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graysoncritic · 4 months

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A (Negative) Analysis of Tom Taylor's Nightwing Run - Who is Dick Grayson?

Introduction Who is Dick Grayson? What Went Wrong? Dick's Characterization What Went Wrong? Barbara Gordon What Went Wrong? Bludhaven (Part 1, Part 2) What Went Wrong? Melinda Lin Grayson What Went Wrong? Bea Bennett What Went Wrong? Villains Conclusion Bibliography

When asked to describe Dick Grayson’s character, many will say he is good. He is Bruce Wayne’s light, the person he could have been had someone offered Bruce understanding and guidance after his trauma. Dick is a leader. A big brother. A mentor. He is someone people can look up to, someone others can trust. He is “The Heart of the DCU.”

(Williamson, Joshua, writer. Sampere, Daniel; Herbert, Jack; Camuncoli, Giuseppe; Sandoval, Rafa, illustrators. Dawn of the DCU. Dark Crisis on Infinite Earth no. 7, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2022. pp. 28)

Characters, much like real people, are more than just a trait. Jason Todd is more than “angry.” Bruce Wayne is more than just “brooding.” Tim Drake is more than just “smart.” Characters are multidimensional. They have multiple facets, some of which may contradict one another because characters, just like people, are not created out of mathematical equations where two plus two always equals four. Humans are emotional. Their being is informed by past experiences, biology, culture. The intricate combination of these vastly different factors leads to inconsistency in rationality that may not always be logical. Dick being “good” does not mean that Dick can’t be angry, that he can’t make mistakes, or that he can’t lash out or be unreasonable, especially when stressed. Dick being “good” does not mean he can’t brood, does not mean he can’t be suspicious, nor does it mean he will always like everyone. Dick being “good” does not mean he can’t be his own worst enemy, that he can’t be calculative and strategic, that he always needs to be upbeat, or that he can’t be the most intelligent person in the room.

(Grayson, Devin, writer. Zircher, Patch, illustrator. Slow Burn. Nightwing no 93, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2004. pp. 10-11)

Sam Humphries also demonstrated this during his brilliant story, The Untouchable. There, Dick’s relentless determination to save people from the Judge’s machinations grows so intense that it becomes self-destructive. The story demonstrates how Dick’s “goodness” comes from a form of toxic perfectionism that has been with him since he was a child — a perfectionism born of a low self-worth that eats at him from the inside out

(Humphries, Sam, writer. Janson, Klaus; Campbell, Jamal, illustrators. Ruthless. Nightwing: Rebirth no. 37, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2018. pp. 08)

Even the 2003 animated series Teen Titans understood that in trying to catch the bad guy — almost always Slade Wilson in the case of that show — Dick could sometimes go too far.

Dick’s goodness causes him to see himself as a danger to not just his loved ones, but everyone who stands near him. He carries the world on his shoulders, taking the blame for every tragedy and seeing every death as a personal failure. When pushed to its worst, Dick’s goodness becomes an obsession which pushes others away, leading to isolation as Dick’s entire existence narrows down to accomplishing one specific goal.

It is this reductive characterization of Dick – the idea that his one defining trait is that he is “good” – that leads many to misunderstand the appeal of his character. As I mentioned above, characters are multi-facet, and Dick is no exception. However, the ways in which Dick is multi-facet are very different from the ways in which most characters are multi-facet.

Please do not mistake what I am about to say by claiming these other characters are not complex. Or even that some of them might not subvert popular tropes. What I mean saying is that Dick’s complexity is demonstrated differently than what I believe most people are accustomed to.

For example, everyone knows Bruce Wayne keeps his feelings locked up inside. He compartmentalizes his emotions and his trauma in order to solve the puzzle put ahead of him. But everyone – characters and readers alike – understands Bruce is doing this. Everyone can tell that he is hiding something from others and keeping them at a distance. The reader is always aware of how Bruce’s trauma informs his actions, his interactions, and his thought process.

(Grayson, Devin; Barr, Mike W., writers. Davis, Alan; Robinson, Roger, illustrator. Procedure. Batman: Gotham Knights no. 25, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2002. pp. 20)

Take, for instance, Part One of Murderer/Fugitive. Although a major source of tension from the story surrounds the question of Bruce’s innocence, there’s never any question in the minds of the reader and the character that Bruce is hiding something. Tim Drake questions whether Bruce truly did kill Vesper Child and is hiding his motive, while Dick is certain of Bruce’s innocence and instead believes Bruce is hiding his alibi or the clues that would help them find the real murderer. Barbara Gordon, for her part, wavers between the two, but like Tim, Dick, and the reader, she is certain of one thing: Bruce Wayne is hiding something from her, from them… From us.

Similarly, Jason Todd’s anger comes from a place of hurt and a place of love, from insecurities and a need to prove himself. But like Bruce, all of that is clear to see. His anger and his hurt are simple to understand. Please, do not mistake this for me claiming that Jason is not a complex character — instead, I’m stating that his temperament, his trauma, and his actions are so interlinked that they are clear for the reader to see. His character, while rich, is more accessible. It does not take a lot of effort to know that Jason is angry because of what was done to him. It is easy to see that he is hurt because he equates Bruce’s love to the Joker’s death, and therefore sees Bruce’s failure to avenge him “proof” that Bruce does not love him as a son.

(Winick, Judd, writer. Battle, Eric, illustrator. All They Do is Watch Us Kill: Part 3: It Only Hurts When I Laugh. Batman no. 650, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2006. pp. 13) Dick, on the other hand, does not wear his emotions, his motivations, or his goals on his sleeve. Dick keeps his secrets not by constructing an impenetrable wall like Bruce, but through misdirection. This is why those who are unfamiliar with Dick misinterpret him so much. They take what is on the surface at face value because they do not have the character history to serve as context to understand what lies beneath As a Dick Grayson fan (From this moment forward will be referred to as Dick Grayson Fan A) said “good Dick writers teach readers how to read him and bad Dick writers just have that surface level interpretation.” (I was actually talking to her about this idea and how I’m presenting it in this essay. The example I gave was one she suggested after I asked if she could think of good moments that exemplified this idea.)

As an example, we can look at this moment from Grayson, in which Dick sucks a lollipop while receiving a mission assignment. Someone who is not familiar with Dick and is looking at Dick and Helena’s interaction might be easily fooled into thinking that Dick is the pretty, strong, but annoyingly childish and slightly dumb male character who contrasts the serious, intelligent, and highly competent woman. The characters’ expressions, actions, and the onomatopoeias are certainly leaning into that familiar trope.

(King, Tom; Seeley, Tim, writers. Janin, Mikel, illustrator. The Raid. Grayson no. 04, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2014. pp. 02) However, Dick Grayson fans know that when it comes to the mission, Dick is as serious as Batman himself. Highly intelligent, Dick is considered to by many the world’s second greatest detective (there are many instances in canon when he is referred to as such), making him more than just a pretty face who knows how to fight (It should be noted that in this tweet, writer Tom King also ranks Dick as the second best fighter in the Bat Family). Furthermore, context matters. Dick is deep undercover throughout the duration of Grayson, and this scene is set shortly after the death of one of the agents of the organization Dick has infiltrated. In other words, Dick is in a highly stressful situation without allies to provide him with back-up or emotional support.

His posturing in this scene, then, can be seen as an attempt to misguide and misdirect. He does not wish to let those around him – people he is not sure yet if he can trust – know the full extent of his capabilities or perceive any potential weaknesses in his value of human life. Positioning himself as the annoying and childish pretty boy who does not pay much attention to serious matters is a strategic choice that his fans readily pick up on.

That is not to say that Dick’s smiles are all lies. Rather, Dick’s upbeat nature is a natural aspect of his personality that he will exaggerate depending on the setting in order to keep his privacy. He is a natural performer, a showman, and so he utilizes misdirection to his advantage.

A classic example of Dick’s misdirection and how he is misinterpreted by others is how some would characterize him as an “attention seeker.” However, the term “attention seeker” has negative connotations as it implies someone who seeks the spotlight at the expense of others.

That is the opposite of who Dick is. But that’s not Dick is. As a mentor, a leader, and an older brother, Dick will often invite others to join the conversation. He pays attention to what they say, he strategizes based on their needs.

(Johns, Geoff; Wolfman, Marv, writers. Nauck, Todd, illustrator. The Brave and the Bold. Teen Titans no. 33, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2006. pp. 15)

Simply put, Dick is incredibly empathetic and always in tune with those around him. This is why he works so well as both a Bat and a Titan, and why his personality in each team is so distinct. As a Bat, Dick is often portrayed as cheerful, his bad puns are meant to cut the tension, the is the shoulder for his family to cry one; as a Titan, Dick is a leader, he is a strategist, he demands others take things seriously and will not tolerate slacking off, he is trying to instill good work ethics and ensure that the team dynamic stays in top shape.

As JL Bell writes in their essay Success in Stasis: Dick Grayson’s Thirty Years as a Boy Wonder for the book Dick Grayson, Boy Wonder: Scholars and Creators on 75 years of Robin, Nightwing, and Batman explains, “in contrast to how Robin behaved with Batman. [Dick] is usually [the Titans’] serious leader.” (Bells, JL “Success in Stasis: Dick Grayson’s Thirty Years as a Boy Wonder.”Dick Grayson, Boy Wonder: Scholars and Creators on 75 years of Robin, Nightwing, and Batman edited by Kristen L. Geaman, McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers, 2015, pp. 22)

That is because Dick knows that when he is with his family, he needs to play one role, and when he is with his friends, he needs to play another. The Bats have their strengths, so Dick adjusts himself to play up on those strengths while also making up for its weakness. Same thing with the Titans.

Mark Waid perfectly exemplifies Dick’s adaptability when portraying him in his World’s Finest (2022) and World’s Finest: Teen Titans (2023). There, Dick brings levity to his work with Batman and Superman, keeping an upbeat attitude while still taking the job seriously.

(Waid, Mark, writer. Mora, Dan, illustrator. Manhunt. Batman/Superman: World’s Finest no. 14, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2023. pp. 07)

Yet, when he is with the Titans and feels the weight of leadership on his shoulders, he is more serious, being the one to get the Titans to focus on their objective, getting them to look at the big picture, while also making the most of their abilities as individuals and as a team.

(Waid, Mark, writer. Mora, Dan, illustrator. Team Spirit. Batman/Superman: World’s Finest no. 08, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2022. pp. 05)

So yes, Dick is a performer, a showman, but he is not “attention seeking.” In fact, his use of misdirection illustrates that Dick is a very private person. And how could he not be? While it is true that Dick grew up in the circus, after his parents’ death, he went to live with Bruce, and in doing so, was put into an intense amount of public scrutiny. The murders of John and Mary Grayson happened on a literal stage with dozens of people watching. As a result, Dick’s very private tragedy became a spectacle.

After the death of Dick’s parents, Dick isn’t allowed to disappear into anonymity. He is not afforded privacy to grieve. He is taken in by Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s most famous playboy, billionaire, philanthropic who is also a bit of a selfish airhead (at least, that is how the public perceives him), and as a result, Dick is subjected to an immense amount of public scrutiny, not just from the media, but also from Gotham’s elites, and even his peers at school. Not only that, as Robin, the Boy Wonder and the first ever sidekick, Dick also is put on the spotlight while also being aware of the necessity of keeping secrets.

As a result of having his tragedy broadcasted and having a new mission that requires secrecy, Dick becomes a very private person. He is not an open book; instead, he is meticulous about what he shares and he prevents people from looking at what is not of their business by using his showmanship.

Furthermore, Dick’s role as a performer who, as Joshua R Pangborn describes in his essay about the Robin costume, “experiences […] the full spectrum of emotions, each and every night, for the catharsis of others,” transforms him into a literal vehicle for emotional catharsis and empathy. (Pangborn, Joshua R “Fashioning Himself a Hero: Robin’s Costume and its Role in Shaping His Identity”Dick Grayson, Boy Wonder: Scholars and Creators on 75 years of Robin, Nightwing, and Batman edited by Kristen L. Geaman, McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers, 2015, pp. 42) In their essay, Bell argues that while Bruce Wayne embodied “the mid-century ideal of the American male,” who is always “in control of his feelings, not letting them overcome his judgment nor displaying them broadly,” Dick Grayson “can express deep emotions, not only his own but Bruce’s.” As such, Dick often acts as a sounding board for his family, friends, team, and romantic partners. As a performer, Dick embodies whatever persona is necessary to create a safe environment where others can process their emotions and achieve catharsis. (Bells, JL “Success in Stasis: Dick Grayson’s Thirty Years as a Boy Wonder.”Dick Grayson, Boy Wonder: Scholars and Creators on 75 years of Robin, Nightwing, and Batman edited by Kristen L. Geaman, McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers, 2015, pp. 12)

Dick's performance, then, comes not just from a desire for privacy but also from a deep place of empathy. It comes from a desire to help others work through their own stories. This is why he can step into other's narratives without overshadowing them. In fact, he’ll often elevate those characters by complimenting them and creating the circumstances needed for them to shine. As a performer, Dick is naturally adaptable and always willing to fill the role necessary to create the space required for others to work through their emotional needs.

But, as with everything, Dick’s performance is also a result of his destructive perfectionism. Dick equates “good” to “perfect.” He believes that he can only be wanted by Bruce if he is the perfect Robin, he can only be wanted by his friends if he is the perfect leader, he can only be wanted by his siblings if he is the perfect older brother, he can only be wanted by his partners if he is the perfect boyfriend. As Humphries’s The Untouchable demonstrates, because Dick was raised in an environment where failure could be fatal, he internalized these stakes to every aspect of his life.

(Humphries, Sam, writer. Janson, Klaus; Campbell, Jamal, illustrators. Ruthless. Nightwing: Rebirth no. 37, e-book ed. DC Comics, 2018.pp 20

And it doesn’t help that all of the people in Dick’s life do prove that assertion right. Everyone holds “the Heart of the DCU” to an impossible standard that, when Dick fails to live up to it, he is crucified and punished for it. If he tries to be perfect, he's told off for being the Golden Boy, but if he fails to be the Golden Boy, then he is told off because he let people down when they were relying on him. Ironically, this is done by characters in-universe real-world fans. As Dick Grayson Fan A pointed out in a discussion about depiction of Batman Family members killing their antagonists, “there's always this pressure to have Dick ~fall from grace~ and I do lowkey resent that. Dick should be allowed to be good, not punished for it.”

This creates an environment where Dick constantly needs to maintain perfection in order to be in everyone’s good graces. Failure is not met with understanding and comfort, but with punishment. No one expects him to fail, no one likes when he fails, no one forgives him when he fails. That also means that Dick doesn’t feel safe opening up about his insecurities because to do so would mean “proving” he cannot stay on the pedestal he’s been put on. And so, he is forced to perform the role of a “perfect good guy” by using misdirection so people won’t abandon him for being human (this was said during a very interesting discussion and addressed both canon and fanfic writers. There’s a lot that can be said about Dick’s parentification and how that is viewed in the context of fandom. This is not the essay for it, and, to be perfectly honest, I’m not entirely sure I’m the best person to open said discussion).

Taylor does not portray Dick as someone with this many layers. Taylor’s Dick is perfect simply because he is good. He is the perfect friend, who is always happy to support others. He is Barbara Gordon’s perfect boyfriend. Dick is the perfect older brother, the perfect son, perfect model citizen.

But by equating being “good” with being “perfect” without exploring the negative consequences that come from such pressures, Taylor robs Dick of the emotions that humanize him. In Taylor’s run, a good person will not be angry at their friends, will not be frustrated with their siblings, will never disagree with their romantic partner. This strips Dick of all of his nuances, and instead reduces him to a non-descriptive “everyman hero” with a limited emotional range whose only narrative purpose is to serve as a blank canvas for readers to project themselves into.

Simply put, Taylor is uninterested in writing Dick as a character because he does not see value in Dick for who he is. Nightwing #105, which removes Dick from its story in order to allow its readers to “be Nightwing” illustrates how Taylor and DC at large only value Dick his connections, not for who he is.

(Chen, Jess [jesswchen]. “Tweet Message.” 18 March 2023, https://twitter.com/jesswchen/status/1636971185782259716?s=20.)

Be Dick, and you can be good friends with Superman! You can be Batman’s son! You can be Batgirl’s boyfriend! Robin’s big brother! Flash’s best friend!

As a Dick Grayson fan, this feels insulting. I’m not saying Dick needs to be anyone’s favorite character, or that anyone even needs to like him. I’m not interested in dictating anyone’s taste. But to someone who loves Dick Grayson, it is insulting to think that those responsible for his stories fail to see his value. To Taylor, the person who, as the writer for both Nightwing and Titans, has the most control over Dick’s portrayal, Dick is nothing but a tool that will soon wear off its use.

In treating Dick as such, Taylor and DC send a clear message to those of who love Dick, and that message is that the things that make Dick special, the things that made us love him, do not matter.

For his near century long existence, Dick served as a stand in for those who feel othered in society. While I do not have the time to go into a gender studies and queer reading of Dick, it is notable that his character often spoke to many people who felt different. As Mary Borsellino’s 2006 essay “A lot like Robin if you close your eyes” Displacement of meaning in the Post-Modern Age explains:

The things which a Robin-like figure can contain, but which are cut off from being embodied by Robin himself, lose none of their importance simply because they are rejected by a restrictive, corporate-controlled status quo […] It's worth inspecting what was excised from Robin, and charting where these elements instead found articulation: in those from lower socioeconomic backgrounds; non-White people; young single parents; and HIV positive people. And, especially, girls and women (Borsellino, Mary “‘A lot like Robin if you close your eyes.’ Displacement of meaning in the Post-Modern Age, 2006)

While Borsellio’s essay focuses on the Robin mantle, as the creator of said mantle, such assertions can also be applied to Dick. In fact, Bell concurs with the idea that those who were othered have always took a preference to Dick when stating that “Robin’s status as the littlest guy in the fight increases the character’s appeal for some children, especially the ‘youngest and weakest.’” In other words, it is crucial to Dick’s character that he is not an “everyman hero.” He is not the hero of or beloved by the average individual, but rather by those who were ostracized by society.

Taylor’s writing exemplifies the “restrictive, corporate-controlled status quo” imposed by DC that Borsellino speaks of. His characterization is the manufactured image that removes Dick’s “socially deviant/rejected” qualities his fans loved about him so that he can be palatable to a more mainstream audience. (Bells, JL “Success in Stasis: Dick Grayson’s Thirty Years as a Boy Wonder.”Dick Grayson, Boy Wonder: Scholars and Creators on 75 years of Robin, Nightwing, and Batman edited by Kristen L. Geaman, McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers, 2015, pp. 11)

This, of course, is not necessarily new. As Mason Downey argues in their 2015 essay In Defense of Dick Grayson: Objectification, Sexuality, and Subtext, DC has often struggled between leaning into the audience Dick has and wanting to erase any “othering” elements from his character. As they point out:

The more sexual and idealized Dick was allowed to become, the more attention he got from female and queer fans, the more the industry had to work to combat the past anxieties revolving around the character. This resulted in more and more heteronormative romances for Dick on the page. We can’t grant Wertham’s fears any legitimacy, we can’t make these stories “for girls.” Writers did so in a few ways, some obvious, some less so. On the page, we had Dick’s deflection of female sexuality that he was not in control of, and we had a level of emotional posturing with relationships he was in control of. We had moments where we saw him manipulating with or being manipulated by sex. There were editorial pushes to lean into Dick’s popularity with women and queer men coupled with the simultaneous desire to not acknowledge or grant legitimacy to the fanbase he found in those demographics. This translated to more sexualized poses. More pin-up style spreads. Multiple bait-and-switch wedding, marriage, and relationship teases which turned out to be fakeouts or got written out. Long strings of female side characters were introduced exclusively to be love interests. Off the page, we had more concrete examples. We saw a lack of merchandise and lack of representation of him in other forms of media. There was a pervasive hesitancy in broaching his existence outside of the spheres of already established fans. For example, Nolan’s The Dark Knight Rises featured Joseph Gordon-Levitt playing a character literally named Robin, who was invented for the film franchise rather than allowing Dick himself to exist in that cinematic universe. Dick Grayson is a character built upon one repeated mantra aimed at what eventually become two of his largest demographics, “Remember, this is not for you.”

(Downey, Mason “In Defense of Dick Grayson: Objectification, Sexuality, and Subtext” Women Write About Comics. December 2015)

What makes Taylor’s run unique is that in trying to have Dick tackle social issues such as homelessness and in trying to create a class commentary, Taylor attempts to create a progressive, albeit simplistic, veneer while erasing the important and “other-ing” aspects of Dick’s character that was so beloved by his fans.

This, I believe, is one of the many explanations why many of those who praise Taylor run claim that this is the first Nightwing run they ever enjoyed, while many (though admittedly, not all) those who have been longtime Dick Grayson fans feel betrayed and frustrated by the way their beloved character is being handled. Dick is currently being appropriated into a more mainstream, palatable hero. He is being taken from those who loved him and being scrubbed clean to be suitable for an audience who could not appreciate him for what he was, only for how his connections could give them a wish fulfillment fantasy. As another Dick Grayson fan expressed:

I see no heart in [Taylor’s] work, only soulless marketing. He sells himself as something good and work on his perfect public image and everyone who disagrees is wrong and it gets on my nerves like nothing else. […] I wouldn't be as salt[y] if Taylor was genuinely trying to writing something good. I don't have the heart to [be salty] at someone working with passion, even if I don't like it.

(Henceforth referred to as Dick Grayson Fan B... This was actually said during a discussion in which we expressed how we wish we could be as excited about Taylor’s run as many others are.)

#nightwing #dick grayson #anti tom taylor

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sinisterexaggerator · 4 months

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Hancock x F!Reader [ A03 ]

Summary: You are important to John Hancock; there is a radstorm brewing. As a skilled and reformed scavver, you’re after a part for a decommissioned lounger—it belongs to Doc Amari’s famed Memory Den.

Hancock's tense; he should have gone with you, but it’s not too late to search you out. He would be glad to have you home safe in his arms, only things don’t always go as planned, nor do you go unpunished for your negligence.

Explicit: NSFW / 18+ for PWP, PiV sex, fingering, cunnilingus, dirty talk, whump / hurt and comfort, angst, gun violence, light bondage, praise, light sub/dom undertones, edging, use of chems, alcohol, foul language, and canon-typical violence and behavior. Other worthy mentions include fluff, romance, a worried and protective Hancock, and love confessions.

Notes: I am normally a Star Wars writer. This is my first time writing for Hancock, and my first fic for the Fallout fandom. I see Hancock as multifaceted, which I am having fun exploring. I have many ideas, but one fic can only contain so much! I used a few lines of dialogue from the game because they stuck with me T__T. I will also most likely try my hand at Nick Valentine at some point, (and maybe even Coop), but this ghoul stole my heart.

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Feedback appreciated. Like? Reblog! <3 Requests accepted!

Eyes as black as tar pits searched the ground at his feet, though no answers would present themselves, the cold, grimy filth of the Commonwealth something he could relate to on an atomic level. Flecks of barren soil and bits of detritus vaulted upward in a stagnate aggregate of dust, cavalier leather boots—having seen better days—leaving a swirl of varied particulates in their wake.

Hancock paced, the Mayor of Goodneighbor impatient as a hungry mole rat, the man left to stalk before the door that led to the Financial District. A dreary, dark green pall signaled to anyone with brains that there was a storm looming on the horizon, and yet you had not returned.

“Where the hell is she?” a raspy voice asked its sparse audience, two ghouls dedicated to his cause doubling as bodyguards, though if he felt safe anywhere, it was here among his brethren. Besides, it wasn’t his safety he was worried about, it was yours, and he wasn’t afraid to convey his feelings to the whole of town.

“Startin’ to get antsy. Gotta hand it to her, she’s got me sweatin’ like a whore in church over this. Hope she’s havin’ fun at my expense.”

Scavenging was lucrative, or it could be if you managed to score the right loot. You had to know where to look, or where not to look; danger was always in the cards. It was a game Hancock didn’t like to play, and especially not now, not when lightning streaked the sky, rain clouds pregnant with radiation threatening to burst open like a feral’s head looking down the muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun.

He knew what it was like to be forced to scour the bare bones of buildings, filching anything that was ripe for the picking. A single find could feed a man for weeks, and places like Goodneighbor just didn’t just build themselves. People needed things. Lucky for them, Hancock was able to provide. It was his one claim to fame—his rep was solid—but he didn’t look down on you for being one to scout for buried treasure.

“She’ll turn up,” one of his companions offered. It was a piteous attempt to console him, Hancock all but ignoring his dismissive comment. He felt his concern was obvious, yet his bedfellows were none of their business. Either way, he brushed it off like a decent man instead of snapping like he wanted to—the guy’d done nothing wrong.

Thunderclaps echoed through town, the first of many droplets pelting his marred face, the ghoul’s faithful tricorn not doing much in the way of shielding him from the dirtied water that had begun to trickle down onto its weathered surface.

He rued allowing you to go out on this wild-mongrel chase to begin with, not to say that you weren’t capable. What he might say is that you’re too good for this world, too good for him, but that hadn’t stopped him from falling head over heels.

You weren’t anti-social like most of your kind; you had a good heart, gave paying customers fair deals, and somehow you had kept the ruins from tarnishing your cheerful outlook; you sported a chipper disposition even at the worst of times.

In other words, you were his little ray of sunshine; Hancock had no qualms with telling you that to your face. And things as precious as you were to him? They needed protecting. It was becoming more obvious by the minute that he should have done the job himself.

“If this is her definition of ‘fast,’ we’re going to need to have a little chat to clear a few things up. Should have fucking gone with her, don’t know what I was thinking,” fried vocal cords scratched out, words tinged with worry as he made his way to the reinforced slab of steel that was Goodneighbor’s single entry point, not counting the alley behind Rexford.

“Maybe you weren’t thinkin’ at all, John…” that little voice inside his head nagged at him, reminding himself at every turn of the ways he’d failed, this on the verge of being one of them.

“Want us to look?” the other rejoined, aware you had been sent out on a job to find a replacement circuit board for Doctor Amari, as one of the memory lounger’s had been marked out of service. The doc would pay you well; everyone’s gotta eke a living somehow. Hers was made by sellin’ a man’s own memories back to him, and yours was made by sellin’ spare parts.

Didn’t mean he couldn’t have skipped out on his Mayoral duties for one evening, Hancock mentally scolding himself, his sentiments leading him toward the need to kick his own ass.

Quick, adept and clever, he had no doubt you could pull it off, but you were used to traveling in a group, used to back up and a lookout. You had willingly ditched your crew and settled here for him, making Goodneighbor more or less your permanent home. He couldn’t help but feel like he was ultimately responsible for you and your well-being—so far, so good. He’d be damned if anything happened to you on his watch.

The coming radstorm was starting to sound like a stampede of angry Brahmin. Not even those of his ilk should be out in this mess. Technically immortal, sure, but not immune to accumulating all that bad stuff brewing in the atmosphere; he was comfy right where he was, but not without his lady by his side.

Their self-elected leader ignored the question, reaching into the confines of his red frock coat to unveil the firepower hidden just out of sight. His break-action, double-barreled 12-gauge had most of its stock removed for easy concealment; he knew better than to step foot outside Goodneighbor without packing heat.

“No, you might say this is a personal problem. Not to say she wouldn’t make a damn fine Ghoul,” he stated with deadly calm, kicking the door open with reckless abandon despite his unflappable demeanor, not caring what awaited him on the other side.

“I’m going with you, ain’t safe,” words spoken over harsh winds, a breeze not in the least bit refreshing having descended upon the Commonwealth as Hancock slipped out into the mounting tumult, both men following close behind. Truthfully, he was grateful for their loyalty.

“Suit yourself, but don’t go gettin’ yourself killed. Would defeat the purpose of a search and rescue, ya feel me?”

A question not needing a response, he ventured forward, running headfirst into the growing tempest, chaos reigning overhead in the form of a blinding light show.

Hancock called out for you, yelling your name over the deafening commotion that was going to get worse before it got better, not about to go home empty-handed, even if it took the whole damn rest of the night. He hoped you were smart enough to know when to quit, or that you’d taken those Mentats he’d stuffed in your pocket on the way out.

“Get back here, scavver!”

Footfalls echoed in the dark, brisk in pace, inky, depthless eyes narrowing as the ghoul searched out the source. He had taken no more than half a dozen steps before he was forced to witness you at a full-fledged run, two burly raiders belting out insults and expletives hot on your trail.

It all seemed to happen in slow motion, but he was stone-cold sober, time standing still as you dove into Hancock’s open arms.

“There’s my girl,” the scoundrel purred into your ear, sinewy limbs enshrouding you as the sound of gunfire and discarded ammo casings nearly went unnoticed. Hancock let his own weapon fall to the ground to accommodate you, your pursuers dispatched like the trash they were. The members of the Neighborhood Watch who had accompanied him outside the walls made short work of both men; they deserved a drink and some chems on his dime.

“John,” you breathed out, smiling up at him, eyes sparkling with mirth as you held up that piece of scrap you were so proud of. His name off your tongue was musical, a warm sensation spreading through him like wildfire, better than drugs—it was a high he would never come down from.

“I—I got the part,” you spoke softly, your tepid breath tickling the remnants of a disfigured ear.

Hancock almost shivered.

But oh, no. He wasn’t about to let you off that easy, not when he’d felt that pang of anxiety and the sickening feeling in his gut like someone had shanked him with his own knife. He held you back by the shoulders, breaking your embrace, his face taking on a displeased, stern shade.

“What’s wrong with you, huh? Makin' me all kinds of nervous. Scarin’ me half to death. And some might say I don’t look too far off.” He breathed in nice and slow, exhaling through exposed nasal cavities, Hancock emitting a sigh to emphasize his disappointment. “Can’t be doin’ things like that, or you’re liable to give this old ghoul a—”

“—Sunshine?” His heart sank, as if the universe was out to prove he had every right to worry, Hancock’s attention inexplicably drawn to the red staining your fingers—it neared the color of his coat. You only now seemed to notice, that radiant light swept from your beaming face as you acknowledged the presence of your own blood on your hands; no wonder it had been so hard to take those last few steps.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered, eyes blown wide as you apologized for upsetting him. You would collapse into a heap, the adrenaline that had carried you home seeming to dissipate all at once—at least your fight-or-flight response had done its duty.

---

“Move over, out of the way. I ain’t askin’ twice,” Hancock seethed, the distraught man’s threat to bowl over anyone who stood in his way not to be taken lightly, though his tone was traitorously even and his despondency well-masked. He stormed the Old State House, ascending the spiral staircase to the second floor, carrying your limp body to a tattered red couch.

Refuse and empty Jet inhalers, along with half-drunk bottles of alcohol and boxes of Mentats, were all swept aside, Hancock throwing open cabinet doors and dislodging drawers in his haste.

“Oh, you’re really in it now, aren’t you, sister? Just had to make a few extra caps!” he chided, the ghoul’s husky voice rising in volume as he took to another part of the room.

Having not yet succumbed to blood loss, you were barely cognizant as you fought to stay awake, your beloved Mayor nothing more than a blur of motion and splotches of red as he systematically searched every nook and cranny for the syringe that would save your life.

“Hang on, dollface, you’re not dying today. Not if I have anything to say about it—and you know how much I love to run my mouth.” Hancock spoke to reassure you and himself, filling the silence with something other than the curses he wanted to dish out every which way to the wind. You couldn’t help but to smile again despite your predicament, eyelids drooping as you thought about the idea of sleep.

“There you are,” he growled, your vision starting to glaze over, though you were aware Hancock had come back to your side. His scarred, yet deceptively handsome face hovered inches above your own; it was an acquired taste you had no trouble in accepting.

“This is gonna hurt, but it’s better than the alternative,” he provided in short warning, withered fingers fumbling to unbutton your top, exposing first your sternum, your ribs, and then your belly.

“Shit, they got you good,” Hancock grumbled, your hand rising to cradle his jaw as he had peeled back the flaps of fabric to inspect the wound in your side. You were surprisingly calm, thinking that if today was your last day on Earth, at least you had been blessed to experience his company.

“I’m glad it’s you here with me,” your voice, meek and mild, declared. Hancock hesitated for one precious second, caught off guard, but pleasantly so.

“Don’t go gettin’ sentimental on me! Ain’t like these are your final moments or nothin’,” he assured, an audible tremble causing his words to waver, voice rising in pitch. He went on to stab you without ceremony, the needlepoint of a stimpak and its revitalizing medicine at once injecting itself into your damaged flesh and pulsing through your bloodstream.

You moaned in pain, hips arching as you lifted slightly up off the cushions before you settled once more, allowing yourself to finally relax as Hancock watched the regenerative process take hold, much to his relief.

---

You awoke, finding yourself supine atop a mattress, with Hancock crossed legged on the floor beside you. He had brought it down from upstairs, wanting you to have somewhere more comfortable to recover; the drifters weren’t using it, but he was sure he could scrounge another one up should the need arise.

The door was shut, the rest of the room empty, the man teetering off the edge of a high he wished he could prolong; he had pumped himself full of all those things that made him feel better. Riddled with guilt, he had imbibed both chems and alcohol, his body slightly swaying from left to right as he could not sit entirely still, yet he was too far off in his own head to notice you had come back to him.

You shifted, realizing he had draped his frock across your body to act as a temporary blanket. This simple gesture caused a flutter behind sore ribs, biceps activating so that you might push up and rest on the flat of your palms.

John was idle, near-dead to the world, eyes closed as he kept up that gentle rocking, back and forth, as if lost in music or in deep meditation. You only desired to watch him, studying the intricate, striated patterns of his ravaged flesh, gazing over the hollow of his once human nose, and admiring his sullied, foppish tunic that was a part of his infamous ensemble.

While some might consider him a monster, he was a being of light. He had superficial, obvious flaws, but he was no more guilty of sin than anyone else in this day and age. He was a beautiful soul, inside and out, and your opinion was the only one that mattered to you. Hancock always tried to do the right thing—it’s what drew you to him—even if that meant taking out a few loose ends.

Your heart stirred, natural chemical processes taking hold that would prompt you to touch him, your hormones dictating that you wanted this man carnally.

The ghoul’s eyes bolted open as you shuffled forward on your behind; you set his coat aside almost reverently, folding your legs like his, knees brushing as you leaned forward to kiss his wiry lips. Soft flesh against textured skin, rough in comparison, felt no less wonderful, Hancock groaning out a throaty sound of appreciation as he slowly shut his eyes again.

That was all the encouragement you needed, pressing closer, crawling onto Hancock’s lap as his hands found the meat of your ass to give it a squeeze. “Someone’s feelin’ better…” he quipped, allowing himself to lie back on the floor. His smile was lackadaisical and content, his touch roving to your thighs as he gazed up at you, noting you were tugging off your already unbuttoned top to reveal your shapely breasts.

“How’d a guy like me get so damn lucky…” he drawled, Hancock’s normally assertive way of speaking temporarily replaced by a calming cadence—it was dreamy—his indolent tone arousing your most base instincts.

You didn’t answer at first, thinking you’re the one who’s lucky. You had wanted and needed a change of pace, not happy with the way your business partners were operating, willing to bring death to others in order to get what scrap they could. You only took things from the ruins, or from those who deserved to be robbed, the idea of senseless violence proliferating thanks to people like your ragtag group something you decided you couldn’t live with.

You’d come to Goodneighbor looking for work; Hancock had been willing to give you a chance, and you didn’t disappoint. After a few heady conversations and risqué flirtations at the Third Rail, you had wound up in his arms—a place you found yourself never wanting to leave.

“I could ask you the same question,” you finally muttered, grazing his mouth, kisses repeating, small pecks placed from one side to the other in a physical show of adoration. The ghoul laughed a wry, salacious little laugh, head turning to allow for this impromptu bout of affection, stretching one arm out behind his head to act as a pillow as he relished the attention.

Then, his smile faded, the chem’s effects lingering like background radiation, less intense than before—the high lasted mere minutes if that, his faculties gradually returning. The hand left free gingerly touched your side, just below where he had administered the stimpak hours earlier. Concern was apparent in glistening eyes, so dark and lovely, starry pupils reflecting the faint luminescence of his surroundings.

“Not lettin’ you out of my sight again,” he promised, every shred of levity fleeing to be replaced by austerity, low, somber notes causing a visceral reaction as the onset of something warm and fuzzy spread throughout your core.

“Bein’ out here with me? Means you don’t gotta work, but I should have had your back, sunshine. Ain’t got no excuse.”

“You can have me on my back,” you playfully retorted, the simple suggestion unleashing a purr from the bowels of the ghoul’s throat. The idea of being a kept woman pleased you, but you were more interested in pleasing him.

“You better watch your mouth, or I can’t be held responsible for all those things I’m going to do to you,” Hancock countered. He talked big game, but he was still feelin’ shook. He didn’t want to risk getting too frisky on the off chance your body needed more time to heal; you were only human, after all.

“I’m shaking in my boots,” you simpered. Hancock was quick to snark back.

“I know that’s a lie, ‘cause you’re not wearing any.”

You gasped as Hancock flipped you without warning, pinning both your wrists to either side of your head. He drank in the smooth, supple flesh of your curves, hungry eyes making damn sure to get their fill.

He couldn’t stop himself, exploring the swell of a perfect tit, Hancock’s mouth becoming newly acquainted with the sensitive flesh of your nipple. He flicked its pert tip with the point of his tongue; you brazenly rolled your hips as you tried to contain the lewd sound that threatened to escape you.

“I double dog dare you, ” you tempted, not in the least bit afraid of what he might have in store.

Hancock didn’t take the bait.

“Don’t want to hurt you, love, but let’s say I give it to you nice and slow… Or as slow as I can give it; hard to keep promises, lookin’ the way you do,” he argued, ruined lips applying pressure as he began to suck, his growing erection gently grinding into the meat of your thigh.

“You won’t hurt me.” You shuddered as he pulled back, gazing into murky, otherworldly eyes, their glow hypnotizing. You half-assed a struggle, wanting to pull your hands free if only to touch him, Hancock chuckling mildly at your efforts.

“Don’t be so sure, ‘cause I got a hankerin’ for human,” his voice dropped emphatically lower, toying with you, his dire inflection sending tingles down your spine. Coming from a ghoul, most people would run the other way, but you knew from experience, Hancock had a twisted sense of humor—it was something you loved about him.

“Eat me,” you jeered, snapping your teeth playfully like some creature that roamed the wasteland, Hancock pulling his head back just enough to satisfy you, as if he had a nose to bite off to begin with.

“That’s the plan, sister,” he snickered, finally releasing his grip on your arms.

You took the opportunity to take hold of Hancock’s already tousled vest, guiding him down to meet your lips. Your fingers busied themselves with its unbuttoning as the ghoul had his hands full, cradling the plump, healthy tissue of your blushing cheeks in the crooks of his palms.

Hancock fed a grating moan into your mouth before asking a pointless question he already knew the answer to, not one to miss out on a chance to have his ego stroked. “Somethin’ about me.. turnin' you on? Don’t know why you’d go for this ugly mug,” he conceded, fishing for a compliment.

“You. You turn me on,” you whined plaintively, “everything about you,” you confessed, furling your tongue around his, willing him to shut his trap long enough for you to kiss him properly. He aided in the undressing, whipping his sash off in one fell swoop, an idea blossoming only to come into fruition shortly thereafter.

“That why you’re actin’ so desperate for me?” Hancock laced that bit of ragged flag around both your wrists, constricting them once more, his own arm extending to tauten its hold. He wouldn’t give you the chance to kiss him the way you wanted to, cinching its loose ends around the legs of the coffee table just behind your head, giving it a good tug to make sure you couldn’t break free.

In reality, it would have been easy to wiggle loose, but he knew you were the type to play along.

“What are you doing?” you asked, feigning alarm. The ghoul only grinned a shit-eating grin, crawling backward across your lap to adjust to a better position for his next course of action.

“Makin’ sure you can’t skip out on me,” he said matter of fact, a mischievous lilt to his voice, “gonna have to punish you for all that worryin’ you made me do.”

“But, Hancock—” you protested, realizing he was barring you from the one thing you wanted—full access to his person, unable to grope and caress all those parts of him you were so eager to touch and kiss.

“—Hmm?” he hummed, the bastard having the nerve to stand. He left you in a recumbent position with hands tied, unable to do anything but gaze up at the seductive set of motions he was now subjecting you to.

The ghoul painstakingly unfastened the remainder of his buttons, wizened digits fondling each in turn, his manner suggesting something that for now would remain unspoken. Then, Hancock shrugged his vest off, allowing his arms to hang as the garment dropped silkily to the floor. It was followed by a festooned shirt, leaving the man bare chested and amused; he wasn’t sure you had blinked even once.

“Like what you see?” he asked lazily, tracing a line across his gaunt pecs toward his navel with the curl of a finger, black eyes glinting impishly at the sight of you jostling your wrists as you failed to liberate yourself.

“Yes,” you breathed out shamelessly, unable to deny the effect his little striptease had on you. This in and of itself was torture, finding his brand of punishment entirely unfair.

“Good,” Hancock crooned, doing the unthinkable as he vanished from view. He even went so far as to walk beyond your peripheral vision. Instead, you were reduced to listening out for him, the ghoul shuffling around somewhere behind you.

“John,” you whined, sitting up and scooting back against the coffee table the best you could. You endeavored to crane your neck, hearing the clink of glass preceding other innocuous sounds, the gentle thud of Hancock’s boots echoing across the rotting floorboards as he made his way back around.

“You can say my name all you want to, princess, but it ain’t gonna change a damn thing,” Hancock stressed, words clawing their way out of cracked pipes as he nudged your knees apart with his foot; he knelt between your legs, a dispenser of Jet in one hand, and a dose of Rad-X in the other. “Open wide,” he instructed.

You should have known what he’d been after, the drug-addicted ghoul popping the lone anti-radiation capsule inside his mouth after dispensing a heavy spray of the illicit substance into his lungs; its potency was limited in his case, but you were easily susceptible to its high.

You gratefully obeyed, wanting any excuse to be close to him, Hancock’s silver tongue molesting you as easily as it had persuaded you to listen. He deposited the pill into your mouth, kissing you deeply, your beloved Mayor giving you a shotgun of thick, odorous chems without so much as a single protest on your part.

Your heart thrummed, Jet leeching its way into your bloodstream to trigger a bodily response via your nervous system. In the meantime, you had almost forgotten to swallow your dose of Rad-X, Hancock prompting you by trailing the full length of your throat with a single, sallow finger.

He massaged it down, feeling for the activation of those muscles that would help ferry it along, his thoughts drifting to the memory of his cock once upon a time being slopped on by the wet whorl of your tongue. His prick had throbbed almost painfully, sequestered snugly inside your zealous gullet, the powerful suction of your hollow cheeks threatening to wrench his soul from his body, or it sure as hell had felt that way.

He was drawn back to the present moment by the look in your eyes, your pupils dilating to rival the circumference of dinner plates. You gazed at the man before you; Hancock pulled back the edge of your bottom lip, exposing your gumline, the ghoul snaking another of his fingers inside your partially open mouth.

The slender extremity would bypass your blunt teeth, saturating itself in your saliva. Even in this state, you had the wherewithal to pucker up, intaking that explorative digit to the knuckle, your plush maw behaving like a deluxe pre-war vacuum cleaner.

The ghoul shuddered, though keeping his cool intact, lost in the depths of your unwavering stare. He slowly slipped back out, releasing your lip for it to snap gently back into place, Hancock satisfied with the knowledge you had swallowed the pill.

“Look at you, bein’ such a good girl for me,” Hancock praised, speaking in a low, sultry whisper. You did not reply, your desire for the man at its all-time high, that warmth in your belly having spread to complement the unparalleled ache of your loins.

“Hancock,” you whimpered, once more tugging at the cloth that bound you. You felt delirious with longing, your heart racing as you saw stars, euphoria overtaking all of your senses. You pushed forward, halted partway by that fucking flag that had you fettered like some common criminal, too blazed to even think about squirming loose.

“Please,” you begged, lips reaching for his. Hancock evaded you, trailing a divot devoid of cartilage across your sateen cheek, directing it toward your lovely, intact nose.

“Please, what, sister?” he ruthlessly teased, watching as your tongue tried to skirt his teeth; its vertex barely met its goal. Still, Hancock would return the gesture with a sweep of his own, flitting his against yours, inhaling deeply the scent of Jet off your breath as he was suddenly consumed by an almost feral need to taste your neediness—it was nearly palpable.

“Please.. touch you? Please kiss you? Please.. fuck your pretty little hole?” he asked in a derisive tone, though his movements were languid, Hancock in no rush to oblige you, even as his veiny hands glided over every inch of your sleek skin.

“Is that what my little ray of sunshine wants?” the ghoul taunted, moving to unbutton the clasp at the top of your pants, then pinching the pull of your zipper, teeth parting to reveal clean cotton. You were nearly embarrassed by how damp your panties were, the chems only making your arousal ten times worse; Hancock wasn’t helping matters, a lecherous moan reaching your ears as the man slid back and realigned himself, bending forward to bury his face in the moist outline staining your skivvies.

“Shit, you’re so fucking wet—” he marveled breezily, “—is it all for me?” Hancock rasped, nipping you through the fabric, a desiccated finger tucking itself into its elastic hem. Hancock dragged it down just far enough to expose your sweet-smelling sex, the ghoul’s tongue slithering easily between slick folds.

You inhaled a disjointed gasp for breath, voice cracking as you cried out in ecstasy, Hancock having barely swiped your thrumming clit. That alone was almost too much, your hips bucking beneath him of their own volition as you pleaded with him to keep his promise.

“Don’t tease,” you sighed, naked breasts rising and falling with every labored breath. Hancock’s eyes traveled up your fine as fuck body before meeting your gaze, a twisted hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his ghoulish mouth.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” he snickered, fingers grasping the entirety of your waistband to help you shimmy off your bottom layer of clothes. Your hips wriggled all too desperately, overjoyed to finally be free of their constraints.

“But that’s not fair!” you entreated, unabashedly spreading your legs in the hopes of providing him a suitable meal, ready and willing to be devoured if you could only convince him to take the plunge.

“And why not?” he asked in all seriousness, nuzzling into the lush flesh of your labia as his silky tongue entombed itself, gathering your moist heat from its source. He dipped back out to your chagrin—you had inhaled sharply in preparation only to be left disappointed—Hancock licking a stripe to the cusp of your throbbing bud.

“Because I’ll die,” you replied, overexaggerating, writhing in bliss, albeit temporary; Hancock seemed out to drive you mad, retracting once more to glance back up at you, reedy lips downturned in a disapproving frown.

“No, you won’t,” he asserted, voice taking on a sobering, sincere quality; even if you were being hyperbolic, after the events that had just transpired, Hancock didn’t find it funny, resolving to dine on you good and proper, as if it would be the thing to save your life.

“I—” You were cut off mid-thought, lightning crashing thunderously outside, the ghoul introducing two coarse fingers into your clenching cunt as the radstorm raged on. Hancock’s neck sank low as you arched your hips, the flat of a thick tongue bringing you toward rapture as he succinctly lapped your clit in delicious combination, playing you like some Old World violin.

“Aren’t you glad you’re trapped in here with me instead of out there cookin’ alive?” Hancock asked offhand, digits curling to find the seat of your pleasure, warm, wet muscle dancing slow, precise circles across your sensitive nerves. You halfheartedly yanked at your bindings once more, wishing for nothing more than to ravish him like a woman starved, deprived of sustenance.

“Yes, yes— please, just like that,” you answered, urging him on, the man encouraged to keep at it, long, languorous strokes titillating you toward release.

Then, he simply stopped, fingers glossy upon exit, Hancock sucking your slick clean off with a scarecrow smile, tilting his head like a curious animal as you bemoaned your plight, left to suffer on the edge of an orgasm.

“Relax, I ain’t through with you yet,” Hancock remarked, lifting himself up to a seated position on his knees. You whined indignantly, made to watch as he unbuckled and unzipped his own pants.

The rogue stood completely, giving you another show, kicking one boot off after the other before slinking out of the rest of his clothes.

You took a moment to admire him, skin pockmarked with scars, deep pits of tissue missing where cells had inevitably healed all too quickly, John a mosaic of gnarled, misshapen flesh and keloid. Yet he was so handsome, charming, and cavalier, the man leaving nothing on but his tricornered hat, returning to his previous enterprise by way of interring his roiling tongue into your aching center.

“Oh, John,” you murmured, voice hushed, the man’s thumb working itself concentrically atop your little pearl.

For once, he was quiet, his strokes inside you meticulous, the nearly silent room filled with a plethora of obscene sounds as he feasted on you like a Yao guai over a fresh kill. Just a little attention was all it took, nails digging into the palms of your tied hands as you twisted beneath him, vocalizing loud enough you were sure the whole State House would hear.

A shiver rocked you to your core, riding out your climax for as long as you could stand it. You were unable to push Hancock’s head back even if you wanted to, the ghoul finding a new way to punish you, continuing to stimulate your already oversensitive clit.

“Hancock, please—” you begged him under different circumstances, the ball of your foot gingerly pushing against his blatant hard-on. The ghoul finally let up just enough to chortle dryly, obviously nonplussed.

“Done already? Thought we were just gettin’ this party started,” he flouted, sitting up properly, probing fingers caressing the curve of your slit as they trailed upward, ghosting over your navel to tweak your nipple. They didn’t stop there, reaching just behind you to nab a cigarette off the edge of the coffee table, your expression giving away your confusion as he struck a match to ignite the end.

“No, John— you’re supposed to fuck me!” you berated, another devious little chuckle let loose from wilted lips. The ghoul inhaled a deep drag of nicotine laced with radiation, though the amount contained therein was so trivial he didn’t bat a lash—not that he had any.

He gazed at you through a thin veil of smoke exuded from eroded nasal passages—a short burst of pressure from his lungs propelling it outward—a freakish sight to some, but you had grown accustomed to it.

“So, that is what you want,” Hancock digressed, snubbing the end of his cig on the floor after a few more laggard puffs. The Jet was wearing off, Hancock having already sobered completely, its side effects leaving you feeling used-up and exhausted. Hancock had forgotten what it felt like to come down from such an intense high; you pouted pathetically up at him.

“Baby,” you whined, immediately capturing Hancock's attention. He dropped the act, eyes softening around the edges, colorless voids somehow the most expressive you had ever seen them.

“What is it, sunshine? Feelin’ all right? Need somethin’ to take the edge off?” he asked gently, concern present in his tone, the ghoul finally being kind enough to reach over your head to free you from your bindings.

“I need you,” you implored, your speech sounding childishly irritable, tired, heavy arms lifting to wrap themselves around John’s neck; you couldn’t help yourself, having been prohibited from touching him for what felt like hours, when in reality it had only been a short length of time.

“I’m all yours,” Hancock vowed, whisking a stray strand of your hair away. A soft kiss was pressed into even softer lips; the man was two sides of the same coin, like night and day. Part of you prayed you would never cross him, his temper volatile, like an active volcano lying dormant until such a time the right conditions were met, inevitably causing an eruption.

But he was also kind, genuine, and a good person, only wanting to make the Commonwealth a better place; he held within him a righteous anger, and for good reason, determined to stick by him through thick and thin.

"Nice and slow?" you asked, bringing the conversation full circle, ushering the ghoul down on top of you as you laid back, gazing up with heavy-lidded eyes. He searched your face, as if double-checking for something, needing to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that nothing was wrong—you were only sulking.

“You got it, sister,” Hancock replied coyly, the fullness of a finger returning to you as he tested the waters; you were still so unbelievably wet. It was a stark contrast to the dry, desolate landscape that stretched for miles just beyond his little town, the ghoul humming in gratitude as you kissed him once again.

You wasted no time, slipping your hand between the depression of your bodies where hip meets hip, his weight a warm, inviting presence that comforted you like nothing else. Your fingers toyed with his variegated shaft, thumbing a bead of loosed pre-cum to moisten its tip; Hancock moaned lustfully as he buried himself deeper into the column of your throat, teeth raking tender flesh, barely withholding the intention to bite.

“I’m thinkin’ you must be the single best thing to ever happen to me,” Hancock confessed in a dulcet whisper, voice quavering with emotion as you carefully escorted his cock inside you, one delicious inch at a time. Jagged breaths found their way into your ear, distorted, ribbed flesh, more than adequate in length and girth, stretching you open, a subdued sound of longing and relief birthed from parted lips.

“I love you,” you blurted out, unable to keep your feelings at bay, any and all movements ceasing before they had wholly begun.

You had closed your eyes; they fluttered open, fear wheedling its way inside your heart as Hancock gazed at you in silence. You cursed yourself, having never before expressed such a sentiment out loud, unsure how the man would take it, or if he even felt remotely the same—all signs pointed to yes, but you refused to be presumptuous.

Then, he pushed up into your tight cunt with one slow, smooth stroke of his cock along your anterior walls, stimulating your G-spot. Pleasure radiated through you as you emitted a stilted breath, Hancock cradling your cheek, resting his forehead against yours to stare penetratingly into your eyes.

“Took you to be smarter than this, but I feel like I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear you say that,” he breathed against your lips, slipping a motile tongue into your mouth, wanting to desperately deepen your connection.

You readily accepted, your own tongue writhing and contracting in unison with his, heart beating fervently behind a wall of blood and bone. Your fingers clawed and grasped at his narrow shoulders and the tendinous flesh of his back, exploring every inch of your ghoulish lover, from head to jutting hipbone.

Hancock drove his cock into you, back and forth, keeping a steady, equal rhythm like the beat of a drum. “Why now?” he asked, voice tempered, each pump of his thick prick inside you unhurried and sensuous.

“Nearly dying may have had something to do with it,” you jested in-between indecent, muted moans, Hancock’s deliberate pace driving you toward orgasm. The arm not supporting his weight curled tightly around you. He clutched you to his chest, and you wrapped your thighs around his waif thin waist in return.

“Mmn.. that it?” Spindly fingers moved to grip the back of your head, digging into tufts of your hair; your back bowed to support you in joining with him more fully, Hancock massaging your scalp as he massaged your insides, debauch, rich sounds filling both your ears.

“And because I have nothing to lose,” you reluctantly answered, breath picking up speed as you pushed back against firm, rawboned pectorals with the palm of your hand; you had the intention of arranging yourself at just the right angle to please— a simple slant of your hips would make things all too easy.

Within moments, you came, pinpricks of light overwhelming your senses. You were elated, as if your consciousness had been overtaken by a nebulous cloud of love and electromagnetic radiation, a soul set adrift in a swirling haze of thoughts, feelings and emotions that would amalgamate into something beautiful—it caused you to cry out a sound of intense, heartfelt bliss.

Your mind went blank, only registering that John had simultaneously shared in the experience. It would take you both a moment to calm.

Then, you squeezed Hancock tightly between your legs, a signal for him to not withdraw, but to stay awhile, the tension in your body settling as you laid back down.

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart.” Hancock would smother you with his scant weight, caressing the point of your chin, his thumb snaking across your bottom lip. He gave a faint exhalation of breath, the concave outline of his nasal cavity grazing the convex shape of your nose; it tickled.

“Nothing to lose but each other.”

297 notes · View notes

yandere-sins · 10 months

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Just read your yandere!Ghost HCs and I am absolutely in love!! What are your thoughts on a shared darling between an all yandere!task force 141? Do you think it will make Ghost less possessive cause he doesn't have to worry about protecting their darling all the time or even more so cause he has to share? 🤔 Also curious about the other members interacting both with their darling and each other.

You're an amazing writer and I love all of your works so much!! Have a lovely day!! ❤️❤️❤️

Thank you for your request! ♥ I only did the core members I know of and about, hope that's alright!

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Price

♡ John has undisputed dips on you in this dynamic. He doesn't take the active role of caretaker for you, but he gets to hold you first after a mission, be the first to kiss you, and ask if you've eaten and if you were good while he was gone. He's the one giving orders concerning you after consulting with the others, and he's the one to cozy up to if you really want to better your living situation, even though he doesn't easily fall for tricks. You'll have to behave in front of him because the punishments he orders are all the harsher. Putting you into your place never feels more bittersweet than when he gives you both carrot and stick to remind you of your position by his side. That you are nothing without him. That you need him. But as long as you indulge him a little whenever he asks for it, his presence in the group isn't much trouble to you.

♡ Price mostly hands over taking care of you to the boys, laughing when he jokes about "being too old" to clean up after you. But he has that authority no one can argue against. If he wants you in his bed for the night, the others won't complain as they send you to his room, and if he dislikes your attitude, he'll treat you like a rookie soldier in need of some discipline—just without professionalism holding him back. But it's so easy to get along with him if only you let down your pride a bit. When you catch him watching you across the table, get up from whoever's lap you are on and climb on Price's. Allow him to knead your thighs and ass while you cuddle against his chest, and you'll have this grown man melt with affection for you. And when he asks whose bed you want to share that night, never hesitate to ask for his. If he doesn't want to, he'll send you away anyway, but showing him how devoted you are will earn you lots of browny points that might help you out of more complicated situations with the others. Price never forgets what you do—neither good nor bad.

Soap

♡ Soap is, undoubtedly, the social butterfly of the group, and you are his unwilling victim. He so loves to hang out with you, every bit of attention going straight to his ego. Then again, he's also your best bet when it comes to food, bathing, and other basic needs that you want met from your captors. He's the easiest to ask for anything because he wants your attention desperately and will try to fulfill your wishes like a dog trying to impress his owner. He's also your main chaperon around base, gladly escorting you to the kitchen, the bathroom, or wherever the rest of the group is. If no one else claims you for the day or night, his room is basically yours, and you are often collected from it, as John will claim all your time and your sanity if left unchecked.

♡ Regardless, behind all the smiles and jokes, he's definitely the most obsessed. You'll find him wide awake, watching you sleep at night or licking your cutlery after you eat. There have been no fewer than three times that he didn't accompany you into the shower, taking advantage of you whenever he can. It's hard to look into his eyes sometimes, wide open and swirling with madness while he watches you, always right there to catch you when you fall. Soap will gladly lick the blood off your wounds if he's not pulled away by the collar of his shirt. King of not caring what the others think, he's not even realizing how weird he's being, but you know. You know what he does with your underwear at night. You know the crazed rambles he whispers into your ear when he thinks you're asleep. You wholeheartedly believe he's tempering with your food sometimes, and you know there's hell to pay if you make him snap. John will take a lot of screaming and fighting back. However, you still have bruises from the last time his composure cracked, and no amount of him kissing them better helps to forget the way he can and will crack your skull on a wall if you defy him one too many times.

Ghost

♡ The reality is that Simon profits greatly from the arrangement but isn't too keen on it. He'll tolerate it; watch quietly as everyone else salivates over you. But nothing can convince him that any of the guys are better for you than he is. Even if he gives in to Price's authority, Soap's efforts, and Roach's right to you, doesn't mean he thinks they should have you. He's known for stealing you out of beds and sometimes kidnapping you to someplace the others won't find right away to get some undisturbed alone time. However, being with him is terrifying. You won't be able to relax, your heart pounding against your ribcage when you're with him. After all, it's Ghost, and he's a big, unpredictable meanie, at least in your opinion.

♡ Doesn't help that he's usually the one to diffuse any problems the others have with you before taking you with him and giving you the punishment you'll feel for the next few days. The others trust him to do the right thing, to make you obedient and sweet again. And he does, most of the time. There's only so much pain and torture you can endure. But he's also the one to mend your wounds and patch you up, gently asserting authority over you when you get fussy while he helps you stay alive after one of the others caused havoc on your body. You told him so many times you wanted to die, and he was the one to soothe you, hold you until you fell asleep. Sometimes, you think about thanking him. But then you remember his other side, the one that enjoys your pain, enjoys your dependency on him. The Ghost that loves cornering you against walls and kissing you breathlessly while you struggle, the one that broke and put your ankles into casts after you tried to run away. The shadow that is always there to remind you to play nice but who never rewards you in return. He must love you, somewhere, deep inside his shrewd brain. But you hate him with every fiber of your being. He's your worst nightmare, enemy, the bastard of the group. And your savior, protector, and most devoted lover at the same time.

Roach

♡ Gary is the yandere that you want to get along with. Who you actively try to pull on your side against the others, thinking he'd give you some leniency and compassion. After all, he ensures you get what you need when everyone else is too busy fawning over you. He brings in the goods to play with you, and makes you little gifts that you know are from him but he never claims your thanks. Roach is the last escape when you're in for another punishment, and you gladly disregard the fact that he's turning a blind eye to what his mates are doing if it means escaping whatever Soap or Ghost are planning to do with you. He's the eery presence at your back, his eyes always drilling into you, but his hands never forcing you towards him. He feels safe. Safer than anyone else, at least. But still waters are deep, and you don't know how you and his delayed gratification affect him.

♡ You are in for a rude awakening when you run to him, beg him to help you, and plead with him to make the others stop. Suddenly, his hands are all over you, and you are pulled into his lap, tightly secured in his arms, face burying into the crook of your neck as he breathes you in. It feels like you're imprisoned in his grasp, your body crushed between his and his arms. He's patient, always laying in wait for you to come to him, so when you do, you are all his. No one dares to disturb him when he traps you against him. The others might sigh and groan but will retreat and give him the time he's owed, considering he never asks for it. And Roach plans to use his time with you wisely, give you all the attention and care he's been holding back or doing in the shadow. You'll belong to him all night long without a second to breathe while he devours you, devotes all his love to you. You'll only be given back once he's done smothering you in suffocating adoration, leaving his marks all over you, and making you thoroughly regret the trust you put into him to help you and protect you. He's just as bad, if not worse than the others, and he'll gladly lure you into the fake sense of safety again with his presence and subtle touches that will keep them away as no one knows when Roach is ready to claim you again. Now that he had a taste, it's hard not to want more...

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little-diable · 9 months

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Ragnarök - Sihtric (smut)

This was written for @whitedarkmoonflower since they won my 15k celebration as a reader! I hope you enjoy this as much as I do, lovie! Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading his, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: After a brutal fight Sihtric can’t find his lover in the crowd of knights he fought with, praying to the gods that the female warrior he loved was still alive.

Warnings: 18+, smut, unprotected piv, a bit of angst, but mainly focused on their relationship

Pairing: Sihtric x fem!warrior!reader (1.8k words)

Picture from Pinterest, credit to the original owner

„There the dim dragon will come in flight, the glittering serpent, from Dark Mountains below. Bearing corpses in its feathers, as it soars over the plain, the Dark-Striker. Now she will sink down.“ - Völuspá: The Prophecy, Ragnarök

The battlefield was muddy, blood stuck to Sihtric’s features, arms, and armour. A sight that would leave any person who had never stood on a battlefield frightened, a sight Sihtric was all too used to. The fight had been brutal, no longer held back by rules, laws even knights would follow in battle, no, it had been awfully primal, watching men choke on their blood, swords and axes piercing hearts, stomachs, and lungs.

But even though Sihtric found a sick sense of satisfaction swapping through him whenever he killed an enemy of theirs, he no longer managed to focus on the victory he should be celebrating with his friends and brothers. All Sihtric could focus on was trying to find her amongst the still-breathing soldiers, praying to his gods that she was alive.

Panic began to swap through him as time kept ticking by, without any sight of her, the one his heart called out to, the one that had claimed Sihtric as hers many moons ago. (Y/n), the one he shared his bed with, the female warrior that had stolen Sihtric’s heart the first time their paths had crossed. He had instantly been drawn to her, admiring the fire burning in her eyes, the teasing words rolling off her tongue all too easily, she had been one of them from the first moment on, a warrior others looked up to.

Sihtric didn’t pick up on the call of his name, not caring about the way Finan tried to hold onto him, all too aware of his friend’s panicked state. The Irishman kept murmuring his name, hands covered in mud and blood, just like Sihtric, grasping his leather armour to stop his friend from carelessly stumbling over corpses of once honourable men and their horses.

“Sihtric, look at me.” Finan eventually managed to catch Sihtric’s frantic gaze, allowing the man to catch his breath as his heart raced in his chest, urged on by the fright clinging to him. “What is with you?”

“(Y/n), I can’t find her, I-” a cry wanted to claw through the once so fearless man, not used to being guided by his emotions like he was in that very moment. “Finan, where is she? She can’t be dead.”

“We’ll find her, I am sure she’s also trying to find you.” Finan let go of his friend, turning towards Osfeth with his head tilted towards his right, wordlessly trying to tell the young monk to follow the two. No further word was spoken as they combed through the endless seeming blanket of corpses, flipping some that had a similar build and hair colour like (y/n), praying every single time that it wasn't her.

“What if she was taken? Gods, Finan, I left her alone, I wasn’t there for her.” Neither Osferth nor Finan was used to hearing Sihtric speak words this uneasy, clearly struggling with the fear he was held hostage by. No reply was spoken as Finan focused on something, or rather someone, unable to bite down his smile as he forced Sihtric to look in the same direction.

With a gasp rumbling through Sihtric, he took off running, pressing his sword into Finan’s hands before he left them behind. His body collided with (y/n)’s, pulling her into his chest with a relieved sigh leaving him. Sihtric’s lips kept kissing her forehead, trying to prove to himself that she was alive, held close to his heart, not leaving him any time soon.

“I thought I’d lost you, don’t ever leave me like that again.” His murmured words left (y/n) chuckling, shifting her weight to meet his lips in a bruising kiss. They could taste one another’s emotions, tongues tangled, hearts beating in unison, finally able to breathe through their fear, their pain.

“I am sorry, I don’t know how I got lost in the crowd. I’m alright, I promise.” Her eyes flickered to Finan’s and Osferth’s approaching frames, shooting them a quick smile before she pressed another kiss to Sihtric’s lips, whispering a soft “I’d never leave you like that”.

……

The moon stood high in the dark sky, reflecting in the cold water currently teasing their limbs. Sihtric held (y/n)’s naked frame to his equally bare skin, still shaken up by the way he had looked for her hours ago, unable to let go of his uneasiness.

No words were spoken as they cleaned themselves, removing the reminders of a brutal but successful battle. Another victory men, women, and children would talk about for centuries to come, they were sure of it.

But even though the others had tried to pull the two lovers into their traps, wanting to celebrate their victory with endless pours of ale, neither Sihtric nor (y/n) had been in the mood to spend time with those they loved like their family. Sihtric had pulled (y/n) away from the crowd at the first chance, needing to feel her close with a sober mind and clear thoughts.

“I have never felt more frightened than today, the thought of finding you dead because I wasn’t there to protect you-“ Sihtric choked on his words, having to force his teeth into his lower lip to stop his cries from clawing through him. A facade (y/n) saw through all too easily, wrapping her arms around his neck to pull him down for a kiss.

The kiss wasn’t as heated, as forceful as the one they had shared on the battlefield, but it had something equally emotional to it, transmitting their every longing. A soft moan left (y/n) as Sihtric’s strong hands found her behind, pulling her against his hardening cock. She held a special kind of magic over the man, making waves of lust thump through his veins at any given chance, his very own Ragnarök, the chaotic end of his world, and those the gods had crafted for themselves.

“Sihtric,” she mewled his name, movements slowed by the river, needing a few moments till their legs finally found their way around his waist. His cock rubbed against her folds, making both hiss in anticipation, knowing that this night would yet be another one filled with endless orgasms, with their insatiable desire for one another driving them on. “I need you, need to feel you, need to make sure that you’re still here, with me.”

Sihtric forced her into another kiss as he started walking towards the meadow leading up the hill, shielded by the darkness from any drunken men and women that may find their way down to the river. A gasp managed to leave (y/n) as he placed them down, pinning her against the ground with his weight on top of hers, not leaving any space between them.

“You’re mine, my woman, my warrior, till the day I die. I’ll never leave your side again, just the thought of losing you makes me want to end my own life. No day is worth living if I don’t get to share it with you.” The words Sihtric whispered against her swollen lips drew tears to (y/n)’s eyes, staring at her man with love and longing swimming in her pupils, only ripped out of her trance as she felt his calloused fingertips on her pulsing bundle.

Expectedly he circled the soft flesh, finding enjoyment in the sounds she let go of, begging him for more, needing to feel him buried deep inside of her. There was no need for any words, nothing would ever manage to describe what they felt for one another, what they needed to do to give in to their longings.

With his eyes burning through hers, Sihtric aligned his cock with her entrance, slowly pushing into her after he coated himself with her arousal. He took his time, wanting to savour every moment, wanting to hear the gasps leaving his lover as he sank even deeper into her, still having to adjust to the stretch after all these months. And only after (y/n) managed to choke on his name did he allow himself to properly take care of her, set on a ferocious rhythm that made both their hearts race in excitement.

Profanities left Sihtric as he interlaced his hands with hers, pinning them over her head to keep her in place. He needed to control the moment, especially after a day like this, a day where he had gotten a glimpse into a future he wanted to avoid at every cost, needing to change their fate as he still had the power to do so. She was his end and his beginning, a story that had found its beginning in Muspell, the place not even the strongest souls had managed to endure, but no matter the biting heat, he’d walk through it all if it meant getting to love her.

“Look at me, Sihtric.” (Y/n) forced his piercing eyes to focus on her, feeling his thoughts start to wander as the speed of his rough thrusts momentarily began to falter, needing to catch him before he could slip into a realm filled with darkness. “I’m here, with you. Nothing and nobody can ever change that, I’m with you for as long as you’ll have me.”

With her head being lifted from the ground, she kissed him, taking over the control to flip them around, straddling his lap. Both were desperate for their release, needing to feel that blinding sensation they were aching for. Sihtric kept watching her, marvelling at her, admiring her with his hands wandering up her frame, cupping her naked breasts.

The way he pinched her hardened nipples forced her to arch her back, head rolling back to let go of a deep, gritty moan. Sihtric could have come from the sound alone, having to stop himself from giving in as he felt her walls flutter around him. He watched her fuck herself on his twitching cock, sneaking one hand down her frame to rub her bundle.

And with the call of his name, (y/n) came, scratching at his naked chest with the intense feeling racing through her body. Once again she found herself pressed to the ground as Sihtric searched for his high, fucking into her even faster than before. He came with a gasp, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted. A sight so beautiful (y/n) wanted to freeze the passing by moments, forever needing to remember this very second.

“I love you, and nothing will ever change that Sihtric Kjartansson.”

#Sihtric smut #Sihtric imagine #Sihtric x reader #the last kingdom #the last kingdom imagine

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sweetiecakesss · 3 months

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‼️PLEASE READ‼️

(Image is just for attention grabs)

I would like to start by introducing myself, I'm Maowie. Am a writer here on tumblr and today I want to use my platform with a small following...HOPING to spread information and awareness about what is currently going on in my country, THE PHILIPPINES.

Filipino fishermens in my country are currently being harassed by The China Coast Guard, provoking trouble inside waters under Philippine Jurisdictions. Asserting Dominance and CLAIMING that the WEST PHILIPPINES SEA IS THEIRS.

As a Filipino myself, I fear for my fellow countrymen and posting about this issue is the only way I could spread awareness and call for support for my people. Donations are not needed nor being asked for, what I request is for the people who will reach this to repost and spread.

THE WEST PHILIPPINE SEA BELONGS TO THE PHILIPPINES AND THE PHILIPPINES ALONE!!

REFER TO THIS LINKS FOR MORE INFORMATION (Remvove "£"):

https:£//www.facebook.com/share/p/UJxsd1mawooiUTiR/?mibextid=oFDknk

https:£//www.facebook.com/share/p/zaUtUA6bhLp1NQtC/?mibextid=oFDknk

#maomao speaks #mao {navigation}#honkai star rail #hsr smut #honkai star rail smut #hsr #jjk smut #writters on tumblr #mha #mha x reader #wuthering waves #wuthering waves x reader #genshin impact smut #genshin x reader #genshin impact

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dinarosie · 2 months

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Please do not change the characters based on personal preferences and instead see them as written:

I see bizarre fan theories and headcanons about Severus Snape every day that never happened in the books. The problem is, these headcanons are repeated so often that some Harry Potter fans believe them and forget that they are just fan fiction and not the truth. Therefore, I am sharing this old interview with Rowling to remind of some facts.

1. Like many insecure, vulnerable people (such as Wormtail),Snape craved membership in something big and powerful, something impressive: It’s interesting that 17 years have passed since Rowling's response, yet many people still believe Snape joined the Death Eaters because he was a sadistic, racist, antisocial person who wanted to harm people and use dark magic to destroy Muggles and Muggle-borns.!!! However, the writer believes Snape's goal was not to kill and torture Muggle-borns, nor was it racism. He was a poor, insecure, and damaged youth who had never known security or peace in his life. His childhood was a nightmare, and his adolescence was filled with humiliation and bullying. He was seeking acceptance and thought that becoming a Death Eater would give him power, attractiveness, and a family that he never had. However, it is clear that these factors led him to make a big mistake.

2. He never really understood Lily's aversion: Severus Snape didn’t want to harm or retaliate against her. He was simply blinded and misled, so foolish and ignorant that he didn’t realize how deep and serious Lily’s hatred for dark magic and the Death Eaters was. He believed that becoming a Death Eater would make him so powerful and captivating that Lily would be influenced and change her beliefs, convinced that dark magic was extremely attractive, potent, and intriguing.

3. Given his time over again, he would not have become a Death Eater: This sentence shows that he has truly changed. Rowling claims that if Snape had a second chance, he would never join the Death Eaters again. Snape's genuine regret is that, starting at the age of 20, he attempted to make amends for his past actions until the time of his death. He refused to make the same mistake again, unlike Wormtail, who eagerly returned to serve Voldemort when given the opportunity.

4. Like Snape, Harry is flawed and mortal: Do those who see Snape as the story's villain and an unforgivable character understand that, in the author's opinion, Harry is also like Snape? Do they understand that Harry can be flawed and potentially harm others? Harry is never described as a saint. He tortures someone and uses unforgivable curses; he can be arrogant and aggressive while remaining brave and heroic. Snape is flawed and mortal, just like Harry. He makes many mistakes, but in the end, he remains brave and self-sacrificing, and, like Harry, he saves many people's lives.

5. James always suspected Snape harbored deeper feelings for Lily, which was a factor in James' behavior toward Snape: Listen, this is one of the reasons James Potter had for bullying Severus Snape for seven years. Please refrain from saying things like, “Snape was bullied because he joined the Death Eaters” or “because he was interested in dark magic,” as none of these reasons are canonical. These reasons belong to James Potter’s fans, not James Potter himself. The author of the book has clearly explained James Potter’s motives. James Potter had two childish reasons for tormenting a person for many years:

_He existed (in a way that was ugly and poor). _He was close friends with Lily Evans.

6. It was Voldemort's attempted murder of Kreacher that really turned him: Isn't a change to save a living being's life familiar? I don't understand why Snape's change for Lily's salvation is seen as demonic motivation, whereas Regulus's change for Kreacher is considered epic. Recently, in fan fiction, Regulus has become the little knight of the Black family, whose parents tortured him so much that he is forced to join the Death Eaters and then rebel against Voldemort's ideology to eradicate racism in the wizarding world. But Snape's efforts, sacrifices, loyalty, and spying over the course of 19 years are reduced to being a loser obsessed with a dead woman!!! Such double standards are embarrassing. I'm curious: If Regulus Black were not Sirius Black's brother and not from a pureblood family, and Voldemort had killed Kreacher while Regulus survived and fought Voldemort, how would fans react to Regulus? How ridiculous would it be to say, "Oh, Regulus Black? He is simply a deviant who was obsessed with his dead elf"?

"Please do not change the characters based on personal preferences and instead see them as written. The writer uses Lily's and Kreacher's salvation as symbols of redemption to demonstrate the characters' growth and maturation. If the concept of love, loyalty, and friendship has changed over time among new generations, this is not the fault of Severus Snape."

#severus snape #lily evans #snape meta #regulus black #snape defender #snapedom #harry potter #anti snaters #pro snape #anti double standards #anti james potter

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isalisewrites · 4 months

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A Deep Dive into JKR's Terrible, Amateur Writing - Reflective Interlude

Hello and welcome to my ballsy series where I will prove to you, dear reader, that J.K. Rowling, author of the Harry Potter series and resident Twitter TERF, is actually a very, very poor writer.

And when I say ‘poor writer,’ I’m talking about her prose, her sentence structure, and her scenes in the Harry Potter series. I am not going to discuss anything about the HP world nor the overall plot of the books.

This is all about the nitty gritty in the craft of writing itself.

Part One Link.

Part Two Link.

However…

Hiya! *waves* I’m Isa, the author of this… Actually, I dunno what to call this series anymore. Anyway, thus far, you’ve heard a very satirical tone from me in the previous two posts, but that’s not my normal tone. I’m a rather laid back kind of gal with a side of sarcasm and deluge of emoji usage.

I have used quite a confident, even bombastically obnoxious tone in the effort to be entertaining and engaging with these posts. It was meant to be playful and sarcastic. It’s the internet, so I’m aware everyone’s attention is… kind of like a commodity, unfortunately. Look at TikTok or YouTube. How long does a 30s video hold your attention before you’re scrolling to the next? It depends for me, I’ll admit. People don’t have the attention span for long style posts such as these and that’s fair. Sometimes, I don’t either.

Thus, I used repeated ‘catch phases’ to maintain a rhythm and a thematic style through the series with a controversial title meant to hook a reader. I repeat the opening, even in this post. I repeat ‘Class is in session’ to show the beginning of the major section of the post.

However, in this interlude, I’ve toned it all down because I wanted to give you a window into my heart, my purpose, and my intent in this series. It is a reflective post that ends with writing motivation to you, my dear reader, as well as links to writerly resources.

I’ve had a lot to think about this week and I realized that many writers (and other creatives) have to battle against an enemy found within themselves. This enemy often torments many with cruel, destructive thoughts; they burrow their way into so many writers’ minds. It whispers: “Can you really do this? Are you really sure you’re any good? Aren’t you just fooling yourself? They’re going to find out you’re just a fraud. So… why bother?”

Whose voice is that?

Let’s talk about the destroyer of creation, Imposter Syndrome, why I refuse to let the bastard infect me anymore, and why my confident tone in previous posts has grated nerves.

Remember: take what resonates and leave what doesn’t.

(This means I write my posts with the honest acceptance and expectation that not everything will fit with your style, your vibes, or your personality. That’s okay.)

All right, let’s buckle up, my dear writing friends. Grab a snack. Hydrate. Let’s begin. And yes…

Class is in session on this little Tumblr post… should you wish to attend.

Having confidence or pride in one’s work seems to be taboo. Any brief moment in time where I tried to be proud about my writing or say, Hey, I’m a good writer, I was always told to be humble. “Don’t be prideful. Be humble.” It would often chip away at my self esteem. I could be a good writer, but I couldn’t allow myself to feel like a good writer.

But no more.

I have only given myself permission to be confident about my writing within the past month. This is why I started this series in the first place. I wanted to share knowledge and in an entertaining way. I make a bold claim that I’m a better writer than JKR; I analyze her writing to both improve my own understanding and to help others as well.

However, this does not mean I’ve ever been under the delusion I’m perfect. Absolutely not. God, that’s so fucking laughable! I am not perfect. I am not a perfect writer. I definitely don’t know everything. Someone once corrected me, informing me that snakes are venomous, not poisonous. Bless them, wasn’t aware of that. Immediately fixed that. One of the recent reblogs said geodes do not contain emeralds. God bless, I didn’t know that, though in the case of how it was used in TBG, I won’t be changing it since it’s within a character thought.

Sorry, Tom. I guess you need to take a geology class, too.

Ugh, and I have so many godforsaken typos. My soul withers when I catch a typo after I’ve posted a chapter. I miss things all the time. I repeat things because ‘that’s my thing’ and I don’t always catch them in my edits. I forget things all the time. Thank GOD for Dede, someone who loved TBG so much she spent countless hours archiving data from it, where she caught a number of inconsistencies and alerted me to them. I still haven’t been able to fix them yet, but I’m so grateful to her. I’ve noted them all down. Harry’s height often is incorrectly implied to be taller than it should be because my brain isn’t wired for imagery. My brain forgets TBG Harry is a short king at 5’4” while TBG Tom is 6’2” and I need to go back to fix all of those.

I am not a perfect writer and I don’t claim to be.

My goals with this series are to study/learn for myself, teach/share knowledge with others, and learn some more from this experience. I love this kind of analysis. But there’s difference between my analysis of JKR’s writing and a number of those who have retaliated with an analysis of my writing.

Instead of looking at my imperfections with the desire to learn from them, they were illuminated in the attempt to ‘take me down a notch.’ To those who put in the effort to make counterpoints, I do thank you for your contribution to this series. It is appreciated, even when given impolitely and with the intent to ‘put me in my place.’

Despite all of my errors and imperfections, I still stand by my statement: I am a better writer than J.K. Rowling.

Do you know who else is a better writer than her? I could list thousands of them. They’re fanfiction writers. They’re indie authors. They’re other traditional published authors. They are so many other writers that, yes, I do think are stronger writers than JKR.

And you’re a better writer, too, so long as you wish it.

I sincerely want you to believe that.

Why? Because it’s clear within the Harry Potter series that JKR did not make attempts to grow as a writer. She just wrote. Perhaps she was under deadlines, but the lack of editing is pretty apparent to me. When you write a lot, you will inevitably get more skilled over time, but you have to actively be seeking improvement to see drastic change in your own skill. It is this lack of drive that I see within her work. She’s not making attempts to push the boundaries of her abilities and skills with each new book.

I’m not at the end of my journey of learning. I never will be. I love expanding my skills. I’m even learning during the process of writing these posts, too. I’m seeing more weaknesses in my own work and I’m now thinking on ways to strengthen my writing even further.

That’s the point of this series.

In the end, it’s not really about me. No, really, it’s not about me. I truly think it’s about the jealousy of seeing another writer be confident in their work. You see, I’m not supposed to be confident; I’m not supposed to act like I can help and teach others to write. How dare I. Posting anything about my work is an act of attention seeking. I’m supposed to be ‘humble.’ I’m supposed to be silent. I’m supposed to wave a shy, dismissive hand at compliments.

Why?

Why is being proud of one’s work and loving one’s own work such a controversial idea?

Imposter Syndrome often cripples creators. There’s already so much self doubt and anxiety in the world, but Imposter Syndrome can really wreck with a creator’s mind. It’s a poison. It stops you from creating what you love most. When you believe you aren’t good enough, then it becomes harder to try. Your belief becomes truth to you, whether or not it was true in reality in the first place. Perhaps, you sink into depression. You become anxious about sharing anything, for fear anyone might say even the slightest negative comment. The heart becomes fragile and brittle, and the muscle which builds skill atrophies over time. You see your work through a lens of self hate. You can only see flaws.

“I will never be good enough.”

When you’re in this state of mind, it’s hard to see the truth about your work.

But let me promise you something: your writing is far more beautiful than you realize.

In spirit, all creative writing is perfect to me with all of its typos and mistakes (yes, even all of the Harry Potter books!), but no single work is objectively perfect. There will always be room to improve your creation because you’re constantly growing. It’s why so many aspiring novelists fall into an endless cycle of editing their first few chapters. The more they write, the more they improve; thus, when they go back to their earlier chapters, they get stuck trying to update those chapters instead of pushing forward to the finish line.

Your work is valuable, no matter what. It’s beautiful. You’re allowed to love your work. You’re allowed to see the good in it and you’re allowed to have confidence in yourself. You’re allowed to say to yourself and to others, I’m a damn good writer.

You deserve to have love, for yourself and for your art.

I have often sincerely complimented other writers and, many times, after they respond with their thanks, it becomes clear to me they’re not confident in their work, yet they have still bravely shared it with us.

I’m so proud of them. Thank you for your bravery.

My heart breaks for them, too. They’re such good writers—such damn good writers. And I wish they knew and believed this.

I will always do everything in my power to encourage others.

How do you feel about your writing? Do you like your writing? You should. You really should because it is good. You created it, after all. There will always be space to grow and refine your craft, of course, but you are a good writer now. You’re going to be a better writer tomorrow and the next day, so long as you desire this growth in yourself. There’s no destination, though. There’s no magic level you have to reach before you’re allowed to have some confidence in yourself and your abilities. The only trap to avoid is remaining stagnant. Writing is a skill. Writing is a craft. This means it gets better through study and practice.

You can achieve that.

I know it’s hard, though. There are so many naysayers in life. There are so many people waiting to attack and bring others down, both on the internet and in our own families. How many precious fanfics have been lost because a writer received horrible, hateful comments? How many writers have disappeared from the internet because of this cruelty? We have lost many in all fandoms. That is unacceptable to me.

Uplift others. Spread love, not hate.

You’re allowed to be proud about your work, imperfect as it may be. Please, I beg you, don’t let the negative voices of others—including your own!—drag you down and steal the joy of creating. I know it’s so very, very hard to stand strong against such voices. Words have power, but you have more. Resist the naysayers.

What you have to offer the world is precious. Please lift your head and acknowledge that what you create is good. It’s great. It’s amazing. It’s fucking fantastic. You’re not an imposter nor a fraud. No one can offer what you can to the world. No one can write the stories you have in your head the way you can. Your style is unique to you. You’re allowed to love it as it is now and you’re allowed to love it whatever form it takes in the future.

Imposter Syndrome is a thief; toss it into jail and throw away the key.

My writing is not perfect and it never will be, but I’m a better writer today than I was ten years ago. I’m a seeker of my own growth. I’m often reading books on writing and watching YouTube videos on writing. I absorb it all because writing is my truest love and passion. My style has evolved from reading endless amount of novels and fanfics. I devour both.

But I wasted a decade thinking I didn’t have what it takes.

And life is short. I can’t waste anymore time.

Don’t be like past Isa, please.

There’s a difference in refinement between an episodic fanfic posted over the course of years and a traditional novel published in whole, but I still stand by my work. I recognize my style will not be enjoyed by all those who read it. It’s okay if you don’t like my style. I’m eternally grateful for the many readers who do love my writing. I’m humbled and honored by the sheer volume of people who have commented, bookmarked, and have left kudos on my work. Thank you.

My style has evolved into what it is today due to a combination of two things.

I have ADHD. It’s why my style uses smaller paragraphs as a whole.

I have aphantasia. I lack a mind that can visualize pictures. I literally cannot see anything in my mind. When people say, “I can picture it in my mind,” that’s not me. I cannot at all. When there’s a lack of description in prose, it feels blank and empty to me. This is why I use vivid descriptions in the way I do because otherwise I feel nothing from my work.

It’s okay if this style doesn’t work for you. I love my style because it caters to what I need. I also love other styles that don’t use as much description; however, I can’t always follow what’s happening because of the wiring of my brain. I can get lost sometimes, but I still appreciate their style because I can’t effectively do what they can.

If you find no value in my style and what I offer in this series here, then that’s okay. I’m not offended. This series is for those who benefit from it. For you, there are so many other writers out there from whom you can learn and I’m more than happy to send you in the direction that benefits you the most.

Here’s a list of YouTubers you might find interesting.

ShaelinWrites has been working on many unpublished projects through the years and has lots of great discussion videos on writing.

Abbie Emmons is a self published author with solid writing advice in all of her videos.

Alexa Donne is a traditionally published author with great insider information into the traditional publishing world.

Ellen Brock is a professional editor. She knows her stuff.

I hesitantly suggest Jenna Moreci and her content on YouTube because I think she has some major weaknesses in her writing. Many others have seen this about her books. However, she is a successful indie author and her YouTube content has a lot of value.

Brandon Sanderson has an entire college course in a playlist on his channel. It’s a fabulous free resource if you vibe with his style of writing. Highly recommend.

Here’s a list of writing books I recommend.

Elements of Fiction Writing, a five book series. My TOP recommendation is Elements of Fiction Writing - Beginnings, Middles & Ends.

Sin and Syntax: How to Craft Wicked Good Prose

Let the Crazy Child Write!: Finding Your Creative Writing Voice

Novelist's Essential Guide to Crafting Scenes

All right then.

Thank you for sticking around. I hope you accept this post in the good faith it was given and was always given in the previous posts. Next post, I’ll be returning to my playful satirical tone. Hehe~!

Please do the world the greatest of favors and write. Create. Share your fanfiction. Become best selling authors, traditional or indie. I promise you’re far more capable and skilled than you realize.

Until next time.

Isa

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faeriefully · 3 months

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C. S. Lewis is credited for popularizing the three Ls explanation for the logic of Christ’s divinity.

Taking the gospels and Christ’s own words, there are only three options. Christ is either a Liar, a Lunatic, or He is Lord of all (God incarnate).

Why is this the only logical conclusion?

Christ Himself claims to be God.

In the book of John we find many “I Am” statements made by Christ.

“He said to them, “You are from below; I am from above. You are of this world; I am not of this world. I told you that you would die in your sins, for unless you believe that I am he you will die in your sins.””

‭‭John‬ ‭8‬:‭23‬-‭24‬ ‭ESV‬‬

*note that the “he” is an addition for English translation. The Greek does not contain it. It is Ego Eimi: I Am that I Am.

—

“So the Jews said to him, “You are not yet fifty years old, and have you seen Abraham?” Jesus said to them, “Truly, truly, I say to you, before Abraham was, I Am.” So they picked up stones to throw at him, but Jesus hid himself and went out of the temple.”

‭‭John‬ ‭8‬:‭57‬-‭59‬ ‭ESV‬‬

—

“Jesus said to them, “I am the bread of life; whoever comes to me shall not hunger, and whoever believes in me shall never thirst.”

‭‭John‬ ‭6‬:‭35‬ ‭ESV‬‬

—

These two, along with others “I Am” statements in the book of John, are constructed in the Greek as Ego Eimi.

“The Greek construction lying behind this phrase is very important. To emphasize the “I” in an “I am” statement, writers and speakers would use the construction ego eimi meaning “I, I myself, am.” This is done very rarely in the Bible but ego eimi is the construction we find behind every “I AM” statement in the gospel of John. Significantly, the ego eimi construction is also found in the Greek translation of Exodus 3:14 when God declares of Himself: “I AM WHO I AM.” Over and over again when Jesus utters these “I AM” statements, He is making reference to His own deity. No first century Jew who was trained in the Scriptures would have missed this.”

— R. C. Sproul

—

Why does this matter?

Because, if Jesus is claiming the name of God, claiming to be divine, to be able to forgive sins, then there is a lot of weight on the validity of his statements.

Jesus is claiming to be God.

This means:

He is either a liar— a blasphemer in which is was correct for the Jews to attempt to kill Him. It would also mean that He is not a “moral” teacher whose lessons should be obeyed. Nothing He says is of trustworthiness. He is an enemy of God. And we should not believe, obey, nor follow His teachings. He is incapable of forgiving sin. He is a sinner. He cannot provide righteousness on our behalf. He cannot atone for sin nor bear the wrath of God without perishing. He is temporal. He is dead. He offers no salvation.

He is a lunatic. A madman who believed Himself to be God and a blasphemer. Nothing He says is of trustworthiness. In which, again, it is correct for the Jews to attempt to kill him. He is an enemy of God. And we should not believe, obey, nor follow His teachings. Again, he is a sinner, incapable of providing substitution or forgiveness. He is dead. He is temporal, unable to atone for anyone, not even himself. He offers no salvation for anyone.

He is Lord.

He is telling the truth. He is the Bread of Life. He is the Light of the World. He is the great I Am. He is the good shepherd. He is the lamb slain before the foundation of the world— capable of forgiving sin, able to intercede for us. He is our comforter. He is our caretaker. He is perfect, incapable of sin, deceit, lies, or failure. He is infinite and eternal, capable to bear the wrath of God without perishing for all His people’s sins, present, past, and future.

He provides righteousness and salvation for all who place their trust in Him.

He is God, our savior.

—

If Jesus is not God, there is no salvation.

Listen to our Lord who calls you,

“All things have been handed over to me by my Father, and no one knows the Son except the Father, and no one knows the Father except the Son and anyone to whom the Son chooses to reveal him. Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.””

‭‭Matthew‬ ‭11‬:‭27‬-‭30‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Come. Repent. Cast your burdens and your sin upon Jesus, our God who can remove your iniquity and comfort your grief.

#gospel #theology #christianity #I’m actually going to be going through the logic and theology over the next few days #Trinity #mine #c. s. lewis #this is highly condensed #and much more mature people have said it more elegantly #it would take pages and pages to say all that I want #but this will do for now #hall of fame

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darklinaforever · 3 months

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I don't really understand what Daemon's fault is.

Aemond was a request from Rhaenyra and in HOTD they made B&C an accident.

Then, what do we really blame Daemon for ?

For doing his job as a consort and acting when Rhaenyra was unavailable in 1x10 to allow their house to have defenses after Rhaenys warned that the Greens were coming for Rhaenyra and their children ?

For not wanting Rhaenyra to consider a deal that would send their sons as hostages ?

Really, this is supposed to represent Daemon re-establishing the seriousness of Rhaenyra's claim to the throne for people ?

Plus it didn't bother Rhaenyra to be accused of Laenor's murder all these years... Nor that Daemon officially acted without her word in the eyes of others (even if she gave him silent / non-verbal permission to a nod) when he decapitated Vaemond. precisely because it was for their family and their safety. Just like the concil in 1x10 and not agreeing with Otto's cardboard peace terms...)

I am confused.

Are they aware that what they write does not correspond to what they are trying to project ?

Daemon is literally Rhaenyra's greatest ally in Fire and Blood just like HOTD, but for reason the writers constantly try to make people doubt Daemon's loyalty to no avail, because they don't even understand what they're writing about anyway, nor the world they write for.

In context, there is no reason for Blood and Cheese to be a problem for future supporters of Rhaenyra, it never was for a good reason in F&B and it should be the same for HOTD.

The Greens shed the first blood of an innocent man. Who happened to be a member of their family and messenger. They committed 3 big crimes.

But apparently in HOTD we don't care about lore.

No mention that killing a family member is actually a horrible crime in Westeros, no mentions of the messenger's law, or for example the right to invite for season 1 with episode 5 where Criston Cole literally kills the lover of Laenor who was a guest. Normally, he would never have been able to keep his job and get a promotion, it's ridiculous. I agree that Viserys was stupid, but there are limits.

It was just there to make a marriage turn bloody. Nothing more. Gratuitous violence once again.

I swear the only thing keeping me going on this purge is Daemyra / Matt Smith & Emma D'Arcy.

That's all.

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minttangerines · 4 months

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I Don't Understand But I Love You (I don't expect you to do all these, I'm just giving options)

Ugh! I'm so sorry I keep leaning to the darkside. I'M A SITH 😭

Pairing: OC x Seokmin, OC x Hoshi, OC x Seungkwan (I'm sorry! I had to!)

Genre: Mutant au, political aspects Warnings: Manipulation, politics, rough sex, knife play, family problems

Summary: At your family reunion, you spend time with your eccentric Aunt Betty. She has always been nice to you even though you barely see each other. It is the first time seeing her in years when you unload on her the latest update about your love life. You are still hopelessly in love with Seokmin. It doesn't help every school you attended, he attended as well. When you return home, there he is on your front porch waiting for you. Why he is so worried? What break up is he talking about? Why is he getting down on one knee?

Spoilers: Your Aunt Betty aka The Dreamer aka the person that implanted false memories in Seokmin's mind that you two broke up because he cheated. Only she's usually more careful when she does something like this. Unfortunately she could not balance out the memories in time. Seokmin is a bit obsessive when it comes to you. After lots of sex and defending your "love" to the people in his life, you walk him through your lives together and he realizes what happened. He leaves you and has no idea what is real anymore. He can't decide between killing you and loving you forever.

#I don't know anymore man...#I am not a writer nor claim to be #fic prompt game #dk #seventeen #minisugakoobies #the Light Line #I WILL CLEANSE MY SOUL #I PROMISE

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academic-vampire · 3 months

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(Here is an essay I wrote about Edgar Allan Poe’s short story, “The Black Cat.” The essay delves into the seeming “mask of self delusion” that the narrator wears as he writes to exonerate himself of his crimes. To make it more interesting, I argue that the reader is obsolete to the story itself. The essay is really long, but I thought it was fun to write. Please let me know what you think of the topic—I am curious to hear others’ thoughts!)

The Mask of Self-Delusion

(Jack C. June, 2024)

Edgar Allan Poe’s narrator in his short story, “The Black Cat,” is delusional. No reader would bat an eye at this claim, as that is very plainly the case upon even an elementary reading of the work. And yet, the reader is not a crucial part of the reading process itself. On the contrary, Poe’s narrator does not require a reader at all. Instead, the narrator is writing solely for himself. The unreliable narrator in Poe’s short story attempts to exonerate himself—to exculpate himself—in a confessional manner. From the very first lines, the reader becomes aware that they are not expected to believe the narrator, and because of this, the reader is not necessary in the first place. Instead, it is the narrator writing his story for himself in an attempt to justify and rationalize his vile actions—trying to clear away his wicked sins by claiming possession and demonic intervention. The themes of acting on evil human impulse and attempting to vindicate oneself through delusion are highlighted in Poe’s short story—allowing the reader to see that the devil is not necessary to perform vicious deeds—humans alone are just as capable.

It is evident from the first sentence that the narrator is not writing for an audience but for himself. The sentence reads, “For the most wild, yet homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief” (1). The reader is informed a moment later that the narrator is writing from a prison cell, and will die tomorrow, but first he wants to, “…unburthen [his] soul” (1). The narrator does not think anyone will believe him, but that does not matter to him. The narrator aims to assuage himself of the events that took place to convince himself that his actions were not entirely his own. This delusion becomes evident by the language used further in the first paragraph. For example, the narrator writes, “Yet, mad am I not…”, referring to the murders as a, “…series of mere household events”, and even going as far as to proclaim the events as, “…nothing more than an ordinary succession of very natural causes and effects” (1). The language is obviously filled with delusion, but the primary factor to take into account is the attempt at rationalizing his demonic behavior. The language may even remind readers of a defense attorney trying to subdue a tragedy at hand. The key word Poe uses to show the narrator’s attempted justification of his crimes is to describe them as “natural.”

As previously mentioned, this story does not require a reader. Whether or not anyone reads or believes the narrator is not the narrator’s main concern. Instead, the narrator only tries to convince himself of his innocence through delusion and self-manipulation. Scholars Vicki Hester and Emily Segir make an important point when they write, “The story cannot save him from the noose. He has no progeny and mentions no living relatives who might care about his guilt or innocence, so the story serves little purpose for the writer, leaving readers to wonder who might be the intended audience and what might be the story’s point” (176). The narrator is writing for himself—heightening his delusion in an effort to conceal himself from his wicked human nature. Therefore, it is vital that Poe chose to write his story in the first person and not the third. Had Poe written the story in the third person, readers would have been able to quickly identify that the narrator is unreliable. Similarly, the structure of the short story would lose its significance of being told as a confession had it been written in the third person. Poe cleverly chose to write “The Black Cat” in the first person to add to the obviousness of the narrator’s delusion, the vanquishing of pathos any reader may have for the narrator, and the glimpse into the psychologically disturbed that would have been lost otherwise.

This particular reading of the narrator attempting to vindicate himself is not a new interpretation. Scholar James Gorgano concurs with the specific reading of attempted self-exculpation, writing, “The narrator cannot understand that his assault upon another person derives from his own moral sickness and unbalance” (181). By accusing demonic entities and the supernatural, the narrator can step away from the blame he so clearly deserves. Gargano continues, writing, “Consequently, if his self-analysis is accepted, his responsibility for his evil life vanishes” (181). The narrator attempts to detach himself from his crimes by writing his story in his prison cell.

Further in the story, the narrator refers to being overcome by a demonic nature. Yet, he does little to consider that his “demonic nature” is actually innately human. One central theme for Poe is human nature being wicked at its core. Poe does not maintain the naïve belief of humans as innately good, but quite the opposite. Here, the narrator tries to trick himself into believing just that—that he is innocent and was influenced by outside powers. When the narrator kills his cat, he writes, “The fury of a demon instantly possessed me” (2). The narrator removes himself from the equation by casting blame on an evil force notorious for such a wicked crime. Further in the story, as the reader kills his wife, one sentence reads, “Goaded, by the interference, into a rage more than demonical, I withdrew my arm from her grasp and buried the axe in her brain” (6). The narrator has surpassed a demon's rage and arrived at the malicious doorstep of the devil’s capacity for wrath. The narrator cannot fathom that his human nature is not innately good and kind but devilish.

Finally, The narrator loses his grip on his sanity throughout the progression of the story. A few key indicators of the narrator becoming delusional have to do significantly with his language choice. Hester and Segir point out that, after the narrator kills his wife, “He now speaks of his wife as ‘it,’ ‘the body,’ ‘the corpse.’ He does not call his wife’s dead body an accident but refers to the death as, ‘the hideous murder accomplished’” (189). And again, there is a significant moment when the narrator casts his own blame onto otherworldly forces when discussing perverseness. These sentences read, “Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart—one of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man” (2). The narrator craves to be absolved so intensely that he has no problem blaming his murders on human nature and demons—anyone but himself. Hester and Segir cleverly elaborate that, “He also suggests that we, readers, would all do the same, given the same circumstances” (179). A moment after the narrator blames perverseness, he writes, “Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not?” (2). He carries on, speaking of his soul attempting to vex itself, committing, “…wrong for wrong’s sake only” (3). The narrator will do anything but look himself in the eye and confess that he, and he alone, is an evil man. The narrator would prefer to believe that all humans have a devil inside of them that may possess them at any moment and force them to commit heinous acts. It is easier to claim that, ‘the devil made me do it,’ than it is to look at one’s own blood-covered hands and have an epiphany of one’s Mephistophelian nature.

In the last paragraph, the narrator ceaselessly denies responsibility for his guilt. He writes, “Upon its head, with red extended mouth and solitary eye of fire, sat the hideous beast whose craft had seduced me into murder, and whose informing voice had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled the monster up within the tomb!” (8). He claims that Pluto had seduced him to kill instead of admitting that he did it of his own accord. What’s more, is that the narrator claims Pluto consigned him to the hangman—his impending death scheduled for the following day. The last line carries significant weight as the narrator directs—towards the cat—the word that should be used to describe himself—monster. On a deeper metaphorical level, this line can be read as the last act of attempted self-exculpation. With one last line, the narrator seals the guilt of his crimes within the wall. Maybe he was not referring to the cat as the monster, but the guilt of his crimes. The narrator of Edgar Allan Poe’s short story, “The Black Cat,” was never possessed by the devil, although he would prefer to think so. The narrator feels that if he can confess and convince himself of his innocence, he becomes blameless. Often, the devil is considered to be the root of all evil, but people forget that the first murder was a human killing a human—Cain killing Abel.

Works Cited

Gargano, James W. “The Question of Poe’s Narrators.” College English, vol. 25, no. 3, 1963, pp. 177–81. JSTOR.

Hester, Vicki, and Emily Segir. “Edgar Allan Poe: ‘The Black Cat,’ and Current Forensic Psychology.” The Edgar Allan Poe Review, vol. 15, no. 2, 2014, pp. 175–93. JSTOR.

Poe, Edgar Allan. “The Black Cat.” English ###: PDF File. The Black Cat.pdf, June, 2024.

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quixtrix · 10 months

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rayman, eden's feel good american dream story; an analysis

guess who's back with taking ubisoft's silly guys and cutting them open. yknow, if you strip rayman of his personality, of all the behind the scenes we get of him, we get a run of the mill news reporter that is an immigrant, who by face alone serves as a shining ray of hope. he's easily something that by all means, can be classified as a diversity hire. immigrant, nonhuman (which in the world of clh can be considered to be equated with poc irl), and notably the only one in his work environment. don't believe me?

we rarely ever see anyone other than rayman on the show in the form of a coworker. the only time we do see other eden affiliated people, they are both white. "but you can't see red's face!!" there is a reason his dialogue makes you think of more right leaning people with their claims of 'wokeness is destroying everything' under something like april from tmnt being black and not ginger. he's a caricature meant to represent a specific group of people under fascism; those who have successfully consumed the fearmongering and have let it turn from fear of those that they are told are beneath them into hatred for them. there is also the fact that on live tv he throws up a middle finger, refers to an implied group of immigrant people as 'filthy interdimensional alien scum,' and seemingly gains no backlash for it. yes, the other reporter does try to give red a chance to go back on his words, but he sticks to it. and despite all of this, we get no indication that neither red nor the niji 6 had to apologise or received punishment for this. in fact, red is possibly given more chances by eden due to him being weirdly in charge of bullfrog's containment in a way? (i'm not entirely sure WHY he was there, but as he is one of eden's tv personalities, he's at a possibly televised trial of a terrorist.) now if you compare this to rayman, who also acted inappropriately on tv by literally saying fuck, you'd come to realise that rayman was treated so much more harshly. he was IMMEDIATELY replaced by a clone of himself, with no warning nor any indication that eden would do such a thing. it's very likely this was one of, if not the first time that rayman has slipped up like this on live tv. maybe it's a repeat offence considering his personality, but then you could argue that red is a repeat offender of the same shit and then you have to wonder why a soldier like red was not easily replaced but someone who is the literal face and voice of eden was with ease. it's because rayman made himself more than jus a story, he humanised himself by showing a peek of his raw feelings. remember that cute little exposition of the rayman kids show about hybrids? where we see all of these hybrids working as society's grunts and the kids are told to be thankful for hybrids? it's very sweet and gives a good message! now the rayman kids show is a product of eden propaganda, but rayman very much has a hand in it, most likely as a writer. he uses his platform to speak on issues that has happened and affected him. this can be seen in his biopic.

jus sit with this image for a moment. you ever think about why rayman is specifically made as an alien? why he's specifically an immigrant? in real life news reports and speeches, there is a difference in implications when people use immigrants and not aliens. you wanna know why?

as someone apart of an immigrant family myself, i live in a community of other immigrants. majority of them are hispanic, and while i myself am not hispanic, i am very aware of how hispanic immigrants were referred to and treated by politicians under trump's presidency. how couldn't i? even as children in middle school and elementary, we had discussions about what trump was saying because it directly targets my friends and their families. they are people targeted by a man who specifically uses derogatory terms to dehumanise them, to make it easier to justify in the average american mind that the government is doing the right thing by keeping out and protecting america from these so-called 'invading animals.' makes what red was saying earlier feel very on the nose, right? adi shankar, the showrunner for captain laserhawk, is also an immigrant man. immigrated from india, which by the way, did you know has a lot of people immigrating for the purpose of having a better life? that's a common sentiment that can be found in every single immigrant family's story. i've asked my filipino mother why she took an opportunity to live and work in america, and she told me it's because she wanted to give her children a better life than what we would have had in the philippines. hell, i bet if you share a similar background to me, you can ask your own parents the same thing and get the exact same answer, regardless if you came from latin america or africa, or asia. it's because of the concept of the american dream. everyone who has ever engaged with any degree of immigrant discussion has heard of the american dream. it's a concept that seems to be consistently proven via word of mouth, with the biggest examples being celebrities. they will always, without fail, eventually speak about the american dream within their backstories. and typically, they will use their platforms to further empower others within their community. it's why people from specific ethnicities tend to group together, why people make art meant as something akin to a homage to their people. it provides hope to the masses, makes you relate to the person on the screen, and believe that this society is truly a gracious one by providing opportunity. because yeah, it may be bad, but it could be worse. i mean we appreciate you! just look!

dont mind the fact that the majority of opportunities allotted to you is grunt work, the work where you at the base of the pyramid, with the harder jobs and the jobs no one wants to do. dont mind the fact you will be actively dehumanised, forced to work for hours in conditions we wouldn't put anyone else in, but hey. we appreciate you. we thank you. and yknow, you can become more than what you are. yknow, we let someone just like you be more than what you are! nevermind the fact that if they slip up, they'll be met with MUCH harsher criticism in comparison to someone who isn't you! aren't we so gracious? i probably sound a bit like matpat's insane out of context real world examples, but this show is filled with political imagery, so let me be. anyways, let's get back to eden and rayman. rayman, despite being specifically from dimension x as an alien, keeps hybrids in mind when he's doing his work.

people of colour tend to share solidarity with one another due to the fact that surface wise, we share similar struggles. to grossly oversimplify things, we all face discrimination through our appearances and are oppressed by the rules of a society created by our white oppressors. again, hybrids and dimension x immigrants can be equated to irl poc, and despite being different from each other, there is still community. rayman keeps them in mind, hoping to make things better for the overall nonhuman and nonnative (native as in naturally born) population of eden. but, rayman is not what he believes he is. because despite everything he has worked for, despite what he has tried to do, he is still a facilitator of the fascist regime that has an active hand in the perpetual oppression of his own people. one of the core concepts within fascism is us versus them. it's an easy way to instill fear (which is very much needed in fascism to make it easier to lie to the masses) and it's used in multiple layers, beginning with a large group (ex. us versus ussr, capitalism vs communism), then progressively sizing down (ex. saying all eastern europeans are communist, then going smaller and say all those affiliated with eastern europeans are communist) with the goal being to put people against each other and break up community since if you put your minds together, you'll start to realise that the fascist system is bullshit. what i've personally come to find is that in order to hide the fact that there is fascism lurking is that someone that can be considered a 'them,' an other, will be given a seat at the table. it's so they can be used as an excuse, a human shield, when they inevitably slip up and can be paraded to the masses as proof that the other is not as smart or powerful as 'us.' the 'other' within the 'us' is used as something to look down at, while also justifying to oneself that they have a place, that they are not being oppressed. they have an opportunity as much as anyone else! so long as they don't mess up. rayman messes up, and is shunned from 'us.' hes a mistake, impure, clearly not like 'us,' 'us' who had been so gracious to give this 'other' a place. he's cut out and discarded because he has well worn his purpose, and clearly, they can just get another little puppet. they'll dress him up and make him worthy of being one of 'us,' and make sure that this one won't fall to the fault of his little ideas. which is exactly what leads to rayman's transformation of ramon. being forcibly forced out and discarded by eden because he showed his true ideas makes him realise that there was no real place for him within the system. because what good is his work if it leads to what he tried not to create? it's worthless, just as the system it attempts to thrive in is.

tl;dr, rayman is a representation of the american dream, specifically celebrities. he tries to do what he can with his platform, but the fact is that within a fascist system, his impact is not entirely felt in the way he wants it to. that is why he becomes ramon.

anyways if you reached the end of THIS LONG ASS PIECE GOOD LORD thank you!! always open to discuss this and take criticism, my ask box is open in the lil 'who's asking' :^]

#this was a fucking long one my bad #this is inspired by saji sharma's video on mindy kailing #in the sense that it made a few things click nd well here we are #i'm on my fourth rewatch and yeah #yeah i had to say smth bc i dont think anyone has said shit abt this?#i blame the fact that i believe theres not that many poc doing the lil insane analysis thing i do #which is fine btw #also sorry if i got anything wrong !!#im slightly going off of my own memory sooo #captain laserhawk #rayman #clh rayman #captain laserhawk rayman #all the rayman tags bc idk what to do #character analysis

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