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"Of course, there was a ball pit. But there were also multiple Gandalf Big Naturals cosplayers, as well as folks dressed up like a children’s hospital ��� a reference to a viral Tumblr post about color theory and some very questionable design choices. New York Times bestselling author Xiran Jay Zhao attended as Yu-Gi-Oh Robespierre, while YouTuber Strange Æons had a physical battle with iconic Tumblr user the Muppet Joker, which resulted in some pretty great fan art actually. It was a day where everyone who showed up understood the references and were in on the same jokes, where 2010s nostalgia was viewed with 2025 post-ironic clarity.  If this all sounds like gibberish to you, that’s fine, this event wasn’t for you. DashCon 2 was, again, for Tumblr users by Tumblr users, so if (like me) you’ve been endlessly scrolling your dashboard for the last 15 years all of this makes total sense."

hiiiii i wrote about DashCon 2 in yesterday's Garbage Day newsletter if you wanna read it!

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July 5th, 2025. The day The Muppet Joker croaked.

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I’m obsessed with the picture caption. I read it aloud to my husband and he tells me I’m just saying words

Dashcon 2 was a fever dream.

Here is the full article

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maybe i like my tech a little bit inconvenient

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Anon from your last request, oh you made my day with that Halsin fic! Thank you so much! Ofc I'd wait a hundred moons or more for you, Halsin 😭 if you ever get the chance, I'd love to read how you'd imagine the king of yearning, Gale, react

I'm so glad you enjoyed it!

Of course I'll do one for our darling wizard, the king of yearning himself too!

Here you go my darling! I hope this is yearning enough for you!

I got somewhat carried away with this one, so look out for tons of yearning, and ANGST, but a happy ending at least!

He can’t help but let himself look. You’re sitting on the opposite side of the campfire, joking with Karlach. Face alight with joy, like laughter come to life right in front of his eyes. He tries not to stare, tries not to be obvious. He can tell by the way Astarion side eyes him that it must be written across his face plain as day. But he can’t help it, not when you shine brightly enough to rival even the blazing campfire, a flush high on your cheeks whether from the alcohol or from whatever sordid tale Karlach is regaling you with he can’t tell.

Your laugh is bright and clear, a balm to his weary heart, and music to his ears. Could he bottle the sound to use as medicine he would, and it would no doubt soothe him better than any potion in Faerûn. Mentally he shakes himself, no doubt his attention having passed flattering many minutes ago, moving rapidly towards creepy. But he can’t quite tear himself away, enraptured beyond reason, beyond rhyme.

It is addictive, the way the light from the fire plays against your skin, illuminating and casting shadows, playing softly against your hair your eyes, brighter still with laughing, your lips. Oh dear, he must be drunk already. Setting down the now half empty cup of wine dejectedly. If he was this far gone after half a cup, he could certainly not be trusted to drink any more.

It makes himself restless, urges him towards action of some sort. Nothing so honest as admission, of course. But that voice in him, the one that had once produced poetry and sweeter words, the one that had been dormant since the whole ordeal with Mystra. That voice, awakened again, whispering, singing, ringing in his ears. Urging him on. But alas, he remains, rooted as he were, to the spot. Watching.

Half formed phrase flits through his mind like birds playing in the wind. None in the party even bother trying to speak with him, they must see that he is a lost cause. They indulge, laugh, even sing, drinking their fair share, before, one by one filing off headed to tents and bedrolls. He doesn’t bother, it’s not like he’ll be able to sleep.

Not with thoughts of you clouding his mind like sweet perfume. Warring with his guilt, over past transgressions. With his thinly veiled sense of self-loathing. The deep set knowledge that you deserve better than a broken man with a bomb in his chest, sharing space with a heart so battered it no longer has its correct form. The knowledge that he can let himself watch, but not much more. He can let himself be soothed, but not without the guilt.

Time passes a blur, his fingers tracing the rim of the cup idly. Eventually only you are left, Karlach heading off into the night. If you had been joyously tipsy before, you would have well passed drunk an hour ago, settling assuredly somewhere around entirely off your face. You won’t make it far on your own.

He can pinpoint the moment you realize that he’s still sitting on the other side of the fire. Eyes lighting up in realization before the world seems to fog out around you again. When your eyes open fully again he is already on his feet, outside your pin prick field of vision, moving to your side.

It is a duty he would gladly fulfill every day of his life if you asked it of him. This time is no different, gentle hands moving to your shoulders, easing you off the ground. You make a soft noise of protest.

“Nice try” you slur, barely on this side of comprehensible. “you can’t come to bed with me” your words make him flush desperately. The insinuation grates at him, he wouldn’t ever take advantage of you in such a state, do you truly think so little of him?

“O-of course not.” He assures clumsily. But you continue undeterred.

“You can’t” you insist “want to know why?” your glassy eyes find his, taking aim before your slurred words lodge like a knife into his chest, parting ribs, grating against bone, seeking the soft muscle of his heart. “I’m in love.” You bestow the secret like a bomb without the safety on. Handing it to him gently, unknowing of the way it burns through his very being, charring holes into his soul.

“Don’t tell him!” you insist around a yawn, leaning more heavily on his shoulder. It doesn’t matter if you haven’t told him who you mean. He will go to the grave with your tiniest of secrets, this is no different even though he feels like it might take him with it.

“I won’t.” he fights to keep his voice from betraying him, but it shakes despite his best efforts. At least it seems to mollify you, and you let him lead you to your tent. He doesn’t want to come with you inside, but you do not stop moving, and your vice grip on his arm brings him with you, and down to kneel beside you as you lie down.

It would embarrass him, seeing you vulnerable. But his mind is occupied, wondering who it is that has captured you, wondering what he’ll do. He can’t leave, but he can’t watch you and someone else, can he? Standing on the sidelines, seeing your joy and knowing it will never be for him. Of course he would be doomed always to watch, never to have, never to hold. That ought to be part of his punishment, Gale’s folly, and the consequences, to die in service of his first lover, never to take another.

Mystra would be pleased, certainly, that he would never get the satisfaction of replacing her. Perhaps it would suffice as penance, but he doubts it. Maybe this would be the way, the way for him to make it all right again, make his death a victimless crime, the debt paid.

You speak again, soft words heavy with sleep, but they pull him back into the land of the living nonetheless. His body already feels half buried, but he doesn’t mind. Not when you speak in such soft whispers.

“I couldn’t believe it,” your voice is weighted heavily by alcohol and the late hour, but it is impossible to hear the sheer concentration of love in it. It makes him feel drunk, despite not being the target of it.

“I thought I had no chance, because of her, but then” you smile, and it makes him want to die, right here right now, he would go to the afterlife sated. “I thought I was done for, but he saved me” this brings him up short, his mind casting back to the fight a few days prior where you had nearly lost your life.

“I woke up, he held me so tight” your eyes squeeze shut as if trying to summon the sensation through sheer strength of will. The realization hits him like a kick to the chest, like the shock-wave of a bomb going off next to him. Before he even registers the movement he’s sitting on the ground next to you, having gone from kneeling to seated fast enough it ought to have given him whiplash.

“He saved me,” conviction wars with love in your voice and Gale fears the wave of feelings cresting above him, a wall of water, a tsunami threatening to drown him, will set off the orb and kill them all. “I wonder if he did that because he loves me too?”

It had been a tough fight, you had been surrounded, and before anyone had even realized what had happened you had been downed. He had rushed to your side, sending scorching rays and magic missiles at your assailants, they had been dead within minutes. And you, lying on the ground, still as a stone. He had been sure you weren’t breathing, clutching you as close as he could, fear a cold grasp around his heart. But then you had woken up, and Shadowheart had healed you. And he had felt foolish, obvious.

“I really hope so..” your words fade out around another jaw popping yawn. He needs to leave. He can’t stay here. Can’t bear to be near you, with your honesty such sweet torture.

Despite himself, his fingers find your face, tracing against your temples, stroking away errant hairs from your forehead.

“He does,” he finds himself whispering in response, voice thick with emotion. “he does.”

On unsteady feet he makes his way back to his own tent, heart stuck somewhere between elation and fear. He can’t conceive of your words. Can’t avoid them. They play in his head as he lies down for yet another sleepless night. “I wonder if he did that because he loves me too?” yes, he wants to scream, loud enough to wake the rest of camp. Yes he does. He loves you, more than his life, more than whatever penance he is supposed to serve, more than life more than death, more than magic than the weave. And he can’t wait to tell you, and he will, as soon as he can make himself dare.

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People often talk about how horrific it would have been for Karlach to have her heart stolen and replaced with the engine, but I hardly ever see anyone talk about her tattoos and the writing on her horn.

Someone on reddit translated it, and it’s all stuff about Zariel and how Karlach belongs to her. I’m pretty fucken sure that she wouldn’t have chosen to get her slaver’s name tattooed on her, so that means that it’s another thing that was done to her body without consent.

Zariel literally had her own name tattooed into Karlach’s skin, she had her branded like livestock, like property. That’s so fucked up, I hate Zariel and Gortash so fucking much.

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let's stare lovingly at mama

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An informational comic I drew last year for my Comics 2 class, reposting it to my new account (had to jump ship from the old one unfortunately) with some minor grammar changes and learned my lesson in adding watermarks! Happy early pride :)

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i don't care how uncomfortable you are around cis men, queer cis men still need places to go, and sometimes, those spaces will be shared with yours. disabled and neurodivergent queer men and queer men of color especially need a place to go. the queer community isn't the "fuck cis men" community. that is the rad fem community. if you think cis men and people who read as cis men are inherently "too scary" or shouldn't be allowed in queer spaces, you joined the wrong community.

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i'll never understand the bisexual vs pansexual discourse. i think we need to stop pitting two bad bitches against each other and kiss on the mouth

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THANK GOD FOR BI+ WOMEN

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"Match my freak! " Bitch! Match my enthusiasm! Match my whimsical joy and wonder and dumbassery!!! Match my optimism and thoughtfulness and clown shit or you can get tf out, respectfully.

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As attacks on Queer folks ramp up, here are anti-Queer companies to boycott:

- Chick-Fil-A

- Hobby Lobby

- John Deere

- Lowe’s

- Walmart

- Harley-Davidson

- Molson Coors

- Toyota

- Ford

- Tractor Supply

- Brown-Forman

Don’t be complicit. Take action.

*Many folks in food deserts understandably cannot boycott Walmart.

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