#possessive articles

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 121

There’s several de-aged Danny prompts, but what about de-aged Jazz. Most agree she’s very liminal after all, so who's to say ghost things won’t affect her too? 

So imagine with me, Jazz gets hit with something, and she is now child; maybe even baby. Danny panics, flees with his emergency bag alongside the other three in Team Phantom. So now they’re four teens with a very small child on the run. Four teens and a small child who have run into several heroes. 

Heroes who are all very concerned. 

[gummi-ships]

Kingdom Hearts Dream Drop Distance - Braig / Xigbar

[gayskogul]

Another Saturday

I pulled the short straw again. That was three weeks in a row now that I'd worn the scarf. I brayed about it, but didn't mind, really. You got an extra finger of booze every now and then for the trouble, and the jigs were easier to do backwards.

These dances were good, all said. It beat the alternative, sitting around freezing with nothing but our thoughts for company—and God knew no one wanted that. Being so far out from town for so long, one's own thoughts could take on a cruel voice. Almost as cruel as the keening of the wind as it raked away at our cabins with icy claws.

We used the mess for the dances, seeing as it had the most space. The room was overly warm from a bunch of oil lamps, set upon the floor. They cast long shadows that nipped at the heels of the dancers and twisted about in time with their steps. Pipe-smoke hung in the air, which didn't help. It had a way of making one's head fuzzy. I'd loosened my shirt a few buttons, like most of the others. Sweat pooled in the exposed hollows above our collarbones, and in the light it glistened like strings of pearls.

One of the younger lads from down south had pulled out a fiddle. He sawed away at it with his bow, striking up a number of merry tunes. Another man, with iron starting to thread at his temples, kept the beat with a battered drum. Old Morgan swayed atop a crate and played his concertina. Occasionally, someone would join them and sing a verse or two, but being heard over the laughter and stomping of boots upon wood was harder done than said. There was no tin whistle tonight. We'd lost him to the cave-in.

I drank my spirits and danced with the other men. It had taken a while getting used to, indulging in such silliness. But with the strong drink and the feverish mood charging these impromptu fetes, nobody paid that any mind. It wasn't so bad, dancing with them. There were a few of us who played the woman at these affairs, so one never felt too exposed. Besides, with a strong frame and good arms from all the mining and hauling, one could feel quite secure with another man doing the leading. I was led by Garrick, spun by Leopold, knocked knees with Ernest. Fritz dripped with sweat after he dipped me, and I laughed and dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief after the tune ended. One-eyed Dominic grinned and pinged the strap of my suspenders on my shoulder after our jig together. It stung like anything, but gave us one hell of a laugh.

It was when I'd gone to pour another slug of whisky into my cup when you came up to me. You tapped my shoulder once. I'd been wondering if you'd do it for a while, now.

"Next one's mine?" you said, fiddling with the brim of your hat.

"If I must," I said, rolling my eyes and plucking at the scarf, because it was easier to pretend.

You flinched and began to stutter an apology. But the tune had started up, so I pulled you by your shirtsleeve and yelled, "Come on!"

Within the crowd of dancers you looked more than a little bewildered, but you moved well enough. The booze did most of the work. You were taller by about a hand, but were awful wiry. You hadn't been here as long, so there was none of the miner's stout muscle built up on you yet. We shared two more drinks, grimacing at each other through the liquor's harsh burn. By the time we'd gotten to the fifth tune without stopping, a curl of hair, darkened and damp, flicked forwards onto your brow. There was a deep rosiness daubed high across your cheeks. From the heat, I'd guessed. When the music slowed to a ballad you nodded to the door.

I was more than happy, naturally. I'd been tossed between the men for a few hours now, with barely a break between dances. Freezing or not, my head was starting to fog over with a thickness that only fresh air would cure. I threw on one of the furs and stepped out onto the deck. The wooden boards were slippy with ice.

You came out a minute later, carrying two full tin cups. I grunted my thanks.

There was a fleeting lick of amber up your side from the lamplight inside before the door clicked shut behind you.

We leant over the deck balcony and stared out into the treeline. The tops caught the moonlight and lit up like silver feathers.

"Got a light? you asked, a straight dangling from your lip.

I did, of course. I lit my own, then tilted my chin up. You hunched over and raised a hand to shelter the gap between us from the wind. Your fingers were quite fine, considering our line of work. The tips of them were hot when they brushed against my cheek. You smelled like pine and soap and smoke, and I could taste the fire of the whisky on your breath.

My skin prickled. I puffed a couple of times until your straight was lit, then pulled away and drew my coat tighter around myself. Damn cold.

You hadn't bothered with a coat. The whisky was enough, I thought, until you shivered a little.

"You warm enough?" I asked.

"Plenty," you said.

You didn't say much. You never did. At least, not with words. Your eyes always did the talking. And with barely a foot of night between us, they had much to say tonight.

The drink made my head spin. I'd had enough that stringing together a sentence was getting to be a task, so I decided to try your way of talking. The windows to the cabin were covered with thick curtains and furs to block out the draughts, and with the moon as the only witness I figured it safe enough to risk a longer look than I might've done inside.

You'd shaved today. I saw the hazy shadow coming back in under your jaw already. I was glad that you'd left the moustache. I thought it was funny how you'd cleaned up for the party tonight. How you'd worn a nice, clean cream shirt tonight, with no stains from the soot. How you'd wanted to look your best for a group of tired and lonely men. How you'd danced with none of them, besides me.

Snow had started to fall again. Soft and downy, hanging thick in the air, it made a blanket of sorts to cushion us from the raucous sounds inside.

"It's been grand tonight," you said. "A right bacchanal."

You'd called it a bacchanal before. Not a dance, like the rest of us. None of us had known the word. With your fair hair and delicate features and fine accent, I'd always wondered that you seemed out of place. I wondered what had brought you here. Maybe it was why you didn't speak.

"You dance well," I said. It was a lie, but the upwards curl of your lip around the straight was worth a little staining of the soul.

You didn't reply. I saw what you wanted to say.

I wanted you to say it, too. But I didn't dig. I watched you ash out your straight upon the bannister that we were leant against, and stride back towards the door. Fingers on the handle, latch half depressed by your thumb, you turned back to give me another one of those long looks of yours. I think I knew what you'd said with it. You smiled and headed back in.

For a while, I stood there under the moon. With my big coat, my cup of whisky and another fresh smoke, the night barely touched me. I thought about you and let out an amused huff. Silver smoke curled around my hand and flitted off upwards. You were right, of course. The dance had been grand. With a bit of luck, I thought, it'd be better next week. Maybe you'd get the scarf. I'd ask you to dance, and not let you go, that time. I ground the straight out next to where you'd done the same.

There was always another Saturday.

[hungwy]

Swahili rocks

[st4zia]

Marina, where are you?

[platonicpolycule]

has anyone written something about how pyotr's obsession with nicolai's sex life is the only way he knows how to be intimate with him within the confines of 19th century heteronormative masculinity?

[shredsandpatches]

Sometimes when you're having a slow week at work because you have a backlog of digitized materials and you're by yourself in the office you end up finding delightful things on JSTOR. Bottom!Faustus is totally canon.

Also, this read on the "talk not of a wife" exchange, from the same article, is not groundbreaking (nor is meant to be) but is extremely well articulated:

[rumade]

A new novel, for example, might require twenty dollars for its first price—and ten hours of dedicated reading time for its second. Only once the second price is being paid do you see any return on the first one. Paying only the first price is about the same as throwing money in the garbage.

I can’t know for sure, but I have the sense that in pre-consumer societies, there was less emphasis on paying first prices (i.e. getting things into your possession) and much more on paying second prices—doing the work necessary to use what you have, and becoming someone who always does. Imagine a plow, purchased for its features, but which never gets pulled through the earth. The miracle of industrialization has reduced many first prices tremendously, but has also given us many more of them to consider paying. With all the wonderful toys on offer, almost nobody feels like they have quite enough money, enough acquisition power. When a person receives a windfall, they immediately think of more first prices they can now pay. But no matter how many cool things you acquire, you don’t gain any more time or energy with which to pay their second prices—to use the gym membership, to read the unabridged classics, to make the ukulele sound good—and so their rewards remain unredeemed.

[hidekomoon]

sarah kameela impey i love you

[phoenixcatch7]

Gem fusion au with a cryptid batman AND supernatural prince of Gotham Bruce Wayne.

In the eleventh hour the city is saved by the world famous demon creature finding the mysteriously missing prince and, in an act of true sacrifice and love for the rotten city, Bruce Wayne miraculously performs a perfect fusion with the monster, the glittering jewellery of status now adorning sweeping wings and fitting perfectly to the symbol in its chest, a diamond and pearl crown floating between two enormous pointed ears.

[puppys-rhythm-heaven]

compilation of some of the weird articles i've gotten on my google homepage. it knows what i want but simultaneously has no idea what i want.

[cuteniaarts]

@katkastrofa: *writes a single throwaway line in one chapter of Lost and Found that is never referenced again*

Me, completely randomly and with no prompting: Alright, bet–

[hamletthedane]

The fact that French uses a universal gender-neutral possessive pronoun that is still somehow gendered is so funny to me

[hotsugarbyglassanimals]

with the research project i'm doing it really ... makes the behavior im seeing on this site perpetuated by transm/ascs quite damning

[uncle-dusknoir]

Hello. My name is Amarys, and I am a student and Elite Four member at Blueberry Academy in Unova. I understand you are somewhat of an expert in possession, and I wonder if you might have some insight into possible similarities with our Synchro Machine. It is a device developed by our science club which allows us to "synchronize" with a pokemon of our choice (i.e., move and interact with the world from the mind of that pokemon). It seems to me like this might be imitating possession, but instead of a ghost pokemon it is a human and a machine.

-@elite-amarys

Give me like five minutes to Groovyle what the fuck you're talking about really quick...

There is nothing on Groovyle about this. I am both fascinated and a little scared.

Possession is, usually, the act of a ghost or Ghost Pokemon entering the mind of and sometimes controlling another person or Pokemon. But if you're going into the mind of another Pokemon, I mean, it's still effectively the same thing- controlling something else from within it's body??

Arc. How does it work? Do you know?? When the fuck did Blueberry Academy open?

[fjordfolk]

i know its controversial. i know that it is entirely possible for doodles to be responsibly bred. i just haven't seen any yet.