#but my internal critic won't shut up

[pennedbylisse]

INTELLECTUAL CRUSH

ep. 2 | ep. 3 | ep. 4 |

a multi-part series centered around the anonymous exchanges of namjoon and a literature girl. a separate but related installment of the halley universe (see Cupid Operation)

Books Nine Lives Company

Eco-friendly and sustainable trade of old books. Where we repurpose the neglected.

Namjoon pushes his weight into the swinging door and the store sign rattles.

A bell rings overhead - a jaunty, youthful chirp - as he enters the familiar bookstore to be encased in the scent of aged leather, the subtle-sweet vanilla essence of lignin wood-based parchment and the musty scent of carpet that has endured soiled shoes, coffee spills and bladder accidents from the part of the resident senior dog sleeping by the shop window.

He takes a practiced sharp left down a thin hall lined with mahogany-variation shelves, all crammed with books, without a single cubic inch to spare. The walls seem to encroach in on him, the further he disappears into the shop. Hardcovers and paperbacks - some surprisingly intact in condition, others faded, sun-bleached, tearing at the spines - spill from the shelves, pour into unstable, uneven stacks on either side of his legs.

Over the terrain of an old tapestry carpet, his worn logger-lace-up boots part a sliver of shuffling space.

His eyes dart over the labels meant to trim the seams of unrelated sections. During some point in the lifetime of the store, it proved effective. Now there's impractical irony to it. The books spill over their borders, congregate into uncategorized mounds, beg assortment and the inquisitive human graze.

Non-fiction, Poetry, Modern Poetry, Classical Philosophy . . .

"Kant...Kant...Kant," he recites beneath his breath, whilst drawing the tip of his forefinger over the lined spines. The ribbed feel of it in conjunct with the continued drum of his touch reminds him of sliding a hand across piano keys. An unattended grand piano on the courtyard of a local mall, the sound inflating beneath his hands, swirling up and around, diffusing through empty space and through an idle mind.

"Ka-" his finger halts, and shortly after, so do his steps.

He shuffles back to trace down the spine.

Namjoon saunters towards the front desk, skimming the dorsal face of the book cover with a furrowed brow.

There's a golden - well, once-golden, now-rusted coppery bronze - call bell that he would have once rang and been met with silence. He would have questioned ringing it once more at the risk of irritation.

Now, he only sets the book by the register and folds down to greet the senior dog curled into a ball over its dented, worn pillow. Grey, melanin-deprived hairs shade the corners of its snout, and highlight its brows, the tips of his billowing ear-lobes.

"How are you today, Apollo?" he whispers.

The dog lifts its head groggily to sniff Namjoon's outstretched palm. It scrunches and wrinkles its cracked nose and slightly parts the drooping lids of its eyes. Murky white clouds greet Namjoon.

"You make twenty the new twelve."

At the beep of the scan gun, Namjoon starts to rise.

The shop owner, Ruki, has a near-psychic ability to sense the presence of a customer within the maze of shelves. The call bell is for formalities, as is the dainty one hanging off the entrance frame. Uses them as fail-proofs while he disappears into the storage closet towards the rear of the store and pastes barcodes onto the covers of new arrivals.

Namjoon fishes a hand into the internal pocket of his winter coat for his wallet.

Ruki, behind the desk, mirrors the grey, melanin-deprived complexion of the dog, who once had been golden. The old man drums his knuckles on the wood counter and stares out the shop window contemplatively. It looks like it might snow today.

"Stray dogs," he voices, puckering wrinkled lips into a slight frown. "Invincible little creatures, aren't they? At this rate, I fear the damn dog will outlive me."

Namjoon thumbs the lined green bills nestled into his brown wallet.

"2.50's the sum, kid."

Namjoon folds the cash onto the counter and slides it into the man's wrinkled, patchy, outstretched hand.

"Everything alright, Ruki? With you, your family?"

"Yeah, I suppose." He shrugs. "Cancer's back." In a swift and practiced motion, he slips the receipt between the book pages like a bookmark. "I guess I can't be too upset with this fate. I only ever wished to live 'til 85. 84's not bad. Not bad at all." He slides the book face-up toward Namjoon, lets out a dry, humorless chuckle. It doesn't quite reach the point of crinkling the lines strewn around his eyes.

Namjoon grabs the book, taps it on the edge of the counter, as if gathering a deck of cards or a pack of printer paper. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be, kid," he slices right through the platitudes, having felt sorry for too long, having learned how much of a waste it is to live in regret and pity. "We all die at some point. It's nature. No use defying it."

"What about treatment? Technology, nowadays, is so advanced. I read a paper discussing the transplantation of a pig heart into a human recipient. Promising developments."

Ruki shakes his head markedly. "Can't go through that all over again. I won't spend whatever time's left - months, maybe a year, if I'm lucky - rotting because of chemo, not being able to tolerate my favorite foods, bleeding from my gums, in hospital rooms surrounded by people in the same death-bound state as me. I wanna be out here, where life is, all types of it. The pretty kind, sweet kind, the ugly, the morose, rude, and real kind. I wanna make memories with my daughter while there's still time."

Namjoon absent-mindedly frays the edges of the book with his thumb, liking the fluttering friction of the thin corners against the pads of his fingers. Tries to think of something better to say but realizes that sometimes silence holds more meaning. Ironically, his words fall short of any value, even amidst a bookstore overflowing with them.

Instead, he voices his unbridled curiosity. "What'll happen to Apollo?" He looks down at his left, at the dog. Very faint golden strikes up its flanks, transitioning into colorless white. "The store, too?"

"Ask myself that daily." He lifts his brows and lets them fall just as quickly, as if he's at a loss for a response himself. "I've been trying to persuade my daughter to assume my position. I even offered her the compromise of opening the shop only two days a week, so that she'll have the rest of the time to dedicate to her studies - wants to be a doctor, my little girl. I have no doubt she will be. Unfortunately, I likely won't be there to see it, to see her pledge her Hippocratic oath, get her white coat."

Namjoon sits at the bus stop, string earbuds in his ears, the book held splayed by the sturdy hold of his right hand over his crossed lap.

He draws the flame of his lighter to the cigarette balanced between his lips before slapping the case over the amber, extinguishing it swiftly.

Ashes descend onto his denim lap.

When the snow starts to glide through the sky, the grey nicotine ashes blend with the pale blanket by his feet. It is clean and fresh, yet untarnished by scruffy boots or bicycle tracks.

He'd read once, a statistic accusing nicotine as the leading cause of lung cancer. Quickly and half-mindedly brushed it off, like burdensome lint on a freshly-washed sweater. Plucked the doubts from his mind one by one before they could poison the rest of his thoughts.

It wasn't because he found it hard to believe. He was certain of its validity, the statistics were convincing, as was the logic, rather he didn't care. Cared more for taunting death a little, daring the universe to kill him the way he predicts. It's a little morbid but something deep inside him knows that life is rarely predictable or tamable.

He could do one action, and the opposite would unfold. It's not hypothetical. He'd tried to refute his hypothesis with trials; the amount of times it was supported soon became too burdensome to track.

Life isn't straight-forward. Good people get sick, die; the evil persist. The talented go unrecognized in the shadows, ghost writers; the connected thrive. It's all pointless to try and make since of any of it. It's all absurd, as Albert Camus would put it.

He tosses the butt of the cigarette to the ground as the bus pulls up, comes to a screeching halt before him, and squanders the faint amber with the sole of his boot pressed into the snow.

It fizzles a little through the worn-thin sole.

The bus shudders to a halt, and Namjoon shakes the slumber from his head, unfolds his lap, stuffs the book into his back pocket while he starts up, swaying clumsily, sleep-drugged. It was a routine practiced enough that he didn't need to count the stops, or read the street signs to know when to hop-off. There's some internal clock in his subconscious that starts ticking away at the minutes as soon as he climbs the steps up the bus before Nine Books.

The gates unfold and slide across the frame of the bus. It drives away with a long draw of its engine, and a squirt of inky smoke from its exhaust.

Replacing its sight, a vintage-style diner comes into view across the street.

Namjoon crosses the striped pedestrian markings towards it.

At the door, he tugs on the sign, hung around a snagged nail, twists it from displaying a scribbled "Closed. Come Again!" to a "Welcome!"

He strolls in, heavy boots echoing dully across the vacancy. Dispersing muddied snow on impact.

On the trajectory towards his quaint square office space towards the rear of the facility, he can't resist the nagging urge to flip the chairs resting on tabletops. He's got a chronic case of twitchy hands, likely a result of the incessant nicotine crave. Makes his mind race, his legs unsteady, unstill.

At first, he means only to flip one, and scratch the mental itch.

It persists.

After the second chair he starts circumferencing the table, figure eights in swift motion towards another table.

The chatter of the legs on tile is enough to fill the buzzing vacancy of his mind. Enough for his hands to clasp onto and anchor themselves.

But just as quickly, his focus starts to blur. Eyes skit over the distant counter in search of the next thing to occupy his time. His mind.

He's been down this road before. Has made it until noon stil in his winter coat, robust keychain clanking rhythmically against his belt clip. Goes hours without eating anything of substance. The gnawing of an empty stomach numbs before he circles back around to the first intention of the day: visiting his office.

"Office first," he reminds himself today. Inhales deep into his diaphragm and holds it lest it escape his dominion, like the rest of his thoughts and intentions.

He slips the jagged teeth of a golden key into the lock and twists the rusted knob. The door lets out a long groan as it swivels on tired hinges.

Nearing the disheveled surface of a wooden desk pressed against a wall, he plops down his latest read over an assortment of folded papers, receipts, stacked notebooks of moleskin and annotated promotional pamphlets. Try as he might to assign each item its designated square space, it never remains organized long enough. The universe tends towards entropy, he'd justify, it's just the law of nature.

Upon shrugging out of his winter coat, he drapes it over the backrest of his office chair.

His eyes habitually trail over a circular frame standing on the desk's edge. The textured frame accentuates a black-and-white image of his grandpa and grandma caught in a side-embrace, hands clasped over one another's at grandpa's breast.

Gingerly, his tremoring hands collect the frame. He draws his pointer finger over the smooth glass preserving the image, the single moment solidified in time.

He shakes his head clear of some dense sensation and places it back on its designated place, indicated by a square frame of gathered dust.

Shutting the creaking office door behind him, he fishes the carton of cigarettes from his back jean pocket. Plucks a single cylinder from its place and plants it between the groove where his ear adjoins his scalp.

He meanders into the vacant kitchen. Starts a pot of coffee. Nostrils flare as the acidic aroma starts to permeate the empty lot.

The brew drips and bubbles as he strolls to the dormant jukebox on the far end of the establishment. He bends down to plug its chord and starts up. Digs a spare coin out from his front pocket and slips it into the slit on the machine.

In response, it illuminates to life, flickers neon in a hypnotizing pattern.

Pressing a neon green button, he flips through the title slips. He's not registering any of them, though. Just lets his eyes become oversensitive by the mechanized motion of the slips. Defaults to inputting "1-2-4" on the selection panel.

Inside the glass, a wheel of two-hundred discs spins in search of the selection. It slows until it halts and a robotic arm upends a record disc from the rest, lays it out over a turntable.

In a synchronized choreography, as the record is laid over the turntable, a needle descends over its grooves and holds steady pressure.

The machine emanates a crackle that falls into a single voice: [The Song]

Namjoon shuts his eyes in that moment. Allows the familiar tune to send him back in time. An easier time, a more innocent one. Where his only worries consisted of finishing school assignments and coming home by the parent-designated curfew.

His grandparents would dance circles in the diner, hands clasped together, heads leaned to this very song. The customers would cheer, eyes sparkly. They'd submit petitions for the next songs by holding up a shimmery silver coin.

Namjoon would collect them, have them whisper the desired track into his ear. He'd skip back towards the illuminated machine and recite the corresponding track numbers until the current song would come to a cadence.

He sighs. Thinks, I should visit them while they are still there to visit.

It's not something he looks forward to, however. To come to terms with how much time has changed them. To accept that those fond moments are never coming back.

Circling around the kitchen, he procures a metal bowl from the cabinets. Tugs open a drawer and clasps a whisk, its metal cool to the touch.

Opening the fridge door, and bathed in its sterile light, he grabs a couple of eggs, skims the container counting the ones that remain. Provisions should arrive today.

While there, he grabs the tub of butter. Flings the door close with his boot and swivels to pour the ingredients over the counter space, next to the shimmering bowl.

He turns and leans over his head, grabs the flour and sugar from a high shelve. A bit of flour escapes a tiny hole on its bag and dusts his cheek.

Instinctually, he crinkles his eyes, coughs. Shakes his head.

As the batter inflates under the warm luminance of the oven, he grabs a broom propped against the wall inside a storage closet.

His boots clunk rhythmically over the tile floor when he makes his way towards the entrance. Props the door open with its embedded door stump. Starts to part a walkway through the compacted snow. Can't have customers slipping.

It's a cold day in January. The merciless kind of cold that can't be nullified by the festive spirit of the holidays. There's mutable wind changing directions immediately as it blows into him. Delivering the caress of winter and just as quickly withdrawing it.

The muscles of his back and shoulders tense in anticipation for the next gush of frigid wind. The hairs on his exposed forearms prickle.

He starts to envy the batter heating in the kitchen.

He thinks of burning the cigarette nestled over his ear. Imagines how the smoke would warm him up from the inside out. As though a steaming chimney lived inside him.

When he balances the cigarette between his chapped lips, he becomes aware of an approaching figure, strolling up the walkway. She's bundled in a coat, hunched in on her small figure. Raven black hair blowing in the wind.

Namjoon nods in her acknowledgement as he digs around his pocket for his lighter. It's clumsy and desperate and hurried, so the lighter slips his grasp on multiple occasions.

The incomer doesn't slow or detour.

"Morning, boss" the girl quips. Plucks the white cylinder from his lips.

He grimaces at the sensation that a part of his dry lips had been torn along with it. Cups his mouth to verify it isn't true.

"First time I actually get here before you light it."

"You owe me a pack."

"Yeah, well, you owe me the two years of extended lifetime I've gathered you."

"I don't think that's the actual math."

"I've saved you time. Can we just leave it at that."

Namjoon resumes brooming. Still cold. Still tense and prickled. Nicotine deprived.

She shrugs her shoulders out of the billowing coat to reveal at least three more layers of clothing beneath. Long sleeves tugged over her wrists to keep her fingers from tingling.

Norah's armored herself with a black apron, her name affixed to the collar with a pin. She pops out of the doorframe long enough to hand Namjoon a mug of steaming coffee, no sweetener, light milk, but not long enough to allow the wind to ripple a shiver through her.

Namjoon gratefully accepts. Holds the broom handle beneath his arm to allow himself to cup the mug with both hands and derive warmth from that. "Where's your partner in crime? Sleeping late, again?" He mumbles against the ceramic rim, steam billowing up his nostrils.

"En route," she responds over her shoulder. She rounds into the kitchen. Grabs the glass coffee pot and pours herself a black.

Namjoon chortles, accidentally inhaling a gulp of the hot drink. Dissolves into a coughing fit before he's finally composed enough to verbalize "From where? Mars?"

"Actually..." she sets down her drink on the counter. Loses her gaze out the front windows, ravaging her mind for recollection. "No. I think he mentioned it was from Saturn." She angles her head pensively. "Got caught in the current of those spinning rings or something like that."

Namjoon translates, "He's stuck in rush-hour traffic."

[thought of henry's place in addy larue while writing this so thank v.e. schawb for the imagery inspiration]

[roseofcards90]

I'm like so mad lmao like why are parents the absolute worst

[hazy-smiles]

Easy Smiles (Dan Feng x masc!GN!reader (platonic or romantic))

Hello everyone this is my Dan Feng fic that no one asked for.

The reader is implied to be masc or gn, and I don't write for fem. I hope someone enjoys this :)

(Relationship is teetering on the edge of romantic and platonic, who knows. I don't.)

"I don't find this to be enjoyable, you know."

Dan Feng's tone is bitter, but he wraps the bandage gently all the same. As the white cloth winds around your hand, carefully between your fingers, his hand gently supports your wrist as he stands in front of you, seated on the medical cot.

In the seemingly endless war against the abundance, you sit in a small medical tent in a brief moment of peace. It seems like things have calmed down, but you know better. Things will likely escalate once more, like a windy day being the warning of a storm to come.

Of course, you hadn't hoped to put him in this situation. As talented of a healer as he is, Dan Feng derives no pleasure from carefully bandaging up the few friends and loved ones he treasures. You can tell from the slight squint of his eyes, the tenseness in his shoulders as cloudhymn blooms from his fingertips. It's always been quite beautiful. He's always been quite-

"Did you hear me?"

Dan Feng's soft yet icy gaze meets yours once again, and you snap your attention up from the swirls of azure and turquoise that make your skin tingle before soothingly cooling it.

"I did," you grin sheepishly.

"And?"

"I will be more careful."

Dan Feng opens his mouth as if to argue, 'no, you won't be, you reckless fool', before he snaps it shut and squeezes your hand firmly before releasing it.

He sighs and tilts his head up to face the ceiling.

"Praying to your ancestors for patience, or something?" It's a horrible joke. You know it's not the greatest thing to come out of your mouth. But your friend is stressed and it's admittedly your fault, so you can give yourself the grace to forgive yourself for it.

Dan Feng drops his head back down to his normal, perfectly straight posture, and affixes you with a look that looks equal parts incredulous and 'are you being serious?'

You suck on your bottom lip as you sheepishly smile. He sighs. You're both fairly reserved individuals, but it seems that, as a pair, you both tend to annoy and pick at each other more than either of you would usually deem acceptable.

“I doubt the wisdom of my ancestors is equipped to save me in this situation.”

“That so?”

“Quite.”

He looks firm as he says it, and internally you wince slightly. His expression seems to soften almost immediately after that.

“Why can't you be more careful?

“I am.”

“Trying to control the flow of an opposing army on your lonesome is reckless. Be less reckless.”

The air seems to still.

“Please.”

After a moment, you sigh. In your friendship with him, it seems you're both equally matched in your concern for one another.

High Elder or not, Dan Feng loves his friends. You can see it both in your own friendship with him and his friendships within the High Cloud Quintet. His concern is veiled just enough so that once you've learned to see it, you’ll never doubt that it's there. Ever the healer.

You wonder if he's scared of it all being stripped away, sometimes. He probably knows better than anyone that the preceptors are more than willing to criticize the High Elder, secretively but never quite quietly enough, for his ‘mortal frailties’.

“I will try.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“I will be careful.”

It seems to appease him for the moment, and he sighs. Some of the tension fades from his posture as he closes his eyes and hangs his head.

“Very well. Thank you.”

“Ever honoured to be of service to the esteemed High Elder.” Dan Feng groans, still with his eyes closed, and you snicker quietly.

“My knight in shining armour.”

“Stop it.”

“Alas-” you clutch at your heart through your undershirt, and fall backwards onto the cot. Dan Feng moves forward quickly, and leans forward to check that you haven't actually succumbed to an injury he might have overlooked. He wouldn't, he's far too skilled for that, but he checks anyway. You almost feel bad for pulling that.

“My beloved friend has forsaken me.” You make eye contact with him as you smirk widely, and he sighs in both relief and probably what is mild irritation and an urge to just walk straight out of the tent.

“Here we go again.”

“Abandoned, forsaken, am I.”

“I would not forsake you-”

“Forsaken.”

Dan Feng hangs his head and rubs his face.

“Why are you so reckless, anyways? On the battlefield.”

You pause to think about it. Or more accurately, to think of a way to tease him a little further.

“To catch my beloved friend’s eye, of course.”

His hands seem to clench slightly from their position over his face. He hangs his head further and his hair tumbles forward to cover the tips of his ears.

“What? What does that even mean?”

“From his lofty position above the battlefield, my friend surely has trouble discerning me from the crowd of other, similarly sweaty and shapeless ants, on the battlefield.”

“You are not ants. Not to me.”

“For only he, the majestic warrior from on high-” you see Dan Feng stifle a chortle at that, “remains clean, with his hair billowing in the wind.”

He groans and drops his hands. He’s smiling and flushed slightly, but looks like he's exerting an effort into maintaining his composure.

You lift your arm dramatically into the air. Dan Feng sighs.

“If he catches sight of another, more sightly man, from his vantage point, what am I to do? Admit defeat to being overseen, overshadowed? Left behind?"

“You don't have to worry about that.”

“Why not?” You pause your monologuing to meet his gaze, now warm and full of mirth. It makes you smile.

“It's much easier to discern my friends, in the crowd. I try not to loose sight of you.”

You pause a little at that. Then you turn your face away and press the back of your hand to your forehead. You hear Dan Feng groan again and mutter quietly, and have to stifle your laughter.

“And alas, my friend-”

“Stop it,” he begins to laugh quietly, stifled under what you're sure is a hand clapped to his mouth.

“He has forsaken us! Forsaken us for greater, brighter things.”

“Where are you even,” he lets out a bright laugh before coughing, “where are you going with this?”

“My dear friend does not wish to hear of me.”

“You know very well the opposite is true.”

“And is annoyed that I wish to catch his eye in battle,” you turn your head slightly to catch a glimpse of his expression. He flushes slightly and looks away.

“There are other ways to catch my attention, other than recklessly charging ahead into battle, you know.” Dan Feng smiles as he looks back at you. His eyes sparkle as he tries to sound stern, only for it to dissolve as he chuckles into the palm of his hand.

“But this, my friend, is most certainly efficient. Otherwise, what if my friend sees the new love of his life and abandons me for him? The pain, the horror, the-”

Dan Feng laughter fills the air as your sentence trails off. It's bright, and he squeezes his eyes shut as he laughs openly, one hand placed elegantly over his mouth, and the other grasping the sheets on the bed.

You laugh with him, calming down seconds before he finally does, with a sigh.

He looks marvelous like this, you think. Bright-eyed and deliriously laughing with you in a shabby medical tent.

He makes eye contact with you and flushes slightly, for a brief second. You smile at him, and he returns it with a soft expression of his own. Dan Feng, your dearest friend.

“Please though, if you ever do that again I'm dropping down from the sky to chastise you.”

You cackle as he begins to laugh once again.

[scarisd3ad]

Jump then fall | Steve Harrington x reader

Chapter two - ‘I wish that you would stay in my memories’

Masterlist

Taglist

Previous >> next

Summary - after 7 years of being split apart from your childhood friend Steve you return to hawkins after your younger sisters tragic death, and parents messy divorce. But the Steve you came back to isn’t the same Steve you left behind.

My dad and I spent the entire weekend practically dancing around the topic of our fight Friday night. We didn't talk much; I slept in both days; he went to work early; he got home late, and I locked myself in my room. So, Monday morning is awkward. I'm in my room getting ready for school. I try my hardest to stall. Taking forever picking out my outfit (a pair of straight-legged jeans, a white tank top, an old flannel, and my black Converse), brushing my hair and teeth, and ensuring everything's in my bag. Unfortunately, I didn't take long enough because my dad was still sitting at our dining room table (which isn't much of a dining room table) reading a newspaper.

I knew he was waiting for me because he was fully dressed in his uniform, and it was evident that he hadn't just gotten up. I place my bag on the kitchen counter as I say, "You're going to be late," he mutters a quiet "Nope" as he lets the newspaper fall to the table. "Told Flo I was coming in late today" I take out two bowls as I choose what cereal I would like to start my day with. cocoa puffs, obviously. Dad won't eat breakfast unless I force him to. It's not a 'woman should make all meals for men' mentality, it's a 'breakfast is useless, and I won't eat it unless I'm getting it shoved down my throat' mentality. So normally every morning before I leave for school, I shove a bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice or water in front of him in hopes that he'll at least take a few bites.

"Cocoa puffs good with you?" I ask as I pour my bowl, "yeah, that's fine" he replies as I go on to pour his as well. I place his bowl in front of him and he immediately begins to dig in while I walk back over to my bowl that is still sat on the counter. "You need a ride to school?" Dad asks, words muffled as he continues to shove spoonful after spoonful of cereal into his mouth even as he talks. "mhm," I reply with a nod as I swallow down a spoonful of cereal. 

-

We both Scarff down our cereal, before attempting to try to make it to my school before the first late bell. Dad parked in front of the front door of Hawkins High as we bid our goodbyes. "Do you need a ride home? Can take my break then if you need me to." I shrug, "Dunno, I'll call you if I need you to" he nods and mutters a quiet "alright, bye love you" I nod as I push open the passenger door and hop out. Just as I was about to sling my bag over my shoulder, two arms wrapped around my waist. I internally groan. I don't like doing the whole PDA thing in front of my dad. It's embarrassing, but because I don't want to upset Shawn, I go ahead with it, anyway. I turn around so I face Shawn. "Where have you been? Haven't heard from you all weekend."

"grounded" I mutter with an eye-roll. he fully ignores the fact that my father is sitting in the vehicle behind us as he presses his lips against mine, trying to initiate a full-on make-out session. I kiss him back; I just don't let it become anything more than an elongated peck. I push Shawn away before turning back around towards my father. Dad could tell I was uncomfortable with the whole exchange that had just happened. Dad's eyebrows raised almost as if he was saying, "him really?" I shrug as I say, "Bye Dad love you" and slam the passenger door shut so he can drive off.

Shawn's arm wraps around my waist as we walk into school. "Don't you ever do that again," I say as we walk through the front doors of Hawkins High. "What?!" he exclaims, almost as if he has no common sense. Maybe all of those football head injuries have permanently damaged his critical thinking skills. "don't ever try to kiss me like that in front of my dad, he's- he's not cool like your dad is" Shawn's dad is in many ways just like Shawn and still hasn't outgrown the 'high school jock' mentality even after having two kids, so he's what most teenagers would consider a 'cool dad'. Shawn's dad has packed up him, his wife, and their 6-year-old daughter so Shawn could try in his words 'to get his dick wet'. they left for an entire weekend so Shawn and I could have 'alone time' My dad would beat Shawn's ass if he ever found out I wasn't at Steph's that weekend.

"Fine, okay," Shawn mutters as we stop at my locker. Before I can even try to open my locker, I'm being pressed against the locker, and his lips are pressed against mine. I didn't care about this kind of PDA at school, because every other couple was doing the same exact thing, but Shawn trying to engage in this level of PDA in front of my father just felt wrong. My arms are immediately around his neck as he deepens the kiss. We're interrupted by the sound of a loud bang against the locker beside mine. We pull apart quickly, both our heads darting to see who had made the sound. Steph stood there with a disgusted look on her face as she rolled her eyes. "God, you guys are disgusting," she muttered as she unlocked her locker. 

Steph didn't really like men. We'll she liked Jamie Lockhart in eighth grade, but I'm sure that was a phase. Ever since the last day of eighth grade, she's never even shown an interest in men. She only cared about cheer, her grades, and this senior girl, Taylor Scott. She was tall, on the girls' basketball team, and had long ginger hair.

"Yeah, yeah," I mutter with an eye-roll as Steph takes her English notebook out of her locker. "You want to skip first period? Hang out in my car?" Shawn asks, Steph fake gags already knowing what Shawn means by 'hang out' My eyes wander to my left to see Steve. he's stood by the boy's bathrooms, arms crossed over his chest as he glared in our direction. Was he glaring at Shawn? he had that same jealous look on his face. He couldn't possibly be jealous? Could he? No, he couldn't, especially when I found out last night when Dad plugged my phone back up that he had been fooling around with Nancy Wheeler all weekend long.

"y/n?" I'm pulled from my thoughts. My eyes dart back toward Shawn before muttering, "Yeah, yeah sure." 

-

"We should go," I mutter, pulling away from Shawn's lips. His left hand rubs circles into the skin underneath my shirt. He whines "But-" I shake my head. "I need to at least go to my second period," he hums and quietly nods. "Fine, but can we come back out here after lunch" I roll my eyes. "Maybe"

When I get back into the building, I immediately begin to walk towards my second period, which is English. I walk into classroom 105 and take a seat right smack dab in the middle, close enough to see the board, but not too close to be the center of attention. Steve was sitting in the back with a few other junior friends who failed sophomore English last year like he did. I swear he's trying to fail it a second time, which wouldn't be the first time he's done that. The late bell rings and the teacher, Mrs. Sanchez, begins her lesson. I pay enough attention to grasp the concepts, but not too much attention to be labeled as a nerd.

"Alright for this project I want you to group up in pairs." the whole class celebrates with quiet 'yes's and 'hell ya's.' but the celebration is quickly disrupted by Mrs. Sanchez continuing her sentence. "Pairs that I will be picking, so when I call your name, stand up and find somewhere to sit with your partner" I zone out, as I anxiously await to hear my name. Finally, at about the halfway point, Mrs. Sanchez calls out my name and then pairs it with Steve Harrington. Of course. Obviously, I no longer completely disliked him after our conversation at Friday's football game, but that didn't mean I wanted to do an entire project with him. 

I let out a quiet groan, hoping he'd hear it, and decide to let me do all the work. I get up because he is sitting there, leaning back in his chair with a smirk on his face. I pull the now empty desk next to him, so it presses against his, before I sit down. "So, what's this supposed to be about?" Steve asks just as Mrs. Sanchez begins passing out a sheet of paper. She places a sheet right where our desks are conjoined. Both Steve and I race to pick up the sheet of paper, and I win, taking the obviously freshly copied piece of paper into my hands. In big bold letters, the words 'paired essay assignment' is printed at the top with 'graded' in a smaller font just below it. I place the paper down on my desk and write our names and the date at the top.

'Y/N Hopper and Steve Harrington 10/7/83'

"You will compare the books we've read so far this year, 'Fahrenheit 451' and 'To Kill a Mockingbird,' noting the similarities and differences between the two," I read out loud. I know Steve is barely listening to what I'm saying, but I want Mrs. Sanchez to at least see that I'm trying to work with him. I let out a sigh, rolling my eyes before reading out the next sentence. "You can either write an essay or create a poster board" I turn my head to Steve, noticing him staring at a girl seated up at the front, a freshman named Lacie Tompson who was somehow so smart she skipped up to sophomore English. "So, which one do you want to do?"

Steve turns his head, shrugging. "Which is the easiest?" I hum as I pondered. The essay would be easier for me to do all the work, but the poster would be easier for him if he somehow decided he wanted to do some of the work. "Poster, probably," I reply, leaning back into my seat. He nods and replies, "Poster," before beginning to talk to one of his basketball friends.

-

Once 8th period ended, I raced out to the payphones that sat alone on the side of the school. Ever since I stayed out a little too late and didn't tell my father where I was, he implemented a rule that I had to inform him of my whereabouts after school, even if I'd be back home before him. It was an absolute pain, but I'd rather take the two seconds to call the station than face his wrath later tonight. I push a few quarters into the coin slot before punching in the station's number.

It rings 3 times, bringggg, bringgg, bringggg.

Before Flo answers the phone, as usual. "Hello this is Hawkins police station; my name is Florence. How may I help you?" I let her get out the scripted sentence she's mandated to say before rushing through my own words. "Hey, Flo. Is my dad there? " Flo's silent for a second as if she's looking at the schedule before she replies "No ma'am" I groan. Where could he possibly be at 3:30 on a Monday? "Where is he?" she hums before saying, "Should still be at the middle school if you catch him in time. " I groan once again, rushing out a "thanks" before turning around to see Steve in his BMW pulling up.

"So, we're going to mine or not?" he asks as he rolls down his passenger side window. I groan, hanging the phone back up on the pay phone. I walk over to his car and get into the passenger side, "gotta go to the middle school and ask my dad" I say with an eye roll as I buckled up. He nods, muttering a quiet "okay" before driving off towards the exit. We drive over to the middle school, and Steve parks next to the front door. Letting me hop out and run inside.

I pull the heavy metal front doors open before walking into all so familiar hallways of Hawkins Middle School. There were still a few students roaming the halls, and some still stalled at their lockers as they talked to their friends. I take a left before reaching the large glass door that leads into the office. I could already see the secretary sitting at her desk, pretending to type away at her computer. I pull the door open and walk inside. The woman, who looked to be in her 50s looked up. "Yes?" Her words drew out, almost as if she found my very existence annoying. "Is my dad here? Jim hopper?" I ask. She nods her head toward the principal's office. "he's in Principal Coleman's office. " I nod and begin to walk down the long hallway toward the principal's office.

The principal's office is at the very end of the hallway. Once I get there, the door is wide open. My dad sits in the chair across from Coleman's. He's leaned back laughing away almost like they were old friends. "Dad," I say, both men look up at me. He hums in response like I was just such a distraction from his awesome conversation with Principal Coleman. "Can I go to Steves?" his eyebrows raise before he replies, "Steve Harrington?" I roll my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest "Yes" he laughs, head turning towards Coleman, who then laughs as well. Probably reliving the mortifying moment when my father punched a 13-year-old. "you two friends again?" he asks in astonishment. I shake my head; I could hardly call us 'friends'. I just slightly tolerate him more than I did before. "We have an English project"

Dad shakes his head before saying "mm no, if you need to do this you can do it at home." My eyes widen and my mouth gapes open. I didn't want to do this at my house. It was embarrassing. Our house was embarrassing. I groan, arms crossing over my chest. I turn around, stomping out of the room, muttering curses under my breath. "If you aren't home when I get off, so help me god!" he shouts, which makes me roll my eyes.

When I get back outside, I see Steve still parked up front, with his head bobbing slightly to the music playing out of his radio. I get back into his car, slamming the door behind me. "He said we have to do it at my house," I mutter, arms still crossed over my chest. Steve smiles, nodding. "Yeah, that's okay. Same place?" he asks. I shake my head "No we moved just...y'know that street that goes in the woods?" he nods "Just go down that one. I'll tell you where to go from there. "

The normally paved roads turn to dirt within a few miles into the woods. "Turn down the next road. You'll see it," I say. I don't know why I always felt so embarrassed about the wooden cabin we lived in. It'd be a cool hang-out space if my dad wasn't such a buzzkill. There was barely anyone else around for miles except an elderly couple who lived a few more miles down the main road. Steve nods and turns down the dirt road. A few miles down, my house begins to come into view. "Cool," Steve mutters under his breath as he parks the car on the side of the gravel road. "How long have you guys lived out here?" Steve asks as he gets out of the car. I also get out, slamming the door behind me. "Few years..." I mutter, shoving my hands into my pockets as we walked up to the house. Once we get up to the front door, I take the key out of my pocket, shove it into the lock, and twist it before pushing the door open. 

I walk in, Steve following closely behind. I switch the living room lights on as Steve closes the front door. I cross my arms over my chest, watching as Steve's eyes flick around the room. There's not much to look at though. The only things that stood in the living room were a couch, lounge chair, TV set, and one singular picture of Sara that sat on the coffee table. "Um, I guess we can go to my room," I say. He nods and follows me into my room. I push the door open and turn the lights on.

He does the same thing he had done in the other room, exploring the room with his eyes. Suddenly everything about my room makes me feel immature. The baby pink sheets and the stuffed animals that decorated the end of my bed. The photos of Sara and I from when we were younger taped to my walls. I'm scared Steve will make fun of me for it all. But he doesn't pay any mind to the pink or stuffed animals or the childhood pictures I clung to because that's all I had left of my dead sister. He walks over to the collection of pictures and points to one, one that sits at the very edge of the collection. "Hey, I remember that," he says, his finger sitting on a younger, innocent version of him.

We're all sitting on Sara, and I's old porch eating popsicles. somehow, I can still remember every aspect of that day like it was yesterday. I can still remember how the sun blazed down against the pavement, the sugary cherry taste of the popsicle, and how Steve wrapped his chubby arm around my shoulder when my mom brought out the camera. I don't even know why that picture was up there. We had moved into this house months after our friendship had its downfall. Looking at it now makes my chest ache; it makes me feel stupid. I wanted him to look around my room and see I had nothing left of our friendship in it. But somehow, he was able to find the crumbs of our past that were still sprinkled around in my life. I just couldn't let us go, no matter how much of a jerk he was to me. 

I wrap my arms around my body muttering "Yeah, me too" under my breath before sitting on my bed. I clear my throat, and Steve turns around, brows furrowed together. "Um, we should get started...right?" he nods, muttering a quiet "yeah" that he paired with an eye-roll, before walking over to my bed and taking a seat next to me.

"I was thinking that um...we could get one of those big poster boards...and, like, put the differences on each side, and then put the similarities in the middle. Kind of like a neater bubble map, y'know?" he nods as he leans back against my headboard. "Yeah. Um, that's good. I can get that poster board tomorrow or something like that" I nod, humming a quiet "Mhm."

The silence got more awkward as the seconds ticked by. We just sit there. The room feels like it gets impossibly smaller. It's been so long since Steve and I had been in a room by ourselves together. We were totally different people, basically strangers. I hate it. "If you want to...you can go home," I whisper, arms crossed over my chest awkwardly. It's not that I wanted Steve to leave, I just wanted this version of Steve to leave. I wanted our old dynamic to come back. We used to never be able to sit in a room this quiet. How did all this happen? Why did all this happen? Why did God feel the need to rip another person I cherished so much away from me? 

"Yeah...um I can go. I'll see you tomorrow," he mutters before getting up, the bed squeaking underneath him. As he walks out of my room, the sound of his jingling keys resonates in the air. I strain to listen as his footsteps gradually fade until the front door slams shut and the faint hum of his car tells me he's finally left.

Dad gets home a few hours later. I'm sitting on the couch flipping through channels when I hear the front door creak open. "hey" Dad mutters as he toes off his shoes and puts his keys up. It's not long before Dad takes his usual spot next to me on the couch. "How was work?" I ask as I settle on a channel playing The Shining. He shrugs, grumbling under his breath before saying, "Byers kid went missing," he mutters.

I blink a few times, letting his words sink in. I wouldn't say I was close to the family, but I did babysit for them a handful of times. Will Byers was close with Mike Wheeler, a boy I babysat often, so I saw him almost every time I was at the Wheelers. Will was a shy, nerdy boy. he wasn't the type to run away, but not the type to be gullible enough to get kidnapped. "What?" I ask, brows furrowed as I turn my head towards my father.

"Will didn't come home last night after leaving the wheelers. We think he might have run away or his father took him."

Taglist

@sheisjoeschateau @nothankyou138 @gleefulleve @luluw-20 @skrzydlak @halflifejess @natalie-flo @castleallherown @palmtreesx3

[dangerpronebuddie]

Now that it's been pointed out to me, I can NOT stop thinking about it! It's a long ramble, so it's under the cut.

Eddie runs when things get tough.

Shannon got pregnant-> military

Shannon wants to move-> he shuts her out

Parents want to take Chris-> moves away

I am in no way blaming Shannon here, but I am saying that this is probably where most of this behavior was learned. It could even be from Ramon always being away, and being emotionally absent when he was present.

The thing is, when Eddie ran, no one stopped him. Shannon didn't put up a fight when he joined up. His parents let him walk away. When Buck wants to talk about the shooting and Eddie shuts down, Buck doesn't push.

So Eddie has learned he can get away with it. No one's going to push back, so why push at all?

I have noticed that he doesn't enter arguments unless provoked. When he comes home from Afghanistan, his parents and Shannon criticize every little thing. So he puts up his carefully crafted walls and shuts them out. He only starts the peacocking gym fight when Buck turns his aggression on Chimney.

Now the grocery store fight is a whole other ballgame. It's grief disguised as anger. I will admit, and I will die on this hill, that Eddie's "you're exhausting" comment was uncalled for and I would've burst into tears if someone said that to me. But that's what grief does to him. It's so overwhelming, and having grown up in a house where he had to be the man of the house as a child, showing no emotion, it's not surprising. If you're not angry when you're upset, you're not a man.

But I'm getting off track (as usual.)

My point is, no one's given him reason to keep fighting through the issue, so he simply walks away from it.

Which makes the cemetery scene even more incredible and interesting. Frank is my hero, honestly, and Eddie's growth has been amazing to watch. He's not running from Buck in the cemetery scene, he's offering Buck the chance to fight for them.

Instead of taking the lead, being in control, or walking away, he's giving the reigns to Buck. His last attempts at trying to get Buck to get over his near death experiences didn't work. He tried to get Buck out of his own head with the ladder truck, so he makes Buck go out into the world again. Only to be caught in a tsunami. He tries again (poorly) in the grocery store scene, asking him why he can't move on and suck it up. These attempts only made Buck internalize his emotions. Because that's all Eddie knew.

Thanks to Frank, Eddie's learning. So instead of inserting himself into Buck's issues and trying to make things right as fast as possible, he's actually allowing Buck "time to process" (seriously, how could Eddie possibly give such advice to others when he couldn't follow his own in s4?)

He lets Buck come to him in 6x12, and only asks how Buck's really doing after they talk. He's trying to follow Buck's lead for a change.

Same with the cemetery and "you don't have to be anything for anybody." Buck keeps looking to Eddie like Eddie's supposed to tell him what to do, but Eddie's learned that that doesn't work. Buck HAS to make decisions for himself or he's never going to grow. So, Eddie thinks that if Natalia is who Buck wants, then he won't stop him.

Now he did comment on how it was a bad idea for Buck to date people they've met on calls (kinda hypocritical dude!), but that's the only objection he's voiced.

Something else just popped into my head about how Eddie came to this conclusion. He saw Buck with Taylor and without her. Guess which version he preferred? Which version was happier?

That's because, when Buck breaks up with her, it's his decision. He chose to end things instead of waiting for "when the woman flees." Buck stumbles into relationships, and waits for shit to hit the fan. He doesn't put in the work either.

Buddie can either be really really good or really really bad with this. Eddie leaving the ball in Buck's court lets Buck make the decision to be with Eddie. He has to confess, because Eddie's resigned himself to pining forever. When Buck does, they can either have hundreds of problems, or learn to communicate and operate as a couple.

Forcing the decision into Buck's hands makes him choose for himself what he wants. Buck always has to be chosen, but Eddie's telling him he doesn't have to be. Eddie's always choosing, so giving Buck the lead is not only a huge display of trust, but it's a giant step forward in terms of how Eddie handles relationships.

Now, had Eddie not done this, this might've been a major issue for them. Buck would keep following Eddie's lead, not put in any effort, and Eddie would bail the moment they had even a small tiff.

But thanks to giving the decision to Buck, they have a better chance at a successful ship.

What needs to happen now is they need to address the things they haven't dared talk about. Namely the will, the shooting, and the lightning.

I know the show doesn't leave loose ends, and foreshadowing (especially when it comes to Eddie) can take several seasons to unfold. So, it's not improbable that the Will will be brought up again. I know they talked about Buck's death and the shooting, but not what it did to each other. And, I have a little theory about Eddie's comments about the shooting.

He remembers more. His body language in that scene absolutely says so. He barely looks at Buck, does a subtle head shake, and keeps his comments to a minimum. Because he needed to in that moment. Telling Buck everything he actually remembered wasn't what Buck needed. Buck needed the assurance that he was going to get better. That he'd actually process it. Eddie couldn't tell him the whole truth and expect Buck to feel fine about it.

Welp... this got way out of hand very quickly. Random thoughts while doing dishes will do that, I guess. I just think the cemetery scene has a lot more layers than I first noticed, and every time I think about these two, something new to analyze comes up.

[solavelyan]

Just under 27 hours left until 10 years of waiting is over.

I never did get around to doing everything I wanted to do before the next game came out, but none of that stuff is going anywhere. It's just been a really long, weird, often very bad decade.

I've been lucky in this lead up that nothing I've seen in the promo, content-wise, has given me much concern if it didn't excite me. I'm going in with as open of a mind as I can manage and withholding critical judgment until I can see the full picture for myself - admittedly, with a bias toward the benefit of the doubt. The devs who have been on and off of this project in the last decade care about telling a good story as much as I do about hearing one, and the love and care on display from the people who made this thing - even the ones actively fucked over by corpo shit - softens my opinion of some of the more controversial writing choices. They were in the weeds and I wasn't, and I'm more than willing to head them out.

I keep coming up with Rook concepts, feeling settled in them for a few days, and then talking myself out of them and changing my mind. I genuinely have no idea what I'm going to do first - but I'm sure whatever it is will be fun, and I'm excited for it.

Most importantly, I'm going to make more effort to stay off social media. I've tried being on less the last few days and it's been... to mixed results, for somewhat IRL reasons that don't matter here so I won't write them down. My worst fandom trait is that I don't enjoy Disk Horse, but when I see something I'm confused or appalled by, I go digging and then suddenly I know more than I wanted, feel obligated to have a reaction (even if it's internal), and then have to give myself a little talking-to anytime I feel the pull of "should I do X or Y in my game? People on (website) say that Y is fucked up or annoying because...". I know this is a habit of mine, and it is some level of mental "work" to get back to a more reasonable stance of "who gives a fuck, it's fake people, shut up and just do what you want, don't take the opinion of strangers you discovered just in time to disagree with them to heart."

I think some of the emotional weirdness is that the world has changed so much, but fandom is still itself. It's having the same drama and discourse and excitement and bullshit and joy as it ever has. I was here for the DA2 and Inquisition releases, and Veilguard's promo really has in some ways felt like being in 2014 again, for better or worse.

I'm sure I'll functionally disappear for a while for this one, just like I did with DAI. And I'm almost as horribly depressed as I was when DA2 launched and I played it in a 3-day fugue state. We'll see how it goes.

But the biggest thing I'm trying to avoid here is how I felt a couple weeks after BG3. I made the mistake of being on twitter more last year, and that's where all the worst bullshit lives these days (which it then leaks all over the place). It took about 2 weeks for the warm and fuzzies to wear off and for people to start feeling comfortable mocking and bullying random strangers who were doing nothing to anyone for the crime of making "boring" Tavs, or to start breaking off into factions based on favorite love interests and then being real big assholes about it. And it only went downhill after that. It ended up being that going into the general tags meant it was just a countdown before I saw really bitch-ass posts about how people pick (race of my character) and or romance (companion I romanced) are annoying and stupid and ruining fandom and so "boring" that reposting their screenshots for mockery is an acceptable pastime. It wasn't bigotry or anything - although the rampant and aggressive biphobia certainly was, that also sucked - but it quickly soured a lot of my experience, as someone who mostly minds my own business just vibing with my OCs and stuff with my little 4-note posts. I felt like I was constantly catching strays for having the gall to not have developed an "I thought X was cool but realized after a week it was bad and dumb" mentality, as so often crops up when the honeymoon cools and people kind of start to rot in fandom and care way too fucking much about what other people are doing because they're done actually engaging with the material directly.

Unfortunately, I think that shit is inevitable, and I just... don't want to see it. I don't want to fall in love with Companion Y or enjoy Plot Point X, only to check my socials and find people calling anyone who shares my opinion a stupid asshole who's ruining everything for other people just by existing, or basically a bigot for not digitally fucking their favorite or playing a character they find interesting. DA fandom has always been this way, and it sucks ass.

Honestly, I think that's why I'm so open to being charmed by the new game: because my apprehension isn't the game, it's fandom fucking bullshit. I'll always be happy to see more people enjoying things, but I've been here through some ugly shit and DA flavored fandom drama is almost always stupid horrible nonsense, and I'm not looking forward to that shit ramping up.

So I'm doing my very best to cocoon, only talk directly to my friends, and just enjoy this thing I've been waiting for for a decade without giving in to my impulse to care too much about everything all the time. I'll probably post pictures of my Rook or something, but I don't want to be ~around~ until I've finished at least my first playthrough.

The tl;dr of this is that I'm very very excited for the game itself and am ready to be impressed. Gimme the good heartbreak, Weekes.

[et-cant-phone-home-no-signal]

The Book of Boba Fett - Episode 4 thoughts

what's up it's been a few days sorry! saw deadpool and wolverine in the cinema with my friends and we went totally feral for it, it's a fun film for sure and i'd like to watch it again so i can be critical this time lol. also been rewatching the og x-men movies (oh so nostalgic) with my mum, and also my body is kicking my ASS rn so i'm not online much! anyways here's my episode 4 ramblings, enjoy, no fighting, spoilers beneath the cut <3

banthas being omnivores makes sense, but i dislike it

ayyy fennec pickup time, love the different perspective to what we saw in the mandalorian

i actually think it's so problematic that body modification without the person who is being modified giving consent just for survival is something that people would even consider , and it's a thing that pops up again later, but mmm i just think it's a problem tbh

objectively i think body mods can be cool and helpful, and it totally depends on what you want/need it for, but my largest concern is the consent, or lack thereof, in this case - fennec's reaction to waking and finding out she's been modded solidifies my stance on that particular issue

rocky start to this partnership that's for damn sure, i don't blame her for being so defensive about it

boba being a massive animal lover and softie is no longer a surprise, but rather something to look forward to oh my god

this poor tiny droid oh my god it's crying noise actually got me - why does boba need to introduce himself to everyone - the poor thing was so scared it shut itself off 😭 💀

fennec is already showing the 'done with your shit' older sister attitude

the internal layout of this ship still confuses the shit out of me i won't lie - the firespray is cool but it doesn't seem like the most practical inside

love how casually they end up partnering full-time

YEAH FUCK UP THAT NIKTO GANG

i think it's cute that the bottom of the firespray looks like a smiley face :)

words cannot describe how much i hate the idea and visuals of the sarlacc, especially them hanging over it in the ship like that, gives me anxiety fr

OH MAN ANXIETY IS SO VALID!! WHAT THE FUCK!!

THE EXPLOSION SOUND HELL YEAH

"next time don't touch my buttons" by boba immediately followed in the next scene by "you're burning, it's not safe in there" by fennec,,, yeah they're siblings

they're tribe :')

gods, temuera morrison is so handsome i'm glad they did the whole bacta tank thing so quickly so we can admire him in his full glory 🙏

madam garsa is actually so sexy like, she's smart and got a silver tongue and her costumes are BEAUTIFUL

the mandalorian music playing right after fennec says money can buy muscle,,, slay

probably my shortest notes, didn't have a huge amount of thoughts happening for this one, but yikes the next episode had me saying a LOT so be prepared for that one, i have many criticisms going for that one lmao

[statementlou]

I think many celebrities are weary of showing vocal support for palestine because when saying ‘free palestine’ it’s taken as one being pro-palestine and anti-israel. For black lives matter there was no ‘other side’, you were just rallying against racism.

It breaks my heart that the oppressing side hold so much power over people even here in the west that many people choose to stay silent in worry of how they might be perceived or how it might affect their career.

That and it’s clear many artists want to keep their page free of political stance. Which I understand but also fuck that.

Yes, definitely, and I agree that BLM was a safe choice to speak up about, which was definitely what I was thinking when I said Louis won't tell you this.... And while I wish more celebs would speak up for Palestine regardless, honestly I do also get it; if Louis actually posted anything even remotely critical of Israel there would be a firestorm of articles internationally in every tabloid music press and probably big papers as well, OpEds about how celebrities should shut up, talk shows discussing how fucked up he was, conservatives calling for him to be boycotted on twitter, quite possibly even people threatening him on the street, etc etc etc. It would be a bad business decision (which I don't really give a shit about) but also very stressful and miserable for him to deal with which I have a little more sympathy for opting out of, especially having lived the life he's lived with so much attention on everything all the time. I wish things were different and I mean I would love it if Louis was an outspoken activist, but he's very very clever and media savvy about managing his public image, and while he doesn't totally opt out of speaking his mind and that's something I love very much about him, I don't realistically expect to see this from him; you don't get to play 50k capacity venues, as today's rumors place him in for upcoming latam dates, by making waves politically, and Louis is loving packing bigger and bigger shows, so much as I would love to be wrong unfortunately I expect we will not getting him ruffling international feathers any time soon. also I'm so sorry and no shade to you personally god knows you're in very good company making this error but this an absolute pet peeve of mine I have to say it

[nightswithkookmin]

As for Tae, I think when Jimin suffers and does something self-harmful, he will cry and say stop to his fan but it will be too late. I don't mean to be pessimistic. I hope God will protect Jimin, but he is human and he has endured enough

Jimin is stronger than he looks but yea we all have our breaking points. he's human after all and the constant pestering and negativity can take a toll on him.

And it's funny you mention this cos somewhere in my drafts there are several posts I've made talking about this very topic in regards to two POCs I know out here who keep going at it with eachother.

Some people don't know when to stop and will keep going and going till they've inflicted maximum damage on others. It's not cute.

There's constructive criticism and there's badgering and hammering down on people and that's equally as toxic and harmful as the supposed evils we seek to correct in people.

Many words won't fill a bushel. A word to a wise is enough. If your intention is to draw a person's attention to their mistakes, you don't go pestering them with it. And humans have brains and hearts for a reason, give them room to reflect on their actions and do the internal work they need to do and once that is done learn to forgive them and not hold their mistakes over their heads especially if they grow from it. But we all seem to have lost the plot.

Somehow in this community, it's always aha that person slipped that one time I'm gonna weaponize that and use that as ammunition to drive them out of this space so I'm the last one standing. It's nuts.

And it's true not everyone is like that in this space, there are a couple of bloggers out here who I don't fuck with yet they'd slip into my DMs every now and there to ask for clarification or let me know Hey you said this and that's quite problematic.

I just thank them and post clarifications here on my page. I respect those accounts you know. Cos you can tell they don't have ill intentions towards me.

Thus it's difficult for me to equally start tearing into them out of the blues on my platform- I'd rather send them a private message to talk- if I care enough about it but most of the time I don't care💀

What someone chooses to do with their platform is none of my business really unless they wanna @ me then let's go. I will stab you in the guts and bug spray your eyes. Don't play with me.

Tumblr staff are paid to moderate the platform and keep people in check. If an account violates their community guidelines then it's their problem not mine.

But that's just the problem isn't it? We see ourselves as a community and thus some have assigned themselves moderators of this community and have appointed themselves judge jury executioner passing judgements based on ambiguous virtues and arbitrary social rules- very high school of us in here.

Quick segue- that bitch going around people's blogs screaming I'm evil because I'm a "Ted Bundy stan" WHAT'S GOOD? It's the she was "exposed" and the "she lied" for me. Bitch if you don't shut up.

If I have to deny being a fan of something then am I really a fan of it at all?? Have you met me?

Like no, imagine that for a moment. Me. Scared to admit I like something because.... wait for it

Ita so deviant I'm afraid it will offend a bunch of strangers I've never met on the internet and they will not like me for it???

If I'm a Stan of Mr O'Brian Bundy WHO'S GONNA CHECK ME? YOU? ANON 2297 HIDING BEHIND AN ANNOYMOUS BLOG TO CRY LIKE A LITTLE BITCH ON PEOPLE'S BLOG POSTS?????

I THINK THE FUCK NOT.

I promise you YOU ARE NOT THE ONE WHO'S GONNA CHECK ME.

I'm a fan of True crime FOR SURE said that ones I'll say it again but Ted Bundy is not the hill I'm finna die on I'm sorry. He is the least interesting serial killer out there. Yawned my way through a stranger besides me- read it twice and yet I still hate the Author💀

Just because I hate the Author, again DON'T MAKE ME A FAN OF TED FREAKN BUNDY- that's just insulting. he's so bland. BORING

For the record, I AM obsessed with BTK and have since fell down the rabbit hole of serial killers who leave erotic poems behind for their victims.

SUE ME.

Oh here's one I think you'll love!!!!!!

It's called "Oh, Nancy Anna why didn't you appear"

T' was perfect plan of deviant pleasure so bold on that Spring nite.

My inner felling hot with propension of the new awakening season

Warn, wet with inner fear and rapture, my pleasure of entanglement,

like new vines at night

Crime literary analysts have described this quatrian as remarkable and have compared it to the works of writers such as James Joyce.

"The poem is in many ways remarkable because of the levels of meaning that BTK suggests in the words he uses. Reminiscent of James Joyce's epic, Finnegan's Wake, BTK uses words that suggest several meanings. Starting with the very first line in the poem, the T with the superscript 1 is used in scientific research to designate the beginning phase of a study. Subsequent phases would be T2, T3, etc. On another more ordinary level, the superscript 1 could be interpreted as an apostrophe to create "T'was" except that "T'was perfect plan" is missing a word, like "a" or "the." It appears as though whatever BTK had in store for Anna was something "bold" and new."

Oh no, she's a fan of serial killers let's cancel her

You do that Karen, I'm gonna be here and do me 💅🏾

People have their heads so far up their ass all they breathe is shit.

You place a lot of responsibility on Tae when you expect so much of him as a friend and colleague to JM. He's equally just an Idol and like JM he has his own crucible and haters and people out to get him.

I seem to recall him going on a love all seven campaign right before they announced their Solos. Let's give him credit. Cut him some slack.

We all disappointed with the way things unraveled these past few weeks. And some of us might never really move on but like I said life goes on.

Don't know why Tae went silent on us, but with time the reason shall come to light. Personally I'm not too happy with him for that. He broken my vmin heart. I won't ship them together for a while but yall feel free.

Okay who wants to hear about a serial killer who drew a picture of his penis on a victims night stand

[unhonestlymirror]

A reply to this post from @eywind:

"Maria, you probably won't see my reply. But I will try to remind you of your own reality.

Since 2014, your leader and your team have refrained from condemning the annexation of Crimea and the war in Donbas. Aleksei Navalny even stated that “Crimea is not a sandwich” and, in fact, proposed to hold some other referendums on the clearly illegally occupied territory of Ukraine out of some kind of fright.

Why is that? First, of course, this apparently largely coincides with your personal positions. But even if this is not so, and deep down in your soul, you really support Ukraine with all your heart, there is a critical “second”.

You, as politicians, miraculously understand that direct support for Ukraine - an absolutely moral, honest, and legal (corresponding to international law) position - actually means political death in Russia.

You know very well that you will not win popularity among the Russian people if you say directly that Russia must give up territories to Ukraine, Georgia, Moldova, pay reparations and repent for several decades more for the crimes committed. Although this is what would be right and moral.

You know very well that the majority of the Russian people either support the war or treat it with positive neutrality. Therefore, they are forced to shift the focus in their domestic political messages to the fight against corruption, which translates into “they steal, therefore they do not produce missiles that kill Ukrainians efficiently enough” (this would be as funny as jokes about a shark if there were no deaths).

You are afraid to take a moral position even after the start of a full-scale war. On international platforms, where naive Western leaders are happy to invite you, not a word is heard from you on the topic of Ukraine. You consider all the crimes of the Putin regime only from the standpoint of your personal suffering, in order, again, to shift the focus from the fact that the Russian people are not that much suffering now. That the Russians, even having got out from behind the Iron Curtain, do not even try to organize mass anti-war protests. How many of you left there, more than a million? Where are they?

Putin is taking away Russians' pensions and future. You are silent about what Putin takes from Ukrainians. Because the very Russians whose psyche you protect so much will stop loving you. Who voluntarily go to war (for evading the mobilization of ZERO criminal cases) and wish Ukrainians death every day in thousands of comments (and not all of them are bots).

Whereas an effective Russian state, if you build it for those people from whom you now want to earn the trust - Russian voters - it will be better to fight.

It turns out that you, indulging the immorality of your own people, taking an absolutely immoral and cynical position, designed for the political future, have the audacity to teach morality to Ukrainians.

Your calculation is wise and cunning. I would do the same in your place. With one caveat - if you put your political future in your country in the first place, then shut your mouth to the Ukrainians. You are not our friends, at best, negotiators, and your Putin is your problem (we will solve our problem, but you and collective Putin will still remain).

And if you really want to put morality in the first place and want Ukrainians to at least not show contempt for you (you won’t reach respect anyway), then put your system of values ​​in order."

"The Putin regime can be dismantled, but the Russian people will remain the same 100 millionth collective Putin.

Without revision and rethinking of Russian culture, politics, and everyday life as well, real changes in Russia are impossible.

That's why I don't trust FBK. They can not fail to understand this, but at the same time, they do nothing in this direction. This means that their goal is not real change in Russia, but simply to become a new regime themselves, which for the first conditional 10 years, will be friends with the West in order to accumulate funds again and then take revenge."

[thekuraning]

Waaah, could I please have 8, 24, 25, 33 and 38 for the writing ask? 😍

XHAJHSDGHA thats SO MANY 😭 (ty friend!!)

I dont know when to shut up so im puttinf them under a readmore

8. How slow is a slow burn?

I am so bad as accurately pacing a fic so this is something that. Is hard to say. But I think there's no hard limit to how short or long a slow burn actually is. What makes something a slow burn is a combination of 2 criteria: a) the length of time the story takes place over, and b) how long it takes for the reader to get from plot point to plot point. If you consider something like Romeo & Juliet, it takes place in-universe over the course of like a couple days, and you are constantly moving from story beat to story beat since the work is meant to be enjoyed in one presentation. It's complex and moving, but I think we all can agree it's not a slow-burn, more of a sudden explosion lol. Some people may think that sitting around 20k words it's not a short work, and for a play it's average (about 2 hours) but it's only 1/5 the length of a standard novel! (100k)

But if we imagine Romeo & Juliet taking place over say 4 months, and each 5000 words is a moment where he's come to Juliet's window one night each month, and nothing else about the story is different, the entire tone changes to something longer and drawn-out. In fact, I think it's probably possible for a skilled author to write a convincing long burn in 10k words or less if the internal and external pacing of the story is right. I also think it's probably possible to write a slow-burn that takes place within one universe day, but I think the pacing for that would require more words.

In reality, slow burn just needs to feel long, even if it isn't actually long.

24. Thoughts on flashbacks/flash forwards.

GO. FUCKING. WILD. Make time your bitch. Laugh at the linear progression of cause and effect. Storytelling is this weird abstraction where all of time exists at once and won't ever exist again. A well-placed flashback or flash forward will enhance the story by revealing hidden motive, establishing dramatic irony, or building anticipation. Be fucky with time. It's already fake and gay—with your help, we can make it faker and gayer! 🫵

Naturally, like any trope or tool, there's always a time and place when a flashback or flashforward is most effective, and sometimes it won't be. But as long as it doesn't feel pointless, as long as it feels like it's a scene we need, they're great to use! I started really playing with time and flashes in Maelstrom fic because of the villain, and it's the funnest thing even in relatively minor jumps of minutes or hours. DON'T BE AFRAID TO USE FLASH JUMPS THEY ARE GOOD AND FUN!!! 👍👍👍

25. Is writing the whole thing beforehand better or worse than writing it as you go?

I wish I was the kind of person who could write the whoke thing beforehand, because I think that + careful editing really is the best way to create a cohesive, well-balanced narrative but right now i just... dont work like that lol. I feel like i have to be extra diligent in keeping track ofnplot threads and potential holes and such. But on the other hand I think I prefer it this way because I get a lot of good feedback on what's working via comments! Especially in long running fics like Maelstrom or Zubat Fangs I refer to comments a lot when trying to decide how hard to hit certain plot points. I'm always open to (polite) constructive criticism on my fics bc of that!

33. Give your writing a compliment.

I think my writing brings people joy :) in all sorts of ways! My silly writing, my angsty writing, my gorey writing.... it all makes someone's day a little better at some point, and I take a lot of pride in that. I can also look back over the years and see how much my skills have improved since I uploaded my first fanfiction decades ago, which I think I still have on a floppy somewhere lol.

I've gotten so confident that I'm starting to more and more seriously consider working on my original fiction and well 😬 I'd like to publish something professionally. Even if I only self-pubklish an e-book or smth. I think I'm about there!!!

38. "This never happened" fix-it fics or "this happened but" fix-it-fics.

Definitely "this happened but" fix-its. I got my start in pokemon fics naturally and one thing you never see the end of are "Ash is a better trainer and never got pikachu" fix-its which. I mean. Eh. Sure. There's nothing wrong with that per say but like. To me it's the same as writing a coffee shop AU. You're telling a different story conpletely. And of course there's degrees, because sometimes the change is smaller and what that means is the story is basically the same. Idk. There's nothing wrong with that but it doesn't make me excited. "Yes BUT" feels like its adding onto something, not just altering it. 🤔

Thanks again friend!! This was fun!! 🥺

[rottmntquotes]

GRRRRRRRR!

Leo shuddered as his stomach roared at him for the hundredth time that… day? Week? Month? He truly had no idea how long it had been since he'd been trapped in the Prison Dimension. It was a cold and dark place, one lacking in any other form of life; save for Leo and the vicious Krang that was hunting him down every second of his miserable and critically injured life.

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

"Agh! Shut up! You're gonna get us caught!" Leo hissed, glaring down at his stomach with a deep scowl. Ancestors knows how many times he'd nearly been caught because of his hunger. "It's amazing I'm even alive."

Hell, how many hits and falls had he taken by now? Twelve? Twenty-four? Eighty-three? It was highly likely that his insides were practically jelly, and also likely that he was running on nothing more than adrenaline and spite.

"Come out and fight me, you weak fool!" Krang hissed, slamming thousands of pounds of debris out of his path. "You and I both know how injured you are! Why won't you just give in and DIE?!"

That was a good question? Why WON'T Leo give in? He had nothing to live for in this wretched place. No friends, no family, no water-

GGGRRRRRROOOOOOOWWWWLLLL!!!

No. Food.

"Found you." Krang snickered, tossing away the piece of debris Leo was using to hide. "How kind of you to announce your presence."

"Wasn't really my intention, but okay." Leo muttered, yelping and leaping away from a sudden attack. The action itself left Leo out of breath, yet he pushed himself more in order to keep from getting injured more than he already-

"GOTCHA!"

"SHIT!"

Krang cackled and pulled Leo back, keeping a tight grip on Leo's right arm. Multiple tentacles twisted and wrung on the appendage, tearing at the flesh and eventually snapping Leo's already fragile bone.

"Oops! Looks like someone's getting weaker!" Krang shouted.

Leo wailed at the horrific pain, twisting and squirming like a wild animal caught in a trap. He screeched and caterwauled, clawing at the tentacles and leaning forward to clamp his fangs down.

"YOU LITTLE RAT!" Krang yelped, releasing Leo in shock and slapping him away. "WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!"

"YOUR WORST NIGHTMARE, BITCH!" Leo hissed, just barely dodging another attack by squeezing through a hole just big enough for his lithe body. He used what seemed to be a tunnel that turned into a dark cave some many miles away from Krang, which was protected by many thick layers of the out-of-commission technodrome.

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

"Oh, for the love of- shut up!" Leo wailed, leaning against a wall and beginning to sob. By this point, he didn't know what was worse; severe hunger, a broken leg, likely internal bleeding, a cracked shell, or a massive alien hunting him like he was meek prey. "Prey… God, I wish I had my own…"

'Maybe you do.'

Leo gasped and looked around frantically, his nerves shot and body too weary to fight or run any longer. "Who said that?!"

'Do not worry about that. All you need to worry about is what you need to do to survive.'

"Oh, and I suppose you know how to help?" Leo scoffed, tapping his claws against his arm nervously.

'Of course I can. Just trust me.'

Leo shuddered, unsure if he should trust anyone anymore, especially someone he couldn't see. "What, exactly, are you planning on doing if I agree to trust you?"

'How would you like to silence that stomach of yours?'

The question was simple enough, and would probably be dumb to some, but to Leo, it was like asking him if he wanted to leave the Prison Dimension in general.

"You… you can do that?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

How long has it been now? Two months? Three? Four? Leo didn't know, nor could he bring himself to care. All he really cared about now was silencing his stupid stomach.

'Remember to take a sip of liquid as well.'

Leo huffed, grabbing a bottle of… something… that he'd discovered some time ago. He'd no idea what it was full of, just that the stuff kept him from dying of dehydration with one sip every other day. Or maybe it was every other week.

Honestly, he didn't even know any more.

'Take a bite of your food. We cannot let it go to waste.'

Leo nodded, gripping his right arm and looking at it intensely. By this point, it was nothing more than a mangled mess of loose muscle and slightly visible bone.

"Food…" Leo whispered, his pupils slitting at the slight of decaying meat.

Had he been months saner, Leo would be disgusted, even horrified by his new thought process. Now, however, he had no choice but to eat what he was given. This arm wasn't going to make it with Leo's lack of medical supplies, anyway. That, and with the giant alien that was hunting him down, it was mandatory that he keep his energy up to par as much as possible.

'Eat. Now! Eat if you want to live!'

Not needing to be told twice, Leo started tearing into the dead flesh, snarling and hissing as he ate. The action was always enough to take Leo's attention off everything else, a reasonable explanation as to why he didn't notice the bright orange portal opening up next to him.

"Leo…! Leo…!"

'Stop eating and look!'

Leo huffed, looking up and turning towards the portal. The sight itself shocked him enough to make him shoot back in fear and nearly throw up what he'd just eaten.

"Leo! Oh, thank God you're still… still…" Mikey's excited voice trailed off the instant he noticed Leo's state of being. "Leo… what happened to you?"

Next to Mikey, Raph and Donnie stared at Leo with just as much shock. Their eyes traveled over his mangled body slowly, minds failing to process that this was, indeed, their brother. How could they have done this? How could they have given up hope for so long that Leo was forced to turn into this… animal?

"GUYS! DON'T JUST STAND THERE! GET HIM OUT!" Casey screamed, fearing that he would lose all three turtles if they kept the portal open too much longer.

"I got him!" April shouted, grabbing a nearby umbrella and using the hooked end to pull Leo through the portal by his neck. "Close the portal!"

The boys wasted no time in doing so, racing over to Leo with the intent of hugging him and apologizing profusely.

That is, until he screeched and snapped at them like a wild animal.

"STOP! You're scaring him!" Casey shouted. "He's been in there too long! Look at his arm!"

All attention was then put on Leo's arm, which was practically hanging by a thread. It swung around as Leo struggled to move and breathe.

"He's in so much pain…" Mikey whimpered.

"There's only one thing we can do to help." Casey whimpered, tears welling up in his eyes. "And I don't know if I can be there when it's done."

"Wait, you don't mean…" Donnie gasped, catching on almost instantly. He hissed when Casey nodded, stepping in front of Leo defensively. "NO! I refuse to let it happen!"

"It's either that or we let him suffer, Uncle Donatello! Look at his body! With those injuries, he shouldn't even be alive!" Casey shot back. He could tell that the others had caught on to the situation by now, and could sense that they shared Donnie's stance on the matter. "I don't want this either, but it's the only thing to truly make him feel better!"

Everyone looked back at Leo, who was now laying down on his side and panting with genuine exhaustion. His eyes reflected nothing but pain and fear, making his family feel genuine despair.

"Okay… fine. But only after a day with him. It's the least we can have after seven months." Donnie sighed, his voice breaking despite how soft he was trying to speak.

Casey nodded, making no contact with Leo for fear that he would break down on the spot. This wasn't fair, not in the slightest, but it wasn't up to him how his life went. He'd lost a sensei/father once, and now he was losing the same sensei/father again.

Such is the horrid luck of this close knit clan.

[sunfoxfic]

about the “recognizing stereotypes is actually what’s racist” thing NO BC THAT TAKE HAS BEEN SO AGGRAVATING TO ME FOR SO LONG.

without going into the eight page long essay about how passionately i feel about this, all i have to say is how important it is to recognize stereotypes in media in order to accurately understand what’s wrong with them and criticize the media we consume in our everyday lives.

if you just Watch Media without recognizing the problems the stereotypes represent, you just end up internalizing them. to better describe what i mean, its just like the problem with anime and misogyny. you see it happen again and again and again and again, and eventually your brain (since it learns from patterns and familiarity) starts to expect that women and feminine-presenting people are in those roles and Only those roles.

go into it with a mindset of “oh these stereotypes are okay, i cant think about it or else im the bad one” and suddenly theyre just like the people on tiktok who just throw around buzz words without any critical thought behind it.

okay thats all, thank u for coming to my summarized ted talk

Anon, you're so valid. It was such a bizarre take and unlike anything I've personally run into before. It's like?? It almost treats coding as though it's a retroactive association with *insert group here* rather than an intentional insinuation. Coding in and of itself is a neutral thing - plenty of coding is used for good, plenty of coding is used for bad. Sometimes it's really hard to tell the difference between subtext and coding, too (and subtext is also in and of itself neutral).

When you frame coding, and in particular racist sorts of coding, as a retroactive association, it turns it into a no-win situation - the person who points out the coding is the one creating the association, and therefore is the one who is bigoted.

In my eyes, when you're calling out bigoted stereotypes via coding, the "best" outcome is for the creator to have been thoughtlessly replicating bigoted media. We'll never know if she-who-shall-not-be-named was doing it intentionally or unintentionally at first (it being anything you can think of, there are more than a few examples) but clearly her reaction to being called out is to dig her heels in the ground, so considering the "best" outcome is kinda moot in this particular case.

But yeah, you're really spot on with the thing about stereotypes. Because even if you can recognize that the stereotype is wrong while simultaneously keeping your mouth shut about it in fear of someone thinking you're the one who's doing the coding, you're the one who's bigoted - even if you can manage that, you're letting these ideas perpetuate to someone who doesn't know.

My politics recently have shifted to the ideology that "what works > what is ideal." I'm not interested in debating whether the person who knew it was wrong and said nothing is more innocent than the person who wasn't educated on the matter and adopted the ideas without critical skills to challenge them. I'm not interested in debating whether the latter was a victim, whether the former is part of the problem. Ideals are great when applied inwardly but nothing trumps results when trying to change the world - and it is true, great is the enemy of good.

In an ideal world, everyone could just agree to stop this sort of bigoted coding in works and then we don't have to worry about whether it's retroactive or not. We don't live in an ideal world. The actual way that it works is that, regardless of innocence and morality, change depends on Person 1 calling shit out so Person 2 doesn't fall into it. Is that sort of act an act of social justice, or just what a good citizen does? Should people get credit for it?

Man, fuck if I know. People in three hundred years won't be studying me in their textbooks either way because I don't want them to, but where we are now, people are dying and the climate is changing, so I really prioritize making a world where they have trees to make into textbooks and a history that's written not only by the victors, but the good guys.

[the-firebird69]

Then we hear our son complain this guy next door is a huge pig they won't shut up so we're going after him we're gonna make him pay and before the election he went out to Colorado and ask the my pillow guy is trying to fix the elections for them to win I and they were caught. They were held in the building and questioned they got out and the State Department followed them around for four years of solid fighting they went after them for a big list of crimes Recently the international community Has gotten up and has renounced them Posted it and it said this within these people the sickest people we've ever seen So as it turns out their minority morlock and they're sitting around criticizing them making their lives worse telling them and keep on doing it and it started to happen today again and the foreigners told the minority more like to shut up and they won't so they're gonna get slaughtered. it wills tart today . it'll probably quiet down here a bitand the foreigners hate them

This is very huge understandably so but the minority morlock are up and they're noticing that they have to do something and that they have to start now and they have to be in those ships without those ships their ships are meaningless and they're going to see with the Class A trump ships they've been heating up all night long and there's still only at about 12% it is slow people are deciding what to do. Now we have another battle breaking out here and it's very serious this is going to be a huge battle and it is at Lake Okeechobee and those four deposits it used to be too dangerous to not talk about and we were not talking because it would blow up the whole tip of Florida and other areas like this there's about 10 globally where this is going to happen and whether or not you know ships are there we're going to disappear and other stone ships will be launched and electric. The fighting is intense and it is getting more intense now so we are going to print.

Thor Freya

Olympus

[theamityelf]

Nagito happens to find them sleeping in a normally-unused supply room. They wake up as soon as he enters. He sees their faces, and he's like, Oh, that's the lucky student from the 78th class who went missing. "Naegi?"

Izuru realizes that this Hope's Peak student recognizes Iteration 2 for who he used to be, and he immediately feels threatened by it. Any connection to Iteration 2's former life is in the way of what they have now. So, he springs on this unfortunate student who said the exact wrong thing.

Makoto stops him from just killing Nagito with his bare hands. They both stand over the stranger, who is now flat on the floor with Izuru's foot on his chest to keep him from running away, and they're facing each other. Izuru is wearing his suit, and Makoto is dressed in a hospital gown. Makoto's hair is longer than shoulder length, but not yet as long as Izuru's. (Presumably they would have shaved it for the procedure they were about to do, but they just hadn't gotten around to it before Izuru interrupted.)

"There's no reason," Iteration 2 says, seeming mildly confused. "He isn't a threat."

"Your curiosity is my reason," Izuru answers bluntly. He sees no need to talk around it; he knows that Number 2's curiosity, mild though it seems, can do far too much with what little information they've already been given. That's why it is critical to ensure that this white-haired boy doesn't say another word.

"Oh." Iteration 2 is quick to understand. "Well, I am curious. If he recognized my face, I might have been a student here. Most likely reserve course, since they wouldn't have done this to an Ultimate. The name 'Naegi'..."

"Don't pursue this."

Iteration 2 tilts his head. "You have no reason to hurt him. Right?"

"I won't hurt him if you don't pursue this."

"Alright. I agree to those terms."

Izuru removes his foot from the student's chest. "Go. And don't tell anyone you saw us."

"What an energetic start to the morning," Nagito says. Internally, he has observed by now that the other person is Chiaki's reserve course friend (who he probably wouldn't have recognized as such if it weren't for Naegi also being here and making him think of others who have gone missing), but he knows better than to say it out loud. He's mostly awestruck by the feats of easy athleticism exhibited by both the person who tried to kill him and the person who defended him. They moved so fast, with such precision. He remembered seeing Naegi trip over his own feet in the school hallway plenty of times, and he becomes curious. "Of course, I realize now that I should keep my mouth shut. If it's so important that no one know you're here, would you like me to bring you anything? Food, or a change of clothes?"

And hey, they are hungry. And Iteration 2 should change out of the hospital gown. (He himself doesn't care what he wears or if he wears anything at all, but Izuru cares.)

And so, the Ultimate Hopes have...let's say a servant. 😏

what do you think of aus where makoto goes through the Kamukura Project instead of hajime? i've seen a few around, but im curious about your take on the concept

Ooh, that's a good question!

For my own headcanons, I imagine, in his early days of consciousness as Izuru Kamukura (or Izuru Kamukura Iteration 2, if the Hajime version still exists in this timeline), he isn't aware of himself as a person pretty much at all. Even when the scientists talk to him, he isn't really aware that he's a person who is alive. He's really focused on them and understanding what they're saying and doing and why, but the fact that he doesn't process himself as a participant or agent in anything that happens to him means he's more witnessing the scene from a perspective of "I understand. This is a laboratory, and they're experimenting on a test subject. I wonder if their work will ever be done. They don't look happy. How do I know that? Because they hold tension in their faces. Because of the diameter of their pupils. They looked happier when they walked in than they are now. Why is that?"

(In contrast, I believe Hajime Izuru's analysis of the situation always included himself. I imagine, around this point in the Project, he saw things more like, "When *this stimulus* happens, it results in them doing *this thing* that hurts me. I have a vested interest in preventing this outcome." Makoto still experiences pain, but since he doesn't consider himself a person with agency, he just takes it as a thing that sometimes happens.)

It isn't until he's placed in a room with a two-way mirror that he sees things differently. (Similar to a thing I said about Izuru in Panel, but a little different.) He's looking at his reflection while the scientists run tests on him, and he's thinking, There are five people in this room. I only see four, until I look in the mirror. Right. The fifth one...That's the test subject. The one they're always talking to. He's bleeding. He shouldn't be; it looks like they made a mistake. Probably related to the visible signs of sleep deprivation in Dr. Sano. They shouldn't be handling the injury that way. That's not the way a normal medical practitioner treats a patient. Ow. They're very accomplished physicians; they know better than to treat someone this way and allow them to feel unnecessary pain. Ow.

And then he watches a drop of blood run down the middle of the test subject's face at the same time that he feels it happening, and it fully registers: That's right. I'm the test subject. The surreal feeling of realizing he's Someone dazes him for a second. If he's Someone, he can move. He can...talk?

"Dr. Sano?" he says, startling everyone in the room. "You usually use the polydioxanone sutures for lacerations like this. What made you choose the non-absorbable polypropylene this time? If it's related to your conversation with Dr. Fujita at your last shift, I don't find it likely that he actually felt that strongly about your work. He murmurs to himself about his family a lot; I think his frustrations about his son's grades fed into a mild complaint he had toward you."

The scientists all look at each other, because this test subject has been anomalously unresponsive, and suddenly he throws out not only a full sentence but an extremely comprehensive take on everything that's happening and everything that has happened.

They call in a bunch of other doctors to just assail him with questions, but while it's exciting that he's become responsive, they soon determine that it's easier to get a direct answer to a direct question out of him when there's fewer people to draw his attention. He doesn't treat them hierarchically, like he should. If the head doctor, in an otherwise silent room packed with lesser doctors, asks Makoto something, he might choose to ask one of the lesser doctors where his usual pocket protector is, or observe aloud that someone smells like watermelon.

Like the first Izuru Kamukura, this one is unemotional and largely unmotivated. Unlike the first Izuru Kamukura, this one doesn't resign himself to the tedium of life or live in pursuit of an end to that tedium. He just kind of lives vicariously through those who care. His thought about any given thing is, This is completely uninteresting to me, but it must matter, because someone cares about it.

(Possible scenario: "Makoto, kill that guy!"

"Okay." (starts strangling) (stops strangling) "Never mind. I think he doesn't want me to kill him."

"I know, but do it anyway."

"Why? He doesn't want me to.")

I can't stress enough how much he can't be motivated by pain or harm to himself. Unless someone else expresses that they don't want him to be hurt, it doesn't occur to him to make avoiding that a priority.

[jazuthevulcanprincess]

Silco thought he could do literally anything to achieve power, and use that power to make Zaun a sovereign nation. But, the moment Jinx tackled him in a hug and basically asked him to care for her, he lost.

We see him look shocked, and then look up at Vander. Likely, he was empathizing with Powder saying "she is not my sister" and applying it to Vander's betrayal and his own feelings about him after. He chose to accept this child who was like him and decided to give her what he had needed when he was in her shoes. "We will show them all" being his promise; that they both will abandon fear and become strong enough to achieve their dreams.

We see it in Jinx's eye when she looks up from his arm, determination to prove that she is better than Milo said, that she can be strong, she wants to be useful and "ready" so no one will leave her behind like Vi did.

Yet, she also has the weight of her entire murdered family. She internalized from Vi's words and abandonment that she truly is a jinx, and therefore she must be bad. Which I think is why she allies with Silco and his gang, because she basically already worked for him by killing Milo and Claggor, and preventing Vander's successful escape. They all would have left and been fine had she not interfered and she knows that. Just like she never forgot what Silco had done. But, they were the same and she chose him as a father figure.

We don't see Silco be physically affectionate or let his guard down with anyone but Jinx later on, which makes me believe more that him allowing Powder to hug him and holding her isn't normal for him. He could have killed her instead like he planned.

Instead, he fully brings her into his confidence and makes her his family, a daughter to replace the brother he lost perhaps. Every human being needs companionship and Silco is not different just because he does horrible shit. He's human and has human psychology. Them showing Silco has Jinx help *stab him in the eye* regularly shows that she is uniquely close, no one did that before, and he has a hard time without her help.

When Jinx is triggered by her experiment with the hex gemstone, where does she go? To Silco's office. He tells her he can't trust anyone else with building the weapon that will win the war and make their future better. She is his #1, Sevika his #2 as the brothel madam says to Vi. But, she is special.

When Sevika fails, she gets a professional reprimand, and when Jinx hits Piltover he confronts her like an enraged parent. He doesn't hit her like you would expect from someone so regularly violent. And she doesn't seem bothered at all. I think she doesn't regularly get consequences, citing Sevika, Finn, and Rennie's criticism of Silco and how he can't control Jinx, and how that has made him weak and unfit to lead.

Sevika says she is bad for their cause and she is right. Silco ignores or shuts down these criticisms and its unusual because he's is a cutthroat man with a one track mind: to defeat Piltover.

If he was using Jinx for that end, manipulating her as is so often said, he isn't doing a good job. If he was using her and shaping her, she would be his ace, the linchpin in his plan to rule Zaun. She would be his perfect soldier.

But she isn't. She's a liability. All we see is him encourage her, remind her that Vi is gone and can no longer control her or hurt her, he is there to help her, and he thinks she's perfect. That's a father.

Granted, he isn't well versed in mental health so his solution to Jinx's triggers is to give her a baptism so "fear of pain" won't control her; that was his solution so he think it will work for her..

He doesn't know what we know, that PTSD can't be solved by a dip in polluted waters. It's all he can do, however. And protecting Jinx from further trauma by eliminating her sister before she finds out she's back isn't something any of us would do, but it makes sense for his character. He kills problems. He's not gonna set up family counseling for them.

He believes Vi can only hurt Jinx, like Vander hurt him, and Jinx is currently unstable so she can't handle the stress of it. It's not healthy, but that's Zaun.

He also raised her and encouraged her "gadgetry", pushes her to relax with her hobbies and take some time when stressed. He raised her to be strong and raised her to survive in Zaun, so explosives and guns are part of that. She was working on them with Vander and Vi too, and Milo thought she should brawl with them.

The only extra violence he allows Jinx is the same coping mechanism he has of brutalizing people to feel good. If he does it, you expect him to teach her differently? Which is why he isn't an ideal father figure. But, he is the best father he knew how to be.

This is shown to us in the little details of the mug and ashtray we see that Jinx made for him, being on display at all times. He is saying he is proud of her. Even though it doesn't fit his kingpin persona. It's shown in how Jinx goes to him for support, how she wants to make him proud, and how she challenges him like when she mocks his drowning story and his "rants and hard earned lessons". Jinx is comfortable and safe with him, and has agency in their relationship. She disobeys when she deems necessary, like children do.

When we see Silco find Jinx on the bridge, he is stunned and horrified by her injury. When he sees the gemstone in her hand, he has a peculiar blank expression I didn't know how to read at first. But, I think it is the beginning of his realization that he can't sacrifice her for the cause. He thought he could lose /anything/ for power. But, he sees the gemstone, and at the same time the voice over has Cait saying "so it was all for nothing" and I think that's on purpose. If he gains the gemstone at the price of his daughter's life, well its worth nothing to him. And I think that feeling does scare him.

Singed later asks if he is willing to lose her and he can't answer, just says with determination that she can't die, like he won't let her by sheer force of will. Him giving her a forehead kiss, and only on the strap no less, his supposed to show he cares for her, even when he has nothing to gain but her life. Singed sees his love and has to sedate him because he understands.

Silcos character arc wraps up in the dinner scene where he reassures her that she is his daughter and he could never forsake her, which he knows to be true now that he couldn't give her up for Zaun. He isn't mad he's tied up, and he isn't angry when she shoots him. His last words are an affirmation of love, and a plea to be strong.

His character arc culminates in him thinking about protecting someone more than accomplishing his dream. Which is what he hated Vander for. He was undone by having a daughter, like Vander was. He dies a father doing what was best for his daughter. Like Vander did. He finally understands why Vander did what he did, and that family, that Jinx, is worth more than anything.