces Putin to remove crush western democracy from his bucket list, we have three to five years to prepare for war. Such a miracle might be as simple as a heart attack. More likely it involves a sudden splurge in funding to beef up European defenses ASAP plus upcoming elections handing power over neither to the far right in Europe nor to the raging danger that is Donald Trump nor to the Republicans party that has been taken over by people who’ve lost their tether to common sense, compassion, and reality. In other words, yes, we really are talking about a miracle.

I’m no professional, but from my little perch here in Northern Germany, having as long as three to five years feels optimistic. Ukraine is all that is standing between Putin and the massive expansion of his war. If Trump and the Republicans roll into the White House, that’s got to bump up the war is coming to us timeline to... sometime next year or the one thereafter. Seems to me, anyway, because Trump & Co will pull US support out from under Ukraine faster than you can say God damn the electoral college and then she will fall.

Won’t that be the start of the wider war, for the next stops will be Baltic states, like Estonia, Latvia, Finland, Sweden, and Poland, plus neighboring countries like Moldova? Or maybe it won’t even wait that long. Knowing this danger for Estonia, Estonia’s current leader has already more or less said that, in order to save Estonia, they’ll give everything the country has, in terms of funding and military support, to stop Russia from taking Ukraine. And since Estonia is a member of NATO, as soon as they do more than send funding and equipment, doesn’t that drag a huge chunk of Europe straight into the war, even before Ukraine falls entirely to Russian aggression?

Again, I’m no professional on this front, I just live here. But likewise, it’s also hard to see how it will be as long as three to five years before we’re all at war, given how zealously Russia is working to undermine peace, prosperity, and political stability in the West and how feebly we’re counteracting this. Russia takes a mile for every inch we give them, spreading misinformation, causing destabilizing political problems, and committing not even terribly covert acts of sabotage. This sowing of dissent aims to weaken western countries and coalitions ahead of the overt war Russia plans to wage on us. We totally know this! But our politicians are too frightened to retaliate against this hybrid war against us , lest it trigger a real war between us. You can all but hear Putin laughing into our timid faces. Real war is coming anyway!

All of that (plus a bunch of other equally dismal stuff that I haven’t had room to mention) is why living in Europe right now feels like the last dance before the lights go out.

Is it any wonder my thoughts have also recently frequently turned to how such a war would unfold?

Will tanks speed down the little lane we live on? (Honestly, actually, I’ve seen that already, because I think back in summer of 2022, they were training Ukrainian soldiers to drive Marder armored vehicles around here. There was a week when every time I looked out the window, one was zipping by… and let me tell you, it’s amazing how fast these things can race by.)

Will bombs flatten our house?

What can I do to prepare for what is coming? I live in Germany, a couple of hours from the Polish border. So, there is somewhat of a buffer there, but not a huge one. It isn’t inconceivable that there might be fighting here, or that we’d be the target of drones.

I don’t mean to be self–centered about this. There’s a whole lot of destruction and carnage that has to happen to other people and other countries before battles happen here. But it’s not right to just shrug this looming war off by thinking oh, well, it won’t happen here.

I feel like, at my age, I’d make a terrible solider. Never mind that I’ve never been great at blindly following orders, I’m small, middle aged, out of shape, and full of asthma and allergies and chronic injuries, the battle scars from too much fun and soccer playing in my twenties, too much swilling of diet soda, and too much stress in my career. Yet, wouldn’t it make more sense for me to go and fight than it would for someone in their late teens or twenties (or even thirties), who has so much more of life in front of them? Spouse says, well, it would be our jobs to do all the jobs that wouldn’t be getting done if a good chunk of the young men were off fighting. We’d be farming, or helping out in hospitals, or riding around in garbage trucks. I don’t know if that would really feel like doing enough. Part of me thinks he’d be among the first to sign up if Germany gets invaded, even the current work that he’s doing would be critical to maintaining Germany’s renewable energy infrastructure.

I’ve also been thinking a lot about how we live about 100 miles from the nearest city that would likely be hit by nuclear weapons, should things get that bad. I think that means we’d be the ones to die of radiation sickness, unless we could stay in a fallout shelter for the couple of weeks it takes the most acutely dangerous radionuclides to decay away. But, of course, like everyone else here, we haven’t got one in our backyard. We don’t even have a cellar. And I don’t want to die in an old abandoned local potato cellar or in one of the dank cubbyholes that passes for a cellar under some of the neighboring houses.

So, I haven’t just started thinking, whelp, even though I finally let us work down the supplies of toilet paper and canned goods I began hoarding in February 2020, it’s time to build up the collection again. I’ve started wondering how I could maybe turn our downstairs guest bedroom into a fallout shelter. It’s already got brick walls and a concrete ceiling. They’re not thick enough, but it’s a good start. What if I bricked up the window and then lined all the walls with another layer of bricks? Would that do, so long as I solved the issue of the flimsy wooden door? Also, could we rejig our solar panels to use them as an island, isolated from the grid, so that we’d have lights and could run a pump a few hours a day to bring air in through a Hepa filter? We could pee into buckets and poop into ziploc baggies, but how would we deal with the dog? With paper, pens, pencils, and maybe even our laptops, and maybe even something as decadent as an exercise bike, at least we wouldn’t die of boredom. Oh… a radio! And batteries. I’d better add that to my mental list.

Then, the dilemma. We have our anniversary coming up. Should I buy him a Geiger counter? Or would it be better to wait until Christmas? Or his birthday early next year? Or can I put it off even longer than that? I don’t want to buy one if I don’t need to buy one, but I don’t want to wait until it’s too late and be unable to get one and then die because we left the fallout shelter too soon, or didn’t realize we had a leak that was letting in dusty radioactive fallout.

But, honestly, argh! I have never in my life been afraid of the future. I even made it through the entire 1980s without having more than the occasional flicker of anxiety about dying in a nuclear war. But now thoughts like these are tying my stomach in knots and keeping me awake deep into the night.

As much as I love solarpunk, and as much as I believe in solarpunk’s vision of a great future that doesn’t require that we go through an apocalypse first, it’s hard to be optimistic about that right now. I cannot shake this feeling that our systems have been so broken and the changes we need to make to the way we do everything are so great that the only way forward is for it all to fall apart. It is hard to shake the feeling that we truly are about to go over that cliff.

That doesn’t mean I won’t stop fighting for the changes we need to make to avoid catastrophe on our way to a sustainable future. But I’m still stuck with the melancholy of these very possibly being the last nice days I will see for either a while or the entire rest of my life.

[atsadi-shenanigans]

Feeding Alligators 52 - Only I Will Remain

(I'm not very good at remembering to cross post here from AO3, oops).

Y'all need to talk. And what smells like goblin piss?

On AO3.

You don’t say nothing. Fucker slinks into the light like he didn’t just dump your ass this fucking morning for not spreading your legs. He walks on in like y’all are within one hundred miles of banter territory.

“Nice to see you still alive and kicking,” he says. Waits, like he’s going to get any kinda answer more’n “why are you here” or “fuck off.”

He seems to pick up on that when you sit there and stare. Silently. He drops the saunter and folds down into…what looks an awful lot like a “dog who knows he fucked up” sort of hunch.

“I…I came to apologize for my behavior last night,” he says. “It was rather…beastly.”

You…he…you wanted this conversation. When you saw him again. You’d hoped y’all could hash this out like adults, maybe find what went wrong and, you know, fix it.

“You’ve seemed upset today,” he continues. “And I can see why. I made…assumptions.”

Your throat is not squeezing shut. You don’t get apologies all that often. Because you are usually the problem. Ryan Meadows thought you were such a problem he never even gave you a chance to apologize or explain. He cut off a decades-long friendship with Sasha to ditch you.

You start to open your mouth. Tell him it’s okay. But you pause to swallow and try to make sure your voice don’t come out all strangled or pathetic.

And Astarion says, “But if you let me know what you prefer, we could try again? I’m quite open to most things, darling.”

Your teeth snap shut. He smiles at you. Bedroom eyes creep back into his expression.

He’s…what?

He takes your silence as some kinda invitation and sidles closer. Pitches his voice lower, “When you’re ready, of course.”

He thinks…you didn’t like the way he touched you? And that’s why you been avoiding him? Why you spent the night crying until you couldn’t breathe? Why you went into this soul thing vaguely hoping it wouldn’t work?

Because you didn’t like his fucking foreplay technique?

“You don’t got any idea why I’m upset, do you?” you manage.

He blinks. His face moves in like, three different emotional directions before landing on polite interest. “I beg your pardon?”

He still wants to fuck you. Still sees you primarily as a potential fuck buddy. You pressed yourself into it. Chickened out and got treated like garbage, but now he, what? Wants to shoot his shot again?

Is this negging? Is this what negging is?

You thought…you don’t even know. He was fun? Kinda charming, in a fucked up gallows humor way. He was someone you could relate to in a way a lot of people aren’t.

But he don’t see you the same way at all. Maybe it’s the whole vampire thing—predators who lure victims in—or maybe that’s just who he is. You are something for him to eat. To use. Man don’t mean a single thing he’s said to you, does he? Apology included. He’s after blood and sex, and he’ll offer any kinda sweet apology to get it.

You recognize it. What it looks like, what it sounds like, what it feels like. You got good at that when you were younger.

It’s like colored lenses falling off your eyes; you see him in a whole new light.

“I think,” you say. Take another calming breath (it don’t work). “I think you and I have a very different idea of…”

This ain’t a relationship. And…well. He ain’t actually your friend, is he? At least not from his perspective. He, he may never have been. You read it wrong (again). Thought you were making a connection with someone you could maybe, just maybe trust (again).

And you were wrong.

Again.

You look at him. Pasty weirdo. Charming dork. A vampire that ripped open a woman’s throat and drank her dead. He looks at you, all smiles and expectation.

“I think,” you try again, “that you and I should put some distance between us.”

You watch that hit him. Watch his face shutter tight.

“I still think we should all stick together, though,” you add. “You don’t got to; you’re a free man. But I think we’ll be safer sticking together.”

He even moves different. Gone is the fluidity of his shoulders, his lazy head motions. He’s crisp and precise when he backs off. “So, no pitchforks and torches to chase me out, then?”

“We ain’t never gonna chase you out. You can stay as long as you want, Astarion.”

“Ah. Ever the generous one, aren’t you.”

He really can’t help but make that sound like a bad thing. Especially with that edge creeping into his voice.

“I just don’t want any of us to die, alright? Is that suitable for you?” you say.

He tilts his head, every mean girl, passive aggressive smile-to-hide-thoughts-of-harming-you. “But of course. I always appreciate someone sensible. There’s safety in numbers, darling.”

Somehow, though his tone don’t change from his usual, that last word manages to come out bladed.

He’ll stay part of the group. And…and he’ll still need blood. You ain’t never gonna use hunger against nobody (dirt and raspberry jam). You ain’t never gonna stand by and watch somebody starve (lemon soap and bowels). Even if that person is a grade-A jackass.

“I,” you start. Force the rest out. “I’ll talk to Shadowheart, see if I can, you know, bleed into a cup or something for you.”

Something nameless flashes behind his eyes. It looks a lot like anger.

“I will have to decline, I’m afraid,” he says. Spreads a hand over his chest. “I’m touched by your nobility, truly, but I do believe that if we’re to be ‘putting distance’ between ourselves, I’ll be finding my meals elsewhere. Unless you have an objection? Want to spare the lives of goblins and mercenaries you were going to blow up anyway?”

Heat rises in your face. Part rejection, weirdly, and part shame.

“I have no objection,” you say.

“Well. I guess that settles it.” He stands, dusts himself off. There’s something wrong with his sleeve. It’s slashed open. Y’all haven’t been in a fight recently, so where…? “I’ll see you around camp, then.”

You can only nod and watch him walk off towards his tent. Catch Wyll giving you a sympathetic wince and Karlach studiously keeping her head down. Because ain’t no secrets in a camp full of fucking magic people and magic fucking hearing.

It needed to be done. For you, and for the group. It was best to handle it before it got messy. Cut that connection before it could tie you down too much. That’s the safe way.

Even if it hurts.

***

Y’all walk for days. Up into foothills, until the sea y’all crashed near is a distant, glimmering band through the trees. Birds chirp and a crow caws, but it’s quieter than it should be.

Y’all head inland, following a stream. You pass more abandoned luggage, broken down or overturned wagons. All signs of bad shit happening.

The bad shit makes itself known when you come up on a broken bridge and the rank stench of carrion wafts over you.

Astarion has been keeping to the back of the group. The last day, he’s fallen quieter than usual (the others don’t seem to have the patience for his chatter, aside from Wyll, who seems to be needling him) (you glanced back and the man stood straighter and winced).

You’re pretty sure it’s either late spring, or early summer. Cool at night, and the further up you go, the cooler the occasional breeze is. But there’s a hint of muggy in the air, and it don’t do any good for the bodies waiting for y’all.

What the fuck is up with this place and bodies left out to rot?

“You know,” you say to no one in particular. “I read one historian who said the surest sign of an empire in decline is an inability to keep the dead outta the streets.”

It was a funny book about historical plagues (you went down a long and winding rabbit hole of historical plague nonfiction for a while; something about reading up on people who got it way worse than you made your shit seem manageable).

“That’s an interesting theory,” Gale says. His hands twitch; if y’all weren’t trying to hike past what’s got to be five dead people and make it to the walls of a village up ahead, you know he’d be taking notes. “Unfortunately, we’re in a bit of no-man’s land, as it were. I can assure you, the streets of Waterdeep are clean enough you can actually walk down them.”

It takes you a minute to mentally amend the, “And not have to clamber on top raised sidewalks to avoid a slurry of horse and human shit.”

“Hey, Blade, you’re from Baldur’s Gate, yeah?” Karlach says. “I ain’t been back there in a while; how’re the streets now?”

Wyll hesitates. He’s wearing that chagrined expression you’re starting to recognize. The one where he wants to say something all upstanding, yet know he can’t.

“They were decent enough last I saw them. Though my information might be slightly out of date.”

Astarion is from the Gate (as you’re noticed some of them call it). He’d know. But while you’ll toss him a “good morning” or “pardon me,” y’all ain’t really on chatting terms. Nothing more than polite courtesies.

But that means you walk in silence more’n not. You don’t got nobody else to bounce your less than savory ideas off of (not that you needed to the last few days). But y’all had started joking. And it ain’t the same as talking history with Gale, listening to Karlach’s greatest bar fights (though that is fun), or Wyll spinning tales about some of his own shenanigans.

You think about breaching that wall of silence. Just a pinprick. Ain’t no harm in asking a question?

Except that pinprick opens you up to a vacuum, and that vacuum will try to suck you and everything else into it.

No. It sucks, and it’s awkward, but this is for the best. The goblins can’t be far, now. Y’all can get in (somehow), find the druid (you’ll work on that once you get the layout), and he can pull them brainworms outta you (the fuck happens after).

You…got no idea what happens after.

The metal flask with your soul in is sits between your tits, tied to a cord looped over your neck and secured against you by the stays. Good thing about being heavier is you got enough squishable flesh to sort of pack in there without anybody noticing.

But after all this…if you find somebody to latch onto—Gale, maybe Wyll—you’ll have a whole lifetime of guarding that fucking thing. Always. Forever.

You can’t let your thoughts start down that particular shit chute. You focus on that village.

Which, as y’all get closer, is eerily quiet. It’s cool enough you’d except a tinge of woodsmoke—people need fire to cook here, after all. But there’s nothing. No voices, no kids shrieking and laughing, no dogs or horses or hammers or nothing. As y’all reach the gates—busted open and hanging from one hinge—y’all look up a narrow main street that disappears up a hill and, presumably, ends in a town square. Two-story houses line each side of the street. All quiet. All rotten; ruins sagging on their frames, one of them overgrown in ivy, the other with the windowsills lying in disintegrating piles beneath the warped windows.

“Uh,” you say.

Right as Astarion wrinkles his nose. “Does anyone else smell goblin piss?”

Which is apparently some kinda bat signal for said goblins to pop outta the ruins. All of them armed. All of them snarling at y’all.

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