#kin unspecified

[fictivecanoncalls]

Hey, I'm a fictive of Raven from Teen Titans. I'm looking for any of my old teammates, but especially Beast Boy and Starfire. Our body is an adult, we're 26. Please no minors. If you interact with this, I'll see it.

Calling all DC/Teen Titans fictives!

[unhingedkinfessions]

i keep questioning whether that one moment in december last year was a kin shift and its fucking me up because. that was a real fucking person theres (probably) no way i kin them 😭

it wasnt even a voluntary thing it happened sometime at 10pm and i was doing lessons on duolingo and then something let loose inside of my mind. it felt like that person was controlling me and i was afraid to do anything but sit in my gaming chair for a few minutes until i had the courage to brush my teeth

it was terrifying and eye opening at the same time because i convinced myself i had some sort of supernatural powers and shit before i thought for a second "hold on,, do you ACTUALLY kin [real person] and had a kinshift of them??"

i didnt really think i kinned them and i still dont think i kin them now but at this point im so close to genuinely believing that it was a kinshift and i hate that its from a real ass person who died just a decade ago

HEY REAL QUICK MAN CAN YOU GO LOOK UP PLURALITY AND DISSOCIATIVE DISORDERS FOR ME. JUST AS A FAVOR.

[hazyaltcare]

Hi! Could I maybe get a tarot reading on what my life was like as x? (Hope using just a random letter’s okay)!!!

Yes, using random letters is fine. Details are always helpful, but aren't necessary. Let's see what I can divine. ^^

I asked: "What was anon's life like as who they refer to as X?"

The result: The Seven of Wands

This reading tells me that you felt threatened from all sides. My intuition tells me that you felt very vulnerable and often on edge. You had no choice but to fight for what you believed in. Whether you wanted to do so or not is up for debate. There were a lot of things out of your control, and much you were determined to set right. A fleeting feeling that occurred to me as well is that perhaps all this conflict stopped you from seeing what support there was to be had.

Remember, you always know your timeline best. I highly suggest you meditate on the question you asked and the card you have received in response. I have a feeling that more detail about the situation you were in resides within you. Still, I hope you found this helpful.

Mod Haze (☀️Sol)

[hermitcraftkinfessions]

For me when I’m not in a shift it’s harder to remember things from sources and also I generally feel less of a connection to my sources but the pain of losing my friends and loved ones never really goes away and it’s hard ack - 🌸🐶

it be that way sometimes

-Mod hels

[girlkisserr]

Monster hunter: sopping wet beast edition.

canon

[hskinfession]

(not typing in quirk sorry) my cronus and i had the worst relationship but it means the world to me now and when i remember him hurting me physically and shoving my head into the wall and stuff i just get so smitten and i miss listening to him sing brobecks songs and fight with me and if any of that sounds familiar for the love of god reply to this post and ill dm you cronus i miss you so much ive been sick the past few days - kankri

//

[farewell-in-veil]

why do i make sideblogs so much more organized than my main

[abyssembraced]

Higher Beings are, by nature, completely immune to the Infection. They're on equal standing with the Radiance, after all, and a god can't rip away another god's will like the Infection does to normal bugs. The most it can probably do is weaken the god by stealing away all their worshippers (like what happened to Unn), but it can't actually infect the god itself.

Hornet, being half Higher Being, likely has at least an innate resistance to the Infection, if not a full immunity.

The Hollow Knight is exempt from this because they were trying to contain the Radiance herself and the entirety of the Infection. Had it just been the standard dose of Infection, they would have been totally fine, but they were fighting against so much more than that.

The others who are immune to the Infection are Void creatures, due to being made of the Radiance's sole weakness (mind you, while they can't become infected, a strong enough burst of concentrated light will kill them); and bugs who are completely hollow, since there isn't anything for the Infection to actually grasp onto and control with them.

(Keep in mind though that an immunity to the Infection does NOT inherently mean the ability to end it entirely or to stop/kill the Radiance)

Of course, there are other non-Higher Being, non-Void, non-hollow bugs who have been able to resist the Infection, but the ones above are the people who are completely unaffected by it without any input or effort on their part.

[slowthypiglordblr]

Toh Theory: Will the Titan aid Luz in the Final Battle, and has he been helping her?

Throughout the course of the Owl house (especially after the revelations from S2b) a question has been in the back of my mind. Has the Titan of the Boiling Isles been secretly helping Luz this whole time?

A major element of season 1 and early season 2 was Luz’s uncanny ability to discover and utilize glyphs, something witches and demons didn’t know existed until then. In a matter of weeks, Luz had mastered all four glyphs, and would eventually learn to combine them in only a few months. While this also stems from her artistic ingenuity (and reading some of Philip’s journal), it’s almost like the Titan itself had been guiding her as a sort omniscient second mentor. On the opposite, it took Belos/Philip Witterbane years to figure out the gylphs even requiring Luz to teach his past self the light spell (her first glyph). He even speculated that Titan would have such knowledge to begin with and was actively sabotaging him to prevent him from threatening the people of the isles. It’s fitting that the self-proclaiming “Humble Messenger of the Titan” was actually a false prophet despised by the being he claimed to serve where as Luz was unknowingly the Titan’s true champion.

Another interesting thing in “For The Future” of all the Hexsquad, Luz was the only one to stuck in the rift (a place she had previously visited in Yesterday’s Lie). The spiritual figure (who I presume is the titan’s soul) is desperately trying to reach, even waving at her to get her attention. Whatever the reason, the Titan clearly wishes to speak with Luz specifically as if he needs her for something important. 

This is mostly just a guess on my end, but I’m starting to wonder if Dana has been hinting this connection from the beginning. During the countdown for the season 2 premiere, Luz is shown resting inside the skull of a giant beast which seems to greatly resembles a Titan’s head. Another art piece shows Luz playing with a massive paper mache King’s skull, wearing it and even sitting inside of it. 

In the show proper, in the episode “Thanks to Them”, Luz and Hunter adorn themselves with a King and Owl mask respectively to face what they think is Belos returned. While this was mostly helped to give Hunter a much needed confidence boost, it might also serve as a symbolic function in the narrative. Hunter is revitalizing a part of his former identity as the Golden Guard whereas Luz wears the likeness of someone she views as a younger brother for emotional support. It also may foreshadow Luz drawing strength from the Titan itself in order to be on par with the Collector as what Lilith mentioned in “For the Future”, Titan’s magic can negate Collector magic. (Makes you wonder if instead of a CollectorLuz, we got TitanLuz, but that’s probably just me.)

.Before we get into Titan’s plans for Luz, we need to take reflect on elements on the small tidbits of information revolving around the Titans in general. As we can recall, the Titans were once the ruling species of the Demon Realm for an unspecified amount of time. One day, the Collectors arrived on their crusade of capturing and taking over other planets for their own agenda. The Titans stepped forth to oppose the Collector and drive them back, with the latter alongside the witches and demons who worshiped them and sought their extinction. This would lead to a long and bloody war which ended in both sides wiping each other out, save a youngster from each opposing species (King and our Collector). 

During this period of time, it helps to shed a small light on the Boiling Isles Titan likely as a person. While we don’t know much about King’s father, it’s in the face of the war and the slaughter of his kin, a he sought to protect his son (the last Titan) at all costs. He created an island hidden away from the Collector through a protective sigil inside a massive tower which King’s egg would be nurtured. As a last line of defense against any intruder seeking to harm his son, the Titan created an army of golems made from flesh and bone to protect and care for King. This proves to us that regardless of circumstance, King’s father loved and cherished his son more than anything in the world, even before his own life. 

This leads into the reason for the Titan seeking out Luz, the answer is as simple as it is profound, to be there for King. Ever since Luz arrived on the Isles, she’s had a massive positive impact on the island and it’s inhabitants (despite her believing the contrary). She helped Eda reconcile with her curse and her sister, she helped Willow, Gus, Hunter, and Amity overcome their personal struggles, reforge their friendships and come into their own, as well as play an important role in stopping the Day of Unity. But one of major accomplishments was with King, at the start of the show, he was self-centered attention seeking child lost in delusions of grandeur who often caused a lot of trouble her and others around him. But thanks in part to Luz, King not only learned that actions have consequences and to appreciate what he has, but also resolve his own identity crisis and discover his nature as a Titan. If not for Luz’s influence would’ve never become the mature, responsible, empathetic boy he is by season 3. Through that, it’s easy to see why the Titan would see Luz as the perfect person to watch over King, as well the world he created in his own death. 

While the idea of prophecy and chosen ones does not fit the themes of the owl house, but take away the Titan’s preconceived divinity to the witches and demons of the BI and a new picture is formed. A father who in death left behind a world for his son to call home and a family to cherish, with Luz serving to guide him into becoming a good person in a way he could not. 

[ruisaki]

┄　⿻ᵎ　🎸𖨂　 (⁺ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)　⁺　KAMISHIRO RUI - TUMBLR LAYOUTS

ー⠀⠀⠀⠀ ༝　　　⁺　　　　♫　　　　˚　　　∘　　、　　↷　　❜❜

⠀💈˚ ⠀⠀⠀ ❤︎　　⊜　birthday gift for @hisivan 　 ┄

⠀🐨˚ ⠀⠀⠀ ❤︎　　⊜　nf2u, don’t use unless puffy　 ┄

⠀🎼˚ ⠀⠀⠀ ❤︎　　⊜　kin/me/id tags?: unspecified　 ┄

⠀⚾️˚ ⠀⠀⠀ ❤︎　　⊜　f/o tags?: unspecified　 ┄

ー⠀⠀⠀⠀ ༝　　　⁺　　　　♫　　　　˚　　　∘　　、　　↷　　❜❜

❒⠀　⸝⠀⠀(≧▽^) ⠀extra: psd by sanguisettes, inspo: demeurel

❒⠀　⸝⠀⠀(≧▽^) ⠀notes: happy birthday puffy! ^_^

[sysboxes]

not a request but a question, we saw you had the epileptic user boxes, and we wanted to know if you had a toureettes userbox? we never saw one and didn't know if we overlooked it.

we would also like to see other disability userboxes you all have done if it's okay to ask you to show them off? /nf

-🌟

ok I- ran out of spoons 😭😭 but here is a bunch

I tried to semi organize them

-mod weeping ❤️

This user has BPD, OCD, and tourettes.

This user has BPD, OCD, ASD, Tourettes, and is chronically ill.

This user has OSDD, ADHD, ASD, BPD, Tourette's, possibly dyslexia, anxiety, and a sleep disorder.

This system is autistic and has ADHD.

This user has BPD, ASPD, NPD, ADHD, ASD, Schizophrenia, APD, and OSDD.

This system has ADHD, autism, and possible personality disorders.

this system is influenced by being autistic and having adhd and many phobias.

This user has DID, NPD, BPD, ASD, and ADHD.

This system has BPD, polyfragmented DID, and autism.

This user is an autistic system who splits easily, and has a high alter count with a lot of fictives.

This system splits fictives easily due to being autistic.

this system frequently splits alters from their special interests and hyperfixations

this users special interest heavily impacts their system

This system has DID, autism, manic depression, and anxiety.

this user is autistic but their special interests have barely influenced their system.

this system is autistic and has ADHD.

This autistic system needs allistics to stop speaking on autistic issues.

this system has introjects from their childhood special interests

this system is very protective of their special interest

this system has a hard time hearing bad things about their special interest

this users special interest is their source

Multiple POTS userboxes.

This system has overlapping chronic mental illnesses.

This system has a lot of mental illness holders.

This system can’t feel pain and is willing to bite.

This system has introjects who hold pain and symptoms.

This user is a Tweek Tweak fictive so they may twitch sometimes.

This alter tics a lot while fronting.

frequent fronters depend on the systems current hyperfixation

this system constantly reblogs things related to their hyperfixations and interests

This user has a hard time telling introjects from kins from delusional attachments

This alter is an ADHD symptom holder.

This user has ADHD.

This user is an autism symptom holder

This alter is an autism symptom holder

This system is autistic.

This system is type 1 diabetic

this system is epileptic / this system is a left temporal lobe epileptic / the system is a right temporal lobe epileptic

this user has insomnia

This system has Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.

This system struggles with chronic fatigue.

This alter struggles with chronic fatigue.

This system struggles with chronic panic.

This alter struggles with chronic pain.

This alter struggles with chronic pain and chronic fatigue.

This system struggles with chronic pain and chronic fatigue.

This system has chronic pain and it causes them to split. / This system has chronic pain and it causes them to split. Please be patient.

This system struggles with chronic pain.

This system is chronically ill.

This system is physically disabled.

This system has a disability.

This system is disabled.

This system has an unspecified disability.

This system is a walker user. / This system uses a walker

This system is an electric scooter user. / This system uses an electric scooter.

This system is a wheelchair user. / This system uses a wheelchair.

This system uses a cane. / This system is a cane user.

This system uses a rollator. / This system is a rollator user.

This system uses a powerchair. / This system is a powerchair user.

This system has alters who need mobility aids always, sometimes, and not at all. Please ask first.

This users ability to speak fluctuates.

This alter cannot speak or type.

This user is semi verbal. / This system is semi verbal.

This user is nonverbal and upset they don’t know BSL.

This user is nonverbal and upset they don’t know ASL.

This system has difficulty talking and is doing their best to talk to people

This system struggles with hearing. Please be gentle.

This system has a hard time masking.

This system is having a hard time again.

This user is sick.

This system is quick to cry and feels a lot of emotions.

This system is tired in a way sleep can’t fix.

This system struggles with empathy, sympathy, and compassion.

This system is on the struggle bus

This system struggles to remember things and apologizes in advance

this user struggles with severe paranoia, please do not vaguepost around them

this system needs tone tags

Please be patient with this system, they’re struggling with a lot of their symptoms.

This system is easily scared

[fictivecanoncalls]

Jonathan Sims fictive from The Magnus Archives. Looking for another Jon or a Martin. Body is 19, no minors please. Must at least have knowlege of what happens in MAG200. Message @aplus-system if you would like to talk/interact at all. Thank you.

Calling all Magnus Archives(TMA) fictives!

[insomniamamma]

Gravity: Ezra x f!reader

A/n: Written for my year of kisses. @yearofcreation2023 The prompt is a kiss on the eyelids, and I originally intended to write it for Boba Fett (which I may still do) but then I rewatched Prospect and gave myself the yearns. Title inspired by this song. This jumps around in time.

Warnings: Much flirting and fluff. Reader has unspecified medical condition that keeps her from going to space. Ezra needs his own warning. Medical treatment. References to sickness and medical procedures. References to sex but nothing explicit.

Ezra hums contentedly beneath your hands. Shirtless and tilted backwards over the deep sink, towel draped around his sun-freckled shoulders. He positively purrs as you smooth the conditioner through his curls, scratching lightly over his scalp, tugging, but just a little. Real shampoo and conditioner are an imported nicety, expensive and not often used. Seems a shame to so thoroughly clean his hair only to shear so much of it off.

Long hair is a pain in the ass when you’re doing suit work, a pain in the ass in microgravity. You can tie it back but if it comes lose, you have random threads sweat-plastered to your face or tickling your nose or nape or eyebrow without being able to fix it. You don’t know this from your own experience. Born sickly, you could not follow your brothers off world, never as strong as them, failed the g-tests and the orientation tests and the flight instructor took you aside, look, you get the right combo of meds and cautery and you might be able to work a tug or a yard-switcher up to the Bench, but you’re not gonna get out of this well.

So you stayed. Da long gone, died way out towards the end of the Great Arm. And your brothers faded out of your life one by one by one. Once in a while you’d get packet drops, grainy vids squirted between can-haulers and freighters, a game of telephone that stretched the length of the Great Arm, but those became less and less. Even after contact waned, the points would still accrue in the family account, remittance from Kevva knows where. Until they didn’t. Faded out of your lives like comets flaring bright before slinging out into the black. You stayed behind and made due.

Learned the herbalist’s trade from your Ma who learned it from her Ma as far back as your first kin who colonized here, who built the house you live in now, who planted the gardens that provide food and medicines. Leaves and flowers and roots all diagrammed out, with their varied dangers and uses recipes for salves and tinctures and dyes, soaps, meticulously drawn and copied out from Ma’s book into one that you stitched and bound yourself. A right of passage of sorts, preserve what’s come before and add your own knowledge. The last few entries of your Ma’s book near illegible, from when the Wandering Sickness took her ability to write, a hash of Central glyph-speak and her own short-hand.

Ma had been gone for about a year when you met Ezra, or rather, when someone in town took pity on Ezra and sent him to your door. He was naked from the waist up skin blotched in swollen, crimson wheals. You shake your head. Off-worlders never learn. “I must apologize for my state of disarray,” he says, “The rubbing of my shirt seams became unbearable on my walk from town. I seem to have an allergy to the local flora.” He speaks a lilting off-world accent. One eye is red and puffed into a narrow slit, looks like he’s winking at you. “Humbleweed,” you say, “Looks like you rolled in the stuff. Come on in, spacer, lets get you fixed up.” “It’s called humbleweed because it puts people fool enough to touch it in their place?” “That’s right,” you say, leading him inside, “Wanna tell me how you got coated in it?” “Me and my crewmates are camped out along yonder lake. We were passing around a bottle of firewater and got to tussling. Not unfriendly like, but I took a bad step into some bushes. Didn’t think much of it at the time—“ “Please tell me none of you were stupid enough to throw any of that mess in a campfire.” “No, Ma’am, there was bone dry drift wood a-plenty.” “Good because the smoke would make your lungs do the same thing that’s happening with your skin, and we’d be calling for a dropper.” “That sounds most unpleasant,” he says, and you gesture towards the large, hammered metal tub. “Strip,” you say, “And hop in.” You say, fetching a rusty metal canister and a scrub brush from the shelf. You pull on some disposable gloves. An imported nicety, but you don’t want humbleweed resin getting under your own nails. “Ezra.” “What?” “My name is Ezra, and I’d like to know yours before you see my nether regions.” You laugh. This big, swaggering spacer with his odd, archaic way of speaking is shy. Damned if you don’t see his ears and cheeks going red. You tell him your name and rest a gloved hand on his upper arm. “You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen, okay? Unless they build men different further down the Arm. Give me your clothes. We’ll need to treat and wash them too.” Ezra reluctantly peels down. The worst of the rash is on his upper half, but there’s a particularly nasty line of welts around his waist, snaking down along the soft swell of his belly, telltale lines where he scratched at it in his sleep, got the sap under his nails and dragged it around, unthinking. He stands stone still while you run your gloved hands over him, checking places he wouldn’t think to check himself, armpits and the soles of his feet and juncture of hip and thigh, squirms under your touch. “I’m sorry—“ he says, red faced— “No need,” you say, “I once treated a man who was fool enough to wipe his ass with the leaves. He waited until it all blistered up to get help—“ You push the metal canister and scrub brush into his hands. “You sluice this over the red patches and scrub, clear? It’ll sting some—“ “This smells like engine degreaser.” “It is engine degreaser,” you say, “But it’ll do the job. Let me get your face though. Don’t want you getting this in your eyes. Get what you can reach and I’ll take care of your clothes, yeah?” His clothing goes in the deep sink, warm water and a generous pour of degreaser. You can’t help but look at him, his back to you, all broad freckled shoulders and red, puckered scars, tells of a spacer’s life, trying to reach over the curve of his own spine with the scrub brush. “Miss? Ma’am? I can’t quite—“ You find yourself smiling, take the scrub brush and canister from him, pour a cold rill down his spine and scrub, and he shudders. “Stings.” “I know.”

He flinches when you bring the degreaser soaked cloth to his face, draws back, his eye a puffed red slit leaking tears, his hands circle your wrists, stilling you. “Ezra. You need to let me do this.” “Perhaps this can wait for the Bench, this may be beyond what you can do here, not saying that I mistrust your skills or judgement but—“ “Look up. You see that bundle of Kind Sister? The star shaped flowers?” “Yes, but I don’t- “Look up and hold still. You keep your eyes right there.” You wipe the degreaser over the puffed skin below his eye, and you can feel the tension in him, thrumming beneath his skin. “Breathe, handsome, I’ve done this many times.” “It’s not that I don’t trust—“ “Just keep looking up.” “Burns a little.” “It will.” You dab the cloth over his skin, right up to the fringe of his lashes. “Close.” “I don’t think—“ “Don’t need you to think. Close your eyes.” He feels the chill on his eyelids and flinches away. “Sssshhhhh. Hold still. Not gonna hurt you.” He stills and lets you wipe his eyes with the degreaser, and you can’t help but admire the way his dark lashes fall against his cheeks.

“You’re unsettled.” “Maybe I don’t want to shear off these pretty curls.” You thread your fingers through his hair and raise the scissors to start cutting, but his hand curves around your wrist. “You’ve not been this unsettled before,” says Ezra, “Talk to me Gentle, tell me what’s bothering you.” And you can’t help but smile, his nickname for you always manages to make your chest tighten, someplace between swelling love and crippling fear, presses his lips to the soft skin of your wrist where the veins rest so close. “You’re going so far this time, and you know I can’t go after you if things go wrong—“ “The risk is greater, but the reward is….” he trails off, fingers tracing the landscape of your knuckles. Ezra has words for everything, three words when one will do, and to hear him go silent, to see him search for words feels wrong, like you’re witnessing something you shouldn’t. He draws inward for a beat and then those dark eyes find yours. “The reward is such that I could stop my rambling ways. If we find what we suspect is there.” “You’re saying you’ll stay.” “I am.” The shiny scissors in your hand tremble, sending little arcs of light across the rough hewn walls. “You’ll come down the well. For keeps.” “For keeps, Gentle Hands. My heart already resides here. I finish this job? You’ll have all of me. For as long as you can put up with my nonsense.” Your hands still. Dread replaced by spreading warmth. You smile. “You’d be surprised at how much of your nonsense I can tolerate.”

“Oh, Kevva,” Ezra sighs and sags against you, “You are surely one of Her kind sisters. She has given you the touch, the blessing—“ You lightly slap his cheek with a gloved hand. “Don’t you go boneless on me, handsome.” You’ve been liberally coating the red wheals and rising blisters with a salve of kind sister, sersath and bird-eye berry. This salve counters the miserable itch of humbleweed, and triggers a kind of euphoric sedation in maybe one in five people you’ve treated. “You’re having a strong reaction. It’s not dangerous. Kevva’s just smiling on you. That’s all. You’ll feel right as rain in about a sixteenth. Hey! You go limp and I will not heave your ass off this floor.” “I will gladly spend the rest of my days gazing up in admiration.” “Hmmmm. Might hold you to that, pretty spacer.” “Would give my life into your gentle hands,” “Okay. Okay, let’s get you settled,” You steer Ezra naked and greasy towards a fresh-sheeted cot you keep against one wall, just in case. He’s not the first stray to rest there a spell and surely won’t be the last. He stretches himself out like a cat lounging in a sunbeam, yawning hugely, even covered in angry red wheals and pinkish goo he’s quite the sight. Pretty man, you think, too bad I’ll probably never see him again. “y’can look all you want, Gentle Hands,” he mumbles, and you feel your face go hot, “I don’t- I don’t mind.” “Here,” you say, pulling the top sheet up to his chest, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean--“ His hand finds yours, warm and enfolding. “Gentle Hands,” he says, but his eyes are already closed, his holding hand already letting go, dropping away from yours, arm dangling stiffly off the edge of the cot, “Kind heart.” And you know it’s the salve, maybe you’ve got the proportions wrong, the strength of the bird-eye berry varies depending on where it’s picked. Have to pay more attention next time, or maybe this pretty spacer just reacts stronger than most for a whole slew of reasons that have nothing to do with you. Ezra snores. You smile and lay his hand over his chest so his arm doesn’t fall asleep. And then go to fetch his clothes from the deep sink so you can rinse them out.

You thread your fingers through his hair and cut like you’ve done many times before. Always makes you a little sad, seeing the curls he’s grown in his time with you piled on the floor in front of the deep sink. Ezra luxuriates under your touch, relishes the feel of your hands carding through his curls, tugging, measuring with the width of your fingers, ruffling his hair this way and that, making sure things are even. You’ve done this for your brothers and now you do it for your lover. Brush the stray bits of hair from his shoulders, letting your hands wander the breadth of him, tuck yourself into the join of his shoulder and neck and his arms come up around you, cradling you against him, the two of you swaying together. I’ll be back before you know it.

Ezra finds you in the front garden says your name and snaps you out of your reverie, the muscle-memory motions of removing errant weeds and dead leaves. You stand and wipe the dirt on your pants and turn to look at him, feel yourself grin. He’s wrapped the top sheet around himself like a toga, shuffles along the walk like a newborn calf, a bit unsteady and blinking in the bright sunlight. The swelling around his eye has already gone down significantly. “Ezra. How you feeling?” “A little tingly,” he says, “A little foggy headed, truth be told, I don’t recall dozing off. I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you-“ “You haven’t,” you walk the narrow path through the herb beds to where his clothes hang on the line. You frown. “Still damp. Come on. I think I’ve got something that might fit you. Don’t want to send you back into town with a wet ass.” You move to herd him back into the house, but he stops you, his hand curled gently around your wrist. “I, uh, I worry that I may have said something untoward,” says Ezra, “My mouth has a tendency to run along on it’s own and Kevva knows I have not experienced such gentle care in a whole heap of stand-months--“ “You flirted with me a little,” you say and feel yourself smile, he drops your wrist but you catch his hand in yours before he can pull away, “But I flirted right back.” “Did you now?” “Mmm-hmm.”

Ezra kisses you in that slow way of his, soft press of his lips to yours, his way of lingering, lips hovering over yours sharing breath between kisses, soft pecks and nuzzles, coaxing your lips apart so he can dip his tongue between them, his hands sliding warm beneath the hem of your shirt and when he breaks away so he can dip his face into the curve of your neck to nip at that tender place below your ear, you push him back, a firm hand on his chest. “No.” His brow knits, but his eyes are smiling. “No?” “Go shower off, Ezra. I don’t want all those little stray hairs in my nice clean sheets.” “Those sheets won’t be clean for long, Gentle Hands,” “Doesn’t mean I want to be all scratchy while we’re making a mess of them. Go on now.”

“This isn’t right,” you say, poking at the screen of your much repaired data-pad, “This is far more than what we agreed on.” “You’ve taken very good care of me,” says Ezra. He’s dressed in clothes your middle brother left behind, his own folded into a bundle and tucked under his arm. You reject the transaction. “I take very good care of everyone, Ezra, it’s my job.” “Still I spent a quarter cycle snoring away in your great room,” he says, “I expect most others would have roused me and sent me down the road. I wish to repay you for your kindness.” “I don’t need payment for that. Not with points anyway.” Ezra smirks, and cocks an eyebrow. “You got some other currency in mind?” “Maybe. You’re not boosting tonight are you?” “No,” he says, “We’re hopping the Magra-Tripoint line. Don’t need to hit the bench for three cycles and a little. You got something in mind, Gentle Hands?” You feel blood rise in your cheeks, something about his newly minted name for the you and the way he says it, lilt and rumble of his voice holding something that could be want, something that pulls on you, maybe a cycle or so of fun with a pretty man, but maybe something more. “There’s live music in the square tonight,” you say, “They usually start up around dusk--“ and you feel suddenly shy. Ezra’s a spacer, he’s been places you probably can’t imagine. “It’s not that weird twitchy shit coming out of Central these days is it?” You laugh. “No, nothing like that. What do you say? Take a girl dancing?” “I would be honored,” says Ezra, “But I’ll have you know that I am a terrible dancer.” “The steps are easy. I’ll show you.” “I look forward to it,” he says, “I’ll meet you in the square at sun-down.”

You have to go into town anyway. You sell your wares at the general store. Balms and salves and tinctures and teas, bird-eye berry gel for teething babies, kind sister and chamomile for sleepless nights. Callie takes her cut, but that’s the price of not having to man your own shop. Everyone in town knows to send the severe cases your way, and otherwise leave you be. There are always a few special orders, things not entirely above board, a powder made of bloodspot spores that will end a pregnancy, opium and bird eye berry dried and made into a tea that can ease someone’s passing with few questions. Giggle-weed infused syrup to help a man get hard, everything passed out in folded envelopes, dark glass jars,blank and innocuous. You do your rounds and make your way to the square, watch the first band set up. A cello imported from Kevva knows where, goatskin drums, a flute carved from a reaper-bird’s hind strut. Rough made guitars. You scan around the square and see the usual faces. There’s a couple of nightclubs closer to the docks, places where the spacers go and you imagine him there. Little prickling like a thorn inside your chest. Never going to see him again anyway so what does it matter?

“Well, there you are!” You turn from the pint of cider you’ve been nursing and smile. “Ezra! Wasn’t sure I’d see you!!” You stand and he pulls you into a strong embrace, and then holds you at arms length. “Wasn’t sure I’d see you either,” he says, “Pretty lady who soothed my hurts and listened to my yap and saw my pale and unimpressive ass? I’m surprised you didn’t run for the hills.” “I knew you’d be pretty once the swelling went down.” “You clean up nice, too.” You wonder for a second if he’s making fun, traded your usual workday clothes for your favorite dress, not fancy by off-world standards, river-linen dyed summer sky blue, but there’s no judgement in his eyes and widening smile, just warmth, slides his palms down your arms and squeezes your hands in his. The band plays and the caller names the steps, and people swing their partners and turn and Ezra’s face tightens. “This looks unduly complicated,” “Let’s get some cider in you. It won’t seem so complicated then.” “If you say so, Gentle Hands.” “I do say so. Just watch for a bit and then let me lead.”

Despite your best efforts, Ezra is truly a terrible dancer, the reels and jigs and square dances see him dazed, unable to tell his right from his left and after one particularly disastrous dance the two of you collapse into each other, laughing, clinging to each other and then the band starts a slow one, which means that the caller picks at his guitar and sings a song of lost love while the rest of the band hit the bar and give everyone else a chance to catch their breath. A handful of couples make their way to the floor, and Ezra holds his hand out to you. “This is a dance I know, if you’d do me the honor.”

You expect you’ll never see him again. You’ve come to regard the spacers you meet as spring-sprites, all sun glittered wings, pulling themselves out of the mud only to live a hand of cycles and then vanish. He’ll persist in your thoughts for a bit, this pretty man with his odd way of speaking and his lovely dark eyes, but once he leaves the well he’ll fade like they all do, become a tender memory and nothing more, but for now you ache pleasantly from his attentions. The dock is swarmed with clotted crews of spacers, stacks of luggage, piles of gear waiting to be loaded, low hiss of regulator-valves triggering along the snake-work of cable leading from the tanks to the transfer ship, a squat soot-stained wedge, plated in dingy heat-tiles like a fish’s scales. You suspect this craft is older than you. “This isn’t goodbye, you know,” says Ezra, and your heart squeezes. You’ve heard this before. A delirious hand of cycles, but they always go and they never come back and most times you are able to guard your heart, but not this time, not with him, and your usual glib response doesn’t come. “Ezra, I—we—it’s not?“ He reaches for you and cradles your face in his warm, rough hands, and you expect to feel his lips on yours, his mouth hungry and fever hot, but instead he stretches up and kisses your forehead, and something inside you tugs, pulls, cries out at this unexpected tenderness, tears sting your eyes so you close them, as his breath fans warm over your skin. Ezra kisses your closed eyes, right then left and then rests his forehead against yours. “I’ll see you again, Gentle Hands,” he says and pulls you into a crushing hug, and then the deck hand calls out a string of numbers over an intercom, balky speakers strung up on wooden poles all around the port and he’s gone into the surging crowd.

Ezra sings in the shower. He always does and Kevva have mercy that man can’t carry a tune in a bucket. Sweep his damp, shorn curls into a little pile to be scooped up and sprinkled into the garden beds, human scent revolting to the local fauna, but then it screams up at you, a little curl of starlight among the tangled dark, little twist of white hair cut from his temple that you so like to twine your fingers through, now discarded. You bend and pick the damp curl of hair from the floor and roll it between your fingers. You move almost without thinking, tuck that little curl into an envelope you usually use for dry herb blends, fold it closed and hold it in your hands a beat, press it to your chest, and then laugh at yourself. Ezra will come back.

He always comes back.

[hazyaltcare]

Hello!! I have a question. How does one tell if they are some form of kin??? I've....been questioning myself for a while and I thought that I was a kin with someone but I don't have any memories or anything like that...

Hello! I'm happy for you that you're discovering yourself and questioning your identity. I can understand it's not easy, and I give you all my encouragement!

Let me preface you that kin is NOT always about memories or past lives - it can be (and it IS) what you feel right NOW. You do not have to have any memories to be kin.

Moreover, it's also possible that you do have memories, but it'll only appear later, so please be patient with yourself.

There are many ways to know if you are a kin of someone.

I have some questions:

Do you feel like that someone is literally you? Be it you now, or in an alternate universe, or a past life (if you believe in those)?

Do you feel like you're supposed to be that someone instead of who you are now?

Do you feel like you're supposed to be like them (whether it's appearance, mannerisms, location, etc.)?

But most importantly,

Does being that someone make you happy?

Is it comfortable to refer to yourself as that person? Maybe you can try websites like Pronoun Dressing Room (general) or read second-person fics (if you're a fictionkin).

Does it feel right?

If any of those is a "yes", you can keep researching into that direction. I wish you all the best!

Mod Vintage (🌌)

[blackjackkent]

Admittedly I haven't played Lae'zel origin (or any origin) yet so maybe this is already discussed in more detail there, but I am thinking this morning about the period of maybe twenty minutes between her escaping her pod and finding Tav and how absolutely mind-bogglingly terrifying a situation it is for her.

As many other posts have already pointed out - she is literally living out the single scenario she has been taught to fear above ALL others. And given the nature of mind flayer transformation she has no reason to believe that she will find anyone else on the ship in the same situation - as far as she knows, she is completely alone.

More than that, too... there doesn't seem to be a ton of specific information about how she got captured by the nautiloid in the first place, which leaves plenty of room for headcanon, but dialogue DOES make clear (ref. BG3 wiki) that this was her first actual encounter with ghaik; she had fought other monsters alongside others of her clutch but never an actual illithid.

Wyll: "Lae'zel - did you ever fight illithid creatures in your training days?" Lae'zel: "Never. The ghaik aboard the nautiloid was the first I ever witnessed in flesh." Wyll: "Really? I figured you would have joined your fellow gith in a colony raid." Lae'zel: "A young warrior is expected to fight their first ghaik with their cousins - kin hatched from the same clutch. The ones who triumph earn a place in githyanki society. The one's who don't, perish."

By all githyanki measures, it seems reasonable to assume, we are meeting Lae'zel on the heels of a spectacular moment of failure. She (and perhaps the rest of her clutch) made their first attempt at taking on illithids, in the hopes of obtaining heads that would allow them into the midst of githyanki society in the Astral Plane. They failed, for unspecified reasons which might have involved her or been entirely outside her control. The nautiloid sails on, travels to the material plane, begins a rampage of destruction.

But Lae'zel was not even given the comfort of a death in combat; she was captured, left to stew on her failure while being infected by a tadpole in what she assumes is complete isolation. This is not only a nightmare scenario for her people culturally, but for her personally - Lae'zel fears failure and insignificance far more than she fears death. And she is terribly young in spite of her air of absolute confidence; has she ever operated outside of the strict guidance of a superior before? Probably not.

It would be so easy to give up. But of course she doesn't, because she is Lae'zel and she's a fucking badass. But it must be such a dark night of the soul, those twenty minutes or so, believing that her only options are to give up and become ghaik or push on and handle the situation in complete isolation.

Small wonder she seems so (for her) delighted to realize that you are not a thrall but are in fact someone still in control of their faculties also. "Vlaakith blesses me this day. Together we might survive." She is no longer alone in this terrible situation. And small wonder she subtly defers to you, given the option.

It also explains why (to my recollection) her dialogue is never about trying to communicate with the githyanki circling the ship. One would assume that she would consider them allies (given that she seems quite surprised by how wary the Y'llek gith are towards her), but she doesn't even seem to consider it. She only talks about getting back to the material plane and off the ship.

Shame, perhaps? Not wanting her people to see this moment of what she considers ultimate failure?

Lae'zel's strength of character and determination are such a fundamental part of her character, but what really fascinates me is how much fear they must be covering up. Out of everyone in the group, she is the one most out of her depth, suffering the most terrifying change of circumstances imaginable, and yet she still keeps pressing forward no matter what.

TLDR: They should add an option to give Lae'zel a hug right there on the nautiloid bc goddamn does she need one.

[odinsblog]

Most critics have failed to consider the full implications of the monster's Otherness, overlooking the fact that the main variable upon which the monster's Otherness rests is his physiology, his dark and grotesque body that locates him firmly as an Other within the racial social hierarchy of the early nineteenth-century. (source)

The Whale Frankenstein films have multiple political connotations, including the queer resonances with which James Whale, an out gay man in homophobic Hollywood, sympathetically suffused them. My interest here is in their relation to U.S. racial politics of the 1930s, specifically the rise in lynchings and the 1931 conviction of nine young Black men known as the “Scottsboro boys.” There are, of course, no visible African-American characters in the Whale films, whose setting is an unspecified Europe and whose director and actors are English. But the films indirectly offer a surprisingly radical intervention into American iconographies of race, rape, and lynching. Within their cinematic fantasy space — or perhaps because of their cinematic fantasy space, given that more realist films of the 1930s were more cautious about racial politics — the Whale films offer an antilynching perspective.

In both Frankenstein and Bride of Frankenstein, for example, the monster is depicted in flight from a crowd of angry townspeople, whose pursuit of him is represented with the visual markers of a lynch mob, including barking dogs, fiery torches, and angry shouts. At one point in Bride of Frankenstein, the monster is strung up on a tree as a cluster of white people surrounds him, their anger sparked by his perceived violation of a white girl.

The monster is presented sympathetically at this moment, his iconography blended with that of Christian martyrdom. Here the Frankenstein monster meets both Christ on the cross and the victim of lynching. Whale’s monster also seems kin to that other 1930s film figure associated with blackness and violence: King Kong. Like Kong, Whale’s Frankenstein monster is as much sympathetic victim as he is source of horror, while the true location of monstrosity becomes the mob who demonizes him.

(continue reading)