#this year is already 3 years long

[kithtaehyung]

how are y’all!

[krysmcscience]

Call this the Whoopsie AU (it's barely an AU)

I mean. Narinder never explicitly SAID the Lamb would stay dead... :3c He probably should have been more specific. >:3c

Part Two:

Well. The Lamb tried, but...sorry, Nari, the crown hates you now. Shouldn't have been so quick to lend it out, I guess. :D

Aaaand Part Three:

'Isn't he just adorable?' -The Lamb, probably, while their followers smile and nod and internally scream at the brand new hellcat they now have to share living space with...

Anyway, nothing says 'Dead To Me' like following a person around to loudly remind them of how dead they are to you. Right? Right. Narinder's got this all figured out. <:]

[typewriter-worries]

It's world poetry day so here are some (more) of my favorite poems:

What You Missed That Day You Were Absent from Fourth Grade by Brad Aaron Modlin

All Trains Are Going Local by Timothy Liu

Rural Boys Watch the Apocalypse by Keaton St. James (@boykeats)

HOPE YOU’RE WELL. PLEASE DON’T READ THIS. by Lev St. Valentine (@dogrotpdf)

Time of Love by Claribel Alegría

Every Job Has a First Day by Rebecca Gayle Howell

ALL THAT WANTING, RIGHT? by Devin Kelly

Reading by A.R. Ammons

things i want to ask you by Helga Floros

Night Bird by Danusha Laméris

Prayer for Werewolves by Stephanie Burt

The Two Times I Loved You the Most In a Car by Dorothea Grossman

The Yearner by Rachel Long

If I Had Three Lives by Sarah Russell

I Dream on a Crowded Subway Train with My Eyes Open But My Body Swaying by Chen Chen

We Have Not Long to Love by Tennessee Williams

Jesus at the Gay Bar by Jay Hulme

Cracks by Dieu Dinh

and here's part one <3

[tshortik]

Cryptic visions of space and time...

[floccinaucinihilipilificationa]

[kyonshi-8610]

more than one week i will be gone

translations and img descriptions in alt thing

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

ORV is about enduring the horrors in real time.

(for @everyonesfavoritebastard)

[hanzajesthanza]

geralt "i will NEVER deadname my best friend" of rivia

"he will ALWAYS be dandelion to ME"

[eddiediazismyhusband]

if you want eddie to fuck a priest then go read eddie/priest fanfiction on ao3, but leave it at that

eddie does not need another relationship before buddie canon regardless of what some of yall seem to think about queer people somehow needing to be infantilized and needing to date around before settling down which is not true at all and i (as a queer person) am tired of seeing that narrative that someone’s queer realization has to be through a stepping stone relationship

(also this notion just completely saying fuck you to the character development of eddie’s insanely demi coded self)

but of course knowing tim minear and his proclivity to infusing random ass kinks into queer ships he may be unable to pass up the opportunity to profit off the priest kink of it all and force us to watch as he writes a knock off fleabag rather than just committing to the chemistry and subtext he himself has infused into his work for 6 years🙄😒

[writeouswriter]

The curse has lifted (finally wrote more than like 10 words on something)

[fiddles-ifs]

[ID: A banner-style graphic featuring a coyote's open mouth on a dark black background. Orange all-caps text near the bottom of the image reads: "happy birthday Greenwarden." /end ID]

Happy birthday to my firstborn problem!! I'm trying really hard to not think about how long it's actually been, but to celebrate Greenwarden being mysteriously old I'm posting a former Patreon snippet! I'm also announcing that 1) I quit me day job, and 2) I'm going to be compiling a bunch of Greenwarden shorts that would have gone up on Patreon if I had kept it up. More on that to come when I get all my ducks in a line.

GRAVEROBBING AND NECROMANCY FOR DUMMIES

Marianna & Tracker. 16+. Grimdark Fantasy AU. Scofiddle Pepper Rating: Bell Pepper.

Content Warnings: Blood, minor wounds, implied mind-control, mentions of death.

Mausoleums always have a certain smell — mold, mildew, cracking damp stone. The decay of rock and mortar, but never flesh. The sarcophagi are tightly sealed with both wards and wax, partially to keep the smell at bay. No air, nor Light, nor hands will ever creep inside them. The Silent Mercies do their grim work and do it well, keeping them locked up tight. Then they leave — that's the extent of their dues to the dead.

They can count themselves lucky. Corpses don't exactly make great company. Particularly when some of them are itching to come back.

You can't help but feel like there are eyes on you, your torch cutting through the dark, damp guts of the tomb. An intrusion. Indigestion. The violent, flickering orange light makes the shadows greasy. You'd use a magelight, but you're already dancing on the razor-thin line between bravery and stupidity; you don't want to risk waking something. Someone. 

They were people once, allegedly, but you know what pride morphs people into.

Particularly powerful necromancers resist even the cleansing fire of holy Light, their sentience existing in each molecule of ash, slowly piecing themself back together with sheer will and hate. It may take hundreds — maybe thousands — of years, but eventually they will come back. So, the Temple does what it can. The liches are bound, still conscious, and placed in a sarcophagus. The sarcophagus is sealed — with prayer, with wax, with chains and locks both physical and magical — and a mausoleum built around it. The Silent Mercies make their rounds indefinitely, strengthening the wards and installing ever more complex locks. Hundreds of years turn into thousands.

The hopeful end result is a stark raving mad lich warlock that will, if all goes well, blissfully prefer the judgment of the Light before they suffer one more second of silent, unmoving, stagnant solitude. Time and again the methods of the Temple are proven effective. Terrifying, and effective. Most choose to vacate their own bodies than live in the dark for an undetermined amount of time. Unable to move. Unable to see. Slowly withering away, mummifying, rotting in your own skin. Whatever you’re going to find will not be human anymore – if it was ever human in the first place.

You cross the dusty, time-ravaged stone floor to the sarcophagus at the far end of the room. It's a short walk. Mausoleums are traditionally small, most especially the ones outside of temples, reserved for the vilest of the old guard, the lichkings who dared to try and defy death. Beings that rejected humanity, even rejected immolation, and should not under any circumstances be within spitting distance of a residential area.

Zoning laws: the bane of all undead tyrants. 

There's only one — which is nerve-wracking. It sits placidly on a raised dais set with small, half-melted candles, as if it’s waiting for you. A frozen slime trail of old wax meanders down the dais, caught in time. The thrum of magic tickles your fingertips. Brushing, like a cat would, up against your palms and skittering up your arms. Both a beckoning and a warning. Temptation.

It's wrong. A singular coffin is like finding a singular roach. Not wholly uncommon, but it sets your teeth on edge. 

It means one of two things: either the Temple managed to burn the master’s undead servants, even the stubborn ones. Or, worse – they’re afraid of what it might do with nearby corpses, even sealed away.

Your arms itch. You set your torch in a conveniently placed wall sconce and start working to get your mind off things.

The Temple of Light may not like to admit it, but what they do is magic. The prayers wielded by their paladins and clerics are incantations; the talismans created by their monks are charms, woven out of somewhat less mathematically inclined sigils. Magic. They hang and burn people for it in the streets, but it keeps their mausoleums tightly locked and their church in power.

Like any spell, a prayer can be broken with a little bit of reverse engineering. And you are very good at breaking things.

Maybe it's the uniqueness of your situation, or maybe you were just created with something special, but seeing the patterns in the weave and weft of magic comes second nature to you. Almost like a physical thing. A golden projection of arcane artistry.

It's a complicated spell; the Woodsman lived hundreds of years ago, long enough that even its very name was forgotten. The ward is centuries of layers, each one getting more and more complex as the Silent Mercies learned what incantations and motions were most effective at keeping the dead at bay. Trails of cold, melted wax dripping down time. A beautiful puzzle, just for you. You're always half-giddy, knowing that you may very well be the only one who can truly see the work, the history behind it, and that you might be the only one smart enough not just to break it to pieces, but coax it open.

Enough. You need to be fast.

Your forehead tenses, brows knit as you start reversing half a millennia of spellcraft. Delicately, slowly, you work out the motions, but in reverse. A twist of your hand, fingers curled, your arm moving in hypnotic diamonds and stars and spirals. Shapes designed to trap and contain. The fingers on your other hand open and close in the same fractal rhythm half a canto ahead, parsing out the right steps in the dance before you walk the dancefloor.  You're a conductor, ripping carefully crafted sheet music to shreds. The torch flickers.

There's no sound but your own short, elated huff of laughter when your hand slides into place at the ward's terminus. Deep in your hindbrain, a lock falls open with a satisfying click!

“Don't move.” 

Oh. That's a sword — you feel the tip of it caressing the nape of your neck. Slowly, carefully, you raise your hands to the sides of your head. You’re unarmed, and thankful you have gloves on.

“Turn around.” 

It’s not like you have room to argue.

You’re face-to-face with the tip of a shiny, well-polished blade. The silver coating makes your back teeth itch. You feel it vibrating, still coming down, hypersensitive to atomic changes in the air. You’re also face-to-chest with an extraordinarily tall cleric in their classic white and gold armor. An immediate, violent chill settles into your spine.

She’s hard-faced, hair cut bluntly short; she gives you the impression that her only expression is scowl. You prepare yourself to fire and run. It’ll set your research back months – maybe even a year – but you’ll live.

“Explain yourself.” You’re taken aback by that – you do a quick three-point look around the room and with your head and then spread your hands out a little further.

“I mean,” you say, “I think we both know I’m not supposed to be here.”

She doesn’t like that. Her hands choke a little tighter around her sword grip, leather squealing and platemail clicking as she shifts even deeper into a fighting stance. The sword gets a little closer to your face. A sweat breaks out between your shoulder blades.

“You’re a mage.”

“And you’re a cleric.” Impasse. Stand off. Stare down. Neither of you are willing to make the first move – maybe she’s hoping for a peaceful resolution. That you’ll go gracefully to the stake.

Fat chance, but something changes when she opens her mouth to reply.

You don’t like the look that falls over the cleric’s face – wide eyed, eyebrows to the hairline, mouth half-open. The blood leaving her face. The slight tremble in her steady hands. Fear.

Slowly, you twist your neck to look behind you.

The Woodsman’s coffin is open – a deep, yawning blackness slides out of it, liquid trapped inside thin film. On the coattails of the light-drinking sludge, a skeletal hand slides, damn near leisurely, out of the sarcophagus. What follows is a horror of ancient science. Half human, half… something else.

The antlers crown its head, but the head is canine, deep pinpoints of light inside empty sockets. Mummified skin knits across bone, thin as paper and patchy in places. Its teeth are bare to the world and yellowed with centuries. You watch the slick, black flesh form an amorphous mass beneath the skull, the arms nothing but bone haphazardly slapped onto an overgorged slug.

You were hoping it wasn’t in there – everything you’ve learned told you it had probably vacated its body years ago. There had been no activity for so long – no plague of nightmares, no major possessions, no strange activity in the flora and fauna  – and yet. The Woodsman slithers out of its unlocked tomb on a tide of melted void-flesh, rises on it until it has to bend, its shoulders scraping the ceiling of the mausoleum. It opens its mouth wide – skin and gristle clinging to its jaw in loose strings – and shrieks.

It’s shrill and piercing. You’re concussed, briefly, slapping your hands over your ears. You feel it – in your head. Scraping the inside of your skull, dark wordless whispers in your hindbrain. It knows you. It sees you. It’s in your head.

The cleric pushes you behind her, nearly to the door in the tiny mausoleum. You’re confused – still concussed. You don’t run.

“Go!” She shouts, swinging and hacking at the growing sea of rotting flesh. She swings too wide – the silver-steel scrapes against the walls of the mausoleum and sparks. The Woodsman just keeps growing. One by one, the candles and torch are swallowed whole. A deep, endless black. A tidal wave of nothing. 

You’re not about to argue. You turn tail and run out the door.

Two steps past the tomb, you stumble to a stop. A quick, hard-breathing glance behind you lets you know that the cleric already isn’t doing well. She’s fighting like an animal, punching what she can’t cut. Every slice is swallowed up by more reeling, lightless flesh. You still feel the Woodsman’s scritching little claws, furrows in your soft, pliant brain. Every iota of you recoils away from it. But that cleric – she let you go. 

You look down at your hands. The dark leather gloves, fingertips worn, the edges frayed.

Shaking, you slip them off your hands and leave them in the grass.

You grab the back of the cleric’s breastplate and yank her back into fresh air, swapping places in one smooth transition. You don’t know what she sees. If she notices the dark, blue-black corrupted skin of your hands or the bright runes squirming over your arms while you reach deep in yourself for something destructive. The bands around your wrists and throat mark you as a Thing – something broken loose. The Woodsman tugs at your tattered ghost leash with an interested spiritual hand, head cocked. Your programming demands you kneel for consumption, and your knees twitch before you get yourself back under control. You almost see a wink of recognition.

Little homunculus, the Woodsman whispers, curling around the base of your skull like a cat, so far from home.

“Shut up,” you say, and light up the room.

The Temple of Light has claimed the lichkings reject holy fire and immolation – they just haven’t tried something hot enough. Your fire is pure destruction, white with heat, blinding against the greasy black corruption sludge coating the walls. The Woodsman shrieks – pain, rage, confusion. Spikes of pain explode behind your eyes, and you burn them away too.

You wade through the muck, scorching it all to ash, beating the Woodsman back until it tries to seek refuge again in its sarcophagus, huddling in the pit. A child taking refuge in a cellar.  Curled at the back of a cell. Useless, useless.

You reach out with a flame-licked hand and clamp down hard on its muzzle.

“Shut up,” you hiss, and watch fire make cracks in its skull. It rakes your arms with bony claws, opening bloody gashes in your flesh. The blood sizzles and evaporates almost instantly. 

The Woodsman’s head explodes with a loud crack, bone shards ripping through the skin of your cheek. The rest of it goes limp in a heap. What’s left, you turn to coal dust, just in case. When you’re done, all that’s left of the Woodsman is a greasy soot stain coating the floor, walls, and ceiling. It’s a little gruesome. Reminds you uncomfortably of blood.

You coax the flames back in, lower and lower, wobbling with exhaustion, until a comfortable, warm dark swallows you. There’s light in it – ambient, soft reflections of the moon outside. The sarcophagus is a welcome resting spot, using its high lip to stay half-standing. Even then, you see little spots in your vision, the edges going blurry. A few drops of blood slide out of your nose and splatter on the ground. Your ears are ringing.

“You’ve got red on you.” You jump.

The cleric is standing there, wiping blood and slime off her face. One of her eyes is nearly glued shut, an open wound on her brow pouring red down her cheek and under her collar. You give her a once-over before you weakly tilt your chin up.

“So do you,” you say. She nods – holds out her hand.

“Marianna.”

Cautiously, you cross the floor on shaky legs to take it, and give her your name. The one you picked for yourself – it feels nice. To introduce yourself, for once. She almost crushes your hand. You’re comparatively weak.

“You saved my life, mage,” Marianna says. You grin with a mouthful of bloody teeth, an acknowledgement.

Then, your body finally gives up. You’re blissfully unconscious before you hit the ground.

[thursdayinspace]

another random question but what do you think would have happened if scully had never gotten abducted?

i love this question. i mean, long-term, it would have changed *a lot*. no cancer arc, which would be the biggest and most obvious change. but what would it have changed right then and there? the abduction definitely impacted their partnership and their friendship.

in one way, it brought things to the surface, especially for mulder. he wasn't unaware of her importance in his life before the abduction. telling his tape recorder that he could only trust himself and now he can only trust her? telling her that the only reason he could see to stay with the fbi was if they were working together? he was already relying on her presence in his life. a lot. but when she was taken from him, i think he felt a fear and despair that he would not have anticipated. it's one thing to know you need someone who is right there, and who will set up secret meetings in a parking garage, and who, even if you *can't* right now, is someone you know deep down you *could* reach out to. it's another thing to need someone who is gone.

so in that way, i think he did become aware that he was feeling more than he had realized. and that realization definitely had an impact on their relationship. but there's another side to it:

the abduction was the first time he became aware of *his* role in *her* life. and what he saw there wasn't good. because mulder being mulder, of course he takes responsibility, of course he blames himself. the fact that none of it was his fault doesn't matter. this is when he realizes that their quest, *his* quest, is putting her in real, life-threatening danger. and that thought never leaves him again. we see that guilt that takes root in his mind there all the way up into the revival. so that is a huge thing. he would have eventually found other things to blame himself for. mulder takes things personally and holds himself accountable for things that are completely outside of his control. so if it hadn't been this, it would have been something else. because things would still have happened to her. but being abducted and being gone for that long and coming back on the brink of death? that, for lack of a better expression, really fucked them both up in a big way.

so, what is my answer to your question? i don't know. i mean, for one, scully's side of the story is still completely missing from this. i find that a lot harder to unpack. if anyone wants to analyze that, i'd love to hear your thoughts! but also, both these things i talked about could have affected them in any number of ways. it comes down to likelihoods and probabilities. in the end you never know for sure how a person will react to a situation until after they've done it. and you don't know how not going through an experience might change them. and no headcanon any of us might have will tell the story as it would have happened with 100% certainty because human behavior is simply too complex and complicated to predict with any kind of accuracy.

if mulder hadn't been pushed through external circumstances to confront his feelings in that way, if he hadn't carried her cross, held her hand fearing it might be the last time, that would have taken a huge weight off both of them. there might have been a greater ease to their relationship. mulder wouldn't be feeling that guilt. scully wouldn't have to deal with the aftermath of all of that. the abduction, in my opinion, brought them closer to each other, but also served as an obstacle on their way forward, because it's quite something to move on from, more so since it brought feelings to the surface that neither of them was ready for.

*i personally* think the abduction strengthened the bond between them but weakened the foundation of their relationship. because of that added guilt and the fact that they were not ready to confront certain feelings. i think his fear of losing her is something that came to define him. and he kept almost losing her. if that hadn't happened? things between them could have progressed at an easier pace. their friendship, and the love they feel for each other. but honestly, i have no idea. but i had a lot of fun thinking about this.

[bitternace]

WHY ARE YOU SO EVIL!!! /POS. ATTACKING YOU.

Xemnas and Xigbar for 37 if that number hasn't been done? If it has, how about 74?

no puedo pedirle lo eterno a un simple mortal // ay, todo lo que he hecho por ti.

[ID: a mostly black and white drawing with a purple overlay of xigbar and xemnas shown from the hip up on the left side of the image. the background is black and has some diagonal lines with a bit of transparency on the right side. the shadows are harsh, with only a bit of light falling on their faces.

they stand before each other turned to the audience. xigbar, holds the handle and the middle of No Name before him, head tilted down as he looks to the audience. xemnas stands a full head taller behind xigbar, his left hand held some distance below the bladed tip of No Name, his left eye is covered by his fringe.

xemnas visible eye is painted ochre with a white pupil, while xigbar's eye is white and gold. The eyes on no name's handle and the gazing eye on the blade are a vibrant cyan. the caption reads the spanish lyrics "i can't ask a simple mortal for a forever" and "oh, everything i've done for you." /End ID.]

close-up under keep reading.

[kitnita]

well, let's leave this all behind us on the road

ty dellandrea, gm jim nill agreed ‘it was time’ to part ways ahead of trade to san jose by lia assimakopoulos for the dallas morning news, june 24, 2024; jake oettinger & ty dellandrea on locker cleanout day via the dallas stars, june 4, 2024; "october" by HAPPY LANDING; dallas stars vs. san jose sharks in dallas, texas on october 15, 2024; ty dellandrea & jake oettinger pose for jake's 100th win on february 29, 2024 via the dallas stars; stars’ jake oettinger and ty dellandrea share a special bond: ‘we’ve done it all’ by saad yousuf for the athletic, may 29, 2023; jake oettinger is at home with the stars by matthew defranks for the dallas morning news, october 10, 2022; jake oettinger & ty dellandrea pose with their first nhl goal & first nhl win pucks via jeff toates, january 28, 2021; jake oettinger on ty dellandrea after game 4 vs. vegas, april 29, 2024; "blue" by laura elliot; saad yousuf for the athletic, may 29, 2023; jake oettinger & ty dellandrea on the bench after practice via the dallas stars, march 8, 2024; "rearview" by brenn!; jake oettinger with his arm around ty dellandrea after game 5 vs. vegas via trey hill, may 27, 2023; saad yousuf for the athletic, may 29, 2023; lia assimakopoulos for the dallas morning news, june 24, 2024; sharks sign ty dellandrea for nhl.com, july 4, 2024; ty dellandrea cradling jake oettinger's face via jake oettinger's instagram, june 19, 2024; "rearview" by brenn!; jake oettinger & ty dellandrea before morning skate via saad yousuf, january 10, 2024; jake oettinger on ty dellandrea after game 4 vs. vegas, april 29, 2024; jake oettinger & ty dellandrea pose with their first nhl goal & first nhl win pucks via jake oettinger's instagram, january 28, 2021; saad yousuf for the athletic, may 29, 2023; "october" by HAPPY LANDING.

[prodogg]

I think I need to get back into Tyzula, it was my first otp when I got into fandom and I think I let the negativity from toxic fans destroy it for me. Also I think I had a tyzula burnout from literally reading every fic everyday that I found on the Tyzula tag and being mostly unsatisfied with the longfics since they often were left abandoned when it got interesting.

I think reading fics will be a good start to reignite the passion. Does anybody have some fic recommendations, I’ve been out of the Tyzula bubble for nearly 2-3

[kirumiri]

you're telling me it's already BEEN A YEAR since I became obsessed with this family? BD fandom how we feeling