#'b-but what about people who are directly mean to those who enjoy it!'

[shorthaltsjester]

love (loath) this version of ‘empathy’ for characters that exists in fandoms that somehow means taking any articulation of the fact that x character is given responsibility and context by the story and that their poor choices lead to poor outcomes is actually a slight against the character (and implicitly somehow whatever oppressed group which they belong to or are alleged to belong to by sections of fandom)

to be clear this is something i’ve noticed in several fandoms which is why the beginning of this is general language but the pertinent example to my current frustration is liliana temult and the defence of her that lays on a claim that those who enjoy the narrative showing her poor actions leading to poor outcomes for her have somehow failed the empathy test is beyond incomprehensible to me. like even ignoring the very basic level understanding that fiction is a place to experience satisfaction in narratives that we cannot fulfil in non-narrative reality, it’s also like… holy fuck do I not want the kind of empathy that tells me it will all work out no matter what choice I make. it is actually imperative to human life that the choices we make have substance in the outcomes we arrive in, otherwise we would’ve long given up on the notion of free will. and to look at a narrative, particularly one built in the context of a ttrpg. a game notably influenced by the choices that players-as-characters make. and then see sections of an audience find it compelling and enjoyable that a character who has made categorically poor choices that have caused immeasurable harm to others is now dealing with the very obvious face-eating panthers consequences… idk man. if you see that as a lack of empathy i implore you to consider what role empathy is playing in your world.

like. if empathy to you is about comfort and stagnancy and not about growth and community, then sure i can understand how it might not be empathetic in your view to notice patterns and see their obvious outcome and acknowledge that . but as someone who has been in the position of making horrible choices with obvious outcomes, far more essential to my personhood was those who looked at me with careful but critical eyes than those who nearly babyed me into my grave. that’s actually why i love imogen’s choice to insist that liliana make her own choice and then quasi-encouraging her to stay, because it was a clear reminded to liliana that her choices have consequences, and one of those is that the terrible things she’s down in the name of her daughter have led to that daughter not being able to easily trust her.

and i think another thing that’s related that gets misconstrued with liliana (and as always unfortunately many such cases) is that the satisfaction of seeing her absorbed isn’t that it’s retributive harm done or some sort of punishment (at least not for me, skill issue if people in your fandom spaces are that cop-minded but, yknow, what can you expect from the thought-crimes capital of fandom spaces). the satisfaction is in the analogue (that i’ve seen well memed) to the face-eating panthers joke that liliana’s actions which have pushed an agenda that’s depended on the consumption and threat to her child and the children she specifically has aided in placing in danger via her choices, has led to situations where a) she’s ‘burdened’ by her care for imogen and the children (both of which she has played a hand in inviting into the context of danger) b) she is now the person in danger of being consumed after spending weeks simply shrugging off concerns about what might be consumed in the name of ludinus’ Just World™. like it’s not just ‘liliana does bad things, must be punished’ it’s ‘liliana has played a hand in creating a situation that is threatening to many including herself, it is narratively satisfying and engages in Common Narrative Tool: Irony to have that create situation negatively impact her directly.’

to that end that’s why the ‘if you’re like this about liliana you should also be like this about essek’ takes are beyond missing the point (without getting into the horribly built scarecrow that it is, understand that it’s actually undermining decades of feminist’s philosophical and political development to see a critique of a female character and go ‘well actually if she were a man you wouldn’t be saying that’ when it’s a provable fact that people Would be (and have been) saying that if she were a man. so not the feminist slay you think it is). like, as someone who Was just as interested in essek’s story having consequences as I am in liliana’s, there very much WERE consequences for essek that, just like liliana, were well contextualized and suited to the specific choices he made. they are ones that should be obvious even to the most surface read of the campaigns given that essek still appears in disguise years after the end of c2, should also probably be obvious in the rebuilding of relationships essek had to do with mn after they discovered his betrayal. like the notable difference between liliana and essek is not their gender, it’s that we’ve seen the end of essek’s story (in the sense of like. campaign containment, obviously his Story™ is ongoing) and have yet to see liliana’s— it’s entirely possible that liliana does get saved and goes on to repair her relationship with imogen (or goes on and is unable to repair it) or she just dies and part of imogen’s story is dealing with it; all of those are narratively satisfying. what wouldn’t have been satisfying, in the sense that would leave liliana feeling like a non-agent in a story dependent on her agency, is if her role was entirely dictated by imogen’s interest in reconciliation. because sure if you want to look very microscopically the current threat to liliana that exists is 1-to-1 caused by the fact that she’s been helping imogen, but taking seriously the story, the consequences bloom from all the choices that liliana has made leading to ludinus’ decision to trust her however far he does that made liliana’s choice a betrayal and affirmed ludinus’ strength and position so that he can do something like siphon someone’s life force away.

further the ‘why does liliana deserve to be funnelled and relvin gets off easy’ relvin doesn’t get off easy. once again the satisfaction of his narrative is that he did his best and it was insufficient and that cost him a relationship with imogen they both clearly wish for but neither can rectify. the consequence for relvin is that he’s in an empty house that is no longer home to the woman he loved or the daughter he was left to raise alone. surely i don’t need to unpack why i think someone who tried but wasn’t well equipped to raise a daughter with superpowers doesn’t need to evoke as ‘drastic’ consequences in their story as the stated right hand of the campaign’s bbeg for their story to feel complete.

and idk at least for me that’s the salient point; that the consequences that are happening feel like a plausible and suitable conclusion to the story we’ve seen of liliana even if she perishes at ludinus’ hand. it will be sad but it’ll be satisfying, and maybe i should have realized seeing the frequency with which parts of fandom have been campaigning to undo maybe the most weighty and narratively satisfying choices & consequence of vox machina’s story, but it’s truly confounding to me the amount of people treating the presence of any complex and non-traditional happy ending notion in a story set in a world defined by pyrrhic victories. like, empathy for vax isn’t saying he’s the puppet of a god that manipulated him into service, it’s acknowledging that he made a choice that he knew would have consequences and acknowledging that the consequences he demanded with that choice were pretty severe ones. that doesn’t mean i’m watching the end of cr1 seeing the characters destroyed by the loss of vax being like ‘dumbasses, they knew this was coming, vax chose this, these are his consequences’ it means that when i’m crying watching the end of cr1 it’s paired with my deep love for a story that takes seriously the weight of the character’s choices in the determination of their lives. idk man. maybe interrogate how much of your notion of empathy is dependent on individualism to the point of near complete alienation and get back to me on how empathetic it is to look at someone who has caused unarguable pain with their choices and say ‘no no it’s fine you didn’t mean to + you’re a woman :/‘ while the victims of those choices rot in their graves

[eff-plays]

"People criticising Veilguard makes me feel stupid for enjoying it! 😔"

Skill issue.

[icemankazansky]

A Simple Guide to Not Being Afraid to Write Comments to Fic You Read

I've seen a lot of posts about the current state of fanfiction comments. Writers, especially writers who have been in fandom for a decade or more, are frustrated by the lack of comments, and have noticed a definite decline in comments (and all other forms of reader interaction) in the past ten years or so. Many readers feel daunted by the expectation of leaving comments, afraid they'll do something wrong. As a fandom old maid, the latter confused me for a while, until I realized that most of the people who feel that way probably have not been taught this form of communication.

But your loving fandom elders are here for you. Come along as your auntie tumblr user icemankazansky makes this shit easy.

The easiest way to think of fanfiction comment etiquette is to compare it to something you likely already know: Gift Receiving Etiquette.

Fanfiction began as largely a gift economy. And a lot of it still is! You'll see authors participate in exchanges like Yuletide and Id Pro Quo; those are ficswaps in which authors write for a specific person to specific prompts. And even outside that, fanfiction is not written for money; authors write and post it simply for the joy of creation and community with fellow fans. Fic is posted free for anyone to enjoy. Is that not a gift?

So. When you as a reader finish the chapter or story you're reading and you are faced with the comment box, try to follow the same etiquette you would when receiving a gift. (And even if you didn't love this gift and it's not your favorite gift ever, we already know that it's more useful than the products from your cousin's MLM that they're passing off as gifts, because you read the story. At the very least, it entertained you for the time you took to read it.)

The big rule of gift receiving etiquette is not to insult the person who gave you the gift, either directly or indirectly. That's it. Full stop.

I've been seeing a lot of comments lately that are just along the lines of, "Thank you for writing this story and sharing it with us." A+, top of the class, full marks, you're doing amazing. If you don't feel comfortable commenting on the story itself, that is perfect feedback. And that's the most basic way you respond to a gift, yes? Thank you for the gift. Thank you for thinking of me. Thank you for sharing.

Does this rule mean that you cannot say anything at all that might be negative about anything? No, absolutely not. What you want to avoid is saying something that is, at its core, a negative evaluation of the author or their work. Let's do some examples.

Character A's obliviousness about Character B's MASSIVE crush on them made me so frustrated! I was tearing my hair out internally screaming, "JUST LET HIM LOVE YOU."

✔️ Excellent comment! You're allowed to have all sorts of feelings about things that happen in the story, and in fact authors LOVE to hear about any emotions they made you feel. Yes, frustration is not a positive emotion, but the thing you are expressing frustration about is not the author themselves or their shortcomings.

Contrast that to:

I was really frustrated that it took you so long to post this chapter. The cliffhanger at the end of the previous chapter had me tearing my hair out, and then you just left us hanging FOREVER!

❌ Nope! Here what you are expressing is frustration with the author and how fast they come out with new chapters. Imagine your sister buys you a gift for your birthday, but she isn't able to give it to you until the next week, and you respond with: "What took you so long?" I think Emily Post would frown on that.

Reframing

The way you say something and the point of view from which you give feedback can have a HUGE impact on the message you're sending. Let's take the last comment (the one about wanting an update) and see what happens when we reframe the same sentiment as a positive:

I was SO EXCITED to see that you updated this story! I have really been looking forward to seeing what happened after the cliffhanger in the last chapter.

✔️ Now it's not an insult. The author will be happy to know that you are happy to see new work from them.

This idea extends beyond the story itself: to the fandom, the characters, the pairing, the tropes, etc. Let's do some examples.

I looooove reading about these sexy boys SO IN LOVE even though the movie you're writing about is SOOOOO problematic.

❌ Nope! Assume that the author enjoys the canon, characters, pairing, etc. in the stories they write. This comment is insulting to the author because it basically says, "That thing you love is not great, and you should probably feel bad for liking it." Imagine your aunt gifts you a sweater from a popular retailer, and you respond with, "This is so cute, I love it! It's a shame that it was made in a sweatshop." Do you have a valid point about the canon or the retailer's business practices? You very well might. Is this the proper time and place to talk about it? Absolutely not.

Let's do a reframing exercise. You should be very careful about how you approach commenting negatively on anything in the story that appears in the tags list, but you can make it a compliment and good feedback if you have the right perspective. See the difference with these two approaches:

I kind of think frottage is disgusting, but I liked it in this story.

❌ Nope! You just told the author you think their kink is disgusting. That's like telling your poor aunt who is just trying to keep you warm this winter that she has awful taste in knitwear. Try again.

Frottage normally isn't my kink, but I love your other stories with this pairing, so I decided to give it a try, and I'm SOOOOO GLAD that I did! This story was 🔥🔥🔥

✔️ "This normally isn't my thing, but you made me expand my horizons!" Authors love to hear that. That's like telling your aunt, "I never thought this color looked good on me, but I look so cute in this sweater! I'm so glad you helped me step outside my comfort zone, because I'm the better for it."

thank u, next

The last thing I want to address is this new trend I've seen in commenting lately: placing an order. If your mom surprises you with new headphones, you don't respond with, "I wanted the white ones 🙁," or, "You should get me a new phone, too." It's easy to see why that isn't appropriate in a gifting situation, and it's also not appropriate when commenting on fanfiction.

Let's do some examples:

This fic was soooo cute, but it would have been a million times better if Character A had been with Character C instead of Character B.

❌ There are a few things going on here. Number one, you're telling your mom you wanted the white headphones, not the ones she actually bought you. You're also disparaging the A/B pairing that the author chose to write about, and as we discussed, we can assume that the author wrote the pairing because they liked it. Even if it's not their favorite and/or they also write A/C, they made a choice for this story to be A/B, and the comments section of a fic is not the place to question choices the author made in their own work.

You should write a story where Character Z who is not even in this story does [thing that is vaguely referenced in the B plot].

❌ "You should get me a new phone, too."

I want a sequel. 😞

❌ "Thank you, next!"

You can reframe this kind of sentiment if you are careful about it, and it's not all you say.

I really loved this story. I would be so interested to see these ideas explored further if you ever decide to write more in this universe.

✔️ Not "gimme." Not "more." This is, "If you build it, I will come." It is a HUGE difference.

You already know how to do this. You know how to graciously accept a gift; just use that same etiquette, and boom! Now you know how to fearlessly write a comment to fic you read. You're doing amazing. Go forth and comment.

[thelastofhyde]

the likeability paradox.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

synopsis. joel miller is not a man who strives to be liked, with a chip on his shoulder and a scowl on his face, until his world is flipped on its axis when the pretty young thing living under bill and frank's roof, with an irritatingly unwavering smile and the literal sun shinning out her ass, says those five damned words: i don't like you, joel.

warnings. no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, slow burn ( i have several oneshots planned for this couple ), unrequited love ( except you will never catch joel miller admitting he feels anything beyond grief, hunger and exhaustion ), pining, poor communication no communication, no seriously joel is down bad it's actually disgusting and highkey 🚩toxic🚩 but luckily red is your favourite colour, sunshine!reader, grumpy!joel aka canon joel, kinda perv!joel ( if you squint ), implied queer!tess, undefined age gap ( reader implied late-20s ), descriptions of canon-typical violence, smut ( oral- f receiving, fingering, degradation, panty stealing, hair pulling, dirty talk, dubcon due to intoxication, joel kinda gives her a wedgie at some point and honestly i don’t know what i was hoping to achieve with that, discussions of a lacklustre sex-life pre-apocalypse ). reader is a) hinted at being shorter than joel but it’s not central to the plot and b) described as lithe but the meaning intended is graceful, not thin!

word count. 12.9k

hyde’s input. half-way through, the regret of choosing to write this from joel's pov started to settle in but lmao i was too far in to not commit to the bit. don't come at me for the fact the timeline or events may not seem plausible with canon, i just wanna write this silly little depraved fic about joel in peace :( anyway, enjoy my first attempt at writing for tlou, forming a prayer circle rn in hopes that this doesn't flop because i will cry and you will hear about it

read on ao3. series masterlist. next chapter.

Distaste is not new in the life of Joel Miller.

In particular, one that is loaded, aimed and fired directly at him. He is not a likeable guy, often by choice and rarely by accident. The years of pain from a bleeding wound have now scarred over into nothing but an empty shell of the man that once was, from a world that no longer is, and he’s tried little to fill himself back up.

If anything, he’s made himself more empty.

Rid himself of feelings, that which saves him the weakness of appearing sympathetic. Discarded the need for luxuries, for which he’d scarcely cared for prior to his world ending. Lay to rest what was left of the optimist inside him, leaving behind the danger of hope for it to rot with the rest of the infected.

An apocalyptic world brings out all sides of man that one would never dare to engage with in normal civilisation. Joel learned swiftly that he was built to endure, quick to evolve and adapt to the new world order. The man who once worked his hardest to keep the peace among his neighbours, smiling that little bit wider on days he’d catch them scowling to themselves in hopes of brightening one part of their day for even a simple moment, would be at odds with the man who wears a heavy layer of enjoyment when met with the scowling glances and the hushed voices, all the watch out for that Miller guys passed between cowardly members of FEDRA and the keep away from Mr Miller's lawns spoken harshly from mother to child becoming music to his failing ears.

This plague of fear-driven dislike keeps him alone, how he likes to be, no one to lose and nothing to be taken. Somewhere along the years the idea of safety in numbers has morphed into an illusion, something people say and never truly mean, to distract themselves from a reality more bitter than a snowstorm: in times of survival, people become deadweight.

“So that’s all I am to ya, huh? Dead-fucking-weight?” His brother’s voice still echoes in that damned space he calls a home, weeks or months or years since the day he’d departed for something else, somewhere else, leaving Joel to do what Joel does best: endure.

Somehow, silence was easier than telling the man he’d taught to tie a shoelace, to shave his beard, to tune a guitar that he was the deadweight, doomed to drag all those who remained too close down into his pit of despair.

She was an exception, his Tess, buried 5-feet-under in her own swell of darkness, nothing but the tips of her fingers stretched out above her head to feel the sun upon her skin and keep her from going that last foot deeper. They’d made a home for themselves in one another, one where he keeps them fed, and she keeps them safe, and neither of them keeps the place clean.

She never asks for more, and he never offers it, both content to survive without the weight of affection smothering them. Contrary to the belief of any misfortunate soul who’s encountered the pair within the quarantine zone, she is the one who holds the leash, tugging Joel along close by her heel and keeping him from wandering off into the wild to surrender himself to a feral lifestyle.

Which lands him here, sat at a table playing happy family, each time he dares to snark out a few words being met with the sharp kick of Tess’ foot against his shin.

“... And then,” Frank struggles over a cough, so excited in his story-telling that he fails to separate taking a breath from taking a sip of his wine. With a roll of eyes and a disapproving grunt, Bill’s no more than two seconds away from clapping down on his back, urging the other man’s wind-pipes to unblock and welcome back airflow. “Otis dragged his muddied self over the whole house. We were finding paw-prints for days!”

Joel's unamused, too keen to think of what a nuisance that would be. As if incapable of feeling the buzzing energy of disinterest, the German Shepherd drops its head further up his lap, begging for a morsel of anything that sits atop the table.

“Which means I was cleaning paw-prints for days.” Bill, the only one at the table besides himself who wears the looks of a cynic, grumbles out before shovelling what remains on his plate into his mouth.

Frank is quick to shush him.

“I’m sorry, again, Bill,” he doesn’t mean to break eye-contact from the mutt at his thigh, but the voice calls to him like a siren calls to a ship in the night, like a flame dances and seduces a moth into its brightly burning touch of death, a spotlight in the dark which promises- or threatens- more light to come. “I’d no clue there was a storm coming till we were already a good few miles away, and there was nowhere to take cover to wait it out.”

There you sit, parallel to him.

The sun rests lower in the sky as time carries you all into the late noon, its rays a beacon of light bursting out just behind your head, painting you in the glow of the golden hour and staining a mockery of a halo above you. It hurts his eyes, this brightness that you so easily bask in, forcing him to squint and deepen the frown on his face.

You catch him with his sights on you, at some point, and the smile you meet his scowl with has him cursing at the sun, and the moon, and every star that sits between.

The threat of a great war looms in the air as you rush to rise up and help clear the table of the remnants left behind- none of which Joel can account for, mouth too keen and body too starved to skip out on enjoying the mundane luxury of a fresh, home-cooked meal. The battle ends swiftly as you surrender to Bill’s hardened stare, and Frank’s disapproving head-shakes, and Tess’ own plan of action to simply force you down back into the seat you’d been sat in- the one you always sit in.

“You, sit. No one should have to clean up the food they made.”

They get no fight out of him when they insist he’d done enough catching the so-called food.

Silence casts its shadow over the table, dampening the light and smothering you both in a mockery of greyed tones- truthfully, it is the disappearance of the sun behind a large cloud that causes such a thing.

Being alone, with you, is something Joel’s never mastered. The affliction of your presence is so much greater when there’s no one else to balance out your natural shine- the kind that has his head spinning and his cock aching-, no one but him.

Were he not a sick bastard, he’d try harder to not make you sad.

Something bumps his hands, ripping him out of his moral self-condemnation. The dog meets his gaze, eyes a widened mess of puppy-dog pleading that punctuates its existence with an impatient whine.

Just like your owner, he finds himself thinking and not saying- never saying-, yet to find your bark.

The ball’s a sticky mess of slobber and dirt, and Joel touches it all the same, throwing it up in the air once, then twice, before tossing it across the yard. He’s slumped back in his chair by the time he registers the dog’s departure, a ball of dark fluff bouncing its way across the garden, and all the man can think is fuck, he’ll be feeling the effect of that throw on his shoulder come the morning.

The pain is not enough to stop him from tossing the ball again, and once more, and then yet again, sending the dog in a never-ending loop of chase, grab, retrieve- a parallel to his life of wake, survive, sleep.

“He likes you,” you never leave things the way he wishes them to be, bursting his bubble with the vocal reminder of your presence.

As if on queue, prompted by your addressing of it, the dog drops its interest in Joel, and the ball, and the chasing, tail wagging uncontrollably by the time it reaches your side. Standing on its hind legs, it collapses the front of itself into your waiting lap, and Joel watches how you wrap your arms so easily around something that could cause you harm.

To envy a creature that licks its own shit off its ass is a new low for Joel.

“Thinkin’ he might like ya more, Sol.” The nickname rolls off his tongue with ease, the safer option than uttering your name, a vice and virtue he’s only permitted himself in idealistic fantasies that play out in his own troubled thoughts.

“Most people do,” whether you mean to make it seem like you’re degrading his very existence or not, he’s unsure, but it rouses a chuckle out of him.

He takes note of how you don’t protest the name he’s branded you with, not like how you’d fought tooth and nail against it every other visit he and Tess have made.

“You’ve got a whole load in common, you know? I think that’s got something to do with his fascination-”

“How the hell’s a man like me got somethin’ in common with a four-legged mutt?” There he goes again, making that smile slip down your cheeks with a simple use of his voice. It helps as much as it hurts, frown loosening up and eyes no longer strained beneath the bright shine of your visceral optimism.

“Well, you’re both... hairy,” he restrains himself from reacting, washing down a laugh with the help of the dregs of wine that lay collecting at the bottom of his glass. He’s let his appearance grow more rugged over the past few months and your noticing of this brings an unwanted warmth to his aching bones. “And have the most kickass women in your lives to stop you from dying.”

He’s interested to know what life would be like under your protection.

Discovering the answer brings the threat of pain, and loss, and an openness to vulnerability he can not afford himself, so he takes the safer option: “‘S easy stayin’ safe when you live in this fantasy land. Doubt your mutt’d last any longer than a day out in reality.”

With you as its protector.

He doesn’t say it and, still, it somehow hovers in the space between you both, a heavy, syrupy implication that slips down your throats and threatens to suffocate you. He watches you choke on it, coughing on his cruelty and feigning it to be a simple clearing of your throat. Your eyes glue themselves on the dog, delicate fingers smoothing over the well-groomed hairs down its back.

Survival has turned him into a man who knows when to seize an opportunity, and this is one he takes with both hands, basking in the simplicity of staring, watching, observing you without the crime of being caught.

But I could keep you safe.

He toys with the danger of uttering such a thing aloud. It’s not the first time he’s thought it. Truthfully, he’s unsure when it first nestled its way into his mind.

His memory, which ails him more than it aids him these past years, would have him believe it was way before the dog had even appeared, back when it was just Bill, Frank and you. A few whiskeys in and a campfire lit for you all to gather for warmth around- why you’d all chosen to sit out in the gardens on a winter’s night Joel remains unsure of to this day-, it was Frank who’d prompted the question. “Where were you all when... this started?” Tess went first, braver than most people he knows, sharing stories of a version of herself he’d never meet.

He never imagined her working in a bank.

Bill, with reluctance, took the next step, keeping his account factual and to the point. “Was shit-faced drunk and getting my stomach pumped.” He’d been quick to skim over the story of the young nurse who’d guided him to safety out the hospital, losing her own life in exchange for his survival. She was barely out of school. “I knew her dad, bit of an asshole, but boy, was he proud of his baby for graduating.” Frank couldn’t let him swim too deep in his thoughts, afraid a current of guilt would trap him and drown him in the depths of it, and so he raised his own voice and began his tale.

Joel had always been a good listener. Being a single parent to a teenage girl required him to be, or so... she would have had him believe, nights at the table set for two spent listening to the playground he-said-she-said gossip. Years later and he at last prefers things this way, a rare gem of safety found in the act of saying nothing and hearing everything- that his hearing will allow. All this to say, he’d tried his best to pay attention to Frank’s impassioned retelling of his heroic misadventures that had lead him to the unintentional arms of Bill.

But you weren’t smiling.

He watched you, you watched the dancing flames, face stoic and drained of that natural shine his eyes had only just started to be able to gaze upon without the threat of being blinded by such light.

The desire crept up on him like a tiger to it’s prey, hiding in the far off bushes until the opportunity to strike presented itself and the feeling lunged for Joel’s back, gripping him in its claws and piercing his ribcage with its gnashing teeth. With each bite, it plagued him with the delusions of a wandering mind, imagination left free to run laps around his head with visions of you from another life, another time, another set of people gathered round a dining table. He’d wanted to hear about the ones you’d lost, and comfort you with all the things he hated hearing (“You’ll keep ‘em alive, in spirit and memory!” “Those we remember never truly die!”). He’d needed to bend a knee and swear a vow to be the one to stand between you and death, to fight for your survival on your behalf. ‘Could keep you safe. There, then, the thought did cross his mind.

He’d washed it down with a swig of lukewarm, flat beer.

“-Could fix it, you know. I’m good with my hands.”

He almost chokes on his own breath.

I'm good with my hands, it swims in circles round his mind, replaying and echoing off the walls of his skull. And he knows- oh, how he knows- that he’ll be replaying it in those moments of solitude for the next few nights, weeks, months- however long it may take till he forgets the way such thought-provoking words sound on your lips.

“What?” The question leaves him harsher than he intends, drawing an enemy line between you both with the foul sound of it. In the corner of his eye, he swears he sees you flinch backwards, physically recoiling from the disdain-filled bullet he fires in your direction.

The mutt in your lap retreats, hackles rising as it turns to face Joel once more.

He sees it, in the dog’s brutal protectiveness over you, this similarity you claim exists.

“Your watch, it’s broken.”

“Hadn’t noticed,” he’s retreating into his own space now, mentally and physically, scraping the legs of his chair against the ground as his mind works to strengthen those walls that threaten to crumble so often in your presence. “Don’t need ya to fix it.”

You pull a face, brows furrowing and lips pouting. Confusion.

“Don’t you want to know the time?” You ask, as if time could ever be relevant in a rotten world where down is up, and up is down, and Joel Miller is not the overprotective father to the most delicate creature the god he’d stopped believing in had gifted him, just to force him to watch as life snatched her away.

“I don’t keep it for the time.”

You smile, and this one’s a killer, piercing straight through the cages of his ribs to carve itself into his withered heart.

The German Shepherd relaxes with the rebrightening of your aura, shaking out the tension from its body before sauntering its way back over to Joel, ball in mouth and tail wagging excitedly, as if it hadn’t just contemplated having its first taste of human flesh.

He’s throwing the toy in a matter of minutes, enjoying the repeated run and retrieve game, and the renewed silence that comes along with it. Nature sings its tune with rustling leaves, cawing crows, and pounding paws. It’s almost so easy to leave your offer, your words, his broken watch in the rearview mirror of this otherwise pleasant afterno-

“Ooh, so there’s a story to tell!” You’re blinding him with your excitement, lithe limbs leaning forward in your own chair in an attempt to reach closer, table between you be damned. “I’ve never heard any of the Joel Miller backstory, this should be-”

“I get that likin’ everyone is your thing, but would’ya give it a rest?”

Nature falls silent.

Skies grow dull.

You juggle sadness.

There’s a crash that comes from within the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of Tess’ sailor mouth, cursing whichever delicate dish she’s broken into smithereens with the help of her accident prone hands. The dog’s lain itself down upon the grass, ball between it’s paws as it begins to bite, and chew, and break it under the pressure of its canines.

Joel wonders what the mutt’s practicing for.

“Sure,” then, with the return of your voice, all sounds resume, harmony upon planet earth once more. Only, the gates have been shut in his face and Joel finds himself forced to watch as everything unfolds from the outside, an unwelcome visitor forced out into exile with the fungal freaks and the inhumane. “But you’re wrong. I don’t like everyone.”

“‘S that so.” His eyes roll. The hole he’s dug for himself sinks deeper, casting you higher up on the pedestal Joel will always be wiling to place you on.

“Yeah,” you’ve risen out your chair, gifting him the view of how the fabric of your dress dances above your knee, a final twist of the knife in his heart that he lets you pierce his flesh with each time he surrenders himself to your existence. “I don’t like you, Joel.”

The hours come and go, but your words linger like a bad tattoo, shamefully engraved into his skin and banning him to a life of noticing the horrendous thing each time he passes by his own reflection.

We’re staying, for tonight. Tess had called the shots, and he’s been learning not to argue when she gives him one of her stern looks, biting down on the comments he’d wanted to make of the dangers of being out of the QZ for too long, which would likely earn him nothing but a shrug and the reminder that they both were off duty the following day

The nights are beginning to grow darker as winter grows nearer, leading Bill and Frank- mostly Frank- to excuse themselves to bed, bidding the two visitors with a final reminder to make themselves comfortable in whichever room they can find. If only Joel could remember which door leads to yours.

The two women in his life remain awakened, passing a bottle of wine between each other as you both converse back and forth, catching each other up on one another’s life, satiating that craving for mundane gossip.

Tess recounts the scandal of the poor boy who’d been caught sleeping with a FEDRA agent’s wife, you whisper that Frank and Bill had been fighting again recently. The memory of being ambushed by raiders- now dead raiders- comes to life once more with the help of Tess’ voice, while the promise to uncover what exactly Bill and Frank were hiding from you as of late is sealed in your words.

At some point, he lays himself to rest atop the couch, legs stretched out and arms crossed over his chest, ignoring the squeeze of the fabric over his forearms as the too-small flannel struggles to contain the muscles forged by the need to survive. At another point, he’s lulled to sleep by the lullaby of your mingling voices, a safety blanket draping itself over his tired body and enveloping him in the comforts of having that which he struggles to care so little for, so near him once more.

-N’t tell me you’re a virgin.

The words are muffled as the man slips back into consciousness, a frown coming to rest on his forehead as he battles against the demons urging him awake, the nightmarish memories of car crashes, and soldiers, and so much red chasing him away from the sleep he longs for so badly.

A protest rings true in his head and his ears.

Was gonna say. Knew you were young, but not that young.

It’s the sound of your laughter that awakens him fully, saving him from the tortures of his own mind.

“God, no! me and my ex, we... a few times. It was alright, I guess. I just, yeah, there’s not much to miss.”

He’s unwilling, unable to reopen his eyes, curling in on himself as he rolls over onto his side. A groan slips past his lips, one he’s hoping Tess and you will dismiss as nothing more than the sleep-filled rambles of a dreaming man.

Neither of you make any acknowledgement of him.

“Not much to miss?! Sweet Christ, you’re breaking my fuckin’ heart.” He’s learnt over time the common traits of a drunken Tess. Each word becoming an exclamation, curses becoming more frequent, and that irritating habit she’s picked up of imitating his own accent. There’s no need to bother opening his eyes, Joel’s already sure he’ll find his companion with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “I’d give up a hand for some head!”

You must do something, pull a face or shake your head, for the sound of Tess’ renewed shock fills the room. He wonders, as the sound bounces off the walls, how late into the night it’s grown.

Late enough that the cicadas singing outside the window are now accompanied by the hoots of an owl.

“You’ve got to be shittin’ me.”

“It bores me!”

“It bores you!?”

The couch beneath Joel creaks as he shifts once more, turning his back on you both as the ability to contain his laughter grows harder with each word you exchange and each gasp Tess gives. The last thing he needs is to be caught eavesdropping on your sex life like some dirty old pervert.

The crueler part of his mind replays your voice, I don’t like you, and the knife twists in his guts this time.

You like Tess. Love her, even. It’s been that way since the first time you’d met the duo, eyes giving one look over the woman before the smile on your face grew even wider, voice as sweet as honey sighing out Finally someone with a pair of boobs, I’m bored of the sight of my own. Joel’d gotten caught up in the thought of how he’d never tire of such a sight that he’d failed to acknowledge your greeting towards him, catching just the moment you drew your outstretched hand back to your side and offered him an understanding smile.

Maybe that was the moment you decided you didn’t like him.

“Must not have been doin’ ya right,” The bottle of southern comfort is working its wonders on the older woman, accent growing further and further from its true nature with each glass she nurses. Joel hears the faint sound of ice smacking against glass and knows it must be yours. You’ve always struggled with liquors, slipping as many ice cubes as you can manage into a glass in hopes that they’ll eventually melt and water the alcohol down. It’s oddly endearing that you think no one has noticed. Because he has, he always notices the little details that surround you. “This fella of yours.”

Joel has no right to despise the idea of you and some fella.

He does so, regardless.

“Well,” he imagines the shape of your meek smile and the way you shrug your shoulders. “We were each others firsts.”

“That’s no excuse! Trust I left mine cryin’ into her pillow the first time I went down.” Tess and he have a silent agreement to never speak of the nights Joel would take refuge on their beaten-up couch while Tess indulges herself between someone’s thighs in the bedroom. No discussing the sounds she pulls from her concubines, no addressing the wet patches left behind to stain their shared sheets, and definitely no speaking on how his hand winds up stained in his own cum.

You scoff and follow it up with a saccharine laced giggle, so sweet its bound to rot your teeth if you even attempt to hold it in. “What, are you offering your services?”

tThis he likes less than the image of you with some fella, the thought of having to lay upon a mattress on which Tess has raised you to heaven on while he once again remained locked out in the dark leaving his skin crawling with unwarranted rage.

“‘As sure as I am that you’re sweet all over, ‘fraid to tell you I like my women a little older than you.”

He knows he should do the same, should lust after those women his own age who shoot him carnal looks in the streets of the QZ. It should be skin his own age that he longs to taste, and eyes who’ve seen as much as his own he wants to stare into, and lips as cruel as the ones he owns that he fights off the urges to kiss. But he can’t, and he won’t.

And you’re the one to blame.

You, with the glow of a thousand suns. You, with the hands that tend to flowers instead of corpses. You, with the gentle nature he’d have to spend the rest of his days fighting off every other living thing just to protect.

His own self being the first he’d need fight.

Joel wonders what he’d missed in his hours- if it had even been so long- of rest, how the playground gossiping dissipated into reminiscing the pleasures of supple flesh and the sins of unfulfilling lovers. Sleep steals him away once more before he can find the answers.

The next time he awakens, he’s drowning in a plight of cruel memories, a cold and brutal ocean of faces, places, and traces of the ephemeral sentiment of happiness he’d possessed once upon a time, back when the price of letting one’s guard down was not so high.

He’s learnt, with time, that losing her comes in waves. Some small, meaningless little things, that ripple Joel’s surface and coast gently over his dirt ridden skin. Others, tsunamis. Big, angry, all imposing. They’re born in ground-shaking explosions of grief, building speed, and height, and weight the closer they grow to crashing over him.

Amidst the passing of time, he’s tried to keep himself busy in his awakened hours, to keep his mind occupied and avoid thinking about her too much. But the waves always come back, no matter how hard he tries to fight them or swim away from them. They catch him off guard, crashing over him when he least expects it. In the middle of a raid, lost in thought and standing ten inches deep in grime, blood, infected, and suddenly the weight of her absence will hit him like a ton of bricks.

The currents grow more violent whenever he closes his eyes.

This evening, it had been a minuscule wave, yet it’s damage still leaves him with sweat slicked skin. He reenters the land of the living choking on his own fear and shooting up-right, hardly registering his surroundings till his feet hit solid ground. The gentle, barely-there croon of a Sinatra record punctuates the room alongside the dim glow of a lightbulb which flickers with the threat of expiring and leaving naught but the moonlight to wash over the dark of the night. Across from him is Tess, nursing a half-emptied cup against her chest and wearing tired eyes. Snoring comes from below him, where Joel finds he’s a mere foot away from having stepped upon the sleeping dog, curled in on itself and laying soundly by his side.

You take up no space of this room.

Neither the dog nor the drunk pay him any mind as he pushes up onto his creaking knees, stretching out his limbs in a fight to undo the tension in his aching bod. Languid steps carry him out into the hall, where he freezes under the self-questioning of where he’s going.

There are three answer to this: where he should, where he could, and where he would.

He should find himself a bedroom, perhaps be ostentatious enough to rid himself of those stale clothes and let the warmth of running water wash away the sins he’d committed throughout the day. A good night’s sleep, atop a mattress where springs do not dig into his back and the sheets are clean as could be, it would do him good.

He could head towards the kitchen, quench that thirst that he’s awoken with, cottonmouth and a headache to go with it too. Perhaps he’ll find himself something to eat, indulge in the luxury of readily available food just this once, he’s sure Frank wouldn’t mind. Bill definitely would, but that’s not something he’ll need care about when he’s miles out and heading back to the QZ.

He would try find you, open whichever door it is that leads into the haven that must be your bedroom. He imagines its clean, and organised, and smells of some syrupy lavender that is bound to nauseate him as he smothers his face into your bedsheets, eyes shut, and mind relaxed, the threat of those violent waves no concern to him as he anchors himself with an arm around your warm skin. Skin he’s never felt, yet he stands firm in his belief it must be the most soothing thing to touch, as gentle and inviting as the heart it keeps safe within it.

I don’t like you, Joel.

Those words stop him from trying.

He tells himself it’s for the best.

With a mind of their own, his legs have made the choice for him and deliver him outside the opening to the kitchen. He swallows down a gulp of his own saliva at the prospect of a glass of water. The door’s already half-opened, and Joel nearly thanks Christ for it as the fear of waking anyone with the squeaking of the handle is eliminated. The darkness of the night encompasses the room, even with the moon’s shine reflecting off every surface it touches: the counters, the knife stand, the metal drawer handles, the refrigerator.

The refrigerator.

It’s open, a blue light shining out of it and illuminating anything it its proximity. A subtle beeping noise rings from it, and suddenly Joel’s back in his thirties, dead-beat yet well-intentioned brother stealing the food off his own plate as he beckons his pre-teen daughter back into the kitchen.

Keep leavin’ this open and it’s a job you’ll be gettin’ this summer, not a dog.

She never lived long enough to get either.

He catches something move beneath the artificial light. Cautious at first, it’s all the more startling to find the object of his ire and the embodiment of his desire stood leaning back against the countertop, a glass full of orange liquid pressed to a mouth that parts and welcomes in the sugary sweet delight.

“Why aren’t ya sleepin’?” The words rasp out his throat, catching and scratching on the parts of him that still yearn for something to wet his tongue with.

Beneath the light, you shrug. “Could ask you the same thing, Texas.”

He curses Tess for teaching you such a nickname.

He curses himself more for the way you saying it twists up his insides.

You’re teasing him, smile a little looser and eyes less focused than he’s used to seeing. Whether you’re tipsy or simply delirious with exhaustion, Joel remains unaware.

He grunts, daring to take a few steps further into the kitchen. The door behind him closes over and gives the illusion of the space becoming smaller, tighter, more compact.

“I asked first.” You laugh, at him. Full on chest-rumbling, hand over your belly, head thrown back- so abruptly it nearly crashes against the corner of the opened cabinet door. The corner of his mouth is curling upwards before he can catch himself. He hopes the refrigerator light shows less of him than it shows of you. Bare legs, and messed hair, and pointed nipples all on display for his undeserving eyes. “‘S so funny, huh?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he successfully fights off the urge to follow the drop of orange juice that spills down the side of your mouth, over your chin, down your neck, disappearing beneath the collar of your dress. Perhaps he is not as successful as he believes. “Just never heard the Joel Miller say something so childish. You’ve usually got your panties all in a bunch if someone so much as looks at you for too long.”

You make way as he inches closer, sliding yourself over to rest against the island counter. A fragrance of things he can’t quite pinpoint, but enjoys nonetheless, wafts in his face as he travels down the path to the sink. Uncouth and unbothered, Joel opens the tap and cups his hands beneath the stream of water.

“You know there’s a cupboard full of glasses right next to you, right?” You call out behind him as the man brings water to his dry lips, splashing and just about guiding his head beneath the stream. The thirst does not budge. He hums an acknowledgement of you, yet continues with his method.

By the time he switches the water off, you’ve made yourself busy, back facing him while you work at something atop the counter, a consistent chop-chop-chop filling the silence that settles between you both.

“iIm making soup,” you state, like there’s nothing quite more logical you could be doing at whatever-o’clock in the morning it is. “Make sure you take some with you when you leave. Tess said she’s been fighting off a cold the past few days, need you to keep her warm and fed for me.”

Would you do the same for him, if you knew he’d been the one to catch that damned cold in the first place? Four days of just about coughing up his lungs, and not a single soul- not even his Tess- had offered soup, nor warmth, nor sympathy. He’d not needed it, until now, when he hears you gifting it to someone else.

I don’t like you, Joel.

Of course you would do the same. Not because you care, nor because doing otherwise would way heavy on your conscious, but because you’re nice. Nice in a way he’ll never be, has never been. Patient, welcoming, comforting, warm. All words that spring to mind when one thinks of you. They violently oppose the closed-off, angry, dark cloud that had rolled in years ago and casted it’s shadow over Joel’s entire persona.

He straightens his back, weight shifting from one foot to another as he contemplates you from behind. The sway of your dress as you move has him in a trance, beckoning him closer before he can even realise he’s taken a step. His hands drip water onto the floor in a rhythm, the record player sings in the distance as a reminder of Tess and your sweet out-of-tune humming fills the empty kitchen with a brightness greater than the moon, but that’s not what Joel hears.

I don’t like you, Joel.

I don’t like you, Joel.

I don’t like you, Joel.

I don’t like you, Joel.

Over and over, you taunt him without even trying, nailing the words into his head and heart, impaling him with your sweet condemnation. You’re not the first to say it, to his face or otherwise, yet you’re the first to evoke such a reaction out of him, to leave a lasting impression hours after you’d declared such a thing.

And, suddenly, Joel’s angry. At you, at himself, at the sound of that damned knife in your hand slicing down onto the chopping board. The fog of his ire blurs his vision, rendering him to move blindly through the night.

Only when he finds himself looming over you from behind does his vision clear.

A hand meets the curve of your hip and you gasp, leaving Joel to wonder if it’s because the shock of his cold, damp touch or, simply, because it’s his touch. Without a thought spared, he firms his grip, fingers squeezing tight enough he feels your flesh bulge between each one, a bruising promise Joel gifts you.

You may leave your marks emotionally, but Joel’s will always be physical.

“Why,” he pulls in a breath, loading up the will to keep his voice a low rumble, a quiet disturbance in the night for no ears but your own to hear. “Don’t ya like me?”

If not for the pause in your practiced movements, knife stilling midway through slicing a carrot, he’d believe you’re unaffected by his proximity. “Why do you care?”

He scoffs, “I don’t.”

“Hmm,” this hum is far less delightful than the way you’d been following along to whatever melody Tess was playing in the living room. “Sure sounds like you do.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t,” he insists, and he swears he almost feels the way it only digs deeper the hole he’s created for himself.

Joel knows he cares. It’s been burning at his skin and itching on his mind since the moment you’d welcomed yourself to a little bit of unfiltered honesty, dropping the perfectly poised and eternally polite mask you’d worn since the moment he’d first met you, an attitude he loathes as much as he anticipates surrounding himself with it each time he’s tugged along for the trek to Bill and Frank’s.

What Joel doesn’t know is why he cares. There’s nothing to be desired about him, no traits to respect and certainly no looks to admire. He’s near crafted his entire being in a way that makes sure of this, the more undesirable his presence is, the less likely he is to be approached, be it by other people or fate itself.

Maybe there was a part of him that had wrongfully imagined you being the exception.

Instead, you’re stood barefoot in the latest of hours, knife working away the vegetables in front of you, dress sticking to skin beneath his damp hand, and you don’t like him.

Not one bit.

Joel grabs at your hips harder, his free hand curling round the shape of your left forearm. His feet shuffle forwards, until there comes a point where one would struggle to make out where you end and he begins. His chest pressed to your back, his muscular legs trapping your soft thighs, his forehead digging into the side of your head so intensely it threatens to shatter both your craniums and leave nothing but dust made by bones blown into smithereens.

He inhales, and finds you don’t smell of lavender.

“For the record,” he watches your movements over your shoulder, entranced with the back and forth sawing of the knife through unidentified vegetables. ‘S just like how I sliced that raider’s throat, he thinks, and instantly regrets it. No part of him should ever be compared to you. “I don’t like ya either.”

He’s lying through his teeth, hoping you don’t notice.

The knife never ceases its movement. Back and forth, back and forth. Chop, chop, chop. Blurs of greens, and oranges, and more greens cover the counter before you. It’s oddly soothing, this repeated and unbroken pattern, reminding Joel of times he’d found comfort in the mundaneness of cooking a meal after an emotionally exhausting day. Perhaps, this has the same affect on you, a momentary lifejacket to keep yourself afloat amongst the waves that haunt you awake.

The hand on your forearm travels, mind of its own, drawing up the shape of your shoulder with featherlight touches that contradict the way his nails dig deeper into the the skin you hide beneath the waistline of your dress.

“That’s not news,” you must think he’s blind to the hitch in your breath when his fingers slip over your pulse-point.

It’s his turn to respond with a hum.

“You only like yourself,” words more untrue have never been spoken before the man who’s every moment is spent drowning in his loses. His wandering touch halts. “A little selfish, if you ask me. but, that’s just what I think.”

This strikes a nerve. Fury commands his hand into a fist and fingers find themselves tangled in the tresses of your hair. The realisation of how surprisingly soft it feels barely finishes registering when he’s pulling on it, dragging your head along with, till it lays flat on his puffing chest and your eyes stare up at him. “D’ya know what I think?”

Even upside down, your beauty is striking.

“No, unlike you I don’t care what you think about-” Joel tugs on your hair once more.

“I think you’re a brat. A silly little girl who thinks she can smile and get away with murder.” You could. He’d forgive you as you soak your hands in the blood you draw from him. Knife in the heart, bullet through the brain, bat to the face, he’d slip away easily from this life if only to have you smile as he goes.

“You’re hurting me,” you whine, Joel growls.

Animalistic, beastly, a rabid animal sinking its claws into its defenceless prey. His gaze dances over your features, catching himself before he can sink deep into your captivating eyes, tracing the shape of your mouth, slipping down the peaks of your collarbones.

Your dress- red, a colour Joel Miller will no longer associate with bleeding wounds and stained weapons- sits tight on your chest, squeezing the swell of your chest beneath the fabric, and gives away all your secrets.

“You like it,” he speaks in awe, unable to pull his eyes off the two stiff buds that poke against the red fabric.

“No, I don’-” Dampness follows wherever his hand goes, fleeting as he makes the journey around your waist and up your side, crawling higher and higher to where he can feel your heart beating from within your chest. “Joel.”

He retightens his grip on your hair, aiding you with the way your curve your spine and force yourself deeper into his uncaring, ungentle, enamoured touch. Whoever Joel had been in a past life must have moved mountains or performed miracles to grant him the luck to be holding you this way, the fingers he’d gifted with nothing but the cocking of guns and the feel of his own pulsating lust now expertly tweaking at one of your stiff nipples, all thoughts of the fabric scratching at your sensitive skin dissipating into the abyss as he realises you’re enjoying the pain.

“Heard ya, earlier, in the living room,” at the time, he’d been mortified to be overhearing such intimate words between you and Tess. The blood that insists on rushing to his crotch now wants you to know, to hear the admission of guilt be spoken from his own mouth. “ Talkin’ bout your past.”

He doesn’t specify.

He doesn’t need to.

You give away your shock with parted lips, widened eyes, frozen eyelashes, pupils staring up at him like a wounded fawn he’s about to take his first bite out of and, hopefully, it won’t be the last one.

“Tess turned you down,” the hand on your chest switches sides, donning your other breast with some much needed attention. His hand must still carry residue of the water, for you gasp and shut your eyes in the shock of his touch, your own fingers shooting up to scratch at his wrist. Near convinced you mean to push him away, the pressure against his hand that pushes deeper into his unholy affection has him realising otherwise. “I wouldn’t.”

You say nothing. Joel pulls harder.

“Too bad I’m-” You cut yourself off as he presses himself closer to you, your poor hips bound to awaken with bruises from the counter he’s got you pressed against. With a distance so small he can hear your teeth grind, Joel watches you like a hawk. The twitch in your brow, the flutter of your eyelids, the bobbing of your throat as you silence what he imagines would be an otherworldly kind of moan, a whine he’d let kiss his ears and wind up poisoning himself with the torture of it replaying in his head each waking moment till he kicks the bucket, once and for all. The want to see you fall apart evolves into a need. “Too bad I’m not offering you the chance.”

Joel Miller is a hot blooded man, at his core, weak to emotions and vulnerable to the warmths of flesh. With notches on his bedpost and a tally of lives beneath his belt, he sees little wrong with taking what he needs.

“Who said anything about an offer?”

The descent to the floor is far from graceful, with bitten back groans of pain as clicking noises resound throughout the room while his joints bend and break in an effort to get him where he needs to be, where he’s needed to be for far longer than merely this exchange on kitchen grounds: on his knees for you.

A part of him would prefer it if you weren’t wielding a butchers knife.

The other part wishes you were facing him, eyes full of that repressed anger, hatred and discontent you likely harbour for him as you point the blade down at him and threaten to paint the floors with his blood. You’ve yet to do that, and so he takes it as his queue to progress.

Smoothing his hands up your legs, he admires the landscapes of your body from this angle, with legs that seem longer than any tree in the Amazonian jungle and curves with peaks that resemble the mountains of the Himalayas. Arriving at the top of your knees, the hem of your dress both welcomes and conceals his touch, inviting him into the wonderful world it hides beneath it yet denying him the privilege of feasting his eyes on your paradise, an island of safety amongst the open ocean of his mind.

Your breathing is measured, precise, too rhythmical to be natural, the subconscious action now turned into a practiced routine you mean to maintain nonchalance with. Perhaps you’re yet to realise that, while he may remain indifferent to those that surround him, Joel knows how to read people. And, right now, you’re a whole novel of lust, awaiting for someone to open up your pages and drink in every lyrical prose you promise to tell.

Joel finds purchase mid-way up your thighs, hands sliding around to the front of them to grip the buttery smooth skin and ground himself in the reality he kneels before.

You breathe in, you breathe out.

One knee buckles, ever so slightly, the weight of you collapsing into his welcoming hold. He revels in the feeling of supporting you, in every meaning of the word, thumbs not even waiting on a command from his consciousness to begin soothing your tingling skin with a gentle back and forth movement to match the knife in your hand.

Inhale, exhale.

Your legs straighten once more, a hand of his winds its way back out from under your skirt and shoots up to grab your free one, dragging it down his pits of desire.

“Hold,” he’s parched all over again, mouth drier than the Texan wastelands on a hot summer’s day. All he can do to survive is peel up that infuriatingly soft, red fabric of your dress, skin unveiling itself to his hunger struck eyes. With the skirt bunched up, he shoves it into your awaiting palms, pinning your hand against your own waist. “Don’t move.”

Where he expects protest, he receives more breathing.

Lace covers your skin, a delicate shade of a colour his eyes can’t quite distinguish in the dark of the night. One flicker of his sight to the very core of your body and he notices it, that tell-tale sign that you’re enjoying this little display of attention, despite what your measured breaths may have him believe. A wet patch, your wetness. The stickiest, sweetest of honeys that only a woman like you can possess, and a man like him should never bare himself witness to.

Curiosity gets the better of him- one day, Joel hopes, this will get him killed- and his touch is reaching for the lacy fabric, fingers digging themselves into the waistband of your panties and around the fabric that covers your right asscheek before curling his hand into a fist, tugging upwards.

In and out, shaky breathing comes from above.

The lace pulls tight on your delicate skin, no choice but to nestle itself in the slit of your cunt as two pretty soaked lips peak out from each side. A heady smell he can only begin to describe as stiflingly sweet, tongue-tingling tanginess hits his nose. He makes sure to take a deep breath, letting the blood rush straight to his head- the one that sits packed uncomfortably in his tightened trousers.

Delectable as sin, you keen back into his fist, back curving ever so slightly. There’s a tremor in the hold you have on the fabric of your dress. Joel basks in the visual affect he’s beginning to have on you, no need to doubt if the fabric of your underwear rubs at your likely aching clit. He wonders if the sting of the lace digging into your skin hurts. He thinks it must hurt.

His fist curls tighter, pulls higher.

“Ah,” at last, a ripple in your surface. Though you still wield a knife, the carrot you’d been failing to chop rolls off the counter and onto the floor, lost somewhere in Joel’s peripheral vision.

“Shut up,” he grunts, like it doesn’t make his balls throb to hear you whine. “People are tryin’ to sleep.”

You scoff, and for a moment you seem to have rediscovered your composure. “Tess is drunk as a sailor, and the old men could sleep through nuclear warfare.”

“‘S that an invitation to see how loud I can get ya,” he’s still caught in the way you mold against the lace, slickened skin carrying a reflection of the moonlight. This, he thinks, is what all them poets were writing about in their prose of love and beauty. “Or a challenge?”

“It’s an invitation to stop lecturing me on volume control,-” you catch yourself, he realises, right before you can gift him some nickname a sweet girl like you would never use. Asshole, dickhead, bastard, he’s heard them all and, still, he wants them on your tongue, in his mouth, condemning him for all the brutish, oafish ways he masks his obsession for you.

As coquettish as it may be, painting a picture worthy of a front-page on some Playboy magazine, the sight of lace becomes a nuisance he no longer holds the patience for. So he strips you of it, hand moving to pull the garment down, down, down the length of you, till it hits your ankles. He awaits no movement of your own, taking it upon himself to lift each of your feet individually out the leg-holes.

It’s merely impulse that has him shoving the soiled lace into his back pocket, though he’s sure he’ll make use of them on lonely nights.

“You’re drippin’,” his proclamation is ego-driven, pride swelling in his chest as he takes in the full sight of your bare heat. The view is a little obscured from behind you, but with the right amount of tilting of your hips at a certain angle and the widening of your legs, he’s bound to sit front row and centre for your private show. “‘S actually a little pathetic, sweetheart. Is it 'cause ya like it when men get mean wit’ ya?”

He can imagine the way you’d roll your eyes at his words, and it has him thinking about how you’d look with your eyes rolling back for different reasons, reasons he’s about to gift you.

But first, he curls one hand around your ankle and tugs the limb along as far as he wants it. Much better, he now faces no blockage in the path up to your slit, freely letting his wandering hands ascend to his newfound heaven. Perhaps he’ll revisit the life of gospel, if you promise to be the altar he prays before.

Cool fingers to warm skin, you swallow a gasp a little too late for Joel to not notice as he drags the tips of his middle finger up the length of your slit. Soft, puffy lips part for him, until he presses against that special button that’s bound to turn on your engines.

Rolling his finger over your clit a few times, he refamiliarises himself with the female anatomy, with your anatomy, memorising each soft bump and meaty lump he finds along the way.

It happens so suddenly, and unwillingly, the way his mind switches to thinking of Tess. He wonders what exactly it is she does to those poor things she sends home on shaky legs, where she even begins to touch them. Joel imagines she makes use of what she has and starts with her fingers.

So he does the same.

Working over your slippery wetness, he coats the tip of his middle finger with it, till he finds what he’s been searching for: the gateways to your heaven, your entrance. He breaches your walls with that single digit and somehow that’s enough to have you squeezing around him so tightly he wonders if blood still manages to flow to his digit.

Two, three, four pumps of his hand and he’s introducing his pointer finger too, pressing them both into you to witness the ways you mould around this wider stretch, the lips of your cunt a pair of cushions his knuckles collide against each time he fucks his fingers in.

“So now you shut up. ‘S the matter, huh?” He’s contradicting himself and he doesn’t even care, too busy focusing on curling his fingers inside you, delighting in the feel of that spongy tissue they press against. “Am I too borin’ for ya?”

“You’re the most infuriating man I’ve ever- Oh!”

A tongue meets skin.

The knife clatters onto the counter.

You lurch forward.

His hand pulls you back.

“Tess was right, ya know?” He can still taste you on his tongue, nothing more than a simple lick over your slit and your salty pleasure already seeps deep into his veins, staining his very being with the memory of his new favourite flavour. He pulls his fingers out, slipping them up to your clit. Three little taps to the pulsing bud- tap, tap, tap- and he’s slipping them into his mouth, tongue working overtime to clean up every last drop of you that coats him. “That boy of yours wasn’t doin’ ya right.”

The common sense that screams at him to not feel envy over some ex-lover, someone who was likely barely even an adult at the time and no longer appears to be around, is no match for the green eyed beast that commands him to tell you, without using words, that he can do better- touch you better, protect you better, fuck you better-, if you’d just let him.

‘Could keep ya satisfied.

That’s a new thought, one he’s never needed before yet never wanted more, a burning ache to be worthy of your trust, affection, lust. He’ll never forget the first time he thinks it, mouth salivating at the sight of you.

“Is this the part you say some cheesy line straight out a porno? What ya need is a man, a man like me!” The softness of your giggle is still sharp enough to cut through the tension. God, it’s never sounded sweet, and Joel finds himself freely smiling into the darkness, yet still too stubborn to laugh at the deep voice you attempt to imitate him with.

“Well, was you who said it,” his mouth finds it’s way back onto your soaked heat, taking his time to work his tongue up the length of it, his saliva mixing itself in a nasty cocktail with your wetness. He imagines the air is cold against your skin, and that you like it, memory of those hardened nipples hidden beneath the fabric of your dress. “But if ya insist.”

Diving in head first had always been his style, from his first lover to his last, and to now, knees aching on the kitchen floor. The tip of his tongue dances round your clit, tantalising you to grind your hips to the rhythm of his sinful touches.

Licking into you, he’s reminded how much he enjoys that swelling in the chest that only comes from bringing another pleasure.

He’d not been a perfect lover, far from it, but he’d liked to believe at one point he’d been trained by experience that only comes with age, years of touching wrong and kissing badly to learn the right ways to make those he shared a bed- or a counter, or a backseat, or a club bathroom- with see angelic white as they writhed and squirmed under his touch. You’re lucky to have him now, matured by past lovers and broadened by age, with all the knowledge he needs to open your eyes to how a man pleasures, kisses, loves.

He’s out of practice, sure, with recent years adding notches to his belt that were merely frantic, unexpected, barely undressed run-ins with strangers, in strange places, cock barely getting a moments affection before he’d be spilling his seed and tucking it, limp, back into the confines of his trousers and locking it away beneath a zip.

What a perfect excuse you are, for Joel to remaster the arts of lust.

It’s messy, wet dripping down his chin and staining itself into the stubble of his growing facial hair. It’s noisy, his mouth openly groaning depraved joy into your warmth as you sing him a song of sweet euphoria, slowly building towards that crescendo on the horizon. It’s animalistic, barely human as he revokes all earthly needs such as rest, and food, and socialising, his mind, and soul, and heart, and cock all screaming in unison to spend whatever remaining days he shall possess on his knees before you.

And all the while you writhe and wriggle, some times running away from him touch, other times rutting so far back into him that you threaten to suffocate him somewhere between your warm thighs, and sugar-sweet cunt, and the two well-rounded globes of your ass.

His only saving grace is that he can’t see you.

Hearing your pretty whines, and hand-muffled moans, and heavy intakes of breath is enough to curse him for the rest of his waking days, condemned to wander the wastelands of earth knowing the noises you make on the brinks of pleasure, with a touch-starved man satiating his hunger for flesh and blood with the sugary sins of your soaked cunt.

Burrowing deeper into you, his consciousness rips through the fog of his lust to curse out his perversions as the tip of his hooked nose bumps against the puckered entrance of your ass. It does nothing to stop him tearing his tongue away from your clit, flattened as he drags it over the expanse of your cunt, and over your taint, and up the crack of your behind.

“N- Ah,” You can’t deny him while sounding so eager for more, the tip of his tongue now circling your back entrance, mimicking the treatment previously given to your little pearl. “No, don’t, not there.”

Next time, he thinks, we’ll try that next time.

Sights returned to his previous desires, he works to rip out every sigh, and every whine, and every dirty little song you’ll grace him with. The sound of whatever record Tess has put on in the other room becomes a safety blanket, dousing you both in the warm protection of not being overheard.

And, then, he does it, he makes the ultimate mistake.

His eyes flicker to the left and he finds himself faced with the stove that sits within Bill and Frank’s- and, by an extension he does not enjoy to remember, your- kitchen. There’s little that’s remarkable about the appliance, just your standard, everyday oven that he’s sure you’ve spent countless hours cooking up those comforting meals he’s come to anticipate each time Tess tells him they’re due a visit.

Except, the oven door is made of glass.

Glass which now paints the most pornographic masterpiece for no eyes but his own. You, with a hand gripping the island’s counter like your life depends on it, and the skirt of that goddamn dress he’s envied all evening for the way it got to rest against the warmth of your thighs now bunched up in your tight grip, and your head thrown back, curving your spine in a way that has him wondering about the other ways he’d be able to bend and break you beneath his touch.

And then there’s him, down on his knees like a devotee laying himself down to worship his goddess, face burrowed in the space between your legs, mouth devouring you from behind with the help of his hands, the same ones that had strangled a man less than a day before and reigned fire down on countless others for years, that now grip the meat of your thighs to pull you back onto him, fucking his tongue into your sopping heat.

The image will haunt him more than the face of any man he’s killed.

“D’ya touch yourself, Sol?” You don’t answer him, but that’s okay. In a sweet change of pace, Joel Miller’s perfectly fine with talking enough for the both of you. “Yeah, bet ya do. Late at night, right? Once you’re all alone in bed. Ya seem like the kind who can make herself scream.”

You back into him, smothering him under the weigh of your body. Becoming his holy grail, he drinks from you like it’s the key to eternal life, and what a way of living this would be, time disregarded as nothing but meaningless while your bodies melt together in the heat of passion.

Fucking his fingers back inside, he becomes frantic beneath the need to make you cry, fall completely apart with only his hands to hold you together. “Let me do the honours this time though.”

You don’t scream, can’t scream, hand over mouth muffling whatever profanities and theatrical proclamations he rips from within you with the stroke of his agile tongue, the only muscle of his that’s yet to develop aches and pains. He imagines that will no longer ring true once he awakens past sunrise.

He’s unsure how much longer he works his tongue over you, slipping and sliding through the liquid pleasure, but it ends with fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him away and tilting his head up.

You’ve never looked more holy, moon casting it’s shine around you, eyes glossed with unshed tears, lips parted and swollen from the pressure your own teeth had bitten down on them with. Your expression, he can’t quite read. Not sad, not happy, not mad.

Your eyes catch on something, abandoning his own for something closer to the floor, to which he follows and finds exactly what you’re staring at: the evidently dark patch that now stains the front of his jeans.

The discomfort of trekking back to the QZ will now be tenfolds worse in the stains of his own pleasure.

“Joel...” his name is nearly a beg, a prayer, an invitation. Hand still in his hair, you tug, pulling him upwards off the ground. Legs open wider and back arches deeper, a seductive sight that your body pleas for him with.

He swallows a groan, knees alleviated at last from the floor, and presses himself against you once more. Strong arms crush you in an embrace, pulling you back into him as his head slips to rest against your shoulder. He’s capricious with the way he lets himself litter a few wet kisses over your neck, breathing in the smell of you.

“That,” you grind back into him, a torturer who takes his aged body as her victim and toys with his barely recovered cock, the cum in his trousers sticking uncomfortably to his skin. He pulls tighter on your body, grounding himself in the weight of it against his own to find the sanity to finish his sentence. “Shouldn’t have happened.”

Joel hopes no one awakens as he slams the door on the way out of the kitchen.

People once spoke of how the only certainties in life were death and taxes but, nowadays, the words don’t ring as true and the guarantee of life with taxes has morphed into something else entirely; a reality where death and time go hand in hand. As sure as tomorrow will arrive, death will come too, eventually. Not today, however, and Joel Miller finds himself stood throwing a ball back and forth for a dog.

It chases and retrieves, trailing it’s happy self all the way back to him only to spit the ball down at his feet, siting and waiting to repeat the process once more. There’d been a time where this is all he’d wanted: white picket fence, dog in the yard, home-cooked meals filling a house with warmth.

That dream seems so far away now, even as he stands within it.

He cracks his back, huffing out a groan. “No, not again. My back’s fucked as it is, buddy,” with no one around to witness, Joel lets himself crouch down onto his knees- both popping obnoxiously as he does so- and rakes his hand over the German Shepherd’s head. It whines and makes an attempt to nudge the ball against him, protesting in the only way it can. A scratch to the ear does the trick to distract the animal, to which it tilts its head and forces itself deeper into his blunt nails. “Not so bad, are ya? Huh?” Never in a million years did Joel think he’d be talking to a dog when him and Tess had set out for their routinely visit to the Bill and Frank’s. Never would he have thought that would be the least shocking event to unfold on this trip.

He hears you before he sees you.

“You planning to make your knees familiar with every surface of this place, Texas?”

He tries to rise, he truly does, but the four-legged foe he’d been petting mere seconds ago betrays him the instant it catches sight of you, charging past him and knocking him over in the process, ass to floor and head to sky.

The world above is a storm of greys, clouds swallowing one another with a looming threat of danger on the horizon and not a lick of the sun’s warmth seems to make its way through.

So instead, it sends you.

Peering over him from above, hair a tangled mess, eyes a wreck of under-bags and sleepless tears, the collar of your jumper lowered just enough at this angle that he can see a tease of cleavage, you radiate a brightness like no other, more dangerous to his naked eyes than UV rays could ever be. He’s squinting again, frown etching itself on his forehead with the threat of becoming permanent soon. A few more years and his face will be nothing but frown lines and crows feet. At the very least, he considers, I’ve survived long enough to wrinkle.

The smile above him is worth a million laugh lines, a kindness laced within it that matches perfectly with the hand you hold out. When he does nothing but stare at it, you wriggle your fingers, enticing him to take a hold. He does most of the work, truthfully, but you play a part in pulling him back to his feet. Upright once more, he can’t help but bask in the way he’s able to physically look down on you.

“Thanks for tiring him out,” you’re the first to talk. You’re always the first to talk, and he curses you for it. “Won’t need to walk him as far tonight.”

A queasy feeling overtakes him at the thought of you walking the dog alone at night, nothing but the moon to light your way. He’ll need to remember to tire the dog out next time he visits. “No problem, thanks... for feeding Tess and I.”

“No worries!” You’re so kind, so good, smiling at him with a cheerful chirp in your voice. He can’t wrap his head around how you can bring yourself to treat him this way. “Oh, actually, that’s why I came out here, I was looking for Tess-” Of course you were, when would you ever be looking for him? “Hold on!”

You shoot off back inside so quickly that Otis just reaches the doorway by the time you return. With an idle pet to his head as you pass by, Joel once again sees, in the way such little affection can have the dog so elated, that resemblance between them you’d spoke of. In your hands, you carry an array of containers full of food- soup- each filled to the brim.

“I wanted to give you these, before you guys leave,” you’re explaining yourself, and Joel wonders if it’s nerves that bring you to need constant babbling to fill any gaps of silence. He can’t imagine how he could make you nervous and therefore that thought is quick to be discarded. “I know the journey up here and back can be long, consider them a token of my appreciation towards you both for-”

“Why don’t ya like me?” he cuts you off.

Pathetic, he knows, but he can not stop himself, a deer caught in the headlights of your brightly burning, too-good-to-be-true, too-pure-to-be-fake personality.

You show no signs of hearing him, smile unwavering as you continue to hold out the boxes to him. “There should be enough to last you a few days, if you watch your proportions.”

It’s too much for him to handle- the food, the smiles, the sweetly glistening eyes-, and Joel just has to know, needs an answer before the heat of his confusion consumes him entirely in its flames and leaves nothing but his smoking remains.

So he tries again, louder.

“Why don’t ya like me?”

“And I’d probably say you’re best to heat it up, especially for Tess,” you ignore him, again, lips stretching what can only be described as uncomfortably wider. “Winter is sure coming in faster than last year, isn’t it?”

He grabs at your arm, fingers curling round the swell of your bicep as he speaks through gritted teeth, "Answer me." Like a frightened dog backed into a corner, he bares his teeth and yells his bark.

"For someone who doesn't care,” you try his patience, knowingly or not, and his grip tightens. You don’t flinch, welcoming the sting of his blunt and bitten nails against your flesh. “You sure do talk about my opinion a lot."

"Answer the damn question, girl.”

“Or, what?” You’ve got him there, he’ll admit, holding no real plan as to how to punish your silence. “You gonna give me the same treatment as last night?”

Had he known you’d be so unabashed to mention the events on the kitchen floor so flippantly, as casually as one would speak about the weather, he’d never have dared to get on his knees. Truthfully, he’d not given things a second thought, disregarding the later for the now, living in the moment with caution thrown to the wind over what the morning would bring. Perhaps he’d hoped you’d been intoxicated enough to dismiss the memory as a nightmare, maybe he’d wished you’d keep away from him to free him of the volatile grip you have on his soul.

Instead, you stand tall, proud, eyes fiercely staring back at his own as you challenge him to retaliate, mock you with none of those saccharine smiles you hide harsh tones behind.

Joel says nothing.

“How about this, let’s make a deal, like the ones you and Bill make.” Inching closer, crowding in on his space and forcing him to take note of the smell of freshly cleaned clothes mixed in with your own fragrance. Clean, warm, inviting, scents he’d never given meaning to before now. “You get me something, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

He grunts out a response, hands meeting his hips as he juts out one knee, the shifting of weight between feet a perfect distraction to the rising tension in his worn-out jeans. “What d’ya want? ‘Cause if it’s somethin’ like a gun, think again. I ain’t messing with none of Bill’s strange politics on you havin’-”

“A dress.”

“A dress?” The statement has him quirking his brow, burning questions swimming in the depths of his eyes as he stares back at you.

“Yes, and don’t look at me like that!” It’s hypocritical, he believes, for you to berate him for the looks he sends you when all you do is cast stones his way with your gaze yet shake him to his very core each time you smile. “I need a new one, my favourite one got ruined whilst making soup.”

Unaware he’d even began to lean closer, Joel’s quick to recoil, as if your words are bullets and his skin the target you hit on the bullseye every time.

“Joel!” his name resonates from somewhere in the house.

Neither of you dare to break eye contact. Again, his name is yelled. This time, he manages to identify Tess as the owner of the voice. Habits have him used to running to her whenever she calls, but habits have never been caught between the choice of Tess or you.

His feet remain glued to the ground.

Tess yells once more and, though you speak up, you don’t dare look away. “Think you might be needed inside, macho man. Your missus is calling.”

“She ain’t my-”

“You two just gonna stand and stare at each other all day, or will you help a woman out already?” Tess enters the scene somewhere behind you, a blur of her familiar shape standing out the front door.

Only when your head spins and he no longer finds himself lost in the black of your eyes does Joel take her in completely, hair clearly damp and complexion a little paled by her hungover body. In her arms, she struggles with the weight of a folded table. You approach first, he follows, his two hands aiding in carrying it out into the front yard as you retighten your grip on the boxes of soup in your arms.

“I should probably,” laying the containers down on the now unfolded table, you fidget with the sleeves in your hands, eyes downcast with something he can only read as guilt. He decides he much prefers the fire they hold when you berate him. “Go check on the food, before it burns.”

You’re in the door and out his sight before he can so much as ask you to stay.

Tess and him hit the road by noon. Earlier than predicted, later than he’d wished for. The bite of cold already marks the air, despite the sun breaking through the clouds and heating the world with its rays. He walks a little ahead, feigning ignorance to the repeated coughing coming from Tess and wracking his brain for answers.

Answers to why he’d never noticed how hoarse she’d been sounding till you pointed it out. Answers to what awaited them both upon returning to the QZ. Answers to when will be their next chance to visit the safe haven Bill’s created. Answers to why you don’t like him.

I don’t like you, Joel.

It motivates him to walk quicker, faster, racing to put as much distance between himself and that damn kitchen floor, miles upon miles not enough to rid him of the dull ache in his knees that goes hand in hand with the throb within his too-tight-jeans. If he were alone, he’d break out in a sprint. but Tess is here, he’s not alone, and home will simply have to wait on the passing of time to drag him back to it.

Till then, he needs to find a dress.

[redwinterroses]

Okay so lately I've seen two big discussions:

a) How content creators are "invading" fan spaces and interacting with fan content, and how they should know this isn't acceptable. How they certainly shouldn't interact with /neg content, especially in front of an audience, but even with positive things like fanart and memes they should keep it to themselves and either enjoy in silence or just stay away altogether

b) If you love a piece of art or a fic, comment on it! reblog it! Don't hide your appreciation in a private chat where the author never gets to see, here's a story about someone who decided to delete all their fics because they found out that they had a bunch of people enthusiastically chatting about them in a private discord but none of those people understood how much it means to an author or artist to get that kind of feedback directly

...Y'all seeing the problem here? Obviously, there is an extreme on each end of this spectrum. Yeah, I'm not a fan of a content creator taking fan content and using it to mock the fanbase (I'm looking at you, Steven Moffat) and obviously there is some discernment that authors etc need to have because if you read enough fic about your work there's a chance you can get accused of stealing ideas from your fans.

And at the other end, an author who finds out about a thriving discord screaming about their work but never gets any comments or direct feedback has every right to be frustrated and hurt by that. If they choose to stop writing for those "fans" then that is 100% their prerogative.

But you can't hold both extremes. You can't demand that CCs stay out of fandom spaces and never engage with the cringy or critical stuff -- fans put it out there to be seen, and CCs have every right to engage with things that are made about their content. And if you DO want to demand that, then you can't turn around and say "reblog, don't just like!" and "authors need your feedback! comments feed them! they deserve to know that you enjoyed what they put so much work into!"

The right to engage with people who read/view/enjoy your work doesn't go away when your audience reaches a certain perceived size. There is a nuanced conversation to be had about what's good for the mental health of a creator, and where fans can go too far, but generally speaking: if a fan puts it out into the world, there is literally no reason why the person they're a fan of should have to not engage. Creators who respect fandom hashtags and such are commendable, but that is not and should never be the expectation.

If you don't want someone to see it, don't put it on the internet, plain and simple.

Stop trying to gatekeep the people who gave you the storyworlds you're playing in to begin with. Sometimes they're going to be assholes about it, because humans are unfortunately like that. But that's their right, just like it's your right to create cringy memes and, shall we say, "wildly inventive" fic about the stories and characters you're borrowing from them. (And, important side note, it's also your right to stop being a fan of that franchise/person/concept if you don't like how they interact.)

Moral of the story: comment on fic, tag the art, and stop freaking out every time a CC sees your insane tier list that has their name on it.

[ladytanithia]

WIP whenever tf

I've had practically nothing in progress writing-wise in ages. Lost my mojo. But I'm trying to get back into a groove. Not happy with how I've done BLP so far, so I'm rewriting it, from the beginning, and incorporating Miranja's journal into it.

However, this scene from Out of the Ashes came up in a conversation the other day, and OotA technically still counts as a WIP, since it's not finished (dammit - NONE of the parts of Miranja's story is truly finished!). So I figured what the hell. It's been a long time since I had any writing to share, and this is one of the best scenes to really show how Miranja's mind works. Not even any sex here. <gasp!>

Tagging friends whose writing I've been enjoying whilst not producing anything myself. @dirty-bosmer @lillxart @mareenavee @skyrim-forever @thequeenofthewinter @theoneandonlysemla I hope you enjoy it.

It was just about eight o’clock in the evening when they arrived back in Solitude. Before doing anything else, Miranja went directly to Castle Dour.

Tullius was sitting on the bench in the corner by the enchanting table in the foyer. Miranja had gone straight to the war room looking for him, hadn’t found him, had checked his bedroom, still hadn’t found him, and had backtracked to the front door before he finally spoke to her and drew her attention.

“Looking for me, Auxiliary?”

Surprised, Miranja turned toward the sound of his voice and approached him.

“Yes, sir. Here’s the Jagged Crown. Legate Rikke sent me to deliver it to you.” She handed over the Crown, and Tullius took it and turned it in his hands, examining it with interest as he replied.

“Excellent work, soldier. I have to admit, I had my doubts it even existed. Did you run into any trouble?”

Tears filled Miranja’s eyes, but she kept a stiff upper lip. Teldryn’s hand in the middle of her back certainly helped give her fortitude.

“We lost a lot of good men. I hope it was worth it.” Tullius didn’t need to know that she was also talking about the Stormcloaks who died.

“That’s not for you to decide, soldier. I wouldn’t have sent you in the first place if it wasn’t going to be worth it.”

Miranja’s pride stung at those words, while at the same time, her sense of justice was offended. She was the gods-damned Dragonborn, as well as a Thane in this hold, and she had become largely unaccustomed to people talking down to her. And in her opinion, this stupid war wasn’t worth the loss of ANY people, if you got right down to brass tacks. No one should be dying over what she felt was a deeply personal religious issue. It was tantamount in her mind to killing people for what they did in their own bedrooms.

“You seem to forget who you’re speaking to, General. May I be candid with you, sir?”

“By all means, Auxiliary. Let’s hear it.” There was a challenge in his voice and in the way he jutted out his chin.

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t like you very much.”

“Well, that’s fine,” Tullius replied indifferently. He rose and brushed past her to carry the crown into the war room. “I’m not here to win popularity contests. I’m here to keep the Dominion out of Skyrim, and to quell this dissention.”

Miranja followed him, and Teldryn tagged along quietly behind her. “The Dominion is already in Skyrim, whether you want to admit it or not. I pass Thalmor on the road every day taking Stormcloak prisoners to gods-know-where to do gods-know-what to them. The only reason I don’t kill them is that I don’t want a bounty on my own head.”

“Wise choice,” Tullius acknowledged briefly, but added, “Think what you want, Auxiliary. It could be much worse.”

“I’m sure it could. I just want you to know that I think you’re a cold, insensitive…” She hesitated for a moment, searching for a milder word than ‘asshole.’ “…jerk. I wonder if you have a compassionate bone in your body, and if you really care about the people of Skyrim at all.”

Tullius’ face darkened with anger. “Listen up, Auxiliary. I’m here to do a job. Not that it’s any of your damned business, but I have family back in Cyrodiil who I love and miss terribly. I’ve been in Skyrim longer than I ever wanted to be. I’m doing what I’m paid to do, what I believe is for the greater good in the long run. I hope that’s also what you’re doing, why you joined the Legion in the first place.”

“Of course it is,” Miranja glowered back. “But I’d like to think I’m going about it in a more personal, compassionate way. I’m not sitting in a fancy castle ordering everyone else around. I’m on the ground, learning about the people and helping them in more ways than just killing Stormcloaks and getting Imperial soldiers killed.”

“Well, good for you,” Tullius replied with overt sarcasm. “Imperial Generals don’t have that luxury. I didn’t get to my station in life by being compassionate.”

“That may be so, General, but it’s obvious you’re not particularly happy. And there’s no reason to take it out on others. You chose your path.”

“And you chose yours when you joined the Legion, Auxiliary. You can either follow orders or take up residence in the Solitude prison. Which will it be?”

She was sick of being addressed as a title. “My name is Miranja. Miranja Laurentius. And I will follow orders, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“You’re absolutely right, Miranja. We all have to do things we don’t like to bring about things we do like.” He stopped and regarded her with a scrutinizing look, as Miranja stared back with some surprise at his unknowing echoing of her father’s words.

“You said your name was Laurentius?”

“Yes.” She didn’t bother with the ‘sir.’

“Your father was in the Legion, wasn’t he?”

“Yes… sir.” Where was he going with this?

“Ah, yes, I see the resemblance now. I worked with your father briefly in Hammerfell some twenty-five years or more ago. I remember him because he had the same bleeding heart and lack of respect that you do.”

“I’m proud of my father and his work for the underprivileged,” Miranja said, jutting out her chin as Tullius had earlier. “And both my father and I give respect where it’s due. We just feel morally compelled to point out injustice regardless of who’s perpetrating it, and that includes the Empire.”

“Well, his soft heart is what kept him from advancing past Captain. He could have been a general himself, if he’d been tougher.”

“My father and I don’t measure success by titles and wealth. We measure our riches and our station in life by the happiness we create and the love we give and receive. My father retired a happy, peaceful man, and he’s still bringing joy to those around him and earning respect for his deeds.”

“Well, that’s a heartwarming story, Auxiliary, and your opinions are duly noted, but it’s time we got back to business.”

Miranja heaved a resigned sigh and closed her eyes for a moment, then spoke tiredly. “Very well, sir. What’s next?”

“I need someone I can trust to deliver a message of great import to Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We have it on good authority that Ulfric has raised enough men to attack the city of Whiterun. The Jarl, however, refuses the Legion’s support. This missive should convince him. Be aware, soldier, these documents contain sensitive intelligence for the Jarl’s eyes only.”

Yes, yes, she’d overheard the conversation between Rikke and Tullius when she’d first walked into Castle Dour yesterday. “Of course, General. We may not see eye-to-eye, but we are on the same side, and you can trust me. Balgruuf was one of my first friends when I came to Skyrim. I’ll see this gets delivered.”

“You do that,” Tullius replied, eyeing her thoughtfully. “You’re dismissed.”

Once they were outside, Tel whistled – or tried to, and only partially succeeded with the scarf over his face – and shook his head. “Damn, woman, I can’t believe you spoke to a General like that and didn’t end up in the stockade.”

“Speaking your mind isn’t a crime, Tel, and I didn’t disobey any orders. I asked him for permission to be candid, and I also made sure to include ‘with all due respect.’ My father taught me that. I know when I’m within my rights.”

Teldryn chuckled. “I like a woman with cast iron balls. I bet your dick is bigger than his.”

Miranja grinned and blushed with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. They were still standing between the door guards, and there was no way the guards hadn’t heard the whole conversation, but they were wisely keeping their mouths shut. She knew the barracks would be abuzz later, though.

“So, what are we going to do with the rest of the evening, boss?”

[rosielav]

Rosie's Favorite (currently finished/caught up) Podcasts:

The Amelia Project - silly, quirky, morbid but almost always more jaunty and eccentric than completely dark. Great for anyone who loves 'narrator' or interview type podcasts. If I'm not mistaken, I've posted some of my thoughts on here using the pod's hashtag.

The Mistholme Museum of Mystery, Morbitity, and Mortality - another narrator type podcast, and probably my favorite of all time. The main voice you hear is perfect imo and keeps you engaged in all the right ways, bringing tension where it's needed, and levity where it's funny or odd. Absolutely consumed this podcast with a voraciousness I haven't felt for a bit. Keeps you guessing and always wanting more from every exhibit.

Victoriocity - excellent voice acting, interesting and unique premise and setting, and great plot. One of the podcasts I'm most looking forward to returning :) think steam punk but also it's the 1800s still in weird ways. If you love an old timey British accent, you'll love this haha.

The White Vault - probably my favorite specifically horror podcast, that makes you wait for answers in a craving sort of way, a longing to know what's going on, and not slogging through a bunch of filler to then get answers. It's great, gorey, geographically diverse fun. Interesting mashups of various cultures re: mythology, history, religion(?). Another on my list to watch out for the return of.

Midnight Burger: the quick pitch is - a time traveling diner that always services people in need, no matter what time, space, or dimension they may reside in. Excellent cast of characters, great development, wonderful implementation of a new character(s), and in general a very comfortable vibe to return to (speaking of, once I run out of recommendations I may relisten to this one). Highly recommend if you like sitcoms with time travel splashed with a bit of horror.

Edit: just finished up another one, so time to add it to the list!!

Monstrous Agonies: A radio show advice segment, about, by, and for the Creature Community. If you like WTNV, but find it a bit intense sometimes, or a bit too plot heavy/etc, you'll absolutely love this. Instead of the whole show, you just get the advice segment, but oh ho ho, is it so much more than that. If you're queer, BIMPOC, from a blended/mixed/broken/anything but 'typical' home... I think you'll like it. Very much what I would call 'easy listening', meaning you can just ease into an episode without having to remember a huge cast of characters, a plots b plots C plots meta plots... And it just feels *real*, in that strange and beautiful way WTNV does, but instead of a fictional town, the setting is the real world, with real problems, and real solutions. Sometimes you really do just need to howl or cry or chew on some slippers and that's OK. Highly recommend for ADHD havers or anyone with a short attention span who loves a soothing voice.

Edit: Another absolute banger to add to the list

Wooden Overcoats - how do I even properly describe the experience of this podcast. Let's start with the basics: It's the story of twins who run a funeral parlor on a small island, in a small village. Their family has been running said parlor for hundreds of years, as the only funeral directors on the island. Until one day... They aren't. A man arrives and sets up his own funeral parlor directly across the square, and boy, do things change for those twins. If you've listened to (and loved) Victoriocity, or The Amelia Project, I guarantee you'll enjoy this one. Strange, silly, and interesting things are always happening, except this one doesn't have quite as much drama (well...... Perhaps a different kind of drama. I'd call this an interpersonal dramedy, with emphasis on the comedy). An incredible listen, through and through. I thoroughly enjoyed every single episode, and the ending was quite safisfying :)

Another EXCELLENT addition to this ever increasing list of content!!! I'm not even finished with this one, I just love it so much that I can't help but add it to the list:

Mission Rejected - you know in those spy movies, where the spy gets a secret message from HQ and they say 'your mission, if you choose to accept it...' ok great. Now imagine if 007 said 'no'. This is the story about the backups, the team that takes the missions rejected by the Top Spy Guy. It's got diverse voice acting (in many senses of the word - you can tell the voices apart, it's not exclusively straight cis white dudes, etc etc), wonderful worldbuilding, great pacing, an excellent plot, I really could go on and on. I highly recommend this specific podcast to anyone who wants something light to get deeply invested in, that has a lot of comedy but also develops the characters outside of just their bits. 100/10 no notes

Edit: not sure which podcast/podcast enthusiast rb'ed this yesterday but I'm so glad more folks get to see this list!!! It makes me so happy that lots of folks enjoy this list, a d share their fave ones, and!!!! Aaaggghhhhhhhhh!!! I love podcasts and podcast enthusiasts!!!!!

Also I have another one for yall :3 if you're looking for another improv comedy to add to your list!!!

Hey Riddle Riddle - exactly what you think it is, but also so much more. Three friends/coworkers who also happen to be sensational improv comedians solve riddles and puzzles together, while also introducing bits and skits and reoccurring segments, so it never feels like 'just a Riddle podcast' (whatever that means). I have laughed every single episode, which is a big deal for me (some comedy podcasts only make me laugh every few episodes, and I require at LEAST one laugh per episode). I can genuinely say this is one of the funniest podcasts I've ever listened to, and the absolute best improv I've ever heard. I'm all for committing to the bit, and this one absolutely delivers on both the commitment part and the bit part haha. Seriously can't recommend this one enough if you maybe listen to a lot of drama/horror and need something easy to listen to (easy meaning there's not a plot you have to be intensely listening for, you can just enjoy it casually). 1000/10, please listen and also tell me YOUR favorite riddles :)

[nanaten]

I'm sorry for not requesting a drawing with this space, but I just have to ask... what is the appeal of Clausten? I am not trying to be mean or anything, I legit am very curious.

I can kinda understand Nesscas, it's the result of fledgling mother fans from Smash going "these two would be cute together" (at least that's how I always took it, apologies if that seems rude), but Clausten feels kinda like... those same mother fans finding out about claus and ninten and going "gasp! leftover stripe boys" and mashing them together like... idk what a good term is for this.

Again; sorry for misusing this space, i kinda just want to understand this ship. Not dogging on you or others for enjoying it, just wanna understand it.

I suppose while I am here, I guess I could request a doodle of Lloyd. Maybe of him blabbing about Superman comic stuff to Ninten or what have you. Lloyd needs more appreciation.

Also sorry this may be a mess to read, it was just kinda stream of consciousness

Hi! No need to apologise, I think this is a very good question!

I understand that the ship, on a basic level, doesn’t really make much sense at all! It began as a crackship enjoyed by a small percentage of the mother community and slowly developed into what it is now— a ship with many enjoyers, but not many that know exactly why they enjoy it.

I want to preface this by saying, I do not speak for every person who enjoys Clausten. I am just one of many, and this is all my personal perspective. Thank you for enquiring about it, honestly, because I love speaking about them. So, here we go!

First and Foremost: It’s a crackship— so more than any other reason I can give, it’s just plain fun! These are two characters I love and adore with my whole heart, so it’s just fun to have them interact, and of course, it’s fun to view them as a potentially romantic pairing! Ninten is my favorite character of all time, and Claus is my favorite in Mother 3 specifically, so it’s like a personal wish fulfilment to draw them together.

It’s fun to not take strict canon all too seriously. I pull my silly guys from the source material and I mess around with them whichever way I desire B).

I definitely don’t think it’s entirely fair to view Clausten as, like, Nesscas leftovers either, lol. Ultimately these characters are all very different in terms of stories, how they’re written etc, and both ships have very different qualities that make them loveable in their own right! Liking ships like Clausten has alot to do with how you view these characters— What do you gather their personalities are, how compatible would they be, etc? And the way I characterize Ninten and Claus, atleast in my head, make them very compatible. (Ninten being adventurous, outgoing, snarky, and boyish, and Claus being similar— but more reserved, and more careful as a product of his experiences.)

And finally— I really think them as people— not my own view of their personalities, but judging based on canon events— that the two are very similar, and could find solice in their similar experiences. I think the characters are weirdly connected, in a way, for starters— Claus, if you think about it, is Porky’s second Giegue/Giygas. A new puppet, a new ace, a new strength that he takes away the humanity of.

Ninten, being directly related to Giegue, who I can imagine feels somewhat responsible for the corruption of Giegue alongside what comes after the events of Mother 1 , is also connected in some way to Porky, and then Claus. This is basically an extended way of me saying “Their stories are linked in the overarching tale that is the Mother series”.

Claus’s feelings towards Ninten would be complicated initially, or atleast I think so— for his inability to defeat Giegue weirdly, inadvertently caused a chain reaction that lead to the events of Mother 3. (Giegue lives —> Invades Eagleland —> Porky Gets corrupted —> Giegue is then defeated by Ness and Co by going to the past but Porky Escapes —> Porky goes to the future, Mother 3 time —> The Plot Of Mother 3 Happens You Get It). The two’s distant but important connection in the story of the games leads to some extremely interesting food for thought, or at least I think so. How would Claus view the situation? How would Ninten feel after finding out what happened to Claus? How would the two bond over this weird experienced they’re both tied in?

And that is made all the more interesting to me when possibly viewing it in a romantic lense, or atleast something that could become romantic. It’s complicated and messy and there’s so much history behind the two, it’s interesting to think not only about how they’d meet and how they’d feel about eachother, but how they would handle romantic feelings— how a relationship between two very troubled people could work and be okay, and help them mutually heal.

All this is to say, they’re tied in the story and I think putting the two in a romantic relationship is very interesting. Also, it’s just fun :’)

(This post is a TOTAL mess, it’s midnight and I should be sleeping, but I got too excited to write about them hahaha. Thank you so much for the question! Also, I’ll make my next post a big lloyd appreciation, I like to draw him. Thanks again! X))

[agent-calivide]

It is Bitching About Things That Do Not Matter O'Clock, but like. I know poking fun at John Juniper is a delight. I love calling him a bitch and insulting his acting and stealing his masks, but- he's not- he's not completely incompetent, y'all know that, right?

Firstly, Zor would never hire someone they didn't think could do the job, but also a lot of Juniper's fuck-up's are directly tied to either the EOD getting lucky or Zor literally setting him up for failure.

Like, we know he's good at keeping a mask on even in a moment of panic, when the Masque of Red Death blew up the first thing the did was shout "This is not part of the show, everybody run!" to evacuate the theater, something to convince the public he was a Good Man and kept suspicions around him low.

On Jet Set, the only reason Phoenix doesn't die is the EOD getting lucky and happening to have the autonomous jet's instruction manual in their records. Like, he had signal jammers, he left on the DNA Identification security system, and he sabotaged the missile defense system just in case they had to turn to plan B. These are not things left on a jet made as a custom trap for Phoenix, the pieces to save themselves wouldn't be there if it was. This is a normal jet that Juniper uses that he ensured got sabotaged so the Phoenix would be a sitting duck. Even if he didn't personally put out orders to have the jet get sabotaged, he did have the foresight to put a few boons on the jet that could kill Phoenix. Explosive cigars, poisoned food things like that. "Please, enjoy! I picked up a box of those just for you!" So he knows what to supply the agent with to try and cut this little problem short, and even if those don't work there's still the missile and the Zoraxis base they were headed to anyways. Phoenix getting out of that mess was combination of nosiness and pure dumb luck on the EOD's part.

We don't see much of him in Eaves Drop, but we do see that Zor and Fabricator are already planning on disposing of him by using the Mimic Mask and that he is generally doing a damn good job at tricking the heads of state into various traps for the most part, we just saw it with the Prime Minister in Stage Fright and we're going to see it in Party Crashers with the Primere later.

Party Crashers is where I think most of this "Oh, he's just a whiny baby" comes from, and it absolutely is John at his worst, but it get treated like his baseline??? Like, he loses his cool, he screams, he panics, he absolutely freaks out, but he also is throwing a party to kidnap the last head of state, is being chastised by the Fabricator, his friend of multiple decades is backstabbing him actively (as Gibbs should, but it's just another stressor for Juniper), several bombs have dropped or his party got a smoke grenade thrown in it, alarms and sprinklers have both gone off, and nOW SOMEONE'S TOUCHING MY FUCKING COLLECTOR'S ITEMS?! I too would be losing my shit. Add in he is seeming surrounded by people being incompetent (throwing grenades without closing hatches, missing their shots, some reason the tank of lethal gas is empty, the woman who was supposed to be helping is just laughing at you and your entire team of security is dead save for a small handful and it's all because of ONE person???) and I can't blame him for not being chill, suave, or particularly clever in that moment. And to be frank, I think every IEYTD "Final Boss" has a moment of foolishness. Solaris throws you radiation boxes that you use to take down the Death Engine and literally says "Calculating force... aaand CATCH!" and I could make a whole other post on Prism's speech on the mountain side but they're not defined by those "worst" moments. Mostly because they don't last nearly as long as Juniper's, but that doesn't mean it should be his defining moment either.

Then, in Safe and Sound, not only does he successfully trick the agent into thinking he's the Handler in the first place, but he has them drugged, kidnaps them, and then admits that if he had it this way he would have just shot the agent. No fanfare, no crazy traps, if John coulda, he would have shot the agent in the head while they were unconscious and called it a day. But Zor is the one who wants the trap, the footage, the fanfare. Juniper is pissed that the jet didn't work as is, and now he can't even just take care of the agent the easy way and ensure that they're out of the way. He says he expects the agent to find a way out, he know what they're capable of, and he's sure they're gonna find a way out because he's the one that's been dealing with them for the last week! Zor is the one who thinks this trap is gonna work and demanded Juniper put Phoenix in it. Yeah he gives a theatrical monologue, but if he had say in the matter he wouldn't get the chance to in the first place!

Then in Rising Phoenix, HE MAKES GOOD ON THAT THREAT. Try to pick up anything that you dropped on the ground outside of the elevator, tell me how that goes for you. He's got scary good aim, he sees the Phoenix and immediately goes "well, shit, one sec folks, I gotta kill this agent" and then just pulls a gun and starts firing. And rather than focusing on the agent, he does have the foresight to shoot a MOVING, FLOATING TARGET so you can't do anything to him! He is very capable with a gun and likely the only reason Phoenix survives Party Crashers is Juniper doesn't have a firearm. And then, in a moment of panic as he hangs from a catwalk (that absolutely should not have had its powerbox so obviously out in the open if Zor wasn't planning on the agent either killing him or putting him in a position for Zor to pull the trigger) he tries to plead with the agent. He doesn't know the mask is a death trap at this point, and the only choice he has is to hope the person in the room with him can help pull him back up from the pit. He puffs up his chest, acts like he has all of the cards, but that's because that's the only chance he's got of making it out of this thing alive. He doesn't know the mask is what's gonna kill him in the end, he just knows that the Fabricator, the crazy lady who makes death traps for fun, has something in the room with him and that Zor intends on using it to finish John off.

And once John's toast literally Zor just shakes their head and mockingly calls him a disappointment before turning to Phoenix and saying it's in their hands now. But the entire time that Phoenix is working on this briefcase, Zor is teasing them, toying with them, and is audibly disappointed if you fail to disarm the briefcase in time. Phoenix was supposed to get the briefcase, John was supposed to die, and he really was implied to be doomed from the very beginning.

He's not a whining, screaming, incompetent bumbling idiot. He is very capable, he is literally just set up to fail so Zor can see Phoenix perform.

Edit: just for clarification, I do think he’s rather petulant, bitchy, he can be whiny, he’s an absolute douche, and what he did in that cellar is nothing short of a tantrum, my point is just that he isn’t a completely incompetent man baby. He knows what he’s doing and in at least one situation had more sense than Zor (Safe and Sound).

[four-loose-screws]

Louis Ally Notebook Pages - Translation

FE Game Script Translations - FE Novel Translations - Original FE Support Conversations

I received an ask to translate Louis' Ally Notebook pages, so here's my translation!

I've translated a few Ally Notebook pages so far, and there always seems to be something interesting to find. Due to how little space there is on each page to squeeze in all information, it was often necessary to make cuts in localization. What was cut or changed? That's what we're here to find out!

Each page also includes some brief translation notes from me.

Enjoy!

———————————

Initial Page

This page was translated pretty directly in the localization, just a couple minor details were cut for character limits - that Florra is ‘the windmill town,’ and that Céline is his ‘lady’ that Louis serves.

Japanese:

ルイ (Louis) 【初期兵種】ランスアーマー (Starting Class: Lance Armor) 【誕生日】11の月4の日 (Birthday: November 4th) 【備考】フィレネ王国の王城騎士。(Basic Info: A royal knight of the Kingdom of Firene.) フルルの風車村にて (At Florra, the windmill town,) 主君セリーヌを逃がすために  朋輩クロエと共闘。(he fought with his fellow retainer, Chloé, so their lady, Céline, could escape.) その後、神竜軍に合流した。(Afterwards, he joined the Divine Dragon’s Army.)

Localization:

Initial Class: Lance Armor Birthday: November 4th Basic Info: Royal knight of Firene. With his fellow retainer, Chloé, he fought at Florra to cover Céline’s escape. He joined the Divine Dragon’s army afterward.

C Rank Page:

The Japanese word mousou has a broad meaning, it can refer to any sort of thoughts not grounded in reality: delusions, fantasies, etc. But I agreed with the localization that daydreaming was the best translation in this case, so I stuck with it.

Also, the Japanese does not list ‘people-watching’ amongst his likes, but ‘close allies’ instead.

For his dislikes, ‘poker face’ is a good translation the localization chose, to avoid being as wordy as my translation. Basically, Louis doesn’t like people whose true intentions he can’t read.

For his last dislike, ‘perceptive people’ is a good localization, so I stuck with it in my translation. The Japanese word kehai refers to anything that is a feeling or a sense, and cannot clearly be seen. Binkan refers to being sensitive, aware, quick to pick up on even slight changes, etc. So kehai ni binkan refers to someone who is quick to pick up on just about everything, no matter how slight.

Japanese:

【好きなもの】(Likes) お茶会、料理、花、妄想、(tea parties, cooking, flowers, daydreaming) 仲の良い仲間同士、ブドウ (close allies, grapes) 【苦手なもの】(Dislikes) 工作、激辛、海ブドウ、(crafting, very spicy (foods), sea grapes) 本音のわからない人、(people whose true feelings he does not know) 気配に敏感な人 (perceptive people)

Localization:

Likes: tea parties, cooking, flowers, daydreaming, people-watching, grapes    Dislikes: crafting, spicy foods, sea grapes, poker faces, perceptive people

B Rank Page

This page also has an instance where the localization translated to ‘people-watching,’ when that isn’t really what the Japanese said. The hobby listed in the Japanese refers more to Louis keeping a watchful eye on his allies specifically, helping keep them safe. Not ‘people-watching.’

And for what I assume was for character-limit reasons, the entire 2nd half of his background was left out, which noted that he is Céline’s retainer, and how rare it is in Firene for commoners to become retainers.

Japanese:

【趣味】仲間たちを見守ること (Hobbies: keeping close watch over his allies) 【特技】お節介、お茶の用意 (Talents: meddling, making tea) 【来歴】フィレネ王国出身。(Background: Born in Firene.) 葡萄の村の平民。弟が3人いる。(A commoner from the grape village. Has 3 younger brothers.) 弟たちを養うために騎士を志し、(Aspired to become a knight to provide for his brothers, and) 能力を買われセリーヌの臣下に。(his talents were recognized by Céline, so he became her retainer.) フィレネでは、貴族でない者が 王族の臣下となることは珍しい。(In Firene, it is rare for those who are not nobility to become retainers of the royal family.)

Localization:

Hobbies: people-watching Talents: meddling, tea Background: A commoner from a grape-growing village in Firene. Despite his origins, he became a royal knight in order to provide for his three younger brothers.

A Rank Page

Another small cut was made for space issues. The Japanese also mentions that Louis keeps a straight face, no matter how panicked his emotions get.

Japanese:

【身長】178cm (Height: 178 cm) 【薬指の指輪サイズ】18号 (Ring Finger Size: 18*) 【性格】礼儀正しく穏やかで、(Personality: Polite and friendly,) 騎士と執事の素質を持ち併せる。(he has qualities of both a knight and a butler.) いつも仲間の様子に気を配っており (He always keeps an eye on how his friends are doing,) 仲睦まじい姿を見ることが幸せ。(and is happy to see them getting along.) 情緒が乱されると真顔になる。(When his emotions are in disarray, he keeps a straight face.) 軍の中で一番、天候が読める。(Within the army, he is best at being able to read the weather.) *(Japan has their own unique ring sizing system.)

Localization:

Height: 5’10” Ring Size: 9 | R 3/4 Personality: He’s a stalwart knight as well as a courteous butler. He always keeps an eye on his friends and enjoys when they get along. The best weatherman in the army.

Ring Page:

This page did not leave anything out due to space constraints, but in the Japanese, once again it is specified that Louis watches over his allies, not that he is people-watching in general.

Also, Alear is referred to as a self-insert with the pronoun anata (you) in Japanese, not as the “Divine Dragon.”

Japanese:

【パートナーとしての毎日】(Daily Life as Partners) 以前に増して優しくなり、(He’s even kinder than before,) 甲斐甲斐しく世話を焼いてくれる。(and works tirelessly to care for you.) 仲間たちを観察している時間より  あなたを見守る時間が多くなった。(He now spends more time watching over you, rather than observing his allies.) 約束の指輪はピカピカに磨いてあり (He polishes the Pact Ring until it sparkles,) いつかあなたに、対になるような 手作りの指輪を渡すつもりでいる。(and plans to one day give you a hand-crafted ring that matches it.)

Localization:

Life with Louis: He’s kinder than ever and even more solicitous, ignoring his people-watching in favor of watching over the Divine Dragon. He keeps the Pact Ring polished and hopes to craft a match to it someday.

[bestworstcase]

Quick question: When and how did you start realizing that fandom tends to be hostile or anti-analysis? Was it just something that happened overtime?

i mean. have you ever made a textually-supported point contradicted by popular fanon? people seethe

but it’s also just sort of baked into what fandom is. the whole concept of ‘headcanon’ is inherently antitextual—things held to be true irrespective of the text—and the whole point of fanworks is to engage transformatively with the text. fandom is explicitly not a community oriented around textual analysis, and while analytical readings can (and do) support and enrich transformative works, they are also just not what fandom is about.

so within fandom receptivity to textual analysis is generally lukewarm and varies widely depending on how closely it happens to align with the fanon, and in my experience fandom has a particular difficulty parsing character analysis outside the blorbo framework (ie liking / disliking / personally identifying with a character).

there is in particular a tendency for analytical readings to get parsed in fandom spaces as critical of the story or the characters being discussed; for example i’ve had explicitly positive character analysis of mine (as in, posts where i directly state my appreciation for or enjoyment of the thing i’m talking about) get reblogged and tagged ‘anti-whatever’ because the thing i’m talking about is, like, a character flaw. or something bad that a character did that caused conflict in the narrative.

and i think that really gets to the heart of the, like, cultural divide between transformative fandom and analytical engagement, because in fandom spaces if you say, for instance, “yang has a hot temper she works hard to keep in check” that is generally going to be understood as a value judgment (either a positive remark on her maturity and emotional discipline or a complaint about her expressions of anger) whereas in an analytical context it’s just an observation that needs to be evaluated in terms of whether the text supports it or not.

the consequence of that is that if i write analytically about the role of anger in yang’s character arc—which is a facet of her that i personally really enjoy and think is done quite well—and if that breaks containment and travels outside of my immediate circle of followers (who presumably follow me because they like reading my analysis and who obv know what i’m about) then odds are it’ll land in front of someone who goes “UGH not ANOTHER person picking on yang for bEiNg AnGrY, she’s got good reasons to be mad when she gets mad and also she doesn’t get mad NEARLY as often as these assholes think” (which is true) (yang almost never loses her temper and she’s very quick to check herself on those occasions; and when she chooses to let it out she’s always justified)—because anger is culturally perceived as bad and the social norm in most fan spaces is that you don’t write lengthy posts focused on a character’s flaws (or ‘flaws’) unless you just think they suck.

(<- this isn’t a hypothetical btw. like i’ve gotten blocked over my yangposting being interpreted in exactly this way grbfksj)

the funny part is that while my analysis intermittently makes people SPITTING MAD, the fanfic i write (which follows from my analysis!) doesn’t. i’m sure there’s plenty of people who don’t like my fanfic, but if i write a character in a way that contradicts the popular fanon what happens is folks will comment stuff like “this is such a cool unique take on this character” brfhkg. and that’s primarily why i think it’s a cultural thing, where textual analysis—with its strict grounding in textual evidence and dismissal of ideas that can’t be supported by the text—gets people’s hackles up bc it’s a) examining the text at an emotional remove and thus hard to parse in a social environment where the primary mode of engagement is driven by emotional attachment to specific characters, and b) often perceived as telling people their headcanons are wrong, which is rude.

(sometimes headcanons ARE wrong, in the sense of being textually refuted. that is the entire point of headcanon. i think the experience of fandom is much improved by keeping this in mind. analysis is never a threat to headcanon because headcanon is supposed to be transformative. equally, headcanon is irrelevant to analysis because analysis is strictly concerned with the text.)

more broadly i just find fandom culture to be interesting in and of itself. so in addition to participating in fandom directly i also lurk a lot and pay attention to cross-fandom phenomena (e.g. migratory sapphic and slash shippers) and read discussions about fandom and that sort of thing. and i think approaching fandom from that perspective, it’s sort of a what it says on the tin situation; fandom is transformative by definition, ‘fuck canon’ is an ubiquitous meme, fanon… exists at all as a concept and is widely celebrated as superior to canon, AUs are terrifically popular, “fix-it” fics are terrifically popular, etc etc.

so i don’t think my view here is even unusual necessarily except insofar as i articulate it in a very precise (and perhaps pedantic) way. like the average person in fandom is probably aware that playing in the sandbox is different from constructing a lego set and that people in the sandbox are, as a general rule, not all that keen to make sand castles in strict accordance with the lego instructions. because it’s sand. lmao

[klonoa-at-blog]

From: Klonoa 2: Lunatea’s Veil Official Guide Book (Published by Famitsu/Enterbrain - 2001) (Pg. 207)  

~Messages from the Klonoa 2 Staff~ Lastly, we would like to show you messages from those who were involved in the development of Klonoa 2 to the public. You'll find hard work, inside stories, and a few positive ones(?!) here and there! ......So, thank you all for your hard work!

Tomomitsu Kaneko Profile: ● Age: 24 years old ● Blood Type: O ● Responsibilities: Sound Effects ● Comments: Sound effects...... sound effects? Ugh, too much light. ● Favorite character: Likuri

Minako Matsuda Profile: ● Age: 33 years old ● Blood Type: A ● Responsibilities: Package Design ● Comments: Every time we make a package, we go to the chief to see what the next one will be like, but this time, we don’t have to do that anymore, Mr. Kobayashi just comes in and talks like a madman and leaves. I could go on and on about this and that, so to sum it up, this is a package that says, “Let’s go on an exciting adventure!” What I really like is the part where the ears are moving. I think that’s what makes Klonoa so great. ● Favorite character: Moo

Shinichi Tsuruya Profile: ● Age: 25 forever ● Blood Type: Typical B ● Responsibilities: Quality control and programmer snoozing ● Comments: I am Tsuruya, in charge of quality control. I have always heard users say, “Klonoa makes me cry!” I agree with you completely. It really made me cry, yes. Both 1 and 2. I can’t stop crying. The first ocean is our incapacitation. It was only those who played Klonoa that stopped the tears. Thank you for playing! ● Favorite character: Large Dream Stone with wings x5

Ryo Sakamoto Profile: ● Age: 28 years old ● Blood Type: O ● Responsibilities: Quality control (Debugging) ● Comments: Hello, my name is Sakamoto of Quality Control. I hope you all are enjoying the scaled-up Klonoa 2 in all aspects. My favorite song is from Mts. of Mira-Mira. When I was tired, that BGM cheered me up. You may also feel more energetic if you listen to it when you are tired. Last but not least, the entire staff will continue to do our best based on your support, so please continue to support Klonoa for a long time to come. See you soon! ● Favorite character: Moo (I like the way he walks)

Noriko Kobayashi Profile: ● Age: Unknown! ● Blood Type: A ● Responsibilities: Sales Promotion (Public Relations - mainly magazine publicity) ● Comments: We held game tournaments (Jungle Slider Relay Race!) with users at event sites across the country. We also danced the “Klonoa-kun Dance” to the background music of the Mts. of Mira-Mira stage. We were blessed with the opportunity to actually talk with many Klonoa fans, making this year’s sales promotion activity a very memorable one. I hope that everyone who played the game will become a word-of-mouth promotion captain and spread the fun of Klonoa to the people around them.  ● Favorite character: Erbil is so nice~

Hideo Yoshizawa Profile: ● Age: Age? I forgot. ● Blood Type: Once a B, now an A ● Responsibilities: Scenario (Screenplay, Supervisor) ● Comments: I had a lot of trouble with this story. I even had to reject one entire story. In the end, I rewrote the story up to about the seventh draft. I wanted to make a fresh and a little sad ending this time, since I made a very sad ending last time. But I wanted it to be directly connected to the hearts of the players, who are the alter egos of Klonoa, and that’s how I set up this world. Think about what sorrow means to you. ● Favorite character: Leorina

[eastgaysian]

do you think that a lot of s4 critique (esp on tumblr) is coming from the tomgreg “field”? bc i mean - they all seem very disappointed with the way this season is playing out and, without meaning to be patronizing, i’d say unmet expectations like that can cloud (or at least colour) one’s general opinion on a piece of media immensely. we’ve all had it happen to us in some way at some point, so i get it but also…don’t shit in everyone’s müsli just bc a specific relationship didn’t happen in the way you’d envisioned :( alsooo tomshiv is much gayer than tomgreg could have ever hoped to be idc idc

it's something i've been avoiding saying directly, because it feels slightly dickish, but We Can All See With Our Eyes that there is a correlation between people heavily invested in tomgreg and people who are expressing dissatisfaction with s4. it's also fairly obvious that i stopped giving a shit about tomgreg over the course of the year+ of getting harrassed and finally getting my blog terminated for expressing mild criticism wrt patterns of misogyny in fandom. which i think entitles me to a little bit of dickishness.

the thing is, you can have whatever opinion on a show you want for whatever reason you want. it's fine to say you're disappointed in the relative lack of tom and greg this season, because that's what you were personally invested in. your emotional response to the season is your emotional response. full stop. a big part of why i've been enjoying this season so much is because i started watching this show after my dad died, and it's very cathartic for me to watch such a realistic and thoughtful depiction of grief in all its messiness and complexity. i'm connecting to these characters more than ever because i've been there. that's personal! that's subjective! that's okay!

what irritates me is: a) being disingenuous about the reason you dislike the season, b) in a way that implies disliking the season is the 'correct' opinion to have, either on a moral basis or because this season is objectively and uniquely bad writing/directing/editing, c) to the extent that it creates a noxious and unpleasant fan environment to participate in.

i understand where the urge comes from to defensively say "no, it's not just about my businessman yaoi, there is actually a high-minded, intellectual reason for me to spend all my time bitching." because yeah, there are people who are delighted to go fuck you anyone who cared about tom and greg, you were watching the show wrong, and that's aggravating.

deliberately misrepresenting your opinion as something with a more "rational" basis doesn't make you any better off, because it's laughably obvious when that's what you're doing, and it undermines your initial position, which was not inherently invalid in the first place. it's fine to be sad that the thing you personally wanted to happen did not happen. you can say that. you can call people dicks for being rude about it. it's fine. it's literally okay. we are all just saying shit online.

but you are just not going to be able to convince me that season 4 is overall badly written, or that it suffers from unique mechanical issues that were not already present throughout the show. it's not going to happen! d*sha redscare was literally in s3! the fact is that in a season where logan dies in episode 3, and if anybody tries to say that was a bad writing decision you know they're pulling it out of their ass, it simply Is Not Possible for tom and greg (who barely had a relationship with logan and so has fuck all to do in the wake of his death) to spend 15 minutes an episode engaging in slapstick routines. is it an awkwardly truncated storyline? maybe! but succession is littered with those, and that's because it makes the choice to prioritize its main story, which in s4 is more focused and thoughtfully written than ever.

i won't even touch on the queerbait discourse because i do not think queerbait has ever been a useful term and the idea of trying to apply that kind of analysis to succession is too idiotic to even bother engaging with. the virgin representationcel vs the chad [i will not talk about my politics on tumblr but i am a trans fag of color deeply disillusioned with most of the discourse on 'representation']. representation win! the chair of fictional fox news cheated on his wife with her cousin #gayrights. Be serious.

[calculatesguilt]

Please rant about simp//atico (and by that I mean tell me your beef with it). I enjoy seeing your thoughts.

i lost my first draft 😭

Anyways collaborative effort with @commander-airachnid

Like the dra.tchet post I'll be breaking this down into several parts:

Fanon perception of how close they are (and how it's wrong.)

Brainstorm's unhealthy projection of self worth onto Perceptor

Fan service

How Close Are They, Really?

Maybe I just read MTMTE/LL after its highest poin of popularity so I wasn't there for it, or maybe people extrapolated from something I simply didn't see, but I've never understood the fandom portrayal of Perceptor and Brainstorm being Close Besties when that was never the case.

They have about 8-9 (at most) direct interactions through all of MTMTE/LL. (I'm counting their interactions during Dark Cybertron as one whole interaction seeing as even though it's broken up by scenes it all flows as one.) Most of those interactions were either A) Perceptor talking about something and Brainstorm rudely interrupting (or just missing the point) or B) Fan service (which I'll get into later.)

Here's a few examples and the first one starts at Issue #1 of MTMTE where Brainstorm is, right off the bat, a dick about Perceptor and his scientific process. (Followed by other instances of them not getting along.)

And before you say "oh Perceptor is just long suffering to his hijinks" no, that's just what Perceptor is like. He's like that with Rodimus and Getaway, and others.

He is blunt with people.

I feel it's important to note also that the tpical s.impatico often ignores all of Brainstorm's other relationships. Primarily with Nautica. Brainstorm is wayyyy closer to Nautica than he ever was with Perceptor, hell even with Chromedome. (I know the reason why people ignore Nautica and Brainstorm, it's because of the misogyny.)

Brainstorm & Self Worth

Brainstorm, textually, has a shitty sense of self worth. However, it's played off a joke and never expanded upon, but I think it's worth touching on as it's the basis for most of his relationship with Perceptor (that's very one sided.) Perceptor is hardly even a factor in this as it all boils down to Brainstorm projecting his value on Perceptor as a basis of who he needs to be better than to receive validation.

Which isn't fair to Perceptor and places them on unequal ground. This issue is never fully concluded. Instead Brainstorm gets validated by Perceptor at the very end through means of even more fan service. Perceptor hardly even recognized Brainstorm as an equal, not until at least the Time Machine arc and even then they don't speak directly.

Another good instance is above — Perceptor doesn't even call him a genius until the Time Machine Arc, Brainstorm exaggerates and hinges his self worth and validity on Perceptor and things he doesn't even say. There isn't even growth between them it's just... Perceptor suddenly only thinks about Brainstorm and his bighuge brain after the time machine arc where they don't even talk to each other. They don't speak to one another one on one until Lost Light Issue #25. There is no substance there. It's just a nothing thing.

@commander-airachnid knows a lot more about Brainstorm's self worth issues than I do, I'd suggest sending it a message about it because I know it has a lot more to say about this particular subject than I do :)

Fan Service

If there is anything that comes to mind quicker than the "simpatico" panels themselves it would be this one:

I don't describe things as cringey but this panel actively makes me cringe hard every time I see it. I cannot stress to you enough how disrespectful this scene is to Perceptor as a character. I need to make it super clear why.

Perceptor is implied to have been close to the ethics committee on Kimia when he worked there, if not on the ethics committee depending on how you interpret it.

Why, in any world, would Perceptor of all people stand up and clap DURING A COURT HEARING FOR BRAINSTORM WHO JUST ABOUT ENDED THEIR ENTIRE TIMELINE IN ONE COMPLICATED SUICIDE ATTEMPT ? You are out of your damn mind. This is not a cute scene. It does not add to anything. All it does is further shove Perceptor into being essentially a prop for Brainstorm. And that's the turning point for Perceptor's character in MTMTE and LL.

He becomes and stays nothing more than a prop for fan service and Brainstorm. And that fucking sucks.

[dailyanarchistposts]

B.3.1 What is the difference between private property and possession?

Anarchists define “private property” (or just “property,” for short) as state-protected monopolies of certain objects or privileges which are used to control and exploit others. “Possession,” on the other hand, is ownership of things that are not used to exploit others (e.g. a car, a refrigerator, a toothbrush, etc.). Thus many things can be considered as either property or possessions depending on how they are used.

To summarise, anarchists are in favour of the kind of property which “cannot be used to exploit another — those kinds of personal possessions which we accumulate from childhood and which become part of our lives.” We are opposed to the kind of property “which can be used only to exploit people — land and buildings, instruments of production and distribution, raw materials and manufactured articles, money and capital.” [Nicholas Walter, About Anarchism, p. 40] As a rule of thumb, anarchists oppose those forms of property which are owned by a few people but which are used by others. This leads to the former controlling the latter and using them to produce a surplus for them (either directly, as in the case of a employee, or indirectly, in the case of a tenant).

The key is that “possession” is rooted in the concept of “use rights” or “usufruct” while “private property” is rooted in a divorce between the users and ownership. For example, a house that one lives in is a possession, whereas if one rents it to someone else at a profit it becomes property. Similarly, if one uses a saw to make a living as a self-employed carpenter, the saw is a possession; whereas if one employs others at wages to use the saw for one’s own profit, it is property. Needless to say, a capitalist workplace, where the workers are ordered about by a boss, is an example of “property” while a co-operative, where the workers manage their own work, is an example of “possession.” To quote Proudhon:

“The proprietor is a man who, having absolute control of an instrument of production, claims the right to enjoy the product of the instrument without using it himself. To this end he lends it.” [Op. Cit., p. 293]

While it may initially be confusing to make this distinction, it is very useful to understand the nature of capitalist society. Capitalists tend to use the word “property” to mean anything from a toothbrush to a transnational corporation — two very different things, with very different impacts upon society. Hence Proudhon:

“Originally the word property was synonymous with proper or individual possession. It designated each individual’s special right to the use of a thing. But when this right of use … became active and paramount — that is, when the usufructuary converted his right to personally use the thing into the right to use it by his neighbour’s labour — then property changed its nature and this idea became complex.” [Op. Cit., pp. 395–6]

Proudhon graphically illustrated the distinction by comparing a lover as a possessor, and a husband as a proprietor! As he stressed, the “double definition of property — domain and possession — is of highest importance; and must be clearly understood, in order to comprehend” what anarchism is really about. So while some may question why we make this distinction, the reason is clear. As Proudhon argued, “it is proper to call different things by different names, if we keep the name ‘property’ for the former [possession], we must call the latter [the domain of property] robbery, repine, brigandage. If, on the contrary, we reserve the name ‘property’ for the latter, we must designate the former by the term possession or some other equivalent; otherwise we should be troubled with an unpleasant synonym.” [Op. Cit., p. 65 and p. 373]

The difference between property and possession can be seen from the types of authority relations each generates. Taking the example of a capitalist workplace, its clear that those who own the workplace determine how it is used, not those who do the actual work. This leads to an almost totalitarian system. As Noam Chomsky points out, “the term ‘totalitarian’ is quite accurate. There is no human institution that approaches totalitarianism as closely as a business corporation. I mean, power is completely top-down. You can be inside it somewhere and you take orders from above and hand ‘em down. Ultimately, it’s in the hands of owners and investors.” Thus the actual producer does not control their own activity, the product of their labour nor the means of production they use. In modern class societies, the producer is in a position of subordination to those who actually do own or manage the productive process.

In an anarchist society, as noted, actual use is considered the only title. This means that a workplace is organised and run by those who work within it, thus reducing hierarchy and increasing freedom and equality within society. Hence anarchist opposition to private property and capitalism flows naturally from anarchism’s basic principles and ideas. Hence all anarchists agree with Proudhon:

“Possession is a right; property is against right. Suppress property while maintaining possession.” [Op. Cit., p. 271]

As Alexander Berkman frames this distinction, anarchism “abolishes private ownership of the means of production and distribution, and with it goes capitalistic business. Personal possession remains only in the things you use. Thus, your watch is your own, but the watch factory belongs to the people. Land, machinery, and all other public utilities will be collective property, neither to be bought nor sold. Actual use will be considered the only title — not to ownership but to possession.” [What is Anarchism?, p. 217]

This analysis of different forms of property is at the heart of both social and individualist anarchism. This means that all anarchists seek to change people’s opinions on what is to be considered as valid forms of property, aiming to see that “the Anarchistic view that occupancy and use should condition and limit landholding becomes the prevailing view” and so ensure that “individuals should no longer be protected by their fellows in anything but personal occupation and cultivation [i.e. use] of land.” [Benjamin Tucker, The Individualist Anarchists, p. 159 and p. 85] The key differences, as we noted in section A.3.1, is how they apply this principle.

This anarchist support for possession does not imply the break up of large scale organisations such as factories or other workplaces which require large numbers of people to operate. Far from it. Anarchists argue for association as the complement of possession. This means applying “occupancy and use” to property which is worked by more than one person results in associated labour, i.e. those who collectively work together (i.e. use a given property) manage it and their own labour as a self-governing, directly democratic, association of equals (usually called “self-management” for short).

This logically flows from the theory of possession, of “occupancy and use.” For if production is carried on in groups who is the legal occupier of the land? The employer or their manager? Obviously not, as they are by definition occupying more than they can use by themselves. Clearly, the association of those engaged in the work can be the only rational answer. Hence Proudhon’s comment that “all accumulated capital being social property, no one can be its exclusive proprietor.” “In order to destroy despotism and inequality of conditions, men must … become associates” and this implies workers’ self-management — “leaders, instructors, superintendents … must be chosen from the labourers by the labourers themselves.” [Proudhon, Op. Cit., p. 130, p. 372 and p. 137]

In this way, anarchists seek, in Proudhon’s words, “abolition of the proletariat” and consider a key idea of our ideas that “Industrial Democracy must… succeed Industrial Feudalism.” [Proudhon, Selected Writings of Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, p. 179 and p. 167] Thus an anarchist society would be based on possession, with workers’ self-management being practised at all levels from the smallest one person workplace or farm to large scale industry (see section I.3 for more discussion).

Clearly, then, all anarchists seek to transform and limit property rights. Capitalist property rights would be ended and a new system introduced rooted in the concept of possession and use. While the exact nature of that new system differs between schools of anarchist thought, the basic principles are the same as they flow from the same anarchist theory of property to be found in Proudhon’s, What is Property?.

Significantly, William Godwin in his Enquiry Concerning Political Justice makes the same point concerning the difference between property and possession (although not in the same language) fifty years before Proudhon, which indicates its central place in anarchist thought. For Godwin, there were different kinds of property. One kind was “the empire to which every [person] is entitled over the produce of his [or her] own industry.” However, another kind was “a system, in whatever manner established, by which one man enters into the faculty of disposing of the produce of another man’s industry.” This “species of property is in direct contradiction” to the former kind (he similarities with subsequent anarchist ideas is striking). For Godwin, inequality produces a “servile” spirit in the poor and, moreover, a person who “is born to poverty, may be said, under a another name, to be born a slave.” [The Anarchist Writings of William Godwin, p. 133, p. 134, p. 125 and p. 126]

Needless to say, anarchists have not be totally consistent in using this terminology. Some, for example, have referred to the capitalist and landlord classes as being the “possessing classes.” Others prefer to use the term “personal property” rather than “possession” or “capital” rather than “private property.” Some, like many individualist anarchists, use the term “property” in a general sense and qualify it with “occupancy and use” in the case of land, housing and workplaces. However, no matter the specific words used, the key idea is the same.

[trulybetty]

I should also start off with this is not aimed at anyone - because if I had a real issue on something I wouldn't be amiss at reaching out to them directly to have a conversation. Because disclaimer, I follow people who both write and don't write age gap tropes, so in saying that...

The whole dbf! thing is escalating again, and I may regret trying to voice some reason here, but what's the saying? In for a penny, in for a pound?

The trouble with this trope is that you have impassioned people on both sides, and it appears their voices are the loudest ones drowning out any kind of reasoned conversation.

There are also those too who need to learn the difference between having an opinion on something vs. open criticism. I can have the opinion that I don't like age-gap fanfics and that there's a lot more dbf! fics than same age etc. fics in the tags.

I can't stress enough, opinion vs. criticism are two different things:

The purpose of criticism is to direct a commentary on someone or something with the particular goal of change. A person who criticizes the behavior of another is specifically hoping to effect a modification. The purpose of opinion, on the other hand, is simply to offer a viewpoint that does not require a change.

Source.

I can have the opinion that I don't enjoy the trope, and I can have a discourse on why I think a certain character wouldn't partake, BUT that does not mean I'm shaming anyone for writing it (a reminder that's why AU's exist).

It's just me reaching out to others of the same opinion and who may be writing what I'm looking to read (or read what I've written) but getting lost among the tags.

Because everyone should have respect for people's preferences/kinks/whatever and I feel like some people need a reminder to not be a dick and everything (despite the reader insert popularity) is not written with you in mind.

Because between complaints about the crowds asking for less dbf! on their dash, I'm sadly seeing equally if not more posts about writers talking about people coming into their space and trashing their fics and stopping people from enjoying the fandom. If someone has appropriately tagged their fic and written their warnings and it's not a topic you want to read about? Then why are you reading it and leaving comments, or jumping into asks on annon? You had your warning - it costs nothing to scroll on.

The same goes equally for anyone voicing their opinion - doesn't pertain to you and your preferences and you have nothing constructive to add, scroll on - because opinion doesn't equate to criticism of what you enjoy remember?

I think everyone on whatever side you fall on can agree on the following:

Tumblr needs to work on its filtering tags/content situation

Everyone should be filtering topics they don't enjoy or find triggering

Everyone should be using tags appropriately on their posts for the above to work

And if someone has come after you for wherever you stand on the topic, I'm truly sorry you experienced that because it's not a true representation of the fandom on either side ❤️

No Pedro tax today, but I'm open to an adult conversation on this topic though if anyone wants to participate.

B x