#also loves to inexplicably one-up me on my own life experiences

[poundfooolish]

God is there anything more annoying than having a moment of emotional maturity where you're like 'No, I am probably reading this person unfairly, I am taking their words in bad faith because I simply do not like their vibe, when really, they do not mean any of the things I am projecting onto them. I am the one being cruel in this situation, I must step back and meditate upon my own impulses, and stop being a bitch.'

And then the next few words out of their stupid fucking mouths prove your first gut read RIGHT

[nekropsii]

ALPHA TROLLS RANKED BY HOW WRONG THE FANDOM AT LARGE IS ABOUT THEM:

This is a personal challenge, based entirely on my own experience and perspective, and also ranked from Most to Least Correct. I was bored, and thought this might be fun.

Putting this under a cut, because it's long as hell.

MEULIN LEIJON

People get her mostly correct, from what I’ve seen… Most of the time, fan content of Meulin is absolutely recognizable as Meulin, but her pride in her deafness + joy of learning new ways to interact with the world through/due to her disability is always removed, and I do not often see people tackle the Toxic Positivity aspect of her character. That seems less like character assassination, though, and more like a combination of people not actually playing through the Openbounds, people not being able to fathom disabled people (especially those who gained a disability later in life rather than being born disabled) being happy, and general fandom distaste for the idea of touching anything uncomfortable, especially when that uncomfortable topic is highly mundane, normalized, and potentially applicable to them or their loved ones. Meulin’s toxic positivity was, of course, commentary on Tumblr’s ecosystem at the time, so… It was much harder to touch back then.

ARANEA SERKET

People tend to get her general, broad strokes personality right, but unfortunately she gets treated pretty roughly for the crime of Being A Serket. People refuse to understand her motivations, and she often gets demonized for what she was doing around/during [S] Game Over, even though that was something she’d gotten pushed to and also was cool as fuck to watch. God forbid a woman do anything.

DAMARA MEGIDO

People are right about the racism, 100%. It is completely despicable, hard to look at, and extremely blatant. She does, however, have character outside of that. No, it isn’t “whore”, it’s more like “angry, dysfunctional abuse victim”, and she’s genuinely a very interesting and tragic character. But, again, people are right about the racism, so she gets to be placed way up here.

MEENAH PEIXES

She is such a chaotic little bastard. I love her. I really do. Please understand that she genuinely does not understand the concept of consequences. This girl didn’t have a Lusus, she didn’t have parents, it was functionally illegal to tell her “No, you can’t do that.” That would fuck up literally anyone’s moral compass. That’s not me hand waving away all the fucked up and bad shit she’s done, we all know what she did, but people tend to forget this aspect of her character and it pains me deeply, because it is a very genuinely interesting concept that I want to see more of. She’s capable of regret, we’ve seen her feel it, I just don’t think foresight is her forte. No one raised her to consider consequences, or help her experience them in a healthy way, because nobody raised her period.

Also, her ass is not butch, she is the girliest girl in the entire comic. She is about hot pink and glitter and kiss marks and unicorns and cute little puns and you will respect that. She is not masculine. Her ass is not masculine nor is she butch. Let her be her hyper-feminine self.

LATULA PYROPE

Please for the love of god there is more to her character than “Gamer Girl” and “Mituna’s Girlfriend”. You are falling for her fucking ruse. Please. Please. Please recognize that her entire character is about internalized misogyny, and being forced to overcompensate for misogyny in gaming circles as a gamer who happens to be a woman. Please. I’m begging.

KURLOZ MAKARA

His character is not that deep, it’s mostly just a string of events he is mysteriously, inexplicably involved with. The Makaras are extremely Function Over Form- their characters practically do not exist, they're mostly just plot devices that exist to push the story along. I'm sorry to Makara fans. You just invented a guy in your mind and decided he was real. He is also not that soft, though, and his relationships with both Meulin AND Mituna are not healthy. Hard to stop people from ascribing cutesy squishy lovey dynamics to random men who happened to have looked at each other once, though. Some people truly haven't graduated from 2012.

HORUSS ZAHHAK

I am begging people to consider that maybe the biggest issue here is not that he is “Bad Otherkin/Therian Representation” and is in fact maybe the fact that Hussie was actually making fun of Systems when he was writing Horuss. Because Horuss is canonically a system. He uses the word system. He uses the word switching. He uses the word host. He literally talks about his Plurality at length in extremely upfront, plain terms. I don’t know how him being “Bad Otherkin Representation” was and still is the main discourse about him. It makes me insane. That is a commentary that truly writes itself. Talk about having your priorities out of wack, honestly...

PORRIM MARYAM

No, she is not a MRA, she’s just a regular feminist who happens to live on a different planet with different politics and social hierarchies from Our Real World Earth’s USA. Whatever argument you’re about to pull out of your ass to say that she sucks is bad. She already explained what she meant by that, in more detail, very clearly, and she was right. Half the time she’s literally just giving you factual information about what Beforus was like, and literal plot synopses. She isn’t saying anything insane. She’s literally normal. I don’t know why people cannot handle or process this. Porrim has not ever said anything controversial. If you disagree with this you’re either misconstruing her on purpose or you fell for Kankri’s bait, and that’s just fucking sad at that point.

Also, she’s more than a sex object, and her tits are not huge. Honestly, half the shit she was saying was just “I am more than my sex life”, and so many people took that and made her main character trait her sex life. Just pathetic.

RUFIOH NITRAM

This man is a fucking war criminal and I will stop at nothing until he is behind bars for his crimes against Damara. Raging misogynist. Total fucking cunt. Just the worst. If I talk any more about this, this part will be 1,000 paragraphs long. But also, I’m begging people to recognize his relationship with disability, too. He was similar to Meulin in the sense that he didn’t mind his disability, and his biggest gripe with it was the way that Horuss tried to “fix” it… Which is an interesting way to expand upon how Beforus’s culling system is not only very explicitly ableist, but mimicking real world systemic ableism. I also want people to recognize that Hussie is actively having a conversation about the reclamation of slurs with Rufioh’s character, and how not letting people reclaim such language is doing nothing but giving the word power against them while stripping away their own personal agency. Rufioh’s a complicated guy, and he’s interesting and also the worst, and I am really tired of how he gets watered down to nothing but “Pretty Boy Victim Of His Inexplicably Psycho Ex”.

MITUNA CAPTOR

Holy Fucking Shit, You Guys Are Ableist.

KANKRI VANTAS

To this day I see people saying he was just Hussie making fun of SJWs. To this day. To this day people think Hussie was trying to make Every Tumblr Leftist look bad, and that he hates them Because They Are Leftists. When will people recognize him as a bootlicker to the oppressive class and the violently bigoted. When will people recognize that. When will people recognize that this is more of a commentary on the legitimate real flaws of Tumblr’s politics at the time. When. When.

When will people stop portraying him as a lovey-dovey Catholic Whore. I’m going to stab my fucking eyes out and then kill everyone in this building. Me when it's based and cool to ship an aroace character with a sexual predator. I GUESS.

CRONUS AMPORA

I say this with every ounce of sincerity I can possibly muster as a person: What the literal actual fuck.

[cuubism]

based on THIS shitpost. nsft below the cut. inexplicably 7k.

--

Dream had promised Hob, since reuniting, since agreeing to see each other more often, that he would let Hob introduce him properly to human experiences. "It'll do you good," Hob had said. Dream thinks Death would agree with this also. He is now wondering, however, if this had been folly.

"I think I've given you the general rundown now," Hob says, leaning back in his chair, swirling his bottle of beer—mostly empty—idly in one hand. "The highlights. We'll be here for ages if you want to hear all of it."

Dream is surprised to realize he is curious to hear the stories of all of Hob's lovers. But he does not feel it is quite appropriate to press, no matter how open Hob has been in speaking of it. Dream is most interested, after all, in people Hob has loved, not just those he's had carnal relations with—stories of love are of much more interest to him than stories simply of desire, and Hob has already relayed these stories to him, each a glimmering jewel on the long chain of his life.

Each sticks in Dream's mind now, glittering in his peripheral vision. He cannot tell precisely what they want of him—the corners of his being are blurred, his thoughts wavering, at points clear and ringing and at others indistinct. A consequence of allowing alcohol to affect him, at Hob's bidding. It is... pleasant. Loose. Warm. Though Dream thinks, anywhere outside of Hob's flat, it would feel disconcerting instead.

It's this folly in allowing Hob to ply him with wine, perhaps, that has him saying, "Do you wish to hear of my own?"

Hob's expression sharpens. He is, perhaps, less drunk than Dream is, despite being on his fourth beer, while Dream has only had— ah. That bottle of wine is three-quarters empty. Hmm. "You mean, you want to talk about it?"

"I believe it is customary for friendship to involve a mutual sharing of stories?"

"Sure, if you want to." Hob's gaze on him is intent, curious, but still fond, always fond. "Usually you're like this." He draws his fingers across his lips in a zipping motion. "So of course I'm curious."

"Am I so reticent?" Hob is right, though. Dream can acknowledge it. He would not usually care to speak of these things. He could blame the wine, today. But.

Hob laughs. "Took me six hundred thirty-three years to get a name. You are the king of reticence." He dips his head as if bowing to this "king." "I would be honored to hear your stories, my friend."

Dream tucks his nose into his glass. He should perhaps not drink any more, but the smell is still pleasant, rich and sharp. "They are not so happy."

"Still. If you want to tell."

Dream is not like Hob. He does not have casual dalliances. Each collision was as bright as a falling star. He doesn't know if he has the strength, now, to relay all that terrible history.

Instead, he shares with Hob the early days of burning. Each of those bright, glowing moments. And glosses over the fall.

He thinks Hob sees it, though. He considers him from under his brows as Dream speaks, understanding in his eyes. Doesn't ask him about it, perhaps sensing that Dream does not have the wherewithal for telling and asking in the same evening. "Thank you," he finally says.

"Why?"

"For sharing."

Dream looks back down at his glass. It's empty again. Perhaps that is for the best. It is not often that he... shares. Particularly about this. But Hob is generous in not prying. In wanting to listen, for the simple sake of, as far as Dream can tell, understanding Dream.

When he looks up again, Hob is tapping the mouth of his beer bottle against his lips in thought. "Can I ask you something? It'll probably be utter silliness to you, though. Being this... beyond human entity that you are."

Dream's shoulders tense where they'd gone relaxed with drink and Hob's company. "Go ahead."

"Were all of your lovers women?"

And Dream relaxes again. Ah. This is just... factual. Not... digging in to his many relational failures. "I suppose. Yes."

"Is that by design, or...?"

Dream frowns. "I do not... understand."

"Well, since we've established that I'm an indiscriminate slut—" always so crude, but something about the click of Hob's tongue makes Dream shift uncomfortably in his seat on the couch— “I was wondering whether you were the same way." Then he winces. "Not the slut part. The indiscriminate part."

"Do you mean to ask if I care about the gender or sex of my lovers?"

"Yep. Knew I should have just been straightforward with you."

Dream thinks about it. He has never made a pattern of his relationships, the way humans do. He simply... does what his foolhardy heart commands. Usually with poor results. "I suppose I do not. Care, that is. But. My lovers have been women, yes."

Hob tilts his head. There's a new gleam in his eyes, now. He goes to finish his beer, but it’s empty. Dream watches the drag of his lips over the mouth of the bottle.

"Does that surprise you, Hob Gadling?" he asks. "That my amorous pursuits have been so much narrower than yours?"

"Mmm. Little bit? It's just, even if I hadn’t—how can I put it politely—fucked my way across half of London already by the time we met, I can't imagine making it six hundred years without ever at least experimenting?" He grins. "I could be straight as a nail and curiosity alone would've got me in some bloke's bed at least once. Hmm. Maybe three times just to be sure."

"It is good that you cannot die, for I believe curiosity would have sounded your death knell twenty times over by now."

Hob raises his bottle in Dream's direction. "True, that." Then he leans forward on his knees, eyes bright with, of course, curiosity. "But weren't you ever curious?"

"I contain the collective memory," Dream reminds him. "All fantasies. And dreams. If I need to understand an experience, I can simply consult that breadth of knowledge. I do not need to 'wind up in some bloke's bed.'"

Hob's leaning so far forward now he might come toppling off his chair. "But do you wanna?"

Dream frowns. "I do not..."

"Do you want to experience it yourself, though?" Hob repeats. "Cuz I could watch porn—" Dream wrinkles his nose at this crude analogy for his relationship to his dreams, but the offense is swiftly banished as Hob continues— “but that's not the same as—” his hand lands on Dream's wrist, fingertips pressed to where he would have a pulse— "that."

Dream freezes. Under Hob's fingers, his heart jumps once, quick as a mouse.

"I've no doubt you understand it, Dream," continues Hob, and perhaps he had drunk less than Dream had thought, for he seems very lucid now, "but that's not the same as being there."

Dream fixates on where they are touching. His skin feels very hot, at that point. "And what. Is being there like?"

Hob's fingers slip a little higher, just under the sleeve of his coat. He is still wearing his coat, yes, why is that? He feels very warm. "Could find out?"

"Are you suggesting I should find some man to bed me?"

"Some man," Hob repeats, jaw working. His gaze is hovering somewhere around Dream's collar. "Some man who knows what he's doing, yeah."

"And..." an echo of a breath is frozen in Dream's lungs. Some instinct saying, be still. A pulse at his elbow, in his thigh, at his throat. Hob still has his wrist pinned. "Do you know what you are doing, Hob Gadling?"

"Never in my life," says Hob, and leans in and kisses him.

He has to get out of his chair to do it. Has to lean down over Dream, taking Dream's cheek in his hand. Has to tip Dream's head back, and sweep his tongue into his mouth from above, or perhaps Dream only tells himself that he has to rather than acknowledge that it is Dream himself baring his throat, opening his mouth to Hob's.

If he wished to know what it was like to be kissed by a man, now he knows: strong and lingering and hungry. Or perhaps that is just Hob Gadling. Hob's stubble brushes his cheeks. He can smell Hob's cologne, rich and sweet like whiskey. He wraps a hand around the back of Hob's neck so he can't pull away far.

Hob's eyes are heavy-lidded when he looks at him. Dream touches his own lips, and Hob follows the movement. "I'm not certain I understand," Dream says. "This is not enough data to make a determination."

"Definitely not," says Hob, and kisses him again, pushing him into the back of the couch. The strength of his hands sends fire racing all the way up Dream's spine, curling around his neck, burning in the tips of his ears. He bites experimentally at Hob's lower lip, and Hob groans low in his throat.

"We're not—" Hob pulls away, lips shiny and wet, "we're not doing this here. Come on."

He stands upright again, and Dream will deny to the end of the universe the dissatisfied sound he makes when Hob's warmth leaves him. Hob smiles, soft and fond now, and takes his hand. "Come on, love."

Love.

Some man, Dream thinks, as he lets Hob pull him up. Join some man in bed. As he follows Hob down the hall to his bedroom. For curiosity's sake. As Hob kneels to help pull off his boots. Just to understand. As Hob divests him of his coat.

Experimental.

"You're so buttoned up." Hob smoothes his hands over Dream's shoulders, his bare arms under his t-shirt. "Let me know if it's too much, okay?"

"Yes." Too much, yes, it is too much, to see Hob look at him like that, with care and with hunger, for Hob to touch him gently, it makes his skin prickle, his cheeks heat, his throat terribly dry. It is too much; he will not tell Hob to stop.

I want to understand, Dream thinks. I want—

Hob smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Come on, then."

Hob is already barefoot, being less guarded than Dream, and he leads Dream up onto the bed. Dream follows, chasing his hands, and Hob does not deprive him. He leans against the headboard and lets Dream settle in his lap, immediately framing his face again between his palms. For the sake of learning, Dream pushes all the dreams of this aside, so that it is just him and Hob. New. Theirs.

He looks into Hob's eyes, very close now, and he feels light, floaty, good. Perhaps the wine was a bad idea. Perhaps it was right.

"What d'you want, darling?" Hob asks. Brushes his lips to the corner of Dream's mouth. "Tell me. This is for you, after all."

Yes. For Dream. A scientific exercise, he must remember. It will help him... understand. It will help him create more vivid dreams. That is all.

He can feel Hob's growing erection pressing against him. His own jeans growing tight. "I would like. The full experience."

Hob laughs, but it's a friendly laugh, not at his expense. Dream can recognize that, now. "There's no full experience. Sex counts as sex if you say it does. But if you're trying to say penetration, we can do that."

Dream shivers at the word penetration, sitting so matter-of-factly on Hob Gadling's tongue. "Yes. I believe that is what I meant."

"Alright." Hob may be matter-of-fact, but he does not sound unaffected. His voice has gone rough, his eyes dark, a flush along his cheeks. His hands fall from Dream's face to brace his hips, thumbs sweeping under the hem of Dream's shirt to touch his skin.

But he doesn't push Dream down into the mattress. Instead he pulls Dream closer by the hips, saying, "C'mere then," and Dream goes back to his mouth. Sinks into Hob's kiss, and the searing heat of his hands on Dream's hipbones. It's different. It's already different. But he can't yet determine if it's different because Hob is a man, or because he is Hob.

Hob, who has been a friend to him even when he couldn't recognize it. Who wants him to enjoy things. Wants to share with him.

Hob pushes Dream's shirt up over his head. Dream has not been bare in front of someone since his escape, but he doesn't think he minds, when it's Hob. When it means he gets Hob's broad, strong hands on his back, pulling him close, and Hob's lips on his shoulder, the crook of his neck, kissing and leaving marks.

"You know, once upon a time I thought you were above all this," Hob murmurs. He touches Dream's belly, his chest, his neck, holding lightly. "You were so... untouchable. Couldn't imagine you lowering yourself to engage in such—” he bites at Dream's earlobe— “such base activities."

"'Untouchable,' Hob Gadling?" Dream says. Hob's hands are cradling his throat now. Hob catches his point and flexes his fingers; Dream swallows under the grip.

"Always wanted to know," Hob murmurs, "if anyone'd touched you at all."

Not in a very long time, it is true. Dream burns with it, now, everywhere Hob touches him is alight. "What would you have done with an answer?"

"Dared," says Hob. "I expect."

"Always daring," Dream says. Indulges himself and slips his own hands under Hob's shirt, feels out his stomach, his hair, his back, all the strong lines of him. Hob's shoulders are pleasing, and his hips where Dream squeezes with his thighs, and these are not things Dream has thought of much, before. He wants to see more. To feel more. "Daring to be the first man to have me."

"Don't say things like that if you want me to keep my sanity." The words are rough like Dream has reached in and touched him instead of just spoken, and Hob's chest rises and falls heavily under Dream's hands.

"Maybe I don't."

This makes Hob chuckle, and Dream feels the rumble of it through his body. He wishes there was not the barrier of their clothes to dampen it; more than seeing Hob, he wants to feel Hob, his skin is prickling with it, his mouth is tacky and dry with it.

"How do you want me?" he asks, and whatever change Hob hears in his voice has him stiffening up, going serious. Dream doesn't know how he feels about it—he enjoys Hob's ease and laughter, but the intensity is... he feels it like a touch.

"How do you want to be had?" Hob counters, and before Dream can contemplate the myriad possible answers, adds, “Do you want to be? Is that what you meant? Only I would have thought— but then again—”

Dream does not interrogate the rambling path of Hob's assumptions. He says, "I would like to know. What I have not. Personally. Experienced, yes."

Daydreams poke at Dream's awareness as the image flashes through Hob's mind. Dream doesn't touch them, but the awareness of their existence alone has him shifting where he straddles Hob's lap. Hob's cheeks darken, and he says, "Strangest way anyone's ever asked me to fuck them. Yeah, alright. Budge up, love?"

Love. Again. Dream climbs off Hob's lap, kneeling beside him as Hob strips off his own shirt, flinging it somewhere--Dream doesn't see, for he is looking only at Hob. The solidness of him, where Dream often feels made of wind; the warmth of his belly, where Dream touches him, while Dream himself often feels cold. So made of earth, Hob Gadling.

Hob lays a hand on Dream's chest as if to push him down to the bed. No strength behind the touch, but the impression of it. "Need you to tell me if it starts going wrong. I'm serious, Dream."

Despite himself, Dream bristles. “You think me incapable of conveying my displeasure?”

Hob huffs. “I think you’re just prideful enough not to. Just be direct with me. You don’t have to prove anything.”

Perhaps... Hob is not entirely wrong. “…I shall," Dream vows at length. Hob nods, and smiles at him again, that warm smile. Dream can’t help but feel pleased to have made him smile so. Hob pushes, and Dream goes, lies back against the pillows, and Hob kneels between his legs. Hands sliding again to his hips, to the waistband of his jeans. Dream watches with fixation, caught on Hob's fingertips.

Hob has apparently decided he does trust Dream to interrupt if he doesn't like something, for he doesn't ask again before unbuttoning Dream's jeans. But Dream can tell Hob is still paying close attention to his reactions, and it's heady to be attended to so.

He lifts his hips for Hob to pull off his jeans, and then gets to bask in a look he can only interpret as adoring. Hob looks upon him that way, and strokes up and down his thighs, over his hips and belly. Dream's skin jumps at the touch.

"You're so fucking gorgeous," Hob says, sounding wounded by it. "Everyone who sees you must go home wishing you were going with them, I refuse to believe otherwise."

Dream smiles, despite himself. "This may be a particular bias of yours, Hob."

"Yeah, maybe. I'm right, though." He leans down, hovers over Dream, kisses him. Dream pulls him down so their bodies are pressed together. Hob's skin is so warm, his hair softer than expected, the fabric of his jeans a rough counterpoint where it scratches Dream's inner thighs, rubs against his cock lying hard in the crook of his hip. A wealth of sensation. A pleased, wanting sound escapes him, before he can stop it—but Hob catches it, looking delighted to do so, kisses it right out of Dream's mouth. "You've left broken hearts in your wake. Still can't believe this is your first time doing this."

"Revel in that victory if you must."

"No victory," says Hob. "Only privilege."

And he kisses Dream again even as he works a hand between them, takes Dream in his grip. Dream gasps at the touch, breaking the kiss. Hob's hand is warm and rough and very sure, and Dream can't help the way his whole body tenses with that simple touch.

He feels Hob's smile against his cheek. His voice drips with satisfaction. "Are you sensitive?"

Dream does not get a chance to answer. Hob strokes him again, hums as Dream bucks up involuntarily into his grasp.

"Oh, I'm going to make you feel so good," Hob muses, his voice a warm rumble in Dream's ear. "I know I can. You deserve it."

"Hob—"

Hob kisses his own name out of Dream's mouth, a deep, biting kiss, and this confidence, rather than being offensive to Dream's station, is riveting. Dream feels spelled.

"Just let me take care of it," Hob says, and moves away, and Dream groans at the loss of his body heat.

"You will take what you want now?" Dream complains, knowing full well even as he says it that it is nonsense. But having Hob's touch and then losing it is making him insensate; truly, he had not thought he could fall so far. "Is that what this is, Hob Gadling?"

Hob chuckles. "Oh, no." He kisses Dream's sternum, and down along his abdominal muscles. Mouths at Dream's belly, where Dream shifts under him, ticklish and affected, skin jumping, and then Hob noses at the base of his cock, and Dream realizes what he's gotten himself into only right before it comes to light.

"No, Dream," Hob says, lips now brushing the head of his cock, and like that he looks up and meets Dream's eyes. "I serve at your pleasure."

He takes Dream in his mouth, strangling Dream's response before it can even reach his throat. Not that Dream knows what he would have said. It's whited out instantly in the rush of pleasure that is Hob's mouth, and tongue, the generosity of his body, the vision of him between Dream's legs.

He's voiceless as Hob bobs his head, takes Dream deep, laves his tongue over his slit, applies what Dream must concede is his considerably greater experience to breaking Dream's ability to speak entirely. He grasps mindlessly at Hob's hair, it slides soft between his fingers, head tipped back against the pillows and thighs jerking restlessly, and still he knows this is but a precursor to what Hob truly intends for him. What he's... asked for. Folly. What had he been thinking?

Hob lifts his head to look at him, a line of spit dragging from Dream's cock to his lower lip. "Dream, you with me?"

Dream nods. His hand is still in Hob's hair. He pets at Hob's forehead, his temple, and Hob smiles. Like Dream is the one being indulged.

"Good?" he says, and Dream nods again. Hob takes his hand from his hair, kisses his knuckles, and Dream does not think this is how casual experiments are meant to go. He does not know what he is learning, except that Hob's kiss is soft and reverent, and the look on his face even more so.

"Is this," Dream asks quietly, hyperaware of how he's laid out on his back, Hob between his legs, "how you want me?"

Hob releases his hand. Drags a fingertip maddeningly up and down the crook of Dream's thigh as he considers. "Probably be a bit easier for you on your belly, but I don't want to make you feel vulnerable."

Dream is not certain there is a version of this that would not feel vulnerable. That it does not already. "I defer to your better judgment."

"Stay there, then." He moves away, and Dream takes the moment to gather himself. He's not certain he succeeds. He's spinning pleasantly, buzzing with the echo of Hob's touch. He wonders what might happen if he gives up on trying to right himself.

Hob comes back with lubricant, situations himself between Dream's legs again. Runs his hands up and down Dream's thighs and Dream spreads them wider on instinct. Hob swallows hard, Dream watches the harsh bob of his throat. He's still wearing his jeans, and Dream wishes he would take them off, he wants to pet at Hob's thighs in turn, he wants to see.

"You're a holy vision," Hob says, still studying him with that look, raw and strangled. Find some man to bed you, Dream thinks, feverishly. Some man.

He plucks at the fabric of Hob's jeans. "Hob—“

Hob chuckles. "Sorry, sorry. Bit unfair of me, isn't it? Got too distracted looking at you." He unzips his jeans then, pulls them off, and then is sitting there only in his underwear—something which Dream does not bother to manifest for himself because his clothing is made already of dream stuff, but perhaps he will start because Hob bare before him, his cock heavy and hard in his boxer briefs but still obscured by the fabric is—

"Dream?" Hob asks, as Dream pushes himself up on his elbows and reaches for him, mesmerized, cups his hand around Hob through the fabric, feels the warmth and heft of him, "did I break y— ah fuck."

Hob pushes into his hand, bends down over him again to kiss him as if summoned to it, and it is thrilling, sparkles along every vein, to get such a reaction. To have Hob caving to him. "Fuck, Dream."

Dream indulges himself further, slips his hand under Hob's waistband, takes him in his grasp, and Hob jerks against him. Dream's mouth waters at the weight of him, he has to swallow thickly to clear his throat, his own cock is heavy and straining, and he parts his thighs further for Hob. Vulnerable. Yes. This is vulnerable, and especially so in the waking world, and he wants, he wants Hob in him. A new feeling.

"Hob. I want—"

"I know, darling. Fuck, you're beautiful. Your hands—" He shakes himself. "Right. Right."

Hob sits up again. Strips off his underwear properly. His hair is hanging loose and messy now, eyes ever so slightly glazed with pleasure, chest rising and falling, his prick hard and ruddy at the tip. He is arresting.

He pushes Dream's legs up so his knees are bent, finds the bottle of lube where it's fallen into the sheets, pours some out into his hand. Leans in to kiss Dream’s belly, pleasant and tickling, and in the same motion drags a finger over Dream’s entrance.

Dream catches his wrist, inhuman pulse peaking in his throat, like a burst of dream stuff. “You do not need to put in such effort. This body does not have these human limitations.”

Hob tsks and taps his hand away. “You said you wanted the full experience. And the full Hob Gadling experience includes proper prep and aftercare, even if you're made of whims and fantasies. Free of charge, by the way."

"Oh, indeed?" This comes out significantly less teasing, and significantly more affected, than Dream had intended. "And what will the rest cost me?”

Hob winks at him. "Only your pleasure, darling."

This time, he leans over Dream, takes Dream’s wrist and pins it to the bed by his head. Dream lets out a choked gasp. The sudden pressure of Hob’s grip makes something stand out sharply within him, and then collapse again in relief. Hob makes a considering noise, and holds him there as he presses a finger lightly to Dream’s entrance with his other hand.

Dream shudders as Hob pushes his finger in, one knuckle, two, as he works in and out of Dream’s body, stretching him— it is an odd sensation, one he half-feels he should shy away from, but Hob’s grip on his arm is grounding, and Hob kneeling between his spread legs is tickling something in him that wants very badly.

Then Hob crooks his finger and pleasure rushes through him like a windstorm. Dream arches off the bed, grabbing at the sheets, and Hob laughs. “Thought you might like that.”

“Hob.” Dream thinks he means this to come out admonishing but it’s far more strained. Hob doesn’t give him time to recover, he drags his finger over Dream’s prostate again and Dream bites down hard on his lower lip. Hob slips his finger out, returns with two, and now it’s a stretch. Dream grinds down on him, resists the urge to whine as Hob works him over on his fingers, rubbing over his prostate on every other stroke.

“You are unbelievably gorgeous,” Hob murmurs, watching where his fingers slip in and out of Dream’s body, and then back up at Dream’s face with awe and fixation.

“Even,” Dream struggles over the words as sensation washes through him, Hob’s fingers in him, filling him, so much and yet he wants more, “spread out, like so?”

“Especially then. The way you move on my fingers,” he twists his hand to emphasize the point, and Dream shudders, "the fact that you let me. D’you know how long I’ve looked at you and wondered?” Saying this, he kisses Dream, sliding his hand up Dream’s wrist to clasp their fingers together. “Passing Stranger, your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only. Fuck, I wanted to see you like that.”

You give me the pleasure of your eyes, Dream thinks, but doesn’t quote the poem back to him— Hob reels him away again by the touch of his hands. He pushes a third finger into Dream, and now it is tight, it is so much, but Dream pushes himself back onto Hob’s hand. Hob’s fingers move gloriously within him, touching every part of him, and he starts speaking again in his low, honey voice, that’s it, darling, good, feels so good, yeah? and Dream needs Hob inside him. Hob has pulled him by the throat from inexperienced to grasping, and he is grasping.

Hob keeps fingering him, spiking his pleasure higher, his cock hanging heavy and teasing Dream with each move he makes. Dream himself is painfully hard, and it sharpens the feeling of Hob in him from maddening to agonizing. Hob kisses him, licks into Dream’s mouth, and Dream opens to his tongue. He opens to him. Like a yawning, cavernous thing.

Wanting Hob in him has shifted to needing Hob in him has shifted to lacking Hob in him, that Hob is a fundamental part of him and without him Dream is bereft. “Hob,” he whines, mortified by the sound of it but unable to drag himself back to that place of control he had surely—surely?—started the evening with. “Please—”

Hob’s head jerks up and he looks at Dream in shock. And. Oh.

Shame rushes through Dream’s body. Who has he become, begging a human to fuck him? Is he not the Lord of all Dreaming, is he not above this? Once, Dream was a skillful and assertive lover, he could bring the full power of the Dreaming to bear for his lovers’ pleasure, he could craft every moment exactly as needed— and now—

But Hob doesn’t draw away in disgust. Or gloat over the position he’s maneuvered Dream into. He smiles down at him, a soft look that goes just a bit pained at the edges as Dream tenses. Then he presses his lips to Dream’s cheek. Even that simple touch makes Dream shiver.

“It’s alright, darling,” Hob murmurs, so gentle but the heat of it still winds through Dream’s insides. “Don’t you know I’ll give you what you need? You don’t have to beg for it.” He slips his fingers out and back in, only two now, working them as deep as they’ll go. “But you sound so pretty when you do.”

“Please,” Dream says, the words again dragged from him unbidden, unspooled by the feeling of Hob inside him, there but not enough. Hob kisses him, swallows his plea like sweet wine, works him on his fingers, grinds his cock in tantalizing lines over Dream’s thigh. And gradually something unlocks in Dream’s ribcage, each piece turning itself open in realization. Hob likes when he asks, begs even. But he isn’t going to make him.

Asking, then, feels less like a wound rent in him, showing all his torn pieces, and more like a spell that will draw Hob to him. Speak, and he will come.

“Please,” Dream says again, and this time the words don’t tear. He speaks into Hob’s mouth, and the wet warmth of Hob’s lips and tongue soothe him where asking might start to chafe. “Hob, I need—”

“Do you need my cock, love?” Hob asks, rough low and rough and burning. “Feels empty, doesn’t it?” He slips his fingers free, and Dream whines. “I know. I know. You’re just starving for it, aren’t you?”

Starving, yes, Dream would like to take Hob in his mouth, but right now he’s feverish for something else. Hob is so close, every touch of his skin already has Dream singing, but he still wants more. He tangles his hand in Hob’s hair, wraps one leg around the back of Hob’s thighs to pull him closer, and Hob laughs, breathless.

“Fuck, Dream, you’re so—” Hob sounds spun around, now, and it’s gratifying to knock him askew in the way he’s done to Dream.

“Hob Gadling,” Dream says, putting the weight of sleeping desire into his voice, “I need you. I’m waiting.”

“Fucking hell,” Hob groans. “I’ve created something terrifying.” He doesn’t sound displeased about it. In fact, he kisses Dream again, lets Dream pull him close by the hair, smiling into his mouth. “Gonna make it so good for you, I promise.”

“I can plague your sleep with eternal nightmares if not,” Dream says, with no intention of doing so.

“See, I’m so confident in my ability to fuck you” —Dream's skin prickles at the word— “that I’m not even worried about it.”

He makes Dream lift up so he can push a pillow under his hips, takes Dream’s leg and maneuvers it over his shoulder, bending his body back. Dream shivers at the vulnerability of the position, the way he’s pinned. Hob kisses the bend of his knee with a little smile, and then Dream watches down the length of their bodies as Hob takes himself in hand. He’s so hard, glistening with pre at the tip, and Dream swallows jerkily.

“Alright, love?” Hob asks, meeting his eyes. He has always had the brightest, loveliest eyes. Dream holds his gaze and nods. He is not certain that he is, in fact, all right, he feels strange and spun about and immersed in the waking dream of Hob’s bed and Hob’s touch, but he does not want Hob to stop, he wants Hob to fuck him.

Hob presses into him, slowly, pausing when just the head of his cock is sheathed. And Dream— Dream was not prepared, Hob’s fingers did not prepare him for the all around pressure of Hob’s cock, the way it would fill him. It dances on the edge of pain, but he wants more. Already, more.

“More,” he finds himself saying, and Hob chuckles, bracing a hand around the back of Dream’s neck as he complies. This time, he pushes all the way in, not stopping until he bottoms out, groaning at the feeling. Dream clutches at his shoulders, no doubt leaving indents in his skin, body clenching convulsively as he gets used to the feeling of Hob in him.

Hob is inside him. Hob is inside him.

“Dream, you alright? You’re… breathing,” Hob says, petting through his hair. He sounds awed.

Breathing. He is breathing. And he hadn't commanded it so. Hadn't even meant it. Normally Dream forgets to affect such human mannerisms, even when it might be advisable to do so. But now he is breathing. Each one is choppy, three steps up three steps down, somewhere between a breath and a sob.

“I am fine,” he says, and Hob shushes him, kissing his cheek.

“I know you are. It’s alright to get a bit overwhelmed, yeah?” Hob is still in him, Dream can still feel every centimeter of him everywhere, but he doesn’t move. Simply lets Dream settle.

Dream tries to stop the wretched breathing, it makes him feel human and mortal and out of control, but he can’t, this temporary body affixed to this plane by Hob’s weight, his touch. Hob kisses his cheek again, nuzzles at his ear, and gradually Dream finds himself subsiding, relaxing in increments. It occurs to him, through the distant knowledge of the Dreaming, that this softness would not be characteristic of a temporary, experimental experience with a stranger, should Dream have simply wanted to know what it was like. It occurs to him through his own knowledge that this vulnerability he feels, this ability to ease him, is characteristic only of Hob.

He does not yet know what to do with that, but he turns to find Hob’s lips. Hob meets him easily, smiling into the kiss. “With me?” he asks, and Dream nods.

“Yes.”

Then Hob starts to move, slow measured thrusts at first. Dream breathes through each, and perhaps breathing is not so bad, after all, for it settles him, and settling lets him take Hob in, and he wants to take Hob in. It is so good, the slide of him sends sparks all along Dream’s limbs, builds inexorable and tantalizing heat through his body, none of his many dreams conveyed to him just how good it would be, when brought from dreams to reality. From memory to the body. More, even, than this is the sense of Hob’s body over him, the heat of him, and the strength, the breadth of his shoulders, the drag of Hob’s belly over Dream’s prick, the way he moves, expertly pushing Dream higher and oh-so-much faster with each thrust, tapping against that edge of pain-and-too-much without ever letting him fall over it.

Dream is starting to think that, in addition to his general experience, Hob has become quite an expert in knowing what Dream, specifically, might like.

“Good, darling?” Hob asks against his jaw, and Dream means to respond but all that comes out is a whine. He feels Hob’s smile against his skin. “More, then?”

Dream evidently doesn’t have to respond. Hob braces himself more firmly over him, and then he’s moving much faster, and then Dream really loses his senses. Hob bears down on him, levering Dream’s leg back further and deepening the angle, and each thrust hits before Dream has recovered from the last, and Hob’s mouth is on his throat, right over his pulse, which is also hammering—

Hob hits his prostate, and Dream keens as lightning arcs through him. Hob is talking to him now as he does it again and again, saying through panting breaths something like, you’re so good, does that feel good? is’at good for you? fuck you’re gorgeous, but Dream can’t parse much detail. He feels he should be participating more actively, but the wherewithal to do so has slipped away from him, all he can do is take what Hob is giving to him.

Probably that is what Hob wants. Perhaps he has fantasized over their long acquaintance about having Dream bent in just this position. Many might wish to have the Dream Lord at their mercy. Hob’s mercy, however, is a burst of pure heat straight to the soul.

“Hob,” he’s saying when he comes back to himself enough to notice, “Hob, Hob—”

“You’re beautiful like that,” Hob says, voice rough. “Dreamed of it— ha. You make the most beautiful noises.”

They are, in fact, wholly undignified noises, but Dream can’t seem to bring himself to stop; Hob punches each sound of pleasure out of him. He floats. Holds onto Hob’s shoulders. Presses his face to Hob’s and feels the scratch of his stubble. The rough calluses of his hands. The rhythm of Hob’s body is sublime. The kiss that he presses to the corner of Dream’s eye is more so. He is… crying there. Tears spilling over and down his cheeks. Dream has crafted the heights of euphoria within the Dreaming. But. Has any of it ever been as good as this?

He has Hob close to him, around him, in him, and still he wants more. Never again will Dream be able to disdain the office of Desire, not without looking away in shame at the lie.

His release washes over him in a wave that he doesn’t even notice until it peaks, so great is the rest of his pleasure. He gasps as he comes, not even needing Hob’s hand on him, tips his head back on the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open. Chest heaving. Hob slows, cups Dream’s cheek—until Dream urges him on with an ankle hooked around the back of his thigh, do not stop do not stop do not—

“Alright.” Hob nips at his lower lip in admonishment but he does start fucking him again, clearly chasing his own release now rather than pushing for Dream’s. That edge of pleasure-pain now tips closer to pain but Dream relishes in it. Each stuttered motion of Hob in him is blessed.

“I want,” he manages, throat dry, voice scraped rough from his cries, “to feel you come. In me.”

“Oh fuck,” Hob swears. “Dream.” And that apparently is enough. Hob’s hips stutter quick and he comes, hot spurts in Dream’s body, he can feel it. When Hob's tension eases, when his breath catches up to him, he moves to pull out—but Dream drags him back in. He wants— wants to keep Hob inside him, belly spine lungs throat, bring Hob in and in and hold him there, wants that warmth with him always. He could live like that, with Hob close to him.

Hob helps him lower his leg from his shoulder, stretch out sore muscles, and then lets Dream pull him in close, hold him there, in him, even as he’s going soft. He turns them on their sides, tucks his face in against Dream’s shoulder. Breathes the same air.

“So,” Hob says, after several, very long moments where they’ve been lying quietly together, tacky with sweat, Dream’s limbs all wrapped around Hob and Hob running his hands up and down his back, “how was that?”

“Mm?” Dream is still floating. It’s very pleasant.

He can feel Hob grinning against his shoulder. “You wanted to know what it was like to sleep with a man.”

What it was like. Dream is not certain he knows. He knows that Hob’s arms around him are strong, the touch of his skin pleasant even with the combined heat of their bodies. That he smells of sex and sweat and Dream wants to mire himself in it. He knows that, as Hob does finally, carefully pull out, he can feel Hob’s come dripping sticky over his thighs and rather than being discomforting, it only reminds him how he was wanted. His own come is smeared over Hob��s belly in disorganized lines, and Hob’s hair is ravaged by his fingers. There are still tears drying on Dream’s face. He knows that Hob has had him, now, and is still holding him. That the force of his lovemaking annihilated Dream’s dignity. That Hob wants to kiss him during sex. That at his prolonged silence, Hob looks up, finds his gaze, questioning.

“I am not certain that’s what I studied,” Dream admits. “Or. Learned.”

“Oh? What’d you learn, then?” Hob touches his cheek, as if even parted for a second, he wants to be close to Dream again. “Least tell me if you enjoyed it.”

“I did.” Dream must look ruined, and still Hob must confirm he enjoyed it? “What I learned is not what it is like to be with 'a man'. But rather.” He brushes his thumb over Hob’s lower lip, and Hob’s mouth opens at the movement. “What it is like. To be loved. By a very good friend.”

Hob’s expression crinkles into the softest smile at loved. “Oh, a very good friend, hm?”

“Very good,” Dream says. Presses his hand flat to Hob’s heart. “Uniquely so. Uniquely good to me among friends.” Not that Dream has… friends, plural. Better, then, that Hob is so singular. Singular enough to have nestled somewhere within him, between one meeting, one drink, one kiss and the next, and Dream would no longer be without him. His heart is surrounded by a hazy warmth much softer than the sharp pang of desire, and Hob's bed, Hob's touch, is soothing to him, a blanket he has finally pulled over his shoulders after trying to brave the lingering cold. Like so much this evening, it feels strange, and like so much this evening, it feels too good to shy away.

Hob leans in to kiss him, a soft drag of lips over his. “Good. Can I convince my friend to go in for a shower? Tea, maybe? Can I convince him to stay the night and keep exploring that friendship?”

Hob has taken care of him this evening, has not yet lead him astray, and so Dream lets him pull him out of bed and to his feet. In the shower, under the rushing hot water, Hob kisses him, kisses him, kisses him, rough, inelegant, consumed by feeling, hands curled around Dream’s hips. Dream will not make dreams out of this night, after all, he thinks. Selfishly, he wants to keep it to himself.

Peerless among friends, Hob Gadling, he thinks, as Hob makes him tea. As Hob tugs him back over the threshold, into the bedroom, into the mess they’ve made of the sheets. Peerless among friends.

Among lovers, too, perhaps.

[kagoutiss]

I kind of love how you have all these interesting hcs for Ganondorf like animals loving him, his weird dynamic with Sheik, the approval he seeks from his mothers etc. while at the same time being like “he’s a horrible gremlin and bloodthirsty and no one would want to stay near him”. I feel like it really captures how absurd and chaotic he is. Thank you for your service.

oh…im holding this ask very gently…..this means a lot to me because like!! yeah all these things are sort of true to me and i feel like he’s one of those characters where the more you dissect him, the more discordant things you find, and yet they all somehow intertwine in a way that makes him compelling and whole :-) retroactively putting a warning here that i ended up talking a lot and going pretty off-track but. like,,, one of the main roots of his absurdity to me is that he just has these fundamental problems with connecting with people (outside of clever manipulation, which he is good at), which are very effective at driving people away, even when he genuinely loves them, and i think he does this thing constantly where he wants people to despise him and he wants people to think the worst of him, because he is so much more comfortable with that than just? learning how to actually differentiate between love & hatred? and to not immediately feel threatened by gestures of love as some kind of deception, because he probably can’t quite make out the difference? despite having such a high level of emotional intelligence otherwise? and this primarily ties in with the idea that the biggest most terrifying enemy he has ever known in his entire life has been the neighboring kingdom, which professes to be the epitome of love & light & benevolence while at the same time committing the most egregious hateful bloody acts of cruelty in the darkest recesses of kakariko’s catacombs

and like. i think all of his formative experiences have still led to him being fully capable of things like feeling love, but also consequently not having the faintest idea of what the definition of that actually is, or how it works, or how to relate to someone you care about without just projecting all your own experiences onto them, or communicating your affection in ways other than just. being mean. and him purposely antagonizing people who do love him and are kind to him is a kneejerk reaction that he might not even realize is nonsensical, just a way of avoiding the most fundamentally disconcerting thing he knows, which is the ambiguity of something that claims to be kind or good. and so i think he‘d find a weird comfort in things that either don’t have that ambiguity, or subvert it entirely

like animals! who are far less capable of deception, or monsters, who like him, are deemed inherently evil. or spirits, who shouldn’t technically even be bound by the concepts of good & evil, even less applicable to wayward souls than to living beings. above all other humans though, he is definitely closest to his surrogate mothers, who supposedly are the true highest authorities of the gerudo tribe, and who treat him more like a deity than a son, and might moreso love the idea of what they want him to be, rather than the person he is. and he is in fact mortal, and a human being, and extremely flawed, and prone to recklessness under stress, and makes silly mistakes, and is emotionally unstable, with an attention span that doesn’t actually seem particularly well-suited to politics or government. and i accidentally wrote way too much in one sitting again, but.

but yeah, he’s like. my point is he is so full of things. he is completely absurd and chaotic and yet also i think there are recognizable patterns in what he does, if you think about him way too hard for way too long. he’s an infuriating swiss watch of a person that functions with seemingly inexplicable precision, but is made to say rude things to you instead of showing you the time, and yet you can’t really judge him too harshly after making the difficult effort of trying to understand him, because it becomes more & more evident that. that’s just. the way he is. that that’s the inevitable way that he came together, entirely due to circumstance. he’s a reflection of the completely nonsensical universe that he lives in, an antagonist since the day he was born, defined as such by the world’s Inherently Good Authorities, who are themselves objectively guilty of mass kidnapping, torture, murder, displacement and genocide, and yet are still, by the immutable definitions of these words as they’ve established them, Good. and i NEED to go to bed but yeah i love him for being a horrible insufferable bitch, actually, because it’s meaningful in and of itself, and i love him for not being normal, and having unmanageable fears of inadequacy, and mommy issues, and ADHD and autism, and for bullying teenagers, and being more fond of monsters & parasites than people, and literally using his emotions as a weapon, and referring to himself as king of every evil thing in existence, and almost never bothering to explain his actual motivations to people who he knows have already decided that he is the crux of all the world’s problems, because he’s fully internalized that trying to be understood by anyone at all is completely pointless. wife material

[yaksha-lover]

Hi! Maybe strange question but you seem to have a good grasp on the boys’ personalities. I’ve been reading a lot of the yanderification of the TWST boys and started wondering which ones (if any) would be most likely to have what could be labeled “yandere” tendencies. Just seems like a fun train of thought to chase.

Do you have any thoughts on this? (Also sorry for the word salad.)

In my opinion, I think it’s pretty easy to twist most of their personalities to fit a yandere type, but as for who’s yandere characterizations are closest to their canon counterparts, I would say:

Malleus, I think is the obvious one. Although clearly I don’t think he’d be yandere in canon, it makes sense for him to have some clingy tendencies in a relationship, and an obsession with his romantic interest. It’s the whole ‘you’re the only person in the world who matters to me’ type trope, because of the social rejection and isolation he’s faced.

People usually take it two ways here, either a) very possessive and jealous or b) very protective. I tend to lean towards the second interpretation (although I love to explore the first one, the second is more canon to me). More ‘I would burn cities to protect you, move heaven and earth to make you happy’ than ‘I want to keep you locked up here all to myself, you belong to me.’ So yes, a yandere Malleus may kidnap you, but only to keep you ‘safe.’ He’s also not as emotionally immature as I think he’s sometimes characterized as (although I’m probably also guilty of this). He’s not really the type to force someone to love him, imo, because he wants it to be genuine (his insecurity stems from an inability to be accepted so forcing it wouldn’t truly fulfill that desire to be loved and validated).

Rook, I think also makes sense, but it’s hard to say because most of the time a lot of his characterization is just played for jokes. Like the whole ‘he’s a stalker, he knows a lot about everyone, others get unnerved by him, etc.’ It’s meant to be funny, but if we take it seriously then we could probably jump to some interesting conclusions about Rook. Also, combined with that ghost bride line about him ‘never letting his beloved go’ -

He seems the type to get fixated on some object of beauty, and I could see that developing into a yandere-like obsession. Maybe if he finally finds the one thing - or person - who he thinks is the true pinnacle of art and beauty, what he’s been searching for all along. Initial stalking to learn more about his interest, some uncomfortable attempts at closeness because he knows everything about them and they know nothing about him. Divided between showing his beloved off to the world and keeping them all nice and pretty for his own enjoyment - the only one who can truly appreciate their beauty. Also, once he’s felt the experience of love, I doubt he’d ever want to live without it. Maybe that’s the ‘true’ beauty of life to him, even.

Jamil is just so apathetic that if he ever did fall for someone, I can’t see him ever giving them up if he can help it. Also, we’ve seen in canon that Jamil isn’t above doing mildly bad things for self-serving interests (think masquerade with ruggie, manipulating the oblivious students).

He just wants something nice and soft for himself. Is that so much to ask for, after all he’s been through? Jamil is never allowed to have anything, nothing that Kalim doesn’t. It’s no wonder he’d cling to the only sweet thing he can get his hands on, something just for him. Even if you’re frustrated with him, even if you get tired of him, he isn’t so willing to just let you go. He deserves something nice like you, and you’ll be happy with him, even if you might need a ‘charming’ reminder of it sometimes.

Lastly, Jade and Floyd are popular yanderes to write for a reason. They both already have so much inexplicably unhinged energy even compared to the rest of the cast (other than maybe Rook). Jade seems so cold and apathetic, while putting on a mask of care. Floyd doesn’t really care to do so, wearing his many moods on his sleeve. But they’re still two sides of the same coin; they’re used to getting whatever they want, often by questionable means.

They also seem like they would be pretty possessive, even if it comes out in different ways. Jade and Floyd may be good at sharing with each other, but they’ve never been good at sharing with anyone else. Floyd will show you (and whoever thinks it’s okay to encroach on his partner) how upset he is by this particular development. I doubt you’d want to keep it up when he threatens your friends that get a little too close. Jade is different; the same annoyance and possessiveness still burns him, but he has a little more patience than Floyd. He isn’t willing to start any fights. Jade prefers not to get his hands dirty, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have other tactics to scare away anyone who tries to flirt with you.

[ingravinoveritas]

I thought I was the only one who weirded out by the fact that a mother can define ON THE INTERNET her own daughter a “drunken accident”. Like??? Everyone find her so funny. Maybe I have no sense of humor, but I can’t tell from experience that knowing to be your parents’ accident hurts A LOT. It isn’t something you want to make public. And yes, she’s definitely bragging. We get it, Georgia, you’re the luckiest woman alive, now chill. There’s no need to remind us about your sex life, unless you have something to prove...

Hi there! I'm so sorry to hear of your negative experience, and that it affected you so deeply. It's a curious thing, too, because in the same post where Georgia wrote that caption, she has Birdie's face censored/covered up. So seeing her kids' faces is too private, but sharing that piece of information (about Birdie and about Georgia's sex life) is somehow okay? Because that seems like a pretty strange disconnect.

I also think what a lot of people are missing is that in many cases, using the word "accident" when referring to a pregnancy also tends to correlate with "unwanted." There is an entire media trope built around this that we see in both TV shows and movies (i.e., an older sibling saying to a younger sibling, "Mom told me you were an accident"). And while this can be and has been played for both comedy and drama, the underlying negative connotation is the same: That Sibling #1 is saying it as an insult/to be hurtful toward Sibling #2. And that feeling of being unwanted is not something lightly brushed aside.

But if the comments on this post are any indication, you are definitely not the only one who felt weirded out by Georgia's caption, and I would not at all say it has anything to do with a sense of humor. This is par for the course for Georgia, as she posted this about Ty on Valentine's Day last year (putting it side by side with today's post, so we have the comparison):

...As well as her repeated use of the hashtag #vaginabragsunday (or just #vaginabrag) when making posts about her kids. She even (inexplicably) used that tag on her post for David's 50th birthday a few years ago.

The common thread with all of these (the post about Birdie, the post about Ty, the post about David) is that these posts are meant to be about someone else, yet she manages to center herself in them instead. That's where I think much of the issue lies for many of us--that this post for Birdie's birthday was phrased as if directed toward her, yet Georgia is using it to brag about her sex life, and clearly aiming that/the post itself at the general public.

Which brings me to your assertion about her having something to prove. As we know by now, Georgia has pretty much built her brand around the concept of--to borrow a terrific turn of phrase from @clayisforgirls--"I shagged David Tennant and you didn’t." But what I feel like some people are missing is that "I had sex with David Tennant" is a world away from and not the same thing as "I had sex with my husband David, the man I love." And if she needs to brag and seek validation from complete strangers--on her own kid's birthday post, of all places--that seems to speak volumes about the state of her and David's relationship, and not in the way that most people commenting today seem to think it does.

Thank you again for sharing your thoughts with me. I think folks often feel like they can't speak honestly about these things in the fandom, so I'm glad you felt comfortable enough to do so. Thanks for writing in! x

[divine-crows]

Grimoire/Bos Prompts or Research Topics for the Witch that Doesn’t Know What To Do Next

(Pt. 1/ ?) 

Okay so, I've been working on gathering information for a couple of years now. (On and off for 4 years probably a little less because I procrastinate), and just now I've gotten an official book to put all of my information in since prior to that I just had loose leafs of paper that I'd stash away at random, and google docs filled with information (which I recommend. It helped me let go of the stress of messing up and helps when you need to edit and add information. I still use my doc as a way to add stuff and as an on-the-go grimoire).

I've practically stuffed this grimoire with everything I've gathered and refined, and this has lead me to reach an impasse where I don't quite know what to do next. Not a lot of BoS or Grimoire prompts are geared towards people that have the basics written down, but don’t know what to do next, so I'll make a short list of stuff I've brainstormed.

Note: These prompts aren't all going to be specific things to do research on, a lot of it is inspired by Molly Roberts on YouTube because I love prompts and ideas that may not be necessarily witchy, but can be when in the context of where it is. These prompts and research topics also are not mine by any means and I’ll reiterate it often because I want people to make these ideas their own. 

- What being a witch means to you. This can include why you decided to use witch as a label for yourself, your specific practice, why you got into it, how it affects your life and it's importance, etc.

- how your religion (or if non-religious, any of your beliefs or theories you support) works alongside your craft. Do you feel a need to separate the two? Do you treat them like they're always together? Are there any specific scenarios where you use the two hand-in-hand? Talk about it.

- Entity and/or spirit Guide! Make a section dedicated to entities and spirits in your area, how you (or others) found them, if you think you know what/who they are, or if you aren't sure what it could be. This can open up great opportunities for you to study new things. I myself have been planning on doing it since my town has a lot of ghosts, and I've had plenty of interactions with entities that I don't know of (ex. some seem like the fair folk, but due to the origins of people that lived in my town it's unlikely, or they have one trait that reminds me of an entity I know of but the rest of their traits are nothing like it).

- energy/magic map. This can be used in multiple ways! Map out the energy and vibes you feel when you're in other places, or map out the energy you felt during a spell/ritual, or maybe even there's a song that just speaks to you and you want to show the flow of energy the song makes you feel. How you show this flow is up to you and your experience! Maybe you have synesthesia and you want to explore how that mixes with your experience with the flow of energy in music ( or just in general) go for it!

- any personal ideas or concepts. This might be candle etiquette, or maybe you personally don't say the name of certain entities or deities for specific reasons. Maybe there's something you do that you don't see a lot of people mention in media. Write it down! You never know when you'll come across something and go "...wait a minute" and then you can flip through your Grimoire/BoS and go "oh! Right, that's just a personal belief/uncommon concept so that might be why it isn't in here." Now. This does not mean stealing from other cultures and claiming you believed in it all along. And it doesn't mean disrespecting any basic rules of etiquette.

- if there's items you see and you have an inexplicable pull to, document it! Talk about the energies they had. What they were and looked like. If you bought it or not. This can help you in the future when it comes to incorporating items. Sometimes I find out that an item I bought because its "vibes were interesting" can actually be repurposed and I always feel proud afterwards because my intuition knew all along.

- do certain places or situations make you feel a little bit more magical than you usually do? Make a list of those places (and if you want to add a description of them!) Sometimes when I'm not feeling 100% with my craft just visiting those places makes me feel better.

- Information about where you’re from or where you currently live, and how this place applies to your practice. I’ve seen at least one or two people do this with their grimoire’s and it’s a great idea. It doesn’t have to be an extensive history either, for me, I just focused on the state I live in and I added basic information that I felt belonged there. I also included some common folklore of the area.  

- - - 

I'll add on more as I brainstorm them. These ideas and concepts are not mine and a lot have probably been done already. Have fun with them! Reblog with more ideas (I'll definitely reblog ones with ideas I like)

[smallmartiniolive]

Thinking abt how Jurassic Park is like obviously abt chaos and the evils of mindless capitalism that destroys what it touches for a profit but also it’s abt the people you know? This is coming from the movie standpoint bc the book didn’t really check off the right boxes for me but the movies are just so inherently abt people and connection! To me

I’m gonna just give my thoughts abt mainly dinot3 bc they are something. So special. To me.

Imagine you’re Alan Grant, in love w dinosaurs and being in the field, ur at the top of your game and it doesn’t even matter as long as you get to study what you love. Then, unexpectedly! You get to share this passion and love w another person and part of you doesn’t understand why it works but that’s ok as long you get to dig up dinosaurs and be with her, Dr. Sattler (understandable

Imagine being Dr. Sattler and always chasing after something and wanting more. You find the love of your life and he doesn’t hold you back at all, he’s perfect! You both thrive in your own lanes! You get on a helicopter to who knows where and you meet this exciting new guy, you don’t love him, not like Grant but he’s exciting and new and you feel like he sees you for something you’re not even sure you see yourself

Imagine you’re Ian Malcolm and you’re made aware of people trying to remake dinosaurs and you know it’s impossible but you also know that life finds a way so you go along. You flirt w some paleontologists, have fun, berate the senselessness of the actions around you. I mean what else is there to do. Then, you get a life altering injury that’s gonna bug you forever and the last person you see is a person you hoped you got to save, who is risking his life to save children (I.e. Grant) and then suddenly you’re waking up to the face that saves you (I.e. Sattler).

And through that all, nobody comes out ok! There’s nightmares and injuries and assumedly they’re quarantined in a Costan Rican hospital till everything’s sorted and people are good to go. Alan and Ellie always find each other, planets in orbit etc, and of course Lex and Tim are connected to Alan after everything. The kids cling to them and they protect them, but also they at least have each other and are stronger for it, but it also makes them aware of how awful it would be to be alone right now- Ian Malcolm. So they all spend time together drifting in and out of hospital rooms (most commonly Ian’s bc he can’t move around much) and after all that they’re connected by shared experiences and the knowledge they can’t share. Pandora’s box and all that but they all end up woven together.

They separate but I’m sure it’s apparent that Malcolm ends up alone, not wanting to rely on anyone, especially not his ex-wives and kids cause that would be unfair and even in pain he’s still trying to protect other people. So they end up together again, how could they not? Malcolm needs help, they all do but that’s a touchy topic and it’s easier to focus on what they can see. Alan and Ellie and Ian finish up at the dig and Alan just wants everything to be the same so he can forget and Ian needs the change, but Ellie? She’s not really sure and it leaves her unsteady.

All at the same time you have Malcolm writing his book bc the truth was always what was most important to him, like Alan to dinosaurs. Alan doesn’t want him to ruin his life, and Ellie wants to support him but doesn’t know how but they coexist.

Ian gets better. He leaves w/ Sara a woman he met shortly after the hospital and whom he seems inexplicably fond of having witty banter with. He leaves so that when he publishes his book it doesn’t come down on them, he leaves because Ian Malcolm has never been one to want to settle down and he’s afraid of becoming complacent, that if he stops moving he’ll lose something critical (he’s shark-like, Ian).

And then the digs over and Alan’s ready to throw himself back into another, but Ellie simply isn’t. She gets a teaching position in another state, and Alan doesn’t ask her to stay but by god he wants to (just like he wanted to w Ian although he never had the chance bc he was gone so much quicker) and it’s the biggest mistake he ever makes.

Ellie leaves. Ian reconnects w his kids, reminded by Alan and Ellie how important family is and that hiding only does them a disservice. Alan digs.

They still stay relatively close, stuck in orbit even though they’re separated, they message and mail and spontaneously stop by when they’re in town (Ian). There’s distance but it’s not uncrossable, they’re still there for each other. They still call and those calls never go unanswered, no matter how late.

Ian goes to Isla Sorna and it’s shoved in his face that he’s changed, whether he wanted to or not. He wants something more stable, of course he still wants independence but he also wants to come home to *something* (he misses what he had w Alan and Ellie but he’s trying to avoid that iceberg). Alan and Ellie find out and it’s the beginning of an end, they fly out immediately and check in w him, and stay a few days. But. But Ian didn’t tell them, didn’t tell them abt something so critical to the three of them.

They grow a lil farther apart.

Alan goes back to work. Ian mutually splits w Sara (word is she and Nick have something weird going on when they aren’t traveling the world for respective careers)

Ellie marries Mark, the guy she met while teaching. He made her laugh and was a lil plain but she liked it (reminded her of Alan). Although Mark is different, he brings up kids on the third date and he’s everything she needs right now, he’s stable and kind and his job travels w him so she never has to worry which would take precedence (her or the job). He loves her for her or what she is right now and there’s something in the back of her mind but she loves him and they build a life together.

Ian meets a woman he can settle down with, an intellectual and a perfect mix of Ellie and Alan (although he doesn’t know it) and he settles down too, finally ready for that build-a-family lifestyle that he’s started to want. They have two kids (canon compliant due to the five kids comment in Dominion) probably around Ellie’s kids age, they probably have play dates. Alan doesn’t come around too much but he mails occasionally or helps set up furniture, but he’s undeniably pulling away.

Alan who couldn’t just ask people to stay, is alone and he’s become increasingly aware because of his new grad student. Billy Brennan is a mirror, he’s everything Alan was (admittedly more flirtatious tho) and Alan can’t do anything but nurture it because he wouldn’t even know how to change (because god knows he wants to). So he pulls away and focuses on work and at least w Billy he’s not alone and maybe maybe he can help him get on a better track (his version of accepting defeat)

Of course he doesn’t stop seeing Ellie or visiting w Ian over mail or the occasional spontaneous visit (couldn’t bring himself to) but he pulls away still. During play dates, Ian sneaks looks at Ellie’s calendar and will conveniently tell Alan when Marks out on business ( bc I refuse to believe Alan didn’t visit Ellie even tho Mark first meets him when Charlie is 2 so I believe he snuck on in cus it makes sense you know). Alan loves Ellie’s kids more than himself and probably bought Charlie his dinosaur toys (Ellie groans abt his taste but she knew it would happen and loves him anyway).

And then Alan, who has never really been alone but has isolated himself to that point, gets a chance to see dinosaurs again (he says it’s for the money but dinosaurs are what’s always made sense to him). He gets lost. He’s got no way out. He calls Ellie bc she’s always been his beacon of light, saving grace, Hail Mary etc etc. (Also him bringing Ian up to Eric bc that man has never been normal about *either* of them).

Ellie meets him at the hospital (maybe w Ian who knows) and Alan is made increasingly aware (between yelling and crying and thank gods) that he’s not alone he’ll never be alone as long as they’re around.

And after that they’re sort of ok. They have regular visits and there’s distance but they settle, they try. They bitch abt Jurassic World together and how all the kids they’ve collected are doing. One of Ian’s eldest going into paleontology bc she met Alan Grant at the age of 15 and it altered how she thought academically and Ian is exhausted. Ian and Ellie’s partners don’t really understand it but they also know not to interfere (even if sometimes frantic calls wake them up in the middle of the night).

Alan stays in his ways (hoping for a change but not seeking one).

Ian and his wife have a tiff bc she accused him of loving her bc he loves Alan and Ellie at least at first (still does in a different and perhaps more powerful way than her?) and he can’t lie bc it’s all the truth with him. He says it’s not fair to her to not know that Alan and Ellie are just his people, you get it. She doesn’t, not really, it only ever made sense to the three of them. They divorce but it’s amicable.

Ellie and Mark have been on the rocks for a little, they’re relationship has always been a bit boring but that was never a real problem. However, she wants to go out and do more field work (writing books was great but she’s ready for a change bc the world turns quick but she’s always moved faster). He wants to have an at home life and one thing spirals to another. She chose him bc he’d never need to choose between anything and she wouldn’t either, they could both have everything and he’s a great guy, but. But now she needs a change and once again she’s left in a situation where someone can’t bend for her, so she breaks it. They divorce and it’s heartbreaking, they love each other, but Ellie has always needed some flexibility (she calls Alan and Ian later on and they drop plans to have dinner together, she doesn’t bring up the break up but she does note how they changed things for *her*, it’s nice maybe they changed)

Maybe they’ve all changed a lil you know? Ian travels, lectures, makes connections, and visits w the people he loves. Ellie writes paper after amazing paper after amazing book between field work. Alan digs. They communicate in academic papers and books that they send each other, their love notes are annotations that feel a lil too raw so they’re kept private. Every new paper and book and interview fuels the three of them forward and keeps them in orbit. Despite everything.

Then, Ian is hired by Biosyn (Ellie encourages it a bit bc she doesn’t trust them, Alan discourages it for the same reason). And then they’re back, they are SO back. They come together to fight against what they’ve always had to fight against, it’s a lil exhausting but they have each other. Through it all it’s always them. Every single time. Alan and Ellie meet and see each other like they don’t see anyone else. It’s a little unfair to Ian because they’re prepared and his entire world gets flipped for a second when he sees them (it’s ok he recovers pretty quick). They fall in step, into old conversations and patterns.

And between taking down Biosyn and avoiding dinosaurs they all kind of fall in love, not again bc it’s always been that way for them but it’s just so so apparent. They can’t give each other up and everytime they look at each other there’s comfort and understanding without words. It was easier to deny a part but now they are here and it’s just so. Perfect

Ellie tells Alan she needs to go, she’s always been too fast for this world, Alan tells her he’ll stay which is the best love declaration she could have asked for.

Ian says he needs to tell the truth, he’s always had to, and they say “we’ll be with the you, we will tell the truth with you.” You know and that’s their love declaration, Thats them asking him to stay, to be with them.

And at the end of it all, Alan says in the end he’d just rather not be lonely again, and Ian and Ellie look at him like he’s absurd bc of course he’s stuck w them now. It’s always been them even if they didn’t realize it

OH MY GOD LOOOOONG POST IM SORRY IM NOT NORMAL AT ALL HAHA. Dinot3 is something I’m not normal about because look at their stories!! Look at how through everything they fit together!! They are in Montana somewhere rn having a beer and laughing abt something silly one of them did and talking abt their collective kiddos.

TLDR; just my thoughts on DINOT3 and just their canon timeline and how it’s always been those three.

[lilas]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love💗(even if it's unfinished!!! i'd still love to see some of your fave work :> )

<3 ty beloved!! If anything this just makes me think I really need to finish some things lol

Troll Watching (avi’li and erenville being strangers and making awkward jokes)

Avi’li nods along to Erenville’s words. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a mushroom ooze before. Then again, he’s never paid much attention to mushrooms when they’re not on his plate or in his bowl. Do the giant mushroom men in Gridania count? But Erenville has him curious, so he asks, “And why do they do this?”

“It’s a way of relieving water pressure that builds up.”

“Like crying?”

Erenville considers, “I suppose that’s a fair comparison, though a little sad to think about a fungus crying bloody tears.”

“Certainly not the only one amongst us.” Ah.

It was meant as a joke but Avi’li’s words didn’t have that pep or punch to them, weighed down by a smidge too much truth. Erenville shifts, unsure how to interpret the “joke” so Avi’li laughs. Too soft to fully shake off the awkwardness, but it serves as a nice deflection.

“First you’re a frog expert, now you’re a mushroom expert?”

“Knowing a few facts doesn’t make an expert.”

Untiled/Dog Days (wip; surprise! avi’li adopted ninja dogs and he’s making it yugiri’s problem too)

Yugiri knew leaving her home would lead her to strange, incredible places. Thus far that remains true, though few things in life prepare you for a former flame (a handsome, still burning flame despite herself) returning to the Enclave with three small dogs in tow. Three dogs also inexplicably trained in the ninjutsu arts.

She watches the dogs, all at attention and watching her expectantly. They are well trained. She looks up at Avi’li for an explanation.

“They followed me from Mount Rokkon,” Avi’li answers, but stops himself. Yugiri’s eyes narrow, waiting.

Avi’li isn’t one to shy away from hard truths, but now he casts his eyes to the side, silvery strands of hair obscuring his gaze. Hesitating, Yugiri thinks, because his words might hurt her.

He shifts his weight between his feet, finally saying, “Their master is dead.”

By my hand, Yugiri finishes in her head.

“Hancock says her name was Yozakura.” Yugiri’s breath hitches. “I thought, both of you being shinobi, you may have known her.”

“Oh,” Yugiri breathes, “Yozakura…”

Light (wip; avi’li’s experience swallowing pure light aether)

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Not even the air tastes the same. What scant remnants of aether remain in this world burn to nothing in his lungs. He hesitates on every exhale. Light singes the tip of his tongue, aches behind his teeth, looking for a release.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

The distant shouts of children reach Avi’li’s ears from where he sits crumpled on the floor, back pressed firm against the wall in a tucked away corner of Sweetsieve. From here, he can at least enjoy the rain.

It takes more effort than he cares to admit to raise his head to the sky, green eyes narrowed against the soft pattering of rain. The Crystarium feels more alive when it rains. People are drawn out, marvel at the clouds, the cold in the air, the water from the sky, all novelties where once there was only oppressive Light. Avi’li fears, beyond his own wellbeing, the consequences of the Light escaping, that this rain might be the last that the First ever sees.

Breathe in…

For now, the rain is a small salve, a relief from the relentless prickling of Light inside of him, like a million dull knives across his skin, his heart, his ribs. It’s maddening, this sensation. His eyes slide shut.

Breathe out…

Azem (wip; avi’li asks themis about azem)

“Looking back I should have realized they would spare no effort in preventing the natural outcome. If it is in their power to relieve or prevent suffering, they will do so. That island had been evacuated of course, though the land and the homes of those people would have been entirely lost.” Themis shares a smile with Avi’li that feels like a secret. Avi’li leans in closer. “When I asked, they told me it was to protect the island’s delicious grapes, unique in their taste, and nothing more besides. Yet I suspect the true cause was to protect those homes loved by the people there.”

Avi’li smiles at that. He knows, by way of visions from Azem’s crystal, the truth in Apollo’s own words as remembered by Emet-Selch. That all that effort truly was for grapes, grapes that held enough meaning with the people, the land, to be worthy of preservation and protection all on their own.

“Why do you think they would lie about that?” Avi’li asks.

That gives Themis pause, and he taps on his chin. “Azem has a quiet sense of humor. It could be they were being coy as a tease.”

“Are they often like that? Coy.”

“Not at all. They are, in my opinion, refreshingly straightforward.”

Then why, Avi’li keeps this to himself, can you not accept this answer?

New Feelings (unpublished; avi’li crushing on aymeric and haurchefant having fun at his expense)

“Pray allow me privy to your thoughts?”

Avi’li answers with a shrug, “Thinking about Aymeric.”

“The Lord Commander?” Haurchefant raises an eyebrow. “What about him?”

“Ay’anno, just thinkin’ about him.”

“Did he request another meeting?”

“Wouldn’t you be the one to know that?”

Haurchefant purses his lips, “Then what?”

“Just…he’s an interesting man.” Avi’s eyes turn back towards the ceiling. “Just all…admirable and tall and collected…that stuff.”

“Uh huh.”

Avi’li frowns at the tone he hears and rolls onto his side to properly face Haurchefant, who’s trying and horrifically failing at hiding a crooked grin. “What?”

“What about?”

“Why’re you smiling like a spriggan?”

“Like a spriggan? Are you implying my teeth are anything similar to a creature who gnaws on rocks for a living?”

[dreamingkelz]

I’ll admit, I’m a little nervous writing this, but I’ve been thinking in circles a lot lately, and I thought writing my thoughts down would be helpful and maybe alleviate some anxiety? This isn’t really criticism about anything, so much as observations and analysis and just a general attempt to understand some of the weirder things I’ve experienced being in this fandom.

With that said, let’s get started.

I’ve talked in the past about how protective I feel when it comes to the eggs. I don’t like people threatening to kill them. I don’t like when the story puts them in danger. I don’t like how neglect deaths are still a risk. And after a few close calls over the past few days, egg welfare is in the front of my mind again, and I’ve found myself questioning why I feel this way. It’s strange, isn’t it? As many people have said, they’re just a bunch of pixels in a video game, aren’t they?

First and foremost, I want to preface this by saying I’m a writer, and more specifically, I’m a writer who loves angst. I’ve always drifted towards tragic narratives. I want to see the characters I’m invested in get tested. I want to see them cope with trauma and loss. I love when a story can make me cry. I’m not necessarily a fan of child death as a narrative device, but of all of the stories I’ve written, my favorite does see the main character watching four of his five children die in increasingly horrific ways over the course of fifty chapters, so it’s definitely not a dealbreaker for me. If the QSMP was an ordinary story, I think I would love the tension and the horror of the situation. As is, there have been some interesting character developments to come out of the constant threat of death, or the trauma caused by past deaths on the server.

So then why? Why does the thought of egg deaths still fill me with a nauseating sense of dread?

To start with, the QSMP is not an ordinary story. I don’t think any story told through this particular style of Minecraft roleplay is or can be. This is real-time player-driven roleplaying, and I think there are three medium-defining factors at play here. One: every player (usually) streams their perspective. Two: characters appear and disappear from the story based on the players’ streaming schedules. And three: while they are online, we will experience every single thing that happens to the players.

Combined, we end up with a narrative that simultaneously has characters that are better-developed than can be found in any other medium, while also somehow being worse. Any character is likely to have a vivid, colorful personality, deeply engaging relationships with the people around them, a rich inner life, and their own unique perspective on any events that occur on the server. But that same character might inexplicably be absent from a plot beat that they are heavily invested in, solely because the streamer isn’t available for that particular stream. Plotlines get dropped for any number of reasons. Backstories are, more often than not, cobbled together from references to past servers that the player has taken part in. All-in-all, narrative and even character takes a backseat to the players - their identities, their schedules, their playstyles, their comfort.

It is also worth repeating that everything that happens on the server is unfolding in real time. The narrative doesn’t cut away when the story stops, at least not for most of the players. There are a handful who might log in with a single focus for the day, stream for one or two hours, then log off again. But many more are there nearly every day for several hours at a time, and a lot of that time will be dedicated to non-story events - building, doing dungeons, making machines, or just hanging out with the other players. While any player on any stream can be prone to breaking character to talk about events from their offline lives, these long, lore-light streams are especially prone to it. And there are some players who specifically try to avoid participating in lore altogether. At the end of the day, they are streamers first, and actors in a story second.

The result of all of these factors is a server with an incredibly thin line between fiction and reality. There is a distinction between the player and the character they play, yes, but in any given stream the difference between the two can become murky.

But how does this tie to the eggs?

In the beginning, it wasn’t necessarily so bad. The eggs were just cute little blobs that followed their respective players around and needed to be taken care of. There was even a lot of confusion in the earliest days as to whether or not they were controlled by AI. If that was all they had stayed, perhaps we wouldn’t have gotten so attached? The problem came when they started talking.

Suddenly, the eggs were able to communicate things they liked and projects they wanted to work on. They were able to tell jokes, and express complicated emotions, and let the personalities they’d already started fostering shine. They started carving out niches in the community of the server - people ask Dapper for help with engineering projects and mod-related information; Richarlyson’s art is plastered over every other business and he even does concept art for builds; the eggs form relationships outside of their assigned player, with eggs and players alike. Some of them even have their own ongoing storylines. Parents are careful to make sure that every egg is taken care of every week, and everybody freaks out if they see an egg go down in chat.

Yes, the eggs are cute. They’re small and meant to evoke human children. The players are explicitly told to protect them, to raise them, and keep them healthy and happy. Of course everybody would become attached. But isn’t it strange to get this attached?

If cute child characters were all they were, I would think so. But that isn’t the case. In practice, the eggs are effectively players themselves.

Players that only exist in the context of the server.

Players that the server is actively trying to kill.

And I think that is the problem. The eggs are characters in a story, but the story has such a murky line between fiction and reality, that they wind up feeling real. After all, they follow the same rules as the other “characters” when it comes to portraying a character. This isn’t like a Cucurucho or a Walter Bob who come online once in a while to hang out, but clearly have an off-screen role to play in the story as well. The eggs may not stream their perspectives, but they spend nearly one hundred percent of their time interacting with players, and if they’re not with a player, they’re assumed to be sleeping. Furthermore, depending on whose perspective you watch, you’re going to spend a minimum of three days a week watching egg content, and when they log on, they tend to stay for hours. If you were watching in the beginning, they were online every day. That is a LOT of time to “get to know” these characters who so convincingly mimic the players.

Effectively (and unintentionally), the QSMP has tricked the audience into forming parasocial relationships with a handful of fictional characters.

I have never cried over the death of a fictional character, or even had a particularly strong reaction. When a character is in danger, usually my reaction is excitement over the narrative possibilities the situation could create. I love tragedy in fiction. I love horror. I love drama. And on the server itself, this is how I’ve consistently felt about inter-player conflicts. My engagement is at its highest when there is some kind of narrative tension between the player characters (and the fandom reactions to this kind of thing deserve their own essay).

But when Dapper lost his first life, I was so viscerally upset that I nearly dropped the series to protect my mental health. I have pointedly refused to watch any stream where an egg dies if I know it’s coming, and I tend to avoid streams dealing with the aftermath of their deaths as well.

Because no matter how much logic you throw at the situation, it still feels real. If a player character perma-dies, or is banned, or just chooses to leave, they may no longer have a presence in the server, but it’s still clear to the audience that only the character is dead. The player exists outside of the server, and for the parasocially invested, it’s usually still easy to keep up with them if one wants to. The eggs broadly do not have that luxury. Once they’re dead in the story, they cease to exist altogether, and in an environment where the fiction/reality line is already so blurred, that is going to have a strong impact on the audience. No amount of hearing “they’re pixels in a video game” is going to mitigate that.

I think the best case scenario is that they grant the eggs the same immortality as the players, whether it be through hatching or some other means, and allow them to come and go as suits them. The eggs have fulfilled their initial purpose, and the server would really benefit from removing this hurdle that disincentivizes chaos and recklessness and incentivizes harassment from a highly-stressed audience. Multiple players have already said they have no intention of returning because they don’t want to deal with the fallout that will come from potentially hurting an egg. But all of these eggs have carved out a real place in the server, and it would be a shame to lose that.

The eggs are important to the QSMP and a major draw for a lot of people. And I don’t think that needs to change. But I do think that there are ways to use the eggs for narrative drama without having to force your audience into subconsciously believing that their favorite streamer has died. The QSMP, and servers like it, provide a unique storytelling medium with its own advantages and challenges. And as with any medium, it’s important to be aware of what these challenges are in order to tell the best story possible.

[wiltking]

finished my ARC of Reclaimed by seth haddon. full official review under the cut if you're curious but tldr; that was a rough one.

enjoyed the intro and setup and concept, and Saba's sopping wet misery for the most part. but most of my experience was considering whether or not I should DNF once the romance got started, side characters were introduced, and the plot spun apart. and even though the trans focus was the most interesting part of the book for me i cant recommend it on that alone, because Saba's self loathing is pretty miserable for 90% of the book, and there were some glaring inconsistencies... with his own inconsistencies.

At first, this had all the makings of a 4 or 5 star book. There was so much going on in the beginning that struck so many of my personal interests. I liked the story setup: both the gravity of the situation and Saba's conflicting emotions regarding it, especially his 'selfish' motivation that lead to the catastrophe at the heart of the book. I will go to bat for messy transgender characters any day of the week, and throughout the book Saba's inner turmoil regarding his body, sense of self, and his drive to change his body at the expense of everyone and anything else -- all tied up with his guilt, anger, grief and ambition -- was my favorite element by far. Even when it was painful and depressing to see him struggle with his body as a trans reader myself. His motivation was a great catalyst for the story and I was very interested in the mystery/investigation vibe the book opened with. And of course the size difference between him and the love interest was an immediate draw as well.

However. Despite Saba and Zek being interesting characters on their own, their romance struggled to captivate me. Which is hard to say, because they had some genuinely good moments throughout the book. But too many scenes came off as the author nudging them together rather than it feeling like an organic connection between the characters themselves. And too much of it felt rather juvenile, given the circumstances and the heavy tone introduced from the beginning, and the stakes at play.

For the remaining 2/3rds I frequently considered DNFing due to this loss of interest in the romance, but also because the plot itself lost its edge, with pacing and plot decisions that felt awkward, and even inconsistencies in the writing itself (one example: where characters were described as climbing out of a gig only to be inexplicably seated in it again a few pages later).

There were also several pet peeves prevalent: from an overabundance of winking, to numerous side characters acting way too invested in Saba and Zek's relationship, even when they were barely witness to it or weren't exactly friends to either of them. As well as the casual and frequent use of the word 'slut' to describe Saba's pretty normal feelings of desire. Which brings me into another issue regarding Saba's past experiences with sex, which is only briefly described towards the end of the book and really threw me for a loop, because of how casual his sex life apparently has been up to this point when so much of his anxiety is rooted around his body and how others gender it under every circumstance. Anxiety around sex and intimacy is a real and complex thing among some trans people, but his past experiences felt wildly overlooked and dissonant compared to where we meet him as a reader. I would have liked more insight into how he overcame these anxieties with previous encounters when his anxiety has such a major grip over him through the course of this book. Especially when it seems (by implication) he might've been having sex early in his transition, or even before it. It was either a missed opportunity to add further depth to Saba's complex feelings on sex, or a very huge contradiction, to write his past in this way. But with how briefly this point was glossed over, there wasn't enough to work with either way, and that makes me very sad.

Overall, I can't say I enjoyed this book outside the first 20% or so. But I appreciate Saba's character -- for his complexities and motivations and messy emotions. I appreciate the attempt made to tell an interesting trans story heavily focused on an unconventional means of transition. I appreciate that Zek had his own (perceived) bodily imperfections. And even though the execution didn't land its mark, and I'm not sure I would really recommend this book, I can at least walk away with these positives.

[locklyle1kanij]

Okay it’s time for part two of my Lockwood and Co fic recs, we’re going into the not as known fics and a lot of them are newer and mostly a bit shorter then the other ones i recommend last time.

(and of course they’re all mainly locklyle)

Also spoilers for The Hollow Boy ending if you haven’t read it, bec a lot of these fics have to do with the ending of that book.

Also if you have any trouble finding theses fics just let me know and i can hopefully help you out. ENJOY!!

“A certain step to falling in love” written by: buttonupshirt

Ongoing

Plot Summary:

Lucy reads Lockwood's copy of Pride and Prejudice

“A turn of fate” written by: IndecisiveScribbler

Ongoing

Plot Summary:

Lucy Carlyle has the worst luck. After getting rejected from what seems like every agency in London, it honestly feels like the world is against her. Fate strikes her with a second chance, though, and she is hired by Fittes as the newest member of Quill Kipps' team. She's prepared to show just how powerful her Talent can be. Anthony Lockwood is having an absolutely terrible time finding a new agent. He and George are struggling, and it doesn't help that Kipps keeps tearing cases away from them left and right. Luckily, he has a plan that will solve both of his problems at once.

I’m other words…

An AU in which Lucy doesn't learn about Lockwood & Co. and gets hired by Fittes instead.

“After the fall” written by: Littlelola

Ongoing

Plot Summary:

THB SPOILERS!! a different way the argument about Lucy leaving L&C could have gone.

“Don’t give up on me” written by: dmh23

Ongoing

Plot Summary:

TCS SPOILERS!! What if after their experience with La Belle Dame, Lucy is absolutely furious at Lockwood for following the Visitor? What if the case forces them to confront their feelings for each other, before their emotions end up causing even more issues for them and everyone around them?

“Drag Me Down” written by: buggybugs

Ongoing

Plot Summary:

After the untimely death of his sister, nine year old Anthony Lockwood is sent to live with a family friend who teaches him how to protect himself. But when a mysterious person drops off a pamphlet when he's seventeen, it's going to change everything. Alongside his untrained psychic powers and newfound friends, George Karim and Lucy Carlyle-Fittes, he'll soon discover that not everything is what it seems. Welcome to Whispering Rock Psychic Summer Camp, where you train hard to become international psychic secret agents....otherwise known as Psychonauts.

[Psychonauts AU, but you do NOT have to play the games in order to read this! The setting and some of the plot points are taken from the game, but a majority of it are worldbuilding things I've created myself to make this concept work so that it can be read by all readers.]

“Give me something to believe in” written by: PiningLikeFineDining

Ongoing

Plot Summary:

A royalty AU where Lucy and Lockwood meet as kids.

(my obsession with Royalty AU’s is honestly pretty concerning lol)

“Glowing Dim As An Ember” written by: LeonaBelle

Ongoing

Plot Summary:

Lukia doesn't remember her life before she was taken in by Mrs. Karlova. All she knows is she needs to get out of Russia and go to Paris, where she's sure she'll find the key to her past. A snarky conman, Anton, and his comrade Georgiy are her ticket out, with one catch: she has to pose as the Grand Duchess Ludmila. Along the way she finds herself inexplicably drawn to Anton, who seems somehow familiar. Lukia's journey is sabotaged by sinister shadows from her past, and only time will tell if she loses her heart or her life first.

(It’s an anastasia au, and it’s so perfect for locklyle)

“Gutted” written by: Savoirfaire

Ongoing

Plot Summary:

THB SPOILERS!! Lucy is staying away from Lockwood for his own good. Lockwood is too proud to ask her to come back. It'll take a miracle to get them back together. That, or a foot of steel rebar through the stomach.

“Happy endings” written by: Shenanigans24

Ongoing

Plot Summary:

an AU where, Lucy Carlyle is a frustrated writer working a part time job that's leading nowhere. Her problem, she doesn't believe in happy endings. Anthony Lockwood, journalist, isn't looking for a happy ever after. He's far too busy. Both end up for different reasons, at evening classes for writers. Do they deserve their own happy ending? Well first they might have to work together to solve a shocking mystery that sounds as if it belongs in a fiction book.

“I Can See You” written by: scarlettaylor

Ongoing

Plot Summary:

Lucy Carlyle is one of the top agents in England, a part of the notorious Fittes Agency. Anthony Lockwood is the founder and leader of Lockwood and Co., an Agency rapidly rising to fame. After the two meet on a case, it seems that fate keeps pulling them together. Navigating being in love as an agent is already a challenge. Hiding it from your respective agencies is a whole other issue.

“just business” written by: menina123

Ongoing

Plot Summary:

THB SPOILERS!! Lockwood’s been looking for a way to get Lucy back all winter, and when DEPRAC decides to host a weekend conference, he finally gets his chance. And if there’s a discount on registration fees for couples (excuse me, pairs)? That’s even better.

(I found this one today and i’m already obsessed with it)

“On The Fence” written by: Mercurial_Rain

Ongoing

Plot Summary:

Lucy Carlyle is an art student that stumbles across the Lockwood & Co fencing club while finishing an art assignment. She doesn't expect to see them again, but then, fate will do as it will.

(OMG i can’t believe i forgot about this one!! It’s sooo good!!!)

“The bizarre brink of feelings” written by:

Mirroringdust (MirroringDust)

Ongoing

Plot Summary:

SPOILER FOR THB
What if Lucy never left after the Hollow Boy and what if her vision became true but in a completely unexpected way?
Lucy and Lockwood face a situation that they can't really understand and a ghost they can't really capture in the usual way. On their final way to fight it, they are trapped in the tunnel, the others already lost. The manifestation pushed them to the brink of their feelings and the only way to not get lost is to admit them.

“The Darkness Beyond The Gates: A Halloween Chronicle” written by: worldofkaeos

Finished

Plot Summary:

A day before Halloween, Lockwood and Co. is suddenly tasked with one of the most arduous and dangerous case they had ever encountered. A group of missing agents, an ancient tale of a peculiar girl, and a sudden outbreak of supernatural Visitors in the midst of order, when things seemed to have already calmed down. The stakes are sky-high; will they succeed in their quest and save these agents? Above all: will they make it out alive?

“The Far Side of Paradise” written by: WhimysInkRibbons

Ongoing

Plot Summary:

It's 1930. All around the country, banks are closing their doors as the fallout of Black Tuesday spirals into economic depression. But Hesperide Manor, home of business magnate Marissa Fittes, is a world of glamour set apart. Lucy Carlyle, an aspiring PI, poses as a maid at Hesperide, determined to uncover the secrets of the manor's history in order to trade it for justice for her own. But when her past catches up to her in the form of Anthony Lockwood, the man who betrayed her years ago, she knows a single misstep will cause both their identities to come crashing down. Lockwood has been searching for his parent's and sister's murderer for years, at the cost of his childhood and the girl he once loved. When fate brings them together again in Hesperide, his heart is torn between his growing feelings for Lucy and his desire to put the murderer behind bars. Striking a tentative alliance, Lockwood and Lucy agree to help each other find the answers they seek. But as the days pass, they find themselves both falling for each and becoming more and more entangled in sinister secrets that the wealthy and powerful will do anything to protect.

“the ghosts that we knew will flicker from view” written by: the_one_that_fell

Ongoing

Plot Summary:

Not long after the establishment of DEPRAC, it was ruled that all children over the age of seven who possessed any psychical Talents were to go through government-funded training. The day Lucy turned seven, she was shipped off to London to study at Fittes House. There, she met a boy.

“The Lost Months of the Hollow Boy” written by: PininglikeFineDining

Ongoing

Plot Summary:

OBVIOUSLY TBH SPOILERS!!Lockwood begins to realize what a life without Lucy entails, learns more about her through an unexpected visitor, and receives glimpses into her past. Takes place between books 3 & 4.

(If you don’t want to emotional damaged DON,T READ THIS!)(but you should read it tho…)

“What I Know Now written” by: wawabird

Ongoing

Plot Summary:

Lucy closed her eyes momentarily and took a deep breath. Opening them she looked at the two in front of her. As of right now they were her only hope, Mary's life rested in the hands of a socially awkward occultist and his dandy of a friend who would not stop staring at her. Fantastic.
A fun little pre-problem regency au :)

I might make a part three but your gonna have to give me a couple weeks to find more because i’ve name dropped most of my favs i think lol but i will probably eventually make a part three… Also if any of the authors see this post, Thank You sooo much and keep doing what your doing <33333 and of course let me know your fic recs because I LOVE L&C FICS!!

[dreamy625]

One-shot - Barbie

Content: Casual drinking and smoking

Words: 2670

-----------------------------

Steve is considering a third drink and determinedly ignoring the clock over the bar as it ticks on from fashionably late to may-as-well-not-bother when he hears in a throaty drawl from behind him:

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns…”

His face breaks into a broad grin, “Barbie!”

“Don’t…” she kisses him on one cheek, “...call me Barbie...” and then the other, “Stevie.”

She hops up on the neighbouring bar stool and reaches for the pack of cigarettes in front of him.

“I knew it was you the second I saw your hair; still bulk-buying the peroxide I see!”

“Still putting your lipstick on with a trowel I see!” he counters, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand before waving to the bartender. “Gin and tonic, no ice, lime not lemon. And another one of these please.”

“So what brings you to my part of town? Do they not have pubs in Chelsea?”

“I’m supposed to be at a party. Industry bigwigs. Journalists. Mensch is making me go.”

“To prove you haven’t been kicked out of the band?”

“You’ve heard the rumours then?”

“Oh yes. But then I also heard you married a stripper and moved to Vegas, so…” she shrugs.

“That sounds more fun. Nah, it just goes on like it always does - do this, do that, don’t do that. The same old merry-go-round. Ages to go on the new record before we can get back out on the road again.” Their drinks arrive and he pushes a five-pound note across the bar. “And you’ve been conspicuous by your absence this past year, what have you been up to?”

“Oh you know, bit of writing, bit of design work. Plying my trade wherever they’ll have me.”

“How many countries this time?”

“Only three so far this year - Greece, Japan, and LA of course.”

“Ahh, jealous, I loved Japan. I’ve just gone back and forth to Dublin about four million times. Joe built his own studio,” he explains.

“Convenient.”

“For Joe it is. Phil’s in the US and Rick’s back in Holland, so the rest of us are clocking up a lot of airmiles.”

“You’ve not considered moving?”

“Nah, I’m settled where I am. Travelling’s good, but I want somewhere to come home to, somewhere that speaks proper English.” 

There’s something he’s carefully not saying and Barbara, of course, hears it loud and clear. “So where’s that American girlfriend of yours?”

“Which one?” asks Steve, lighting another cigarette and offering the packet to his companion. “Don’t matter anyway, answer’s the same - gone, got sick of me and buggered off to pastures new.”

“Oh sweetheart,” She pats his hand before reaching for the matches. “Always unlucky in love.” 

“Ain’t that the truth. Inexplicable really,” he looks down at the countertop before flicking his eyes up to hers, “when I have such good taste in women.”

Barbara laughs, not quite the reaction he’d been hoping for. “Very good Clarkie, have you been practising that?”

“Whaddya mean, works every time.” He turns his head to hide the blush threatening to colour his cheeks and motions to the barman for more drinks. Serves him right for assuming. Changing tack, he asks, “Are you here on your own?”

“Are you about to ask what a nice girl like me is doing in a place like this?”

“I know what you’re doing in here - chatting up strange men so you can pinch their cigarettes! I merely wished to enquire about your social arrangements.”

“Ah, very proper. I came in with some people from the magazine I’ve been writing for, but they’re going for a curry, so I guess I’m footloose and fancy free.”

“Good to know, thank you kindly.” He stubs out the cigarette, pondering his next move…

“Do you want to drink that?” She nods at the double brandy the bartender has just placed in front of him. “Or do you want to come home with me?”

“Can’t I do both?”

“From past experience, no,” smirks Barbara with a flick of her eyes down to his lap.

Steve blinks once before making the fastest decision of his life, pushing the glass back across the bar and dropping down from the bar stool almost in one movement.

A short walk brings them to a three-storey townhouse, not unlike his own, but this one, and the others in the terrace, has been split into flats and has the slightly dilapidated, uncared-for look common to buildings housing an ever-changing population of tenants. Barbara’s flat is on the third floor; high ceilings and fancy wallpaper, but just two rooms. Almost every time he saw her, she was living in a different short-term rental, squat, or half-empty house-sitting gig. The perpetual rolling stone, wherever she lay her hat was her home; although in Barbara’s case the ‘hat’ was three tea chests full of books and records, scarves and tapestries from far-flung places to cover every surface, and a stuffed parrot on a perch. Which meant that every place looked and smelt the same - like a poorly-kept antique store - and Steve would always feel himself being watched by a beady avian eye as he stumbled around in the middle of the night looking for yet another unfamiliar bathroom.

“So let me give you the tour.” Barbara takes three steps into the middle of the living room and does a slow twirl with her arms out. “This concludes our tour.”

“Nice. Frank’s looking well.” He waves to the parrot, so-named for its uncanny resemblance to Frank Zappa, receiving the usual glass-eyed stare in return. 

“So, d’you want a drink?” 

Steve shakes his head. 

“Or coffee?”

Another shake.

“Or…”

Steve smiles a lazy smile. “C’mere.”

Barbara tilts her chin up in mock defiance, but walks towards his open arms, peeling her coat off as she goes.

“I’ve missed you, Barbie.”

“Don’t call me…” The rest of the sentence dissolves into a muffled ‘mmph’ as Steve presses his lips to hers.

Her eager response is both exciting and warmly familiar - hers is a body he knows so well and returns to with delight - and as he works on ridding them both of extraneous clothing on the way to the bedroom, his only concern is picking the correct closed door and not ending up in a broom cupboard!

Later, satisfied and spent, with his girl curled up next to him and tracing drowsy circles on his chest, he lets his mind wander through memories of their long and convoluted relationship. 

Barbara had always roused a mixture of emotions. She was beautiful, charming, clever, and had a worldly sophistication that had been incredibly exotic to a boy who’d barely left Yorkshire. He’d been mesmerised by her from the first meeting, and the years of chance encounters and brief liaisons had done little to diminish her allure. On one hand, she was easy to be with, probably one of, no, the only, person he felt completely comfortable with. She didn’t expect anything of him, or want anything from him. Other than the obvious, which he gave gladly and enthusiastically. Even then, on the few occasions too much booze had made that impossible, she seemed equally happy to sort herself out (which in itself had been a notable lesson in his education in the ways of the modern woman). But on the other hand, why didn’t she want more? Why did she always slip from his grasp just when he’d started to believe that this was more than a dalliance? For Steve, who’d always fallen in love so easily and so completely, the only conclusion was that there was something wrong with him - why else would you so willingly let someone into your bed, but be so unwilling to let them into your heart? His only comfort was that she was, at least, consistent in her inconsistency; each time she would wriggle free but, eventually, there would be another postcard, another message on the answerphone. And each time there would be a tiny spark of hope; this time, maybe this time, she was tired of wandering… 

Steve woke to the sound of a lorry reversing, watery sunlight sneaking through the gap in the curtains, and absolutely no idea where he was. Then he registered the warmth of another body loosely spooned against his back and the familiar scent of Yves Saint Laurent Opium. Oh yeah. With a smile on his face he drifts back to sleep.

The second time he wakes is less peaceful - it sounds like someone in the street repeatedly throwing a tin bath down a flight of stairs.

Beside him, Barbara yawns and mutters, “Bin day.” And then, “What time is it?”

He gropes for his watch discarded on the bedside table and squints at the dial. “Just gone nine.”

She groans and rolls out of bed, lifting a silk dressing gown from its hook on the back of the door before vanishing through it. Steve hears the protesting grumble of an old cistern and then running water. Sliding reluctantly from under the warm heavy quilt, he picks up his shirt from the floor and, pulling it on, follows the sound to a tiny bathroom housed in what he can only assume was originally, before the advent of indoor plumbing, a cupboard. Manoeuvring past Barbara - standing at the sink squeezing toothpaste from a crumpled tube - he pisses in the practically antique toilet and pulls the chain. Putting an arm around either side of her, he rinses his hands under the running tap, giving an involuntary shudder at the icy temperature. He shakes off the water, ‘accidentally’ flicking a few drops at Barbara’s face, which makes her wrinkle up her nose, then wraps his arms around her. She squeaks as his cold hands make contact, but he just hugs tighter. Looking in the mirror above the basin, and trying to ignore whatever sticking-up tangle his hair has knitted itself into overnight, he studies their combined reflection.

When they first got together they’d seemed an ill-suited pairing - he, younger in both looks and life experience than his nineteen years, and she, at thirty, a woman in her prime living a life packed with travel and culture. To the casual observer they may have appeared more like teacher and student than lovers. But they shared the same slightly off-the-wall sense of humour, and the same hunger to see the world and devour all it had to offer, and they had been instantly compatible in the bedroom, so it had worked well enough in the short snatches of time they had together. Now, time and, let’s be honest, a less-than-healthy lifestyle, had turned Steve’s once boyish features into something still handsome but more weathered than one might expect at twenty-nine, while Barbara, aside from a few deepened lines around her eyes, had barely aged in the intervening ten years. Their faces in the mirror matched, they looked like a real couple. 

“Do you have to go to work?” When she shakes her head, the brush still in her mouth, he ducks his head and kisses her neck just beneath her ear. “Come back to bed then.”

Afterwards, propped up against crumpled pillows and sharing the last cigarette in the packet, Steve feels a rare sense of calm and contentment, clear-headed and with a pleasant ache in a few muscles he hadn’t given that kind of workout in a while.

“We could go out for breakfast? Or do anything really. What would you like to do?”

“What I’d like to do is lie on a chaise longue sipping a mimosa, but what I actually have to do is pack and fly to Buenos Aires at six o’clock.”

Steve’s face falls. “Buenos Aires? What for?”

“An editing job. One of those Rough Guide-type things.”

“When will you be back?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a one-way ticket.” She glances around the once-grand but now rather tatty bedroom. “I’m subletting my sublet, so there’s nothing I need to come back for.”

“Nothing?” asks Steve, trying not to pout.

“Oh darling,” she reaches out a hand and presses her finger against the protruding lip, “don’t look at me like that. I’ll always be there for you, you know that. It’ll just be on the other end of a phone line for a while. Or you’re bound to be in Argentina sooner or later.”

Steve drops his head onto her shoulder. He knows how this will go, how it always goes, but he can’t stop himself. “But what if I want more than the occasional phone call?”

He feels more than hears her sigh. “You can’t always have what you want.”

“But why not?”

“Because you don’t just want more, you want everything - the wife waiting at home with your dinner on the table, the 2.4 apple-cheeked children, a lawn to mow on a Sunday morning. You want happy ever after. And that’s not what I want. I couldn’t do that if I tried.”

“But it must mean something, that we keep ending up together? Maybe you are meant to be my fairytale ending.”

“Sweetie, we shagged in a closet the night we met, that’s not a fairytale, that’s a Jackie Collins novel!”

“That was your idea! I was nineteen, I’d never met anyone like you, what was I going to do? Say no? I’d’ve bought you a candlelit dinner if you’d let me!”

“You would as well. You were such a sweet little thing.”

Steve attempts to refute this with a growling sneer, but Barbara just laughs and pats his leg. 

“Anyway, my big tough rockstar, unless you’re going to help me pack, I think it’s time for you to get going. There’s probably still a couple of teabags left. I will forgo my usual disdain of domesticity and make you a cup of tea while you get dressed?”

“Ohh-kaay,” he agrees reluctantly, shivering as she throws back the duvet.

In the kitchenette, she hands him a mug of dark brown liquid. “Sorry, the milk was making a determined effort to become cheese. But it is Yorkshire tea so…”

“Aye, that’ll do. Glad you got something from me at least.”

“Everything else cleared up with penicillin.”

“Cheeky!”

Barbara starts to load plates, washed and unwashed, into a cardboard box. “Pass me those spoons would you.” She drops them haphazardly on top of the crockery. “That girlfriend of yours, is it really over?”

“Yeah. She went off with someone else. Bit of a relief if I’m honest. Not my best decision ever.”

“Not her, the other one, the model.”

“Lorelei.” Steve leans back against the fridge and gazes at the flaking paint on the ceiling. “I royally fucked that one up. No way back there.” 

“That’s sad. She seemed nice.”

“She is nice. Too nice. She deserves better.”

Barbara moves to stand in front of him. There is love in her expression, but also something steely. 

She reaches up and strokes his cheek. “You’re too hard on yourself. Your perfect girl is out there somewhere, I know it.”

“In Argentina?” he asks plaintively.

She shakes her head, “Don’t.” She takes the mug from his hand, pours the dregs down the sink, and adds it to the box. 

Steve understands that he’s being dismissed and picks up his jacket from the back of the chair.

“Now, do you want custody of Frank? I’m not sure the new tenants will appreciate him.”

Steve eyes the slightly moth-eaten bird without enthusiasm. “No offence Frank, but you’re not much of a substitute.”

By the door, he bends to pull on his boots, then pats his pockets - keys, wallet, matches, must remember to get more ciggies on the way home. 

“Bye then. Have a good trip.”

“I’ll write. Promise.”

“You’d better.” He pulls her into a tight hug and drops a kiss on her forehead. “Look after yourself, okay.”

“Don’t worry, I always do.” 

She slides back the bolt and opens the door wide onto the shabby, faintly cabbagey-smelling, landing. Steve looks back as he reaches the stairs, but the door is already closed.

-----------------------------

I’m sorry, I had to break his heart just a tiny bit :/

For context, irl Barbara Salisbury was Steve’s on and off lover from the very early days (she was a publicist for their first record company) until, well, it’s not clear if they ever stopped seeing each other. She was described as very independent and free-spirited and I often wonder how our romantic traditionalist coped with that.

[nahalism]

Do you believe everything happens for a reason? (You can spill yourself with 0 limit here i love the way you write soooo much)

<33333. — i do. but i believe it can be meant both literally and figuratively.

in a pragmatic sense, things do happen for reasons (cause & effect). if i light a fire in my house & pour petrol on it, my house will likely burn down.

however, there are also instances where the petrol is poured, the match is lit, and yet one room in the house is inexplicably left untouched. and (im making this up but go with me) perhaps it just so happens that the one room that survives unscathed, contains a journal of a person who tells a story, a journal that would never have been found if the house wasn't thoroughly examined due to the fire, and that that journal inspires Patrick (??? the failing politician who lit the fire & currently owns the house) to stop trying to burn his life to the ground (metaphorically and literally) but instead, to move to india.. where the story he read is based, and where he then meets a community of yogi's! yogi's who share with him the tools of enlightenment, tools that with his unique understanding of the west and politics, arm him with the perfect ability to bring peace and unity 2 his hometown and revolutionise the world he used to belong to, a world that that prior to his adventure, brought him and everyone around him to what felt like ruin.

— with that as an example — i think it could be interpreted that random and outlandish things do happen to unsuspecting people, and that they cant be explained, yet that they do cause us to pivot and lead us to some preordained destiny thats so much greater and grander than we could ever have hoped for or conceptualised for ourselves. in such circumstances, we often cant see or understand the invisible thread weaving the events in our life together. its only at the end of the journey that what appeared to be a wrong turn or cause for misery appears to be a factor that was working together for good all along. — i think that narrative is cute and can be real —. but i also feel that if we examine that line of argument a little further, we're brought back to that first pragmatic principle of cause & effect. why did Patrick read the journal? he could have easily not. or he could have read the story, thought 'what a load of faf', then moved in with his elderly parents and spent his life disgruntled at the fact the house not burning down completely ruined his plans to claim insurance & foiled his plan for early retirement. — Patrick's story doesnt end like that because he chose to do something different. in that sense, the things that happened happened, but it was Patrick's actions that gave those events reason, and as such purpose.

i think life is like that a lot of the time. we are more powerful than we like to give ourselves credit for, despite the inexplicable and fortuitous underpinning of that story, without making the choices he made in the face of the cards he was dealt, Patrick could have led a completely different life. i think more than what happens to us, its the intent we carry that speaks through our actions, and leads us to the outcomes we experience. and there are people who try to orchestrate what happens in their lives by taking calculated actions that lead down calculated paths, yet end up in scenarios so far from what they planned despite that calculated approach working for their peers. who is to say thats not fate or destiny? in the same token, who is to say it is?

it could be that these things are happening for a reason. it could be that we all have a preordained fate we're headed toward, and that despite the illusion of choice or our attempts to shape our own destiny, we cant escape the fact that life is happening to us. or it could be that we are happening to life, and that what we decide, and how we choose to perceive whats before us, is more instrumental to what we become, who we become, and where we end up. it could be a hybrid of the two, and that we, each uniquely made, meet whatever circumstances are presented to us, but due to the unique nature of who we are affect those circumstances differently. in which case our actions (choice), and our design (fate), create an amalgam of potentialities, all of which we can become depending on the nature of how we respond to our environment.

i really dont know for sure. but i do feel this, mind moves matter. if a person chooses to believe that all things happen for a reason, and not just any reason, but for good, they are more likely to see the events in their life as cause for celebration, even when the evidence desperately suggests otherwise. i think its why faith is the basis for miracles. where there is a will there is a way.

thank you for encouraging me to write freely. feel free to share what u think, id love to hear <3 <3 <3

[marnz]

I watched tsn last year because my memory suddenly remember that i used to see photos and gifs of it in 2016 and i read someone blog analyzing the relationship of mark and eduardo (in 2016) but didn't know it was a fb film, so i decided to watch it, to be honest my brain is pretty damage from working corporate job and seeing how nasty capitalism is, so my first thought watching it wasn't really wow gay, eduardo was in love!!! but was more like wow mark is such a jerk, i didn't see anything gay that people were screaming about 🙃 and being reminded that this is zuckerberg and his old friend irl did not help, and i also read the story of what actually happened irl and understand how eduardo was also a jerk too so i just jumped into ao3 to read fanfic, i actually wish i watched it during highschool or college time more because i truly can't consume queerbait series or films that aren't obvious anymore, normal queer film/tv series is fine tho. This is just my own experience i'm sure there are many tsn new fans who watched it and also enjoy how "gay" it is like you guys in 2010 too :) i just have damaged brain i think

oh no friend I’m so sorry about your job! Let’s get you a better one. I don’t think your reaction is wrong at all, like I said, it was a different time and you had to be there. I got into it in college and exited the fandom in the mid 2010s; I would never in my life get into it now. I think you are right…it’s 2024.

However I have been thinking about this since I got your message and I also think the constant analysis and the fanfic contributed pretty heavily to the atmosphere, plus like I said the Andrew Garfield of it all. Honestly I think the fandom boils down to a couple things:

1) the film has homoerotic subtext mostly evidenced by Eduardo. There’s a lot of time spent on Eduardo’s feelings about Mark, like even during the bathroom blowjob scene the camera takes a moment to remind us that Eduardo is thinking about Mark in the next stall. There is almost no time spent on Mark’s feelings about Eduardo. So this subtext is like, there are feelings and they are unreciprocated. Isn’t this so tragic when 0.03% happens? Mark certainly talks a lot about his feelings for Eduardo, but words do not matter. Action matters. Contrast this with a more classic queerbait like Sterek where 1) there was queerbaiting market and 2) there was reciprocal homoerotic subtext that could never be acted upon.

2) I don’t think fandom is super good at dealing with an unlikeable or unsympathetic yet compelling protagonist! Which means this protagonist is rendered much more sympathetically in fic and people watch or read the media source with rose colored glasses. “He would not fucking say that” x1000.

3) I’m not that much older than you I think but…there was this period in tv where there were canon gays who were as interesting and dynamic as a pool noodle and, meanwhile, in subtext and/or queerbait land, there were relationships that consistently got a lot of time and attention and so were sooooooo compelling. And those are the relationships that I, and fandom, tend to gravitate towards. Plus growing up there weren’t a ton of happy gay stories so instead it was like, you have Brokeback Mountain, you have Dead Poets Society, you have What Happened to Lani Granger? You have, for some reason, Glee (boring except for faberry and Santana). Thank god we are not there anymore.

4) I have bad taste <3

Anyway sorry for rambling here, your asks got me thinking because it very much was like hmm well yeah it IS completely inexplicable huh but I think a lot of fandom is like that.

[lovewillthaw-j]

What are your wishes for Frozen 3?? Would you rather see Elsa staying in the forest or move somewhere else?

I want to be swept off my feet. I want to be mesmerized again by the animation, so mesmerized that I would gif non-stop. I want to fall deeper in love with Elsa and Anna (than I already have). I want to be addicted to the music and the songs like I was for Frozen 2 when I listened to the soundtrack perpetually on loop for weeks and dreamt it in my sleep (true story).

I wish the plot will be good and not attempt to accomplish too much like in F2. I hope they won't retcon things that we all hold dearly onto. Some retcon is to be expected, but I hope it won't divide the Fandom.

I hope the film makers will be able to challenge their strong ideals for the movie and dare to sacrifice them if it makes for a better movie. (for example: For F2 they wanted Anna to go thru depression partly because of director Chris buck's journey through it (he lost his son during the production of F1, RIP). But in order to make Anna depressed they had to kill Elsa. Elsa's death in F2 was controversial and not fully explained. Why would Ahtohallan crown her as fifth spirit and then kill her immediately. Another example - Jlee and Klopez strongly wanted a story element of a parent/mother letting a growing young adult be free and independent (they have said this in interviews). This was based on their own life experience as their daughters were progressing into teenage-hood. But this led inexplicably to Anna becoming a mother figure to Elsa who wants to leave Arendelle.)

I hope it stays true to Frozen 1. I definitely don't want Olaf to take centerstage like he has post-F2. You can't sustain a movie on a side character.

I hope that the world will be ignited by Frozen madness again.

I'm in 2 minds about what Disney will produce. Of course they want $$$ out of Frozen. (the merch sales are so huge that's why frozen is not lumped together with Disney princess) but I don't want a cheap cash grab. On the one hand I think elsa will have another big song(s) and a dress transformation (for the merch). Yet I don't know what other transformation (plot-wise) elsa can go through. Part of me wants a simple story with the characters spending time together. I have always thought, why can't we just see more of what happened between F1 and F2, meaning, happy times like FF and OFA. But, u could also argue that that's pretty mundane and not going to sustain a whole movie and may not ignite frozen madness. And these kind of happy time adventures are already fleshed out in all the little story books.

Musings - I wonder if Anna will get powers. I wonder if elsa will turn evil (Anna died, or something?) I wonder if Hans will come back. I wonder if elsa will lose/give up her powers. Sometimes my plot musings merge with superhero movie plots lol. I wonder if the parents are still alive somewhere. I wonder if runeard is still alive. Rapunzel crossover? (I'm going into superhero territory again lol)

OK I've rambled and I don't know where I'm going with this. Suffice to say I am excited but scared for F3.

I just hope it won't be a mad rush like how F2 was (as documented in the ITU documentary which looks like anatomy of a mess that somehow pulled itself together at the last second. Still can't believe we ALMOST didn't have show yourself in the movie!)