crazy how he said this to him, for real

Janaina Medeiros
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@wexeatxthexrude
crazy how he said this to him, for real

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Crack magic stan idea that makes no sense but I keep laughing over it anyway.
So, Ford summons Stan over to take his journal and is spouting about demons and gnomes and magical portals. Heβs jittery and paranoid and hasnβt slept in days. Andβah Stan knows what this is. His brother is on drugs. Thatβs chill, thatβs manageable in a way all the other shit isnβt as well as much more believable. Stan is fully convinced of this, convinced enough that Fordβs portal disappears and so does Bill. Stan literally gaslighted them out of existence.
On the upside, problem solved. On the down side, Ford now has a strange new craving for crack cocaine.
I want you to understand that I read the last sentence of this ask first, and had to put my phone down and laugh outloud before I couldn't read through and actually get the context, thank you for that, I twinged something in my back.
Secondly, this is. This is hilarious.
Ford goes "theres something I need to show you. Something you won't understand-" and Stan goes uh huh. Okay. First though, really quick, can I grab something to eat from your kitchen? I'm very hungry. And Ford, despite being very close to actual insanity, is still a brother and goes oh okay fine, i guess its been a long drive. And then, hey, since Stan's making himself something, Ford goes, fine I guess ill have something to eat too. And then, well if STAN'S willingly drinking water, fine ill have some too. And oh? Stan needs to sit down for a second, well okay, that's alright, Ford can-aannnd the moment Ford sits down with a belly full of food his sleep deprivation kicks in and he's out like a light.
Stan dusts himself off, tucks his brother in on the couch with a blanket that was in the hallway closet (the closet that was empty before, the blanket never existed, but Ford HAD to have blankets in his hallway closet, right?) And gets to work.
Ford's out cold for a while, so Stan manages to do some dishes, tidy some stuff up, basic cleaning. He doesn't FIND any drugs, but hey, Ford's going through withdrawals so maybe he's already trying to quit. Good for him. It was PROBABLY cocaine that Ford was on, and besides thats the one Stan knows the most about, and Ford looks to be most of the way through it. He probably sent the postcard through the worst of it, so Stan is determined to make sure that he helps Ford back up onto his feet.
Ford, meanwhile, wakes up feeling..hm. well hes not all that much WORSE than yesterday, but theres a weird tingling in his fingers and oH MY GOD STANS HERE OH GOD WHAT IF BILL DID SOMETHING STAN- and Stan's fine. Stan's assuring that nothing happened, everything's cool, here have some soup.
Where did you get soup Stan. There was no soup in the cupboard.
Of COURSE there was soup in the cupboard. Everyone has soup in the cupboard.
Ford brushes that off and goes okay, theres something in the basement i have to show you.
They go in the elevator, the doors open up and-
And.
And there's nothing.
Well theres not NOTHING, there are books and lab tables and equipment and Stan whistles and looks around like hes impressed slightly and Damn Ford, if course you'd have a nerd lab and theres No. Portal down here. There was very much a portal yesterday. There. There was a Portal here. What. Stanley what did you do.
Six, what are you talking about.
There was a doomsday device in my basement yesterday. I swear.
Uh huh. Okay, how about we go back upstairs and have some lunch? Sound good?
And Ford starts having weird dreams in the week that Stan first starts living with him again. Well. Weird in the sense that its not a Bill nightmare, instead its more like a Bill screaming session, where Bill demands why and how Ford managed to bring in SUCH a powerful sorcerer, his portal is WHISKED OUT OF EXISTENCE in a blink, what the FUCK sixer I thought we were cool! You called your wizard brother on me and now he's overriding my reality powers! This is such bullshit!
And meanwhile Ford is dealing with the fact that. Somehow. He knows what cocaine feels like and? Misses it? Somehow? Even though he KNOWS hes never done cocaine. Ever. And Stan seems very convinced and oh my god Stan did you MAKE ME ADDICTED TO CRACK?? AND THEN MAKE ME UN-ADDICTED??
And MEANWHILE Stan's just like. Appearing stuff left and right. Disappearing problems without a thought and without zero idea whatsoever. He defeated an immortal dream demon with the power of Belief In His Brother, and Ford doesn't know whether to be flattered that Stan thinks so highly of him that he rewrites reality to make Ford's fridge full of food, or offended that Stan would assume so strongly that Ford was on hard drugs.
Do you write things about gods/prophets? And if you donβt, would you?
You might enjoy this and this
"You are my prophet," the god murmured. "You know my will. Speak it."
"I-" The prophet faltered. Their mouth felt very dry, though it was not their place to be silent when the divine demanded they speak, and nor was it their place to question. Still. They cleared their throat and said nothing, turning their gaze down towards the floor they knelt upon.
The god crossed the temple to them, stopping in front of them.
The prophet closed their eyes.
Gently, the god dragged a thumb down along the prophet's lower lip and the prophet gasped, shaky, breathing ragged.
"Speak," the god said. "What do I want?"
"Me."
A simple, terrible, wonderful, dizzying sort of statement. It seemed impossible. Yet, the god's wishes courses through them, an undeniable bond. They couldn't fail to know, to see, even when it was overwhelming. Even when the realisation felt like being drunk.
The god's hand slipped down further, the ever-shifting form of their palm smoothing over the prophet's throat, their vocal cords. It tipped the prophet's head up.
"You can't," the prophetmanaged.
"That is a first."
"I mean-" The prophet bit their lip, curling their fingers against the floor. It felt like sacrilege to touch. "Of course you can do anything. I couldn't stop you."
"Do you want me to?"
The prophet laughed, a little breathless, a little broken. They opened their eyes then, to look at their god. Helpless.
Of course they wanted. Their god knew that, as surely as the prophet knew the words to all of the prayers. How could they possibly not want? And how could they possibly ever be worthy?
"Do you want me?" the god asked, softly.
"I'm made to speak your will," the prophet said. "Not my own."
"Even if my will is that you tell me?"
The prophet swallowed. Their fingers twitched again.
"You can touch," the god said.
The prophet shook their head.
"It's heresy to listen to someone else's teachings instead of mine," the god said. It sounded like teasing, but it was also true, and so the prophet nearly whimpered.
The god sank down to their knees, as if that could render the two of them equal. They raised their other hand to cup the prophet's face as the prophet continued to stare at them, wide-eyed. They ached to lean in. Close the distance. Take something that was never supposed to be theirs, only to pass through them a while.
"Tell me more about what I want then," the god said, and the prophet couldn't decide if that was kind or cruel.
"You want me to touch," the prophet whispered. "You want..." Their gaze dipped, treacherous, to all the places that the god imagined their hands. Visions swam through their brain, perfect hell and sinful heaven. "Fuck."
"Not as eloquent as your usual sermons, but accurate enough, my prophet."
"We can't. It's - it's -"
"-You want to," the god said. "And I did not give you that shame, gorgeous thing. Tell me who did."
The prophet could see blood and fury. Forgiveness. A kailedescope of life ever-spinning, because to reduce a god to one mere thing was absurd. They were everything.
And they would take everything the prophet had, give them everything too. Anything. Their love was a leviathan thing.
"Your worship..."
The prophet bit down on their tongue, because to talk of a god worshipping a prophet was just madness. They tasted copper in their mouth and then the god was kissing them. Rightfully so, perhaps, with a blood offering. In an instant, foolishly, the prophet was clinging to them. Clutching at them like the world might fall away. Maybe it would. It felt like worlds should fall away when gods kissed prophets.
"If you tell me no," the god whispered, "I'll stop, I swear."
The prophet shuddered at the power of that; to stop a god, the audacity. "No," they said.
The god froze. They pulled back.
The prophet looked at them, with dark eyes, and fingers still twined into the material trappings of the form the god had chosen that day.
"No," the prophet said, rough, and wet their lips. "Don't stop."
The god stared at them. Their eyes narrowed.
Despite everything, the prophet grinned. Giddy. Teasing. What a thing.
Then the god was on them, and maybe it was all wrong, some kind of treason, but nothing had ever felt quite so right.
monoculture forests are deeply unsettling in a way that is hard to explain to people who do not spend a lot of time looking at forests
this thing is alive in an undead hivemind kind of way and it wants to fucking kill me

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s4
POV: you meet Oscar
As far as Iβm concerned, the single most radical change from journal fandom is the idea that fandom is primarily a space for kids.
*shakes cane* in MY day, teen fans pretended to be adults while we walked uphill both ways!
#tumblr: i GUESS weβll tolerate these gross old women LIKE OVER 25 UGH as long as they understand that fandom isnβt /for/ them
#lj: HOW DO YOU DO FELLOW ADULTS
#on LJ it was very clear that when you were underage#YOU were the one sneaking into the adult club#now everyoneβs acting like the adults are invading prom night
i love tma because it has old men whimpering

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realised i can draw martin doing whatever i want
all together now
the magnus archives: statement of dipshit mcidiot regarding some spooky happenings that absolutely without a doubt did not actually happen. recording by jonathan sims. i hate my fucking job.
malevolent: OARTHUR HIDE THE CORPSE IN THE CLOSET. SHOOT THIS MAN IN THE HEAD. MOVE OARTHUR MOVE!! [soft piano music] LEFT!! THE OTHER LEFT OARTHUR!!!!! JESUS FUCKING CHRIST.
13. The Dreamlands (13/60)
Dumb meme thats probably already been done but oh well
Shoutout podcast protagonists with eye imagery

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Seeing a lot of new people show up in my notes with like "proship dni" or whatever so RENT LOWERING GUNSHOT: IM AN ADULT WHO DOES NOT CARE IF PEOPLE HAVE PROBLEMATIC SHIPS, IM OLD AND BELIEVE TABOO FICTION IS SAFE AND HEALTHY, IM AN OLD MAN WHO THINKS IT'S FINE TO HAVE SHIPS THAT WOULD BE BAD IN REAL LIFE, I BELIEVE IN TABOO KINKS AS HEALING PLACES, I DO NOT DO SHIP DISCOURSE, I THINK IT'S OKAY TO WRITE ABOUT BAD THINGS HAPPENING TO GOOD PEOPLE WITHOUT CONDEMNING IT IN THE NARRATIVE, I THINK IT'S OKAY TO GET OFF TO MAKE BELIEVE BAD THINGS!!! THANKS