A thought I've been entertaining:
AU Durgetash gets to live happily ever after, Gortash gets to keep being Archduke and Durge is just happy slaughtering and "ruling" next to Gortash (the Bhaalspawn keeps ditching the responsibilities on the tyrant, both knew this would happen, both enjoy it this way).
They decide to adopt a kid that Durge randomly found out in the wild. The tyrant agrees because family is good for politicians, looks nice to outsiders, very approachable, yada yada yada 666 excuses because at this point it's just a mutual habit to avoid confessions of affection and their little desires.
The 3 of them live happily for a while, and the citizens love it. They do appear like a happy little family. Durge trains the kid in the temple sometimes, and Gortash hired the best tutors.
And then one day Durge and their kid don't come home from the temple at the promised time. Nowadays Gortash knows of its location so he begrudgingly goes there, ready to scold the two of them as soon as they come face to face for making him wade through the sewers despite knowing exactly just how much he hates it down here.
The moment he arrives at the inner sanctum, however, the air is heavy with the smell of iron. The scent is even stronger than the last time he was here. It smells as though blood was spilt just moments prior, a great amount of blood that is.
When he finally makes out the source of the smell, he can't help the bile from raising in his throat. Disgust and shock overwhelm him as he approaches closer, yet still carefully and gently calling out to the creature soaked in the sanguine liquid. He tries to calm the murderous being, comfort it with every step he takes, every word he speaks. He knows this being, but it's been years since he last saw it. Until seconds ago, he was convinced he'd never have to face it again.
Years prior, without the tyrants knowledge, Durge had returned to the Lord of Murder. The Bhaalspawn had sought out Bhaal again after defying him once, this time to make a deal. His help in freeing Gortashs soul in return for his scion embracing his essence once more.
As he stepped within the creatures reach, a dagger found his shoulder, the cold metal piercing through the warm flesh, tearing apart what once had been whole. But the tyrant didn't flinch, instead embracing the creature. He didn't care how often the steel would pierce him. The pain didn't matter as long as he could try and reclaim what was hopefully not yet lost.
Feeling his warm blood drop onto its own skin, the creature vanished, allowing the tyrants lover to resurface once more, albeit exhausted, far weaker than the divine being had ever been. Gortash continued to hush words of comfort, embracing the frail being, preventing eyes from wandering, from seeing or acknowledging the small body leaning against the stone altar.
Yet his efforts were in vain as he felt hot tears beginning to fall, lamenting what had happened, what curse they had brought upon the two of them once again. Cupping the face wet with tears with one hand, the other one went to reach for the longer blade that had been dropped beside them, just minutes before it could've cut down the tyrant. He was carefully guiding the hand of his lover to the swords handle, all while positioning the blade so that a single push would suffice.
A gentle smile and soft words of assurance. He always knew how this would end. Always knew they'd destroy each other. But at least, their demise would be together. Their promise would still be kept. Another bout of teasing as he commented on Durges waning strength. A soft chuckle from the bloodied lips, as one hand continued to guide the other.
A final push, a final thought in the face of their shared pain. Curious indeed, how a stinging sensation could feel so sweet. Broken hearts were pierced once more.
A near forgotten promise was fulfilled, and the price of defiance paid. Fate was such a curious thing. You could bent it or follow it, but never once break free from it.
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Today my therapist introduced me to a concept surrounding disability that she called "hLep".
Which is when you - in this case, you are a disabled person - ask someone for help ("I can't drink almond milk so can you get me some whole milk?", or "Please call Donna and ask her to pick up the car for me."), and they say yes, and then they do something that is not what you asked for but is what they think you should have asked for ("I know you said you wanted whole, but I got you skim milk because it's better for you!", "I didn't want to ruin Donna's day by asking her that, so I spent your money on an expensive towing service!") And then if you get annoyed at them for ignoring what you actually asked for - and often it has already happened repeatedly - they get angry because they "were just helping you! You should be grateful!!"
And my therapist pointed out that this is not "help", it's "hLep".
Sure, it looks like help; it kind of sounds like help too; and if it was adjusted just a little bit, it could be help. But it's not help. It's hLep.
At its best, it is patronizing and makes a person feel unvalued and un-listened-to. Always, it reinforces the false idea that disabled people can't be trusted with our own care. And at its worst, it results in disabled people losing our freedom and control over our lives, and also being unable to actually access what we need to survive.
So please, when a disabled person asks you for help on something, don't be a hLeper, be a helper! In other words: they know better than you what they need, and the best way you can honor the trust they've put in you is to believe that!
Also, I want to be very clear that the "getting angry at a disabled person's attempts to point out harmful behavior" part of this makes the whole thing WAY worse. Like it'd be one thing if my roommate bought me some passive-aggressive skim milk, but then they heard what I had to say, and they apologized and did better in the future - our relationship could bounce back from that. But it is very much another thing to have a crying shouting match with someone who is furious at you for saying something they did was ableist. Like, Christ, Jessica, remind me to never ask for your support ever again! You make me feel like if I asked you to call 911, you'd order a pizza because you know I'll feel better once I eat something!!
Edit: crediting my therapist by name with her permission - this term was coined by Nahime Aguirre Mtanous!
Edit again: I made an optional follow-up to this post after seeing the responses. Might help somebody. CW for me frankly talking about how dangerous hLep really is.
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i know we all laugh (mostly fondly) about the paper-thin plots in porn that only exist to make the sex happen, but i was reading some old stargate fic over the weekend, and i really think we're sleeping on the paper-thin hurt/comfort plot that only exists to force the characters to FEEL THINGS.
like, is this scenario realistic? no. does it make any rational sense? no. does it provide a built-in excuse for a character to collapse, bloody and disoriented, into the arms of his beloved/friend/partner? obviously, that's the whole point of this exercise.
i love it. it's my favorite thing in the world.
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You know what? Happy Disability Month to those who were disabled by accident. Cars, skis, ice, sand, rocks, horses, just plain bad luck. Broken bones and backs that never heal. Shoulders that can't lift or move right. Wrists that don't turn. Hands that can't grasp. Brains that don't work right anymore. Legs that don't move anymore and eyes that won't recover.
The shame, the blame, the frustration, the wishful thinking that tears you apart. The beauty of small victories and simple kindness. The community you build. Reshaping a life with no warning. Mourning for the person you once were. Joyfully embracing the person you now are. Happy Disability Month to you too (even if you aren't ready to use that word yet)
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there's something deeply gutting about being a writer right now. watching studio execs brag about starving people like you out of your very house just to not pay you anything above the pennies you currently make. watching some people cheer over AO3 being targeted for a DDOS attack. the complete lack of profitability of writing commissions or writing in general in transformative spaces, especially in contrast to fanart. the pivot of so many social media platforms to be video and image based near-exclusively.
I don't know. it just makes me sad to know that the hobby that kept me alive while growing up homeschooled with dial-up internet and local antenna TV... is only ever gonna be a side job with minimal engagement. I know this site is good about supporting libraries and the concept of books but, do me a favor? Reach out to a writer friend you know. Leave a comment on your last five read stories on your favorite website.
Tell us you care.
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