#listen shes there i swear!!!!!

[obsidian-art04]

Pov: You threatened their favorite human

[keferon]

Ah mmmm well

You know how in mermaid stories, the mermaid is typically the dumber one? I present to you the "and they were both scientists" plot.

Basically the concept is that mermechs and regular mechs can't talk to each other. But luckily even if they speak different languages they still use the same math~

I discovered a bunch of simpatico mer-fics. So. I wanted to do something with this concept too haha. If some physicist happens to read this - feel free to laugh at me. I know nothing about science👍

I don’t know if I’ll continue this thing. Should I. Idk. It’s midnight I might be going crazy lol. I made that cover anyway bc I love making covers hehe

[Next]->

[ecoamerica]

Watch the 2024 American Climate Leadership Awards for High School Students now: https://youtu.be/5C-bb9PoRLc

The recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by student climate leaders! Join Aishah-Nyeta Brown & Jerome Foster II and be inspired by student climate leaders as we recognize the High School Student finalists. Watch now to find out which student received the $25,000 grand prize and top recognition!

[powdermelonkeg]

Thoughts on the thunder wizard again.

Genuinely, I find Gale's relationship with Mystra to be fascinating when you consider all its facets. Unhealthy, imbalanced, definitely poisonous, but also very, very intricate with a lot of blurred edges to it. One of those things where you're both like "wow, what the hell, that's horrible" but also "that makes perfect sense for their characters, and while I would NEVER, I know why they would, and why it happened."

You've got a wizard who doesn't know what real love is, who thinks he's finally being shown it by the person he adores most. His greatest fantasy, his most potent joy, his most heartfelt aspirations, and they were all offered to him.

And he wants to see what all she's hiding from him, because of course he does. She's the keeper of all things forbidden to him. The empire of Netheril reached magical heights that will never be touched again, and all that knowledge is beyond her curtain. She loves him, right? Surely, if he proves himself enough, she'll let him grasp that power he so desperately wants.

And not even in the power-hungry sense! All that magic Mystra's locked up was accessible during Mystryl's reign. Think of all the answers to theories about the universe that are back there. Every question of "can this be done, and what would it do" would be answered, if he could just bargain hard enough.

She loves him, right?

Surely, if he proves himself enough...

And then, on the other hand, Mystra. Once Midnight, her human personality has been subsumed by the goddess of magic and her duty to the Weave. She has a responsibility to magic, she IS magic.

Then along comes this mortal boy who knows how to handle her Weave. Who doesn't try to wrestle with and dominate, who sings to it. He handles it with such ease and grace—it's not just that he could be Chosen, but he deserves it. To put her Weave in the hands of someone so intrinsically in tune with it, who understands its potential with a wonder like no other. Few enough can handle the raw power that comes with being Chosen, but this one? This one is perfect.

And he adores you. And you adore him, like one would a beautiful butterfly that's landed on their finger. And he's willing to be devoted to you in all things, not out of transaction like most of your worshipers are, but out of love for you, your craft, your magic. You're so deeply and utterly charmed by him.

And it's not like Mystra hasn't walked this path before.

She gives him what he desires, because what he desires is her. And, in a different way, she desires him. She wants him to be her representation in the world. She indulges his adoration with her own presence, and takes indulgence herself in mortal comforts. He's never satisfied with her answers, but who could blame him? She keeps a whole world away from mortals, because she knows what such unfettered power might bring about (again).

And the wizarding prodigy's ambition is lit (again).

And the height of power is reached for (again).

And she stops him (again, again, again).

She does care for him. She doesn't want to see her little butterfly burn himself, and she doesn't want to be the one to ruin those wings.

But then he's not a butterfly. He's a mortal, wielding a weapon of murder, of her murder, and he's brought it to her doorstep because she told him "no." And he's cut himself on it, he doesn't know what it is, but it's hurt him—and it's only a fraction of the hurt it could do to her. How dare he want her help after threatening her?

(He didn't mean to.)

(He only wanted to help.)

(He only wanted. How human.)

She doesn't help him. If he wants to pursue Karsus' weaponry, it's his responsibility, his hubris, that led him to injuring himself on it. She's furious. She's hurt. She's cold.

(What fools these mortals be.)

But then, there's a greater threat to her. Something that could drown the Material in Karsus' failings. And that little boy, who nicked himself on the sword he lifted, still wants her help.

It's a fair trade, isn't it? She'll forgive him, let him into her domain again, if he accepts his punishment and goes into battle for her. He picked up a sword, it's appropriate that he learns to use it in her name, right?

If he was telling the truth, he wouldn't hesitate. If he really wanted to serve her with the Netherese Orb, he would jump at the opportunity to do so. He would have to give up a few petty things in the process, ("petty," she calls mortality, as if family and home mean nothing, as if friends and love are finite. Because to her, they do mean nothing. Because to her, they are finite.) but it isn’t atonement without sacrifice, is it?

It's the tactical move. She's not above hurting one man to save a nation. It's not even the first time she's done it.

(Dornal Silverhand sends his regards.)

If he loves her, he'd die for her, because she'd let him into her paradise. If he doesn't love her, he won't, and she was justified in removing him from her grace.

He doesn't love her. Not anymore.

Does he hate her enough to try to take his dues?

Ambition has always been man's greatest folly.

[turrondeluxe]

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

yeah so i'm falling for @weevmo's Guys... they're so neat! i dig their vibes and can't wait to see what Corduroy Stew is all about <3

[soldrawss]

Plant Magic and Private Lessons

[ecoamerica]

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

[ghost-proofbaby]

Hi!! I’m your friendly neighborhood Swiftie BEGGING you for Eddie - Sparks Fly

sparks fly (eddie's version)

warnings: tooth-rotting fluff. mutual pining. the works. <3

wc: 2.1k+

a/n: this one got mad cheesy. maybe a little too cheesy. idc. i had fun with it.

“You know, one of these days, you’re gonna have to talk to Ed,” the older bartender, Phil, muses as he wipes down the counter behind you. 

You hardly hear him over the current symphony of electric guitars, riveting bass, and crashing drums filling the Hideout. You had one focus tonight, just as you did every Tuesday and Friday night, and that was the band on the stage currently commanding an even larger audience than last week. 

You’d seen it coming. Building crowds, more buzzing conversations around town in hushed tones about the band that owned the stage of the hole in the wall. You’d stumbled upon them by accident, coming in and telling yourself you were just grabbing one drink after a particularly rough shift. But one drink immediately turned into four that night when the band had taken the stage, playing song after song, keeping you glued to that bar stool and completely enamored with one particular boy on stage.

Eddie Munson. 

Every time you watch him command that stage, wild hair and vibrant eyes, it’s like the first time all over again. You can’t get over his wicked grin, the way he puts his entire self into each performance, the rasp of his voice – you’re down bad for a man you’ve never even properly spoken to.

By some miracle, you tear your eyes from the stage, swiveling to face Phil, “Excuse me?” 

“Ed. You know, Eddie,” he repeats himself, leaning both palms on the bar, “He notices you, you know? Always asks me where you ran off to after their set’s done.” 

Your heart is suddenly in your throat, embarrassment red hot in the pit of your stomach, “H-He notices me? Why would he notice me?” 

“You’re at every show. Even before they started getting a proper crowd. The damn boy hasn’t shut up about you since that first night,” Phil pauses to hand off a beer to another patron wordlessly, “You’re lucky you pay with cash and not card, or I’m sure he would’ve tracked you down outside of here by now. Calls you his Cinderella.” 

Like a clock chiming midnight, the final tinny note of the set rings through the bar, and you can hear that rasp of Eddie’s voice booming through the speakers.

“We have been Corroded Coffin! Thank you very fucking much!” 

And just like clockwork, you’re rushing to dig into your purse, yanking a twenty from your wallet and smacking it onto the bar before grabbing your drink to down the last of it. 

“I’m not Cinderella,” you choke out over the residual burn of the alcohol, face still scrunched up as you glance over your shoulder to see the boys have already left the stage, “I just like the music.” 

“The music,” he hums, “Right. Well, your money’s no good here tonight, little miss Cindy,” he reaches out, and with a singular fingertip, pushes the cash back towards you over the sticky wood. When your mouth opens and closes in confusion, Phil’s eyes flicker up towards the side door beside the stage where a commotion has begun, signaling that the band is coming out, “It seems the music likes you, too. So much so that he demanded I add your drinks to his tab tonight.” 

The coals of embarrassment burn even brighter, igniting you from the inside out. Your hand flies out, grabbing back the twenty and shoving it aimlessly in your purse. You keep looking back at the crowd, catching glimpses of dark curls over the small sea of people singing their praises, watching your seconds run out in real time. It’s not that you didn’t want to speak to the man who has had you captivated for several months now; you were just mortified that he’d noticed you in that crowd, noticed the way you attended each show. 

One of these days you’d talk to him. But tonight, you had no bravery left for such boldness. 

“You’re gonna have to leave behind a glass slipper for the boy eventually,” Phil only chuckles, watching you fumble to clasp your purse before you shoot up from the stool, “Hey, hold on-”

“Another night, Phil!” you call out, not even looking back as you make a beeline for the bar’s exit. 

If you had, you would have seen your favorite ring that Phil was holding up, the one that you had taken off your finger to fiddle with endlessly before sitting it down at some point without thought, now left behind like some kind of glass slipper. 

—

You were late. It was Friday night, the day had been a nightmare, and you were fucking late to Corroded Coffin’s show. 

Your attendance had never faltered like this before. You were always right on time, sometimes five minutes early once the crowds doubled in size in order to secure one of your regular seats. 

The deviation from your routine has you reeling, amongst other things. Your Friday had simply been shit.  A nonstop rampant attack on your sanity, one thing after another testing what was left of your patience. You’d slept through your first two alarms this morning, you hadn’t realized you were out of coffee creamer until you’d grabbed the scarily light container of it this morning, you had to take a dreadfully cold shower rather than waste precious minutes letting the water warm, you’d worked through your lunch to clean up a mess made by your coworker – the list goes on and on. 

You burst through the entrance of the Hideout, probably looking a bit crazed, stopping dead in your tracks when you realize two things.

One, It’s fairly empty. And two, Corroded Coffin is not on the stage. 

“Look who decided to show!” Phil calls from his place behind the bar, waving dramatically to you, “Cinderella!”

“Phil, for the last time, I’m not-”

“Your favorite band canceled tonight, I’m afraid,” he bulldozes right over your retort as you approach one of your usual stools.

Your brows furrow, “Canceled? Is everything okay?” 

Phil’s mouth opens. But it’s not his voice that answers you. 

“Gareth’s sick.”

A voice you’d only heard on the stage, through crackling speakers and enthusiastic addresses to a crowd. A voice you had never heard one-on-one, and for good reason. 

Your breath escapes you as you turn slowly, facing the man you’d managed to elude for months now. 

“Pardon?” you squeak out, voice hardly audible. 

Eddie still grins shyly, hearing you loud and clear due to how uncharacteristically quiet the bar is tonight, “Our drummer, Gareth – he’s, uh, sick. Sorry to disappoint.” 

He’s just as captivating up close as he is on the stage. There’s still something wild in him, something electrifying that he seems completely unaware of. 

“Don’t apologize,” you’re still whispering, internally cursing yourself for it. You probably look ridiculous right now; you can only picture your starry eyes and parted lips, looking at him with palpable shock, hardly able to utter a word, “I- I’m not disappointed. There’ll be other shows!” you stammer your way through your words, and when Eddie only continues to look at you with gentle amusement, the softest ripple of possible nerves from the way his hands shoved into his pockets, you continue to over explain yourself, rambling on, “I just- I, uh, hope he feels better.”

“Yeah, me too,” he nods in agreement before he buries his hands even deeper. Suddenly, as if he’s found something in those pockets, his face lights up in delight, “Oh! Hey, I-” his left hand pulls out of his pocket at lightning speed, still curled into a fist as he thrusts it into your direction, “I think this might be yours.” 

Slowly, he unfurls his fingers, and in the center of his palm rests your ring. You had assumed it was lost to the fire, that it might have fallen off at work or outside your apartment, never to be found again. Just another thing to add to your checklist of things gone wrong. 

And yet there it was, like a perfect glass slipper, right in the palm of Eddie’s hand. 

Your nerves are all but forgotten as you get giddy, reaching out without thinking to take the ring from him. A gentle brush of your fingertips against this palm, and you swear you feel sparks flying from the minimal contact, “Oh! Oh my gosh! Thank you, I-” you slip it on easily, smiling widely before you look up at him gleefully, “I thought I’d lost it for good. Thank you.” 

Eddie turns bashful, tilting down his chin and letting stray curls fall in his face that half hide his own contained grin. If the lighting in the bar had been better, you would have caught the pink spreading across his cheeks. 

“And so the prince finally meets his Cinderella,” Phil mutters from behind the two of you before he suddenly smacks his palms on the countertop, “Alright! Well, if you two will excuse me, I have to…. Do some stock count in the back,” a blatant lie, “Don’t burn the place down, yeah?” 

Eddie snaps out of his daze to look up to the older man, mock saluting him in a way that has an involuntary giggle leaving your lips. In an instant, he’s looking back down to you, almost surprised at the sound. 

Cheap bar lighting can no longer hide his blush. Or your own adoration.

“The bar is yours! Make good decisions!” Phil continues to shout as he moves to the backroom, voice fading with each step.

Finally, you and Eddie are alone. 

“And then there were two,” he murmurs, taking a step closer to you, finding something brave in him at the way you’re looking up at him in reverie. 

The rockstar that had been enchanting you for months from a distance. The man who had been occupying all your thoughts far too much for having been a stranger. 

This is your chance. No more hiding at the back of the bar, only admiring him with the safety of a crowd between you two. No more wondering, no more imagining, no more pining. Time stands still, not a single clock daring to strike midnight as the electric currents between you two come to a rise. 

“Say,” you say right when he looks to be preparing himself to speak first. It’s time to be bold, take a risk, no matter the costs. “Do you… Do you want to grab a drink?” 

His wicked grin is even better right in front of you, directed at you, “Well, he did say the bar is ours. What’s your poison?” 

“Jack and coke?”

He shrugs, still a vibrant fool, like a schoolgirl with a crush, “I’ve been known to have a heavy hand with the jack, but… I think I can manage that.” 

Electrifying, pulsing, the beginning of something new. You can see it now – the way you’re going to cling to his arm when he makes you laugh so hard you nearly fall off your chair, the way he’ll be able to charm you better over a jack and coke than he ever had been able to from behind a guitar, the way those eyes scream trouble. And yet at the end of the night, you know he’ll still walk you to your car through the empty parking lot. He’ll probably use the excuse of the bad weather looming overhead. When the sky finally breaks open and the first drops of rain fall, neither of you will be brave enough to admit what you both already know. Tonight’s not the night for kisses in the rain or talk of what-ifs. 

That’s fine. For tonight, the sparks of something new are enough. 

Eddie moves to walk behind the bar, but you throw out a reckless hand to catch him. Your first curls around his forearm for the first time tonight, and even with the layer of leather that separates skin, you can feel it. “Hey, did you really call me your Cinderella?” 

Flashes and arrays of what’s to come flood both of you. It’s only the first drink. It’s only the first night.

It won’t be the last. 

“I mean,” he nods subtly down to the hand holding him, where your ring glitters on your middle finger, snug on your knuckle, “If the ring fits, right?” 

He’s right. The ring fits. 

And a different ring fits years later, after all those kisses in the rain and many more jack and cokes that Eddie never quite perfects. And you’re still right where you belong, front row at every Corroded Coffin show, Eddie’s own personal Cinderella. When the clock strikes midnight, he’s no longer afraid – he knows you’ll be coming home to him now. 

Phil only laughs when he receives the invite, chuckling to himself at the chosen theme for the two idiots that once haunted his bar who now had moved onto bigger and better things.

A gothic fairytale wedding, on a Tuesday night. How fitting.

"you touch me once and it's really something. you find i'm even better than you imagined i would be."

[n7punk]

what's the worst thing you watched and kept up with (at least for a while) because you were gay and begging for scraps? mine was probably pretty little liars

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

EVERYONE SHUT UP AND LOOK AT HER

okay i know this is a Foul Legacy blog but listen. if anyone wants to ask me questions about Arlecchino and my OC Marine i will be so happy to answer (they are MARRIED and i WILL answer in character if wanted because i'm that obsessed)

[whoblewboobear]

I have a post about feminine rage and how klck doesn’t quite fit the definition that’s just been hanging out in the drafts for a bit so if anyone’s interested I might polish it up and post it

[opikiquu]

[pickastitch]

the icarus who chose her own sun

the icarus who wrapped themself in the void

the icarus who killed the false sun

the icarus who the stars gave up their life for

the icarus who crash landed onto the earth's surface

the icarus who finally saw her sun; only to see a moon

[poopylumpkins]

Some more sillies—got lazy w/ the animation so I didnt color or add any bg 😝😝 thought the audio was so them coded

+ here’s a question, what are like some hc voices for Narilamb?

I think Mao Mao for Nari but idk abt Lamb, I think I don’t like the idea of them having an overtly feminine or masc voice, if that makes any sense, but I don’t have a good idea of what that voice would be ??

I think I said Raine Owl House to myself before. But tbh idkk

also

Cooking rn 🐑..

[tiphyrow]

It’s very fitting that the character who’s fan interpretation varies the most is Sasha. Here’s mine

[coldasyou]

oh my god you hate taylor swift? you think she's a greedy talentless bitch? should we tell everyone? should we throw a party? should we invite scott borchetta?

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

cough hack wheeze who wants a teeny tiny fantasy au snippet with uhhhh laughingstock Tension. it's like... half a scene! unedited & out of context As Is Tradition

~

“Nothin’ much. I think I’ll poke around nearby towns, shake down some travelers - see what falls into my paws.”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Barn,” Howdy says. He sweeps aggressively, spreading dirt more than gathering it into the usual neat piles. “Who knows if those ne'er-do-wells are still roaming around the woods - if you and Ed couldn’t take them, what makes you think you could alone? Or- or! What if you stumble across those cultists? I hate to think of you stuck in an ambush with no help coming, knowing fully well that-”

A large paw slips the broom out of his grip and sets it to the side, and Howdy stammers to a stop as Barnaby crowds him against the bar with a soft, “Howdy.”

Howdy swallows hard, bracketed on each side by strong blue arms. The look Barnaby fixes him with dries up his well of words and bristles his fuzz. Howdy’s heart hammers against his ribs. He can feel Barnaby’s body heat, and it’s lighting his blood on fire. 

“I’m not gonna be reckless, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Barnaby says. He barely needs to speak louder than a whisper for Howdy to hear him loud and clear. He smells like sweet smoke. “The other day was a one time deal, cross my heart. But, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll take someone with me. I’m sure Jules is itchin’ to get outta town.”

“What would really make me feel better is if you stay,” Howdy blurts, just barely reining in the with me. He tenses, knowing that he’s toeing a dangerous line. One wrong word, and he’ll make the unspoken spoken - but the stress drains out of him as Barn’s eyes go soft. Perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad. Of course there’s no reason to worry, not about this, not with him. There never has been.

“You know I can’t do that,” Barnaby murmurs. “Not yet.”

Howdy doesn’t need to say that he knows. Not for the first time and with any luck, not for the last, it clicks in his mind that they’re on the same page - he doesn’t need to be a telepath to understand the thoughts behind Barnaby’s dark eyes. 

Barnaby says it anyway. “I gotta get him back. I can’t… there’s no room for anythin’ else right now.”

Howdy sighs through his nose and slumps against the counter digging into the small of his back. He nods and adjusts the lapels of Barnaby’s vest. His fingers ghost over soft blue, and Barnaby doesn’t flinch at the contact. If anything, he leans the barest millimeter into it. His gaze burns into Howdy’s, even if they aren’t meeting at the moment, but it isn’t a bad feeling. Quite the opposite, actually.

“Well,” Howdy says in a low voice, “if you find a good lead, send for the rest of us. I’ll be there as fast as my four legs can scamper.”

Barnaby smirks. “Even if you need to take a boat?”

“Even so, Barn.”

The smirk slides into something that isn’t a frown, but isn’t a smile. It’s too soft for a grimace, but too intense for simple recognition. Barnaby seems to sway forward, and Howdy is sorely tempted to meet him halfway.  

But Barnaby’s claw taps the counter, and he pulls away before anyone’s mind can be made up. Howdy’s hands slip from his lapels, brushing against fur as they fall and knuckles skimming over the smooth, fresh scar cutting across Barnaby’s belly. 

“I’ll be back before you know it,” Barnaby says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He squeezes Howdy’s shoulder and then his back is turned, and he’s leaving. All Howdy can do is watch. 

And call out after him, “Your table will be open and waiting for you.”

Barnaby pauses in the doorway and looks over his shoulder at Howdy, and his grin is so full of affection that Howdy may just burst. 

“With a free pint?” he asks.

“Hey now, don’t push your luck pal.”

Barnaby bursts out laughing, and Howdy can hear it even after the door thuds closed.