#hes halfway in reality halfway not

[duskyashe]

NaNoWriMo Day #18

[masterlist] [part two]

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If there was one thing Danny wasn't expecting when he ascended the ghostly throne, it was having to worry about a freaking line of succession. For one thing, he was under the impression the only reason he was the new ghost king at all was because he'd defeated Pariah Dark in single combat. For another, what did they expect him to do, find a nice ghost girl and settle down? He was fifteen, no way was he ready for that kind of commitment! Nevermind the fact none of us even know if being a halfa effects the ability to have kids, Danny thought grimly.

He'd brought all those points up with his advisors before, but the only one with any real advice he could actually use was Pandora. "You need an heir, but it doesn't have to be the same being the entire time. Be warned, however. Some obsessions fare better in royal positions than others do. Those with freedom related obsessions like your Ellie's would be driven mad within short order." Much more useful than Clockwork's cryptic words of, "Time is the wise King's friend."

After some deliberation and careful study of the Infinite Realms' bylaws and charters, he'd made Jazz his heir with Ellie the "spare" in case Jazz wasn't in a position to succeed Danny. This sort of solution was a stopgap one at best, but it would at least give him a few years, a decade at most, to figure out a more permanent solution. If Jazz's inherent liminality wasn't enough to satisfy the bylaws for more than a few years, then they'd switch Jazz with Ellie and have Ember take up "spare" status, but again, no one knew anything about this kind of situation, it was so new territory. Jazz might be able to give Danny ten years to figure out a more appropriate heir, or she won't be able to give him more than a few months. The variables were different enough from the norm in this situation that no one was happy with how things were at that point in time.

He really needed a better solution, though, and soon, because Ember's obsession wasn't any less freedom based than Ellie's was...

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Nearly five years after Danny's ascension to kinghood, the foundations of the Infinite Realms shifted ever so slightly, almost as though a mostly unstoppable force had tried its hand against an almost immovable object. Six months after that, Danny suddenly nearly collapsed in his applied physics class as he felt the creation of a new halfa. It was sudden, it was painful, and it was familiar. But the cry of a newly formed core, so perfectly in sync with his own, being brutalized nearly made his eyes flare green. Instantly, he knew exactly where this newborn halfa was (—halfway across the world—?), he knew exactly what was happening to them (—they're hitting him with tasers—!), and he knew that if he didn't get there as soon as possible, he'd lose something precious (—they'll ruin him, his obsession, his core—!). It was a good thing Jazz had been his emergency contact on file ever since she turned eighteen, she'd understand what he didn't say, what he couldn't say, over the phone.

Danny was excused from the rest of his classes for the day and his sister picked him up from his physics teacher's office.

"What do you need?" No nonsense, straight to the point. Jazz had grown a lot since his accident, since he became the king of an entire dimension.

Danny released an anxious breath. "I need the Infinity Map." Another breath. "And Frostbite. There's a new halfa, and he's being tortured as we speak." Just keep breathing. "His core cried out to my own, Jazz. From halfway across the world." Jazz's breath hitched at that, and he almost snorted. Exactly. Later. First, he had to save the kid, get him treatment, and deal with the idiots who dared play with things they didn't understand. Then he could deal with the fallout of him hearing the newborn halfa's cry. Deep breaths. That's it, just keep breathing.

"Do you have any more information than his location and current situation?" His sister was a blessing, truly.

"I have a name," he offered. Deep breaths, stay calm, just keep breathing. "Jason Todd." His core sang with protective fury, his obsession crying for blood. That was one of his that those assassins were trying to break. His son, that was his son.

Over my half dead body.

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So. What happens when you're so into a fanfic that you lose all track of time? Well, I end up frantically trying to write a ficlet in two hours that makes sense and doesn't leave too much hanging (⁠^⁠～⁠^⁠;⁠)⁠ゞdid I succeed?

I was originally going to use this prompt to continue one of my previous ficlets, but I also really wanted to write something new, so my muse fought me tooth and nail until I finally gave in (⁠´⁠-⁠﹏⁠-⁠`⁠；⁠) that's part of the reason why I'm writing ficlets instead of a full story this month lol I knew my muse was going to be fickle and wouldn't let me stick with one, or even two storylines lol it's happened before (⁠^⁠_⁠^⁠メ⁠)

Y'all rock, honestly. Like, I know I say that every day, but I genuinely mean it every day (^⁠‿⁠^⁠)

Have a good morning/day/night!

[thesorrowoflizards]

listen the mastermind job has flaws but i kind of. love it?

[cakeyouareoh]

peter’s name really is extremely fitting to both his character, and his character’s role.

[longagoitwastuesday]

*reading a thesis about the evolution of the concept of infinity in China with a large amount of tabs open with diverse articles or word combinations to further look for information, all the while seething, blood boiling* I wish Satoru Gojo would fucking cease to exist

[gothamcityneedsme]

ok. i read tom king's mister miracle run and tbh? i don't think i vibed with it. but it DOES read interestingly as a proto-strange adventures though.

[zenlosingit]

Bit of a hot take here but I don't think Dana is a good significant other for Terry nor should be a permanent one.

AND I WISH THAT WASN'T THE CASE!!! I WANNA SEE THEY HYPE AROUND IT!!! BUT THE WRITING NEVER HELPS!!!

Near every time I pick up a Batman Beyond comic or rewatch an episode it always pins Dana against Terry and calls him out as a bad partner.

Now granted it makes sense! Terry is living a double-life and keeping it a secret from Dana and with such it does create problems in their relationship- I get it. Yet, when the writers make the decision to have Dana always mad at Terry for lying, to have Terry always be in the wrong in their relationship and for him to be the one to always repair it, it just doesn't sell to me.

Because when Terry took on the mantle of being Batman after the death of his father, he presented it to his family and friends as a demanding job he took on to help support his family. Losing his dad cost his family to be down a steady income and him having a criminal record already doesn't give much promises in finding a job to help support his family. Having this job is a literal life-saver for him, yet she doesn't seem to care.

Your gonna tell me that Terry didn't lay it out to Dana? That he didn't explain to her what the benefits he would be receiving from this job, that he is lucky to have gotten this opportunity despite his criminal background, yet he has to be on-call at all times despite it? That he didn't tell her he would do his best to prioritize their relationship and make time for her, yet that she has to understand that if he's needed he has to go, and that he has to be there for however long he is needed?

I've seen constantly Terry bending his back to make their relationship work, to making set dates with her and scrapping whatever ever free time he has to make it up to her, yet all I've seen in response of Dana is whining and indifference to his efforts in trying to keep her happy.

And I know there are moments when Dana is understanding, that she gives him leniency and lets him do him and waits for him at the end of the day- but it happens so little that I just can't get behind it.

It just frustrates to me that, with how far Terry goes in trying to maintain his relationships while still maintaining his duties as Batman, that same consideration he has for them is not returned back- or isn't often shown being returned back. He deserves happiness as much as anybody and to have support no matter how much info people know about whatever problem. Yet from what I've seen, Dana doesn't fit the bill.

[hraugur]

there is a creature in your walls

[brydeswhale]

Rewatching “Cardassians” and TBH that weird little fandom trend of fics saying that Cardassian children on Bajor are being “horribly abused” is so hilarious in the face of this episode, because the only anger that Bajorans display regarding these kids is anger that they’re as much a victim of the Cardassian Occupation as any other Bajoran resident.

This episode LITERALLY says, “Cardassians deperson orphans and treat them as disposable to the point where the victims of their genocide take them in and care for them” and people still want to pretend the Bajorans are the bad guys in this episode.

Like, I dk how you can write something like that in the face of the ACTUAL episode without labelling your fic as an AU or Canon Divergent. There’s no evidence for it, other than an allegation by a dude who instantly exits stage left, pursued by a bear. There was no revenge. There was a bunch of kids in need of homes, and a bunch of people who wanted to give them homes.

Jomat Luson even comments on how most Cardassian orphans got to their Resettlement Centre. They were almost all found and brought to the centre by BAJORANS.

Also worth noting, Kotan Pa’dar, a noted beneficiary of this Bajoran compassion, is asked, at the end of the episode, to repay that kindness by helping the Cardassian orphans who DON’T have a politically influential biological father around to sweep them up, and he very much demurs. Because his son is his son. These other orphans are as much people to him as were the Bajorans he was helping to genocide.

[ssreeder]

*emerges from the shadows*

*merges back into the shadows*

*pulls you out of the shadows to look at what you did*

WHY IS THIS ACTUALLY BOOTS?!?!

hahaha….. stop being so funny

[werewolf-transgenderism]

my dad has yet to talk to me about the plans to drag me to my aunt's for christmas and while I know it will not be the case I am hoping that he has forgotten that he's forcing me into going there

[mattsirach]

Nobody:

Me: what is the lore of my self-insert in illustrations, also known as "the Author"? Why does he look the same in the 1880s, 1890s, 1900s, 1910s, 1920s and 1930s? Does he age? Will he ever age? If yes, why do we see him at the same age through a period of 50 years? Is he trapped in a time loop? Does he move through a non-linear timeline? Or is he immortal? So why do we never see him after 1939? And where does he live? Italy? England? France? Does he still live in Italy during the 1920s and 30s? What about Fascism? Is he a political refugee? Did he take part in the FIRST World War for that matter?

[theworld-accordingtocasey]

smut where he gets his multiple times on several different occasions throughout the story before it gets to where I get mine <<<

🙄 i don’t read fics so that everything can revolve around the guy’s pleasure like real life

[rubys-domain]

listening to imperfect love always gets me a little emo

[jewishrat420]

No one has ever flirted with Steve the way Eddie flirts with Steve.

And it's not like no one flirts with Steve. God, no, it's not like no one flirts with Steve. Steve can't walk into the grocery store without at least three sets of heads turning and focusing all their attention on him.

And he's not even trying to be cocky about it. That's just the reality he was gifted when he came out of his mother's womb looking like the world's freshest Adonis. Honestly, he wouldn't be surprised if they changed the colloquialism to "Steve."

Regardless. For as many people like to flirt with him, make themselves known, filtering in and out of his orbit like willing planets, no one knows quite how to get him going like Eddie. Maybe it's that they're not as confident as he is, maybe they're scared of the rejection Eddie was born facing and will die knowing.

Maybe they're scared of ruining their chances. Maybe Eddie isn't.

For whatever reason, Eddie doesn't seem like he's scared. Even though there was a long time before he knew Steve was bi, was just as into the flirting as Eddie was, even though there was a chance (not like it'd ever happen, but the unknown was there) that Steve could have beaten him up just for calling him "sweetheart," he did it anyway. He got right up into Steve's space, close enough that Steve could get high off the remnants of the joint he'd smoked earlier, and gave him a look that offered everything.

And, God, Steve wanted it. He wanted it all.

And so that began months of what Steve has so aptly referred to as torture. Apt, because he knows what it's like. He has the scars and the fear of ice cream and needles to prove it.

But this... this is a different kind of torture. Mental, emotional, spiritual, whatever you call it-- this is meant to tear him apart from the inside out, meant to make him want to rip his own bones out from his body and offer them to Eddie if it meant the other man making a fucking move.

And Steve would, is the thing. He would absolutely make the first move-- it's what he usually does, anyway, and he's got a pretty damn good success rate for it.

But, for whatever reason, this feels different. This back and forth they have, the constant teasing, the sliding in and out of each other's orbits, unable and unwilling to refute the most fundamental laws of gravity... it's something special, at least to Steve. Something sacred.

Which is why, when Eddie calls Steve "Harrington" for the first time in months, his first response is to pout.

They're about halfway through splitting a joint, the sweet smoke curling around wisps of hair and parted lips and filtering in and out of the holes in their sweaters. The air outside is getting colder, thinner, sharper, as the winter months dreg on. But inside the trailer, it's comfortable and warm. Safe.

Steve's being a bit of a hog, and he's man enough to admit that. But he had a shitty day at work and all he wants is to feel nothing other than the weightless relaxation of a good high buzzing through his bones. Sue him for taking a little more than his fair share of the good stuff, even if it is Eddie's.

"Steve," Eddie whines, reaching his hand out and curling his fingers in request. "Give it over."

"No," Steve responds, just on the edge of whiny. He brings the joint to his lips and takes a long, slow, deep drag, feeling the sweet heat of the smoke burning in his lungs, taking up the space where oxygen should be. He goes a little dizzy with it, feels his eyes lower. "Mine."

Steve can't see it, but he knows Eddie's rolling his eyes. Can sense the shift in the air, can sense every little fucking thing about Eddie at any given moment.

"C'mon, Harrington, you're being a brat."

And, normally, Steve would find another aspect of that sentence to freak out about. Would zero in on the word brat and relish in the flare of heat it sends shooting up his spine like firework sparks. Would squint his eyes at Eddie and tilt his head in the way he knows makes him look good, would give him his cutest little smirk and say, "Who, me?" and would preen in the response it gets.

This time, though, he's much too focused on the other name Eddie used for him. The one he hasn't heard come out of Eddie's mouth since before he realized that Steve was, as he put it, "actually a good dude."

He doesn't realize he's pouting until the sudden silence in the room starts to creep in, make a home in the buzzing in his ears. He didn't realize that he didn't say anything, and neither did Eddie, and now they're sitting in a mess of their own making. Of Eddie's own making, really.

His next words come out without effort, without intent.

"Don't call me that."

He chances a look over at Eddie, at the risk of appearing as vulnerable as he feels, and to his distress, he can't get a read on the man. His dark eyebrows furrow, brown eyes squinting slightly, and his lips part like he wants to speak. He licks them. Steve's eyes follow the motion unintentionally.

"Call you what?" Eddie says on an exhale. "A brat?"

Steve shakes his head. "Harrington. Don't like it when you call me that."

Eddie kind of softens, then, and Steve didn't realize he had stiffened until he isn't anymore. He sort of sinks into the couch, spreads his legs imperceptibly wider, and Steve wouldn't have noticed if it wasn't for the way his left knee brushes against Steve's just barely. Just enough for those heated sparks to send a couple pinpricks across his skin.

"No?" he says, looking over to meet Steve's gaze. His cheeks are flushed, whether from the weed or the heat of the room or the heat between them, and Steve's sure that his look the same. "What do you want me to call you, then?"

Steve's definitely blushing now. He looks away from Eddie, tucks his chin to his chest, lets the joint between his fingers burn away. Eddie takes it from him, gently, and brings it to his lips. Steve hears the paper crackling as he inhales.

His voice is quiet, almost meek, when he speaks. It's completely unlike Steve, completely unlike the persona he used to so proudly take on-- but then again, Eddie is completely unlike anyone that Steve has ever met. He's more real, more human, and in turn, Steve is too.

"...You know."

Eddie makes a little noise, then, something in the back of his throat that was born and died within the very same second it was released. Something soft, almost pained, like his body couldn't help the reaction it had to that sentence.

Steve watches the thin, long line of Eddie's arm reach forward and press the joint into the glass of the ashtray. He follows the motion until Eddie's hand settles into the rips over his knee, fingers intertwining with the thread. His pinkie is dangerously close to Steve's own sweatpant-covered skin, and he feels the contact as if Eddie were touching him.

Eddie's hand twitches like it wants to move, and Steve resists the urge to grab it, hold it within the warmth of his own palms.

"Do I?" Eddie says, his voice quieter than it was a moment ago. That thick silence fills the trailer once more, settling in between the soft buzzing of the lightbulb in the kitchen and the muffled humming of the crickets outside. Steve hears Eddie take a stuttering breath. "Tell me."

Steve sighs, feeling his chest burn as his heartbeat picks up. His throat pounds with the pulsing of it. He places his own hand on his right knee, pinkie finger edging closer and closer to the space where Eddie's meets his. Eddie's hand twitches again.

"Like it when you call me sweet things," he says on an exhale, as though getting it out all in one breath would make it easier. "Like how it makes me feel."

Eddie lets out another one of those noises, then, something more like a cut-off groan. His hand curls into the fabric of his jeans for no more than a second before he releases it, and Steve gets to watch as the blood blanches and then returns to his knuckles.

"Sweet things, huh?" he muses, voice only slightly strained. If Steve didn't know any better, he'd say Eddie is nervous. "Like... Stevie?"

Steve hums. "Yeah. I like that."

Eddie's pinkie moves closer. Barely. Imperceptibly, if not for the way Steve is tuned into his every movement, like a dog to the sound of their owner's keys.

"Yeah?"

Steve hums again.

"What about... sweetheart?"

Steve closes his eyes. Lets out a shaky breath, inhales a smoother one.

"Yeah."

Steve feels something brush against his pinkie. Something warm.

"Honey?"

Steve nods, biting his lip. "Mhm."

Eddie lets out a quiet little laugh. "Even big boy?"

Steve returns it helplessly, feels the edges of a smile pulling at his lips. The air feels cold on his teeth, as though he's burning up from the inside out and anything outside of his own body is a cooling salve.

"Especially big boy."

Eddie laughs a little louder, and the jostling of his body brings his pinkie even closer to Steve's. Completely pressed against his own, now.

Steve swears he can feel his heartbeat through it. Or maybe it's his own.

"What about..." Eddie takes a breath. "Love?"

Steve's own breath hitches. He opens his eyes, looks at where their skin is touching in more than one place. He feels it, feels every point of contact where the cells that make Eddie are existing with the cells that make Steve. Wonders, maybe, if they stay here long enough, if they'll merge and mold over time. Become one.

"Yeah," Steve breathes. "I like that one a lot."

Eddie hums, and the room falls back into silence for a moment. Steve's skin burns where their fingers are touching. He moves his hand to the right, just barely, just enough to let Eddie know that he feels it. Just enough to ask Eddie if he does, too.

His response is overwhelming.

Eddie moves his hand to the left, solidifies all the points of contact between them, and Steve feels like he's exploding. Feels like a bubbling pit of lava that's set to burst, to overflow, like it can't hold back anymore. Like it's tried for so long that it's hurting, now, pressurized and boiling and hot, way too fucking hot.

And then, Eddie crosses his pinkie over Steve's, and Steve thinks he's dying.

He takes in a sharp breath like it's the last one he'll ever get, and he doesn't even have it in him to be embarrassed about it. He knows Eddie is right there with him, knows he's not the only one feeling this irrefutable pull like gravity between them. Knows, hopes, it's only a matter of time before they collide.

Eddie hums again. He taps his pinkie once over the smallest of Steve's knuckles, almost like he's making a decision. He takes a long, slow breath before he speaks.

"You know which one's my favorite?"

Steve's throat clicks. "Which?"

"Look at me."

Steve turns his head to the right for no more than a second before Eddie's lips are on his.

It's hungry, it's indulgent, it's immediately addictive. It feels like breathing.

Eddie presses his whole body against Steve's, and he can feel the way his tendons flex where his hand is covering the back of Steve's. Where their pinkies meet, their fingers intertwine and cross over one another like the roots of a tree, their bodies the whole mycorrhizal network.

The next word is spoken against Steve's lips, and Steve can feel the way his mouth forms around it. Decides, from this moment on, that he never wants to hear it another way.

"Baby."

Steve's exhale is more of a moan, a dying sound that, like Eddie's before, lived for only a moment in his throat before pushing through the wall of his lips. Eddie takes it, holds it in his own mouth, swallows it down hungrily and slides his tongue against Steve's as though asking for more.

"That's--" Steve pants, getting his hands on Eddie's hips and pulling until he's seated in his lap. "Mine too."

"Yeah?" Eddie asks, his lips still pressed against Steve's. Their words are muffled against each other, but they don't need to hear them to understand. They only need to feel the outline of them, the shape of the consonants and vowels against and around each other's tongues. They only need to press their bodies together and know, intimately, the meaning in each other's hearts.

"Yeah. Want you to call me that forever."

This time, Steve feels Eddie's laughter against his lips. His chest. Feels it bubble up in the space between his ribs, feels it flow into his mouth like a river, swallows it down like the first glass of water after a run. Feels his own creep up behind his teeth in return, gives it back to Eddie like an offering, who takes it greedily. Hungrily. Gratefully.

"Think that can be arranged, baby."

[critterbitter]

The twins and their starters may have grown slightly taller, but their love of shenanigans have tripled, no, quadrupled in size.

On that note did you know Eelectrik has a glow animation?? Perfect nightlight eel. Absolute gold standard for creature. Click here for the masterlist!

Bonus shitpost under cut ft @birdsaretoddlers’s incredible take.

(plus a fanfic drabble that birds did while we were discussing in chat! Check out their funny writing @birdsaretoddlers) “Lam lam pentttt. Lam.”

“Language. I am not calling them that. This is a civil discussion about the capacity of a 284 Berkshire’s firebox, not a playground argument.”

“Lammm Pent.”

“If you possess my phone I will have to put you in time-out in your ball, and neither of us will like that.”

The argument over a literal online flame war was cut short by the door flying open, one of the hinges breaking off with the force and flying somewhere into the aether, never to be seen again. Or at least, not without a strong magnet.

Emmet stood there, proudly, holding his newly-evolved Eelektrik, his grin a mile wide. Ingo picked his heart up out of his femoral artery, where it had lodged itself, and gently removed Lampent from where she hid, hanging over his shoulder. Emmet stood there, eyes twinkling, clearly ready to perform the coveted Bit. Ingo opened his mouth, got halfway through a word, and his twin took the proffered delight of cutting him off.

“I am Emmet and I discovered something INCREDIBLE. INGO LOOK.”

Ingo looked, because what else was he going to do? He would allow his twin to complete his circus act, it was only proper and polite. Eelektrik trilled with delight. Emmet twirled like the best of Nimbasan runway models, clearly wrestling his eel, cooing platitudes to it as he writhed and squirmed to get it into position.

“Me beautiful slimy baby, my beloved pool noodle, my beeesstt conductor!~” Doing something that could generously be called ‘dislocating his shoulders’, Emmet managed to get his eel flipped up and around his neck. He flopped forwards, bonelessly, tipping his hat and giggling madly. He was grinning harder than normal. Ingo was a little scared.

“But now, Eelektrik can do MORE. OBSERVE.”

He threw his shoulders back, standing up as tall as he could, somehow not throwing himself ass-first onto the floor as the fifty pounds of eel he was currently deadlifting remained stationary over his neck. Emmet’s arms flew upwards and out, rocking back and forth in jazz hands. Eelektrik frilled its fans, made another happy little buzz and-

"Eelektrik boa."

“DRAGONS ALMIGHTY. THE EEL GLOWS.”

There it was, clear as day. Eelektrik flashed it’s spots in natural bioluminescence, blinking like a neon sign. Bright beautiful yellow and clearly charged, Emmet’s hair stood on end, pushing his hat an inch off his head. They blinked in a rhythmic, pulsing manner. It was almost hypnotizing to watch, in a way. Ingo snapped back to reality, realizing his mouth had dropped open and Lampent had ceased questing for his Pokedex. Recognizing Emmet was looking for a response, he threw his arm out in a thumbs-up so fast his arm hurt, snapping his suspender against his neck.

“Brrravo! Ten out of ten! Majestic eel scarf!” He praised, Emmet’s expression only growing further full of himself and his achievement, which was well deserved. Lampent echoed the sentiment, flashing back at Eelektrik in response.

Now that both Pokemon could glow, they’d never have a problem in the caves again!

[thehmn]

Whenever humans appear in fantasy or science fiction we are usually the boring default who aren’t strong or fast or magical and the writer has to make something up to make us interesting but we already have a special ability: our stamina.

We can go forever compared to most other animals on earth. When you look it up you’ll mostly find stuff about running but our ability to walk and walk and walk is insane too. We are not the only creature with this ability but we are among the top.

I used to go on walks with my housemate and sometimes her cat would join us. He’d start huffing and puffing halfway through the walk and she’d joke about how out of shape he was but in reality cats just aren’t made for long continuous walking. They hide and attack in quick bursts. Heck I’d sometimes go on walks that turned out to be too long for my dogs despite dogs being endurance hunters like us.

So I think we deserve more acknowledgment for our stamina and endurance in otherworldly settings. We are the race that can keep going long after our party had to sit down and take a breather.