#did it HAVE to be a full fucking literary analysis? was it not enough to just say you all rave like the 'lunatics' u hate sm?

[mythalism]

Dude yeah Solas going back to the prison is so dumb to me. Like I assumed before seeing Trick’s post they he and the inquisitor were going into the fade itself to where he sealed the dreams or whatever. But instead I’m going to take my wife to my divorcee empty ass apartment where the ghosts of my past call me a wet loser? What?

JHGKEJRGHKERJHGKREJGH no ur right. i think it genuinely only works when you look at it from a mythological story perspective rather than the two of them as individual people... which is interesting because their whole stories are kind of about how they lose themselves to the myth that surrounds them... so i think its supposed to be the ultimate conclusion of that.

they are at once both finally free of the burdens of the myths and expectations that follow them as the dread wolf and the herald of andraste because they have left the mortal world that forced them into those roles and stripped them of their personhood, but they have also completely submitted themselves to those roles by submitting to the logical conclusion of the myths that they could not escape. for the dread wolf, it is earning his redemption through his willing submission to his own trap. its the logical, full-circle mythological conclusion to the trickster who trapped the gods, now trapped for eternity himself (allegedly, he will prob eventually break out... even loki gets his freedom during ragnarok...). for the inquisitor, it is andraste's herald finally sharing andraste's fate, choosing to leave the mortal world behind to ascend to the golden city alongside the god that she loves. both (presumably, for a lavellan) have tried to reject the myths attached to them over and over and over, but in the end they choose them willingly, and that choice at once binds them to those myths forever while simultaneously freeing them from the burden of them. its giving oedipal greek tragedy of attempting to outrun your fate and it finding you anyway, just when you thought you were finally making your own choice, but with a hopeful and bittersweet spin. its actually fucking insanely brilliant when i think about it this way it makes me genuinely foam at the mouth.

however the major caveat to this is i do not think this is presented nearly clear enough in veilguard. the only reason i am able to create such wonderful, deep meaning from this is honestly because my bachelor's degree is in literature and i literally have formal academic training analyzing storytelling. and it took me like a week to actually sift through all this in my brain and go back and sift through lines and images in the game to support my analysis. it should not take that much work, it should have been more clear. because yeah, the first time you play it it absolutely feels like your girly pop lavellan is making the WORST, down-bad delulu decision of her life while the rest of the world is screaming GIRL DUMP HIM!!!!!!!! and im not suggesting im smarter than anyone for looking at it “the right way” or anything like that. im saying that i think in order to get the meaning from it that the writers intended, you have to look at it through a very specific literary lens, and that is something that most people are not going to default to… because why would you? the story should lead you there on its own. there shouldn’t be a niche prerequisite to enjoying the ending. a few more lines about people made into myths, much like those we got throughout inquisition, could’ve helped facilitate this. they did a great job of hammering in the regret and choice themes to the point it was like beating a dead horse with a stick. and there are a few good lines that kind of give this vibe (“you’re not JUST the inquisitor, right?” “they call me the dread wolf, what will they call you when this is over?” “there is no fate but the love we share,” a codex from felassan about solas being forced to play into the dread wolf persona, etc.) but they probably could’ve added a few more to talk about mythological apotheosis and choice in the context of fate rather than just in the context of regret, and it would’ve helped at least a bit.

so i fully understand peoples discomfort with the ending as a result. i think it’s a logical conclusion to come to based on how the story presents itself. however im pretty confident that this mythological vibe was tricks intention, based on a lot of their comments about their writing process and inspiration for solas, and the way they have written him overall. @corseque has a lot of amazing posts in her solas tag that talk specifically about the very deliberately mythological way that weekes wrote solas, and i think this is essential context for understanding the ending that the game simply does not sufficiently provide. it also definitely invalidates a lot of people's perceptions of not just their inquisitor, but the solavellan romance as well. however i hope me blabbing about how it can be absolutely brilliant when viewed through a specific lens might help people feel more at peace with it <3

[spitblaze]

Mouthwashing spoilers below cut, played through it again today bc i accidentally nullified all of my achievements through the dev console. oops

Okay so the first time I played through it I was high and it was very late at night. Already a great start but it means I missed some shit my first time through and I'm already not exactly stellar at more abstract literary analysis. LUCKILY this site is full of people who are way better at that than I am (and im convincing my partners who are also way better at it than I am to play it soon too).

Luckily I'm better at lit analysis than whoever the weirdo on the Steam forum saying this game is bad because it 'doesn't punish Jimmy for his actions enough' as if this isnt a horror game primarily about his guilt-induced mental breakdown and if i have to see anyone else say that anya is a poorly written character im going to poorly write them out of existence because I'm inclined to believe that if you think that you either weren't fucking paying attention or have subscribed to the Joss Whedon school of feminist writing which is 'good writing of women is when they are girlboss'. like sorry shes too much of a depressed traumatized Fawn Response rape victim for your liking. jesus christ

Anyway the game being short DOES lend itself well to multiple playthroughs, which honestly is for the best because its really one of those stories that reveals a lot more on a second viewing. There's a Lot going on here but as far as I can tell, the biggest themes here are what it means to 'take responsibility' as well as autonomy and the loss thereof. The responsibility one is for sure the most obvious one, how many times in the game does it directly say 'take responsibility'? How many times does Curly say 'I'll fix this', how many times does Jimmy say he'll 'fix this'? And ultimately, how successful are either of them?

Curly's a good leader, sure, but how much does he just let slide for the sake of 'the big picture'? Daiske was a last minute addition. He's a good kid, but he didn't make a stink about it. Gotta think about the big picture. Anya has told him about what Jimmy did to her. Nothing. 'What would you do?' 'Anything.' But nothing. Absolutely nothing. I'm not gonna sit here and say that Curly is 100% every bit as evil as Jimmy, if someone is raped the blame falls squarely on the rapist- but it's completely on Curly for not taking action against Jimmy for the sake of the big picture. He really could've done anything. Fucking anything. It's not necessarily on Curly to foresee that Jimmy's stress response would be to end it and take everyone else with him. But it was on him to do something about a known violent assault and its perpetrator before anyone else got hurt. He's not a perpetrator, but he's an accessory. He may not have deserved the punishment he got. But he's nothing if not agonizingly aware of the consequences for not taking responsibility for the actions of his crew.

Jimmy, meanwhile, is obsessed with responsibility despite the fact that he's incapable of actually handling it, from the very start. It's not clear when exactly he assaulted Anya, but I assume it was after Curly broke the news to the crew. The moment even a shred of consequences emerge, the minute Anya tells him that she's pregnant, his first course of action is to deliberately sabotage the ship. Murder-suicide. He says he's sorry. That he made a mistake. As if there were not multiple, deliberate steps at which he could've stopped and realized what he was doing. After everything, he tells the crew it was Curly's fault so he could have more of that responsibility he desired so much. Not that anyone respects it except maybe Daisuke.

But he can't handle even the most basic of responsibilities there, either. A handful of menial tasks and he fucking snaps at the woman he hurt to begin with, even when she only ever acts the way she does around him to avoid further hurt. 'Take responsibility'. But he can't. Over and over he'll tell the vision of Curly he's made in his heads that he's sorry, that he'll fix things, that they'll all make it. And then he just keeps making things worse. And worse. And worse. Anya's going to hurt Curly, she's suspect and violent. Swanson won't let them into Utility. That's suspect, he's going to get out of here and leave everyone else behind. They both have to be stopped. Don't you trust me, Daisuke? Don't you trust your captain? That's why YOU have to go through the vent. He cannot fucking take responsibility, only goad others into doing things and handling things as underhandedly as possible. No wonder Curly laughs when he takes the gun. Anya spent all this time trying to keep it from him. And he got it anyway, because that'll all Jimmy knows how to do. Take and resent and hurt. His own twisted version of 'responsibility'.

It genuinely pisses me off how many people write off Anya as being 'badly written' or write her off altogether, especially considering the VERY OBVIOUS character she's based off of, being Wendy Torrance in The Shining (Yes I'm aware there's baggage around that particular character's strength of writing too, but I'm not about to go off on a rant about a movie ive only absorbed through cultural osmosis). Like...she's not a perfectly written character, no- her arc is less about her as a character and more about the things that have been done to her. Sexual assault used as a narrative device, nothing new there- it's at least less egregious in a horror story, where fear and trauma and terrible things happening to good people is kinda the whole thing. My big issue with Anya's writing is that we didn't get more of her- more exploration of how Jimmy's actions affected her, more exploration of how her and Curly are that much more alike after the crash- it's not a very long game to start, and given her character and the situation I don't necessarily disagree with her going out the way she did at the time she did. It just would've been nice if they'd utilized the nonlinear structure of the whole thing to explore her more, y'know?

Given Jimmy's PoV it makes sense that he's more fixated on the consequences of raping her than on the woman herself, but from the Doylist perspective, like...c'mon, give us SOMETHING more to work with. And like I said before, it pisses me off that people see a woman who doesn't immediately fall into the 'girlboss' role when shit hits the fan and then write it off, as if the premise of the story isn't about everyone's reaction to a hopeless situation spearheaded by a violent, manipulative, self-centered shithead. Swansea's the most capable person here outside of Jimmy and Anya, and I've yet to see anyone saying his character was weak because he spends most of his time drinking and raging instead of taking action. I'm mostly just upset that I don't have much more to say about her outside of her relationship to the rest of the crew. One could argue that most of what we are is defined by our relationships to others, and the nature of the game means that we don't really get a deep peek into anyone's psyche besides Curly and Jimmy.

I like how she invokes the metaphor of that dead pixel, the detail that sticks out like a sore thumb to her, always in the back of her mind, ever-present, that Curly can't see and never will because he's too busy looking at the big picture. I like how they establish the nature of Jimmy and Anya's relationship without being too direct, putting up that brave fawn act while he's there- she has to, the ship is only so big and they're so off course that rescue seems impossible- but she doesn't sleep in the same room as everyone else, she won't confide in Jimmy, and his mistreatment of her was what finally drove her over the edge. Jimmy's more concerned about what she might do to Curly that what she might do to herself, and he KNOWS that she's prone to mental breakdowns- often caused by himself, if not by Curly's state. The whole thing is tragic, but Anya's case is particularly saddening. Even after her death, she's paraded around like a puppet so that Jimmy can have his macabre little party. He doesn't care about her. He never did. And yet he's haunted by her, the 'sexual thoughts of cartoon horses' intermingling with his strange psychosexual hatred of the nurse just trying to do her job, haunted by the consequences of his actions because he's too much of a fucking coward to really, honestly and truly, take responsibility.

Swansea and Daisuke I have less to say about, ultimately. They feel a lot more straightforward in their narratives, at least from my perspective. Daisuke's a dumb kid with a shitty internship and he's so upbeat and positive that it genuinely pisses Swanson off, which means that he does ultimately care about the kid. A+ dynamic. Seems like a prick on an initial playthrough, but on the second run through I get it. He's old enough, he's seen enough, he knows exactly what Jimmy is and doesn't buy his responsible act for a second. He's not a captain. He's just some shithead who acts like he can handle it but flees in the most destructive way possible the second the consequences rear their head. He's a man that, even in the throes of substance abuse, does a better job of taking responsibility than Jimmy ever could, and arguably better than Curly ever did. Instead of just shrugging his shoulders at a last minute intern, he took him under his wing and started training him. When shit hits the fan, his instinct is to protect Daisuke- the one person who IS his responsibility. When he really, truly does not believe there is anything else that can be done, he puts him out of his misery. Maybe he was saving that cryo pod for him, too. It's hard to say, but the fact that he's the only one who stood up to Jimmy and saw him for what he was makes him that much more likable.

Daisuke...oh, Daisuke. He couldn't have known this was coming. He was doing his best, he just did what he could, he tried to be helpful and kind and be a good person. And for that, Jimmy used him and got him killed because he was too much of a goddamn coward to apologize to Anya, to see her as anything besides a nuisance at best. I get why Jimmy is so fixated on his death- as far as he's concerned, his first real failure, since Anya was such a non-issue that he didn't even have anything to say about her lifeless body. It wasn't just his inaction that got this kid killed, it was his actions. He had every opportunity to use even a single ounce of his brain and recognize that there are other people on the ship besides him and Anya, to recognize that these psych evals aren't just for the sake of the individual. And for that, Daisuke died. Way to go, hero.

The autonomy shit...god. Psychological trauma can be just as incapacitating as physical harm, can't it? Anya completely changing her demeanor after being assaulted, her body no longer just her own. I want to see the horror of that from her perspective, the invasion and the terror and revulsion of having something like that growing inside you. How sickening it must feel, how just the knowledge of its existence makes living that much worse. How the man who did it is still nothing but despotic. Curly, finally seeing Jimmy for who he truly is firsthand. It's all well and good to believe in someone, to trust them and want to help them overcome their struggles. But being choked and beaten and abused by them, day after day after day, because you had the audacity to sit a little higher on the totem pole than they did, because you had what they wanted, because they couldn't stand seeing someone better off then they were.

It's kind of mind-boggling, honestly. I've...kinda been there, with people who I know are still there, they're fully in there and aware and the same person they've always been, but their means to communicate with the outside world is cut off. I was fortunate enough to have been listening to a lot of disability activists around the time my aunt started losing her speech. It seemed a lot of times that the only people who really recognized that she was still there were me and my uncle. Even my mom, her older sister, inseparable for life, started treating her like she was suddenly a different person, not capable of really understanding her or wanting or doing things for herself.

So, like- not trying to be selfish or anything, just doing the autistic 'oh i can relate to this' bit, particularly about Jimmy projecting all of this shit onto the captain when he barely has the capacity to laugh or cry, let alone speak. His savior. His best friend. His bitter enemy. Beating him relentlessly while giving him his medicine for having the audacity to be an inconvenience. Let's eat some cake. I want to go home. Curly is just a man, and Jimmy regards him as helpless, antagonistic, and a god all at once. He'll thank me for this one day.

So uh. Many thoughts, head full. After the end of the bizarro sequence with Curly heading to the cockpit, the door is very small. A black pixel, the one stuck in the back of Anya's mind. A graveyard full of mausoleums, every one of them with the same epitaph as the bizarro one for Daigo in ch 14, and the one you can enter with his face on it. Not a single one for Anya. The Polle at the end having the same blue text as Anya, haunting the narrative just as much as Curly, just less overt. I'll fix this. I'll take responsibility. God. God jesus fuck damn hell christ son of a bitch. Fuck capitalism for putting their employees on such tight strings and skeleton crews that a collective pink slip can send people into this kind of spiral (or rather can give Jimmy a good reason to convince everyone else that all of them are completely fucked except for the captain and Daisukle) and fuck Jimmy. Fuck him. My one other complaint besides the feminist critique above is that theres some sequences that go on a bit longer than they really should (ch. 14 getting the mouthwash, most of the vent segments).

Fuck you, Jimmy.

I hope that gunshot hurt.

[citrusotakutea]

People that make it a joke to be like: "Omggg the introductions to classic books are soooo annoying, why would they put so much of this useless shit here?" after they only started reading classics to be a part of the pretentious booktok fucks who read classics just to say they read them... Hi, pretentious fuck who always reads the introduction... It is literalllyyy a free literary analysis you dipshits. If you're reading some abstract shit, well it was written that way and people have been trying to read and interpret it since it was published. There is 200% popular explanations or theories of the plot there, if not straight up quotes from an authors diary/notes on their process and intentions for writing their novel (if those were left behind by the author). Fun facts, relevant historical context, translation deep-dives (which are fucking great btw, translation is an art and even the best translations will always lose something) and more. Honestly, people bragging about not reading it is like. ok fine whatever. To call it useless is just indicative that you are a VITCIM of the media comprehension crisis. If you're just going to parrot some rando from tiktok who summarized the plot (badly) in fortnite terms (do not recommend) read the fkn intro instead. If you're not going to try analyze the book yourself, or if you don't know where to start- read the intro!!!111!!! I am old enough (21. sarcasm.) to remember the time when the media lit crisis was in full swing before Lolita blew up on tiktok where people were making the most bare bones, surface level interpretations of it, calling the author and people who liked the book pedophilic. Saying they didn't know why it was a classic because it was just some old man's sick fantasy. I'm pretty sure there are old arguments on this blog of me trying to explain it to people. Nabokov was very open about the true meaning of his novel, there were many resources for people on and offline, plus the book that I had (not special, from library and then one from B&N) had an intro AND author's note. Yet people only got it when it was oversimplified for them on tiktok? Introductions are literally some nerd who was so obsessed with the author/book that you're reading that they who wrote something (barely anything usually, not a fucking lot) to help you understand the book better. Obviously, its meant to be supplementary and you can and should find your own meaning. Plus, usually for compiled works, the introduction are the guy(s) who made the fucking book, but ofc they are only credited in the intro (& copyright page) because they didn't write it. Surprise, people actually have to pick what works go into those types of books. Intros are usually just: "wow, I love this author so much that I did research on their entire life, read every single word they left on this earth, read 50 decades of analysis of their works and researched the era they lived in to understand why and what they wrote the wrote better, " and you mfs that don't even read it call it useless. fuck you. Oh and before anyone with -80 IQ reads this and gets upset, if you want to avoid spoilers for the 103935405739 year old book, read it after you finish the book...

[how-gross]

8:54pm — April 20th, 2024

I’m so fucking disappointed in myself. My AP Literature teacher just graded our research paper rough drafts and I got a 76%. A 76%. My friend got a 84% and told me that if she got an 84%, then I’d definitely be fine. And the girl who I did my peer review told me that my essay was good and just gave me a few tips about citations and grammar. But my teacher full-out told me that my paper didn’t sound like a literary analysis paper. How the fuck do I make it a literary analysis paper?!

And I was having so much fun at prom the night before too. Talk about calm before the storm.

This is the same person who got a distinguished writers award when graduating middle school. The same person whose English I teacher complimented her on her writing performance and explanation. The same person who was known by her entire class for her good writing. The same person whose mother brags to other people about her child’s exemplary ability in writing, saying, “[Name] could write an essay about the sky”.

Now what is she gonna brag about? What even is there about me to brag about?! My only special talent was writing and I can’t even do that right? What else is there about me? And I want to be an author, what a sick joke. I’m clearly better at psychology than I am at writing. I should just quit writing forever, it’s clear that I’m not good at it. Now everyone will know I’m a fraud. No ones gonna want the student who got a 76% on their paper to read their own paper. What if I’m the only person who got a 76% on their paper and everyone else got higher because they actually knew how to write an English Lit Paper? I’m not special enough to be in an AP English Class. My grades gonna go down and I have no one but myself to blame. I fucking hate myself.

I’m gonna fucking cut myself. It’s after prom anyways and nothing’s stopping me. The scars will probably heal in time for graduation. I deserve it anyways for this shit excuse of a paper I’ve written. My mom’s gonna be so disappointed in me, I know I am.

[nari-writes]

Bruce is well aware of Eurydice and Orpheus when he decides to go to Georgia.

Constantine says the "energy of communal belief increases the potency of spells" but considering Jason would not be with the devil and they're trying to invoke the underworld and not hell, Bruce is sure Constantine is fucking with him.

He goes to Georgia anyway. He goes to Georgia and thinks about Jason's memory following every step, the literary analysis of Orpheus as a metaphor for grief - that it was impossible to ignore Eurydice, as impossible as it is to avoid running into memories of Jason.

He is not a good enough musician to win over Persephone. He is not a good enough father to convince Hades.

He goes to Georgia anyway. Constantine meets him there, looking sweaty and annoyed, shoulders hunched in his trench coat.

"You could wear something befitting the weather," Bruce says mildly, when he picks Constantine up from the airport. He's in a full suit, and Constantine eyes him with distaste.

"Mate, you coulda decided to let the dead stay dead."

No. Not in this instance. Not when Jason deserves better. Elysium can wait - he should have had more time, to live and love and eat and read and go to school.

"The leylines in the area largely converge in public spaces," he says instead, "but I've organised to rent out a local park for tomorrow and the day after. You'll be able to set up today and erase any magical traces tomorrow without interruption." Bruce smiles, just a hint of Brucie in case anyone's watching as they pull up to a stoplight, "The city was very accommodating."

"I'm sure they were," Constantine says, "what with the amount of money you probably chucked at 'em. Did you organise my-"

"Your fee will be handled by Alfred," he interrupts smoothly, before Constantine can start griping. "Once you've finished setting up and shown me how to get through, it's half, and when Jason is back, the rest."

Constantine gets out a box of cigarettes, then freezes in the act of pulling one out. He's looking at the dashboard, clean leather, at the frown pulling at Bruce's mouth, a miniscule downturn, and pushes the cigarette back into the box.

They are not the same cigarettes that Jason used to nick from Alley girls. The sight of the box still makes Bruce remember finding Jason against his favourite gargoyle, the little red star between his fingers the only illumination.

Bruce is well aware that he will not be well-recieved in the Underworld. He's hoping to get an audience and bargain from there, but the amount of aimless souls who'll cling to Batman may make it difficult to have privacy, and privacy is all he wants when he's begging for his son to have life. If he gets his audience with Hades and Persephone, it will not be a quiet meeting with a King and a Queen, but an open amphitheatre filled with external judgement. The thought of standing in an audience of spirits, under the eyes of two gods and a thousand dead, all of them wondering why he's only come back for one-

And knowing that if his bargain works, he'll have to listen to them, angry and grieving and longing for another to come below and do as he did. Joining the audience, but forever known as a previous performer. Does Dick feel like that, when he watches a show? Hating and wanting the stage in equal measure? For what it gave and what it took? He is sacrificing Batman, and with it, Gotham and the good he's done with the League, and he doesn't know if it will be enough.

Dick will be mad he's not coming home. Alfred will be mad at the will, at burying another member of the Wayne family, at Bruce. They wouldn't have wanted him to leave Gotham, if they'd known his plan. They'll both be mad and grateful and grieve, and Jason will be back.

He goes to Georgia anyway.

[fandomfluffandfuck]

you don't have to treat this like a request, i know you're busy !! i just need to put my thoughts somewhere and, as usual, you're my go-to Thot Deposit ™

i was sitting here thinking about forties stucky, and how bucky didn't really physically change after he was hit with the serum like steve did. he didn't have this massive muscle or bone growth, he didn't suddenly have massive tits [affectionate] or muscles like out of a bodybuilder's wet dream. nah, he just... looked like bucky still, but Better™

but we know the serum fucks with your metabolism. we know that caloric intake has to at LEAST triple to sustain super soldiers' body mass.

i like to think that bucky like, , didn't know what was wrong with him? that he didn't KNOW what was wrong with his body.

everyone knew that steve could devour a whole fucking warehouse full of food without batting an eye so they had extra rations for him. i like to think that he shared with bucky, bc he could tell that the kid was starving and that something was just a bit off.

every time they went out with the howlies, he'd eat way more than when they were kids. when they were full grown adults even

stucky sharing food in the trenches, in the forest and trees when on stealthier missions. steve splitting all of his food in half and sharing with bucky.

maybe there was a bit of hand feeding involved too, if stucky were already established.

idk i just love the idea of steve and bucky sharing food. communion became one of my favorite tropes after i read a book abt literary analysis and what sharing food means metaphorically. i thought u might agree !

hope you're doin well and that the smoke isn't too bad where you're at!!

-🎁

I am very happy to be a Thot Deposit sight lol and yeah, I'm gonna close my requests soon but not officially closed! I'll put up a post then. I'm thinking roughly early September, y’know?

Okay yes yes I am here for forties stucky So Hard but the sentence "he didn't have this massive muscle or bone growth, he didn't suddenly have massive tits [affectionate]" is the funniest shit I've read all day without further context lmao

But, context, yes. Let's think on that.

*Warning below for abuse from HYDRA*

Okay so as much as I LOVE LOVE LOVE hand feeding for Bucky I always, personally, headcanon that HYDRA designed their serum to do the opposite of a lot of the "downsides" that Steve's serum had. To make the winter soldier the ghost story, unstoppable machine that it was.

I always thought about the classic serum things that Steve got and I think of the bastardization of them. For example: Steve burns through food like fucking Crazy but Bucky doesn't. He can sustain himself on little, hardly anything at all, because his body becomes able to absorb every little bit of nutrients from what he does eat as well as slowing his metabolism. An added benefit is that it is very hard for the asset to become hungry, helpful because only humans can be hungry, machines not so much. Steve burns like a furnace; Bucky runs cold, metal and flesh. Steve's heart rate is that of a hummingbird but Bucky's is slow enough to be difficult to detect. His low body temperature has that effect too. It makes TWS extremely hard to detect with heat sensing techniques, with heart rate monitors... no one will see the soldier coming. A ghost.. It makes the asset easy to send away on missions and all but forget about it. It won't starve and if it will... well, it'll take it a long time to get there and a shorter time to return. The asset is not stupid, it knows where it's food comes from and it knows that it cannot escape punishment in death.

HYDRA's serum did not aim to make a spectacle. They did not want a propaganda pawn, they wanted a defense. A weapon not made of brawny, brute strength meant to smash and run through things but a weapon meant to slip through fog, meant to slide through ribs to reach the heart, a specialized tool, silent and yet fearsome.

But, who knows, perhaps Bucky's serum was not as refined right off the bat y’know? Maybe it was closer to Steve's when he first got it but it had a much lower effect, so much so that, yeah, Bucky didn't change all that much. And then, later, they gave Bucky "booster shots". Things that burned in his IV and through his body as they slowly spread. Taking his body heat and his hunger and what he had left that was like Steve.

And if that was the case, later experimentation changing Bucky's serum and super abilities to be "better" then YUP I have no doubt that what you said above, 🎁 anon, would be the case. For sure. Steve sharing and pushing bits (at first) to direct halves (later) of his rations until it all but escalated into Steve squirrling away rations to hand feed Bucky in their private tent after a long, long day of hearing his best guys stomach growling. Feeling a pang through his heart each and every time but (guiltily) loving that they get to share this anyway.

I don't know how you pulled all that angst out of me lol, but I appreciate your thoughts!!

[roanniom]

Phillip and Miss Perfect

Phillip Altman x Reader

Word Count: 2,866

Part 1/?

Summary: Back in high school you were a perfectionist and he was a charming douche. You’ve spent years suppressing the feelings he awakened in you senior year because you’re better than that, right? You’ll sure find out now that you’re back home for the holidays right in time to run back into him.

Warnings: NSFW. Language. Masturbation (F/M kinda). Gratuitous Altman charm.  

Phillip Altman had long been the bane of your existence. Phillip and his cheeky grin and his gaggle of older siblings whose mere existence somehow afforded him an untouchable cool status amongst the weaker minded of your peers. A status you’d always felt was completely unearned as he swaggered through the halls of your high school, winking at pretty girls and tossing innuendo-laden comments to his fawning admirers.  

Yes Phillip Altman, you’d decided long ago, was the bane of your existence.

Handsome and arrogant and too smart for his own good, not that he ever applied himself, for crying out loud. It was senior year that solidified your loathing for the boy. Mr. Weathers had paired the two of you together for the group-project winter final. Only a sadist would assign a group project for a final, so you should have seen it coming. Always the instigator, the old man had been thoroughly entertained by the way you and Phillip would constantly bicker in class. Though “bickering” probably wasn’t the right word considering that the interactions were less a volleying of insults and more a pattern of Phillip smoothly complimenting you and you spewing vitriol back in response.

“My place or yours?”

Your head had snapped up hard when you heard the baritone voice laced with amusement too close for comfort a few moments after Mr. Weather’s class had ended.

“Altman. What have we said about my personal bubble?” You made sure your voice dripped with venom. Phillip straightened from where he had leaned to whisper in your ear as you placed books into your locker.

“Your personal bubble is your own and I am not allowed inside it,” he rambled off, as though reciting a vow from memory. After a breath he wiggled his eyebrows and added, “unless expressly invited.”

“In your sticky dreams,” you shot back.

“Every night, Miss Perfect,” Phillip said, giving a roguish half-smile that you wanted to slap off his face. Instead you slammed your locker door and stalked off.

“So, your place it is then?” Phillip called to your retreating back. You ignored him. He cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted after you, making sure that everyone in the hallway could hear his humor-tinged voice.

“Parting is such sweet sorrow, Juliet!”

“We’re presenting on Hamlet, moron,” you said, shooting him a look over your shoulder as you continued to walk away. “That quote you just bastardized is Romeo and Juliet.”

Phillip had just laughed and walked in the opposite direction. Leaving you to fume on your way to the bus while wondering seriously to yourself if murder would be enough to make colleges take back the early acceptances you’d already received.

~*~

And so you two had spent one blustery weekend in early December holed away in your bedroom. You trying desperately to keep Phillip’s tiny attention span from wandering to your panty drawer long enough for a presentation on the themes of Hamlet to miraculously get written. Phillip trying desperately to get into said panty drawer and avoid the slaps you repeatedly sent his way. To the surprise of absolutely no one, you both failed tremendously on all accounts. Your mom certainly didn’t help matters by bustling in with Christmas cookies and cooing comments to Phillip about how cute he was. True to form, he thanked her through a mouthful of gingerbread before throwing an infuriating wink your way. That was it. You knew you and your perfect grades were doomed.

And yet on the day of the presentation, something crazy (a miracle, if you’re sappy) did occur. Phillip pulled – out of his ass, presumably – a 180 and gave a performance to rival anything old Willy-Shakes could have staged. Not only did he express a genuine and insightful knowledge of the themes of the play, but he was also a generous presenter, setting you up for and supporting you in points that even made you, the top of the class, look better. As Mr. Weathers complimented the two of you on your efforts at the end of the presentation, you couldn’t help but stare at Phillip, struck for the first time by the way his hair curled a little at the ends and the way his eyes sparkled under the attention of the class. You didn’t like admitting it to yourself, but your stomach was in knots. Phillip parading around like he’s god’s gift to high school girls? Gross. Phillip confidently presenting literary analysis and showing a glimmer of genuine intelligence? Fucking hot.

After class you’d felt a little intimidated at the prospect of talking to him. You weren’t sure why. It was Phillip Fucking Altman, class clown and grade-A pain in your ass. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as you slid your books back into your bag. His frame stood out amongst the small circle of his friends, his dumb, tall body making it so that you could always see him from far away.  

You gripped your bag close to your body and walked briskly toward the door, deciding against any further interaction with the boy whose eyes had suddenly made your cheeks grow hot for the first time in all the years you’d known his stupid ass. As you walked by, however, he broke away from his friends and chased after you, calling your name. You didn’t stop until you reached the destination of your locker down the hall.

“Hey, so it seems like we killed it in there.” Phillip leaned against the next locker, slightly breathless from having jogged to catch up with you. It was after sixth period on the last day of the semester, and the last few stragglers filtered through the hall on their way to the sweet freedom of winter break.

“Yeah, I guess we did alright, didn’t we?” you said noncommittally, refusing to look up from organizing the inside of your locker.

“Alright? Pretty sure Weathers jizzed his pants when you brought up biblical allegory,” Phillip let out a bark of a laugh.

“Only you could make academic achievement sound vulgar, Altman,” you said, trying but failing to hide the smile that broke across your face.

“It’s not as hard as it seems. All of those stuffy writers were pervs. You know Mary Shelley fucked Lord Byron on her mother’s grave? And that horny bitch wrote Frankenstein!” His smile lit up the corner of your vision and you looked up, blushing at how cute his stupid crooked teeth looked all of a sudden.

“She fucked Percy Shelley on her mother’s grave, not Lord Byron, you idiot,” you replied, rolling your eyes. Phillip’s eyebrows had shot up and his smile had grown wider.

“Well, well Miss Perfect. Never took you for a girl who reads the naughty books, too.”

“Shove it, Altman.” You punched out at his arm, but he successfully dodged, finally demonstrating fast reflexes for once after years of similar assaults from you.

“Well either way, we did it! We made Lit our bitch – up top!” He offered up a hand which you high fived reluctantly. Before you could pull your hand away, his large one wrapped around yours and he yanked you forward. Your body crashed into his and before you could flail, he wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug.

You were too shocked by the action to move, too surprised by the feeling of his strong arms twisting around your back and his hard body against your breasts. You’d always known Phillip was hot, it was one of the things you hated him for. But feeling the evidence of that hotness against you? You felt the knot in your stomach from earlier drop a little lower.

Phillip ducked his head down to the crook of your neck, his warm breath blowing on your ear. You became hyper aware of the silence in the empty hallway, marveling at the fact that there was no one there to witness the sudden intimacy of this weird moment. Was there a memo you’d missed about a Christmas Fair that everyone had rushed off to? Damn. You took a breath to speak but Phillip cut you off, the vibrations from his rumbling voice sending shivers down your spine.

“Yeah, yeah I know. Sorry about your personal bubble.”

You bit your lip, not trusting yourself to speak during this odd experience that balanced precariously in a space between uncomfortable and enticing.

“It’s just that…” Phillip began, but trailed off. Your heart beat in your throat, and somewhere lower, as he began swaying your bodies a little in place. This couldn’t be real, though nightmare or dream you couldn’t decide how you’d classify it. You felt his ribcage expand against you as he went to speak again, barely aware that your own breath was held captive in your chest in anticipation.

“I, too…jizzed in my pants when you brought up biblical allegory.”

It took a few seconds for his words to register in your mind before you reacted. Your hand connected with his face so hard you scared yourself with the volume of the sound. Both of you stood frozen and staring at each other for a moment after that. Him with his hand on his cheek where it had flown to shield his stinging skin and you with your hand suspended in air where it had reverberated back after impacting with his face.

Then Phillip began to laugh.

It was a full sound that echoed off the walls. Your face screwed up in response, immediately feeling shame heat your ears and cheeks. But then you noticed that his smile held no derision, no malice. He was genuinely entertained by the fact that, after all these times slapping him, you’d finally hit the mark dead on.

Your hand flew to cover your lips, dozens of emotions dancing on your features as you began to register the humor of the moment as well. However, you also felt foolish. Not a second before he’d let loose the comment that broke all your physical self-control your mind had been toying with the idea of losing physical self-control in a very different way. The hot, knotted feeling in your lower belly had not gone away with this turn of events, it had merely intensified. Your palm tingled where it had made contact with Phillip’s cheek.

The rush of emotions, so many and so dissonant, overwhelmed you. So you did the only thing you could. You slammed your locker door, ducked your head down, and ran for the door, leaving a very confused Phillip still chuckling to himself in your wake.

~*~

That night, laying in bed, you had chastised yourself for feeling what seemed to be every feeling but your usual hatred toward Phillip. This wouldn’t do. You were the top of the class. You hadn’t gotten this far for this long by having twisty turny feelings for stupid beautiful boys with crooked teeth and lots of charm.

Somewhere in your self-admonishment, however, your thoughts turned back to the feeling of his hard body against yours. His arms, large and muscled, containing you with such ease and solidity. The planes of his large chest as they pressed into your soft curves. Without even thinking much about it, your hands moved under your sheets, squeezing those curves.

The knotted feeling from before returned, but this time it was less of a knot and more of an ache. You knew the feeling. Had willed it away while watching movies where hot actors sucked too convincingly on the necks of their leading ladies. Had clumsily tried to remedy it with fumbling rubs and twisting legs on nights when the tension got to be too much.

But that night as you’d thought about Phillip Altman’s arms around you, your pointer finger moved to your clit, rubbing small circles around the sensitive nub. As you thought of Phillip Altman’s lips as he rambled confidently in front of a crowd, and Phillip Altman’s big nose scrunching as he winked at you across a classroom, and Phillip’s dimples as he laughed at one of your personalized insults, and Phillip Altman’s dick as it could be seen outlined in his athletic shorts during gym….

The ache inside grew and you felt your pussy clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled by something you hadn’t known you wanted. Haphazardly you thrust a finger inside your folds, the hand not preoccupied with circling your clit reaching up to grab one of your breasts.

You tried to imagine Phillip’s large hands replacing yours. Tried to imagine how he’d fill you, how he’d squeeze you. You could almost hear the way he’d put that already dirty mouth of his to good use.

“You want to cum, Miss Perfect? Hmm?” You imagined him saying. The vibrations from his deep voice rang through your mind, left over from when it had caused you to shiver earlier. “Want me in your personal bubble now?”

You whimpered in the darkness of your room, speeding up the friction on your clit and thrusting two more fingers in your slick heat. You imagined his lips at your neck, at your clavicle, at your sternum, sucking at the skin and tickling you with the stubbling facial hair he’d only been sporting since last summer.

“You’ve always been such a good girl,” the Phillip in your mind practically purred. You felt yourself reaching a precipice you’d never quite attained before. The muscles of your legs quaked and your squeezed your nipples, needing more of something.

“Why don’t you be a good girl for me and cum?”

Your whole body convulsed against the mattress and your muscles seized, your fingers trapped inside your pussy as it contracted over and over. You felt absolutely euphoric for a moment, almost nothing passing through your mind but the image of Phillip, smiling at you with that same, familiar, cheeky smile.

But as you came down from your high, your sweat ran cold with a realization. It had been your first orgasm. Phillip had caused your first orgasm. A mixture of shame and anger flooded your system as you curled into yourself. It wasn’t enough Phillip Altman was the golden boy of the school, it wasn’t enough that he could – and did – have any girl he wanted, he had to have your orgasm, too?

You felt silly but you also felt indignant. You had prided yourself on not being affected, on being above him. After all, why go after the boy who had it all and who only teased you because it felt like an accomplishment to make the smart girl squirm under his gaze?

No. You hated Phillip Altman and you wouldn’t let him have this. You silently thanked whatever militant non-secular whacko had pushed the Christmas agenda on the school system so hard that you had two weeks off now to help distance you from any interactions with the boy who plagued your mind.

You had drifted to sleep that night, unaware that several streets over, in a room very much like your own, Phillip Altman was tugging at his hard cock, groaning over thoughts of the girl who challenged him, the girl who yelled at him, the girl who slapped him. The one girl he was so sure he’d never get with, but who he wanted most.

~*~

Now, twelve years later, you wander down the baking aisle of the local grocery store, praying to all that is holy that you won’t bump into someone from your high school. After graduation you had peaced the fuck out, leaving for college on the opposite coast. You’d spent years convincing your parents that you were too busy with undergrad and then grad school and then publishing deadlines to ever make the crazy trip back to your hometown, instead baiting them into visiting you for warmer holidays that smelled of the beach and your new life. Two consecutive shitty breakups on your part and one knee replacement surgery on your mother’s part combined to turn this into the year that your parents insisted you finally made the pilgrimage home.

Which is how you find yourself on a winter night browsing the alternative flour selection, having been sent to look for the perfect gluten-free option that will make your mom’s gastrointestinal system “not blow up like a friggen balloon.” It was funny how not even a medical diagnosis could deter that woman from her festive baking habits. You’re deep in thought over the differences between coconut and almond when a deep voice rumbles out from your deepest memories, reverberating right into aisle four.

“You know I read your latest book.”

You look up and almost drop your two flours to the ground. Instead you fumble, gripping them tightly to your chest and causing vaporized coconut and almond to puff into the air in front of you.

As the powder settles out of your line of sight you see him. Phillip Altman. Twelve years older, with more facial hair and a couple laugh lines, but it’s him alright.

“Hey there, Miss Perfect.”

His nose crinkles as he winks at you. You intake breath sharply.

And choke on some flour.

It tastes like coconut. And you know then that you should have just trusted your gut and gone with almond.

You also know that you’re in trouble.

~*~

Tagging some very kind people who have been very welcoming: @mariesackler​ @direnightshade​ @safarigirlsp​ @sacklerscumrag​

[bluewinnerangel]

Omg, thank u 💙 I loooooved your kiwi analysis 💙 and I loved how detail oriented you are 💙 now and then I start to speculate what this song is about and I can never be really sure, so I love collecting new ideas ab it 💙

https://hazzabeeforlou.tumblr.com/post/179935917469/the-mythic-foundation-of-hs1-kiwi

I’d love to hear your insight about this, I don’t have many friends keen on discussing the meaning of HS (and LT) lyrics haha, and I’m always interested on getting new povs. The author says their analysis of hs1 comes from a literary angle telling a circular story. I like their review of hs1 in general, but the kiwi one is one of the most unusual takes I’ve come around.

Elloo!!! Thank you <3

Just when I think I put in enough interpretations there's just more and more isn't there. First again for the devoted all the interpretations should be under my "kiwi" tag plus there's some good stuff in peoples tag rambles on the main post!

Ok cut because block of text:

Link you provided. I'm not really one to trash other peoples interpretations of things (unless it's a real dumbdumb like it being about miss taytay unironically or some shit asdahskdj), but I don't see how that checks out really. I think when a song is about something a bit more specific, like marriage as that analysis says, he's gonna leave hints in there that it is. I don't see a hint of that in Kiwi to be honest, but you've read my analysis so you know I'm not one to go with one interpretation and not be open to the rest lol, so I don't wanna say no, just, I didn't pick up on that and I picked that fruit apart as far as I could. I don't see any theme of uh.... commitment, pride, joy, forming a bond, starting a life together, whatever you think of when you think of that. And in general yeah I do think shit's deep, but not that deep that there's some double flipflop happening where he thought it would be fun to have the first layer be a coherent concept of just a girl on the street / in a club yet also insinuating it's about babygate but WAIT actually it's beyond that and it was all a joke. They say the lyrics don't really hold up as being about babygate, but they totally check out as being about babygate for me (I made a bigass wholeass analysis so I don't think I need to explain) so I'm not sure what they see not checking out.

I just think that if he wanted to have a song that included their commitment to eachother like that it would be a positive full of energy song, like he would have gone fuck the situation we're in I'm just gonna sing about the positives and ignore all that other bullshit of us being pulled apart because bish we're in this together WE'RE TOGETHER WE MADE IT YAY and not this whole big big ass trickery of a song with a very very loud and heavy main message of someone having someone elses baby and it being someone elses business. (what a sentence aksdakj) Look at Golden for instance. There is a struggle in there, he did leave a negative undertone, yet the main message is YOU'RE SO GOLDEN YOU'RE SO GOLDEN YOU ARE SO SO SO GOLDEN. Or Adore You. Or Sunflower. Or Canyon Moon. or Sweet Creature. I don't know if it's clear what I'm trying to say but like, he could've chosen many many many ways to yell "fuck you we're committed to each other no matter what you throw at us" I just don't see why he would choose to disguise that in a babygate joke.

It works better the other way around: "I'm having your baby it's none of your business" -> "I'm taking your loved one away from you" (which is the opposite of what the linked analysis is saying oop), as in there's ~waves trying to break them~ you know. I don't think I mentioned that one in the analysis hmm.

Indeed the flightless bird thing holds up pretty well so it's nice to see they went there too.

Then for the text in that post:

And then there’s the fact that this seems to be Harry’s favorite song, the one he can never sing enough (three times at his final concert!), the one he belts out with great joy and exuberance, dancing all over the stage like a maniac. It’s hard to imagine that this is how he really feels about Louis’ most demoralizing stunt.

You just have to have met one petty mfer in your life, especially british polite people who show their frustrations in very small subtle ways you can just ~easily not pick up on at all~ to know that's passive aggressiveness/anger/a release of frustration/a way to deal with those bottled up feelings. The way it's sung, the energy in it, it's negative to me. I think maniac is key here. He's trying very hard to turn it into something positive, and I'd say releasing a song that people love / can identify with / can have any effect on them in any way that makes them feel alive equals something positive so that's a success no matter how you view it really. But it's still coming from a place of being driven insane. In other words, it's not hard to imagine for me whatsoever this is how he really feels about Louis' most demoralizing stunt. It's like him yelling WOMAN LA LA LA LA LA I CAN'T HEAR YOU LA LA LA LA he's just being an aggressive shit that wants to scream and yell and this is the best he can do, he's screaming it all at us. Would there be another way for him to say how he really feels without saying it? I don't think there would. There really doesn't need to be a sneakily positive story behind this song in order to make it make sense.

I've read the paragraph about the "when she's alone she goes home to a cactus in a black dress she's such an actress" many times and I'm missing the logic there. I don't even know how to begin commenting on that one I just don't get it. Anyway this wasn't meant to trash that OP or analysis, and if they're still around and somehow see this just thank you for putting your interpretations out there and all are valid (except for people making it about kendall/taylor those can go somewhere else lol) and none of us really know and were all just screaming idiots on the internet and blablabla.

(about kiwi analysis)

[crystalsexarch]

Fourteen: Commend - E

"In that case—O, Bas'ir Bahani! Grace me with your considerable girth!"

-

Pre-ARR specific male WoL Bas'ir Bahani and G'raha Tia. The Warrior of Light rewards himself for good grades by indulging in one G'raha Tia. Continuation of heady.

Also on AO3.

Part of the 2021 FFXIV Writing Challenge

The sight of a beautiful man bent over is capable of draining Bas’ir Bahani of his confidence. This specific man—this red-haired, archer-armed, book-headed man in particular—has a harrowing effect on the Keeper, even in his haughtiest of moods. Even after high marks in literary analysis. Still, he cloaks himself in airs of emotional fortitude.

"Aren't you pretty?" he says, snickering. It's as much an act of self-soothing as it is genuine amusement. He has one finger inside G'raha Tia, whose face is turned against a pillow. "Specifically, this part of you. Of course, I suppose you wouldn't know!"

"Plenty have apprised me of the situation." G'raha's tail is lopped over the side of his hips, bouncing idly to the conversation. When Bas'ir's finger goes deeper, the tail twists and tenses. He tries not to make a sound.

"Plenty, hmm?" Bas'ir eyes the hole giving around his index. Excess oil has dripped down G'raha's taint and over his balls. The temptation to clean up with his tongue is palpable, but he aims to serve in other ways today. "Well, now that you've heard it from me, you know it must be true."

"Yes, your word above all others' carries a heavy weight."

"Bah! If you're capable of such sarcasm, you need more things inside of you." Bas'ir twists his lips and collects G'raha's cock with his free hand, gives it a few rough tugs.

G'raha closes his eyes and grunts once. His tone was sarcastic, but his words are truer than Bas'ir realizes. G'raha likes Bas'ir, even when he's manic and making a whole show of how dearly he wants to enjoy G'raha's body, and have his own enjoyed in turn.

The second finger pushes in. Bas'ir rests his head on G'raha's ass and watches his digits disappear from the side. He's being squeezed, being pulled and already imagining the same welcoming reaction around his cock. The wanting casts a glaze over his yellow eyes.

"You could probably...go ahead and fuck me," G'raha says. He's lost some of his vocal control. The words are low and husky.

Bas'ir's ears twitch. "Fuck you?"

G'raha murmurs affirmation into the pillow. "Two fingers ought to be enough, with what you're offering."

With a whip of his tail, Bas'ir straightens his back and narrows his eyes. "Such insinuations are beneath you, Raha."

"Are they?"

"Continue down this dark path and I shall lose interest."

"Oh?" G'raha smiles. He does not imagine Bas'ir losing interest any time soon. "In that case—O, Bas'ir Bahani! Grace me with your considerable girth!"

More confidence whittled away, more pink upon his cheeks. Bas'ir shifts his weight on the mattress. "When I said I wanted you to beg…"

"Forgive me. I suppose you could call me a poor beggar."

Bas'ir squints. Ultimately he forgives, but not before nipping at the base of G'raha's tail and scissoring his fingers a few more times for good measure. He knows his friend is ready when the only noises coming from his mouth are tiny huffs of breath. Bas’ir removes the fingers and winds his cock into position. The head looks plenty big against the Seeker’s ring, stretched and ready.

“Go on,” G’raha says.

"W-wait…" Bas'ir bends over and goes for the braid. "I'm taking your hair down. Just in case you wind up on your back, of course.”

"Just in case?"

"I want to see if it fans." He uses both hands to draw an imaginary crown around his head. "Don't you think that'd be a pretty sight, too? Hm hm…"

G’raha blinks. Such long eyelashes! “You’ll have to tell me.”

“I shall. If you please me. Heheh…”

Bas’ir enters with a hand on either side of G’raha’s ass. He doesn’t look until he’s all the way in; best to absorb the imagery once he’s sure he isn’t going to burst. The pressure is so immense, he wants to collapse on Graha’s back to simply hold and be held. He's sure if G’raha kept twitching around him, he’d be able to come without fucking him properly even once.

G’raha stretches his arms out and arches. “...more than I remembered, maybe…”

“You won’t forget again.”

G’raha laughs. Bas’ir starts moving.

For all the day’s raving, the sex is quiet. Bas’ir bites his lip half the time, trying to make every thrust count for the both of them. G’raha has his fingers making divots in the mattress. When Bas’ir chooses to pick up the pace, G’raha’s cock rubs against the covers. It’s just enough friction to make him whimper. Not enough to make him moan. When they’re both coated in the shimmer of sweat, Bas’ir sets a hand on either side of G’raha to lean over without calling his hips to a halt. “Do you want to touch yourself?” he says, like a villain. “Is that it?”

“I shouldn’t have to.”

“Well now I’m definitely not going to allow it.”

G'raha closes his eyes and absorbs the truth of what's happening: Bas'ir is doing a passable job. More than that—he's doing well. A less prideful man might offer direct commendation. "H-hey actually Bas'ir," G'raha says. The syllables are too quiet for his taste, so he clears his throat and tries again. "Bas'ir, you could pull my tail."

"Hm?" He shimmies deep and nuzzles at G’raha’s shoulder blade. "Is this your way of asking me to do so?"

"Perhaps."

"I expect better on this momentous occasion. Why, you could practice your begging, scholar boy!"

“Please…” What G’raha meant to say was are you not a scholar boy as well? He grinds his teeth and consigns to doubling down. “Please. Give me more.”

Bas’ir’s tail whirls like a whip, his pupils full like dark moons. “I think I’ll flip you after all.”

“Wait—”

Bas’ir pulls out and watches G’raha’s hole react to the change, shifting and tensing while the Seeker groans and curls his toes. It takes a nudge and some shuffling to achieve the next position—G’raha on his back, holding his legs up beneath each knee in offering. This time Bas’ir does watch the slide of his cockhead into G’raha’s ass; he feels like he’s being sucked deliciously inside. The Keeper has a sinister quirk to his lips when his gaze flickers up. “It does look pretty. Your hair,” he says.

“Does it...” G’raha’s words are absent of all question-like qualities. “So you won’t pull my tail, then…”

Bas’ir scoffs and comes forward with a deep, penetrating thrust. He has an elbow on either side of G’raha’s head. “I offer you my lips now.”

The ensuing kiss lasts through the sting of Bas’ir’s biting teeth, through the rumbling in G’raha’s throat. It lasts through the upped tempo of body to body, of the bed frame squeaking beneath the weight of frenzied coupling. It lasts through G’raha’s spill, realized after a few heavy rolls of Bas’ir’s hips and by the graceless rubbing of his dick between their torsos. G’raha keeps his eyes open and barks toward the ceiling, surprised with how much his silly lover has learned since the first night they fucked. And that’s when the kiss ends.

“Raha!” Bas’ir grunts and lets his head drop to G’raha’s neck. Teeth sink into flesh, cock sinks deeper into hole, and then Bas’ir comes, too. The bite lasts for at least as long as the kiss did. When he finally lets off, he collapses without pulling out.

G’raha sighs and sets a shaky hand on the back of Bas’ir’s head. “Bas’ir.”

“Raha.”

“I think you deserve high marks for that as well.”

[rjhpandapaws]

A Cup of Something Better

Ch4: Close Encounters of an Educational Variety.

Tonight, as it turned out, was not going to be fine. He honestly felt like he should have known. Changing his schedule always tended to fuck him over. Cooking ran long because he got distracted chatting with Nines, then he once again lost track of time when doing the dishes slowly evolved into cleaning his long neglected kitchen, and now, for the first time in his college career, he was going to be late. Connor prided himself of being punctual, so this was not alright. He would be considerably less anxious if his first class wasn't calculus. The professor already had a mean streak a mile wide, and being late was almost garunteed to set her off. Professor Anderson on the other hand didn't seem to care so long as you didn't disrupt the lecture as you came in.

When the cab arrived on campus, Connor practically launched himself out of it sprinting toward the Math and Science building. He was going to be late either way, but hopefully running would soften the blow. He was glad to have run track and cross country in high school as he was only slightly winded when he arrived at his class. He steeled himself and walked into the lecture hall keeping his head down and shoulders hunched to make himself as small as possible.

"Nice of you to finally join us Mr. Arkait." The raven haired woman snapped, "Do consider being on time next time"

Connor ducked down even more and sank into his seat trying once again to shrink in on himself, "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"It had better not." She threatened before she returned to the lecture as though Connor had done nothing wrong to begin with. Like the public humiliation had been for nothing.

Connor kept quiet during the lecture, diligently taking notes and doing everything in his power to avoid being called on. The lecture seemed to drag by slowly, painfully almost. When the class finally ended Connor packed up and rushed out of the lecture hall relieved to be out of there at last. Once he got out of the Math and Science building he took a deep breath and let it out slowly hoping to exhale some of his stress along with it.

As he walked toward building 1, the Language and Arts building, Connor took his travel mug from his bag and took a drink of luke warm coffee. The travel cup didnt keep drinks warm for long, but he had customized it online with one picture of every breed of large dog he'd seen. This was also one downside of evening classes, all of the campus coffee shops were closed so he either had to stop back by work again before school or make a pot of coffee at home. Tonight he did the latter.

He checked his phone when he got to building 1, he had fifteen minutes until his next class started. He took the stairs and headed down a side hallway to get to room 257 sitting on a bench to the left of the door, small and out of the way. He took his phone out again and grabbed his earbuds as well and opened Spotify and then shuffling his liked songs. He dug around in his bag pulling out the short story collection to reread the work they would be going over in lecture. He pulled out his notebook as well so he could organize his thoughts on the piece.

Unlike the nice neat order his calculus notes typically took, his English notes tended just to be a stream of consciousness in bullet-point format. It was the easiest way for him to form the base of his analysis. The music helped him keep from over thinking things, these were his opinions, not his professor's and he needed to keep that in mind.

He didn't take long to get caught up in his work, diligently taking notes until the door to the lecture hall opened. As the previous class filed out he packed up his things, putting his earbuds away and double checking that his phone was indeed on silent. He didn't want anymore mishaps today. Being late for calculus had been enough excitement for one day.

When there was a break in the exiting flood of students Connor slipped into the lecture hall. He walked to his usual seat in the middle of the second row. He put his travel mug up first, then his notebook, his textbook next, and lastly his pencil pouch. With everything situated neatly he sat back. He looked around the lecture hall, his classmates were slowly starting to file in, his eyes roamed to the desk and stopped. On the front left corner of the desk was a Hand Brewed Hope cup. Which by itself wouldn't be much, but he recognized his own handwriting. That made it one of only a few drinks as he was only working the register the back half off the shift.

He set his curiosity aside, he would figure it out soon enough. Connor raised his eyes to the white board to look over the notes for the lecture writing them down. Most of his professors used the smart boards, but Professor Anderson outright refused to, Connor found it endearing. Just as he finished taking down the lecture notes, Professor Anderson entered the lecture hall and once again Connor's world came to a full stop.

The Latte Murderer was his English professor. His crush was his professor. This night was not going to be fine at all. Par for the course at this point.

Connor honestly tried to pay attention, he really did, but he just couldn't. He put in effort into listening to Professor Anderson, but it wouldn't be long before he spaced out and just stared. Literary analysis was hard enough for Connor already, but now his professor himself was a walking distraction. Contrary to his calculus class, this lecture seemed to fly by, likely because he was pleasantly distracted rather than hyper aware of his own presence in the room. The issue being he didn't notice that the lecture was over until his professor spoke.

"Planning on staying here all night kid?" The gruff voice accompanied by the hands coming into view on his desk just about made him jump out of his skin, "Can't say I reccomend it."

Connor looked up. Coffee eyes meeting sky blue, and it took longer than he would have liked to find his words, "Uh, no sir. I just got lost in my thoughts."

"I get it kid, don't worry." He backed off some and Connor began packing his things feeling a bit like a scolded child, "You don't happen to work at a coffee shop do you?"

Connor paused and then nodded standing up and grabbing his travel mug, "Yeah why?" His voice sounded small even to his own ears.

"Just that you look familiar." Professor Anderson said with a slight shrug.

"I also have a twin." Connor was deflecting and he didn't know why. He walked out of the lecture hall looking over his shoulder as Professor Anderson turned out the lights and shut and locked the door, "Good night professor."

"Night kid." The olderman said heading down the opposite hall.

By some miracle, Connor managed to make it into a cab before he broke down and texted Nines, knowing if he was awake he would respond.

Connor: Good news and bad news. Which do you want first.

<Nines3: Good news first, soften the blow

Connor: I know what my mystery bear does for a living

<Nines3: The bad news?

Connor: He's my English professor.

<Nines3: Oh. Well, thats unfortunate. But at least you get a free viewing every Monday

Connor: Not helping Nines.

<Nines3: Well, I'm going back to sleep.

Connor: Night.

Connor paid his fare sulking up to his apartment. He dropped his bag by the door and made his way to the bathroom running a hot bath. Might as well try and end the night on a high note.

[pebblesfromtheshore]

“Damn” he muttered, peering through the gloom. Behind him shrill notes filtered through the cool damp air, the singer unseen. Silent shapes blurred into greyness. Dawn.

She had been there and gone again. He glared at his phone, unreasonably bright, cable wrapped around fingers, two ear-pods hissed a rhythm his legs no longer needed. He stretched a calf gingerly, holding the wall tight as if it were trying to escape. His face creasing as the soreness of Mondays early run awakened.

While he had been sleeping she had visited again secretly. It was always in secret.

He traced her route, thumb sliding between screens, pausing, his eyes narrowed in concentration, tracking her footsteps, his tongue ran over his lips in concentration. They stayed dry.

He paused at each page, counting to the second where she had viewed and what downloaded, absorbing. Each stop of her journey was marked. Digital tracks.

He wondered why she had visited, what she could see, maybe what her thoughts might have been. His lips repeated a poem silently, he remembered writing that to her, it felt like a long time ago. He shook his head. She had logged off less than an hour before he had awoken to run.

He glanced up checking the progress of the sky as the stars which he had watched through the branches no longer showed .

“Damn, Damn……..Damn” the last syllable drawn out in frustration. This was becoming a problem again, habitually checking the phone, in the hope there might be a trace, a message from her to prove it was not….. He hesitated with the thought but said it out loud into the morning air. “.. a delusion”. It had been her phrase to describe him, but he had taken it to heart and he owned it now.

His eyes moved downwards, his thoughts in a moment went back months to when he had sought to find her, had tracked her steps from website to website as she changed title, conversations and topic but always was recognisable, that politeness, but always an underlying condescension, the quickness to laughter but always from a distance.

His thoughts drifted back further. Eighteen months ago he had first noticed her in his ignorance, and became entranced. If some people possessed eyes that twinkled, she had words which sparkled. But this had been no indulgent feast, no mutual descent into literary excess. Her phrases were always economic, almost spartan in their self analysis, an elegant and concise verbal brutality. She picked where he gorged, She danced where he stormed. She left while he had stayed.

She had been elusive but engaging, almost magical the way she disappeared only to casually re-appear as if two weeks absence were simply a momentary gap in traffic, a breath in a conversation. His searching revealed her many parallel existences in electronic dimensions where she travelled. What he realised now, was that she had not stopped or gone missing. Perhaps bored, she had simply moved to a new group of friends, writers. A new audience full of hearts, flowers and applause to embrace her. She too had been searching.

“Bitch” The insult brought a half smile briefly to his face; it was layered with admiration for the ease which she had made the transition from life to life, and jealousy he felt that she had the time and the friends to do it. Then he had been ignorant of the subtleties of the internet and stomped moodily around the shallow, posturing blogs with which she played her games, his included. Her poise embarrassed him still, though thankfully he was unaware at the time. He grimaced as he read a further set of his own indulgent words. His simplistic verbose passion for one so far beyond his reach, laid bare for all to see and laugh at.

“You dickhead” he whispered to himself. He felt he owned that label too. His outpourings made for grim reading. He had learned brevity too late.

She must have winced as he did now. He hoped she realised how deeply he had felt, but immediately doubted it himself.

So from spawned suitor he tried his hand at obsessional follower. He was crap at that too. Not that his efforts had been totally in vain. He had got close, too close at times, even onto the same blog as her till in a flourish of eloquence she had recovered from startled anxiety to vanish into the forest the internet can become. She left behind her fragments, words, branches of thought broken by the haste of her exit.

He had tried to find her, a second time but she was too elusive and left him floundering. He was a beginner without the luck that brings.

Eventually with a reality that dawned on his thoughts just as it did around him, he had made his exit. Learning that despite all his efforts he looked, to her, at best obsessive and at worst……some dangerous psychotic. His lips set into a firm flat line. Best not go there. The thoughts weighed heavy in his mind , pausing his movement as his mind reached back to the dark days. His face coloured involuntarily as he remembered how he had raged, how desperate he was. What a sorry sight he must have been. His mood darkened. He had realised at the time that he was acting out of character and was now ashamed.

To feel ashamed to fall in love with a dream and chase it. It was not a result he would have expected. It felt so wrong to abandon a dream. It was not how Hollywood would have preached it. This was reality.

Without anyone to talk to about the confusion which enveloped him, he became his own inquisitor to try secure the truth. He agonised over what had happened to uncover the secret of why he had behaved this way. Eventually he prised free enough to make sense. Leaving a bloody pulp, where his ego had been.

His reflection, had become his saviour. A realisation that slapped him one day when trimming his beard., There in front of him In the mirror, chin raised as the trimmer buzzed and the bristles became scattered stood a man, a father who’s daily existence was measured in bills, repairs, trips, activities and sleepovers, arrivals , departures and plans who could see no escape from a landscape of duty and loyalty. So different in youth, but now existing humourless, joyless exchanges, lists, organisation, zero 8passion, zero creativity, zero life. He occasionally escaped, or maybe was released to explore alone long meandering but absorbing journeys where as he pedalled alone along twisting lanes he forgot about the future and past the same, for a while he lived only in the present. He felt free in those moments. It took him back to his 20s. Small mercies; It gave him enough space to breathe clean air. Last year that too had been sacrificed on the alter of decorating. His adventure had been boxed, his passion humiliated. His strength, like his earnings had become the foundation to all their existences. He was the anchor submerged, out of sight, thrown deep in the raging waters, keeping his charges off the rocks while his grip held. He feared this was his lot until darkness closed his eyes for good and he became simply a memory, cut loose when no longer needed.

Her departure mirrored her arrival, it cut him deeply; Her silence more so. No matter how many times he repeated it, he could not shake the belief that he was the monster she had fled from. Beneath the calmness he smouldered still, he was stubborn, but slowly his hope died.

He rubbed an ear, thinking deeply as midges found their breakfast.

Her arrival was reminiscent of an accident. A blow not aimed at him but felt all the same. Just a space to show where he had stood a moment before, now prone, staring vacantly wondering what the fuck had just occurred. This had been her impact. In their exchanges he was no longer a bearded middle aged father. As he climbed off the floor and looked to how to join melee that seemed to surround him. The quiet thinker in him had gone, the father figure subdued, Gone. That person could wait.

He leant against the wall in another slow stretch, his knee popping as he moved. Wear and tear catching up with him. His head bowed as he placed his feet carefully, methodically. The sweat from his climb through the forest now dried tight to his face as it warmed in the early rays, his shirt no longer clung to his back. So long in his adult life he had been the calm, easy going reliable one. Then in that day it all changed. He had become unrecognisable, some vile ogre wanting her all for himself, prepared to abandon his life in exchange

She was not the only one who swapped between lives. It was just she did so with some pretence of control whilst he dramatically crashed headlong through the windows of his suburban existence into something else, another place he had not recognised, he had found himself staring back from the paned, jagged, broken glass, reflected as he felt. Shattered.

A dozen separate faces stared back, some recognisable but others with parts of who he was cracked, separated or simply missing. He had wallowed in impatience, frustrated but not knowing what caused it, ready for a fight but no one stood to oppose him.

He just remembered he had felt very angry and sad at the same time. His writing was poor in that time, unable to contain the passion she had unlocked twinned with the savagery of his hate for his electronic impotence. His digital adventure very nearly died in those weeks.

The return of these thoughts brought with them the doubt he had felt too. His breathing slowed as his mind once more slipped away from the present. No longer would he laugh when people mentioned obsessions and denial. These had been parts of him he had not seen before. Hate he knew and rage. But had never felt so utterly lost in someone’s every thought. Distance and silence had been new to him. He now knew both those prisons intimately.

She had posed him questions where he had seen only dull facts, had shown an insight to his doubts and had embraced the lack of trust in his history. She met his darkness and caressed with a darkness of her own.

In the reflection she offered him he saw clearly the face of the frightened lad who hid within him, who had left behind a home of violence to start again, create a life without the victim he knew he would have remained. That little boy had in some insane act of bravery or stupidity, he was never sure which, had reached out to touch her. To see if she was real. She was, but not to be trusted. She told him so.

With her words came a new vision for him, of someone who’s bravery was not skin deep. It had been a revelation. It was a turning of a corner before he had even been aware of the road he travelled was not straight. He endured a lifetime of change in the seconds he took to read her thoughts. He could forget the face and body who met him each morning in the mirror. He was transcendent of flesh, He became a simply a voice for the passion he felt.

Then she left.

This left him reeling, desperate for more. It filled his emptiness. No addiction would have equalled this. So many times over the years he had asked what twist of fate, what random chance or childhood experience had made him from his youngest days feel this cruel and selfish world so very deeply.

He had been a sensitive child forced to toughen up, to bury his hope beneath duty. Strangely he could feel when she was around, some sixth sense had made him check the apps on his phone. Sure enough, she had come to call.

But whilst his passion soared to heights unknown in his lifetime, his common sense told him it was all an illusion, an impossibility. Eventually once she had gone and her silence bleached the colour from each memory, he understood why he had to go, to leave. To not come back.

In a show of maturity which surprised him he had made a big effort of letting go. The irony, and he liked ironies, was that she had let go of him a long time before. He had just been too stupid, too blinded to accept that. His departure would have graced the most formulaic Hollywood film. The hopeless hero, close enough to hear her, to see her, but never close enough to touch or know the mystery she presented.

He looked up from his thoughts and blinked. His eyes glazed with tears as he recalled the morning he made that decision and acted on it.

In that moment he had lost more than just the chance to let the words which tumbled out of her head wash away his responsibilities. He had lost the brave reflection of who he could become. His future as a lover died that day. That realisation had hit him hard. “Fuck “ he whispered to the wall. “You have no idea of what affect you had.”

He turned his back to the wall, lifting ankles to stretch muscles and joints. Each protested then relaxed as the horizon ignited with the rising sun. He blinked again and stared hard, feeling the lashes of one eye full to the brim . Although his family still slept behind the walls and would not see, he did not want the morning to be saddened by his grieving for his lost self.

He sniffed hard. “very romantic” he murmured, and sniffed again harder.

Why keep coming back? Again and again but never to talk, always hiding, always looking, never connecting. Yet he knew she knew. They were connected already.

Was she reminiscing, some afternoon recollection to while away a tiresome lunch break. Had she amidst a gaggle of girls used him to point to as they swapped giggles and stories about the fumbled copulations or close escapes from groping tar stained fingers.

Was he just one more exhibit in her menagerie, collected, collated and with a double click, shelved.

“You left, I left, you left, we were so fucking good at leaving, so good at building walls…….” His voice raised “we had f****** nothing” his frustration called for mercy , but the trees like the birds within them showed none. He had not departed, not really. She had never been there to leave. She had already gone. “I’m tired girl, why not just let me go.”

He glanced at his reflection in the window, darkened suitably to match his mood. He was greyer than he had been a year ago. His beard now heavily flecked with silver. “Very distinguished” his wife had said, knowing the opposite was true. He looked tired. It was not through running. That let him share the quiet of the forest, it gave him strength. He could rise before dawn and pull on his shoes simply because his sleeping had been in shreds for months. Waking early – listening to the steady rhythmic breathing next to him. For her sleep practiced for 18 years was a sanctuary, for him a prison.

It was not her fault he had changed. She had married someone a lifetime ago who now no longer existed and did not know the imposter who lay down beside her. His friends often commented so, even his wife said he was no longer the same man. "You're not as nice as you were..." She had said one evening as they sat in the kitchen.

"People change.." he had fired back.

"I learned being nice gets you trodden on. Why are you so fixed on me being nice?" He had stared at her. She turned and walked away as she spoke over her shoulder, words almost lost as she hurried to leave.

"It's why I married you". the door closed behind her.

Although when they slept, they were together, the space between mere inches, it was also unbridgeable.

Yet in his mirror existence, tapping heroically at his cheap keyboard he could believe he was significant. A poet, a philosopher, part player, artist, at once both brave and witty. His darkness and pain were not a weakness, they were an identity, a scar that spoke more of his endurance not his pain, His strength not his shame. The girl’s departure had shattered that reflection. He grieved still for that loss. He grieved for who he used to be, the man who died, with that first stanza she sent him, as the creative forces, those twisted demons he had buried and boxed for so long, exploded in his chest at the touch of her words. She unlocked his monsters then slipped away, leaving his sanity in flames.

His own reflection looking back at him, lips now set in a line said it all. He had become a grey man, almost lost in the reflections of objects around him and the images through the window, a family home, cups on the table- letter from the bank and insurance, shoes piled by the door.

He had believed what she had told him at the outset – she had warned him not to fall for her. But fool, desperate fool that he was had given no serious thought to the warning.Now he was wiser, but too late. His eyes misted again at another painful memory he rubbed fiercely at an eyelid irritated by the emotion. He was a grown man, he shouldn’t do this. But his heart no longer listened. He simply did not believe himself, why would anyone else?

“Control”….. he muttered looking over his shoulder now at the trees, rough barked in the morning low sunlight. “I won’t give you control” almost as if she stood behind him listening.

He heard a sound, someone was rising in the house. He drew to the side of the window and watched a slight figure, unruly ginger hair fighting the hairband which strove to contain it, pad silently into the kitchen, pink patterns on crumpled pyjamas. – she glanced up surprised – feeling his gaze on her and smiled. Such warmth, the sun on his back momentarily eclipsed.

She examined him, blue eyes matched his own, smiled again as she fumbled for glasses in her pocket. They were not there, she gave up. Shrugged

She was good at reading him, this one. Much more so than his other daughter who like their mother would still be fast asleep. This slight, grinning freckled, awkward girl shared his quickness to laughter, a temper of hurricane magnitude and a relentless passion for beautiful things. As he watched, she absently pulled a loose strand of hair from her face turned and vanished. He heard a click of the door behind him, before two arms wrapped around him silently squeezing, readjusting then hugging tighter. His chin rested on the top of her head. He said nothing. His arms, now wrapped around her shoulders spoke for him.

“You needed that” she said, muffled, head buried in his chest. In response he surrendered the battle and tears rolled silently. His grip around her shoulders tightened.

“What were you doing so early ?” his daughter asked. With the back of his hand he quickly cleared away any trace of sadness loosening his hold on her. She twisted around within his grip.

“I couldn’t sleep so I came out to run” he saw her glance at the phone. “and checked my messages”. She could sense something, it showed in her frown, but wasn’t sure what it meant.

“You went without me..” she quietly scolded him. “Don’t ever go without me.. ”

“ I think we had a visitor”, he mumbled changing the subject “ I found tracks”

“Where” she squinted, eyes screwed up as she struggled with the distance.

“Out there”.. he waved his arm generally as he lied. “ but there’s nothing there any more…..”

He was ashamed that he could not admit what his truth was; another thing to isolate him. It was time to end the conversation, he could hear that the rest of his family was stirring. Water cascaded down the drain pipe beside him.

“I’m hungry” he announced.

His daughter, turned on her heel, and without letting go of his arm, pulled him bodily towards the door. He made a show of resisting, she pulled harder, she had his stubbornness too.

This was why he had made the choice to remain. She was his responsibility, but also his immense pride, together with her sister and despite the bleakness of the marriage they shared, their Mum, no matter the gaps that now lay between them. His daughters were something the elusive visitor from the far side of the world had never asked about. She would not. When she spoke it had been of her and him.

It was sad, because for all his fine words and flowing lines or his pretty framed but ultimately pointless photo landscapes. They were the only thing in his life of note.

The door closed behind him and within moments, time erased that he or she had been there.

They were the only two people who knew. One day neither would remember.

Neither understood how to speak to the other, how to turn the page and read anew.

That’s how stories end.

DB@D

October 2017

[sometimesrosy]

Anonymous said:Have you ever thought about the possibility of your theories about the show ending up being wrong? Because when someone gives an opinion different than yours, you like to make them feel like they're wrong. In the end everything you say is an assumption, so don't act like you know what's really going to happen.

Have I...

lol.

Yes dear. 

I think about how I might be wrong ALL THE TIME. 

That’s why I double check ALL (every single one) of my theories against the canon text and show, and then double check it again. Does this work? Has it been jossed? Was I off? No? Cool. It’s still working now that we know more? All theories are an interpretation of canon. A speculation on where it might go. An understanding of what it means. Stories are about making meaning and there is room for many interpretations within the canon. I say this all the time. This is part of what “ship and let ship” is about. That’s in my header.

(long rant ahead. also note how much MORE time I spend thinking about this issue than you do. thinking thinking thinking. you ask, i think about what you said. it turns out i think you’re wrong. go figure.)

A different opinion is never a problem. What a silly statement. The problem is when people ignore canon. Or create their own. Do I LIKE to make them feel like they’re wrong? Again. Silly. This isn’t about feelings. People send me asks about what I think about canon. If I think your theory doesn’t work, that’s what I think. 

Literary analysis is NOT actually just guessing. A speculation is not an assumption. An interpretation is not an assumption. A theory must be supported by the text. If the text does not support your theory or in fact disproves it, then your theory doesn’t work. I’m not the one that makes it wrong. Your lack of evidence is. An assumption lacks supporting evidence. A theory should have canon evidence and logic and use literary or film techniques to defend it. (if you pay attention in class in high school or study it in college you can learn these things.)

BUT if you don’t follow the canon and check your theories against canon, your assumptions will fail to be proven and then will actually be wrong. It IS possible to have wrong theories. It IS possible to be wrong. If you say, for instance, that Clarke Griffin is NOT the hero, you are wrong. This is not an opinion or an assumption. In fact that’s such an OBVIOUS bit of canon fact that I am astonished at how often I have to call fandom on being wrong about it. Yes. Wrong. It is NOT a valid interpretation, I don’t care how much you don’t like Clarke.  And you know what? It’s kind of funny when people are shocked that, say, season 6 spent so much time on Clarke and not enough on their fave. LOL. I mean. The posters didn’t give it away? I mean you didn’t even HAVE to stick to the text on this one although you could. ET is the actual star of the show. 

Ok well, in some shows the villain is the star could be your argument. In which case you NEED to have the evidence that she’s the villain not the hero. And, that, is actually not there. Morally gray hero? Yes. Villain, no. Moments of villainy? Yes, that’s part of the story, but when people say she only thinks of herself, the canon disproves that again and again. And again. Sometimes directly after a side character calls her selfish. Shaw calls her selfish? 2 minutes later she risks her life to try and save his. If you ignore that, your theory just falls completely apart. And if I say you’re wrong about it and you decide to attack my character instead of coming up with the evidence for your theory to dispute me, then fuck you. You’re no longer worth my time. Stick to the text. Ad hominem attacks do NOT support your damn theory.

Sometimes people ARE wrong. Sometimes theories are wrong. Sometimes, even feelings are wrong when you’ve misinterpreted the situation and are jumping to conclusions about what it means. Sometimes fandom is full of shit. Sometimes everyone goes off on some sort of groupthink dogma and they don’t bother paying attention to canon because they think their opinions and fanon is more real than canon. That may be true with fanfiction, which is a fan created content, but it’s not true with canon. CANON is on the screen and nowhere else. If it’s on screen, it’s canon, and that includes camera work and costumes and editing and music as well as dialogue, even if fandom doesn’t know how to interpret those things because they don’t study it, it’s still part of canon. Fan commentary, reviews, cast and crew interviews even JR’s tweets-- none of that is canon.

I have been checking my Bellarke theories against the canon since 3.05, Hakeldama, when I came up with them. We are now going into season 7, and the Bellarke theories are STILL working, even if I have been off on the timing of them. (I have adjusted those theories by double checking with the canon and seeing what I might have been wrong about [the story is longer term than I thought, not as focused on some things I thought were important, one whole story instead of seasonal, and more interested in building the love story than in resolving it.])

BUT I am also aware that even if I triple check my theories against canon and am super sure that the story is going that way, that The 100 is NOT my story, it’s JR’s, and he doesn’t have to go the way I want him to. Sometimes I get so enamored of a story I’m telling that I think it has to happen, like the time travel theory I had this season. I said from the outset that I was getting too attached to it and asked people to talk me down. They didn’t. But when certain details started popping up in canon, I let go of my theories that no longer fit. There’s nothing wrong with this.

I think JR’s a good writer and is staying true to his story, so that’s why I put so much effort into trying to figure out what story he’s telling. But there’s also the possibility that he’s not as good a writer as he seems, and he won’t be able to pull all the threads together. In which case, my theories would be wrong. And then there’s the possibility that I’m looking at the wrong things and he’s not really as good as I think he is, like with D&D and GOT, the evidence of misogyny and racism and toxic masculinity was all there and I chose to overlook it and focus on the good things. And also, Hollywood is a shallow business and it is ALWAYS a possibility that a show will sell out audience and story for the glam and cash of hollywood. There is no guarantee that I’m right about my theories on how The 100 will end, even if I’ve been right so far. If I am wrong, nothing will happen. It’s a tv show. I’ll move on. Did GOT break me? no. I moved on. It means nothing in the grand scheme of things. I am aware I can be wrong. Lol.

But as far as I can tell, I’m one of the only ones who actually pays attention when I AM wrong and says, “okay, I was wrong about that one. Where did my theory go wrong and why? How far can I take it back so that I can come up with a theory that works?”

When I’m wrong, I’ll fucking TELL you I’m wrong. I’ll tell you where I went wrong. HOW I went wrong. And why. But for some reason, that’s not enough with you guys. You want me to GROVEL. You want me to fall to my knees and tear my hair out and declare that I am not worthy to theorize and then to toss all my other theories out too because I am BAD BAD BAD SHAME ON ME. 

no.

Part of analyzing a show as it goes along is taking chances on theories that MIGHT NOT WORK OUT, and then changing those theories when you get more canon information. It is OKAY to be wrong. That’s how you refine your theories. 

Being good at interpreting fiction happens BECAUSE you don’t think your theories are right and canon is wrong. You have to let go of your ego enough to say, “hmm, I was wrong, that’s not the story that was being told.” A lot of fandom decides that their theories are right and CANNOT be wrong and anyone who says they are wrong is down right EVIL. Listen. They gave me the name Demon over that. Not just me. They call canon evil for not sticking to their theories. They call JR evil for telling his own stories and not the one they think is happening. When he killed off L or didn’t make Bellarke happen when fandom thought it was time, or made Bellamy struggle when they thought he should be fine, or made B/E happen when fandom didn’t want DIDN’T WANT, instead of letting the man tell the damn story he wanted to tell, y’all said he was evil, a bad writer, failed. Y’all said the story was wrong and fandom was right and HAD BEEN BETRAYED. 

Me? I was like, ok what did I miss? Oh there it is. That’s the story JR is telling. YOU, you’re like YOU ARE A HUMAN FAILURE FOR NOT COMPLYING WITH MY HEADCANON. wtf? When I don’t understand a storyline, like Clarke in s3a, I don’t say that she’s OOC or the writing is bad, I ask myself “what does this mean?” and I try connect the dots of canon and understand what the writer is saying. Because when you are analyzing a piece of fiction, it’s the CREATOR you need to understand, not your own feelings. When you’re doing therapy, that’s when you investigate your own feelings about canon. I’ve done that too, and it is a perfectly valid way to engage with fiction, but it is NOT interpretation.

As much as you hate to think the world doesn’t revolve around you, there’s a lot of this world that exists outside of you. There are things you don’t understand and there are things you are not even AWARE existing that you don’t know about. I have never said I can’t be wrong. That would be stupid. But I do understand how stories work, how they fit together, how you can make sense of them. All theories are just that. Theories. A speculation on where the story could go or what it means based on canon. The speculation part is our thoughts. But it’s BASED on the canon.

This is an ask blog. People ASK me for my opinion. I give them my opinion. I do not say everyone’s theories are delightful, because everyone’s theories are not delightful. Sometimes they don’t work. I am a book nerd, a sci fi geek, an english major, a high school english and humanities teacher, a writer, an armchair psychologist, and obsessed with storytelling, archetypes and mythos... and you want me to pretend that people who don’t follow the story are just as right as the people who are rigorous about canon? Nope. 

DO THE WORK. YOU get it right. Stop pretending that you can spout any bullshit you want and be crowned a smartypants. 

You wanna ask me about your feelings and life trauma and how you loved CL because you want to be as strong and beautiful as L?? Hell yeah. I will sit with you and work with you through your story. Completely valid and supremely important. Actually more important than fandom or the 100 or any ship. But that’s YOUR story, not JR’s. 

If you want to tell me that CL is the main relationship of The 100 I’m just gonna tell you you’re wrong, because you’re relating to YOUR story, not JR’s. JR’s story is Bellarke as the central relationship. That is canon. The theory that CL is the main ship and endgame DOES NOT FIT WITH CANON. It cannot be supported in canon. When I analyze the 100 I am analyzing JR’s story, not fandom’s stories.

THIS IS AN ASK BLOG. When people send me asks, they are going to get my perspective as an authority about stories, science fiction, symbolism, archetypes, story structure, character development, how stories work, analysis, etc. If you send me an ask assuming that I will just nod along to whatever you say, you are making an error in judgment. 

I am a literal high school teacher. I have the authority to assess your damn theories. I have the education, the training, the experience, the authorization to do so. I have assessed state wide exams, grading essays and theories and analysis and writing. This is not some esoteric skill. It’s rather boring. It is high school english. I could post a damn rubric for how I assess theories. If you came up with theories like a high school essay (intro, 3 supporting statements/pieces of evidence, conclusion) I’d probably agree with you a lot more than i agree with some of the nonsense this fandom comes up with.

My standards for you are apparently higher than your own standards for yourself. You’ll just babble any shit you want and think it’s awesome. Fake it ‘til you make it, right? I am not faking it. I actually know what I’m talking about I worked hard at it, for DECADES. And I refuse to pretend that some silly, unsupported assertion is true just because some cool fandom person says it. First of all, not all of them know how to use a dictionary. And if you’re going to build a theory based on a phrase that you don’t know the meaning of, then your whole theory falls apart. You’d think this would be a rare event but it is sadly not. I’m not better. I just know how to google terms I’m not clear on. I also have the ethics to not lie about what things mean just to push my agenda. (sadly also not a rare event in fandom. you should google things to make sure people are not lying to you.)

This is an ask blog. I pretty much only post responses that people have ASKED for. You ask me a question. I answer. I do NOT go to other people’s posts and tell them they are wrong. That is an unsolicited opinion. All my opinions are solicited. I don’t want to argue with anyone. I try to stay out of conversations of theories I don’t like. I don’t dispute their theories unless they ask me (by sending me an ask) to dispute them. Do I have opinions? Yes. Do I make statements about general fandom theories? Yes. Do I ALSO critique fandom, you bet your sweet patootie I do, that’s part of being a teacher, evaluating how the class is learning, understanding the dynamics, analyzing the culture of the class. Do you like that? I DONT CARE. It’s my blog. My thoughts. My theories. Who asked you to read my blog anyway? Not me. I don’t beg for followers. And fandom is so slow right now, i have hardly any interaction. I keep controversial ships and names out of my tags. What the hell are you doing in my inbox, anyway?

Where did you get the balls to go to someone else’s blog and complain that they think their theories are right. I came up with them. With evidence to support them. I wrote essays/meta about them. If I thought they were wrong I wouldn’t think them, i’d change them. I work hard on making sure they’re right. When the canon moves forward and leaves my theories behind I drop the theories or adjust them. 

You are so rude. And so ignorant. And I’m supposed to be the wise and mature one and not give offense. 

Screw that. THIS is why I can tell people that sometimes they’re wrong. 

BECAUSE SOMETIMES THEY ARE WRONG.

Get used to it. You. Personally. You are wrong. If you don’t like being told you are wrong. If you don’t like the FEELING of being wrong.

THEN DO BETTER.

Those theories you’re spouting that are wrong? 

FIX THEM.

Go back to the canon and look for evidence to support your ideas. Think about what the story is saying and where it is going and how things are connected. Compare it to another story. Look for symbolism, parallels, character development, story arcs. Speculate about what it means and where i could go, and use evidence from the text to show how it all goes together. 

I have an OBLIGATION to point out when theories are wrong because THAT IS MY JOB. I am an educator even if I don’t teach in classes anymore. 

I honestly don’t understand people who send their asks to a fucking high school teacher and then get pissy when she, like, assesses their theories as if she were a high school teacher. Do you not GET it? Do you not understand who you’re sending asks to? Do you think I won’t be me when confronted with your ask? I’m not a wide eyed ingenue who just loves how awesome fandom is and thinks it’s the superest bestest thing in the world, and can do no wrong and is never wrong. I’m a cranky middle aged geek lady who has been writing and reading and watching science fiction since the 70s. I am not particularly social and am very independent and am not asking for anyone’s permission to think for myself. I’m sarcastic and overly analytical and can get swept away into stories. And I am a HARD worker. I put more energy into analyzing your asks and theories than you put into analyzing the show. And that’s despite having chronic fatigue. 

If your theory is pointed out as wrong, then examine it. See if the criticisms might be true, where you might be off, and figure out a new theory that works. I do that all the time.

I am not the one who makes your theories good or bad, you are. I’m just the one who points out what you’re missing and why I don’t agree with you. 

If you care about my opinion so much 

THEN FIX YOUR DAMN BAD THEORIES and stop blaming me because you don’t get a not very complicated tv show. ALL you have to do is pay more attention to canon than you do to fanon/headcanons/fandom. That’s it. Just stick to the text. 

[destiel-love-forever]

Angels Are Watching Over You

I decided to write a fluffy, happy, domestic au to combat the terrible feelings that promo gave me ( ** NO SPOILERS I PROMISE**)

Here’s the link for it on my archive if you’d rather read it there : Angels Are Watching Over You AO3

2:07 AM

“Babe.”

Nothing.

“Baabbbee.”

Nothing.

“Babe,” Castiel growls, sticking his head up off the pillow and glaring daggers at the peacefully sleeping man beside him.

With a not so gentle kick to his shin, Castiel finally gets the reaction he was looking for. Dean startles, then grumbles and rubs a fist at his eye. “Whaa-?”

“Your turn.”

“Huh?”

Castiel stabs a finger in the direction of the bedroom door and spits out, “Your. Turn. Go.”

His husband looks where he’s pointing, propping himself up on an elbow and scrubbing at his face with a hand. He yawns and then sits up fully. “Time‘s ‘it?”

“Two in the fucking morning. And it’s your turn! I did the last three.” Castiel puts both hands on his husband’s back and shoves him off the bed.

Grumbling about crabby ass husbands being lucky that they’re cute, Dean stumbles out of the room and down the hall to the last door on the left. He’s not as good at this as Castiel is. He takes forever before he wakes up to the crying and he never understands what each cry means. He doesn’t know the difference between gas or over tired or hungry or just plain unhappy.

He should have remembered to ask Castiel which one it is right now, but he was too busy dealing with the cruel ejection from their nice warm bed.

“Okaay, okay, I’m here,” he coos, padding softly into the nursery. The annoyed, over tired dad in him disappears when he stands at the edge of the crib and peers down at the beautiful baby boy. His tiny fists are tight balls and his little chubby legs are kicking angrily as he wails. “Hey now, Jack. None of that. Daddy’s here.”

Reaching over the railing, Dean picks the infant up and places him against his bare chest, gently rocking and bouncing him as he starts to pace around the room. “What’s wrong little guy? Huh? Tell daddy.”

The baby wiggles in his arms and he feels the weight of his full diaper. Excited that he figured out the problem, but feeling like an idiot for not checking the diaper first thing, he walks over to the changing table and places the baby on it. He pulls out a new diaper and a pack of wipes.

Jack kicks him when he tries putting the new diaper on. “Hey, now. That’s not very polite. I’m just trying to help you feel clean, buddy.”

The little one squawks at him but doesn’t kick him anymore. Just waves his scrunched up fists and gurgles. When the dry diaper is secured and his footie pajamas are buttoned back up, Dean takes him in his arms again and heads back to the crib.

“There we go. Daddy’s getting the hang of this, hey? All better.”

He places Jack in the center of the mattress and brushes a finger down the baby’s soft, chubby cheek. Then he turns on his fluffy white angel mobile that has little angels flying among the stars and watches him coo at it for a few seconds as it slowly twirls, a classical music piece playing.

“Sleep tight, Jack,” Dean whispers. “Angels are watchin’ over you.”

2:49 AM

Jack’s sharp cries wake Castiel up with a start. He sits up and cradles his head in his hands, telling himself to just breathe. They’ve had the infant for eight days now. Eight days of no sleep. Eight days of walking around like a zombie. Eight days of bickering with Dean. Eight days without sex.

He just wants to fucking sleep.

Throwing the blankets off, he slides out of the bed and hurries down the hall, knowing that the faster he soothes Jack to sleep, the faster he can get back to bed himself.

“Alright buddy. We’re okay. It’s okay.” He checks his diaper, noticing that it’s dry, then grabs the pacifier that was tossed to the side and places it in his mouth. The baby rudely spits it out at him and begins to screech again. His angry fists and feet kick out like he’s trying to fight Castiel off. Despite the sleep deprivation and terrible mood, Castiel finds himself smiling. “You’ve got your daddy in you, little guy. I think I’m gonna regret that decision.”

It’s a lie, of course. It took Dean and Castiel three months of fighting to decide who got to be the biological father for their surrogate. Dean was dead set against it being him. He didn’t want the poor kid to be riddled with the alcoholism gene. He was paranoid enough about being a shitty dad, he didn’t want the boy to be lonely and sad and fucked up from the very start. Castiel said that was all bullshit. That Dean would be a great father, and that their son or daughter would never be lonely or sad. He also assured him that he was not fucked up from the start. Hell, he was never fucked up, even at the end. Dean Winchester has always been perfect.

Castiel was dead set on being the father because he was just really looking forward to a little one that looked like Dean. Big green eyes and goofy grin and freckles. So many freckles. Castiel may have been the nerd in high school, and graduated with honors in college, but Dean was the social one. The funny one. The adventurous, brave, happy, beautiful one. Castiel wasn’t worried like Dean was. He had good genes. Good parents. Good siblings. Okay, well, mostly good siblings. He wouldn’t be thrilled with his kid getting Gabriel’s genes.

No, Castiel wasn’t worried about that. He just knew he was the luckiest in the entire world for being the one to have Dean Winchester. He couldn’t think of anything better in his life than having a mini version.

“And you look just like him, Jack,” Castiel whispers to the baby in his arms as he waits for the machine to warm the bottle of formula inside it. “Just like him. All you need is the freckles, but I think those will come. Either way, you’re beautiful. My beautiful boy.”

The baby scrunches his face at him, unimpressed with his sweet words. He just wants his damn bottle of formula. It’s almost like Castiel can hear a tiny little Dean voice bitching at him about being hungry.

The warmer beeps and he grabs the bottle out of it, tilting it for a moment so some formula spills on his wrist. Once he’s checked that it’s warm but not hot, he places the nipple in the baby’s mouth. Jack makes a squeaky little sound of happiness and bats at the bottle with his fists as he sucks his formula down.

“There ya go. That’s it.” Castiel yawns, then cracks one eye open to look at the oven clock. “Now, if you can just let daddy and papa sleep for four more hours, we’ll be so so happy baby boy. Can you do that? Nice dry diaper. Full belly. A good night, yeah? Everyone get some rest and it’ll be better in the morning. We can all cuddle on the couch and watch cartoons. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Castiel reaches the edge of the crib, the bottle nearly empty now. “Wouldn’t it be nice to get some real sleep, Jack? Papa needs some sleep.”

The baby finishes his formula and almost immediately falls asleep, the nipple slipping from his tiny lips. Castiel places the empty bottle on the top of his dresser and presses a firm kiss to his forehead. “That’s it, baby. Sweet dreams.”

He places the baby down in the middle of the mattress and smiles down at him. “Good night, Jack. Angels are watching over you.”

3:21 AM

Dean trips over Castiel’s briefcase on the way out of the room and kicks it in frustration. “Fucking mess. This house is a mess.”

“Well maybe if you cleaned once in a fucking while!” Castiel yells from the bed where he’s still lying beneath the warm covers.

“Maybe if I could fucking sleep.”

“None of us are sleeping, Dean.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not exactly working are you?” Dean scrunches his eyes up, immediately regretting that. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t - what you’re doing is still working, Cas. I know being home with Jack is important. I’m so thankful for you, baby. Your such a good papa to him.”

Castiel grumbles unintelligibly before throwing a pillow at him. “Just get him to bed so we can cuddle, asshole.”

Desperate to make sure things are okay between them, Dean nearly sprints down the hall and into Jack’s room. He threw the pacifier on the floor. Dean picks it up and slides it into the baby’s screaming mouth. Jack sucks at it like it’s oxygen, head rolling to the side as he falls back to sleep.

Doing a silent fist pump in the air, Dean hurries back to the room. He makes sure to avoid the briefcase and pick up the pillow on his way back to the bed, since it was his. Castiel is half asleep but rolls over so he can bury his face against Dean’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers into his husband’s unruly hair.

“Shhh,” Castiel presses a kiss to his chest and smiles against the bare skin. “Go to sleep, my love.”

4:01 AM

Castiel contemplates leaving the house and never turning back. He could get in the car, find somewhere to park, take a nap, and then drive. Drive far and fast away. No babies crying or crabby, mean husbands making him feel like some useless housewife.

“Come on, Jack,” he grumbles, impatiently rocking back and forth. “You ate. You peed. You pooped. You ate. What else is there?”

Adjusting the baby, he cradles him to his chest and bounces instead of rocks, patting his bum. He hums some song he heard on the radio and mindlessly thinks of Shakespeare quotes and literary analysis, missing his college students. Missing being a professor. Hell, he even misses the monotony of grading the downright terrible freshman english papers, from students who are there for math and science and don’t give two shits about writing essays.

Jack makes a choking sound and Castiel pulls him away, his heart skipping as he wonders if his baby is dying. A second later, the sound comes again, and Jack is projectile vomiting onto his chest.

Well, at least it wasn’t his face.

The baby hums appreciatively, then coos and lets his eyes flutter shut.

“Well,” Castiel whispers, sighing. “At least we solved the problem.”

He places the baby down in the crib, amazed that he doesn’t have any vomit at all on him, and kisses the air with a loud smooching sound. He puts the pacifier in his mouth and stumbles out of the room.

“G’night. Angels watchin’ over ya,” he mumbles, not even finishing the sentence until he’s in his own room again.

It takes an awful lot of strength to move past the bed without getting in it, but he knows he has to clean up. When he gets into their attached bathroom, he squints in the bright light and starts to strip, feeling disgusting and sticky and smelly and fucking exhausted. He climbs into the tub and collapses, reaching over to slap at the faucet until the shower turns on, sending lukewarm water over him. He keeps the drain open and just lies back, using the wall as a pillow and closing his eyes.

Just one minute. Then he’ll towel off and get in bed.

4:12 AM

Knowing it’s his turn, Dean sits up in bed and yawns when he hears Jack the next time. He glances at Castiel’s side of the bed and smiles when he sees his husband already got up. God, he loves that man. He collapses against the pillow and smiles to himself, falling back asleep within seconds.

4:17 AM

“Cas?” Dean mumbles, looking around the room, wondering why his husband still isn’t back. Wondering why the baby is still crying.

He pushes off his blankets, getting tangled up in them and falling onto the floor. With a grunt and a few choice curse words, he kicks them off and gets back to his feet, stumbling down the hall. When he gets to Jack’s room, he notices his husband isn’t in it.

Maybe he’s downstairs warming a bottle.

In the meantime, Dean reaches down and takes Jack into his arms. His diaper needs to be changed again. Like a robot, he removes the soiled diaper, wipes the baby with two wipes, one for his front and one for his back, then secures a new diaper on. He buttons up the pajamas and gives him a pacifier, relaxing when the baby goes back to sleep in his arms.

He places Jack back in the crib and mumbles. “Night. Angel’s watchin’ over ya.”

Dean goes downstairs to let Castiel know the bottle isn’t needed anymore, but he’s not there either. He has to tell his heart to calm the fuck down. Sometimes, in the middle of the night like this, thoughts flash in Dean’s mind. Thoughts of what it was like before Jack. Hell, before Castiel, even. One night stands with no responsibilities. Extra whiskey and beer. Food that was terrible for him, because he didn’t have a husband to bitch at him for being healthy. He wonders what it would be like to leave, but he doesn’t leave. He’s never left. He won’t ever leave.

Castiel didn’t leave.

Castiel wouldn’t leave.

Dean yelled at him and made him feel like he was a fucking freeloader or something. What if he got upset? What if he feels unneeded? What if Dean finally did the thing he knew was coming all along? The thing that would fuck up his one chance at being happy?

“Cas?” Dean whisper shouts in a panic, walking through the house. By the time he reaches their bedroom, the very last place he checks, he’s crying. Fully crying. On the verge of sobbing.

He didn’t even leave a fucking note.

He starts searching for his phone and realizes it’s probably in the pocket of his jeans, which he took off to shower before bed last night. That’s when he steps closer to the bathroom and realizes the water is running.

Carefully, quietly, Dean pushes the bathroom door open. He peeks inside and his heart skips. “Oh, babe,” he whispers, even though Castiel clearly can’t hear him.

Smiling in relief, Dean grabs a towel from the rack and walks up to the tub. He turns the water off and kneels on the bath mat. Castiel is sprawled out and snoring. He’s still wearing one sock.

Dean’s never felt so in love in his entire life.

“Baby, hey.” He reaches over and gently shakes him away. “Baby. Wake up.”

“No. Y’r tur’ ‘n Dee.”

Chuckling, Dean whispers, “Yes, honey. My turn. Aren’t you cold? Let me help you to the bed.”

“Mmm.” Castiel bats his eyes to make the drops of water disappear from his lashes, then squints at Dean. “Cold. Bed.”

“Yeah. Cold. Bed. Come on.” He lifts Castiel, holding him up against him as he pulls him from the tub. He uses the towel to dry him off the best he can and helps him back into the bedroom. When they get to the edge of the mattress, Dean has him sit down and does another once over on his body with the towel, making sure to get his hair. “Jack puked on me.”

“And you needed to shower right at that moment?”

Castiel shrugs a shoulder and mumbles, “Gross.”

“God, I love you.”

“You too.”

Smiling, Dean guides him back until he’s lying down, tucking him in and placing a kiss on his forehead. Then he towels himself off from Castiel making him wet, thankful he wasn’t wearing a shirt, and crawls in beside him. Pulling him in nice and tight, Dean cradles him to his chest and closes his eyes.

4:33 AM

Dean slips out of the bed, doing his best not to wake Castiel up. He storms into the nursery with a new give ‘em hell attitude. “Alright, Jack. Listen here. Last time. I’m going to take care of what’s wrong, I’m going to sing you my favorite song that grandma used to sing to me, and then you’re going to sleep until the sunshine is up. Okay? Not until the sun is up.”

He pauses like Jack can answer him, then nods. “Okay. Good plan.”

Clean diaper. Bottle. Pacifier. Bouncing. Rocking. Singing.

And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain

Don't carry the world upon your shoulders

For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool

By making his world a little colder

Movement catches Dean’s eye. He looks over at the doorway and smiles. His gorgeous husband is leaning a shoulder against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. Since he fell asleep with damp hair, half of it is sticking in all directions, the other half flattened. He scrunches his nose and winks at Dean when their eyes meet.

I love you, he mouths across the room.

Feeling warmth grow in his chest, Dean mouths back I love you, too.

Castiel joins him beside the crib as Dean gently places the baby down. He puts his pacifier in while Castiel turns the mobile on. Then Castiel wraps his arm around Dean’s waist, leaning into him, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“When you were in the shower, I couldn’t find you,” Dean admits in a hushed whisper.

Castiel looks up at him with a frown. “Dean. Never. I will never leave you two.”

“Just.” Dean’s eyes dart back and forth between Castiel and Jack. When he finally settles back on Castiel, he’s pleading. “Promise?”

“Promise. I love you, Dean Winchester. I’m not going anywhere. Ever.”

“Okay. I knew that, I did. I just - I needed to hear it again.”

“I’ll tell you every single day if you need me to.”

Smiling, they both turn to stare down at their beautiful son.

“Good night, Jack. Sleep well,” Dean whispers.

Castiel leans his head against Dean’s shoulder and adds, “Angels are watching over you.”

8:46 AM

Castiel opens his eyes and yawns, stretching an arm out. He lifts his head and squints at the alarm clock, shocked at the time. Dean is still asleep beside him, which means Jack must still be asleep. The worried papa in him makes him go check just in case. He peeks his head into the nursery and watches for a minute. When Jack’s leg involuntarily moves, meaning he’s still breathing, Castiel practically runs back to bed.

He gets under the covers and curls up to his husband, smiling when Dean wraps around him like a damn spider monkey.

“‘Vrythin’ okay?” Dean slurs.

Castiel squeezes him tight and closes his eyes. “Yeah, babe. Everything’s perfect.”

[punchholesinthesky]

So I’ve been doing a re-read of HDM, and it’s been great. I have a lot of thoughts.

I originally read the series around 2003 maybe? I’ve visited again since but it’s been ages and it’s been a really interesting experience revisiting as an adult rather than a teen.

I started listening to extraneous podcast who are also doing a re-read and it’s great to listen to their discussion plus what i’ve been thinking. 

I thought I’d tackle one issue from their first ep that struck with me: their hogwarts houses.

Sorting fictional characters into hogwarts houses is probably a complete pointless exercise, though I like doing it cause it means, like the hat, going into their mind, literary analysis of a character and justification, I like that.

So, let’s sort HDM characters. (under the cut for lenght)

Lord Asriel: did we ever get a first name? I cannot recall ever getting one. It’s always just Asriel.

He’s described as fierce,possessing great determination and willpower, a military leader and strategist, a fellow of Jordan college.

We hear of some of his deeds, of having helped out the gyptians in parliament and  in the floods of the fen, he was a respected explorer who’d done some great work in the field of experimental theology, until he had an affair with Marissa Coultier, and in defending her and Lyra from her husband, killed him.

He’s charismatic, convincing the college members to fund his expedition and the bears keeping him captive to treat him well and continue his work.

He does not believe in rules if he thinks the rules are unjust.  He doesn’t hesitate to rebel. 

He’s ambitious, but not necessarily for himself. He is interested in building a better world, and in this he stands in defiance to the church, who wishes to keep humanity in the dark. This is a grand calling, the kind someone who believes themselves a great man would attempt.

He goes exploring because he wishes to understand the world, and through this knowledge, improve it. He certainly commits dark deeds in the name of his goals, but he isn’t doing because he thinks he oughta rule the place, he just doesn’t like who’s in charge.

He can come off as cold and unfeeling, though I think that’s him being stoic and keeping people at arm’s length, cause we do see him be emotional in several occassions. Of course, we also see him be thoughtlessly cruel.

He’s really fucking smart and will attempt brains before brawn if possible,though he isnt lacking in either,

To me, he is a ravenclaw. We know he is smart and curious, not the kind to jump into a situation blindly, but always willing to help and fight. I’d say a ravenclaw with strong gryffindors tendencies,but a ravenclaw nonetheless. 

I think he get into problems, into fights, into action, more out of circumstances that wanting to go out looking for problems, which is why he is not the protagonist, though in another world he would’ve been.

The church is afraid of him cause he asks too many questions, and he challenges their rule. Anyone who’s read history, or been to a christian school knows they do not like that. At all. 

He also reminds me of prometheus, going on a quest for something precious to share with humanity, even at great expense. 

Marissa Coultier:

Ambitious as fuck. She cares about one thing, one person, and that’s herself. She’s the kind of person willing to burn the world to keep herself safe, or even if it’s just convenient.

She has some deep dark impulses as seen in the actions of her monkey. 

I think there’s a good amount of self-loathing in her as well, she’s bought their propaganda, and  recognises herself as a sinner and hates hersef for it, wants to be pure, and tries to in her own twisted way, to help children, thinks dust is bad and wants to save them, etc.

But at the same time, she hates the church for making her feel this way.

She wasn’t allowed to indulge her love so she’ll indulge in rage instead

I think what she really wants is power, power enough to be able to be left alone and live her life.

But she’s definitely not the type to retire to a cottage and live a simple life. It’ll be power and luxury or nothing.

She’s like, the slytherinest (????) slytherin to ever live.

She could give salazar a run for his money.

 Lyra:

Lyra is brave as hell. She is always ready for a fight, about anything. And she never backs down from a challenge, regardless of how ridiculous it is. 

She runs into situations having no idea what’s happening or how to deal with it.

She’ll jump in to defend someone having no idea if theyre even worth defending. 

She’s full of fire, and someone often ends up getting burned. This also means she lacks patience. She’d rather do something now even if it means it’s the wrong thing than wait to do the right thing.

She’s also really smart, and knows it. Not only does she learn to imitate different people, she can also figure them out and manipulate them.

She’s very loyal and protective of her friends, and can be dismissive, unkind, even rude to those she doesn’t like. Or care about.

She is not the greatest judge of character, she outright dismiss female scholars and is taken in by Mrs coultier’s flash. 

Some of this are just childish traits she later grows out of, but not entirely. When we see her again in Lyra’s oxford she has for example, learned some patience. Learned the rewards of hard work and not to always jump to conclusions.

She is definitely a gryffindor. There’s some slytherin traits for sure, but she’s a gryffindor through and through.

[gal-liveblogs]

So let’s just start with the beginning.

So it’s not just Homestuck 2, it’s Homestuck². That’s fun. Also it has a subtitle of “Beyond Canon”. Makes sense, given what went down in the Homestuck Epilogues. Kinda wish I had liveblogged those now, but I had been too excited. Legitimately spent an entire day reading. I was too focused to even think to liveblog those.

The ^2 looks handwritten and is orange, also makes sense given what happened in the Epilogues. Dirk has his fingers all over this. How much influence will he have, I wonder?

Now that I’ve spent so long staring at the title perhaps I should get to reading the actual comic? Perish the thought! There appears to be a link to an FAQ! Let’s check that out first.

Oh man, this is bringing back some nostalgia. Putting the questions in the exile command boxes is a nice touch.

It is actual Homestuck. That is, an extension to the "canonical" Homestuck storyline,

Those are some big quotation marks around canonical, after the mess the Epilogues were. Not to say the Epilogues were bad, they just flipped and twisted everything around and made you really question what was “real” in a story.

It was designed to include the writing and art contributions from fans of the series. Many writers will be involved, and collectively they will be allowed significant latitude in shaping the direction of the story and the way it's told.

Interesting. Homestuck itself was no stranger to having art done by someone other than Andrew Hussie and the Epilogues were written with the help of someone other than Hussie. Even Homestuck was not solely written by Hussie, in the beginning fans wrote the commands that propelled the story forward. Plus we have Hiveswap, Friendsim, and Pesterquest all belonging to the Homestuck mythos but made by a team only overseen by Hussie. Homestuck 2 seems to be falling in line with the games. Different people make it and bring their own ideas to it, all while Hussie occasionally peeks in to give his nod of approval.

An "official fanonization" of the ongoing epic, if you will.

I can’t wait to see what happens. This is such a weird idea and I love it.

Oh my god. The Epilogues started off with a spoof as if they were written on Archive of Our Own, and now the recap of them is spoofing SparkNotes. Glorious.

Reading through said recap just so all the important bits are fresh in my mind (never skipped the Homestuck recaps, so I’m not skipping the Epilogue recap) and come across this:

In the heat of the moment, the two embrace passionately.

That’s an understatement. John and Terezi boned n the back of a car. Stiiiiill don’t know how to feel about that. Like, Terezi was flying around in Paradox Sapce for who knows how long from her perspective. Everyone else, including John, grew up and became adults. Was Terezi also an adult by this time, or did John just have sex with a minor?

They then fuck in the back of the car and there's really all there is to say on the matter.

Oh. So the previous sentence wasn’t an understatement. I just hadn’t read far enough yet.

But when they arrive, our hero finally succumbs to LE's venom, which has the effect of corroding a person's canonical existence beyond any hope of revival.

AKA, we really needed John to die but also didn’t want to deal with godtier revival rules.

Jade, who is now somehow aware of Dirk's influence, declares that he must be stopped. Dirk agrees with her, claiming his role as the villain of the story outright. He accepts the intrinsic antagonism of his narrative power, and has decided to carry that antagonism to its natural conclusion. He states that his eventual death will be Just.

Dirk is such a fascinating character. He has always been painfully aware of his faults. Yet he doesn’t try to stop himself. He has just accepted that he is not a good person and even encourages everyone else to give up on him. He is full of so much self-loathing and yet he does it all without any self-pity. It is truly something I have never seen in a character before.

Calliope distracts him with one final task: he must rescue Gamzee, who she insists deserves to begin his redemption arc immediately.

Gamzee used to be a fascinating character to me. I had so many questions about him. How much of his fall was out of his control? Was he to blame for everything? Outside forces? Mental instability? Then the Epilogues happened and I finally had to give up on him. I couldn’t hold out the hope that Gamzee could be a good character (if not a good person). Everyone who hated him were right all along. Gamzee is just a trash clown and should have stayed in the fridge.

As Jane joins in with Jake's day drinking, she attempts to seduce him but is ignored. Not to be denied, she resorts to using the terrible power of the trickster lollipop. The two sleep together. When they come to, Jake is alarmed by his lack of consent in the matter--Jane manages to talk him into a committed relationship.

Speaking of characters I gave up on: Jane. I never really had any strong feelings about Jane in Homestuck. She wasn’t interesting, but I didn’t dislike her. She was just... there. Had a few moments that really hit me in the feels, but overall kind of forgettable. Then in the Epilogue he not only turns into a xenophobic fascist, but she also pulls stuff like this. For all her pining over Jake she never actually did care about him it would seem. He wasn’t a person, he was a prize.

I didn’t care about Jake either, and he often annoyed me, but he deserved better than always ending up as Jane’s sex toy without any autonomy.

Gamzee has started performing public redemptions featuring sloppy makeouts and baby bottles full of Jane's breastmilk.

Seriously, Gamzee is just the worst. I hate him. Before the Epilogues the only character I hated was Kankri, but I hate Gamzee now too. This is also a reason why Jane has sunk so low in my standing with her.

They're interrupted by Gamzee, who tries to manipulate Vriska into a sexual relationship in the name of "redemption".

Now here is a sexual encounter that is without question involving a minor. Another reason to hate Gamzee.

She no longer cares if this reality is true, relevant or essential, and is enjoying the simple happiness of loving her wife and daughter.

This was a really sweet moment. Rose always did have a hard time just letting herself be happy.

Phew, O.K., done with the recap. Back to the FAQ!

Oh sweet, optimisticDuelist is part of the writing team for Homestuck 2! I’ve seen some of their stuff. It’s good stuff. Keep meaning to do a deep dive into all their analysis of Homestuck. Also Xamag is the art lead. Nice.

Homestuck has a Patreon now. Neat. Need to pay they people at What Pumpkin after all!

> Is this canon?

It's being pulled further away from direct control by the original author, and allowed to expand into spaces governed by fandom desire - a fanontinuum, you might say.

I’ve always liked the literary lens of Death of the Author. Homestuck 2 is diving head first into it. Yes, there is still an author (or authors, as the case may be), but The Author of Hussie is having less and less control (which makes sense from a narrative standpoint as Hussie, The Author, died in the story to really cement Death of the Author) and the fans are encouraged to take things into their own hands more and more. Homestuck is built by the fans and as such fan-created stories should have the same amount of importance as “canon” does.

> I just can't get enough Homestuck. I want to shove more and more of it into my slavering maw. Please help me.

Did they just plagiarize my diary?

Alright. Now I can start the dang comic!

In the next post. This one is getting a little long.

> Get on with it.

[phoenixyfriend]

On Lotor, Dayak, and Mishandled Approaches

It’s been over a month, and I’ve finally managed to gather myself enough to actually write a post about why I disagree with how Lotor was handled.

So here we go, and it starts with a request:

Forget your opinions on Lotor as a character.

I’m serious. Whether you love him or hate him or something else, just put that aside for a moment. Just think “Okay, this is the character, this is what he did, and this is how it was presented,” because your own opinions are only tangentially relevant right now.

The target audience for Voltron is not you. If you are on this site, then the target audience is not you.

Voltron: Legendary Defender is rated TV-Y7. It’s meant for a target audience of children aged 7-11.

My critical thinking skills weren’t the best at that age, up to and including literary analysis. I didn’t stop to parse stories down to subtle messages and meanings, I just took them as they came, because I was seven years old and hadn’t had time to practice those skills yet. Last I checked, most kids that age were and are the same way.

And that’s where the problem with Lotor comes up, because a lot of those kids in the audience that the story is targeted towards are in abusive homes. Just statistically speaking, some of that target audience is kids who are going through the mental, emotional, and physical abuse that we see attached to Lotor’s childhood on-screen, whether it’s show or just implied.

So let’s dig into that under the cut.

I’ll be honest here: I'd have handled the twists a LOT better if it weren't for the fact that some of what they did is actively dangerous for their target audience, and emotionally damaging to the older watchers.

I think the production team meant well. I think they wanted to tell an interesting, nuanced story. I think they wanted a cool, layered villain.

I also genuinely don't think the team realized the full scope of implications when they included the abuse backstory for a character that had this kind of arc.

It's not something that's healthy for kids to see. A certain portion of the audience is current or former abuse victims. With an audience this size, it's unavoidable. When actively marketing to children, they're marketing towards impressionable minds. Some of those kids are currently in abusive households, and some of those abusive households have the physical, mental, and emotional abuse that Lotor underwent at Zarkon, Haggar, and Dayak's hands.

It’s not an uncommon type of abuse. I’ve seen posts that address it as being culturally similar to Caribbean households, or to tiger moms, and so on. Galra culture has similarities to a lot of cultures on Earth, but that doesn’t change the fact that this is abuse.

The messages those kids are getting are that being hit by your caretaker is a cause for humor, not concern, and that if you try to grow past your toxic roots, you will fail.

What they’re seeing and absorbing isn’t a nuanced villain, not when it’s presented like that. They’re seven. They’re not appreciating a Shakespearean tragedy of an arc. They’re seeing “Oh, he was hit by his nanny, and it was supposed to be funny! I guess when I get hit, it’s not that bad!” The slightly older ones are seeing “Oh, he tried to be better than his parents, but everyone thinks he’s just as bad as they were. I guess... I can’t be better than my parents, then.”

Again, please put aside your own love or hate for Lotor, and focus on the mentality of actual children who are watching. You are not the target audience.

I'm still furious about S6E1. There are kids who might have been considering telling a teacher about their parents' treatment of them who might now be holding off because the show told them that it's okay, that it's funny.

There are kids who still don't know that it's abuse and that it's wrong for them to be hit, and who are having that belief reinforced by this episode.

The episode is actively dangerous for literal children who are already in toxic, unstable, or dangerous situations.

And yes, for the older audience, for those of us who are old enough to mess around on sites like this, it's emotionally damaging in similar ways, even if it's not the same kind of dangerous.

They also completely defanged the abuse by having it lensed through Hunk.

In S6E1, Dayak’s abusive behaviors are all being aimed at a soldier who volunteered for the experience, who is either an adult or very near to it, who is wearing armor, who is already considered a comedic character.

And there's a lot to go into about it being Hunk, specifically, who got chosen for this role and how the production team treats him. We could definitely spend time touching on why the fat comedic relief was chosen as the target for this.

But imagine how much harder it would be to dismiss Lotor's background as a factor of his personality if what we'd gotten was... a flashback, to Dayak doing all of that to him while he was still clearly a child, rather than turning abuse into a comedic subplot.

A person I was talking to said the following:

What he really deserved was to have his complex situation and the grey area effect on his morality recognized. Like, yes, he was draining the life force of Alteans. But consider the environment he grew up. Hold his actions up against those of his parents. He had every reason to genuinely believe that his actions were not that bad by comparison, especially in the grand scheme of things. His death count was a drop in the bucket compared to Zarkon. The Alteans he used did not appear to be suffering or even aware of what was happening to them, and the ones left behind were a race being preserved from prosecution and extinction. He was also actively searching for a way to provide the Empire's needs without causing any more widespread death and destruction. He was trying to be better than his parents, and in his reference frame, his actions were better than theirs.

Which, hell, probably does come across as apologism. It’s a fucked-up situation, and one that I question seeing in a show aimed at kids. It was a delicate thing to handle, and I’d have been a lot more interested if I’d seen it in, say, Agents of SHIELD, rather than VLD.

Similar arguments apply to the overall arc. Kids who are in toxic situations are getting the message that they can’t grow out of it. “I want to be a better person and have no one to show me how, but I’m going to try anyway” is being met with “You will fail, and everyone will say it’s your own fault.”

I think they were TRYING but that they genuinely didn't realize the minefield they were entering by giving him the backstory they did. It would have been a suitable plotline if it had been in an adult show, if it had gotten more perspectives, or if there had been a different character with a background that was explicitly as abusive as his that overcame it despite the same hurdles, and no, Keith doesn’t count.

There are... a lot of abuse victims in this fandom. There are a lot of victims, both children and adults, who identified with Lotor because he showed the symptoms that people don’t like to sympathize with as easily. And that’s a lot of children who are getting negative messages, and a lot of adults who are feeling betrayed by the storyline.

Just... remember that. Please.

You aren’t the target audience, and the actual target audience is eating up messages that make them more likely to remain in abusive situations.

(And if your reaction is in any way to blame the children for not recognizing what they’re going through as abuse, regardless of media, I need you to take a long moment to reflect on the fact that you are effectively victim-blaming people that aren’t even in the double digits yet.)

(Also, I know a lot of people try to argue a lot of things as “think of the children!” It’s up to you how you approach the concept. I draw my line at portraying child abuse as comedy in media that is targeted at children, which I feel is inherently different from people who try to say “think of the children!” about things like queer representation.)