#this was a fun (painful) one to write

[bluerosefox]

In Any Lifetimes

...........

So.

Ghost King Danny (and or) Ancient of Space.

Basically POWERFUL Danny gets summoned to the DC world.

How?

Because his reborn lover/partner/wife(or husband) was being used as a 'sacrifice' to summon him. (Danny and his partner (not picky who, could be a DP character or a made up one) sometimes they relive lives together, but Danny due to King duties can't always join his 'other' (or Forevermores as I like to coin them as) into new worlds for a few years.

Who is partner was reborn as, I leave up to you all!~

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Decided to take the leap and post the little fanfic I wrote at the start of the month to AO3. The Yiling Laozu takes a break in the burial mounds. Also, there is a worm.

[alienglowgarden]

Im bad at writing coherent things but I need to get this concept out of my head so it stops haunting me.

I had this idea for another fic called The Undine Colony.

The setting would be the second colony by the sea- started when Sol is in their forties- the story taking place an unknown time after that.

It starts with the alarm that the original Stratospheric colony has gone silent. Collapsed all its networks, killed every signal, spirited away every colonist. As it still houses much of humanity's most advanced tech, like the servers for their holonet, essential parts of the power grid, this is an issue of extreme urgency.

And who better to turn to in their moment of need than Sol? So here they are suddenly jolted into wakefulness.

Their first thought is that they cannot feel their body. They quickly learn they are not in fact the real Sol, but only an AI copy made of their brain-scan from many decades ago. Though they cannot access the future vision as an ephemeral bit of software, they have superior computing on their side.

The gist of it being that AI Sol is now in charge of the 2nd colony to replace the hole left by Congruence, all while being tasked to figure out whats happening to the og colony & trying to reestablish contact. Aaand trying to piece together their own existence on top of it. Trying to find out what even happened to the original Sol. If they have something to do with this blackout.

So yeah, itd be slowly unfurling that mystery, piecing together the gap in their memory & issues of personhood.

[soulsmadworld]

had a lot of perfectly colored yarn leftover from my chuuya project

with a new skein of yellow yarn added to the mix I made myself a lil tango of the tek variety

*edit*

I finally added Tango's tail which I had planned to do initially but I completely blanked on it

[calo-wav]

because i’m still in love with you / i wanna see you dance again

something something post-canon exes who can't love anyone else because they're still in love with each other but one is rooted to the earth in terror and the other one only finds peace in the stars

fic im writing transparent ver (looks really cool against a dark bg!) + sketch ⮕ final process below

[starflungwaddledee]

little guy big city! 7 inch plushie magolor had a fun time on our errand yesterday. he even finally got to do the classic "oh nooo the statue of a Creature is eating me"!

[ehlnofay]

One day – as far-off as a century, as near as tomorrow – it will all be a grand old story.

The stories will speak of a handful of champions, rushing headlong against time and logic to save the world; the last Blades, the last Septim, and his hanger-on Hero, carving a bloody path to the Temple doors. The stories will tell of skies like burned blood, of fire and ash and uncountable legions of monsters – hundreds, thousands, millions, the quantity rising with each telling – the city streets cracked and quaking, every civilian locked up in their homes and businesses and praying for deliverance. The stories will tell of the appearance of Dagon, red-hot and roiling, a gory perversion of the sun; they’ll tell that when all seemed lost, Martin Septim sacrificed himself in a blaze of glory, calling down the avatar of Akatosh and casting Dagon and his ilk back whence he came. They’ll tell that the golden dragon threw back its head and roared, and the sky cleared and brightened at its word; they’ll tell how it petrified in place, a magnificent pillar of stone, a sacrosanct statue. A site of pilgrimage. A shrine, to the grace and glory of the gods, and the bravery and benevolence of the last Emperor, the best of men.

It will be a good story. All splendour and triumph, a bittersweet victory right out of the epics; the pages closed, the crisis done, the world saved in as golden a resolution as could be asked for. It doesn’t get better than this, a perfect saviour, a hallowed end.

What the stories won’t tell is how, under clear skies and sunlight, the Hero of Kvatch falls at the statue’s marbled feet and howls like the world is still ending.

“You fucking coward,” Pax is screaming, as best as she can. Her mouth tastes like smoke. Her voice is hoarse. “Stupid worm, fucking – selfish bastard – what’s wrong with you?”

His head is swimming, a bit; he shouldn’t have tried to stand, but he – but – he’s dragged himself up to the dais, just about, and managed to sprawl himself over the edge, a snail’s trail of blood smeared along the floor behind him. The copper tang of it is strong in his nostrils. The statue stands, proud and silent, one marble claw dug into the cracked stone of the rostrum. His whole body is beginning to ache – just because of a stupid stab wound in his side, he’d swear he’s had worse, it’s not that bad, it’s not that bad. His throat burns. He isn’t crying. He isn’t.

The sky is so fucking blue.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demands, again, and brings the heel of his hand thudding against the clawed foot hard enough that he feels the impact down his arm, through his blurry head. “Why would you – piece of shit – sorry spit-gill – I thought –”

None of their thoughts will go through to the end. “I thought,” Pax says again, and she’s not crying, and it hurts so much it’s looped back around to not hurting, and it’s all getting fuzzy at the edges, all the world narrowed down to this and this and this and all fucking hell she’d rather be anywhere, anything else. The statue is cold. Her throat is scraped raw. “Come back,” she’s begging without quite meaning to, “come back,” and she drives her palm into the stone again, and the pain sets her reeling.

And all hell, the sky is so blue; the statue enormous; and here they are, at its feet, vision blurring, staring up at its cold marble face. It’s so fucking tall, so proud, face tipped up towards the new-appeared sun, away from them.

“How could you?” Pax says, and then they can’t even see it anymore, blood unspooling from them like skeins of madder-dyed thread. Red has never been their favourite colour. The shape of the dragon, glowing like the sun, is fixed forever on the backs of their eyelids; gold, they think, is worse. The world is detached and floating about them. They taste smoke and then bile. Stone digs fierce into their spine.

It burned like the sun, the dragon; like all the divine light of Aetherius come to earth just to sear the moisture from her eyes. Where it clawed Mehrunes Dagon, his blood boiled; when it screamed, the world moulded itself to its call. Pax hadn’t known what was happening, while it happened; sure as shit doesn’t know now. What they do know is that he’s gone. What they do know is that the dragon didn’t look at them once. They don’t taste ash on their breath, now; just fear, stagnant, sour, blood jangling bitter in their veins and seeping out to soak their gambeson.

It doesn’t hurt, anymore, there’s just this spreading, vague numbness. It doesn’t feel like their body. It’s just a thing they’re putting on. Their ears are still ringing from the crashing-in of the Temple, but there’s a faint buzzing of noise outside. They might be dying. They can’t be assed to get up.

Skeeving asshole. They’re getting blood on the dragon’s immaculate feet. The hollow sounds of voices feels distant. Could well be worse.

Then, “… a healer, here!” they hear, much closer than anything else had been before, paired with the faraway thudding of the door, and “Pax. Pax! It’s – where’s –” and there’s hands on him, a cautious manipulation of his neck, a shifting of his legs. Pressure on his sternum, and then his stomach, and a pained grunt slips out of his mouth, bound up with a slurred curse.

“Stay calm,” says an unfamiliar voice, soft and steady. “I’m just accessing the wound.”

“Go away,” Pax says, or tries to say, but his voice is whispering-hoarse and the dragon looms in the dark even still. He could open his eyes, but what would be the point?

The hands stay on him even when he bucks, holding him steady; they whisper over the stab in her gut, pulling at the drying blood, mumbling words that she can’t be fucking bothered to listen to, one voice known to her already, one voice not; pressure again on the injury, and they try, half-heartedly, to breathe out a swear – and then light, copper-bright, behind their eyelids, and burning heat, and pain pain pain eclipsing all else as something inside them wrenches back into working order, and then their eyes are open and the sky is blue and they are very fucking aware, thank you.

Pax sits up, fast enough to send the world dizzily whirling, and shoves the mage-medic away from them.

“Piss off,” he says – and it’s still hoarse, smoke-throated and scraped raw, but there’s more bite to it this time, more sound. The strange hands fall away from his side, and he looks down. His gambeson is hanging open, cords untied, the emblem of the wolf split clean down the middle. His undershirt is rucked up around his chest, too, so much of his skin is bared to the clear, bright air; all to get to the wound tucked just under their ribs. It’s an underwhelming thing – smaller than they would’ve thought, a thin short slash like a very red mouth has opened itself up in their gut. It’s stopped dribbling quite so much blood, gone scabby with rough healing, though the stuff is still smeared all over their skin, damn near enough to bathe in. It’s barely anything, really. They’re barely even hurt.

“I’m not done,” says the mage-medic, all stern. The wound itches, the taste of hasty magic gone sour in the back of their throat with all the rest of it. “I might have to find my suturing needle. It isn’t too bad, but it can’t be healed all at once.”

“Piss off,” Pax repeats – and all fucking hell it hurts, and he’s sitting up against the statue, legs lolling. He’s dizzy. He ignores it.

Ocato – his fine clothes sooty, face tight as a wound-up spring – says, “Calm down, please – he’s a skilled healer, he knows what he’s doing.” His eyes keep skipping around the room like he’s searching for another enemy lurking hidden in the shadows. “What happened? Where’s the Emperor?”

Ah – not an enemy, then.

Pax tastes bile.

“Not very quick on the uptake, are you?” she says, elbow braced against the statue’s massive marble claws (she hates touching it, she hates it, she hates it, she wants to set it crumbling apart, she doesn’t want to let anyone else touch it ever again). She can’t stop leaning because then she might topple back down again. Fuck, she needs to keep her head on straight – or lose it altogether, whichever happens faster. Her fingers feel cold. “How’re you going to run an Empire when you’re this fucking clueless?”

Ocato looks them in the face; his brow, high and slanted in that way elves have, furrows. “You’re hurt,” he says, in a tone like he expects Pax to argue with him. “Martin Septim–”

“Can’t you see him?” Pax demands, tone torn in half and uglier than they’ve ever heard it before, and they slam the back of their hand against the stone for echoing emphasis. (They want to shatter all the bones in their knuckles, break every piece in their hand one by one, like wishbones. They want it bloody and bruising. They want to scratch its polished-smooth surface until their fingernails tear. They want – they want – they want –)

Ocato, the Empire’s de facto leader, says, “Ah.”

In his plummy robes, all fruit-rich and stained with ash, he looks very stark against the Temple’s cracked marble floors.

“The Avatar,” he says. “If – the Amulet – joined blood of kings and gods –”

“Ocato,” says Pax, leaning heavy against the statue’s hateful foot, “shut up.” Their voice is bowstring-taut; he looks at them, his eyes too golden to meet. His mouth twists. They tip their head back against the stone, glaring up at the chips of blue sky shown in the crater where the roof once was, and try hard to ignore the tugging ache hooked behind their ribs.

It really fucking hurts. Worse than it did before, maybe, like some gauzy veil has been ripped from it. A veil has been ripped from the world. All the colours are too-bright, hideous. Pax breathes, because there’s no alternative, and waits for the pain to ebb.

(It doesn’t, really.)

“The Gates are sealed,” Ocato says, slowly, and he’s looking at her again, she can see out of the edge of her eye. “We will speak later. I’ll have you put up in the Palace until you’re healed. Ah – Quintus, does –”

“As long as she doesn’t go back into shock,” says the mage-medic, busily flipping through some kind of supply bag at his belt, “her odds are good. Lost blood, but I don’t think anything important was too damaged – get a proper examination, all I did was give her a second wind. Stitches, rest, fluids should do it, with luck.”

“Can she stand?”

“Can or should are –”

“Shut the fuck up,” Pax snaps, “I’m right here.” Her back pressed against the cold marble of the statue, her plait half-loose and knotted, filled with ash. The sky is so fucking blue. It hurts like hell – if the healer took her out of shock, then shit, she wishes he’d put her back in. She can see in too much detail. She can feel the skin, damp and ragged and angry. She presses the heel of her hand to the injury; her palm is crusted with dust, tacky with the same half-dried blood streaked over the floors.

Ocato, in the edges of her vision, shifts, all a blur of rich clothes and sympathetic eyes and solemn voice turned soft like he’s talking to an easily spooked horse. “I know.”

The mage-medic clucks his tongue. “Let me take another look first,” he says, and takes a step forward –

Pax kicks out at him before he even gets close. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Pax,” says Ocato – and why, why the fuck is the Empire’s de facto leader here, now, babying them like a whimpering little puppy instead of anywhere fucking else, why is he bothering to talk to them all patronising soft, why does he care? They’ve barely fucking met – talked twice, if you can call either of those times talking. Is it because they’re the Hero of Kvatch? Is this what they’ve earned – a bit of leeway as they throw a tantrum, bleeding out at the marble feet of that stupid bloody statue? Ocato looks so fucking tired; Pax wants to hit him in the nose. “You need care.”

“I need –” and Pax chokes it off in a puff of air. The statue looms behind them. There’s blood on the floors. (Traitor liar coward come back come back I hate you come down I’ll knock your fucking teeth in stupid selfish fraud come BACK. LOOK AT ME.)

Pax closes his eyes.

“My gratitude,” Ocato says, “ – our gratitude for what you’ve done cannot be overstated. The Crisis if over. The gates are sealed. Mehrunes Dagon and his ilk can never threaten Tamriel again.”

The knobs of Pax’s braid are pressing uncomfortably against their scalp. They can hear footsteps, coming closer. They don’t respond.

“It’s a great shame we had to pay such a price,” Ocato says, and Pax would fucking love to know who’s we here, “but it’s done. Dagon is defeated. We’ve won.” He’s much too close, now; his voice pitches softer. “Martin – is dead. But he died an Emperor – and a hero to rival Tiber Septim.”

Pax shoves him.

It’s a good fucking shove – knocks him right to the ground, his elbow hitting the marble with a painfully audible crack, Pax standing over him, shirt rucked up, their handprint on his shoulder marked in blood. “You useless, prattling jackass!” they spit, hoarse, and deal a swift, savage kick to his side. “How dare you act like this is a victory! It should have been me!”

Then their head swims, and they’re sitting again on the edge of the dais, palm pressed to their side, the sweaty cloth of their gambeson pushed half off their shoulder and its cord biting into their hand. The mage-medic is kneeling over Ocato, who still lies, stunned; Pax can’t see his eyes, now, but they remember them, brassy with shocked fear. Their bow is off by the wall where they left it. Pax’s palms are sticky with blood. The sky is so fucking blue. No matter how hard she rages the dragon won’t look down at them.

By the time the mage-medic has helped Ocato up, they’re gone. The Kvatch guard gambeson remains, smoke-smelling and crusted with blood, left like an offering at the statue’s feet. The Hero of Kvatch is never seen again.

[corrodedcoughin]

little story about little Eddie and his 2 new friends | word count approx 2.5k | general audience rating | steve and eddie are kids and Wayne is a pushover

Wayne sometimes thinks it was a mistake, not taking in the boy. God no, he would never think of Eddie as anything other than an important and intrinsic part of his life, couldn't be without him, wouldn't want to be. 

No, what Wayne worries about is how his readiness to help Eddie feel loved might contribute to the boy's difficulty in making friends.

It was an innocent enough request, Eddie asked for a pet as all young children do. He was so small and so wide eyed, just a scrap of an 8 year old with more feelings than he knew what to do with. Wayne knew he'd never hold up against any request Eddie made but he liked to pretend to himself that he could. And while technically he never pandered to the boy, yes Eddie usually got what he wanted but in a way that suited their means. Or so Wayne tells himself. 

8 year old Eddie asked for a pet and a pet is what he got.

-

Eddie barrelled into the trailer door, backpack swinging off his arm and ready to be thrown into the corner. Planning to shoot off back out the door to do his usual; lift up rocks and inspect whatever bugs he could find, to grab sticks and imagine them as wizard staffs, to let his imagination finally run wild after hours of sitting still at a desk under too bright lights and too busy class rooms. In truth he wasn't really paying attention to the insides of the trailer, expecting it to be the same as always. It took a very pointed cough for Eddie to register that Wayne was unusually home from work, far earlier than normal, and a further loud clearing of the throat for Eddie to pay attention to what Wayne had placed on the kitchen table. 

Right in the middle of the table, sitting in a beam of sunlight, was a cage and in that cage was what would soon become, Eddie's very reason for being. He crept up close, almost as if scared that any sudden movements would prove the whole thing to be a cruel illusion. He was brought out of his reverie by a pink nose wiggling at the bars, whiskers attached and twitching as the rest of the rat appeared.

'is he-? is he for real?' Eddie said with a gasp, hands inching towards the door of the cage. 

Wayne had to suppress a laugh, trust this boy to be bowled over in wonder at a rat as if it were a puppy. He opened the contraption of the enclosure door and dipped his hand inside, allowing the rat to climb onto his palm. The guy from work assured him that this one was the most tame he had, inquisitive to a fault and oddly enough, desperate to be handled. Quite honestly, the perfect match for his well meaning but excitable nephew-near-enough-son. 

'Yeah, yeah kid it's for real. And he's a she.' Wayne lets the rat sniff at Eddie's hands, little pink hands finding a platform on Eddie's palms, clearly holding himself a still as possible but if Wayne knew this boy, and he did, he knows that Eddie is so close to vibrating out of his skin, that containing that much excitement must be killing him. 

'I don't care. Wayne, I don't! Can she sleep in my room? Does she know tricks? Can I teach her? What does she like? Can I take her to school? Please! Wayne!' He's started now, words pouring out of his mouth, tripping over himself to try and release every thought entering his brain at lightning speed.

'Woah, there' Wayne says pulling the rat up, cradling it in two hands, 'We got to be kind to her alright? She's only small. Doesn't know what loud noises are good and which are bad, okay?' He watches as Eddie nods vigorously, eyes never leaving the creature. 'Now you promised me you'd look after a pet so that's what's going to happen. She is your responsibility. That means cleaning, feeding and loving, got it?' Eddie nods again, tentatively reaching his hands up, the image of Oliver Twist springs to Wayne's mind. 

Wayne comes around the kitchen table, crouches down to Eddie on creaky knees and hands the rat over, filling Eddie's small hands with a heartbeat and fur. Eddie giggles, watching as the rat surveils the new patch of skin its found itself on. 

'Tickles, Wayne' and its said with such love and devotion Wayne almost feels his heart break 

'Yeah son. She does, doesn't she?' 

-

 Of course it takes less than a week and Eddie and Sam are inseparable. As soon as Eddie gets home he's itching for his furry friend, delighting in the way she scampers around the room, over his arms and anywhere she can get. No matter what though, she always comes back to him. She can be digging in to a particularly interesting crevice behind the couch but she'll always come running back when she hears Eddie make a noise.  

The thing is, Eddie is a pretty lonely kid. Not for lack of trying, don't get it wrong. Eddie tries to socialise he tries to talk to the other kids in his class, get them involved in his imaginary games and play pretend but being the new kid doesn't really do him any favours. Being the new kid that lives in the trailer park and a penchant for biting to show affection does him even less. 

To Eddie, its him and Sam against the world. He can come home and know that his best friend will listen to all his problems, will stay close and won't run away even when he's extra loud or being 'a lot' as his teacher like to tell him. He's so tired of being told to use his 'quiet hands', his 'inside voice' and every other subdued phrase they try to press on him. 

This particular day was a hard one, Sally Winters had said that Eddie was 'bad luck' and the word quickly spread around by recess. Eddie had thought he was making some progress with a couple of kids from the class, was thinking today might be the day that he finally got asked to play but that hope quickly got squashed. He had hopped up to the potential friends with a stick in his hand and a notion of being a pirate when they both looked at him like he was a monster, they couldn't get away fast enough. And Eddie couldn't find a place to hide quick enough before the fat and heavy tears fell from his eyes. 

It was a long day and home time was his only saving grace. 

Wayne knows somethings up, can tell in the way that Eddie isn't even really talking to Sam, hardly looking at the Tv despite the fact that Wayne very purposefully had put the cartoon Lord of the Rings movie on. The sure fire fall back he liked to keep in his back pocket. The trump card to get his kid happy. This time though? No luck. Looking at the kid makes a chasm open up in his gut, deep and full of overwhelming sadness that he just wants to stop, wants to find the solution to make this boy smile like the sun again. They don't talk much for the rest of the night but Wayne makes sure to stay close, stay awake in case he's needed. Eddie spends the time between dinner and bed sitting on the floor, side pressed up against Wayne's leg and playing fetch with bits of Wayne's whittling with Sam, not a word said. 

-

Eddie wakes up the next morning with a plan and a devil may care attitude. Oh so carefully he maintains his usual routine; says good morning to Sam, carts her around the trailer as he washes his face and wanders into the kitchen, placing her in her secondary cage so she can eat breakfast with Eddie and Wayne - Eddie was adamant that they couldn't have meals without her, 'she's part of the family!' and soft hearted fool Wayne Munson agreed and an additional cage was sourced. 

When breakfast is finished Eddie begins his usual rigmarole of dragging his feet to get out of his pjs and into his clothes, reluctant to grab his bag and go out the door. Same old protests as Wayne watches him walk out towards the school bus. 

What is a new addition to the routine though, is Sam Munson hiding up the sleeve of a school boy and about to go on a secret and very dangerous mission. A mission to survive the school day. 

Surprisingly, Eddie manages to keep Sam secret, keep her safe, the whole morning. He came prepared with snacks to make sure she was entertained and happy, he couldn't stand the thought of her being sad, her eyes get so big and her tail droops as well as her ears, it makes the whole of Eddie ache. But no, she's happy, or happy enough at least. 

So the morning goes without a hitch, Eddie making noises to cover up any squeaks and keeping a hand in his pocket to reassure Sam, stowed in the pocket of his hoodie. He knows he's seen as 'weird' so what's a few extra noises? They are let out for recess and Eddie breathes a sigh of relief, thinking this is his time to let Sam out, knowing she's desperate for some fresh air. Sure, she's peed in his hoodie pocket, but he can't really tell with it's dark colour and the layer of t-shirt between the wet material and his tummy. 

He runs off to his usual corner, stuck between a bush and a tree and gently tips Sam out of his pocket, she scampers around his feet and gratefully accepts a broken off bit of cracker between her hands.

'Thanks for coming with me Sam. Everyone is so mean, its so stupid. I don't care. You are a better friend than any of those losers' He crouches down, hoping to find a twig to play fetch with. A game that he delights in, is immeasurably proud of her for learning it so quickly. 'Gonna find you the best stick Sam. Promise. Best stick for the best friend' 

He continues muttering to himself and doesn't notice that he's getting progressively louder after finding a twig and beginning the game. Doesn't register that he's drawn unwanted attention with his happy shouts and encouragement until a body is crashing through the shrub he's hidden himself behind. 

Sam doesn't notice either until the unexpected form is right in front of her and she bolts, running as fast as her legs will carry her and Eddie is right behind her, muttering under his breath as he trips over his own feet in an attempt to catch her 'oh shit oh no oh no oh no' He's pushing himself as hard as he can but it doesn't count for much, he never was the fastest. He keeps trying though but then a faster body is accelrating past him, in a evident bee line for Sam. 

Without thinking, Eddie lets out a painful 'NO!' terrified of what might happen.

He knows people think rats are dirty, thinks they don't deserve love and don't deserve life. He doesn't want to imagine what this person's intent might be. Sam reaches a dead end up against the wall of the school and the body, the boy, stops infront of her. Scoops her up? Cradles her into his chest? Eddie...Eddie doesn't know what to think, he's prepared to fight this kid but then the boy is looking up at him with curious hazel eyes. Stroking Sam's head gently and with intent.

He holds Sam out, careful with his motions, trying to blow his brown floppy hair out of his face without disturbing the animal in his hands 'is she okay? is she yours? did I hurt her? she looks okay, is she?' Eddie gingerly steps forward and plucks Sam out of the boys hands, gives hera thorough inspection as the other boy continues 

'I didn't mean to scare her I swear! I didn't even know you had her! I won't tell, I swear I wont! You know...you shouldn't really have a rat in school. If I promise not to tell can I play with you? I'm Steve' 

Holding her close, Eddie squints at the boy, at Steve, and thinks. Thinks about how he looks nice, about how soft his hair looks and how he asked Eddie, Eddie!, to play, that he didn't give him a wide bearth and that he held Sam with such care. It isn't even a hard decision.

They spend the rest of recess together. Eddie shows Steve just how smart Sam. That she can play fetch, that she can run across one arm to the next, over your shoulders without losing balance. That she can twitch her whiskers and it seems like she's laughing at the joke Eddie tells her. That she laughs at the joke Steve tells her! Steve learns that she's named after somebody called Samwise and it doesn't matter that he's a boy because Sam is brave just like Samwise and smart and cares just as much. That Sam is Sam and Eddie is Frodo and together they can take on the world. 

Steve asks if he can have a name too and Eddie calls him Legolas, doesn't tell him why. Doesn't say that Steve reminds him of the pretty elves described in the books Wayne reads out loud to Eddie. It doesn't matter, not really. 

Recess ends and they shuffle back to the school doors, both of them lagging behind the others.

Eddie steels himself, knows he has to bring his misfortune up so that he can own in, so that his new friend doesn't find out from someone else. 'I'm bad luck you know. Sally...she said it. now everyone wont talk to me. I wont be mad if you don't either. I've got Sam. We'll be oaky! So you can just go, I don't care!' He knows he's getting wound up, he can't stop himself. He just wants the bandaid ripped off so he can start feeling sad quicker, get it over with sooner.

Before he can register is, Steve is wrapped around Eddie in a flash of a hug, careful to keep his tummy away from squashing Sam. 

'Not bad luck to me. See you tomorrow Frodo' Steve whispers next to Eddie's ear and shuffles through the school door. 

Eddie is in a daze of joy and happiness, thoughts rumbling through his head but none of them sticking as he journey back into his class room. Pure happiness radiating out of his body, he takes Sam out of his pocket and holds her up to his face 'Sam you made my bad luck go away!' kissing her on the forehead as he hears his teacher scream 

'EDWARD MUNSON IS THAT A RAT?!'

-

So Wayne thought the already unpopular kid having a rat would make things worse. Turns out, he was wrong. Very, very wrong. He might have to start pocket inspections before school though.

--------------------------------------

also on ao3 if that's the preferred reading format for you

[bamsara]

IM HOME and god that was. something.cool festival my leg hurts

[beanghostprincess]

I saw the strawhats chronic pain asks and had a moment of CROSS GUILD CHRONIC PAIN-

Crocodile is an amputee. Like. Canonically. Phantom pains.

Mihawk has HELLA light sensitivity vibes ((I Gift him,,,,, my migraines))

And Buggy? Oh my favorite little punching bag, I bet the spatial awareness necessary for his DF must he OFF THE CHARTS, not to mention bomb making, harmful chemicals, etc, I feel it in my bones that he has an autoimmune disorder of some kind and also migraines bc the highest flattery I can give is projection.

Ignore this if you wanna, t'was just a Thought, love your blog, Bean!!!!!! ♡♡♡♡♡♡

YAY CROSS GUILD ASK I AM IN SUCH A CROSS GUILD MOOD LATELY YESYESYESYES!!!!!!!! And I'm making this romantic because if I don't make cross guild gay I might die. Thank you.

Okay, so what I'm hearing here is that they keep their lights real low on their shared tent, and whenever they have meetings: At the start of their business relationship, they're still learning how to get used to being together. Buggy is used to stage lights but only for a while and he doesn't want these two to know another weak spot of him (also the pain around his whole body is killing him sometimes), so he tries to deal with the migraines and being uncomfortable because he knows that complaining will only lead to these two using him as a punching bag. But lucky for him, Mihawk does mention one day that he hates brightness (because edgy vampire can't say 'my head fucking hurts' like a functional human) and so he says something about candles. Buggy is afraid they might set the tent on fire but he prefers this over the headaches. Crocodile doesn't give a fuck about this, honestly. Then, they start growing closer and y'know, I'll just skip to them dating- They're dating. They share a tent there at Karai Bari. And now it's something to do instinctively? Like they just keep the lights low or light up some candles and they just live like that. Whenever they're on a ship they do this too.

Following what I just said, they're affectionate but like, in a weird way. Because, y'know, look at them. Buggy ends up crying and complaining about his headaches and also when his body won't stop hurting. He's a drama queen, of course, a diva. He lives flashily. Cries flashily, too. He always curls up beside Crocodile so the big big comfy man can provide him some comfort and warmth and pats on the head or something. Crocodile just runs his hook through his hair softly and lets him be annoying for a while until he falls asleep on top of him. If he has to do something he just??? Won't do it??? He's a pirate but he isn't a fucking monster. One day Mihawk catches them and they share that look of understanding that only cat owners understand, because God (Nika is the only one I believe in, something something amen) is watching and if you dare to move when a cat's in your lap, you go instantly to hell. On the other hand, when Buggy cries and Mihawk is the one around, he gives him some painkillers and turns off the lights completely to then read Buggy one of his books. He does this without saying a word and the first time this weird, silent sign of affection happens, Buggy is speechless. And also, yes, Mihawk can read in the dark perfectly well because he's a cat. He sees in the dark. I even think Buggy can see his gold eyes staring at him. They're like the headlights of a car. Oh, and Mihawk deals with his migraines in perfect silence but when it's a bad day he gets into a very irritable and irascible mood. Most people would be complaining about it but at least this way he's more talkative? Somehow? He's a bitch to Buggy for a while and then they just talk shit about other people together while Crocodile makes a comment like "If you're well enough to complain, you're well enough to continue worki-" and it's, like, the and only time Buggy instinctively throws a pillow at him to shut him up. Never again, though. Scary mafioso-looking boyfriend.

Now that we're talking about Crocodile, the phantom pains: They stress the fuck out of him. They're painful and uncomfortable and he wants to strangle somebody. On a good day, that somebody isn't Buggy. And on a bad day, Buggy really tries to be the sweetest fucking thing on earth by making everything comfortable for him and disappearing right away. Maybe he starts an argument with Mihawk for something stupid but they make up later, it's fine. But, you know what? Sometimes he needs comfort and somebody to distract him too, so one day (when Buggy is about to disappear for hours so he doesn't end up suffering the consequences of staying too long with him) he tells Buggy to stay. The clown is frightened, but he does what he's told and- And it's surprisingly sweet? Crocodile just tells him to talk to him. Explain something. Anything. Complain about the fucking weather or tell a joke. Anything. And Buggy is genuinely surprised but ends up either talking shit about people or telling him anecdotes or just reading him the paper. And Crocodile seems to like it??? A surprise for both, really, but the man actually likes having the clown around because it is working really well as a distraction and when Buggy is not being annoying Crocodile realizes why he loves him. He loves him when he's annoying too, though, he bullies him out of love. Sometimes he just tells Buggy to come sit on his lap and stay there and Crocodile is still in pain but somehow being with the clown makes him feel better. Mihawk tries to be comforting on these days too but it's more of a "you ought to rest, otherwise you'll be irritable all afternoon and you cannot keep frightening the subordinates" type of silent care than anything.

Also, I want to add Crocodile almost murdering a man one day because they were doing business with him on his ship and he had a lot of lights on (when he was asked not to) and both Mihawk and Buggy were visibly uncomfortable the second they entered the room. I love protective Crocodile. He looks like he'd just murder men without any remorse for talking shit about the other two. I like it.

[krowbby]

For the end of zinetober and last day of @quezify ‘s eggtober I made a zine of my favorite egg recipe! Full zine and food pics under the cut (along with the scan of the zine so you can print your own!)

I even went to a zine fest and traded it with some folks! It was super super fun :)

Here’s the instructions! Alt text is on all photos.

Now for some glamour shots of one I made yesterday:

And finally, the scan! If you want your own copy of the zine, just print this on a normal piece of paper and look up how to fold a zine :) Enjoy!

[daemon-in-my-head]

I had a spontaneous idea. So I'll torment u with it.

Growing pains - excerpt of a Bhaalspawn's journal

You find a booklet hidden deep within the temple's chambers. It appears tattered and stained, blood long dried and translucent watery marks covering every inch of the yellowed paper and leathery case.

As you open it, a Bhaalspawn's experiences reveal themselves before your eyes.

It hurt.

When it first happened, it hurt.

Even afterwards, every time it happened, the pain was unimaginable. It was as though my body was ripped apart, tendons snapping under pressure, skin being shredded, intestines torn and bones crushed.

It was agonising every time it happened. And yet, the more often I had to endure, the pain seemed to lessen. Not by a lot, of course. The agony and terror never fully vanished. But one could still say that I grew used to it. This twisted rite of passage, the 'growing pains' someone of my kind was expected to endure. Expected to celebrate.

Perhaps it was precisely that which lessened the pain. Their expectations, allowing me to feign ignorance. The love that always seemed to accompany this pain. The care and adoration for the monster it festered.

A gift he had called it. An heirloom passed down to his favourite. A treasured possession only those deemed worthy were graced with. And so I deluded myself. Fooling myself that this pain had been the greatest act of fatherly love he'd ever shown. That this was his care, and that a little pain was a worthy price for the adoration he'd shown.

Perhaps their love had made me ignorant towards the screams of warning and looming doom my body had thrown at me.

But I didn't listen. I got drunk on the love so desperately desired. This false showcase of compassion that I should've known was nothing but cruelty, and yet looked away from.

And nowadays, sometimes I wonder. When I'm alone and the blinded sheep returned to their quarters. When his love and the ecstasy it accompanies fades. What if I had listened to the screams? What if I had heeded the warnings?

Could I have avoided these crimson-stained hands? The guilt that haunts me? The unimaginable pain that doesn't seem to numb anymore? Would it have preserved this fickle thing, humanity they've called it, if I had listened?

Idk if ill do more like this. It is kinda fun tho

[good-beans]

I know most of our focus goes (rightfully) to the trial songs, but I genuinely believe Baptism of Fire is equally a masterpiece of meaningful writing and intense vocal acting

Incoming tag rant because I need to yell about this, feel free to yell back

[good-beanswrites]

I’m thinking about the angst of the restraints headcanon again. There’s the two with the least physically violent crimes, and they rank relatively low in strength. There’s the child who was violent but had to be really crafty about it; she’s the weakest of all of them. And the most dangerous of the guilty prisoners cannot be restrained.

This makes me so emotional!!! All three are the smallest of their circles. Two of them are extremely ordinary people who have never experienced/expressed physical violence before. One hadn't even fathomed the idea of someone dying until they actually did. And yet, they're subjected to the type of restraints you'd expect to see on someone who is uncontrollably violent. The fact that prisoners who committed very gruesome murders can walk free (including Mikoto) just adds insult to injury. I still couldn't everything into words, but here's a Mahiru-centric drabble featuring the same thoughts. It takes place after T1 closes but before the attacks.

“Where are our rights?”

Fuuta’s shout caused Mahiru to wince. She perched on her bedding, watching the two prisoners she’d invited to her cell. It hadn’t been the fun kind of invitation, though. Back in school, she always wanted to have parties and dates back at her place. Moving to the city, she imagined what it would be like to make university friends and take them back home with her to talk, eat, and have fun. 

Sitting in her dim gray cell with Fuuta and Amane, all of them held fast by complex sets of restraints, was not what she’d had in mind.

Amane knelt in the corner. Her arms were crossed, as if pouting, though the opposite was true. A moment ago her eyes had lowered in prayer, but it was difficult to find any peace of mind now. Fuuta snapped and shouted as he paced the length of the cell bars. They were unlocked, but like the others, he didn’t feel like being out in front of everyone. He’d give his uniform a violent jerk every now and then, but it didn’t do any good. Between his strides and growls, he made Mahiru think of those poor wild animals they keep at the circus.

“Take it easy, Fuuta.” She mustered up a smile. “Come rest with us.”

“I can’t believe you two. You’re just gonna sit here and take it? I didn’t do a fucking thing! They’re acting like I’m some big danger to society,” he yanked his arms again, to no avail. “All I did was type some things onto a screen. I’m not gonna go around stabbing anyone or anything. And you, you didn’t hurt anyone either!”

He nodded his head to Mahiru. If her arms weren’t already folded over her chest, she would have hugged herself anyway. 

“Well… I did hurt him in the end… I broke his heart badly enough that… I mean, he…”

Fuuta made a disgusted sound. “That’s all stupid romance stuff. I’m saying, you never stabbed him. Never strangled him. Never poisoned his food, or –”

“Oh god, no! How horrible…”

“Exactly! From what we’ve heard, it sounds like Haruka killed someone with his bare hands. I think Muu had a knife or something. Shidou had a whole arsenal of grisly doctor tools. Kotoko has openly talked about how she beat that guy to death. Why are they allowed to walk free while we’re tied down like wild animals?”

Mahiru was glad she hadn’t mentioned the circus.

“And Amane! It’s not like she did anything violent, and here she is!”

“That is not true.”

Both paused as Amane spoke up for the first time. 

“Eh?”

“While I disagree with my verdict, the restraints make sense.” The others still stared blankly. As matter-of-fact as always, she continued. “I killed with my own hands. I used the amount of force I was instructed to. Just as the sinner fears the wrath of heaven, I can understand how the godless warden would fear my justice.”

Fuuta’s passion wavered, but Mahiru could feel her heart ache for the girl. “Oh Amane… I had no idea. To be pushed to the point of violence at your age…”

“I am not to be pitied. As I said, I am dangerous, and proud to be. I am doing god’s work. All heroes must be dangerous.”

Fuuta grunted, but said nothing. Mahiru gave her a gentle smile. “It’s not pity. Even if you were dangerous, it’s horrible to restrain someone like you. You’ve already had to brave so much, as the smallest of the bunch.”

She looked between the two. A sad laugh escaped her. “Now that I think of it, I guess we’re all the smallest here, hm? Aside from maybe Muu, we don’t have much height or strength on the others…”

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Fuuta cried. “The fuck do they think we’re going to do?” Mahiru was just glad he’d focused on that rather than the fact she’d just called him weak. 

Voices raised in conversation down the hallway. Mikoto’s laugh echoed faintly into the cell.  

It warmed Mahiru to hear. Things had been so hard on him here. Though it had been frightening to hear him shouting at the restraints til his voice was raw – well, it wasn’t him shouting – it had been a relief when he appeared free and relaxed the following day. He seemed sheepish that he wasn’t able to help the others, having no memory of his escape. Mahiru just kept telling him how happy she was for him.

Fuuta didn’t share in the sentiment. “Meanwhile, Mikoto gets to stroll around free, and he beat the shit out of Es! He could snap and kill any one of us here, and they don’t even give a damn. But ooohhh, god forbid the guy who’s never been violent a day in his life is allowed to use his own two hands!”

The harshness of his voice wasn’t doing his argument many favors. Still, his words were beginning to get through to Mahiru. 

She’d worked so hard to be a model citizen. She was supposed to have a perfect life. She could cook, clean, sew, and take care of children. She did herself up every day; she was never a slob or a slut. She was generous to everyone she met. She showered the world around her in love. Wasn’t it unfair that her hands were tied like some common criminal? What was all that effort for – being patient when people upset her, being kind even when she disagreed with someone, all of that – if she was going to end up in the same place as someone who had stabbed another out of sheer malice?

Amane didn’t seem to be whirling with the same doubts. She closed her eyes once more. “It is simply a trial from heaven. We may be small, but all of us have an internal strength that will carry us through the ordeal.”

“I don’t think it’s any sort of religious thing, but you’re right,” Fuuta puffed his chest out. “Trials like this only make people stronger!” 

“Do you think so?” Mahiru wasn’t sure if she was asking either of them or just musing to herself. It was a nice thought. This was all part of destiny, something meant to be that would make her stronger in the end. 

But she wasn’t so sure she believed in destiny anymore. It hadn’t quite worked out the first time. 

“Hell yeah!” Fuuta must have assumed she was in fact asking him. He gave a wide, toothy grin. “It’s not like we can get any weaker, right? The warden better watch out next trial – they’ve got a big storm coming!”

[luminousjellyfishy]

MORE????? I'm on a roll

~

ColorKiller Angst

Characters (UTMV): Killer, Color, Nightmare

Word Count: 948

Trigger Warning: Character death, gaslighting, toxic NM

Summary: Killer had been meeting up with Color in "secret" for a while now. Nightmare decided that enough was enough.

~

For such a long time before, Killer had been sneaking out of Nightmare’s mansion to secretly meet up with Color. What they had together was beyond words and honestly beyond Killer’s comprehension, he just knew it was something. Something that he didn’t have with anyone else. Something he never wanted to have with anyone else.

It was thoughts like those that disturbed him. 

Especially now.

He had never even known what he was feeling, but he only wanted to feel them for Color.

Unfortunately for him, Nightmare had grown tired of these “secret” meetings of theirs and decided he would put an end to them.

He had let Killer have his fun, but all good things must come to an end to make way for such delicious despair.

So now, in the Waterfall of a desolate AU that had been their chosen meeting spot, Nightmare stood above a kneeled Killer, a tentacle wrapped around his soul in a threatening manner.

Just off to the side was Color, who had been pushed out of the way when Nightmare made his appearance. He was struggling to get up in the face of the sheer amount of Negativity in the atmosphere, but kept trying to inch closer to Killer, to get him away from danger, to protect him at any cost necessary. His flames were burning a vibrant purple and orange.

“... don’t…” Killer rasped aloud, but to whom he was begging was unclear.

Was he telling Color not to bother with him? Was he telling him to run?

Or, was he begging Nightmare to leave Color alone? Was he pleading with him to spare the only life he held any value to?

“I’ve grown tired of your insolence, Killer. With you constantly sneaking out to meet with this walking rainbow, you’ve lost your true reason for living; your only purpose. You do remember what that is, hm?” Nightmare asked him, cocking his head and smirking down at the pitiful display before him.

Instead of answering him, like he knew he should have, Killer stayed silent and stared at the floor.

“Killer… you don’t have to listen to him. It’ll be fine, I promise.” Color said to him, hoping desperately to prevent a stage shift. 

Killer looked up at him momentarily and his soul throbbed. What was he feeling right now? Why did it hurt so much?

Whatever it was, it made Nightmare’s smirk drop instantly and his tentacle coil just a bit tighter. Tight enough to make Killer curl over himself and let out small, very obviously repressed sounds of pain.

“Stop that!” Color yelled at him as he summoned an arm blaster and prepared to attack. However, before he could hardly charge it, a tentacle quickly wrapped its way around his arm and tightened significantly, severely breaking it.

In response, Color yelled out in pain and hunched over, cradling his arm, or what was left of it.

Killer’s eyesockets widened and he looked up at Nightmare with such a desperate look and pleaded, “Please stop! Please!”

Reveling in such potent Negativity from the two skeleton’s, Nightmare just laughed at him and shook his head in amusement.

“You know, I’m feeling rather generous right now, so I’ll give you a choice: Come back with me and leave Color behind, alive; or leave with him.”

Silence followed.

“Don’t do it Killer. Go with him. There’s some sort of trick here, I know it. Please, go with him. I’m begging you.” Color begged him, his eyelight shaking as he could feel in his gut that something was so very wrong here.

“Well?” Nightmare asked, seeming to taunt him even with a single word.

“... I choose to leave with him.” He said, glaring up at the one so clearly superior to him.

“Oh, how disappointing.” Was all that could be said before a tentacle pierced its way directly through Color’s soul.

There was hardly any sound as Killer was forced to watch the most important person to him turn to dust.

The tentacle unwound itself from Killer’s soul, leaving him to support himself, which he could not do, instantly falling further to the floor and letting out sounds he didn’t think he could make anymore.

These sounds were ones of true agony. The ones that only come when you’ve just lost something truly dear to yourself. The ones that come after you’ve lost the one person you’ve ever loved.

“You know, maybe if you’d chosen to go with me, this wouldn’t have happened.” A small sigh and click of his tongue, “Look what your choice did, Killer. Look what you’ve done.” Nightmare murmured to him, right beside his ‘ear’.

A heart-wrenching wail was the only response to be heard before Nightmare sighed once again, saying something about a mess, before leaving.

As Killer sobbed, he apologized and screamed for forgiveness to the point that his throat had grown raw and scratchy.

He stayed there for so long, crying and screaming for Color to come back, that he was so sorry, that he hated Nightmare for what he had done. 

Nightmare showed no signs of coming back, but that made sense because that was what Killer had chosen. He chose for him and Color to leave, but it was never specified like in the first option that both would be alive.

Killer stayed there so long, hunched over and crying to no end that he hadn’t noticed that his soul didn’t look target-shaped anymore. It now looked like an upside-down heart.

He was in Stage 1 and he wasn’t able to go back.

He was stuck with this agony and he would have to live with it forever.

And Nightmare was just fine with that.

[unohanadaydreams]

five comfort characters, five tags

I was tagged by @srtruth here and @bleachbleachbleach here. (Linked so you can go read their answers!!!)

Thank you both! I'm historically bad at remembering to do these, so I appreciate you even tagging me lol.

To me, a comfort character is one I can fall back on when I want to write or read or see something familiar and do so consistently with that character. What Would Blorbo Do? I know exactly what they'd do and so it's easy to include them in things I write. In general, Blorbo Soup for the Soul, I guess lmao.

Mayuri Kurotsuchi. My favorite blorbo. His terrarium is costly, expansive, and in view at all times. He's so theatrical & contradictory, yet at his core there's this simplicity of what he wants to be and how he views himself. And I just don't get tired of it! Definitely a beetle undergoing reconstructive surgery to better fit it's aesthetics of evolution and choosing the life of a caterpillar instead. Dug his way out of the dirt and said 'that's not who I am, actually, I'll never be that again.'

Kenpachi Zaraki. Probably the oldest blorbo of this list, tbh. A verified onion. Huge angst potential, let alone the angst fulfilled in canon. He's like if Icarus made it and laughed the whole way there, even as the Sun started to do irreparable damage to his foresight and burned everyone who made it with him to ash. He's like if the Minotaur knew the way out the whole time but continued to wander because he was so, so scared to find out the sun and stars and the sea breeze wouldn't be everything he dreamed they'd be and if they were, that they'd disappear just as he was starting to realize how wonderful it all felt.

Retsu Unohana. Second oldest blorbo after Zaraki. I just really love that you can FEEL how much she wants to live as simply as Zaraki, but she genuinely can't. She's dedicated herself towards too much. She can't ever go back. She slammed that fridge door on herself with zero hesitation. Queen of being a two-faced bitch telling herself she's one missed meditation away from going back to hunting down worthwhile fights in the middle of nowhere, but really she's just going to make the 4th division a nightmare hospital visit for anyone who pisses her off too much that day.

Giselle Gewelle. One of the newest blorbos! I love that she's a simple character with such complicated baggage. What does she want? To live! How does she want to live? With her bffs! How is she going to do that? By turning everyone into hyper-dependent undead puppets who are forced into a symbiotic relationship with her the moment they cease to live, forced to feel the same pain of stagnation as her, forced to realize that their life was a gift and her being content to let them live was a gift, that she can bleed so easily and that she didn't for so long was a Gift. You know! Just girly things. <3

A tie between Akon & Nanao Ise. Newer blorbos, for sure. Fellow workaholics who can stay sane under insane conditions & highly unreasonable employers. The hyper competent duo whose squads are being held up by their ability to maintain a straight face toward their captains when most would quit in less than a week. Definitely average less than 10 days of PTO used a year. Not just blorbos, but comrades.

Tagging with peace and love and no pressure: @wing-ed-thing @stupid-sloot-headcanons @tuliharja @a-libra-writes @j-u-u-z-o