I make digital collages and write fanfiction. Credit to @sparrrorow-art for the art that is my profile picture, and stickynotecemetery for my header. My AO3 is GrownUpChangeling too. Warnings for some sexual art as well as occassional posts about disordered eating and abuse 18+
Hi! I'm finally making a pinned post for my art.
You can call me Changeling (for short and for now) and use she or they pronouns for me.
I have the same handle (GrownUpChangeling) on AO3, but as some of my collages aren't really fanworks, I haven't posted them there. You can find my collages on here with:
Fannish 50 , autism month collages, and collage.
Please note that I didn't tag the Fannish 50 collages with "collage" since I hadn't expected to get so into collaging and keep doing it once I finished the Fannish 50!
If someone out there is paying more attention than I think anyone is, you may have noticed that I haven't posted 50 collages for the Fannish 50 to my tumblr, or AO3. Some of them I only posted to Dreamwidth as they're more personal. If we're buds, feel free to ask for my Dreamwidth and I'll DM you.
I have some poetry that's very vent post-y on this blog too that I don't think is worth pinning here, and I also sing and like knitting, but I don't post that here. I also have a short story I wrote in high school buried somewhere in the depths here that I can post again upon request.
If you like my work enough to consider something like tipping, or if you've just got money to spare, please consider donating to this fundraiser for Ahmed and his family to survive the genocide in Gaza. I'm available be for work on writing and/or visual art and/or singing commissions for the fundraiser. Prices/donation amounts negotiable.
Thanks for checking out my art! I'm an adult and as such my art and this blog contains adult themes, including sex. Navigate at your own discretion.
okay so, guy at work, who i find out afterwards is famous at this place for being a sex pest, comes up and starts with what i also learn is his favorite opener to conversations where he’s going to be a sex pest, namely: “Do you know where the term ‘blow job’ comes from?”
and here he made his first fatal error. his moment of hubristic sex pesting. because of course i know where the term blow job comes from, i love learning about sex and the history of sexual terms! i know so much about oral sex that i could write a book on it!
his second error: approaching a little autistic freak with what he intended to be an uncomfortable sex question that would make me feel weird and gross. Friends, Romans, Countrymen, I Have Never Misjudged A Man’s Intentions So Incredibly In My Life. because i did not realize he was trying to harass me. because i love talking about sex facts, albeit not usually at work. unless. someone prompts me. my coworkers are the kind of people who are generally online enough to know terms, but not exactly what they mean, and they realized they could ask me a while back and get good answers without the resulting awkwardness because i do not experience shame. i am primed to answer questions like the one he has proposed.
So I Answered It.
and well, really, what happened is that I began answering it, then realized the answer required a bit more context. I mean, you can’t just say “oh, well, the term first appears in writing in the 1940s” without first explaining that ‘blow’ by itself already had sexual connotations for centuries, and then, really, are we talking about the origin of the term or the origin of the act. and well we have a ton of literature and art depicting fellatio throughout human history, did you know a lot of it was men performing it on other men? oh, that reminds me, there are a multitude of latin words for oral sex performed on penises, and hold on let me quote you the entirety of catullus 16 from memory and explain it’s fascinating insights into the roman world of homosexuality-
i do not know how to turn any of this ^ off, by the way. i’m sure some people out there have a switch that disables their infodumping mid-speech. i do not. and i also didn’t realize he wasn’t looking for a real answer until my other coworker explained so hours later. he could not excuse himself from the conversation he started, and i made a conservative man at least 30 years older than me to listen to my catullus recitation. i will sodomize and facefuck you, indeed.
anyway, i think i got a bad grade in being sexually harassed. my pro tip is maybe don’t start with what a very autistic individual will misconstrue as you earnestly asking them to explain sex to you. the special interest shield will cause splashback damage.
shipping a consensual, safe & sane pairing all the while i'm shaking my head in disapproval so the audience knows i still love wildly toxic abusive fictional dynamics
if this is july.... ‼️ please look up general strike chapters near you, bc the cronies in charge sure as shit aren’t going to stop the greed and murder train of their own accord
I think what needs to be added to the "you need to do things that discomfort you" conversation (which I don't disagree with let me be clear) is that mental illness does, in fact, make things that should just be uncomfortable into harming you. Chronic anxiety and frequent panic attacks can have effects on your heart, digestive system, immune system, etc. When encouraging people to broaden their comfort zone and do things that trigger anxiety or panic, it's a bit disingenuous to treat these actions like they are simply uncomfortable and don't have an effect on the body. That's why exposure to stressors needs to be done in conjunction with other things that will help soothe a dysregulated nervous system, tailored to the individual depending on what works for them.
and to the children in the notes saying we need this fucking baby talk to get around censorship online; there's been no credible evidence that any site other that YouTube (which will only demonetize your video, ftr) will actually censor or hide content that include words like rape, pedophile, gun, terrorist, etc. etc. and even if we take as a given they were (which, again, they are not), do not fucking comply in advance, you absolute fucking coward. and ESPECIALLY do not comply by altering your real life fucking vocabulary. don't let the technocrats dictate what words you say holy fucking shit dude!!!!!!!!!!!!
658 word Hazbin Hotel ficlet set before Alastor's death, featuring the bar from my Damn Foresight fic and some period-accurate language.
~
It was about as cold as it ever got in Louisiana. Despite how eager he was to get the fuck inside, Alastor held the door open for his companion and let her go in first—his mother had raised a goddamn gentleman, even if his face hurt and he could see his breath.
The near-empty display of newly formulated menthol throat lozenges on the pharmacy counter was a testament to the miserable state of the winter, but at least it was warm inside. They weren’t there for medicine, though, or a soft drink—not even some of the more legally dubious merchandise available from behind the counter, no matter how Mimzy sometimes teased Alastor in that direction.
There was a watercolor poster taped up in the front window of the pharmacy, currently partly obscured by frost, advertising fortune telling services available in the back room.
The pharmacist gave Alastor and Mimzy a nod of acknowledgement as they passed through, heading for the archway to the back hall with its brass “Restrooms” sign. He knew them on sight, of course. One or the other or both of them came through at least once a week.
In the back hall there were three doors—one for the attested restrooms, and two stockrooms. One of those bore another watercolor poster like the one on the window. It was this door Mimzy pushed through with the easy confidence of habit.
The stockroom was indeed a stockroom, lined with shelves and crates, but with red and purple scarves tied up over the lamps to cast the place in dimly colored light. A card table draped with more scarves was set with an eclectic mix of candles, a battered old teapot, and an even more battered ashtray. At this table sat a woman, her dark wavy hair half contained by yet another scarf, one long-nailed hand attending a cigarette in a holder, the other holding a book she looked up from as they entered. The poster in the window billed her as a gypsy, but Alastor knew full well that she was an octaroon, just as his mother had been.
“Good evening,” the fortune teller said with an air of mystery slathered thick over the soft lilt of her accent. “Have you come to seek your fortune, my dears?” she asked, the same way whichever fortune teller was at that table any given night always asked.
“We’re hoping there’s some good times, good company, and good trouble in our future,” Mimzy simpered, letting her coat slip down off one shoulder
With a familiar smirk, the fortune teller gestured to a stack of crates behind her. “You two know the way—good luck keepin’ your hen here outa trouble, cher, she’s a feisty one.”
“Oh, she is certainly that,” Alastor agreed with a playful grin, shoving the crates aside on their hidden rails while Mimzy huffed performatively. “That’s what makes her fun.”
Down the dim winding stairs, in the smokey secrecy of the speakeasy below, Mimzy’s friends—most of whom certainly thought they were Alastor’s friends as well—greeted the pair with boisterously buoyant enthusiasm. Coats shed to reveal beaded fringe and gartered sleeves. Drinks in hand, whiskey, rum, and gin, amendment be damned. Mimzy’s gang of girls with their boots half unlaced, knees rouged or painted with grease pencil flowers, one with a tinsel wig, another with a snake coiled ‘round her wrist like living jewelry, a third with a pistol down her bosom and wild tails of her recent rum runs. The fellas who refused to believe Alastor never took any of those girls home after dancing the night away with them, and the fellas who did believe it, then made fools of themselves thinking he might take them home instead.
Easy, comfortable criminality more weekends than not until first a funeral, then a marriage, an arrest, a deeply suspicious death, an elopement, and flight from the law stole the gaggle one by one from their den of vice.
Nog being his own character while still having obvious and evident traits of the two men who held the most influence in his life is very important to me.
Rom was put down by Quark constantly. He was emasculated, seen as a coward, a feeble thing, an idiot. But Rom is very, very empathetic, and very intelligent, just not in the ways his society values. It means Nog grows up with the belief that the way his father is is bad, it’s not allowed, and overcompensates in comparison so he won’t end up in the same problem.
Quark taught Nog the most stereotypical Ferengi things you can think of. Shrewdness, business, superiority. But Quark is also oftentimes a very pathetic character, folding under pressure when the stakes aren’t that high. Of course he changes a lot over the course of the series, but especially early on, Quark is a groveller through and through.
Nog sees both of these people, and grows to either defy them or imitate them. He keeps Quark’s brave face, but it’s natural to him in the way it is to Rom. He doesn’t fold easily, but he knows when to use it. He’s a good merchant, whip smart, getting the best of both worlds with Rom and Quark. He learns to use the empathy he has from his father, and the instinct he gets from his uncle, and mixes it all into himself.
He’s so unique in the world of the Ferengi we see. I love it.
You ever think about those DS9 episodes where everyone's aboard the Defiant fighting an intergalactic space battle, and meanwhile back at the station it must be like:
