#waiting for queue

[ode-of-odr]

// @crimesought continued from here

Raserei had been expecting an answer, or at least a comment saying he would stop the poking. Instead, Cassian walked away looking a bit like a kicked dog. Which wasn't what he was expecting. He didn't need to take it so personally. He just didn't like the play flirting, it hurt and felt more like a cruel joke than something jovial someone did.

Still the matter was handled in his mind and went back to setting up the rest of camp.

Astarion had heard his name and well was eavesdropping a bit, wondering how this camp romance was going. Looming death aside this was better entertainment than anything else. However, when he saw Cassian walking back to his tent looking like he got reject decided to slip his toe into the water. Cassian and Raserei had done much in allowing him be his own person, least he could do was help to blind idiots get laid.

"You know he did the same thing to me," Astarion said tossing the flap to Cassian's tend open, "Granted he was right with me. I was flirting to keep my hide safe when it was clear to him I didn't need to. But that's the thing Darling, he thinks all kindness is an act. Makes me wonder what he's endured that he can't even tell when someone is being genuine. Not that I care mind you."

He did care, but he wasn't sure he wanted them to know just yet.

[ode-of-odr-archive]

// I just fucking love how both Gale and Astarion are having to look up at him. Man is like a tired mother duck leading her ducklings around.

[inalandofsadclowns]

Remember when in the Sinner's Pit Hua Cheng fought Ke Mo while holding Xie Lian, and he was all "you should put me down, I can't imagine you enjoy fighting someone with another man in your arms" but Hua Cheng kept doing that, because he did, in fact, enjoy it?

Btw here's why

[screwpinecaprice]

He communicated through mental text.

[smileyobrien]

STAR TREK: THE ORIGINAL SERIES – 1.29 "Operation -- Annihilate!"

[abbotjack]

when would jack stutter, have to catch his breath? whether it be something he sees, hears, smells. what makes him take pause?

Jack Abbot doesn’t stutter for effect. He doesn’t lose his words in arguments or get flustered in tension. He was trained—trained—to speak clearly through chaos. To radio for medevac while pressure-wrapping a wound with one hand. To give the date, time, and morphine dose to a nineteen-year-old he was holding together by sheer will while bullets cracked overhead. Words, for Jack, have always been tools. Precise. Tactical. Controlled.

So when Jack stutters, it’s never performance. It’s never dramatics. It’s malfunction. It means something short-circuited so violently inside him that all his practiced scripts—the field medic instincts, the ER attending cadence, the gallows humor—all of it collapses under the weight of something real.

It’s not trauma that makes him pause. He’s acclimated to that. It’s gentleness. It’s earnestness. It's the things no one ever trained him to survive.

It starts small.

You’re in his kitchen one morning, still in sleep clothes. No makeup. You open the fridge and mutter, “We need more eggs.” Not he needs. Not you need. We.

Jack freezes.

Just for a second. Just long enough that the corner of the coffee filter burns.

Because he’s spent years learning how to survive alone. Alone is safe. Alone is math he can do. But we? We is dangerous. We has loss baked into it.

So when you say something that sounds like permanence without even realizing it, Jack looks down at the mug in his hand like he forgot how it got there.

“You okay?” you ask, still rummaging.

“Yeah, I just—” He exhales, blinks. “I—uh, it’s—fine.”

It’s not the word he’s fumbling over. It’s the feeling.

Then it escalates.

You wear his sweatshirt to the grocery store and complain about the sleeves being too long. You say it in passing—no agenda, no performance. Just an offhanded “How the hell do your arms fit in this thing?”

Jack laughs. He nods. He goes quiet.

And later, when you’re brushing your teeth, he stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you like he’s never seen anything more disarming.

“You know you, uh—” He pauses. Swallows. “You look good in that.”

And that stutter? It’s not nerves. It’s not lust. It’s ache. It’s how dare you look like home in my clothes when I never thought I’d have one again. It’s him tasting the fact that someone might love him with the lights on. With the ghosts still in the room.

But the worst of it—the deepest malfunction—is when you touch the part of him he hides.

It’s a Tuesday. You’re lying in bed. Jack’s out of the shower, towel around his waist, residual steam curling off his shoulders. You’re half asleep when he climbs in, careful, always careful. The prosthetic is off. His right leg ends below the knee, the skin there pale, uneven in tone, scarred in a way that doesn’t fade with time.

You don’t flinch. You never have.

You roll over, press your face into his chest, and—without thinking—run your hand down his thigh and stop at the point where flesh becomes absence. Where history lives in muscle memory.

He draws in a sharp breath—sudden, ragged—like it knocked the wind out of him.

“Sorry,” you whisper, pulling back.

But he grabs your wrist. Not to stop you. To ground himself. To hold the moment in place.

“No, I—” His voice cracks. The words don’t follow. “It’s not—I just—” He blinks fast, jaw twitching. “I wasn’t—expecting that.”

Because what you touched wasn’t just skin. It was the thing he’s ashamed of needing love through. The thing people look at and get polite. The thing strangers pretend not to notice. The thing he never believed could be part of desire. And you just touched it like it was his. Like it was safe.

That’s when Jack stutters.

When you make the part of him he’s spent years compartmentalizing feel not just accepted—but wanted.

But maybe the most dangerous kind of stutter—the kind that ruins him—isn’t even about touch.

It’s when you fight.

Not over something petty. Something real. Something that threatens the fragile trust he’s learning to build. Maybe you accuse him of shutting you out again. Of pulling back every time things get too close. And you’re right. You’re so right it guts him.

He raises his voice. Snaps something defensive. His default. Control the room. Win the logic. Out-talk the fear.

But then you say it.

“Jack, you don’t have to be perfect to be loved.”

And that sentence? That sentence breaks him.

Not because of what it is.

Because of what it isn’t.

It isn’t a demand. It isn’t a plea. It’s grace. Unconditional. Unflinching. And it makes no goddamn sense to a man who’s only ever been valued for what he can fix, what he can endure, what he can sacrifice.

So he stares at you.

“You don’t—” His voice falters. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do,” you whisper.

And he stutters. He turns away. Rubs his jaw. Blinks hard.

Because he wants to believe you. More than anything. But his nervous system doesn’t know how to file that truth under anything but threat.

He says, “I just—” and never finishes.

Because he can’t.

Because it’s too much.

Because your love is louder than his guilt, and that is a sound Jack Abbot doesn’t know how to live through.

That’s when he stutters.

When you say something that unravels the wire he’s been holding himself together with since the war. Since the job started asking more than he had to give and he gave it anyway.

When you look at him like he is not a burden. Like he is allowed to stay.

That’s what makes Jack Abbot forget how to speak.

Not blood.

Not death.

But the unbearable mercy of being loved anyway.

[solarpunkani]

Listen I’m not saying that *I* have the balls to buy a reflective vest and go off on a roadside or retention pond somewhere and start fucking around guerrilla gardening

But I am saying that the past week I’ve driven past many MANY people in reflective vests either doing roadwork or maintaining roadside shrubbery or whatever and the amount of times I considered questioning what the fuck they were doing is zero and the amount of times I would’ve even had the TIME to question what the fuck they were doing is zero

I saw groups of people I saw someone solo I didn’t question it I just figured ‘eh they’re doing SOMETHING and carried on. Depending on the location you pick, anyone who WOULD Karen up and interrogate you won’t even have the time space or ability to

[katebeckets]

how to say "I love you" in x-files [103/?] ⤷ 1.08 — “Ice”

[gearbroth]

twitter meme

[ode-of-odr]

He listened to her ramble off her questions with a craned brow. He was not expecting the curiosity, yet the questions made sense. She wanted to know if he could manipulate her and what those signs looked like. If she even knew she was being a victim. Even if he could lie; he wouldn't of course. Still, this line of thinking saddened him a bit.

Raserei looked at one of his clawed hands, the thick black scales that covered it, and the large black claws, never dulled from all they had torn into, "Not being rude, and I do not think invasive is a word I know anymore when it comes to me."

A distant look grew in his good eye, a long painful memory flashing to the front of his mind then sinking back to the abyss of his mind. The voices in his head laughing.

"You know, oh you are painfully aware when it happens. Have you heard the term 'Locked In'? When a patient is aware but can't move any part of their body? Can't make a sound? It's like that but it's being overtaken by an emotion. You can act, barely. And in most cases, the act of strengthening an emotion kills the victim. Demons are not known to be gentle with their actions. Even happiness is deformed into mania."

Raserei looked back at her, "It can be used more moderately, the whore houses where succubi and such work, they use this ability to great effect for their clients. A good friend of mine, her and her children can get a mortal off without even touching them! That reminds me I wonder how she is doing? Damn old crone."

The demon spawn shook his head with a small grin, clearly fond of the person he was thinking of, "I cannot bring out such a strong reaction like they can. I'm still a demon by all accounts, but..." he stopped realizing he was about to maybe give away too much, "Let's say still close enough to the pureblood that mom's genetics did nothing for me, but make sure I didn't get the more insidious powers from dad, I guess."

"Though as I said I have some ability, I can urge some emotions closer to the surface, get some enjoyment from them," more than some enjoyment. He knew too well how addicting it was, "My favorite? Gluttony."

It tied into all the other ones, It was the root of so much. Pile on the rage, drown in the lust, gorge on one's hunger. Even mortals liked to overindulge in fear. But mostly it was easier to say than explain because his blood was tied to a greater demon, his palette wasn't so simple. That and the man himself was honestly a poster child for gluttony. Raserei didn't do anything lightly.

Iveani had always loved learning new things, and this wasn't something she'd ever had a chance to learn before. She was fascinated. She learned forward slightly as he spoke and fidgeted with the end of the sleeve of the pale green cardigan she wore despite the warm weather as she listened intently.

"So, can the person tell if you're feeding on their emotions? Or is it something that doesn't affect them at all? And can someone who can manipulate their emotions like that turn them up just a little if they wanted, or is it an all or nothing thing? And do you have any favorite responses?" she asked after he finished his explanation, before realizing that she may have accidentally come across the wrong way.

"I'm sorry if I'm being rude, I just get curious. Let me know if any of my questions are too invasive."

She didn't ask if he could manipulate people's emotions. She didn't really mind either way, as long as he wasn't doing it without her consent or hurting her with it. She wasn't particularly concerned about that, simply because if he really wanted to hurt her, he wouldn't need to use her emotions to do it.

[ode-of-odr]

Voices in the Blood

|| @crimesought

Oh this was not how he planned it. Not how it was supposed to be! He was to die, be destroyed. Deny the Nether Brain and his wretched grandfather all at once!

At least that would be what he would be lamenting over, if his higher thinking weren't indisposed of. Enough of himself left to flee the city before his mind was completely taken under by the crushing waves of the Abyss.

What choice did he have? Either have Lae'zel lose the hero her people needed, and maybe set them on a better course, or have one of them instead turn into the monster? Gale, sacrifice himself? No. They all had reasons to live...

He had a reason, found one. Oh but that was a whisper of a shadow in his mind now. Cassian a blur in his crimson blurred mind. He opened himself up to what he knew could handle the stones. Crush the Nether Brain. He let the Chained God in, and now his blood roiled and screamed. Raserei was lost. This was a darkness he couldn't come back from.

If he could think, he hoped Cassian understood. Knew he did it for him, all of them. They all deserved better. But he should have been smothered in his cradle.

The barbarian gnawed on bones and strips of meat. When did this get here? No matter. Raw flesh for his unending hunger. As his soul fought retake what was it's.

[elodieunderglass]

And one amang, an Iyrysch man,

Uppone his hoby swyftly ran…

WAIT HANG ON - slamming the brakes on drawing this stupid picture - do you nerds even KNOW the etymology of the word “hobby”? The thing you do for pleasure? The thing you have too many of? The thing you spend too much money on and share with your friends? The thing tumblr probably is to you? Those hobbies?

It comes from a now-kind-of-extinct breed of Irish pony-horse. It was called the Irish Hobby. Supposedly the hobby got its name from the Gaelic word obann, or swift. They definitely were. They’d obann your pants clean off.

Fast tough little bastards, built for rough terrain and renowned for their speed and stamina, hobby horses belonged to the Celts, and their highly annoying style of mounted warfare. but their conquerors liked hobby horses a lot, kept them, used them for themselves, and found them useful enough, despite the fact that they also had famously useful things like mounted knights or horse archers. A lightweight Irish warrior, mounted on a hobby horse, was called a hobelar.

Reportedly and in depictions, hobelars rode without stirrups. Or saddles. Or bridles. Or - well - this is all sounding very improbable, because the hobelars COULDNT have just been charging around basically bare-assed on naked ponies, screaming, and somehow in the process undoing the composure of actual mounted armoured knights. Knights who, I remind you, had stirrups. Stirrups are useful! It’s quite likely the hobelars had some gear. And clothes. and weapons. And the ponies probably had some tack - I am picturing a bellyband that you could at least hang a saddlebag on, and a neck rope for catching the bloody thing, even if not a saddle. But the overall impression, somehow created by people on darling little ponies, was apparently quite striking and fearful.

I mean. God Forbid People Have Hobbies.

Anyway after a while, whatever people became the British had eventually conquered all of the rough terrain that hobbies were best at, and horse archers just got sexier, and mounted knights became aristos, and all the bog and forest people had been subdued, so it was time to sunset the hobelars. but WAIT! Hobby horses are still tremendously fun and appealing! They’re so fast! and you can ride them without a saddle! Sure, they’re not up to the weight of a mounted knight, or indeed a lot of guys… but surely we can still find a use for a hobby or two? In the back garden? Somewhere?

At which point an English king decided to keep hobby horses just for fun. No military application. No further development of the technology. Not for fun. Just as expensive, pleasurable, pets. Just for the joy of the thing.

And that is how hobby (activity done purely for pleasure) comes from hobby horse (small horse) possibly from obann (swift.) they’re very interesting and you should look all this up for yourself! because it sure sounds like Elodie doing a bit, doesn’t it?

Today, Irish Hobbies are functionally nonexistent. References for drawing include the Kerry Bog Pony, the Connemara, and (I personally think) Dartmoors and Exmoors. They’re said to have lent their speed to the Irish Hunter/Sport Horse and from there to the Thoroughbred, but every damn horse in the world claims relation to the Thoroughbred, and they can’t be THAT thoroughly bred.

At any rate - you can never have enough hobbies. Just be glad that yours aren’t expensive beasts with minds of their own, eating their heads off in the pasture! …Unless they are. In which case, you’re part of a proud tradition.

[khairosclerosis]

🛶 and i'm asking, 'why, lord?'

if this is how i die, lord;

why be left with no family

and no friends?

[kaddyssammlung]

[smileyobrien]

TEMPORAL MECHANICS 101 by Admiral Janeway

[fukutomichi]

Sam Hazeldine as Adar - Inside The Rings of Power S2, E8 | The Lord of The Rings: The Rings of Power