#metamorphizing and shit

[luxury-nightmare]

happy Father’s Day to the velidgun ever

@silverstudios

[rinmemesuoka]

bustafellows IS notable for creating a character i cannot stand and Still somehow making me go You Are Torturing This Man Too Much

[thaparasite]

WENT TO THE CEMETERY TODAY TO VISIT THE DEATH FOUNTAIN (INGREDIENTS FOR POTION) AND FOUND MY GOOD FRIEND GARIBALDO

Excuse his hair, my dear good metamorph friend is a punk, as you can see.

[astralprisms]

You can't take these two anywhere

[boimlerkisser]

I wanna draw my ship with Utonium as ponies...

[dancingthrustars]

Cold Iron

If cottages were a thing they cared for, maybe this could be considered one. Cabin is perhaps more accurate, hovel even more so. The rough wood is something several have taken to wearing down in their boredom, the points of entry checked and rechecked throughout the passing days for both peace of mind and wind. The risk of torrential downpour grows increasingly severe as the days pass, and most have taken to staring skeptically at the caulked spaces above.

It is a gift though, or close enough to it. A temporary arrangement with a friend of a friend of a contract of a mediator and so on and so forth.

For what it’s worth, none of them mind it that much. The ceilings are tall enough, the beds numerous enough that they can share without overflowing and that those who truly need them can’t defer in the name of chivalry. There have been some pillows launched in vicious protest to that fact, but it has been ultimately in good fun. This is a moment for them, a reprieve. If only they could accept it.

They laugh, they smile, they recover, but this far from home it’s paranoia that reigns supreme.

Anyone who knows what to look for would spot the charms tucked along the heavy boughs of the winding path, the marked eyes scratched and drawn in the corners and crevices. Others might notice the silver and iron winding in the mimic of filigree along the doors and windows, salt and ash patterning the spaces between. They’ve had to take down the horseshoe over the front door, and that’s mostly because one person keeps bitching about it making his skin crawl.

It’s safe, overall. Secure. They can’t allow it to be otherwise.

No one should be able to come close without them knowing. Without several inside smelling—hearing—feeling that someone is approaching.

And yet, three even knocks on the door. Nothing after.

Conversation killed, they look to each other in the sudden silence, wondering if there’s a purposeful surprise, if someone noticed something no one else did. One of their own is out there, chopping firewood—is it him? But no, he wouldn’t knock. Several others made the trek into the nearest town hours ago but even the humans wouldn’t miss the noise they make.

As if in answer, a wary shout sounds from outside. Those who can move jolt nearly as one towards the door, the almost-eldest among them at the front of the pack, wounds be damned.

Outside, by the treeline, a young man lurks—unharmed, still clutching his axe. And just beyond the stoop, just beyond the intricate ward hidden under the welcome mat and nearly atop the lovingly rendered cocks scribbled just past, a plain-looking thing, average and clad in a suit that doesn’t quite fit around the shoulders and stomach. Designed to be seen and quickly forgotten.

Its dead eyes lock to that of their chosen leader, its voice dull and even.

“Do you allow this one entry?”

None of them move. The man blocking the door’s face pinches into a sour glare, so vicious it might well have made the thing intruding upon his family disappear.

Given most things, perhaps not an unfounded hope.

The young man at the treeline takes half a step closer, hesitant to interfere but ready to defend. The thing merely tilts its head, either unaffected or unreceptive to the overt hostility coming from all angles.

“This one requests entry. A job is offered.”

From behind them all, a voice comes from the kitchen archway, a rumble of sound complaining sharply enough about idiots interrupting vacations that most would reasonably feel shame, their capacity to understand Russian be damned. The thing at the door merely waits.

Collectively, they all realize they aren’t getting out of this. Several groan. Others stumble back in the direction of whatever they were doing. The man sucks in air through his teeth—frustration—protection—hate—love—

“Fine. You can come in long enough to explain the job. You leave immediately after and you don’t come back.”

“This one finds that acceptable.”

It follows him inside to the dining table, ignoring the knives and guns and crossbows spread across in favor of sitting quietly at the spot closest to the door, every step slow and deliberate. It does not take its eyes off the man as he sits across from it, never blinking, never moving anymore than required.

The door shuts behind the young man, axe loose in his grip. He doesn’t move from there.

It is clear what it is, this thing intruding on their lives. Every movement, every word, all purposeful, considered, chosen. A puppet of something long since dying but far from dead, formed whole cloth from a flickering image of an idea, a conjuration stitched in the eyes of the previous iteration. Annoyingly, a creation that means more than likely even if they forcefully deal with this one, another will arrive soon after.

No real choice but to let it speak.

And speak it does.

The job it offers is a simple one, on the surface. Simple investigation and elimination, pruning a bad apple before it can spoil the lot. Nothing they haven’t dealt with before. Something that, given normal situations, it could easily hire human experts for.

It came to them though.

It calls them pest control.

Several find that very funny.

Still though, they hesitate. The initial layers of this are of human ilk, assuredly, greed of a breed very rarely spotted outside of simple flesh, but there’s more beneath, more in the things it does and does not say to them. A thread of commonality, familiar and not all at once.

From his perch in a chair more stuffing than support, a faceless mimicry scoffs disdainfully. The thing at the table tilts its head once more, faux-

apologetic.

The real reason it came to them, a contract of a contract.

A game that needs fixing. A game that needs finding in the first place.

All eyes turn to him. He sighs, dramatic. Features coalesce—a scowling mouth, scrunched nose, narrowed eyes. Annoyance, mainly.

“It’s uncouth, interfering with someone else’s game like that.”

“This one understands. This one also regrets such actions. If the game were better played, this one would not have offered.”

The sigh is immense, and ever so slightly too long.

The problem is as such: they of the shifting and mischief are not one. To call them brethren would begin at uncharitable and end somewhere near inflammatory. They are not the same. They are not similar. They are no more connected than the scale of a fish and the hoof of an ox. Additionally, given the option several would be more than happy to rip each other to pieces and play with the entrails.

That said, there are rules, insomuch as they of a court both eternal and ephemeral can have such things, can hold sway over such flickering minds. This one, the one they all look to, he is far from devout. To many, he would openly be considered a heretic. But still, some rules even the most rebellious hesitate to break.

Hesitate, however, is an important word, an important distinction.

“Is there a general location?”

“Currently, this one is aware of several primary suspects interfacing at the Hôtel Barrière Le Majestic Cannes between assignments.”

A city. People. Far from the towering trees of the surrounding woods. The definition of the face slides away, murky, thoughtful. A hand reaches up from somewhere on the floor to rub assuringly at his ankle. Neither of them moved in the commotion.

“…If the pay is good. And if we’re sufficiently compensated for the risk. Room and board included, of course.”

“This one expected as much.”

It pulls a small folded paper out of its coat, hands it to the man still glaring at it.

“The offer. This one expects you will call.”

Its form starts to waver, immaterial. The man shouts, nearly furious.

“Hey we don’t have fucking cell service up—“

But it’s already gone, collapsing into a pile of sticks and cloth. He groans, leaning back in his chair. For a few seconds there is quiet, waiting, expectant. Then he sighs.

“Eli, take that mess outside and burn it. You two, you want the job? You come and take it. It’s your blood, not mine.”

The smile sharpens back into focus, all teeth.

“It’s not not your blood, dearest uncle.”

“You’re not funny. Eli, move your ass.”

“I got it!”

The young man drops his axe with a thud, rushing to do as he’s told. With a grunt of effort, the shape on the floor pushes himself to his feet, hair mussed, book still thumbed in place. The transient beast beside him reaches out, lets himself be pulled up as well, body too thin, too tall, here and gone. As one they come to lean over the table, so intertwined as to be inextricable.

Several around the room make exaggerated sounds of nausea. The older man vacates his spot at the table with a roll of his eyes, retreating to the kitchen with a griping grumble about kids these days.

The paper unfolds under their touch to a stack of pages, images, maps, tall enough to begin to spill. Plenty to lay a groundwork. They both take half, skimming, thoughtful. A few others wander over to look as well, to give their own opinions.

The mouth grows ever increasingly into a sneer the more they read. Unimpressed. Frustrated, more so. A game so poorly thought out that its impact is nothing short of disastrous, human and elsewise. When they finally set down their respective piles, both are in a notably worse mood than when they started. The material of the two takes a second to rub at his eyes, considering what angles they can take this.

“Has anyone heard from Lerna recently?”

From the very center of where several of the beds have been shoved together, half-muffled under a pile of blankets and bodies and bandages, a voice.

“It’s been lying low since the egg hatched, something about wanting a quiet environment for the formative months. Went back home and everything but s’been awhile so it might answer if you called. Not like they’d be that far away if they are.”

Someone else in the pile makes a joke about being only a lion away from a chimera. Several others yelp in protest when a hoof kicks out in the general direction of it. They’re all summarily ignored.

“Yeah, thanks Sil. Might need to.”

“Darling, it’s Cannes in spring. We’ll definitely need to.”

“I know, I know. Just don’t want to be a dick about it.”

He steps away from the table, paces a small lap. As if summoned, their halfway-leader reappears from the kitchen, clutching a mug of something too thick to be anything resembling a proper drink.

“How long do you two think you’ll be busy.”

Still pacing, one of two hums in thought.

“Two weeks, maybe three?”

“We’ll be out of here by then. If you don’t hear from anyone, just head back home after. Got plans for travel?”

The second, leaning against the table. He’s more solid now, hooked down by a problem.

“The Croix des Gardes should be fine, I should think. We can call from there.”

Both look distinctly displeased by the notion, but it will be the easiest. Others murmur sympathetically. The old man before them does not, just takes a long sip of his sludge.

“Pack up, you can head out in the morning. At least then we can put the damn horseshoe back up.”

[metaldevilll]

sensory shnizz is crazy cuz someone could be screenshotting something (pushing two terribly noisy buttons on their phone) and all of a sudden i want to bite their head off

[limeade-l3sbian]

TW // Vague descriptions of rape. Not of a specific rape but actions involved in a certain type of rape.

Interestingly, I think the normalization of talking about sexual assault is a bit of a double edged sword in this culture. We absolutely should talk about it and yeah, sorry not sorry if it makes you uncomfortable that people write about their experiences and the effects it has but I'm sure it's no picnic to live with so suck it up. But I think the rampant nature of it has made people very numb to the word.

"Oh, yeah, I heard he'd raped a womyn-" No, no, no. Listen to what you just said. Think about the inherent violence of that single word. He raped her. He was consciously aware that she was not interested in being intimate and still forced her. I think the word "rape" is heavy and quiet but it is loud too. You can't hear the screaming (internal or external) that is happening in that word. It sounds very harsh but like, yeah, it fucking is.

Imagine a time when you were being held down, whether it was roughhousing or being held down from fighting or whatever the fuck. A situation where despite being held back, you knew you would be let go. But this time you're not. You're not let go. And no amount of distress is making a difference.

I'm not trying to be bleak or needlessly crass about this but then again, maybe I am. Rape is crass, it is scary, it is trauma inducing. It is not just an uncomfortable romp in the sheets or some shit where you can laugh it off later. And it is a metamorphizing thing that can look different and sound different, to the point where you are scared to even think that you might've just experienced it.

He didn't just rape her. He raped her.

[rei-ismyname]

X-Men #11 Review

To be honest, this one was underwhelming. There's always something worthy of commentary, it just feels like not much happens and it doesn't quite feel like a full issue - perhaps because it bucks the Marvel formula of the three Cs - conflict, choice, and conclusion.

Stuff certainly happens but nothing that couldn't be summed up in a few sentences at the start of next issue. The last three issues have all had high stakes, for better or worse, and without room to breathe tension burns out.

The Raid on Graymalkin is over but not much has changed, Agent Fucko and the O*N*E have stood down, and everyone is moving on. I didn't expect to see a discussion about recent events but I really want one. Serious shit has gone down very recently and all these people should have opinions on that. The X-Men are used to constant drama but still ... it feels like those events didn't matter and the characters feel thinner for it. It's said that the O*N*E visit was 'earlier' yet Beast is standing and relaxed despite being beaten badly. Maybe Xorn is that good a healer.

After a cold open on some kind of space bullshit crashing nearby, we cut to Beast and Jen Starkey running some tests on her mutation. They're on an awkward first name basis after she reminds him but they're getting along well enough. Hank theorises that she's a metamorph of some kind and tests that hypothesis. Flying seems like a risky place to start but I'm not a scientist. Fortunately he's right and she's not a reality warper or something - she grows wings and assumes avian features. Cool. We move on from them as the plot is happening to other people. Nice to see you both, say hi to Magneto for me.

Whatever crashed is making a beeline for Merle, and Scott feels the O*N*E visit has already disrupted the town enough for one day. If it wasn't coming for them he says it would be none of their business, which is understandable. The X-Men have so many red alert crises and threats coming for them that they couldn't operate as traditional superheroes even if they wanted to. I think that might be this book's identity - Cyclops and friends playing whack-a-mole with endless mutant problems. Although, in other books they're expanding the scope. They're fighting one of Cyttorak's kids right now in Amazing Spider-Man, they've agreed to be on call to the Avengers and have an alliance of sorts; though when all the heroes gather for One World Under DOOM the only mutant present is Storm. Maybe they're in space due to this issue, but the degree of connectivity feels inconsistent. That's often been a thing with X-books, except it's been explicitly set up in Avengers so I don't know what to think.

The banter is cute and the ad hoc points system adorable, but it's mood whiplash considering there's been no time skip since the last 3 intense issues. Maybe I'm nitpicking. I've certainly been known to. People who aren't able to decompress after high stress situations often turn to humour to cope. Something I find myself saying with this book a lot is 'I guess we'll see if it's followed up on.' Given the amount of dangling plot threads and character beats I can't help but feel that the book doesn't deserve that grace. I'll come back to that.

Moving on, Scott needs to be captured by alien bounty hunters and this is how it happens. The visitor from space is Scott's deadbeat dad, Corsair. He's here to warn him that he's got a huge battalion after him, but he really doesn't prioritise it. They greet warmly but Scott is suspicious of his motives, an attitude he had in Phoenix but one that's at odds with other recent history. Whatever - Corsair sucks and he deserves to get called out.

Haha! Krakoa callbacks have been pretty inconsistent, but this is definitely a fun one to dredge up. The Starjammers did abandon the New Mutants to Shi'Ar prison for petty reasons and Magik remembers. She interrupts Scott's interrogation and punches the old geezer in the face. Good for her. Space jail sucks and that's dry snitching.

It's interrupted by Beast detecting even more space bullshit with his instruments. A space whale carrying a whole bunch of aliens is rolling up. So that's what the situation is, thanks Corsair.

'For you. They're here for you.' Not hard.

Err, you didn't really say that, Corsair. Sure, you used that word, but there was no sense of urgency when you could have just said 'aliens are coming to get you, Scott Summers, very soon. It's an emergency.' Even after getting angry he talks about himself and deflects. Just fucking tell them what's happening dude. 'They' is vague and you basically wasted your time. He's not even finished blundering.

The X-Men leap into action with Scott assuming the bounty hunters are here for Corsair - a VERY reasonable assumption. That they're actually here for Scott is very strange. I think Scott taking the situation at face value would be correct 99% of the time - Corsair is a dodgy space pirate who's always being chased by bounty hunters whereas Scott is a Shi'Ar ally and on decent terms with the Kree-Skrull empire. As Corsair admits, he has a 2.5 million credit bounty on his head. No idea what the exchange rate is but it sounds like a lot. I wonder if they're still using Mysterium as a currency and store of value.

There's been some big changes in galactic politics recently in response to Jean and Phoenix cruising around. Gladiator freaked out about it and long story short the Galactic Council put Thanos in charge. They shouldn't be able to do that but mind control is probably involved. Hulkling, Wiccan, or Xandra have been strangely absent. Anyway, failing to get across that they're after Scott is such a blunder I have to wonder if it's not a betrayal. Corsair is an idiot, but that makes this an idiot plot. His and Scott's argument ends up being a pointless waste of time - just taking up page space.

Temper scorches the poor whale, lucky it's lobotomized. The X-Men come through a portal onto the whale ship and raise hell. It's always nice to see how effectively the team work together, though we've just had an event full of pointless violence. Scott thinks he's rescuing his dad but he's really charging into a trap. Corsair eventually convinces Quentin to let him into the telepathic group chat and HE STILL YAPS ABOUT IRRELEVANT INFORMATION. Fuck, just tell him they're here for him; Scott doesn't need to know about the economics of interstellar travel right now.

'I came to warn you, son. I'll do so after including as much extraneous information as possible.' Corsair manages to spit it out only after Scott has already realised something is up. The bounty hunters are wearing Ruby Quartz armor (which is pretty cool) and they've got Cyclops surrounded. Seems like Magik could get him out of there pretty easily, or Scott could blow a hole in the floor. Juggernaut, famously, can't be stopped - surely he can take out these chumps.

Only now do we get 'they're after you.' Three words that he could have said at any time, or even thought it at either of the two telepaths present. He even has a ship-to-speeder communicator that he could have used to get to the point. It's necessary to have characters make mistakes and have errors in communication. It's a reliable and relatable source of drama. Filling half the issue with Corsair dropping out of the sky and saying plenty of words that don't advance the plot or characters in a believable way feels like pointless filler. Corsair has had more dialogue than Glob, Xorn, and Ben Liu - all ongoing characters - and all of it served no purpose. You could remove him from this issue without affecting anything. As I said in the intro, stuff happens, but nothing that couldn't be summed up in a few sentences for the next issue.

Now that Corsair has said what he came to say he's wallpaper. Good. Idie and Quentin are looking to support their teammates when fucking Alpha Flight arrive to help (I think?) A Beaubier-less Alpha Flight is not particularly interesting to me, but I like most of them. They all got imprisoned by ORCHIS during Fall of X for supporting mutants. Definitely cool behaviour, and Puck is generally rad (not sure if he's here) but I there's one member who can go fuck himself.

James MacDonald Hudson is the worst. He's ostensibly a hero but he does a lot of reactionary bootlicking. He briefly joined ORCHIS out of fear of mutants but got cold feet when Australia was nearly destroyed. I'll rant about him another time, but woo - Alpha Flight are here to support the X-Men. Maybe the space bullshit will only take up one more issue. It ends there, so we'll find out next time.

Around issue #5 of this run I stated that I was starting to notice the narrative formula. Each issue will focus on a handful of characters while introducing some new crisis, the rest of the team will get a few panels at best, there'll be some action squeezed in somewhere and then it'll end on a cliffhanger. The cumulative effect is that the plot is glacially slow, the characters have one or two defining traits/issues, and most plot points dangle as crisis after crisis gets piled on.

Even the plot points that have been revisited haven't been resolved in any way, like Graymalkin or the ongoing O*N*E cold war. Here's a list of the dangling plot threads and character beats I could think of without rereading.

- 3K and the adult mutants

- Cassandra Nova

- R-LDS

- The Upstarts

- Graymalkin prison

- The O*N*E

- Scott's anxiety attack

- Piper Cobb

- Magik's chess game

- Idie's problems with authority and teamwork

- Magneto. Just Magneto. He's there but has little to say

- The Phoenix

- Beef with Rogue

- King Bedlam's price

Any one of these things would usually be a priority to deal with or at least discuss. I feel like it devalues their importance to just introduce a new problem almost every issue and it makes it harder to get invested in events as they unfold. This issue, for instance - I suspect it'll be resolved next issue and not spoken about again. Or, it will be a drawn out space adventure like the old days and all the Earthly problems will be put on the backburner. Either way it's a problem caused by frontloading all these crises and continually stacking them on top of one another.

There are moments of solid execution and meaningful character work, but when everything is a crisis nothing is. X-Men #11 looks pretty good, as usual, but it's entirely skippable. If you are a big Corsair fan and want 10 pages of him failing a simple task then this book is for you, but if not you can get everything you need from the intro blurb next issue.

[andthekitchensinkao3]

20 Questions with a Fanfic Author

Thanks for the tag @lavender-tea-fling :D I’m always surprised when someone tags me in these things - keep ‘em comin’!

*cracks knuckles* … *no, not really, because OW*

1. How many works on AO3?

I TOO HAVE 48 WORKS ON AO3! Find them all at this handy-dandy link: andthekitchensink

2. Total AO3 Word Count?

I’m almost embarrassed to tell. 947,443 words. How can there be almost 1 MILLION words on there?!?!?!?!

3. Top 5 Fics by Kudos (disclaimer: I loathe kudos. The hits go up, but the kudos stay at the same “Less than 10%” of hits, and even fewer people leave comments, so I’m left convinced nobody likes my stuff, or are being too polite to be mean in the comments)

Silent Treatment - Detroit: Become Human AU, in which Connor is a human, Selectively Non-Verbal, and there are no androids. Instead there’s a Nefarious Government Project having used children as lab rats. It’s basically a sci-fi thriller.

Great Pretenders - also DBH. Undercover as a Couple, Hankcon. Mutual pining, a convention dedicated to getting the most out of one’s relationship - what could possibly go wrong?

Tapestry of Time - Loki (TV) my first ever Lokius fic, full of Norse mythology. A fix-it fic set after the series finale.

Spa Day - five chapters of Hankcon smut. Gentle dom Connor, greedy sub Hank.

Metamorph - my first ever DBH fic, and also my first ever AO3 fic, uploaded back in 2018. Hankcon, set after the events of the game.

4. What fandoms do you write for?

I have written for FAKE, Yami no Matsuei, The Sentinel (TV), Star Trek: Deep Space 9, Metal Gear Solid, Harry Potter, Final Fantasy VIII, an anime style fighter game I can’t even remember the name of, Tin Man - but those aren’t on AO3. I’m not even sure I still have copies of them. Might have gotten lost in one of my computer crashes. This was before the days of cloud storage, people. Even going so far back as the days of ~dial up modems~. I also stopped writing fanfic altogether because I didn’t fit into fandom spaces, and some interactions with other fans made me think I couldn’t write for shit.

Be kind to your writers, folks. I didn’t write for ten years. Imagine the fics I could’ve written if I’d had more love from my fellow fans.

More recently, since I got my own AO3 account, I’ve written for Detroit: Become Human, Person of Interest, Loki (TV) and Dragon Age: The Veilguard.

5. Do you respond to comments?

I try to always respond to comments, but I have the memory of an empty fishbowl, and I work a fulltime job. So if I’m late to respond, it’s not because I don’t love your comment. It’s Life(™).

6. Angstiest Ending?

I don’t do angsty endings. I do angsty everything leading up to the end, which invariably ends on a happy note.

7. Fic with the Happiest Ending?

All of them, but I am particularly fond of the ending to A Promise Kept, my Lokius fairytale mashup set in the world of Baldur’s Gate 3.

8. Do you get hate?

So, that anime style fighting game I can’t remember the name of? The creator of Manly Guys Doing Manly Things once roasted my fic in the comments for being too stereotypical of the shounen ai genre - ie beefy boys crying, angst galore, so on. My sole claim to fandom fame, I guess. But no outright hate.

9. Do you write smut?

OH YEAH BABY

10. Do you write crossovers?

I want to, but I seldom come up with a neat way of meshing two fandoms and sets of characters together. A Promise Kept is my only finished project thus far. I do write AUs, though.

11. Ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge. Kids. Don’t steal people’s fics. Write your own.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated

Nope. I suppose I could translate one of my own into Swedish, but… I don’t see the point.

13. Have you ever cowritten a fic?

I co-rp’d 200 pages worth of historical romance fanfic with a dear friend once. That was fun.

14. All time favorite ship?

Why you wanna make me choose? Come on. I will say, though, I shipped Kirk/Spock even as a kid, because they were so obviously in wub with each other and I thought they made a cute couple. Ah, Star Trek reruns back in the eighties… 

15. WIPs you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I have a Hankcon/Passengers (movie) AU that I’m not sure I’ll finish. But never say never. Inspiration might strike again!

16. Writing strengths?

I’ve been told I do dialogue well, and that I’m funny. IMHO I think I’m kinda good at plot twists, but I’ll let the reader be the judge of that.

17. Writing Weaknesses?

I am utterly self conscious of Telling too much, versus Showing too little. But I’m working on it.

18. Thoughts on mixed language dialogue?

I do it all the time, when appropriate to a character. Being bi-/multilingual myself, it’s always fun. I’m a language geek at heart.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

FAKE - the anime/manga about two cops in love.

20. Favorite fic you’ve ever written?

Again with the choices, tut tut. However, I am REALLY fond of How to Create a Monster, in which Connor goes deep undercover to expose a drug kingpin preying on androids.

Tags under the cut!

@ghoulehhh @natendo-art @in-my-loki-feels @kusakichan15

@devilbearingtrouble @impulsemuppet @mirilyawrites @scifikimmi @silentxsymphony

@rin-love-is-green @confetti39x @stillwanderingflame

@insert-witty-user-name-here @blackbirdofasgard @dreamycloud @distracteddream

@mobius-m-mobius @dilfmobius @adorbspotat @lgwilt

 @redheadsramblings @starfleetteddybear @mercars-musings @starrose17 @holyglassbone @genocidalfetus @wolfpup026 @elodiah @lokimobius @thosegayoldmen @kcscribbler @tinygameralec @notyourmamasdeerbat AND anyone else not mentioned 🧡💜💚

[luxury-nightmare]

so I decided to draw @silverstudios oc bee. (Please ignore her wings being the wrong colors I forgot)

[devondespresso]

First fic tag game 📝

Pick a fandom and post an excerpt of the first thing you ever wrote in that fandom. Could be a scene, part of a scene, a couple of lines, whatever your first foray into writing for that fandom was. Feel free to include a link to the story it comes from if it’s been published (excerpts from WIPs count too).

tagged by my beloveds @carolperkinsexgirlfriend and @stellarspecter

technically the first thing i started writing for stranger things was my Steve Henderson au 👀 tho at this point most of the original draft from then has been edited bc i was definitely learning as i went, this scene below is one of my favorites from that first attempt and has had the least amount of edits (all the plot beats and most of the dialogue being the exact same!!)

<< also thank you guys you reminded me just in time to keep up with my resolution of revisiting this wip at least once a month 🙏 >>

putting the snip under the cut, and going ahead and tagging @sourw0lfs @marvel-ous-m @helpimstuckposting @queenie-ofthe-void @solarmorrigan

@withacapitalp @hairstevington @scriptorbemi @tinytalkingtina @hbyrde36

and anyone else who wants to join!! 💕💕💕

(Context: in season 2 in Dustin's cellar, right after they find and look through the hole D'art dug to escape)

“Great.” Steve sighed, standing up and laying the slime on the ground by the hole, “So now what?”

“We have to find him.”

“Yeah, can’t say I’m thrilled about that.”

“We have to, he ate Mews when he was the same size as her. If he keeps getting bigger he’s going to start hurting people.”

"Mews as in… your cat?"

"Yeah."

Steve nodded slowly.

“You said his face opened up, right? Like,” Steve set the bat down and tried gesturing the petals from the demogorgon’s ‘face’.

“Yeah, yeah, exactly like that. Like he’s an early metamorphic stage of a–”

“Demogorgon.” Awesome. Round two, apparently. “Should we be telling someone about this?”

“I’ve been trying, no one’s answered their walkie all day. That's why I got you.”

“Good to know I’m your last choice.” Steve bitched.

Henderson just rolled his eyes and looked back at the hole.

“Still not a huge fan of looking for a man-eating dog in the middle of the night.” Steve said, “Think it could wait ‘till morning?”

“Maybe? We don’t have any idea where he’ll climb out.”

“Your house’s pretty secure right?” Steve asked. Henderson turned around to look at him, confused. “Just like. He’s not gonna be able to break in while you’re sleeping?”

Henderson’s eyes widened. Shit.

“I… I don’t think so. He didn’t break out when he was cat-sized.”

“Good good, then you’ll be fine,” Steve assured, giving him a solid pat on the back. “We’ll wait until it’s light tomorrow and I’ll come help you find him and we’ll take care of it, yeah?”

“Yeah, good. Sounds good. Tomorrow.”

“Cool, I’ll drop by at eleven.”

“Yeah, just– park at the end of the street. I’ll tell my mom I’m going to a friend’s house.”

“Alright.” Steve slung the bat over his shoulder and walked back to the stairs, Henderson catching up beside him. “And, uh, don’t sweat it, man. The coming-inside-while-you’re-asleep thing. I mean even if he had, like, the brainpower to try and find a way in, he wouldn’t have the force—I mean full grown they’re like sticks—and why would he even want in anyway there's plenty of squirrels and shit–”

“You’re right,” Henderson interrupted. “It’s, uh… just a– He's not big. Yet. So there's no real reason to worry.”

Steve looked at him as he put up a small smile, close-lipped and eyes barely squinted. It could pass as calm if he’d never seen the kid before in his damn life. But talking about it more wasn’t helping.

“Yeah, good.” He patted his arm, then looked at his car for a moment. “Wait here a sec.”

Steve jogged over and opened the passenger's seat, pulling a napkin and a pen out of his glovebox and scribbling his number down.

Steve went to turn around and run back, only to find Dustin barely a few steps behind him.

“Here,” he said, handing Dustin the napkin and closing the car door, “If you need anything.”

He rounded the car to the driver’s side, and when he looked back Dustin was just standing there with the napkin. Steve gestured to the house’s front door.

“Shit, yeah.” He whispered and rushed to get inside, “Thanks.”

Steve waved him off and sat in his car, waiting until the front door closed before driving back home.

Demogorgons again, then. Great. Wonderful

[txtmetonight]

Cheers ✆

call summary ⋆ ★ Cheers to the love who walks down the aisle...and cheers to himself, the lover

pairing *. * Han Jisung x Fem! Reader

genre⋆ ★ Angst, Fluff

warnings *. Maybe grammar?

call duration⋆ ★ 1k

a/n*. * I think I'm dying 😨😨😨😨 (I js have a cold)

taglist ⋆ ★ @kflixnet

Jisung has never known exactly where he would end up–what he would be doing in the future. It was all a gamble on his choices. From his classes in high school to his choice of universities that he was able to receive a letter back from; he just closed his eyes, muttered a few words under his breath, and practically stabbed his options with a pen. His excuse? He was rather indecisive and lazy–he thought that was pretty understandable.

But one thing that he had an absolute say in–something that he would never ever let his stupid old pen pick for him…was you. Being with you. Cherishing you. Adoring you.

And his reason for that–why it was so different compared to his other choices, was because it’s easy. Loving you is easy.

You hold the light in his eyes and the crinkles near his cheeks–the ones that make him really squint because he cannot stop smiling with you–at you. The beat of his heart thunders in his ears a lovely melody that plays on repeat because he swoons. Swoons so hard that he falls.

All metamorphically of course, in all of the senses except for that one time when he slipped down a whole set of stairs in middle school because he couldn’t stop looking at you as you both walked side by side to get to your next class together, for the first time. To where he gained a bruise, he also found who he thought was the love of his life.

He still does for that matter; it’s never changed nor wavered once.

Love is a strange word in his opinion, the definition given to the word doesn’t match. Jisung thinks that it’s more complicated–more intricate and just so delicate that you can’t help but nurse it in your heart and let it thrive in your veins.

The feelings he experiences for you are so much deeper than love that it hurts it. To where you exist in him, there’s a soft, feather like sensation that wraps around him whole, slowly blanketing him with your hands–your presence. He wants all of you–the feelings of you, the idea of you.

He yearns with chains on his hands, weights that keep his hands to the ground, going against his wish to rub at your cheeks, pad his thumb just at the corner of your lips where you’ll smile and have your eyes gleam, pull your ears gently so they turn a bit red and poke the tip of your nose where you’ll scrunch them from the soft tickle. God, he loves you so fucking much.

And as Jisung stands in a fitted suit, with his heart in his throat and near the altar–he finds it so that he still feels the same. Finds that you’re still so stunning since the first time he’s ever laid eyes on you and that you still hold that sweet laugh that practically melts him from the inside out.

You still even give him that puppy pout whenever you want anything from him and he has to act all disgusted even though he would give you the whole world if you asked. He could ramble on for eternity if asked about you.

But even more–even more dear to him is that after all these years, you’ve still stayed by his side. And he’s stayed by yours, too.

A soft melody chimes and Jisung’s eyes already start to well–it’s fucking blurry and he doesn’t want to miss your entrance so he quickly wipes them away. His friends laugh at him and he weakly chuckles along too, a little embarrassed. His cheeks are starting to become flushed–it’s bad.

But then when the doors finally snap open, capturing everyone’s attention…Jisung can’t breathe anymore–cause holy shit! His eyes widen, and his mouth gapes as you come out in a white dress, so…so beautiful and there’s a small smile that teases on your lips. But he can see that it wobbles a little.

He’s falling in love again with you and finds himself wanting to for the rest of his life. Every second. Every breath.

When you finally raise your head and look at him, Jisung can’t help but burst out into tears. It’s hot and sticky on his face and he’s sure that he looks horrible, but he can’t stop. His heart aches so bad in its cavity, throbbing against his ribs.

He loves you so so so much–he wants to say it to you a million times. His tongue utters it by his teeth, clacking by it as his jaw clenches when you give him a watering grin with tearing eyes. And underneath them, he recognizes the love that you store.

Love that wasn’t for Jisung. Love for someone else. And as you walk past him, to meet your soon-to-be husband at the altar, he shatters internally.

He always knew that the man on the opposite side of you had fancied you for so long but Jisung knows that he will never adore you like he does–he has never liked you as long as Jisung has.

Whatever your fiancé feels for you, he feels it ten times more–a thousand times more. And it’s just not fair–he wants to throw a tantrum like a petulant toddler.

But he just can’t. Because his best friend stands there. Chan stands, holding your hands.

And Jisung stands as the best man, right next to him, where he can see every little flick of your expression. The heart that you pour into your vows is shown on your lips, the way that you tremble when you say “I love you, Channie. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

Jisung is so fucking close, yet so far. It hurts him, like a stab. But as he watches you be so happy in love with his friend; he realizes that he would suffer for lifetimes on again for you. Even if Chan was your soulmate in every universe, he would always sit by the sidelines. For who is Jisung without you? It’s a question that he ponders upon at night, sobbing into his pillow, biting at his lips, tearing them apart.

You bring Chan into a kiss first (Jisung has to stop himself from imagining that it was him instead, taking your lips) and everyone cheers. He does too, but for different reasons. He cheers because he loves you. And always will. Even though you’re not his.

[kravinoffswife]

Dave Lizewski x fem!reader

College AU.

Warnings: discussions about sex, foreplay, nakedness

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Warm water streamed down your body, washing away the stress of the day as well as the rose-scented suds that coated your skin. Your end of year exams were coming up and to say that you were stressed out was an understatement. Fear plagued you in every facet of your life; your dreams often metamorphed into nightmares in which you failed miserably. You began to associate the colour red with an 'F' grade in crimson writting. Dave knew all about this. He was your best friend after all. He was the one that came over to your dorm and held you when you woke up in a panic induced sweat or put a comforting hand on your thigh when you would not stop jittering your leg under the table during lectures. He even offered to study with you to keep you focussed and explain any concepts that you did not understand.

That's what you were doing today. A study date. You had tidied your room, lighting a couple candles so that the room was filled with the warm scent of vanilla. You had left the door unlocked so that he could let himself in while you were in the shower.

You heard the door open and shut and the creak with the sound of footsteps.

"Dave?" You called out.

"Yep." He replied. You heard him walk over to your desk and start setting up.

"Be out in a minute."

You rushed through your after shower routine: drying off, lathering your body in moisturiser and baby oil and then spraying your favourite perfume strategically because it was expensive and you did not want to use it willy nilly.

"Shit." You muttered to yourself. Completely distracted by the idea of a comforting shower, you hadn't thought to take any clothes with you into your ensuite.

You stuck your head out of the bathroom door.

"Close your eyes."

Dave scrunched his brow. "Why? You're not going to dump water on me like you did that one time, are you?"

"I can't believe you're still holding onto that. It's been a year. I'm a retired prankster, completely serious."

"Right." There was skepticism in his voice but you could tell he was holding back a chuckle.

"Fine" He closed his eyes as you shuffled over to your wardrobe. You deliberated on which shade of pink shirt you wanted to wear.

"Can I open them yet?" "Not unless you want to see my bare ass." You said humorously. You had been friends for so long that you felt like you could make comments like that. Sure, you found Dave attractive, but there was never any sought of sexual tension between you.

You felt his gaze on you. You turned around. His face flushed. You made no move to cover yourself. Dave had been your closest friend for over a year now, he was one of the only guys you truly felt comfortable around, naked or not.

"Wow." He said.

"Wow?"

"How are you so shiny?"

"Baby oil."

"Ah. That- that makes sense."

"I- um I-" You started before he cut you off.

"You're perfect." Your face turned ruddy from his praise.

You were taken aback. "Thank you."

There was another long pause.

"You- you can touch me. . ." You don't really know why you said that, or why you suddenly really wanted him to.

"Really, I mean," He stopped to try and gather his words. "Would that not be wierd."

"I think we've already crossed the line into wierd."

"Fair point." His hands crept towards your form. He gave you one last look for confirmation which you responded to with a resoloute nod. He rested his hands on your hips, nervous and unsure. You slipped into his lap, grinding slightly. Flush clawed up his neck and face. His touch began to get more daring. He kneaded the flesh of your hips then down to your ass. His eyes drifted to yours with every movement, constantly checking that what he was doing was okay.

You let out a whine as he pinched your thigh. This seemed to set him over the edge. He very quickly became hard underneath you.

Dave gently pushed you off of him and stood up, slinging his backpack full of revision material onto his shoulder. "I need to go sort something out. I'm sorry. I'll help you another time." He turned to leave.

"I could help you."

He turned around slowly.

"You can?" He spoke warilly.

"We could help each other out," You looked up at him with an expression you hoped was sexy. "I hear you jerking off sometimes."

His mouth went agape.

"Thin walls." You smiled shyly and stood up, taking his hand in yours and pulling him towards your bed.

"And while I'm listening, I think about how it should be my hands around your cock." You push the shell-shocked Dave onto the edge of your bed and come to your knees before him.

"Can I make you feel good, Dave? As a thank you for all your help with finals."

He gulped and nodded. "Please."

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

[ottpopfic]

“We are leaving” Leo demands

“Okay,” Jason says, and then Leo drags him by the hand back the way he came

He doesn't let go of Jason's hand the whole way up, but he doesn't look at him either, just in case.

When they get upstairs the land around them is one big sheet of black glass with the hole to the new underworld entrance smack dab in the middle. There's a spot in front of them, where the new stone is discolored and rippled like water. Where Jason died, where Leo caught fire. Its kinda pretty in a way, glittering and reflective, but nothing looks better than turning around and Jason still being there

“Hi” Jason says, a huge grin on his face

“Hey,” Leo breathes back, still terrified their both going to be whisked away back under

“I missed you” Jason tells him, squeezing his hand

“Dude” Leo is trembling, is this really happening?

“Just, come here”

Jason pulls him into an embrace by their joined hands, and Leo melts into it holding him back like a lifeline.

It's probably the best hug in existence Leo thinks, even though it's one-armed and they are both hella gross. But it's Jason, and he's here. He's here and he's sticking his stupid handsome face in Leo’s hair and pulling him in so tight it makes his ribs hurt. Leo thought he had run out of tears somewhere between the Metamorphic Rocks and the Mantle, but apparently not. He's sobbing into Jason’s nasty ass shirt, and Jason lets go of his hand just to hold him tighter

“Holy shit!” Leo hears Piper shreek in the distance “Holy shit he did it!”

There's more screaming, the sound of friends and family inbound, but right now it's just Leo and Jason standing in the cooling obsidian

Leo looks up at him, just to make sure its true and Jason is here for realzies this time. He's met with blue eyes, blue like the sky above them clear of clouds, blue like the heart of the hottest flames, blue like home

“Let's go home” Leo tells him

“Okay,” Jason agrees, seconds before Piper body slams them both to the ground “Let's go home”

———

@queenjunothegreat

[ntls-24722]

Sketched some new stuff, and realized I never posted any of the old stuff. Behold: the backlog of sketches I forgot I had.

Homo mousike stuff! featuring an unnamed very grumpy Debu who accidentally became a zebraman village's white elephant in the first 2 pictures (not white elephant in the metaphorical burden sense, white elephant in the literal "i became their prized holy animal"). Said Debu came to one of the few sessile zebraman settlements when she was at the absolute bottom of the barrel attempting to eat their crops and was promptly taken in and showered with everything she could ever need, alongside gifts, makeup, clothes, and jewelery. However she can no longer leave. Both parties slowly figure out that the other is actually sapient and both begin to actually form a bond, stockholm syndrome Beauty and the Beast style (Debu as the beauty, mind you) - grumpy Debu starts to like and protect the zebramen and the zebramen have a religious and morality crisis because they realize "oh shit, Debu are just people and we just KIDNAPPED someone. have we been just kidnapping people."

though, i think the debu worship would still actually stay lmao... the zebramen's reasoning is kinda sound ("you're the biggest, strongest thing around and you literally change the earth with your bare hands. if there's a god i think they're one of you"). just, yknow, keeping in mind Debu aren't like their other cows, they're people,

Also, lip flaps and nose-speak. I dont think the lips would flip out vertically like in the pictures, but rather in all directions. Also, a better way to show off nose-speak/have nose speak, where you can see the muscles moving inside the nose as they speak instead of just the nostrils opening and closing (though, they can do that too).

(NOT TO SCALE. fritz is TINY compared to comet.) The OG submarine comet and zombie fritz doodles that actually kinda went hard as fuck. Zombie Fritz was also originally supposed to have bioluminescent dotted lines around him kind of like the Na'vi to show his tie to Comet, which was badass, and now he needs a slight redesign too to incorporate this.

Here was the updated Comet, a lot more squarish and OG Comet-ish. Chin. I moved the baleen onto the sides of her tongue, which I think is a weird, cool move, I like it better than me trying to make it into a mustache. The frontmost teeth are straight and regular but the rest of her teeth are t-rex murder bananas. Need to add a bigger root to them though...

also, see where her nostril is? I didn't put it there just to make the nose structure more nose-y, THAT'S WHAT PUFFIN NOSTRILS LOOK LIKE.

???? THE FUCK

Bonus: I dont think I ever posted sketches of the ponified Fritz and Comet.

Comet is a changeling who can't be reformed/metamorphized due to her being made neurologically and magically being unable to, as an analog to OG Comet's invasive brain surgery. She does, however, often shapeshift as a zebra that mirrors both her human form and, with the placement of her stripes, pigeons, in order to scare people just a liiiittle less. Fritz is a freaky, weird, earth pony chariot mechanic, and is both her personal foodbank and boyfriend.