#how have i been here an entire decade?!?

[deansmom]

The fact that the spn fandom is entirely incapable of a nuanced discussion involving Dean and the relationship with his mother shouldn’t surprise me as much as it did when I came back to fandom, and as much as it still does when I’m forced to see it with my own two eyeballs

Mary Winchester was a person before she was a mother, and I’m going to be so honest with you, I think by the time she died, John didn’t like who that person was. So I think when she died, he did what a lot of people do, which is put the person they lost on a pedestal. And that’s who Dean grew up hearing about, that’s what all of his memories of his mom were contextualized with, this person who didn’t exist. And so then his mom comes back and I think it’s very, very clear to Dean almost immediately that this isn’t the same person John told him about.

In the real world, we have no context to draw from and nothing to compare it to, the experience of getting a dead parent back and to be part of your life again. We can’t know how he felt beyond what we were shown in canon - So of course Dean is thrilled, but he’s also a Winchester and deeply traumatized, and tries so hard to make it seem normal and not internalize his complicated feelings about her and her being alive. He’s dealing with:

Grappling with losing the mother he was told she was and resenting mary for it because she’s standing in front of him

Realizing that John robbed so much from him by denying him the version of his mother who feels like looking in a mirror

The guilt of how and why mary is there

Trying to reconcile his feelings of resentment and anger that he knows should be directed at John, but John’s not there, so they end up getting directed at mary, and feeling bad about that

A deeply traumatized inner child who has his safe person back, and just wants his mom to hold him and tell him it’s going to be okay, but he knows that isn’t fair to ask of her

And meanwhile mary was dealing with

✨trauma✨ from being brought back to life

Having to confront her own failures as a parent (which is silly it’s not her fault she died but y’know, feelings tend to be silly)

Having to reconcile her toddler with the man in front of her who’s older than her being her son

Seeing so much of John’s worst qualities in both of them and recognizing the trauma of a shitty dad

The fact that they had this idea of who she was, and it’s nothing like her at all, and trying to understand why John would lie to them while also probably coming to terms with what looks like confirmation of her own worst fears about who she was as a parent

I cannot stress this enough: the last time her feet touched the ground, she had been married, with a new baby, and a 4 year old, she wasn’t a hunter, John barely knew about hunting, and it was the 80’s. She woke up in what, 2017 and her husband’s dead, her babies are grown men (again: older than her!!!) and the most prolific hunters in the world. Oh, also, angels? God? The afterlife?? Funny story! Like I’m sorry, you wanted her to have well-adjusted coping skills for that????

The Mary hate just gets me because she’s Dean in a different font, and so many of y’all hate her for such superficial bullshit that you could let go of if you took 5 seconds to think about the situation critically for both of them. The only bad guy here is, was and will always be John Winchester. John was there, but Mary tried her best. Mary tried to do what was best for them when she left, because she didn’t want to damage their idea of who she was anymore than she had. Mary literally died trying to save Sam from the destiny that heaven had written for him - John couldn’t be bothered to think about his kids.

And if you think that Dean ever genuinely hated Mary, your critical thinking skills need some work. The thing that prompts his speech in 12.22 is Mary saying to his younger self, “I only want good things for you, Dean. I'll never let anything bad happen to you.” So he says

I hate you. And I love you. 'Cause I can't – I can't help it. You're my Mom. And I understand...'cause I have made deals to save the ones I love more than once.

I forgive you. I forgive you. For all of it. Everything. On the other side of this, we can start over, okay? You, me, Sam. We can get it right this time. But I need you to fight. Right now, I need you to fight. I need you – I need you to look at me, Mom. I need you to really look at me and see me. Mom, I need you to see me. Please.

Translation: “you’re right. I resent you for not being the person I was sold, I resent you for your death being the thing that ruined dad, I resent you for being the touchstone for so many of heaven’s plans for us. I resent you because you’re here, and John isn’t, and it’s easier to hate someone tangible than someone dead. And if I hate you, it’s only because I can see so much of myself in you, and I’m so incredibly angry that John treated us the way he did. My whole world, my whole identity revolves around you being someone that you never were, and wrapping my head around that is scary, but when I pull my head out of my ass and look around, you were just a kid. And you did your best, you’ve always tried to do what’s best for me and Sam, and I don’t hate you. I don’t know if I like you right now because you’re a stranger, which is scary - but I love you. So please, mom, I’m sorry that I’ve been taking my bullshit out on you. Just… try. For me. Please.”

Anyways!!! You guys don’t deserve Mary.

[jamethinks]

I have a hard time hating Donovan because as much of an asshole he is to his son, that man has done nothing wrong in my eyes. I know the goal is to keep him as a mystery and a sort of looming threat but I’m not really threatened by the unknown.

He’s a dick to Damian but it’s never made clear why. The best assumption would be that he’s rich and therefore neglectful but that doesn’t seem to be the case with all the other kids at Eden. He just comes off as paranoid for again no particular reason. The most we know is that he thinks that everyone is inherently a bunch of liars which is a nice contrast to the main cast of characters and based on that odd conversation with Twilight we know that he extends this belief even to his own family. Unfortunately, I have a hard time hating him even for that because I’m the end Damian is like 6 and it just seems to logically insane to view a child as a potential opp that I can’t take it seriously. Also he never extended that kind of suspicion to Demetrius so I dunno maybe Damian is the problem.

As for his politics, they are effectively nonexistent. Only information that we know is that he maybe possibly would be interested in starting the war again but at the same time that’s not how war works. My best understanding is that he is trying to be re-elected to start the war again but if that’s the case then why would anyone vote for him? No context is given as to why he lost the last re-election (and that’s me assuming he lost and it’s not a case of term limits) or what the general public thinks of him. There was that one scene where Millie blamed him for the death of her father so maybe the gp isn’t too fond of him but it’s also never said why. As much as I am anti war I do know war is a nuanced issue so I can’t really say if I’m against Donovan without know why he is interested in the war. He didn’t even start the war also what even is the war. It’s constantly referenced but I don’t even know what they’re talking about. The timeline is so vague and confusing.

I’m nitpicking again but it’s really confusing. I get the upset about losing family to the war but wars are far too political and complicated for me to just side with anyone. Like I feel bad for veterans in general but also a lot of them are cold blooded murderers and rapists who proudly dedicated their lives to furthering white supremacy and engaging in neocolonialism so I can only feel so bad before I just say womp womp and move on. Brainwashing does seem to be an issue in Ostania but again like meh. They specifically said Ostania isn’t a socialist state which was the core of the conflict between East and West Germany and it’s the socialist/communist beliefs that caused the most harm in East German but if that not the case here then what is actually going on.

If you have any information that can help please share I am confused 🤔

Anyways here’s a tiny Yor

[fluffs-n-stuffs]

"Cuhut it out- you guys!" "Nu-uh, not until you're all perked up first! You don't want those gym challengers meetin' with an ol' mopey leader, do ya?" "Whitney's right, dear friend. No need to hide that beautiful smile of yours, alright?~"

What it takes to cheer up Johto's beloved ghost boy 👻💕

[cator99]

I always get detained at da border because PROFUNC never ended but basically I'm like if a targeted individual didn't even care

[catsafari25]

A/N: Hello again, and with this I think (?) I may have succeeded in writing enough bionicle fic to get it out of my system (unless another plot bunny hits me like a cannonball, but... eh, we'll see) and thus, here is the companion piece to the Vakama & Roodaka oneshot.

This time, exploring the scene where Vakama entered the Great Temple, from his side of things! This was also partially inspired by the scene in Challenge of the Hordika where Nokama is almost physically repulsed in trying to enter the Great Temple :)

x

In the tunnels beneath the temple, Vakama must stoop.

At first he shuffles, mutated arm tucked against him and his sole hand brushing only briefly along the floor to steady himself, but the passages are dark and deep and lined with creatures which seek out the weak. The eyes that watch him are not hungry. They keep their bellies too full for that.

In the end, it is easier quicker to drop to all fours, to share the weight between claw and tool that feet alone cannot. His altered form folds into the new stance with frightening familiarity. It's comfortable.

Natural.

The crown of his mask grazes the tunnel's ceiling, but only in passing. His gait is sure. Well. Surer than the ungainly slouch it had been before.

It was said – back when Matoran were awake to say such things – that even the strongest swimmers of Ga-Metru would hesitate before plunging into the depths of the protodermis sea. Not because the creatures there had any fondness for the taste of Matoran. In truth, it was thought that the rahi actively disliked the flavour. No, it was because the way Matoran swam was indistinguishable from the rahi's usual prey. Only when they had sunk tooth and jaw into their meal would they realise their mistake.

It was an annoying, if harmless mistake for the rahi.

Matoran couldn't say the same.

Vakama's early crawl through the passage had been like that of a Matoran swimmer: functional, but slow and indiscernible from wounded prey. Creatures drag themselves down into these depths to die, in hopes that they will be devoured only when they are too far gone to feel it. The eyes are patient. They will wait to see if this newcomer is similarly inclined.

And so when Vakama drops to his haunches, the eyes blink. Reassess. He moves less like the hunted and more like the hunter now, more predator than prey, and the eyes – and teeth – keep their distance after that.

The path Vakama stalks through was once a protodermis pipe, made obsolete even before the cataclysm. Newer conduits had been built, more efficient, more resilient, and this one had been disconnected but never dismantled. When he reaches its origin, it takes some effort – and his blazer claw – to break the seal across the hatchway, but when he does, one of the temple's protodermis purification chambers looms above him.

The room beyond is quiet.

Unmarked.

He doesn't realise he's stopped until the chittering of his audience draws closer. The snarl he throws back echoes off the pipe's walls, and the eyes retreat, but do not leave.

Vakama curls his hand around the lip of the hatch, and then falters.

Something is wrong.

It's not a pain, because the feeling does not hurt as it ought, but something is undeniably, fundamentally wrong. It causes his breath to catch, his hand to flinch, and it would be so easy, so easy, to turn and walk away, only...

Only he came here for a reason.

The wrongness flares, amplified for a moment, and then he pulls himself up. The eyes watch, but do not follow. Do they feel it too? Can even such base creatures sense the innate malice the temple exudes?

He clambers out of the purification chamber – empty and abandoned now – and stumbles upon his landing. He catches himself, but does not rise back to his feet.

Wrong.

This is wrong.

And at the edge of the wrongness there is a strange sort of terror. It dreads the same way the fire fears the sea, the same way the prey fears the predator; it is the meeting of two primally antithetical forces where only one can survive. It whispers turn back through his mind.

He moves into the next room.

It's one he knows well. Light filters down from the rot-stained windows, centering – as it had the day he'd first seen it – on the suva, and casting long sentinel shadows of the columns standing to attention around it. A crack mars the suva, its stone dome now split cleanly in two from the quakes, and – drawn by some desire he cannot identify (instinct, curiosity... nostalgia?) – he approaches.

It seems so small now. Even bowed and altered in his Hordika form, he looms over the Ta-Metru symbol he'd once had to stretch to reach.

Unbidden, his hand moves to the niche where once he'd placed a Toa Stone – where once he had though himself chosen, duty-bound, destiny-gifted – and falters a breath from the stone.

The wrongness spikes.

Screams.

And with a twist of something he will not call horror, he understands it is not originating from himself.

But from the temple.

It is repulsion. It's alienation. It's recognising him, but as other, as rahi.

It's disgust that a monster would dare enter its sanctuary.

In the Ta-Metru carving, stone once polished to the point of fragmented reflection, he sees a glimmer of his own face. Neither Toa nor Matoran. Nothing blessed by Mata Nui.

Vakama recoils.

And then a wave of his own disgust, propelled by that fury that runs so close to the surface now, rolls through him. If you didn't want us as the Toa, you should've stopped Makuta from choosing us, he thinks, and digs his claws into the stonework.

The wrongness sings.

But he knows it for what it is now, and his morphed, clawed hand gorges scars through the carving. The stone is soft. Its makers had never imagined someone would take a blade to it.

There comes a tapping from across the room, echoing brazenly off the ancient stone walls, and Vakama retreats instinctively into the shadows. A Rahaga enters.

Norik?

No, this Rahaga's armour is more akin to a Po-Matoran than a Ta-Matoran's, the colour of dust and stone. Vakama tries to recall the Rahaga's name – and then dismisses the attempt.

It won't matter, in the end.

The Rahaga walks as he always has, stooped and slow, but clearly unhindered by the temple. He passes by the suva and runs one gnarled hand across the stonework, his movements marred by curiosity rather than reverence.

The rage arrives a fully-formed creation. It drowns out the wrongness, floods the apprehension, and he is moving before he's decided that this is the path he wants.

It is not pain, for it does not hurt as it ought.

But it does still hurt.

x

Whatever the Rahaga might once have been, they are old and weak now. Four are captured before Vakama's rage has a chance to cool, but the ire is no less dangerous when it does.

(That's the thing about Ta-Metru; it's not a place of fire so much as it is of magma. And magma doesn't extinguish with the cold; it sets. It moors itself into place, an unmovable, burning force.)

The rage settles, solidifies around his heart and lungs and carves a home between his breaths.

(Magma is not fire. It does not leap blindly from one source to the next. Instead it advances. Slowly. Steadily. It finds a channel, a destination, and it engulfs all in its path until it reaches it.)

He finds the last two remaining Rahaga, pathetically ignorant to their brothers' fates and still scavenging the temple for answers. He hears the way Norik appraises his sister's translation, relief clear in his voice that they are one step further on this wild rahi chase. Relief, surely, that the Rahaga are one step closer to regaining their Toa form.

(And Vakama's anger has found its destination.)

He does not descend on the Rahaga's leader the way he has the others. No. Norik will know what's coming for him first. He gets to fear. Vakama waits until Gaaki has gone, until Norik is alone, and then he circles. The wrongness thrums in his veins, weighing him down and labouring his breaths. It doesn't matter. Let Norik hear his approach.

Norik doesn't try to run. Vakama will give him that much. (A wise choice. Vakama intends for this encounter to last, but if Norik runs, Vakama cannot be sure he won't chase.) Instead, the malformed once-Toa calls out and actually tries to approach him. Stupid. Doesn't he know that he won't win any fight, transformed as he is? As both of them are? No, instead, he tries to talk. As if they are equals, as if Norik has done anything to deserve his respect rather than his scorn. As if he has earned the temple's forgiveness for his trespassing.

Even when Vakama raises the fate of Norik's fellow Rahaga, Norik attempts to sway him with the illusion of reason, talking of duty and unity, as if he's not using the other Toa Hordika to chase after a rahi myth for his own desires. As if their roles are in any way comparable, both Toa of Fire once, both leaders, it's true, but Vakama hasn't forgone his duty to chase after selfish needs.

And it stops now.

Vakama circles closer, and Norik is still talking, unease in his voice, but not fear. Still searching for the right words to turn Vakama to his bidding as he has the other Toa Hordika. Ever the voice of two-faced logic.

Why won't he just shut up?

Does Norik think him to be as gullible as the others? As quick to desert his duty as them?

And Vakama knows he wants – needs – to shake that assurance, that arrogance out of Norik. Needs to see that facade of self-righteous wisdom crumble into the terror of his situation.

The growl begins deep in his chest and, unleashed, it becomes a roar. He rears out of the darkness, into the weak sphere of light surrounding Norik – and there, there he finally sees true fear fill the old fool's eyes.

Something slams into Vakama and he reels, his roar cut short. His hand reaches automatically, defensively, to his mask. He finds only water there. It clings to him, imbued with some sort of power – he can feel something other in it – but otherwise impotent.

"Leave my brother alone," Gaaki snarls. She stands in the doorway, small and hopelessly overpowered, but her shoulders are tensed with a stubborness Vakama recognises. Already, her spinner is powering up for another shot.

Well. Two can play at that game.

Vakama's rhotuka fires into motion, but the water has seeped into the mechanism, and dowses the fire before it has a chance to catch. He gives it a withering look, before turning the expression onto Gaaki. "Very clever."

Another water spinner hits him, but this time he is braced for it and all it does is wash harmlessly off him.

"Is that all you have?" he asks. His blazer claw splutters, but the claws on his hand flex. After all, there's more than one way to defang a muaka...

Gaaki steps back. Good. She knows she's outmatched. "It's a devastating attack underwater," she offers, and her words are strong but there is a cracked edge to them.

"Then you'd better start finding a puddle," Vakama growls, "before my claws find you," and he drops into a run, feet pounding and fangs bared and that ever-present wrongness humming about him.

She doesn't flee. Just like Norik, she stands her ground, gnarled fingers wrapped tight around her staff. Her eyes are hard, but he sees the way her hands shake.

How long will her resolve last, Vakama wonders. Before or after the claws find their mark?

He never finds out.

He's knocked off his feet before he reaches her, and when he hits the ground, ropes of energy pin him to the earth, like a water-bound rahi caught in a net.

What–

Norik.

He'd forgotten Norik.

He thrashes against the restraints, but they hold strong – for now. His blazer claw splutters again, but it does nothing to the energy that binds him.

He stills as he hears footsteps approach.

The two Rahaga hobble into his line of sight. Gaaki is breathing hard, as if only now is she allowing herself to feel the fear. "You left that late, Norik," she says, and even the breath that follows sounds more like a shaken wheeze than a nervous laugh. "Almost too late."

"I only had the one shot. I couldn't afford to miss," Norik replies. "He's got our brothers. Gaaki, go find–"

"I'm not leaving you alone with him," she retorts. "I only went for a moment before, and look what would have happened if I hadn't returned."

Vakama tilts his head as well as the energy net will allow. He grins at the Rahaga, anger curdling it into a sneer. "Yes, Gaaki, you're very good bait, congratulations." He shifts his gaze to Norik. "But you've always been so good at getting others to do your dirty work, haven't you, Norik?"

Norik doesn't even have the decency of guilt. Instead, he simply looks tired. "Whatever you think you know–"

"I know the truth! You don't care about the Matoran, you only care about yourselves!" He strains against the ropes, and although they do not break, there's a little more give in them than before. He slumps back to the ground, breathing hard. "You might have the other Toa fooled. You might even have the temple fooled, but not me," he growls, and the temple's hatred presses down on him, straining his last words.

Gaaki places a frail hand on her brother's arm. "Norik," she says, and there is such unbearable sorrow in her voice. "He looks in pain."

"It's not my doing," Norik assures her softly. "My snare spinner only binds."

Vakama snarls. "I don't need pity from the likes of you. I know what you are."

"We're allies, Vakama," Norik says, in that insufferably reasonable way of his. "Friends."

"You're frauds," Vakama snaps. He twists against his restraints. They slacken, just a touch. "Liars. You don't deserve to walk these floors."

And the Rahaga stand there, unburdened by the temple's hate, strangers to this land, to Metru Nui, and yet it is Vakama the temple repulses? After everything he has forgone, the life he's abandoned, the friendships he's lost, Mata Nui punishes him?

His rhotuka fires off a fire spinner, and it goes wide, cracks a wall. Norik and Gaaki stumble back, Norik preparing another snare shot, but the energy net holding Vakama snaps. Vakama lurches forward, suddenly free, and slams into Norik.

The snare spinner wraps itself around a column. It lights up the room with crackling energy.

A blast of water grazes past his shoulder, too shy of hitting Norik to commit to taking the easy shot, and Vakama reels towards Gaaki. He fires with a snarl, but hears the snare spinner coming again and ducks at the last moment.

Again his own attack misses and the shot cleaves clean through a wall. Something on the other side begins to smoulder.

Then it begins to rumble.

It's a low sound at first, as deep as the earth and just as vast. Almost like a distant growl. But then the cracks begin to spiral out across the roof, along the columns, and the room buckles.

The light flickers. The frames of the high windows above collapse.

The world becomes fragmented, filled with flickering images. Falling masonry and toppling pillars and dust – but the sounds never relent. Even in the depths of the passing darkness, the thunder continues.

And when the dust settles, so does an awful silence.

Vakama straightens, or does his best approximation of it. Fragments of cracked protodermis fall from his shoulders, his head, his back. He withdraws the hand which has somehow found itself raised above Gaaki, knocking aside the stone slab caught against his arm.

Where's Norik?

Both Hordika and Rahaga stand side by side, that quietness disturbed only by the skittering of stone shards settling. There is wrongness in his breath, his head, and it's impossible to separate where the temple's ends and his begins. But any moment now, Norik will reappear from the wreckage, bearing that ever-same holier-than-thou look, and the anger will rise anew in Vakama.

Any.

Moment.

Now.

"You've killed him," Gaaki says, and her voice breaks that terrible stillness. She draws in a half-breath that cracks into a sob. "You've... oh, Norik..."

No.

No, it was an accident. He hadn't meant to– Norik had simply been in the wrong place. It wasn't as if he'd taken a blazer claw to Norik, or hit him directly with a fire spinner. He'd only meant to... what? What had he only meant to do?

Something swings towards him and he grabs the staff before he even registers what it is.

"He's not dead," Vakama says, and maybe if he says it, he might even believe it. He snaps his gaze to Gaaki, as if her grief is bringing it to pass. "He's not. He's not as easy to kill as that. When the others– when the Toa find him, he'll be fine. Fools like him always find a way to survive."

Gaaki attempts to pull her staff free, but her strength is no match for Vakama's. He wretches it out of her grasp and tosses it aside.

"Stop that."

She doesn't listen to him, only steps back and charges up her rhotuka. The grief in her eyes fogs into hatred.

The water spinner hits him but does little more than rock him.

"Stop."

Gaaki screams, a sound of rage and anguish, and releases a volley of spinners as ineffectual as the first.

Vakama's patience – or whatever had held him in place until now – snaps. He lunges forward. His claws close around the joints of Gaaki's rhotuka and pins the mechanisms harmlessly into place, in the same manner one might pick up a baby ussal crab by the widest edge of its shell. She thrashes, but Vakama's grip holds.

"I said, stop," he snarls.

She's breathing hard, her gasps sharp-edged with agony. "You killed him," she says, voice hoarse and hateful.

His insides twist, and – Gaaki hauled by his side – he starts the ascent to where the rest of the Rahaga are trapped. He doesn't look back to the rubble. Doesn't glance for one last glimpse of Norik's resting place.

He's not dead. He's not dead he's not dead he's not

The wrongness, the hatred, has woven so deep into him, it's almost a part of him now.

Toa don't kill. Vakama can't remember who taught him that (he recalls, briefly, the flash of a gold mask, but it comes with pain – grief – and he pushes it aside before it can take root) but it gnaws at him like a trapped stone rat. Toa don't kill.

But he was never meant to be one.

And if the Great Temple – if Mata Nui – thinks a mistake was made in Vakama's destiny....

Well. That's somebody else's problem.

x

The Hordika that returns to Roodaka is different from the one she sent out. There's something new in his eyes... or perhaps something lost.

"How was the temple, Vakama?" she asks when it's just the two of them.

He looks to her. Beneath the anger, beneath the rahi, there's almost a haunted look to those eyes. It vanishes a moment later, but Roodaka never doubts her own eyes.

"Unwelcoming," he replies, and Roodaka smiles. She could have suggested Vakama pick the Rahaga off one by one in the chaos of Metru Nui, outside where her Visorak could have been an aid... but the temple had been too good an opportunity to miss.

"Good." She sets a hand on his shoulder. "You owe no loyalty to Mata Nui, Vakama. Not anymore."

He rolls his shoulder, but not sharp enough to dislodge Roodaka's hand.

"One thing I do not understand," she says. "What happened to the sixth Rahaga?"

The Toa growls. It is a gutteral sound, rooted deep in the chest and at home in a way it wasn't before. "You wanted a message left for the other Toa. I needed a messenger."

"Alive?"

Vakama shrugs his shoulder again, and this time she lets him roll her hand loose. "Does it matter, so long as they understand?" he growls.

No, Roodaka concedes as she surveys the remains of the Toa before her. She supposes not.

[mariocki]

Shadows of Fear: Did You Lock Up? (1.1, Thames, 1970)

"And they didn't make much mess?"

"No, not really. They forced that door. Smashed the cabinet, slashed a sofa. And kicked a hole in the bedroom door."

"Ah. Big mistake."

"What is?"

"Never lock inside doors. Anything you can to keep them out - but when they're in, let 'em get on with it."

"I'll remember."

[fluentisonus]

rereading a morbid taste for bones & brother cadfael truly characters of all time. he loves his herb garden. he regularly sleeps through mass. he was in a crusade and maybe killed some people. he's definitely had lots of sex. he keeps opium poppies. he's welsh. he has an ongoing snarky commentary with his young assistant about all the other characters in the abbey. he wheedles his way into a trip to help pick up some reliquaries because the thinks it'd be fun to get out and about and ends up in a murder mystery. it's 1137 AD

[mostlyanything19]

WHEW that back half of the episode was JUICY, HUH??

[ardentperfidy]

.

[killjoygem]

Gotta confess, I've been using the for you dash for like. Several days now. At first I was just testing it to see what it was like but it just consistently has more interesting posts than what's on my usual dash

The biggest problems seems to be A) repetition, I get a lot of the same posts multiple times and B) showing me old poll posts that i can no longer vote in. These aren't super big issues though, i can scroll past repeated posts, and with the polls I just treat them like they're any other post and add my answer in the tags

[harrowharkwife]

x

[orchideius]

genuinely, when will it end??? I am so tired of being here and I am not sure how much longer I can push myself to keep going. i’m exhausted.

[syrinq]

mfw in hindsight there obviously was something Wrong With Me when i was growing up but i didn't think of it as a possiblity whatsoever because of environmental circumstances & I Am Just Lazy And Useless And Doing Fuck All By Nature & I Thought I Fixed My Biggest Issues By Therapy Already And I Didn't Think I Could Have Any More

but then said behaviours continue even in better environments and you're suddenly out of uni wondering what the actual fuck is up and it's into the downward spiral to wonderland from there

i'm the frog being dissected in biology class. i'm the dissector at the same time. i peel out an overgrown lump out my dissected frog ass and see that in fact i do have Behaviours. now i have to find the origins of this behaviour & unfortunately the best i can do is speculate. which sucks because i need to 100% know what's caused by what else in order to understand it and deal with it better

(blingee sparkle gif effects) Unfortunately Nothing Is Ever Certain With Comorbidity, Baby! Nor Is It Certain It Is Comorbidity To Begin With (This Is The Impostorism Talking)

on one hand, learning frog anatomy by poking its ass & getting to know myself better to deal with it. cool, i guess. on the other.

god. why.

[softersinned-arc]

@cllairmont​ said: After love, no one is what they were before.

There is a toddler sitting in Astoria’s lap, sulking spectacularly; denied access to her favorite, Becca has taken her aunt as a consolation prize, little fists balled up in frustration and brows furrowed. She calls for Baldwin a few times and, once she’s certain he won’t be responding to her summons, she turns to Astoria with her eyes as wide as any child’s could be and her little chin trembling.

          “Tesoro mio,” Astoria says soothingly, “you beautiful little con artist, put those tears away. I know what you’re doing.”

          In response Becca turns towards her mother and lets out a wail, and Diana sighs tiredly before sweeping the girl into her arms, bouncing with each step she takes as she tries to calm her. Beside her, Matthew lets out a humorless chuckle as he watches his wife and daughter leave the room, and when Astoria’s turned towards him he’s lowered his head into his hands, elbows on the table, eyes closed.

          In a moment of uncharacteristic kindness she stands, and she rests a hand on his shoulder and squeezes before she moves to pour them both a glass of the wine sitting on the counter. He opens his eyes and lowers his hands, casting her a small smile once she holds out a filled glass, and when Astoria sits again she lets her lips quirk into a smile of her own.

          “Children bite. They’re temperamental and they’re capricious and they don’t have the words yet to explain what they feel or why they feel it, and so they bite.”

          “Diana said the same thing.”

          “But Becca and Philip aren’t normal children.” She says what she doubts he will, and he doesn’t challenge her. “And if one of them has blood rage, a child’s temper tantrum could become deadly. I know neither of you like the thought of it, but testing them isn’t a bad idea. Forget whatever the Congregation will demand; you and I both know you’ll just ignore it. But if you know what obstacles your child has to face, you can help prepare them to face it.”

          “Astoria.” There’s a hint of desperation in his voice, and it’s enough to startle her into silence. “Can we not argue, just this once?”

          She doesn’t speak, but she does nod, and mollified, Matthew takes a drink. It’s another few minutes before she says anything, and she’s not sure what prompts it; it’s rare she speaks of her life before, rarer still that she shares it with him.

          “My nephews were biters. One in particular. He would grab hold of my hand and chew on my fingers for hours if I let him. We were afraid it would be difficult to break him of the habit, but one of his brothers was shooting sparks out of his fingertips, and that seemed a more pressing matter.”

          His eyes widen a bit in surprise, and he hesitates, but he seems to understand that she’s offering him something profound, and he tries to offer her the same in return. “I have dealt with children before, even recently, but there are times it feels like I’ve never interacted with one.”

          “Mm. Jack was, what, eight? Ten?”

          “Just about.”

          “They have their words at that age.”

          “Baldwin seems to think it’s a matter of discipline.”

          “Well, perhaps my husband’s hopes are too high. After all, you have well over a millennium behind you, and you still bit your brother when he made you angry.”

          Matthew meets her stare, unflinching, and neither of them comment on it further. She has yet to forgive him for his outburst at Sept-Tours when Diana was missing, and he has yet to care all that much, if at all. After several tense moments, Astoria speaks again, voice softening just a touch.

          “You were a shit father to Marcus,” she says, and Matthew’s brow furrows with agitation. She raises a hand to hush him before he can speak. “It’s true. But these are actual children; Marcus was a grown man. And it was two hundred and fifty years ago. You may not know what you’re doing now, but you’ll learn. You’ll refine those instincts again.”

          She doesn’t mention his son, long since dead and buried, but she knows they’re both thinking of him. There are very few things off-limits between them—they have passed judgment on one another with a ferocious cruelty over the past five hundred years, wielding everything from their infinite failings to their ever more personal faith, but Blanca and Lucas are untouchable as few subjects are.

          “And children bite, Matthew. You’ll have plenty of time to learn how you want to react. Everything takes time. Lucky for us, we have an abundance of it.”

          “They won’t be so young forever.”

          “And they’ll outgrow the biting and move on to more devastating things, like telling you that you’re ruining their lives when you set a bedtime.”

          Matthew laughs, and Astoria considers him silently for a long moment. He’s different somehow. She’s noticed the little things—the grey woven into his hair at his temples, so subtle she’d missed it for weeks after it had first appeared, the gradual but nevertheless present decline in his usual brooding and angst, and even (does she dare say it?) genuine, visible joy in things.

          “Diana’s made you softer,” she says, voice gentle, and for once, it’s not a criticism.

          Matthew considers this for a moment before he answers. “After love, no one is what they were before.” He says it so simply that she almost laughs. A few years ago they’d have bickered about something like that until they were driven near violence.

          “I know,” she says, just as simply, and before either one of them can spoil the tenuous peace between them she stands again, leaving her glass behind. “You’re better at this than you think you are. Children bite,” she repeats, “and then they grow. Test them, Matthew. Not for the Congregation, or because anyone told you to, but because you love them, and you can’t help them if you don’t know what they’re up against.”

          For once, they part pleasantly, even amicably.

[kabretoss]

dinosaur kid in the 90s, never accused of being a tomboy and used to love dresses until I went 180 and rejected them when I realized they were compulsory Girl Formalwear

blissfully don't think about gender throughout most of my teens

straight because boyfriend? have a minor panic when said boyfriend comes out to me as bi. have a Homophobic Moment(tm) when I think about my boyfriend leaving me for a boy

promptly eat my words about a year later when I'm having a sleepover with my bestie at the time and the thought occurs, unbidden, "if she were down I'd have sex with her"

(never made a move on that one. though later I'll find out a couple of my Girl Crushes at the time were queer)

cautiously and tentatively start thinking of myself as bi

start discovering I enjoy wearing masculine fashion

the hammer comes down hard on that one from my mom

for the next 10+ years I dress almost exclusively in baggy pants and hoodies. i am still undoing this damage.

BUT: the next time I end up with a Bestie Crush, I make a move and it goes well (hi @cherrehc!) (I end up marrying her. like 15 years later) (we like to take our time with things)

20s are an occasional sexuality buffet (with Cherry's thumbs-up) and I confirm that yes I do enjoy sex, and yes I do enjoy it with multiple genders

still not thinking about gender: am aware by this age of Transgender People and am cool with them but I've never felt like a boy so that's not what I am, right?

(Even if, when puberty really took hold, I felt completely alienated from my secondary sex characteristics? that's normal, feeling like your body isn't yours but is a barbie's, right? I'm hot and I like being hot, so I'm a cis girl, right??? people like my tits and I like that so I must be a cis girl, right????)

at the same time find myself playing nonbinary characters in RP situations before they are in vogue in the wider community.

(reading some of my old RP logs is wild. it is all RIGHT. THERE. in text from when I was 20 and had never heard the word nonbinary.)

(I have avoided RPing men up until about this point because "I don't know how to play a guy". women are already strange to me: men must be aliens.)

(then a particular character occurs and something clicks.)

fast forward to my early thirties. one of my best college friends is on T, has been calling himself a male name for years, and comes out first as nonbinary and then as a man.

wait.

wait.

wait.

if I'm not a girl I don't have to be a boy? I don't have to be a boy to not be a girl? well that's closer, but what does that leave me?

I hear the word agender.

grief.

the loss of so much time. looking back on this timeline of events and feeling the most profound sense of something gained, late, not too late but still so late. It's never too late to know yourself, but you lose time. You lose the ability to experience parts of your life, ones you can never relive, as your genuine self. In my case, I also may have lost the window in which I can safely medically transition, as other health issues have cropped up since I was young.

I will never get to be a young nonbinary person: I never was, because I was never allowed to imagine myself that was.

I was a "girl". I was an alienated, lonely girl, who didn't understand why she felt, even when invited, that female spaces were wrong and strange. There are other reasons for that too, but I think a huge part is gender. I was invited repeatedly into the world of the feminine by good women in my life, but I never went there. I didn't feel the pull of it, even when I wanted the friendship and companionship that seemed to live there.

I lived in limbo. I felt like -- not a gender failure, but a kind of nothing. An empty space. a void. I didn't have something missing, I was something missing.

it's a big grief. It's ameliorated by getting to see young people living as the people they are, watching others grow up with the self-knowledge I was never allowed to come to.

I don't know where all the agender people my age are: odds are good that attrition bore them into silence or suicide, or that life has not yet introduced the opportunity for them to learn better than how they were raised, or they're (like me) just so very fucking tired and unable to build community themselves. I know a few of y'all here fall into that category and I'm quietly collectively rooting for us, here; I know one or two others from my union and animation work.

But it brings me so much joy to see younger queer communities embracing gender diversity. Treasure it. It may still be an uphill struggle, and newly dangerous in a different way to be visible, but at least you're not lost alone and blind in the dark woods thinking that sight is a myth: you have each other, and you know what you are.

LGBTQ+ folk what was your gender/sexuality pipeline?

[sufficientlylargen]

It always gets me that the name "Gandalf" literally just means "Wand-Elf" or "Stick-Elf". I'm imagining old Gondorians just being like:

Librarian: I saw that weird guy at the library again today.

Guard 1: What weird guy?

Librarian: The old guy with the beard? Kinda elfy-looking, apart from the beard?

Guard 1: Oh, with the big-ass stick?

Librarian: Yeah, looked like he was carrying an entire tree branch.

Guard 2: Yeah, that's the Stick Elf.

Guard 1: Hell yeah, I fuckin' love the Stick Elf.

Librarian: The "Stick Elf"?

Guard 2: He comes by every few years, usually after some weird book or other.

Librarian: Oh. Yeah, he wanted a treatise on goblin breeding habits.

Guard 2: Like, how they have sex? We have books on that?

Librarian: Yeah, turns out we do. I was as surprised as you are.

Guard 1: What'd the Stick Elf need a fuckin' goblin-fuckin' book for?

Librarian: I didn't ask. So you just call him "Stick Elf"?

Guard 2: I mean, he looks kinda elfy and he always has that stick, so, like, yeah.

Guard 1: Dude also has some fuckin' dope pipeweed.

Guard 2: Oh yeah, his pipeweed is awesome.

Librarian: How long has he been coming here?

Guard 2: Oh, for decades. He's, like, super old.

Guard 1: More like fuckin' centuries. Dude's old as balls.

Guard 2: Wait, really?

Guard 1: Yeah, my gran-gran used to talk about him. She loved his pipeweed too.

Librarian: So he's… an immortal pipeweed dealer?

Guard 2: I think he's just, like, a connoisseur. He doesn't sell it or anything. He just always has some really top-notch pipeweed on him.

Archivist: Oh, are we talking about Stick Elf?

Guard 1: Hell yeah we are!

Librarian: You know about the Stick Elf, too?

Archivist: Oh, totally. Stick-Elf's a super chill dude. Gave me some awesome pipeweed when I was maybe 12, and tee-bee-aitch I think I'm still a little buzzed from it.

Guard 1: What'd I tell ya, fuckin' dope pipeweed!

Archivist: Also he's really old.

Guard 1: Old as balls.

Librarian: Yeah, so Éodan and Jenniforomir were telling me.

Archivist: My grandpa used to tell me stories - he said one time he saw Stick Elf enter a smoke-ring contest.

Guard 1: Ooh, I'll bet he kicked fuckin' ass.

Archivist: Apparently the guy made an entire warship out of smoke and it flew around shooting down the other rings.

Librarian: And how much of this "fuckin' dope" pipeweed had your grandfather had by this point?

Guard 1: No no, that's totally plausible. Dude's got weird elf powers and shit for sure.

Archivist: He brought fireworks for the king's birthday one year, too.

Guard 1: Oh fuck, I forgot about those! Fuckin' incredible fireworks! Dragons and knights and glowy trees and shit! I was fuckin' 6 years old or something, they totally blew my mind. Hey Éodan, did you see that shit?

Guard 2: No, I think that's before I lived in Gondor.

Guard 1: Wait, you're not from here?

Guard 2: Oh, no, I grew up in Rohan. We moved here when I was, like, thirteen because my uncle Éojeff said he could get my dad a sweet job. And also that there were houses that didn't smell like horseshit.

Guard 1: Oh shit, are you related to Éojeff and Éosteve who run that æbleskiver stand on Norndîl St?

Guard 2: Yeah, they're my uncles!

Guard 1: Shit, they cook a fuckin' great æbleskiver!

Librarian: Ok, hold up a sec, "Stick Elf" can't possibly be his real name.

Guard 1: Why not?

Librarian: What? You think his parents named him in the hopes that he would carry around a fucking tree when he got older?

Guard 2: Maybe they gave him the tree when he was born!

Archivist: I don't think a baby could carry that stick.

Guard 1: You ever seen a baby hanging onto something? They're hella strong.

Archivist: It's not a strength thing, their hands are tiny. That staff is enormous!

Guard 1: My halberd's bigger 'n I am, I can hold it just fine.

Archivist: You're not a baby.

Librarian: Also why would elf parents name their kid "stick ELF"?! Presumably they know that their kid's going to be an elf!

Archivist: Is he actually an elf? I didn't think they grew beards.

Guard 1: How'd he get old as balls if he's not an elf?

Guard 2: His ears aren't that pointy. Maybe he's just a really old guy? Like, a Numémoriam or something?

Guard 1: Did you just say "Numémoriam"?

Guard 2: Nûnenorman? Munimõrbitan? Y'know, those guys like the king that can get super old.

Guard 1: You mean the fuckin' Númenóreans?

Guard 2: Yeah, the Númenóreums.

Archivist: Even the Númenóreans don't live THAT long.

Guard 1: Plus he carries that fuckin' stick around.

Guard 2: Wait, what does the stick have to do with it?

Guard 1: That's an elf thing. Y'know, trees and shit? Very elfy.

Librarian: Ok, look, but his parents naming him "Stick Elf" would be weird whether or not he's an elf. In fact, it's even weirder if he's not - what human names their kid "elf"?

Archivist: Huh. Yeah, you're right, he probably does have another name.

Guard 2: Yeah, I guess so.

Librarian: He's been coming here for decades and nobody's ever asked his real name?

Archivist: I dunno what to tell you, he's Stick Elf. Even his library card just says 'Stick Elf'.

Guard 1: Fuck yeah, the Stick Elf!

Guard 2: Maybe we could, like, ask him his name sometime?

Guard 1: Hey, look, Elrond's over there. He's old as balls too, maybe he knows?

Guard 2: Oh, we shouldn't interru-

Guard 1: HEY ELROND, YOU'RE OLD AS BALLS, RIGHT? WHAT'S THAT OLD ELF WITH THE STICK'S NAME?

Elrond (coming over): Do you mean an old man cloaked all in grey and blue, leaning on a rough-cut staff, who came to the great library this day?

Guard 1: Yeah, the Stick-Elf!

Guard 2: (Sorry to bother you, sir...)

Librarian: He's got to have a real name besides 'the Stick Elf', right?

Elrond: Indeed, for no elf is he. You speak of the wizard Olórin, wisest of the Maiar, older even than Eä itself. Many are his names in many countries: Tharkûn among the Dwarves; Incánus to the south; Mithrandir he is called among my people, the Grey Pilgrim.

Librarian: Oh.

Elrond: And here in the North he is called Stick-Elf.

Librarian: Oh.

Guard 1: Fuck yeah!