#that they don't even know WHAT INSTRUMENTS WE ARE USING

[niteshade925]

The asswiping continues............

[pocketgalaxies]

isha's song got me CRYING FOR REAL FOR REAL

[megarywrites]

so i've been not-so-seriously considering doing a complete overhaul of the plot as is and having Solera return to the land with Thala and have them be all Bonnie and Clyde, just so I can write more about Solera because I love her. but as I get closer to the end of Solera's time above water, it's reminding me exactly why she so adamantly refuses to return to the shore with Thala. Even though I wasn't ever really truly considering changing that (it would be so so much work), it's now officially off the table, because it would be so incredibly out of character for her to even think about it, let alone do it

[kavehpilled]

not even going to lie I love playing music so much it's genuinely the highlight of my day but being the only person in my entire section (2nd clarinets) that knows what his part is is not only infuriating but puts out that spark a little more every day

[uchiha-gaeshi]

Issues with Writing a Self-Insert #1

In case y'all didn't know, I've been going through a reflective period recently, and I've noticed that fear of what others think has held me back in almost every single aspect of my life, and unfortunately fandom is no exception.

I remember when I was like 14 and I tried to write fanfiction for the first time (I don't remember even what fandom I was writing for). Unfortunately, I could barely type a single paragraph without immediately deleting all that I wrote and being overly critical of my lack of writing ability. Even at that age, in the privacy of my dorm room, I couldn't shake off the fear of failure (and I mean howw?? I wasn't the only 14 year old trying to write Wattpad fanfiction). I remember comparing myself to some of my peers who had an amazing talent for writing. For me, I didn't get jealous, but rather I got intimidated, so intimidated that instead of continuing on with something and being imperfect at it, I'd just drop the entire activity altogether.

Because of this habit, I missed out on a lot of potential opportunities for growth during this time. I guess I saw people who were amazing, assumed that they popped out of the womb like that or something, and just....gave up. If I could go back in time, I would tell young me to embrace the cringe, embrace the mess. So what if people laugh or look at you funny or immediately stop whispering to each other once they see you? It sucks, but you will find your people, and you will survive. Trying to be palatable to everyone just means that you stifle yourself.

Years later, I wanted to get back into fanfiction, but this time with very little creative writing experience. What held me back was the fear that someone would read something that I wrote and ridicule it for being something that only an angsty teen would write, except that I am no longer an angsty teen but an unfortunately angsty adult riddled with insecurity, and that reality would just make that hypothetical comment sting even more (that's another thing about me. I create hypothetical ways for people to roast me in order to talk myself out of doing stuff).

[lumsel]

"The prophecy was unambiguous and immutable."

"I know."

"No weapon forged on Earth could defeat the Lord Baarthus"

"I know."

"And yet here we are, you telling me, Lord Baarthus was struck down by the Peasant King. Wielding... just a regular sword. Forged on Earth."

"I know what I saw, okay! The Peasant King walked up to him, shoved the sword in his neck, and then just kept going. It was nasty!"

"Okay, okay, fine. Clearly what's happened here is there's some kind of loophole in the prophecy that enabled this. Happens all the time. No weapon forged on Earth... How sure are you that sword is of this world?"

"What do you take me for? I've done my research. Even tracked down, interviewed the original blacksmith."

"There must be something. Prophecies can't be wrong!"

"I mean... I didn't take stock of her inventory. If it was one of those meteorite swords..."

"No, no. The prophecy didn't say 'No weapon with parts sourced on Earth'. It was pretty specific about the Forging."

"I don't hear anything better coming from you!"

"How about this. What if it wasn't a weapon? The Peasant King... it'd only be fitting for him to slay the Dark Lord with a blade meant for peasantry! Not a weapon, but a farming tool, like a scythe, or a really long trowel--!"

"A long trowel?? It looked like a damn sword!"

"That doesn't mean anything! A ritzy, college-educated diviner like you, you wouldn't know a trowel from a ploughshare!"

"It had a hilt, and a pommel, and it went in a scabbard-- come on! Even if it was some kind of-- newfangled grass cutter I've never heard of, it was used as a weapon, and it was forged to be a weapon! I've seen the ledgers!"

"Clearly you screwed something up, madam, because the Lord Baarthus just got sliced up like an old dairy cow and the prophecy very clearly specifies the only instrument that could bring his end is--!! Oh. Ohhh. Oh, gods damn it."

"What?"

"Fucking... 'forged on earth'."

"Yes, and?"

"It wasn't forged on earth. It was forged on a fucking anvil."

"What? No, you're-- you're joking. That wouldn't-- that couldn't-- what weapon would be forged on earth, by that definition!!?"

"I hate prophecies so much..."

[neo--queen--serenity]

I need to stress how important it is that Jinx made that prosthetic arm for Sevika.

Jinx, for as long as the audience has known her, has only ever made inventions for her own personal use. She designs them in a way that is specific to her whims and interests, which gives the overall impression that no one should be using her creations without instructions. And they're made to suit her fighting style, which is why we don't see anyone close to her, like Silco, using them.

That prosthetic arm she designed for Sevika is quite possibly the first invention she's made that is purely and entirely for someone else to use. Jinx saw how Sevika mourned Silco, saw that her unrelenting loyalty for him still held layers of resentment and rage, but that she still grieved him anyway.

It's not coincidence that immediately after this encounter (during which she saw Sevika struggle to repair her old mechanical arm), Jinx creates this prosthetic for her, pouring all her creative innovation into it. She deliberately designs it as a gift in every sense of the word, wrapping it neatly into a bow like a present, for a woman who may or may not even be her ally anymore.

And the second Sevika puts it on, we see Jinx's trademark eccentricity, her wild colors, her manic machinations whirring to life. It's a sparkling, visual reminder of Jinx's affection on her body, a physical manifestation of her desire for Sevika to live and succeed. She gave the arm tricks, weapons, instruments of brutality--things we expect to see from her--but also music and fireworks, features that serve no purpose in combat other than making her smile.

We have never seen this from Jinx before, never seen her do something like this for someone else. When Sevika asks why Jinx made it for her, knowing the novelty for what it was, she'd simply responded with, "It was something I could fix."

It's no surprise that Sevika continues to protect Jinx aftewards. Whether Jinx was consciously aware of it or not, she had been openly declaring, "this is my ally; attack her and face my wrath."

[scribeofmorpheus]

Why Dragon Age Veilguard isn't a "Cathedral"

Concept art by Matt Rhodes

"To disinherit the storylines of past games goes directly against the notion of building cathedrals."

What is inherent with Veilguard that keeps bothering me is the fact that the world's choices truly didn't matter--and it doesn't simply bother me from a player perspective, it's not simply a grievance borne of frustration to what I (as a longtime fan) have lost. It's about the very culture of the arts under capitalism's new media habituation cycle [x][x].

Yes, I spent hours of my life playing and replaying each instalment of Dragon Age. Yes, I painstakingly curated a 'canon' world state by replaying what came before in preparation for Veilguard. Yes, I am even more unsatisfied with the end product--time hasn't helped, it's just widened the divide. But, and I can't stress this enough, these very personal gripes aren't what hit home the most. It's the inherent disregard of legacy. A legacy that the previous writers and game developers were building towards.

In the DAV artbook, "cathedral" is the word used to describe the process of making a game. Matt Rhodes' exact words are: "One artist can make a painting, but it takes a team to build a cathedral." Cathedrals took centuries to build. The architect who drafted the first blueprints would likely never see his work realised, he had to rely on those who came after him, like-minded and passionate, to see it through--for the culture, for the future, for legacy. Painters took on several apprentices for this reason too--giant frescoes were not completed by one man's hand, even if it is one man's name that immortalises them. Similarly, if you weave a narrative around choice, what good does it do to take it away at the final act if not to fall to caricature?

To disinherit the storylines of past games goes directly against the notion of building cathedrals.

Late-stage capitalism and profit-margin-obsessed game producers forcing developers to churn out meager content, to make a known brand into something it's not, to chase a fad or a popular trend... o, how reductive and cliche you've been forced to become Bioware. We have lost the cultural thought patterns relative to Cathedrals. We know only of barn-raised churches--done in a day but unlikely to last the turn of the seasons.

And don't even get me started on the music of Veilguard either. From Origins to World of Warcraft to Everquest to Baldur's Gate to Dungeon Siege, you can hear the intricate interconnected weave of sounds inspired by the Dungeons and Dragons-esque fantasy genre. You hear it in the repeated use of certain instruments, in the harmonic weeping notes of a bard-like singer or the foreboding echoes of drums as if of war. In tavern songs. But then, rather than hire someone who loves these worlds and this genre, who is a hungry artist looking to make a name, a legacy if you will, for themselves with a spectacular score, you hire any already sated composer, one well-into the encroaching years of career fatigue, whose notes repeat in countless projects, who feels less concise and more uninterested with each new project. One who has long since cemented his legacy. Someone in it for a paycheck and nothing else! And, to top it off, you let him compose something so minimalist? I am offended actually.

Cathedrals! We should have witnessed the final tile being placed on the Dragon Age cathedral. Instead, some architects walked up, tore down the interior and installed IKEA furniture and called it authentic before having to call the previous architects to come and fix the "load-bearing issues", forcing them to rush and add a coat of varnish and a few 'aged' details for authenticity.

[inkskinned]

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

[elierlick]

Tennessean trans man David Scott Ryan III transitioned in 1949, around age 26. He became a pastor in 1955 while passing as cis and preached throughout Arkansas and Oklahoma for years. Narratives like David's narratives don't often end well, but David successfully fought to live as a man! Here's his story:

Born in rural Oklahoma on 9/22/1923, David privately transitioned in 1949 before marrying his first known wife, chaplain Margie. He then married another woman named Gwyn after leaving Margie in 1953. He later married a third wife, Glenda, in 1960.

David was outed after his 1961 bigamy arrest. It's unclear if his bigamy was accidental or even real. Gwyn filed for divorce in March 1960 before he married Glenda in June, but documents do not show if the divorce was completed. Glenda filed the bigamy complaint herself for unknown reasons. Was it jealousy? Was David outed? Was she feeling neglected? Glenda did not speak with reporters.

David was far from the first trans man arrested for marrying a woman. Yet, the courts did not know what to do with him. The judge dismissed his case after 4 months of jail and he stayed out of the news for a decade.

There are countless cases like David Ryan in the mid-20th century- trans people who make the news for a few weeks before fading into history. However, thanks to new archive technology, we can trace David's story further. He re-married a woman named May Louise and they divorced in 1971. He then married for a 5th and final time to high school teacher Imogene Cox in 1975. He took up jobs at a construction equipment site and Walmart in Evansville, Indiana over the following decades.

David passed in 2002 from heart disease at age 78. The mortician must have insisted on using an "F" for David despite "M" appearing on his other documents (why?). Local news reported that David loved to play instruments and paint. 50 years after transitioning, he still worked with the church.

[sbcdh]

"You saw it?"

"For a second. Yeah. I saw one."

"Start at the beginning."

"Hoo. Okay. Uhhh... It was 77. I think. I was air force. Or, hypnoengineering support staff contracted to help out around St. Louis."

"That's how you came into your supply of JVH-1"

"It was JVH-11 actually, and yeah, the fuckin, uh- the requisitions officer at Scott was an old buddy of mine. We used to fuck around in college before I, you know-"

"Yes I understand."

"I worked records for Sears-Roebuck, I had all the accounting expertise, as well as a ready supply of LSD."

"How did you start?"

"Oh it was easy at first. Really just selling off phials of the new experimental stuff to finance guys. They'd go nuts for the stuff, pay top dollar for it too. Hell, I could get 100$ for a milliliter. Made it easy to keep my contacts bought in and re-invested. Honestly I don't think the req office would even know that we were skimming if they weren't in on it.

But, you know how it is with hypnoregulation. Transchronological market data is worth it's weight in diamond. It started with the odd photo of a 2q-week readout, then biometric data, then, uh- then. Well, we decided to try it ourselves."

"You attempted full sub-finantial emmanation?"

"No no god no, what're you nuts? No, see. We figured if one person can meld their brain with the market, we just had to get as close as we could to that guy, and mark the twain, hypnologically speaking."

"Mark the twain?"

"Yeah, see, okay. A plutophant in full emmanation isn't like us. We exist at a single point in time, an R1 rational market actor. But they exist in multiple points in time, back in 77, I think the government could hit R6 with that analogue tech. Most people can hit R2 with a single hit of JVH-1, with practice you can hit R3, but anything higher than R3 takes a pretty serious support team. But here's the thing, I had a whole cadre of co-implicated members of a military grade hypnoengineering support team. All we needed was the space."

"The warehouse. Schaeffer Marble and Tile was it?"

"Bingo. See here's the thing. You know why the government had to start building those special regulation temples? It's not just for security. Once you crack the R6 barrier, Plutophants start leaving what's called a wake. You know, like a fuckin, uh, like a boat. They're imperceptible to normal people, but if you have sensitive enough instruments or, say, a person in the edge of sub-market emmanation.

See the government didn't know at the time, but if you balanced the drugs just right, and kept someone right on the edge of R4, you could actually read the plutophant's interpretations by their wake rather than their direct neurofeedback. It's not nearly as precise, but if you have a good team and you know what to look for, you can get some really, really valuable market data that way."

"And your co-worker?"

"You mean Mills? Fuck. Yeah...Mills. Right."

"Take your time."

"No, no I'm good. It's... It's uh, It's dangerous. Brains aren't meant to take that much JVH-11 all at once. We could stay on R4, but what we didn't have was a recovery team, or a medical team, or recon team. It was me, Mills, Israel, Connaught, and Marsh. The five of us were the only ones in the soup. Bruso was running the machines and Lasker was monitoring the readout."

"Can you tell us what happened?"

"Yeah. Yeah. It was a normal intrusion. Hypnogrid emmanation is pretty simple with our tech and support. Sedation was all green, hypnoinduction was green. Smooth as silk. Landed about 40 minutes from our work location. We had the codes from the IRSAW people that morning, all we had to do was maintain hypnoinduction for 40 minutes while traversing the colon and we'd be able to-"

"I'm sorry, colon?"

"Oh come on. Colon. Collective Unconscious. Col-Un. Colon."

"I- of course. Continue."

"Hey, have you ever been on a dive before?"

"Can we focus on your statement?"

"It's important. I need to know if this next bit is gonna make sense to you or not."

"I've undergone basic anti-intrusion training standard for IRS investigation task force officers."

"So you've done safe dives. White room? Castle training? Putting up the wall? All that jazz?"

"That's correct."

"Did they ever tell you why it's dangerous to perform off-site hypnoincursion in meta-unstsble hypnospace?"

"They did."

"Well they're lying...don't look at me like that. I'm not bullshitting you. They're lying...there's...there's shit out there okay? There's things out there."

"Mills?"

"Yeah. Mills. Uh..."

"Take your time."

"Yeah yeah. Quit interruptin me. Mills... Uh, yeah so we were T-Plus 30 into the dive. Bruso gives us a heads up that some hypnoflora is headed our way, but can't get a read on mass. Says we should steer clear, but we are so close. Israel had handled some hypnoflora before, so we weren't worried. But it was... I dunno. I can't explain."

"Do your best."

"Like. Okay. Meta-unstsble dives are fucked. They're acid trips. The St. Louis hypnoscape already doesn't look normal, but Scott Base looked like some kinda bastard lovechild of a medieval castle and a seashell, all twisting up into itself. The streets were a chessboard, and all the streetlights we're these tall kinda mannequin lookin' things holding a tiny sun in their hand. Everything is fucked, it's all topsy turvy. But it's okay, because it's meta-unstable hypnospace, its not SUPPOSED to be normal. And then there was a Red Sock."

"Like for the feet?"

"No. Like. In the middle of this fucked up dreamscape, there's suddenly a batter for the Boston Red Sox. He's standing there, maybe 50 feet away. He's got a bat in one hand and a mitt in the other, and he's just kinda walking towards us. Nobody really knew what to do. It didn't look dangerous, but something wasn't right. It didn't fit. We just kinda stood there, looking at the thing. Israel starts talking to Bruso, asking him what to do. Suddenly, Bruso is screaming at us, telling us to book it. He's screaming into the com, telling us to prepare for de-emmanation. Nobody knows what's happening. Israel is suddenly standing between Mills and the Red Sock, and..."

"Any information you can recall could be of use."

"It's...it's mostly feeling at this point. You ever been having a normal dream? Like, a good, normal dream? And suddenly you realize that something is really, really wrong? There's signs. For me? It's that the lights go out. Suddenly day turns to night, and something about this batter just makes me want to curl up and hide. Suddenly, moving through the world is like trying to swim through molasses. I try to run, but nothing moves, and everything is dark. The world is shifting. There's shadows under the bathroom door that can't be happening. A man who looks like Jesus. An old and terrible house and an old man with no name whose face I can't remember. The batter swings at Mills and she just...vanishes. Shes gone. Bruso pulls us out a second later."

"So this, batter killed Ms. Mills?"

"No."

"No?"

"No. We get out, she's comatose. Whatever that thing did to her, she was still in hypnospace. I gave her a hot shot of barbiturates. Her brain activity slowed to R0 after about 90 seconds."

[hairmetal666]

They start kissing on stage as a joke.

The night before the first time, they're at an afterparty, pounding shots, and Eddie is reading aloud a piece that just came out in Rolling Stone. "'One of the most noteworthy parts of Munson and Harrington's unlikely pairing is their chemistry on stage. It's like these two men--one on his way to being the latest metal god, the other an indie rock wunderkind--are two parts of one musical whole. Their singing, their playing, even their bodies twine and flow with assuredness; where one goes, the other follows without question. They share a single brain-cell and that cell is music'."

Steve giggles, pours some more Grey Goose into the glass. "If they say that now, could you imagine what would happen if we, like, kissed on stage or something."

"What the fuck, Harrington?" Eddie splutters, having just thrown a drink back.

"I don't know, other bands do it!"

Eddie snorts. "I'm cutting you off." He reaches for the bottle and the suggestion is forgotten for wrestling over the liquor.

Steve barely remembers it in the morning. Doesn't think about it at all as he gets ready to go out on stage.

They're playing one of the instrumental breakdowns when it happens. They're leaning into each other, Eddie smiling over his shoulder at him, their eyes locked, bodies moving together. "You wanna?" Eddie mouths at him.

Steve nods before the question actually registers and by then Eddie's warm, soft mouth is against his and he just-- completely forgets what he's doing. His hands still on the guitar strings, and he melts a little, going completely boneless when Eddie grips the back of his head, pulls him deeper into the kiss. t's over almost as quickly as it started, Eddie pulling away and swirling to the mic to start the next verse.

The kiss sinks into Steve's bones, and that's before it becomes a regular feature of their performances. After that night, they're never at the same time during the show, all initiated by Eddie, all over before he can catch his breath; each one chaste and surrounded by people but somehow more intimate than any make out.

He and Eddie, they're friends, bandmates, collaborators. They've known each other since they first started out, forging an immediate connection with they stumbled upon each other hiding out in the garden at some industry bigwig's party. And as much as he loved his friend, never once in that time had Steve considered wanting Eddie.

But now, now he falls asleep with the ghost of Eddie on his lips, goes into each show with a thrum of anticipation, catches himself thinking how beautiful his friend is when he's all rumpled and disheveled from a night in the tour bus bunks.

They've always been easy with physical affection, but once the kissing starts they're constantly in each other's space, idly playing with hair, laying across laps, heads on shoulders, twisting together on the tour bus couch. Steve is ruined with every touch, every moment; he can't get enough.

The first time Eddie uses tongue destroys every last piece of Steve's composure. They've added a new song to the setlist, a remixed version of Eddie's hit "Prince Charming". It's hard, heavy, sexy, one of Steve's favorites. And in the middle of it, right in the middle, Eddie shoves him against a low platform, kisses him like he's trying to own him, tongues twining eager and wet and full of sinful promise. It's like that every show after, Eddie kissing him deep and thorough, like he's trying to lick up every drop of Steve.

He is, unquestionably, fucked. Unquestionably falling. Can't properly fathom how he'd gotten himself here, desperate for Eddie's kiss, as performative as it may be.

They're packing up equipment after a show. Eddie's hair is piled in a messy bun and Steve is trying not to blatantly stare at the curve of his neck, the stray curls against his pale skin. Eddie's gesturing at something, says, "Can you grab those cords, swee--Steve?" He hands them over without thought, notices that Eddie's face is shining red. He's called away to deal with packing the guitars, forgets all about it, but at their next show, Eddie doesn't kiss him.

They don't talk about it.

Eddie doesn't try to kiss him again.

A week after Eddie stops the kiss, they have a night off between shows. He needs to get out of his head, goes out with Robin. He gets back fairly early, but all the lights are off in the bus. It makes him panic in a way it shouldn't; they've always done their own things. Still, he rushes on board, flips on the lights, his absurd heart beating too hard.

Eddie is curled up on the couch, face pressed to the pillows and covered with his hands. The panic kicks up a notch.

"Eddie?" He steps closer, slowly reaching out to grip Eddie's shoulder.

He jerks upright, earbuds slipping free, phone sliding down his hip. "Steve?"

His face is wet, tears actively slipping free from his eyes as Steve watches.

"What happened? Are you hurt?" His hands flutter around Eddie's arms and face, searching for bruises or wounds.

"I'm fine, Harrington," he chokes out. "Though you were out with Robin?"

"Yeah, I was, but Chrissy called. You know how useless she gets. But that doesn't--you--you're crying. What's wrong?"

Eddie's smile is a wobbly little thing, refusing to stick on his face. "Oh, you know, the usual. Fell for the wrong guy."

Steve forces down the gut churning hurt at hearing that Eddie's in love with someone, intent on comforting his friend. He tries to slip his arm around Eddie's shoulders, but Eddie shrugs him off. It jostles Eddie's phone again, slipping it toward Steve and activating the screen. He has a split second where he's looking at the cover of his own first album, before Eddie's snatching it out of reach, scrambling up from the couch.

"I'm fine." He swipes his sleeve over his face. "It's nothing."

And Steve is putting it all together, the being in love and listening to Steve's music, the kissing and how it ended.--

"Eddie." He sounds all wrong, choked and garbled.

Eddie doesn't turn around, is stuffing his feet into his boots. "I'm--I gotta go clear my head."

He walks towards the door and Steve just--"I've been obsessed with you since the first kiss," he says. Eddie stops, hand curled against the door. "We've been friends all this time and I didn't--I never realized. And then we kissed and--it's all I've been able to think about."

Eddie turns then, facing him, expression unreadable."Steve, what are you--"

"I love you. I'm in love with you." It comes out fast, all jumbled, but he can't stand Eddie leaving, not now.

"You--?" Eddie blinks, bites his lip. "That's not possible."

Steve smiles, can't help it. "It is, though. Turns out, I can't get enough."

Their eyes lock; neither speaks. Steve's heart pounds so hard it might spring free of his chest. Eddie moves first, crosses the small distance between them to pull Steve into his arms.

It's not a kiss, but Steve buries his face against Eddie's neck, breathing him in, feeling the echo to the pound of his own heart. "How long?" Steve asks.

Eddie's soft laugh vibrates through him. "Since I saw you walking in that garden and thought, 'jesus christ, Prince Charming is real'."

Steve pulls away to stare at Eddie in disbelief. "But that's--your--the song?"

"They're kinda all about you, Stevie. But that one most of all." Eddie whispers. His eyes glisten.

"Fuck, Eddie." He doesn't mean to whine, but he's not in control of his voice anymore. "I'm sorry I didn't--" He shakes his head. "I'm all yours, Ed. Whatever you want."

Eddie's thumb catches against Steve's bottom lips, eyes transfixed on his mouth. "Everything, sweetheart. I want it all."

[ambrosiagourmet]

Little details from Falin's (final) resurrection that I love:

when they say that they will need to rebuild her lower body, they seem to mean it pretty literally. There are scalpels and other surgical instruments on the table nearby, and that part is left to the elves to lead due to the difficulty. I wonder what kind of mix of magic and physical skill is needed to repair and recreate a body like that.

Both Laios and Marcille contribute mana to help bring her back...

but we don't get to hear exactly what they say. Those words are left for them and them alone.

During Falin's meal, the little dragon is hungry too...

so she shares her meal with it.

Though Falin's dress is whole when we first see it, after she consumes the dragon meal, the bottom of it begins to fray in a way that resembles the veins we see being reconstructed with her body while she eats.

three just in this set of panels - the bowl is there because she's been sleeping for some time (days?? weeks???) and they have been feeding her.

Marcille chewing on her sleeve while she sleeps.

And the fact that Izutsumi was holding vigil right alongside the rest of them.

Laios just talking to & then hugging Falin right over Marcille.

Speaking of the wait - how long was it? They'd almost given up?? They must have waited so long for her to wake up, sleeping right next to her bed the whole time.

The cuddle pile..... Falin looks so (lovingly) annoyed bless her.

This absolutely brutally dark joke that literally only could have come from Chilchuck. Holy shit buddy ^^;;

Somewhat relatedly, Senshi making sure to mention the curry that they used to lure in & kill her. Note Marcille's face in the background.

Izutsumi having waited there the whole time, but still being shy. Plus how she hides behind Laios. Truly the cat of all cat girls.

This line from Marcille kind of seems like its her being overly protective of Falin (as she was after the first resurrection), until you realize that...

It's probably more because she knows there is a big crowd outside and Falin is still in a nightgown.

Other small details in this part:

Embarrassed Shuro averting his gaze, while Kabru keeps trying to snoop even after Marcille pulls Falin back inside (snoopy Namari too, though she's a little more justified than him)

Senshi & Chilchuk go off together to make food, while Izutsumi (grumpily) accepts a proper introduction.

Wherever they got this outfit & cloak for Falin, they also seem to have shared similar ones ones with...

Laios, Chilchuck, and Yaad. I think its cute that they look like they either bought a bunch of similar cloaks, or were provided them as gifts.

And, of course,

This smile C:

[neil-gaiman]

Hi! RE: your journal about the right for lolicon fiction to exist even if you disapprove of it, would you say it can also exist for titillation purposes, or do you stand by it for artistic reasons, or for the purpose of exploring dark themes only? I always thought you were saying the former, but I just wanted to ask. It's chill if you don't wanna answer this. Have a good day!

Here we are, 15 years on from that blog entry, and I still haven't read any lolicon, I'm afraid, so I have no idea about its themes. The context was whether you should be sent to prison for owning lolicon. What I said back then was,

In this case you obviously have read lolicon, and I haven't. I don't know whether you're writing from personal experience here, and whether you have personally been incited to rape children or give inappropriate hugs by reading it. (I assume you haven't. I assume that Chris Handley, with his huge manga collection, wasn't either. I've read books that claimed that exposure to porn causes rape, but have seen no statistical evidence that porn causes rape -- and indeed have seen claims that the declining number of US rapes may be due to the wider availability of porn. Honestly, I think it's a red herring in First Amendment matters, and I'll leave it for other people to argue about.) Still, you seem to want lolicon banned, and people prosecuted for owning it, and I don't. You ask, What makes it worth defending? and the only answer I can give is this: Freedom to write, freedom to read, freedom to own material that you believe is worth defending means you're going to have to stand up for stuff you don't believe is worth defending, even stuff you find actively distasteful, because laws are big blunt instruments that do not differentiate between what you like and what you don't, because prosecutors are humans and bear grudges and fight for re-election, because one person's obscenity is another person's art.

Because if you don't stand up for the stuff you don't like, when they come for the stuff you do like, you've already lost.

[steddieas-shegoes]

pop goes metal

for @corrodedcoffinfest prompt 'alternate universe'

rated t | 964 words | cw: language | tags: famous corroded coffin, pop star steve harrington, flirting, getting together

🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤

"No fuckin' way are we working with him," Eddie argues with their manager. "You're always so worried about our image and then you go and have us doing a song with a fuckin' pop artist?"

The manager, Anthony, rolls his eyes. "It'll broaden your fanbase. You know who spends money on shit? Women. You know who likes Steve Harrington? Women."

"Does he even write his own shit?" Gareth asks.

"Does it matter?" Eddie turned to him with a glare. "Even if he writes it, it's not our style."

"Maybe we could at least hear what he's trying to work with us on?" Jeff, always the calming presence, asked towards Anthony.

"He sent over a sample before we sign any agreements."

Eddie sat down in the chair furthest from everyone else, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Now, this isn't an official recording. Just what he did on his phone on his tour bus with his acoustic guitar. He arranged the bass already for Frankie, too, but said he's open to whatever Gareth feels is right for the drums." Anthony pressed play on his phone and the room was filled with strumming and a surprisingly raspy voice singing what was clearly a chorus.

Eddie could pretend he hated it, and maybe the guys would agree with him and they'd never have to speak of this again.

He couldn't hide his reaction fast enough, though.

His jaw dropped as he listened to the lyrics, surprised to find that they weren't just about going to a club and dancing or being in love.

Steve's voice broke at the end before there was shuffling and the recording stopped.

Eddie felt everyone's eyes on him. He closed his mouth and looked down at the floor, tapping his fingers against his arm.

"It's not bad," he finally said. "Not sure why he needs us, though."

"Apparently, his brother is a huge fan of you and suggested he try to work with you."

"I think we should do it." Jeff said, a note of finality in his tone that Eddie knew he wouldn't try arguing with.

"Yeah, can't hurt." Frankie shrugged.

"If he's giving me creative freedom on the drums, how can I say no?" Gareth smirked.

"Guess we're working with the pop diva, then."

****

Steve Harrington was nothing like what they expected.

He showed up to their studio in sweats and glasses, holding a tablet and a bottle of Tylenol. They started to introduce themselves as he found a spot on the couch.

"I'm really glad you guys were willing to work with me," he said after he shook everyone's hand.

Eddie stared.

"My uh, my brother, Dustin, he's kinda why I wrote this song and I know it means a lot that you agreed to be on it," Steve continued. "So, thanks. Hopefully it doesn't ruin your vibes or anything."

Eddie felt every wall he built crumbling with every word Steve spoke. God dammit, this man just had to be sincere and hot and talented, didn't he?

"Nah, we're gonna sound great together." Eddie smiled at Steve's wide-eyed look. "You wanna show us the whole song?"

Steve nodded, pulling something up on his phone. Another recording, this one more professional and included an electric guitar.

"Robin was the stand in for the electric while I did bass."

"So you can play bass?" Frankie asked, leaning in.

"Yeah, but my preferred instrument is piano. I just don't do a lot of slow songs. Guitar is what gets the women interested, or so they tell me," Steve smiled awkwardly. "But feel free to change some things up. I'm totally open to suggestions."

But really, it was damn near perfect as it was. Frankie made one tweak during the bridge, but Steve ended up loving it more than the original and told him so with a grin.

"You're a fuckin' genius!" He exclaimed.

Gareth started messing around on the drums while Steve and Eddie worked on the first couple of lines.

"Something still doesn't feel right," Steve mentioned.

"Maybe we change the rhyming pattern?" Eddie suggested. "You've got ABAB. Might work better to do AABB. Some of these words can be moved around to make that work."

Steve stared at the notes app for a moment, then looked back up at Eddie, beaming smile making his eyes squint.

"I could kiss you!" He shouted. As soon as he realized what he said, he blushed, looking back down at the phone. "I mean, thanks. That's a great suggestion."

Eddie searched Steve's face, coming to the conclusion that there was probably a good reason why Steve didn't care about what women liked when it came to his music.

"I have a pretty strict rule about kissing people I work with," Eddie said slowly, quietly so they wouldn't be overheard.

"Yeah, no, that makes sense. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or-"

"But we won't be working with each other for long, right?" Eddie continued, letting his hand rest on Steve's thigh. God, he was muscular.

"Um. No I guess not."

"Rain check, then. Until we've finished our professional relationship." Eddie couldn't believe he was suggesting this. Showing interest in a pop star. What's next? Dating one? Marrying one?

"Are you saying you wanna kiss me, Munson?" Steve suddenly sounded more confident.

"I'm saying we've got work to do before I can get my hands on you." Eddie tapped his thigh before pulling away. "So let's get to it."

"Dude! I got it!" Gareth yelled, interrupting their moment.

"Be right there!" Steve yelled back, not looking away from Eddie. "Might break a record for fastest recording time ever just so I can kiss you," Steve added quietly to Eddie before standing and walking over to Gareth.

"Well, fuck." Eddie sighed, smiling to himself.

[euphoria-looney]

Hold Me, Console Me, And then I’ll Leave Without a Trace, No One Noticed by The Marias

Before we start this has many ideas for authors and some are specific, so if you notice “Hey that looks like what idea I put into my post” PLEASE TELL ME, I would love to give you credit, bc I probably would have never made this without it!

and greatgooglymoogly (my friend, I don't discriminate against other greatgogglymoogly's) if you see this scroll, admire how aesthetic this post is and scroll./j

(This has a mother!darling and a daughter!darling, and they are separate from the reader- unless you decide they aren’t 😍😍)

gn!reader (if I accidentally make them seem too feminine, I’m sorry 😞)

So Much More.

Pt. 1 Pt.2

All my life, I held onto this thin piece of thread called hope. It started off as a rope, almost strangled myself with it, but as time went on and as it started dwindling down, it started snapping.

So, now, the only thing that kept this “rope” connected was a thin piece of thread, too bad, it broke. Due to people who were honestly victims.

Bruce Wayne.

Everyone knows him, who cares if you love him, who cares if you hate him, I mean eat the rich, and who cares if you don’t care about him. To me, he’s a good-for-nothing sperm donor who was also my landlord.

My dear mother, (M/N) (L/N). What a diva she was. She gave me everything and so much more. She embraced me in such comfort that I could feel myself slipping when it disappeared from right under me.

Gotham City is one of the many crime-raided cities there is in the world, anything could go wrong.

Luckily for momma, she died through a natural death, unluckily for me, she was my everything. I mean really, a child no older than 4 frantically searching for something, anything. Desperation creeping in, dialing an emergency call, with terrible service and small fat fingers that didn’t even know how to operate such a stupid telephone that only worked if you used it at an angle.

May my dearest momma lay in a field of flowers, sunlight kissing her skin, that was the fantasy she told me she’d love to take me to. Something Gotham City could only be reached if there was no such thing as heroes, villains, or vigilantes.

If it wasn’t for my appearance I’d would had gone to an orphanage, th officer or whatever he was, Gorgan? Gordon? Doesn’t matter, he called him someone.

a man who seemed so formal and elegant showed up, he would be my father figure, for the time I would spend in the manor. Since, it just so happens I had a 100 percent match with a certain millionaire, billionaire. The man that showed up was none other than my light in the dim, depressing place.

Alfred, the butler for the Bruce Wayne.

Ecstatic, I was, that’s when the rope appeared, my thoughts ran rapid.

Do I have siblings? How many? How’s my dad?

Questions after question, answered with… I hope you’re hungry for…

nothing 😐-

Alfred had answered all my questions, of course I met them all… eventually,

Richard, other wise known as “Dick”

He tried to give the impression to the family as a caring big brother. Well, not to me obviously. When he first met me, his first words were “Who’s the kid?”

“Who’s the kid?” Dick asked

“This is your new sibling, [name] Wayne”

He was there, for y’know that one second, moving on Tim.

Tim

I’ve never held a conversation with him, he breezed past me.

Jason.

BFFs, before he died, then came back to life, then shut me out.

Barbara, Cassandra, and Stephanie

Was my idol, but they stuck their head up so high that they didn’t notice me. Making her nothing more than a second thought in my head.

Duke

Sweet kid, from what I've seen in the shadows.

Damian

He really, broke me in, hell if anyone’s impacted me, it’s him.

degrading me like I was a bug infestation.

Then he stopped, saying “I don’t have time to waste on you.”

Are you kidding me?

I did everything and more for the attention of my family.

Sports? You name it. I probably did it.

Instruments? Do you even know how many medals I've won?

Singing and dance are challenging but that doesn't mean I'm not perfect to the T.

But nothing worked, it's funny you'd think, with how pathetic I am, especially with all these attempts that idiotic thin thread would've already snapped.

No.

Do you know what made it snap? [M/D] and [D/D]. (The second D- stands for darling)

The pair were everyone's obsession.

[M/D], Bruce Wayne's one true love, if this hasn't been obvious my mother was a fling/rebound of Mr. Wayne. [M/D], beautiful, kind, and the object in the family's eyes. It's quite sad if anything, she's like a caged bird.

[D/D], younger than Damian.

Oh, I haven't given you the age scale from oldest to youngest.

Dick and Barbara are the same age, being the oldest

Jason

Tim, Stephanie, and Cassandra

Me

Duke

Damian

[D/D]

Out of these many children. Three are blood-related with Bruce Wayne, Me, Damian, and [D/D].

I'm getting off track.

[D/D], adored, so small you'd want to keep her in your pocket.

One thing was clear about these two. They were everything to the Wayne family.

That's when the string broke.

They came probably by force and hated the very thing I wanted, attention, and love.

I wish I could say I hate them, as they were parallel to me and my mother.

My mother, who was the other woman.

My mother, who never held a grudge.

My mother, who died in a cold, dark room.

My mother, who could never see what type of person I am today.

But I couldn't hate them. I can't. They were the only other ones who gave me that family bond that wanted for so long.

It didn't help that they seemed to deem me to be the favorite. [M/D] loved to be my 'mother' and in her eyes, I was her favorite child, of course behind [D/D] since I was normal compared to them.

[D/D] If I'm near her, maybe grabbing a snack while the family is having 'family game night' she'd somehow spot me, giving that puppy-eyed look, pulling me to join them.

I would, if it's not for the way I would feel these eyes boring on me.

'Why do you have to be here, why are you ruining the moment, who are you?'

I'd pull my hand away, shaking my head, patting her hair, before making it back to the dim, dark hallway, so empty, that you could hear each echo of the step.

As I sit here complaining, at least today's, the day. I'm officially 18.

That's right. 18 years of age and everything I just wrote down has been a recap of my life.

This is my 14th journal. For each year that I've been in the manor, I had a journal, that captured each year of my life, from my emo phase to my popular phase, and now here, the year I graduate, the year that I officially move out.

My first journal was a composition journal, Alfred had no idea what I would like, everyone else was busy according to him, he gave me this journal and told me to write everything I felt, and nobody would ever see it. It's stained definitely. My first-ever entry was: "I wish I got a pet to keep me company, at least that would be better than this stupid silence."

Okay, so maybe there were a lot of spelling mistakes. I don't need to write it down. Even trying to decipher that whole sentence was hard. Not the point I would lose interest every few months before coming back to it. Then it became a hobby. It's very important to me.

I graduated yesterday, too bad nobody was there. Alfred was too busy to come to celebrate it, since graduations are long and take a while, his job came first before anything. Today is my birthday, it's a joke if anything. The day before my graduation is my birthday. I bought this journal yesterday as a little celebration gift and to me in general to celebrate my birthday.

That should be all for my entry.

Yours truly,

[Name] [Last Name]

-

Standing up I glance at my bookshelf filled with different genres of books, split into non-fiction and fiction. Journals filled with information from books, facts that mattered, and scenes that hit me deeply.

Junk journals, bullet journals, and the sheld that mattered the most to me.

My personal journals. 15 journals including the one that I was holding my hand.

A knock broke my thoughts, I slipped the journal I had in my hand onto the shelf before opening the door.

"Happy birthday, young master. I made a cupcake batch for you. Even an edible candle." He held cupcakes to me arranged so delicately with a candle on the center cupcake.

I'm going to miss him so much when I leave. So much so that I didn't even notice the tears slipping from my eyes.

"Oh dear, young master, I'm so sorry that I missed your graduation yesterday, and of course, the others wanted to be there- they were-"

"No, it's not that Alfred- Thank you so much, for everything." I engulfed him in a hug. Something I hadn't done since I was a child.

He held me and consoled me before leaving as it seemed [D/D] had adopted another feral animal or something like that.

I smiled and nodded at him when he apologized for having to go, shaking my head in understanding.

I looked over everything in my room. I would leave everything behind, including my journals. Even the newly bought one. If I was going to leave. I wanted to at least have something that showed.

I existed.

I would leave without a trace that I had left in the first place. And even leaving all these books here, I'm sure you couldn't even tell this would be a room without the bed, just some library with random entries from this random room.

Like a coward, I'll leave a letter for Alfred. For him, and only him.

With that, I bid the manor goodbye. With whatever presents I had anyway.

Also if this is cringy, just let me be delusional and believe that I ate this shit up.

Kind of new to how to format on Tumblr, and how to make posts pretty.

Anyway I wrote this with Grammarly so if you see any mistakes with the writing, I say "boo"

Hoped you enjoyed, bc I'm brewing up the next part... and also how to make a masterlist and all that jazz.