#honest kind of writing

[sciderman]

ok I know it was like a day or two ago but whoever sent in that ask about Bojack has me rewatching it, I'm on season 4 which is my personal favourite, which seasons your favourite? Any specific episode you like?

man! i really, really need to rewatch it to tell you which seasons i liked best, but i remember i kind of really consistently liked it. i even love the first few episodes of the first season, even though i know public consensus says they're not the best - i kind of just, immediately liked the show. i like that maybe the first episodes were a little lighter and goofier so it eased you into the heavier stuff. and that - characters that seemed light and goofy get extra dimensionality and flaws and baggage and damage as the show progresses. i think just - start to finish, it was really strong, and some select episodes were complete masterpieces. complete masterpieces.

i think i especially love the more experimental episodes - i did a reanimate project for the underwater episode, which is just - a delight of visual storytelling. i love when animation forgoes dialogue and completely leans into visuals. just - i love it. i love it. not that the dialogue isn't brilliant in bojack, because it really is. but even when they don't have dialogue, it's still brilliant.

i think the episode that leapt to mind immediately though is – the stupid piece of shit episode. i just - i think about it all the time. i just - i love being in bojack's head, i love the different animation style, i love the frantic, brutal nature of it. there's just this honesty in bojack that i just - i haven't seen anywhere else. when you see mental health being tackled in other media it's so often so - so sensationalised or demonised or simplified into some evil that needs to be overcome, but bojack just - i don't know. it's so honest about the brain. and that it's not - it's not just one guy who's suffering. it's everyone. it's you, it's me. i just. man. i really loved this show and what it did. i think it's something special.

i think i love media where mental health isn't just a problem exclusive to one bad egg, but like, it's normal. we all have that voice.

[trickstersaint]

i want to introduce you all to a project that is very close to my heart... or lack of one. anyway. for anyone who has ever wanted to play a poem. i'd like you to meet aromanticism

(link opens itch.io - she'll run on html in your browser! please be nice to her!)

[dr3amfyr-e]

brat. - j.v. ( w. 4.5k )

꒰ in which the boy you see every summer enrolls in the same university as you. ꒱ — modern!jacaerys velayron x reader

୨ ⎯ i cannot stress enough, football means ⚽️ not 🏈. childhood-friends-to-lovers, but you have to get through my 2000 word psychoanalysis and backstory first. light angst. mention of the death of a parent. lots and lots of talk about the velaryon-targaryen-hightower family dynamic. light make out action. reader's family is implied to be wealthy enough to have a summer home. almost everyone lives au. set in the uk, not westeros. omitted daemon rhaenyra marriage because there’s no way to to make it even semi-normal. realizing now i omitted daemon entirely erm sorry. pushing the laenor agenda bc he’s my favorite character. this is abhorently long. extreme overuse of the em-dash. uhh the perspective is wonky in a few places. part two. ⎯ ୧

i had to write this twice. i'm offering this to you with shaking hands, like a peasent child begging for coins. i may write a part two because i have more to say, but i don't want to figure it out rn.

On the cold January morning that Jacaerys Velaryon-Targaryen was born, the media went into a frenzy. 

The Targaryens were old money, their fortune rooted a century back in good investments. Historically adept at finding their way into things, the empire had a string to pull in every industry. From art and law to technology and shipping, if business prospects looked good there would be a Targaryen investment.

And then there were the dogs — regal greyhounds, with long, thin bodies and sleek coats. The Targaryens bred them as far back as bloodline records went. The pups were never for sale; sometimes they were used as show dogs, and successful show dogs they were, but more often they were pets. It was a status symbol, to nonchalantly own such a coveted creature. 

The Targaryens were idolized in the public eye. They were all stunning, with sharp features and silver hair, and each member of the family seemed to possess a Midas touch. But, where Valyrian blood ran hot, so did the press. It was no surprise when magazines started to turn a profit from silver heads plastered across their glossy covers. It was the price that came with God-like aristocracy.

From editorials to gossip columns, people devoured the insider life of the untouchables. When Aemma Targaryen died, there was a four-page spread in nearly every magazine; complete with pictures and quotes. Business papers filled with opinion pieces about Rhaenyra’s inheritance claim to her family’s empire; magazines exploded with the announcement of her engagement to Laenor Velaryon, and subsequently Viserys’ marriage to Alicent Hightower, the daughter of his lawyer. 

When Jacaerys was born, reporters lined up outside of the hospital doors. There were cameras and microphones and crew trucks, and Rhaenyra hated it. It wasn’t the way she wished to welcome her child into the world — swarmed by people who didn’t know nor care for him.

Laenor had always been good at navigating the attention, and Rhaenyra was constantly grateful. So, when he pulled his gaze from the babe and steeled himself to deal with the onslaught of reporters outside, tears pricked at her eyes. Appreciation, exhaustion, adoration? She couldn’t be sure. 

Looking down at her son, she thought, he’s perfect. He had a smattering of dark hair, and he was quiet but not concerningly so. Wispy lashes fell upon his cherub cheeks, and when he eventually blinked up at her his eyes were dark. He looked nothing like her — she didn’t care. 

She refused to talk to anyone outside of her family, and had the curtains in her private room drawn. To expose her son, her heart, to the prying eyes of the bored masses with nary a care for his well-being was a nightmare. She wouldn’t have him exploited. 

At the time of Jacaerys’ birth, she and Laenor had been married for a little over a year. Laenor’s father, Corlys, managed the bulk of the import and export for Viserys’ company. Corlys was a good man, he hadn’t dreamed of marrying his son off. But Laenor and Rhaenyra were both in the same impossible situation: the wiles of youth mixed with the ever critical public. 

They had both fallen into scandalous relationships, both preyed on by paparazzi. If they married one another, it would save face for both of their families. Plus — both being the eldest and heir, this would clear the expectation of a dignified marriage. They agreed to leave each other to whatever youthful fun they wanted to have, as long as everything was discreet. 

Both the Velaryons and the Targaryens kept a summer home in Dragonstone, a private community in coastal Wales. It was the perfect place for Rhaenyra and Laenor to begin their life — far from her father, close to his parents, and out of the line of sight for any nosy journalist. 

The public eye had looked to other things by the time Lucerys was born, two years later. Again, Laenor dealt with the small gathering of reporters with the utmost grace, and Rhaenyra submitted a written statement. 

Alicent divorced Viserys that same year. 

As she watched her boys grow up, full of energy and life, Rhaenyra thought, there was no one better to parent with than her best friend — a title Laenor had rightfully earned. They hadn’t had much choice in knowing each other, and they certainly would never have chosen to be married, but he made a bearable roommate. They had things in common; they liked the same music, and the same men. They drank the same wine and frequented the same restaurants. And, they both loved their boys. 

As Jace and Luke grew up, they found the best company in each other — the school in Dragonstone was so small, though, that there were very few other options. They both played on the school’s small football team, and Jace took piano lessons while Luke learned to fence. Where Jace was driven by emotion, Luke was level-headed; where Luke was cautiously quiet, Jace spoke his mind. It was an ideal childhood, the Welsh coast was an idyllic backdrop to grow up upon, with the sea in their backyard. 

They were ten and eight when Joffrey was born, both excited for their new brother. Their mother brought him home, bundled in a soft red blanket. The boys sat on the couch beside Rhaenys and stared at him for upwards of an hour. 

Hardly a week had passed when Harwin Strong died. He was a family friend, a frequent presence in their home and life — Jace and Luke had been upset by this, of course. 

In time they came to understand the situation fully. Jacaerys first, fitting the pieces together with the evidence he found in the mirror. Neither Rhaenyra nor Laenor had dark hair, like he and his brothers. 

His matriline was uncontestable though, as he grew into himself. He possessed the same nose, jaw, brow, and high cheekbones that Rhaenyra wore. The comparisons between the two became more frequent as he grew older, and he found himself to be quite proud to look like her. 

Her attitude lived in him as well, the temperament she had been so notorious for as a girl festered in her eldest son. She had once been christened ‘The Princess of Dragonstone’ after flipping off a reporter at their summer home. Jacearys earned it for himself when he was fifteen, after loudly berating a reporter. He had been defending Luke, but no one seemed to care when they deigned him ‘The Prince of Dragonstone’. He took it with grace, claiming that he couldn’t help but be his mother’s child.

It instilled a sense of public propriety he strove to uphold. 

Rhaenyra remarried the same year — to Alicent Hightower — and moved her children from Wales to London. It took a while to adjust to the new life — Jace liked his new school, but he detested his step-brothers. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t come around to the idea of living with Aemond and Aegon, who took so much pleasure in making he and his brothers miserable. 

After the first month, Jacaerys fell in brilliantly. He performed well in school, quickly being enrolled in the advanced literature and history courses. He got on well with his peers, and made a number of friends. He joined the football team and spent his Sunday afternoons learning piano concertos. 

Living in London made him a more publicly prominent figure in his family's legacy. He knew how to play his role as heir; he carried himself perfectly — confident and charming and elegant. He didn’t particularly like being in the public eye, but there was a certain sense of satisfaction when he did something to receive positive public attention. 

King’s Landing, much like where he had grown up, was a community reserved for the upper echelon. Situated in Northwest London, and surrounded by wrought iron gates, it was regal and dignified. The house had high, vaulted ceilings, large stained glass windows, and more than enough bedrooms. It rained more, Jacaerys noticed in the first month. When it had rained in Dragonstone he would watch the droplets bounce off the sea, where it lapped at the sandy bay. Here the rain splattered unceremoniously upon the pavement. 

For as wonderful as life in London had turned out, Jacaerys found himself longing for what was left behind in Dragonstone. Laenor lived there still, and while he called often and visited as much as he could, it wasn’t the same. Jace’s childhood bedroom remained, along with all of the memories in the house he grew up in. And his friends. There was an assortment of people he only saw between late May and early September; the children of the other seasonal residents. The number had dwindled in years past, with fewer of them returning for break — favouring more interesting places, like Ibiza or Rome, as they got older. 

Far too few of his childhood friends he kept in contact with, especially after the move to London. You were the exception. 

He was grateful, on days when it stormed in London, to receive a silly text or too-long voice note. It made things feel less dull — you had a way of doing that. 

He took to reading theory around the time he turned seventeen. It’s queer theory, at the suggestion of his cousin Baela, who lent him his first Judith Butler book. He finished it that weekend. 

His aunt Laena and her two daughters lived in London, and Jace found a close comrade in Baela. She played competitive tennis and listened to riot grrrl, she was much cooler than him and he knew it. Her bedroom held two massive bookshelves, and she let him pillage her collection for De Bouvier and Didion and Gay. Hours were spent lying across the floor in Laena’s house, studying, or reading, or talking. He enjoyed Baela’s company more than any of his school friends, favouring anything with her over anything with the boys from his football team. 

His youngest sister, Visenya, turned one around the same time. Baela, staying with Jacaerys while he babysat one night, inducted him into the eldest daughter club. 

“You’re so keen on driving your siblings around, and taking care of them. Plus, aren’t you your mother’s closest confidant?” She asked. 

True, Jace supposed. He was the oldest of Rhaenyra’s children, and the most responsible of his brothers and step-siblings. His mums both worked full time, they were busy but as involved as possible. Jace just did the menial things. He made Joffrey breakfast, picked Luke up after school, and watched Visenya when necessary. He didn’t mind.

Baela argued that he should mind. 

He had been a sensitive child, more so than his brothers, but it made him incredibly emotionally adept as he aged. So many boys his age prided themselves on stoicism, but that was never something Jace felt connected to. He always felt things too deeply to bottle them up — it accounted for the occasional temper that flared up when he was upset, but also how empathetic and kind he was. 

Jacearys was set to graduate with honours in the first week of May. It was three months before when college acceptance letters began to appear in the mail. He had applied to a number of places, and been accepted everywhere. The University of the Vale was where his hopes hinged though. 

Just after Valentine's Day, it showed up. The envelope was wide and stuffed full, and sealed with a wax stamp. His acceptance letter was on the very top of the stack of papers — the thick paper heavy in his hands, as he admired the blue printed border and silver flocking. 

Rhaenrya sorted through the informational packets while Jace reread the letter. Part of him couldn’t believe it was real.

He sends you a picture of the letter, and you respond in kind with one of an identical nature. 

You hadn’t planned to go to the same university, but it certainly was a happy coincidence. 

After graduation, he was beyond excited for the reprieve that Dragonstone granted. The promise of early morning hikes, and evenings spent on the beach — the once empty house, full of life and bustling with bodies. 

You were the first thing Jacaerys thought to look for when he set his bags down in the summer home. 

It was late May, and you were guaranteed to be out of school. I’ll text after I unpack, he thought, pulling clothes and books from his suitcase. 

His room in Dragonstone had once been his childhood bedroom. The walls were a warm tone of white, and the small bed was still covered with his blue and white checkered duvet. Piano scales and pictures of his brothers and friends adorn the walls. There was a soccer trophy on the back edge of his desk, something he had won when he was eleven. It was stuffy from nine months of stagnance, but familiar all the same. 

He pushed the curtains back from the window to let sunlight filter into the dusty room, gazing down at the beach, when he spotted your figure. He was quick to rush downstairs, out the backdoor, and across the stone path that leads from the patio to the beach. He greets you with a call of your name and a tight hug, sunglasses perched atop his head and linen shirt half buttoned. 

It had been a year since he’d last seen you. You had kept in touch during the school year; Jace favoured Snapchat and FaceTime, delighted with the pleasure of seeing the mundane things you were up to. There was a nearly constant text thread, and voice memos passed back and forth. But, it all paled in comparison to physical company. 

He abandoned his housekeeping duties, keen to sit on the beach and talk. And you did so for hours, about everything and nothing. He tells you about his last year of school and listens as you do the same. When the sun dipped past the treeline, he leaned back on his elbows, watching the water crest on the sand. He felt more at ease than he had in a while, enraptured by the ease of your presence. The conversation flowed, there were no awkward lulls and no pressure to talk about something dignified. It was comforting to be so close to someone who didn’t see much of his life in London — you knew the best version of him. 

Your friendship had always felt like that, from a young age. On days that smelled of sunscreen and sea salt in his mind, you would meet in the mornings and depart past dark and then do it again the next day, never tiring of each other. Your parents knew his, so you had always been welcome in his home — invited or not. You had shared a bed during sleepovers, drunk from the same cup, and fallen asleep on the couch during movie nights countless times. Quick glances and imperceptible expressions were a language you communicated in, reading each other without words. In your presence, Jace was the most comfortable.

The summer slipped away as it always did, taking long nights and leaving memories of sand and sunshine. The days were ambled away in the water, on rocky hiking paths, or in the meadow that sat a mile away from all of the homes. 

Jace had started The Hobbit before school ended — most days he found himself sprawled out in the park or on the beach, reading. He had also taken to running with his dog, Vermax, in the mornings. He relied on the serotonin boost to start the day, and with no football to play a jog was a decent alternative. 

When the summer drew to a close, the typical melancholy that befell the return to the real world wasn’t present in Jace’s mind. He presumed it had everything to do with the fact that he would see you every day now

You have one college class together — a nine a.m. medieval literature discussion. 

Clinging to familiarity in the new environment, he glued himself to your side for the first week of classes. He memorized the way to your dorm, meeting you outside every morning to walk together to your first lessons. The meandering conversation was a good start to the day, and he silently relished in your tired eyes and quiet voice, not yet used to the early schedule. 

On Friday he all but begged you to come back to his dorm after the discussion; it was your only class that day so you had given in. You hadn’t seen his living quarters yet, and he wanted to spend time with you, worried for when your schedules would fill up and you would lose room for each other. 

The discussion had been mind-numbing. You reviewed the same syllabus as the lecture, and went over the same rules and policies as every other class. With the thirty-five minutes remaining, the teaching assistant made everyone watch an incredibly monotone video about the history of medieval England. 

Jace linked his arm into yours in the hallway after class, pulling you to the doors. The cool morning air was refreshing, waking you up more as you walked across campus. His dorm building was new and modern, seventeen floors with grey siding and big windows. It was private housing, clearly expensive. 

He had a single room with an adjoining bathroom and a small common space. The walls were typical dorm white, with laminate wood flooring. Joffrey’s school photo is hung on one wall, the frame clearly decorated by the child with glitter and string. Scattered across the other walls were photographs in thin silver frames, a large world map, a clock, and a cross-stitch of a rainbow stag beetle.

Sitting on the couch, you observed the unframed photos that lay across the coffee table, inspecting a leggy grey dog as you plucked it from the pile, “Who is this?”

Jace leaned into your side, gazing at the photo, “My mum’s dog, Syrax,” He reached over you to tap the picture, “Syrax is my dog’s mum.” 

He slipped his hand into yours as you walked with him to his second class of the day.

In the third week of school, Jace asks you to attend a mixer for a pre-law society with him. He doesn't know anyone, and doesn't want to be alone at the party. You meet at his dorm at a quarter-to-six so you can walk to the event together. 

The dress-code is emi-formal, and when he opens the door to you his hair is slicked back with water and he smells like his cologne — musk, sandalwood, and amber. 

“Are your clothes pressed?” You ask, grinning at his freshly ironed slacks and the three buttons undone on his shirt. 

He rolls his eyes, locking the door behind him as he escorts you down the hallway. The walls of the elevator in his dorm are mirrored, and you laugh at him when you catch him taking pictures of himself. He makes you take one with him, and sets it as his lock screen. 

The mixer was in the dean of law’s massive house, buzzing with young people in smart outfits. Jace abandons you about fifteen minutes in, spotting a group of poli sci majors from his social psychology class. 

From his childhood spent between galas and his mother’s business meetings, Jace was good at navigating these situations. He was charming, leveling the professors with charismatic smiles and confident posture. He was good at holding an intelligent conversation, discussing theory and strategy. 

You were on the patio, watching the stars, when he found you an hour later.

His arms brushed yours as he leaned against the railing, “Sorry for leaving you,” His voice was quiet, and he stared at your profile, watching the way the moonlight illuminated your skin. 

You wave his apology off and make him buy you coffee in recompense on the way home. 

You’re stood talking together on the quadrangle a few weeks later, a cup of hot chocolate warming your mitten-less hands, when you realise just how cold it’s gotten. It's just too cold for the thin jacket that you try to sink further into, hiding from the wind that bites at your delicate skin.

Jace watches you shiver, observing your lack of appropriate attire. 

“Are you cold?” He asks, reaching out to run his hands up and down your arms, half to warm you, half to gauge how thick your jacket is. Not very. 

You nod, “I didn’t check the weather this morning.” 

He sighs with exaggerated exasperation and slides his arms around you, careful of the paper cup you held. Of course, he’s worn the right coat, and you feel the downy material of his hood against your cheek as he rubs your back to generate some warmth. You smell the cologne on his collar and the expensive shampoo he uses; he grumbled something about taking better care of yourself. 

Then, one particularly cold Friday morning he has forgotten his coat. Dressed in a hoodie, he mirrors your excuse from the week prior, smiling sheepishly — face flushed from the chilly air, dark curls blowing around his head like a halo. You take pity on him, slipping your scarf off. You loop it around his neck, tucking the ends down into the collar of his sweater, and leave him with a fond peck on the cheek; his skin is cold. 

He's appreciative, though the scarf does little against the cold wind cutting through his sweater. Still, he doesn't give the scarf back. 

With the cold, comes midterms. You’re the first person Jace asks to study. 

Your dorm room is closer to the central part of campus, and thus a shorter walk in the bitter cold. Jace brushes snow out of his hair as you unlock your door, ushering him inside. It's small. Two twin-sized beds, one on each wall, with nary enough room for two bodies between them; a desk is crammed into the small space between your bed and the window. You let him take the desk, spreading your books and notes out across your bed.

Your dorm is old, and the room has very little ventilation. Despite the frigidity outside, the room is stuffy and almost hot with both of your bodies inside. An hour into studying Jace shrugs off his heavy, knit sweater and pushes his glasses up into his hair. 

“What are you working on?” You ask, leaning forward. You’re bored, working on the same power point you started yesterday. You want to talk to him, though he doesn’t seem keen on the idea

He doesn’t look up from typing as he speaks, “Analysing The Art of War.” 

You shut your laptop, bent on distracting him, “The book?” 

He nods but doesn’t give a verbal response. 

“Who's that by?” You ask, fighting to suppress a grin

This time he does look up, glaring at you over his glasses, “Sun Tzu.” 

His tone is short, but it's amusing to annoy him so you grin, suppressing a giggle, “Sounds very interesting.” 

“What do you want?” He asks after a beat, still holding your gaze. 

You shrug, “Nothing. I’m bored,” 

The next time you study is even less productive, school work discarded on his floor in a matter of minutes. 

“We can’t be trusted to work together,” He tells you, watching as you calculate his astrological chart, geometry homework forgotten. 

You attend your first college party together in November. When you arrive at his dorm, he’s dressed much more casually than normal. 

You reach out to tug at the thin silver chain peeking out from his shirt collar, “This is fun,” You tease, giggling, “Aiming to impress tonight?”

He rolls his eyes in mock-offence, turning you around by the shoulders to shove you out of the doorframe. 

The lights in the house are dim, and they strobe slowly through different colours. It’s too dark and too bright all at once. The music is almost unbearably loud and people are packed in like sardines, it’s all incredibly overstimulating. 

When he senses your unease, Jace takes your hand, pulling you tight against your side to lead you through the throng of bodies. He’s looking for someone, but you’re unsure who, and he canvases the whole space before giving up on finding them.

The backyard of the house is quieter, but the ground still vibrates from the bass of the music. People are scattered about, smoking cigarettes and sipping from bottles of cheap beer. 

You both learn what Jell-O shots are, and make out in the bathroom back at his dorm. It’s not the first time you’d kissed each other, trying it a few times in your adolescence just to see what it was like. But this is different, tipsy and sloppy, as you giggle into his mouth. 

It's forgotten in the morning, when you wake up in his bed still dressed in your going-out clothes, head pounding.

But then it happens again, the week before finals.

You had stayed at the library far too late studying, leaving the pair of you to walk back to his dorm in the dark. It's positively frigid, cold December air whipping snow into your face. 

There are still snowflakes in your hair as you shed the thick coat you’re wearing, pulling off your gloves and hat. 

There's a bottle of wine in Jace’s freezer, left by Aegon the weekend before. It's expensive and rich and red, and Aegon would likely skin you if he found out you were drinking it — but, that's part of the fun. There's a baking show on the small television, and you’re curled into Jace’s side to steal some of the warmth from his body.

When the program lulls he brings his hand to your hair, combing through the tangled strands. You pay it little mind, leaning into his touch as you watch a contestant on-screen whip macaron batter. His fingers slide down to your jaw, turning your head so your eyes meet his. He’s studying your face, cheeks flushed from the wine or the cold. 

The attention is odd, and you giggle nervously under his gaze. His hands come to cradle your jaw as he leans towards you, nose brushing yours. The air is charged with an unusual tension, his mouth a breath away from yours. 

When he kisses you, he’s slow and gentle, his whole body angled into yours. Everything feels warm, a welcome contrast to the weather outside, and you chalk it up to the glasses of wine coursing through your bloodstream. 

It's pleasant, different from times past; this certainly doesn’t feel like an innocent, experimental kiss. It's heated, tinged with passion. He uses the placement of his hand to ease your jaw open, tongue sliding slowly into your mouth. 

There's a vibe, something you hadn’t felt before with him. It's communicated through the gentle touch of his hands, and how his breath hitches when you kiss him back with the same sort of force. 

The moment is broken by the announcement of a winner on the television. His hands slide down, resting on your shoulders, pulling your frame into his. 

You don’t talk about it afterwards. 

[theactualsunshinechild]

I think Aventio and Screwtio shippers shouldn't fight. After all, Ratio has two hands!

That's right. Two hands.

One for his chalk.

One for his codex.

Both of which he's holding in an embarrassed death grip as they chat away with each other about him.

[quoththemaiden]

@mrghostrat This is now the third time since December that I'm writing about your middle-aged men and their middle-aged-man problems (1, 2). Please come collect them, because they're causing a disturbance.

Or, if you aren't able to wrangle them, then please enjoy this scene inspired by Chapter 10 of Big Name Feelings.

For everyone who hasn't already seen the top portion of this on Discord, know that this is set sometime after the con but before the big bang.

��

"I think your hair might be getting long enough to braid now."

Crowley's eyes snapped over to him. "Braid?"

Aziraphale blinked at the sharp question. "I didn't mean anything by it." He'd still never figured out quite where Crowley's gender identity lay, or if it changed day-by-day. He suspected Crowley's public presentation of his gender was either "whatever's simplest for everyone involved" (around people he didn't know but generally liked, like at the con) or "whatever causes the most problems for everyone involved" (like with a particularly annoying security guard that had left Aziraphale remembering that being middle-aged, white, and extremely stuffy in appearance was its own form of armor). Aziraphale's own perception of Crowley's gender was just "Crowley." What Crowley felt about it was something Aziraphale had never quite managed to parse out. "You can do whatever you like—"

"Do you know how?"

"How...?"

"To braid hair." Crowley's tone was oddly urgent. "Like for your nieces or cousins or—"

"—for crafting, yes. Tassels for bookmarks and such. You want me to—" Crowley practically flinging himself down onto the sofa next to him was answer enough. "Oh."

Crowley's hair really was barely long enough to braid, Aziraphale decided as he gently freed it from its elastic band. He ran his fingers through it slowly and carefully, easing out the light tangles from a day's confinement. Crowley slumped forward in boneless contentment, and Aziraphale had to switch to prickling the top of his scalp with his fingernails to get him to sit up straight enough for Aziraphale to work.

Aziraphale determined his gameplan, then, and gently eased up a few locks of hair at the crown of Crowley's head, smoothing down the top with the flat of his palm. He started working the strands into a French braid, taking it tiny piece by tiny piece to ensure every section was balanced in size. If Crowley were doing it himself, he suspected he'd get it done in just five messy joins, but every strand he brought in gave Aziraphale another excuse to run his fingertips along Crowley's scalp and he luxuriated in each opportunity. "Has anyone ever told you your hair is unreasonably thick?" he murmured, his voice huskier with fond affection than he'd intended. Crowley spared him from a tease by being too utterly sedated to manage more than a vague hum in response. Aziraphale smiled at that and kept his progress blissfully slow and methodical until he had no choice but to tie the braid off at the nape of Crowley's neck — half a French braid, half a ponytail made bushy from having had waves worked into it. He placed a soft kiss to the back of Crowley's head, padded by the thickest part of Crowley's braid and somehow all the more intimate for it. "All done, love."

Crowley leaned back against Aziraphale's chest, tilting back his head to look up at him with eyes made impossibly soft with contentment. "I'm never putting my own hair up again. Just hope you know that."

Aziraphale chuckled softly, just as fond. "I'll manage somehow, I suppose."

—

Crowley's boneless appreciation of the hair braiding had turned into boneless napping, and while Aziraphale enjoyed having Crowley fall asleep against him at certain times of day, he had never been one for naps himself and there was a limit to how long he could stay motionless sans entertainment before even he got antsy. He eased his way out from under Crowley, grateful the other man was a heavy sleeper even during the day, and was left deciding what quiet amusement he could pursue until whenever Crowley woke up and started making noises about dinner. He could always read some fanfics, of course, but his eyes couldn't help but be drawn towards his favorite muse.

His muse who had, he recalled, tempted him into joining a rigged bang and had talked him into getting a digital tablet. Aziraphale still planned to do his official art for it traditionally, because he was sure Crowley's writing would deserve no less... and, if he was allowed to be vain in the privacy of his own mind, because he still remembered the feeling he'd had when Crowley responded to his scans with barely coherent keysmashing. He wasn't in deferential awe of Crowley anymore, although he still loved his writing just as much, but part of him still hoped that Crowley might respond with just as much enthusiasm at getting to see the finished piece in person, textured paper and unprocessed colors and all. Well, assuming he could be gutsy enough to actually give it to him in person instead of just leaving it on the drafting table for him to find, which was really the more statistically likely result. But anyway.

But anyway.

His muse was sleeping in front of him, and a stylus on an iPad would make hardly any noise at all. And if he got good enough at using it, maybe he could draw some extra digital art to celebrate the fic as well.

In any case, sketching Crowley while he slept was one of life's little joys. He didn't think Crowley knew how often he did it, and that was probably for the best. If he did it all in his notebook, it would have been too easy for Crowley to flip through and find the sketches (and removing sheets would have felt damnably like a guilty conscience). With his iPad, however, he was safe to sketch as much as he liked and there was no real way for Crowley to stumble across it. Aziraphale willfully shoved aside the thought that that didn't really sound any less guilty and started setting stylus to screen. It wasn't long until he'd settled into a comfortable rhythm, his eyes flicking back and forth between the screen and where Crowley was lying face-down on the sofa, his new braid highlighted in a beam of afternoon sunlight.

Something Aziraphale did appreciate about digital art was that white could be layered on top of other colors and be shockingly vibrant, which wasn't an effect he could get easily with his beloved watercolors. Something else watercolors didn't give him was the ability to pick out very fine details, and as his sketch started coming together, he found that was exactly what he wanted to do now. While Crowley's hair was a vibrant red in his selfies or on stage, when he'd had the opportunity to run his fingers through every strand, he'd found that Crowley's hair was showing his age just as much as his own was.

The first day Aziraphale had found a grey hair had come as a shock. He'd naively assumed that with his hair being as pale as it was, even if it started greying, he might well never know. Instead, he found that the grey hairs' texture was frustratingly different from the strands that were still blond, and until they reached a critical mass fifteen long years later, they had an unfortunate tendency to stick out unattractively if his cut was anything less than perfect. He had become quite a regular at his barber's.

With Crowley's hair being as long as it was, his grey hairs had worked smoothly into his braid. From even the small distance from couch to armchair, they melded into the red strands perfectly... but Aziraphale had just spent long minutes twining them into neat twists and didn't need to see them now to know they were there. Aziraphale zoomed in close (another marked benefit of the digital display) and set his pen to a thin, sharp line, layering sleek silver strands into the red braid he'd drawn. Following the way they weaved around each other and dipped in and out of view felt delightfully meditative.

Eventually, Crowley made a soft snuffling snort-groan as he roused from his nap, slowly turning to unbury his face from the pillows. "Wha' time'zit?" he mumbled, patting around blindly for his cellphone.

"Coming up on 5:30 now," Aziraphale replied softly, trying not to startle him into full wakefulness too quickly. He rose and fetched Crowley's phone, placing it gently into his fumbling hand. "There you go."

"Mmrrr. Don't need it now." Crowley tucked the phone under his side in what Aziraphale would have guessed would be a very uncomfortable fashion but which Crowley did without even thinking. At least it wouldn't be going anywhere from there, Aziraphale supposed. "What're you doin'?" Crowley made grabby hands at the iPad Aziraphale had brought over with him.

Aziraphale handed over the iPad without even one thought, much less a second. "Oh, I was just waiting for you to wake up, really."

"...Angel." Crowley had zoomed out on the picture (with a completely unsurprising lack of propriety) and was now staring, frozen and much more awake, at the drawing of himself. "You aren't going to post this on Tumblr, are you?"

Aziraphale laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of that, despite the ripple of shock Crowley's tense tone had caused him. "Come, now. When have I ever posted a drawing of you, my dear?"

"When have you ever made a drawing of me?" Crowley retorted. He waved vaguely at the screen, accidentally sparing Aziraphale from having to answer. "I don't mind being old, but I don't want the world knowing my boyfriend thinks I'm old." His frazzled waving turned a little more flaily.

"Crowley..." Aziraphale gently took the tablet back from him and set it down on the floor so he could take Crowley's hand in both of his. "I assure you, I'm not the kind of artist who spends my time drawing things I don't think are beautiful. And that includes every detail I put in."

Aziraphale would have hoped that was obvious, really. The strands of hair he had drawn weren't brittle grey; they were molten silver. They caught the light like a precious metal woven like a ribbon into cinnabar-red hair. Crowley could have been a queen, fallen asleep after a long day in her finery. He could have been a fae whose very essence was beauty, sleeping with no fear that it would be stolen away because it couldn't.

He could have been an ordinary man, who was so deeply, truly loved that even his grey hairs seemed to shine like the soft gleam of a newly-forged star when they caught the last strong beams of afternoon sunlight shining in through the windows.

Aziraphale hoped Crowley could see it, too.

Crowley made a grumpy noise. "I still don't want it on Tumblr. — Not that I can tell you what to do with your art, but—"

Aziraphale interrupted him with a warm smile. "I don't want it on Tumblr, either. I drew this just for me."

"...really? Even though...?"

"Just for me," Aziraphale whispered in confirmation, his eyes seeking out Crowley's and saving him from having to finish that sentence. "I've only ever drawn you for me." I love you to the point of creation, his heart sang. It wasn't quite how that quote went, he knew. It was the only way it had ever gone, for him.

"Hn..." Crowley shifted to look at the iPad where it lay down on the floor. "I suppose... Well. Despite the subject matter, you drew it well, at least."

"Well, thank you for that," Aziraphale jibed back lightly, completely devoid of malice.

"Ngh, you can't blame me for feeling self-conscious about my greys when you haven't got any."

Aziraphale let out a huff of a laugh. "Oh, Crowley."

"What?" Crowley looked defensive, then abruptly switched to looking shrewd. "Wait. Do you dye them??" He leaned forward eagerly, like this was taboo knowledge.

"Oh, where was that compliment two decades ago? No, not at all. Do you know how long I spent getting over feeling self-conscious about them, and now for you to not even realize I have them?"

"No way. You've been holding out on me!" Crowley's eyes had a light in them that Aziraphale had seen sometimes — the look of someone who has been wanting something very much and thinks he's just figured out how to get it. Aziraphale drew back instinctively in trepidation. He had no idea what Crowley could possibly be wanting, though a fluttering feeling in his chest suggested that it was, in some way, him.

Ridiculous. As if they hadn't had sex already.

"I'm going to go get dinner started."

Crowley let out a whine that cut off abruptly enough that Aziraphale suspected he actually hadn't intended to make it.

Aziraphale paused. "What?"

"Ehhh... just envious, s'all."

Aziraphale took a moment to muse about whether Crowley knew the difference between "envious" and "jealous" and decided, firmly, that he had faith that he did. "Of what?" he asked with an incredulous laugh, since he still had no idea what "envious" could possibly apply to here.

"Negghhh, you've gotten to play with my hair enough to know I have greys, and I haven't gotten to touch yours once."

Aziraphale blushed darkly at that, remembering some choice occasions in which Crowley had gripped his hair tightly enough to hurt. He cleared his throat and opted not to mention them. "That feels much more like your fault than mine."

"Just... tryin'a respect your boundaries, angel."

"Why would that be a boundary?" Aziraphale asked, baffled.

"I asked for it and you haven't."

Aziraphale didn't quite remember it that way, but it was a fair enough interpretation from Crowley's point of view, he supposed. "Well, no. It sounds perfectly nice, but I'd hate to bore you with it. I know you're much more fidgety than I am."

"Not bored," Crowley insisted, his eyes urgent. "Never bored when it's you, angel. Siddown."

Aziraphale laughed breathily. "Too late. I'm already up to cook dinner."

"Angel."

"You'll just have to wait," Aziraphale teased in a singsong lilt, casting a smile back at Crowley over his shoulder.

Crowley flung himself back on the couch with an impatient whine, leaving Aziraphale feeling very smug about his attempt at whatever the romantic equivalent of foreplay was. Crowley sounded very much like he was being left with blue balls. "Bastard."

"Only as much as you deserve, my dear," Aziraphale sang back as he went into the kitchen, acutely aware of Crowley's eyes following every step.

—

It wasn't really in question, at all, that Aziraphale would end the evening snuggled on the couch with Crowley's hands in his hair. There was also no question that he'd enjoy it thoroughly, and he also knew it wasn't the kind of thing that was likely to lead to anything more. So, instead, he just relaxed into it and let his thoughts drift.

"...do you really think I'd mind if my red fox turned into a silver fox?" he mused. The thought was languid, easy, relaxed. Crowley spluttered in incoherent surprise anyway, and Aziraphale laughed softly. "Yes, I know. There's a reason I'm not the writer of the pair."

"Y'are, though. Don't think I've forgotten that you are."

Aziraphale blushed a little at that. "Oh."

Crowley's hands resumed their meditative motion through Aziraphale's hair. "But... yeah. I'd rock it, wouldn't I?"

"You would," Aziraphale murmured with a smile. "And I'm quite looking forward to seeing it someday, my dear."

[clandestine-poet]

For context, before anything else, I myself am a lesbian.

Alright. So I don't quite know how to explain it, but Hualian really just has lesbian vibes. At least to me.

Being a lesbian is a lot of: "You girls must be such good friends!" "Do your boyfriends know you're here?" "How come I never see you two apart?" "Haha, two girls kissing? They must be best friends."

And look. Listen.

Hualian is constantly having people be like "You two must be such great friends!" from most of the other heavenly officials (until later on).

Xie Lian and San Lang at Puqi Village getting the "where's your wives?" every .5 seconds.

Xie Lian is constantly asked/talked about with "where's YOUR crimson rain sought flower?" or "If you are here, Crimson Rain is not far behind".

THEY KISS SO MUCH AND MOSTLY GET LOUDLY TOLD "there's other ways to exchange spiritual power!"

Also, there's something inherently powerful about a queer couple.

Being queer creates a space outside the norm. That unites us so much.

And it just feels like Hualian are the most lesbian-coded gay man couple I have seen in a long, long time.

[zundely]

I gotta admit this made me little mad. So yall are aware that explaining the whole methaphisics of your world is a mistake right? Especially when it means "explaining" an entire in game religion in a way that makes it "real" or "fake".

So how is it that when it comes to *check notes* every damn religion except for the christianity expy they did feel a need to explain it and left nothing to the imagination. Why is canonizing the "elven gods were evil colonising slavers" ok but when it's the Girlboss Christian Church it's suddenly off the table to make any definitive statements.

Why can't yall take your own advice sometimes and realise that shutting up can be very valuable part if writing.

[ywpd-translations]

We need more engagement in this fandom!

So, as the title says, because I was thinking about this - I love this manga with all my heart as you very well know, and the main reason I started translating is because I wanted more engagement in the fandom, which was pretty much dead. Well, it still kind of is, which brings me here lol

I tried to keep this blog translations only to keep everything more in order and make it easy to find the various chapters and all, and I kept all my theories and ramblings either in the tags or on my main blog, except for the times I got asks.

But I would love for this fandom to be more active! I wanna talk about theories and headcanons and ships and all that! I want this fandom to start living again :')

So I was wondering - would you people like it if I started also posting about that kind of stuff? Reblogging fanarts, posts, fanfics or whatever I see around? Would you like to engage more in the fandom? I'm asking because: 1) maybe you'd prefer it if this blog stays translations only, kinda like an archive; 2) maybe there aren't many people who actually wants to engage in fandom activities anyway lmao

I'm asking honestly! I just really would love for this fandom to be active again :')

[blueskittlesart]

cold fruit in a hot kitchen (so i had this great watermelon last weekend)

[kurim-chis]

this post in a nutshell: the Vidyadhara cycle can get a bit fucked up. sometimes. a lot of times. all the time, if you really think about it.

Note: i also blame my philosophy teacher. he was an awesome teacher, but philosophy class always made me question my own existence…

i think Dan Heng is right in wanting absolutely nothing to do with Imbibitor Lunae’s past and very clearly states he is NOT Lunae. However despite Dan Heng’s wishes and many people empathizing with him, in my opinion, it boils down to this:

the mentality of being a Vidyadhara

A case of “shut the fuck up and don’t spout bullshit, you don’t know how it feels, experience it yourself and then you know how hard it actually is”

First Note: Vidyadhara are just built differently — physically, mentally, and psychologically

For the vidyadhara, it’s their natural life cycle to be reborn with a clean slate every 700 years, possessing no reproduction capability and being immortal as long as they underwent the reincarnation process. They see it as normal and a “matter of fact” thing, and xianzhou natives do too, but can other non-vidyadhara species truly understand this? It’s kind of like how other species see things differently and have different morals from humans.

It’s a bit of a mind-fuckery because a vidyadhara is always the same person, but they always will get a clean state, and yet depending on each incarnation they might turn out completely different.

So they’re the same, but they’re also not.

Second Note: don’t say any bullshit until you’re the one going through it, then you will realize how hard it is

Basically this. Perhaps some aren’t going into a breakdown when their vidyadhara friend just deletes them from their life (or well, the vidyadhara is deleted and born anew), and they try to accept it because they’re too old and are wise enough to accept their lot in life, but there are others who are just bamboozled by it, even though they must have thought they were prepared for it. exhibit 1) Jing Yuan

Even the vidyadhara are not excerpt from this.

There’s a vidyadhara mirage who says his vidyadhara lover just went into an egg. To the race, this is a normal cycle of life. She won’t remember him. She will be the same person born anew. She will be a different person too. She can’t be burdened with anything of her past incarnation. He knows she is not dead, but he stares at the rolling waves and feels as if she is because he cannot and as a vidyadhara he must not see her reincarnation as HER.

But his feelings won’t matter, do they? This mirage said he couldn’t wait for his turn to come, but this wouldn’t guarantee him another future with his lover because CLEAN STATE you know? After returning to his egg, being reborn anew, then all of this — his grief, his solitude, his love — won’t matter anymore because he will also stop caring about it as well. It won’t matter. They won’t matter. The only thing that matters is their new life, but at that point that is NOT going to be the life of their incarnation, is it?

This is such a contradiction, isn’t it? Perhaps in “another life” he had also thought this, had also grieved for someone else or been grieved in return, but those lifetimes don’t matter in the same way his current one won’t matter after he reaches 700 years old.

“So you’re gonna be reborn after another 157 years? That’s how your race keeps being immortal and wards off the mara disease? Just the way you were created by Permanence? Cool.”

“So you’re the SAME but also a DIFFERENT person every time you go into an egg? That’s kinda trippy, but OK.”

“What will happen after that? Will we still be friends when you wake up?”

and the next time your friend appears, they are a child and you are absolutely no one to them

(…)

(how is this immortality?)

(my friend/brother/sister/parent/mentor/student/comrade/lover has not forgotten, because this is not something as simple as forgetting, this is a clean state — in a way only the vidyadhara, transcendent and celestial, can achieve. a cruel severing of everything you had to do with them.)

(they are gone, and in their place is a child with a clean state)

(it’s as if they are dead and you’re left to deal with a legacy—)

So despite what Dan Heng says and the Vidyadhara culture, I can also see why Jing Yuan struggles and is pained by the sight of Dan Heng. And also why Xianzhou deems Dan Heng guilty.

I also can understand why Blade is so enraged at Dan Heng and refuses to back down or stop trying to kill him (Blade being insane put aside) due to his incarnation’s sins, because how UNFAIR would it for Imbibitor Lunae to get a clean state just like that? What, they’re same person? But they get to start over as a NEW person? All his sins like that, gone? What sort of bullshit is that?

Just. This whole vidyadhara reincarnation thing can get very, very fucked up, you know?

[kentopedia]

i do not anticipate being on here much in november but just know i miss you all and i love you 🤍

[br1ghtestlight]

the idea of tina watching one of bob's old western movies w/ him and falling for a cowboy with a thick southern accent and then realizing to her devastation that zeke is actually really hot is very funny to me LMAO

[sonknuxadow]

my honest reaction

[7classyantiquestores]

I’ve heard some people suggesting that Veilguard is going to turn out being another DA2, and honestly, if it could scratch even a tiny bit of what DA2 accomplished in its clunky half-finished form, I would probably like it.

DA2 is a demonstration of BioWare knowing what their brand is all about, and knowing how to prioritize that over everything else. Legitimately it doesn’t matter to me how ugly the game is if the world is full of compelling characters and a tight, well-rounded narrative. Good writing and character performance can breathe life into a world, even if that world is just the same two cave and building maps pasted over and over. Just like having brilliant actors on a mid stage. Sure, you can see the stage ninja wheeling in the garden backdrop for the upcoming romantic rendezvous, but it doesn’t matter if you’re wholly captivated by the story unfolding in front of you. Honestly, I wish that upon Veilguard. Be a little clunky, have some odd quirks that fans will be divided over for the next decade, all that — but make the story something that will come grip me by the front of the shirt and give me something I’ll remember.

[bittrlys]

I have heard some people saying that the show is going to address the issues of humans being discriminated against will be addressed in season 7 dark. What do you think about that?

Personally, I think it might be a bit too late for them to properly address it and do it in a satisfactory way especially because the main ship rayllum had rayla being prejudice against humans but her actions don't get called compared to Callum so i doubt her actions will be called out next season as both the fandom and the narrative love to frame her in the right when she can sometimes be quite hypocritical and in the wrong.

Also, I want zubeia to be called out for her actions and zyms father but I doubt that will happen either.

Another question I also don't like the series framing of dark magic. Now in season 6 (took us 6 seasons) to learn that dark magic creates a hole in your spirit and it corrupts you to aaravos but that feels like the writers adding it in there so people don't bring up the whole arguement that dark magic is bad because the narrative says so. Also the show doesn't convince me dark magic is so bad that viren SHOULDN'T of used it to save soren or that Callum SHOULDN'T of used it to save rayla.

Idk to be honest the handling of dark magic within the narrative is so confusing and bad.

Anyway sorry this got so long

My very upfront opinion is that there is clearly some dissonance, and perhaps even conflict, in the writer's room about Viren and Claudia, dark magic, the cost of it, and the intended take away from these characters and their actions.

Now, when writing, there's no particular requirement to be honest with your audience or to not accurately represent how history can be muddled and shift. "Humans learned dark magic" to "Unicorns taught humans magic and were slaughtered in thanks" to "Aaravos is implied to have taught humans dark magic" to "Aaravos's daughter Leola (a uni-horned elf) taught humans magic and was killed" is cohesive enough, even considering the writers are on record saying they may be changing things as they go, as happens with writing. (With dark magic being the main sticking point of anti-human sentiments, how and why it occurred matters.) I also don't think the show has never wanted us to sympathize with humans or not see their discrimination -- the sight of them in tears as they're exiled, evoking the Trail of Tears (still bonkers), or Ziard's bitterness over how humans starved or his terror when Sol Regem tricks him in hopes to destroy Elarion are moments of raw feeling where the camera centres humans and their pain. Most of our protagonists are humans, and Callum, though occasionally punished for his ambitions, is a character who wants magic who is heroic.

The ultimate problem, however, is that the show wants to have its cake and eat it too, which goes back to my earliest complaints in how they 'meta write' from what we expect of fantasy and muddle their own messages. Certainly this show could be a long-form exercise in tricking people into rooting for ethnic cleansing racists but like, it's a show for kids. Sol Regem is a bad dragon and he is obviously bad. Zubeia is a good dragon and she is obviously good. We're supposed to understand Sol Regem kinda had it coming and understand that Zubeia being hurt is allegedly sad. There's no deceit to this straightforward presentation. Viren, Claudia, and now Aaravos are sympathetic villains, but they're still villains. And when your villains come in two main flavours of Team Anti-Human (arising after humans wronged Xadians initially, natch) or Team Human (or adjacent) and every hero is Team Xadia because humans fighting against the disparity of their world is Causing Trouble while humans who extend the hand of friendship to Xadians are Bringing Peace, it ultimately teaches us that "Maybe humans had a hard time of it, but it's time they suck it up." I don't think there was anything more explicit to this than having our Out Of The Mouth Of Babes protagonist Ezran's Zubeia-backed speech at the Many Thunder Victims Memorial Valley.

A lot of writers like villains who have a point, because they feel it adds depth to them, but they often jump straight to "the villain is a marginalized person who is fighting for change in the Wrong Way" and this creates an implication that Fighting For Change At All is wrong because our heroes are never passionate champions for equality. They may like equality, but they say "Not now -- not like this --" and it isn't central to their beliefs. Team Xadia are not nominally Anti Equality or Anti Humanity, but their framing vis a vis our villains makes this lack of investment in the liberation of humanity quite clear.

All of this is to say that I agree, it would be too little, too late, and that the fact the show has *already established* humans as being victims of discrimination makes the narratives around them all the more galling and difficult to untangle. I absolutely would like to have the show deliver one of its extremely straightforward, directly to the camera-type messages on how humans were discriminated against, yes, but it doesn't fix six seasons of presenting all anger on behalf of humanity as something that is ultimately morally unsound and in need of changing. And how much further can they take it? Can they portray Xadians as a whole as privileged beings who have benefited from the mistreatment of humans? Not just a few bad apples -- can they actually, truly acknowledge Xadians as less than idealized? Can they take seasons upon seasons of trying to make us love Xadians and turn it around with frank questions about things like "reparations" and "acknowledging generational trauma without both-sides-ing it"? Can they give us a purely heroic human protagonist who is firmly Team Human and centres human interests? I don't think so. They prefer keeping to their "Callum and Amaya and Ezran constantly apologizing and putting down humanity in favour of their Xadian betters" agenda. (So bonkers they do this with three characters of colour, sidenote.)

Rayla is interesting because I think they have a fundamental disinterest in her inner world. She's so defined by her relationships with others and traumatic things that happen to her personally are ignored (her feelings on her banishment getting sidelined into Callum stuff, or her overcoming her fear of water to save Callum and Ezran happening off screen.) Her prejudice is a standard result of her upbringing but it's another thing that hasn't really come up in a while. I don't know if they so much want her as a character to be right, or prejudiced, or whatever, so much as they use her as a mouthpiece for particular opinions they need stated. She was learning about humans as much as Callum and Ezran were learning about elves and now she's learned she's just chilling being another one of Ezran's inexplicably pro-monarchy shooters.

Onto the second half of your ask about dark magic -- this season has firmly shifted the dark magic usage into an addiction metaphor, and so we get the "hole in your soul" (the anti-Birdhouse In Your Soul.) I do think this makes sense with earlier seasons. Dark magic has always been shown as corrupting the user (hence the monstrosity, and hence Viren being likely to die if purified of it, because it's become so entwined with his inner core) and this destruction of the self has been a reason to avoid it. I'll even be generous and say it's not entirely "Evil People Are Ugly" but instead a lot of "Self-Destruction Is Terrifying." However, I've been obsessed with this since I saw it:

"He shouldn't be monstrous in his final moments of heroism" is very funny. The writers are aware they have thoroughly codified Ugly, Monstrous = Bad and would try to bend themselves over backwards to let a Good Act be done via Evil Means in a way that minimizes the evidence of the evil means. This is why you have to put that "inherent evil" in quotation marks because real inherent evils don't tend to get a pass. And because they want dark magic to still exist in the show and still be used by sympathetic characters like Callum and Claudia without rendering them utterly reprehensible they have to make it the hole-in-your-soul addiction metaphor and say it costs the user as much as, if not more than, it costs the world around them.

Which is, like, fine, but at a certain point it is like -- Yeah, if we can see times where dark magic is basically a necessity because your choice is either "dark magic, or let your child die" or "dark magic, or let a dragon flambé your people" -- which many of us would consider non-choices -- then you have to respect that people maybe will have to make that choice. And if the cost is more on them, then ...? It's practically a noble sacrifice. To oppose it for reasons of Aaravos is a non-argument. Viren was mainlining dark magic for decades and it wasn't until he got that mirror that Aaravos became a problem and Aaravos isn't always going to be around ... not to mention that now that he's free I think he has abilities that go well beyond "souljacking." Aaravos in this case represents more the 'spiritual death' associated with this internal corruption. So can we find reasons to oppose it that go beyond The Harm It Causes To An Individual, Who Should Be Allowed their Autonomy?

They still throw half-hearted nods to the previous seasons much more heavy-handed "omg the beautiful butterfly" "omg the baby deer" (single crying tear) "stop hurting the environment" "magical beings are superior to you" type anti-dark magic rhetoric (see Claudia and the cat thing) but it seems the writers have come to realize they need dark magic to exist as much as the people in universe need it to exist, and so they're trying to focus more on the internal cost. Personally, I think this is a fine place to take it and if the intent is to return the discussion to how humans have been discriminated against, it's a wise thing to do. So I won't protest it much, although we can discuss villainizing addicts and so forth and why Rayla's lack of compassion in approaching Callum's dark magic use is difficult to watch.

It's funny, because I wouldn't even call myself "pro dark magic" as I do see it as harmful, but the hypocritical and condescending treatment of dark magic users in the narrative is something I take issue with more than the use of dark magic itself. This is why, if they are leaning into this more sympathetic reason for rejecting dark magic, I hope we see increased sympathy as to why dark magic is used and why, until humans are liberated (i.e. given equal access to magic and Xadian resources) it's pretty much essential.

Thank you very much for the ask! ♥ Don't apologize for the length, as you can see I love to ramble away myself. Also yeah didn't fit this in anywhere else but fuck that narrative deadweight Zubeia. Thunder at least got shaded by Rex Igneous even if Rex Igneous was Mean and Scary.

[dredgesnails]

joel inadvertently implying perry the platypus is a bird is so funny but also platypuses are just so strange like that. people who had never seen one before (almost the entire world, basically) thought someone had just stuck a duck beak on an otter at first. theyre one of the only mammal species that lay eggs and the males have venomous spurs in their hind legs. also they sweat milk and glow under a blacklight