#i know that this is reductive but the tone of the two is just so *insanely* different that it's shocking

[andromeda3116]

you know i wonder where the essay is, i certainly don't have it prepared, what it reflects about society, that the '99 trigun was a fun action western-sci-fi anime with a plot that wove itself out slowly and had plenty of heart that got serious eventually but was also a quirky romp through most of its run

and the '23 trigun stampede is a dystopian sci-fi set in a crumbling desert that can barely support life with a dark plot that drags you under immediately and also does have a lot of heart but ultimately appears to have the theme of scavenging that heart from a place that gives you no reason to believe it exists

like, as time capsules i feel like it's unintentionally saying something about us, about where we've come to and come from, that the same basic story is told in two such wildly different ways, after less than a quarter-century

[starrycassi]

Today in Jean and Neil's bestfrienderism. With a side of Andrew being Andrew. And domestic Andreil.

.

Jean is having a panic attack.

Well, not quite. It's not a full blown attack, yet. But it is close. Very, very close. He is thirty. He is alive. He is Jean Moreau and he has endured so, so much. He is, somewhat, free. As free as the cattle are in a pasture. As free as the shrimp are to the breeding pond.

He has a wonderful husband. He is reconnecting with Kevin. He visits Cat and Laila whenever their schedules allow them the time to do so. He has a dog — well, he technically has three. Charbon is his, and his alone. She is a wonderful Black Labrador that Dobson appointed him. The other two, Caramelo and Dulce, (both named by Catalina, of course) are his and his husband's.

Charbon is moving as soon as he's clawing at his neck. She knows what to do. She knows what to do.

"-breathe. In, and out. Com'on, Jean. It ain't hard. In, and out. You're, like, an athlete. In, and out. You don't even smoke. In, and out. Drew? Water, yes. In, and out."

That's, unfortunately, not the voice of a cybernetically enhanced service dog. It's a different type of animal. Neil Josten.

He manages to make his brain claw around, trying to find where his hand is (in his neck, of course) and puts it up, flipping the bipedal cockroach off.

.

Jean doesn't have a panic attack. Thanks, Charbon.

He's still on the edge. He plays with the dog's ears, floppy and bendy. She seems content to let him do so. They're all on the floor. The two cats are in Neil's lap. Andrew is in the kitchen.

"Breathing okay? Didn't break a rib, did you?"

Jean flips Neil off again.

"I take that as a no. But we did do a RCP training course, you know? Aaron was being a little bitch about me being 'death-prone' or whatever. So you wouldn't even have died. Not on our watch"

"Pretty sure RCP is not the standard solution to panic attacks, junkie" Andrew says, sounding bored, while he walks into the room, tray in his hands. "Panic attacks, also, don't really kill people that often. He would've fainted, at worst"

"Should be standard. Gets the heart right again, does it not?"

Andrew drops the tray to the floor. Only, he doesn't drop it. The jug full of ice and water is intact, as is the glass right next to them. Jean serves himself a glass, drowning it as quickly as possible. It stings. It helps, with the whole "I hate my throat" thing. Harm reduction, Dobson called it.

"You're such a fucking idiot" Andrew says, before reaching down to tug Neil's hair. Neil looks up, their eyes lock, and Jean feels so disgusted that he almost forgets why he's on the floor, to start with. Can they be any less PDA-inclined?

Then again, Jeremy and him are worse. So.

There's silence. And, then, "Jean. We could find a way"

Jean is confused. Andrew, clearly, is not. Jeremy and him love each other, but even theh can admit that there's no other couple with such a level of telepathy as the Josten-Minyard one. It's quite off-putting.

" 'We' sounds like a lot of people" Andrew complains, his tone one of slight annoyance. Regardless, he drops down next to Neil. One of the cats migrates to his lap. He absentmindedly scratches its head, just like he did Neil.

"I'm not following"

They both look at him like he's an imbecile. In return, he glares.

"To get you out of the contract" Neil clarifies. Except, that doesn't clarify anything. Jean Moreau, even as a free man, belongs to the Moriyamas. Not the Nest, or Riko, anymore. It's as much freedom as anyone like him can wish for. Jean Moreau has, is and will endure.

Yes, he hyperventilates whenever the topic of children comes up. Because Jeremy wants kids. A big, happy, loving family. Jean, unfortunately, wants the same.

He doesn't want kids as much as he fears his debt. Their future. His work. Their worth.

Andrew made the offhand comment of Aaron's twins coming to visit next week. About how it seems that the whole group of "Neil's friends" are eager to overpopulate the world with mini nuisances and how he pitied the teachers that had to ever work with such offspring. How it feels like they're the only ones sane enough to avoid such a burden. He didn't mean anything by it. That didn't stop Jean from spiraling. Intent and reaction are, often, not the same thing.

"I stress that you should just get the Care Bear to replace you. He likes Exy. He likes you. Surely we can guilt him into agreeing"

"Non," he answers immediately. They've had this conversation. Jeremy has offered. Jean has refused. It is enough, that one of them is tainted by the Moriyamas. Jeremy's life is not and has never been perfect, but Jean refuses to add a whole ass mafia deal to that.

Andrew shrugs, unapologetically. Jean is not offended. Andrew is a no-nonsense kind of man. A "straight to the point" kind of man. He, probably, thinks that his suggestions are helping, somehow.

"There has to be another way." Neil muses, looking at the ceiling. "We already negotiated with Ichirou, once. Maybe time's made him softer? He's got kids, now. Fatherhood softens people up. Or so I hear."

"Your father tried to kill you. At least thirty times. Almost succeeded half of those, too" Jean reminds him, trying to stay out of the whole family conversation. Neil has never been one for careful sentences. He doesn't mean anything by it. Then, again, intent and reaction.

"It's his personality. He brings out the worst in people" Andrew adds, interlocking his pinky with Neil's pinky, before leaning in and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. Gross.

"Rude. Also, Ichirou is way more level headed than Nathan. We could try, at least."

"Absolutely no, you neuron-lacking flea."

"Over my dead body, Josten."

"Again, rude. You two never let me have any fun. Kevin is influencing you too much, I swear."

Jean doesn't feel like thinking about Kevin, so he takes out one of the bobby pins in his hair and throws it at Neil's face. Andrew snorts. Charbon looks at the interaction with curiosity. So does Neil.

There is silence, again. For a while. And, then, "Neil will play Exy until he can't, anyways" Andrew points out.

Jean is confused. Neil, clearly, is not. He looks at Andrew with such an open expression of vulnerability and worry, that Jean has to look away.

"Drew, you know that-"

"I said 'life', didn't I? Same team. Same house."

"Five years ago."

"Haven't changed my mind."

"Still. I know you hate it."

"As much as I hate you. I've put up with you this long. I will handle it."

"Are you two always this fucking cryptic? Jesus Christ"

They share a look. Andrew nods. Neil hesitates. Andrew pokes him in the ribs.

"Andrew is willing to make a deal. We- we talked about it, some years ago, when Kevin had that skating accident. It's, uh, a backup plan. Asking Ichirou to pass the contract down."

"For a price." Andrew adds. As if that isn't the most unhinged, crazy and stupid thing Jean has ever heard them say. And God knows that that's a very high list.

"You're joking with me."

"Do I look like a fucking clown, Moreau?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. I will not pass down my burden to you. Plus, it is, surprisingly, a decent plan. There is no other goalie out there who is making more money than you. Ichirou would be stupid if he didn't agree. Which means that you have to keep that option open. Neil is constantly looking for new ways of getting himself killed. I will not tolerate having you, either of you, on the chopping block for me. Not if I can help it"

He is angry. Do they think so selfish? So entitled? So uncaring? He feels nauseous. Charbon puts her paws on his chest, licking his face. He shouldn't feel offended, but he does. They don't mean anything by it. Intent, reaction.

"I'm already involved with our dear asian Shobhuza. Pretty sure he doesn't like me, already."

"Non. Absolutely no. Don't even- no. No. Are you listening to me? Never."

They glare at each other. Years ago, Jean would fold, Andrew's gaze reminding him too much of handcuffs and needles. He doesn't.

"Dramatic" Neil mutters in singsong. They glare at him, now. He has the audacity to giggle.

"We'll figure something out." he says, so sure of himself. How can someone so short be so full of confidence, Jean will never know.

"Even if we don't," Andrew adds, with something close to warmth in his tone, "surely the two of you can survive without passing on those dreadful genes of yours for a few more years"

"We were thinking of fostering" he murmurs, softly. So softly that he's unsure if they heard him or not. Andrew freezes, midway through petting his cat. Neil's eyes widen. Charbon gives a friendly bark.

Andrew and Neil look at each other. Do they ever do anything else?

"We'll find a way," Andrew says. Promises. Begs. Asks. Neil nods, gaze heavy with duty. They hold hands. Neil squeezes. Andrew squeezes back.

Jean feels like he might have another panic attack. How can they be so reckless? For him, out of all people?

Then, again, he would do the same. Sacrifices and promises.

Is there any other way to live?

[leclercstars]

Love the Rockstar fics so far, something kinda related, do you think you could do something where the reader has boobs on the smaller side and is a bit insecure about them and her bf is rambling how much he loves them and doesn’t care about the size?

Love your account btw

FIRST REQUEST FIC YAY!!

bali blues. 🌊

Lando Norris x Reader

Warnings: not many it’s mostly fluff tbh, some cursing, mentions of sexual scenarios.

*full disclosure this one was a little hard to write since I have like need a breast reduction sized boobs but i tried my best!*

“Honey, i’m home!” you giggled as you bounced through the door of your apartment. Shopping bags lined every inch of your arms as you stepped into your bedroom where Lando was impatiently waiting.

“Finally!” he beamed at you.

You two had been planning your first couples trip to Bali for months now, and you had just gone on a massive shopping spree in search of the perfect swimsuits to flaunt around in.

“Please try them on for me I have been waiting ages for this moment!” Lando was bouncing excitedly, eyes wide as he waited for you to strip down.

“Okay okay! Don’t sound so desperate!” you laughed at him.

You turned and faced the wall to take off your clothes, slipping into the first suit, a high cut one piece that accentuated your toned figure.

You turned back around- doing a cutesy little spin to show off for Lando.

“You are PERFECT, y/n.” his jaw was damn near to the floor.

“Need to see the next one immediately.”

You blushed and went to strip down- but in the middle of taking the suit off Lando interrupted.

“Why aren’t you facing me? You know how I love admiring every inch of what’s mine,” he said.

You cringed. Suddenly everything felt very hot, and there was an awkward tension hanging in the room.

“You know i’m insecure about them,” you whispered.

“About what?” Lando’s innocent confusion was charming- but it certainly wasn’t helping you in the moment.

“My tits!” you yelled at the wall.

You were barely an A-cup, and ever since you started dating Lando you had noticed all the comments online about the way you were built. Flat, boyish, a whole host of other jabs making fun of your lack of womanly curves. Lando had never made you feel like he didn’t like your figure- and he damn near worshipped your tits during sex despite their size- but it felt so much different when you were just changing in front of him.

“Baby, please look at me.” he said in a gentle tone. His eyes softened as you turned towards him- the swimsuit now around your ankles- as you crossed your hands over your bare chest.

He placed you gently on his lap- and it was like he was baring into your soul. He moved your hands away from your boobs- gently and cautiously- as you now sat fully exposed on top of him.

“You are absolutely perfect in every way- and I especially love your tits. The way they look perfect in every outfit you wear- god especially those tiny going out tops- and how they fit so wonderfully in the palms of my hands. I love how they look during sex, after you get out of the shower, or when you’re just lying around the apartment naked. You look like a goddess every time I lay eyes on you.”

He was melting your insecurities away with each word that trickled out of his lips.

“What do they call it? The Itty Bitty Titty Committee? I’m the president of the fan club” he grinned at you.

You laughed sheepishly at his remark, and nuzzled your head into his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around your waist. Bali won’t be so bad after all.

[whump-tr0pes]

Honor Bound 6 - 26

This is a series. Start here, continued from here.

This is a sequel to Honor Bound, Honor Bound 2, Honor Bound 3, Honor Bound 4, Honor Bound 5, and the prequel Vera.

AO3

Masterlist

Contents: PTSD, past captivity, references to being unsure of reality, thoughts of murder, self-harm themes, bad reaction to discovering self-harm, harm reduction, recovery

~

Isaac felt better already, knowing there was a locked door between him and the rest of the world. He had locked it behind Vera and Tori as they came in with tonight’s dinner: a hearty shepherd’s pie with rich bites of tender chicken, carrots, and potatoes all in a mouthwatering gravy. Once he had locked the front door, he had walked to the back door and made sure – for the second or third time since he���d gotten home – that it was still locked. It was, but it didn’t hurt to be so sure.

Edrissa had gotten into the house through the unlocked back door and then held a knife to Gavin’s throat. Isaac would have to be stupid to not check, and recheck, and check again.

Isaac sat on one side of Gavin on the couch, and Gray sat on the other. Vera, Sam, and Tori sat sandwiched on the other couch. Now that everyone was finished with dinner, Gavin leaned against Isaac’s side, and Isaac’s arm was slung over his shoulders. Gavin wasn’t shivering for the first time since they’d left the house that morning. Isaac was sated on two large slices of shepherd’s pie.

And yet, he ached to be holding his gun. The concerned glances Vera was throwing him weren’t helping.

“Thank you so much for bringing dinner,” Gray said, finally breaking the silence. “Did you make the pie, or buy it in town?”

“Bought it,” Vera said with a chuckle. “I appreciate your faith in us, but after everything… um. Recently.” She gave a stiff shrug. “Neither of us have felt like cooking.” She smiled tiredly at Tori over Sam’s head.

Gray let out a huff. “Same here,” they said gently. “But we’ve all been… through a lot. I don’t think anyone’s expecting anyone else to be out there crafting gourmet meals.”

“Except Edrissa,” Vera said tightly. “Apparently she’s been, uh… helping Meredith out. With the pies at the general store. Spending most of her time there, actually.”

“Really,” Gray said. Their tone was perfectly even.

Isaac’s hand tightened into a fist as the image of her flashed through his mind – cowering behind Gavin in that bathroom, eyes wild and streaming, clutching herself, looking terrified, as if she was the fucking victim and not the one pressing a knife to a man’s throat hard enough to draw blood just seconds before.

To Gavin’s throat.

His jaw ached and he swallowed hard. He forced himself to release his fist and brushed his lips to Gavin’s temple instead. He felt Vera’s eyes on him the whole time. He cleared his throat.

Sam wet their lips and leaned forward, seeming to sense the tension. “We’ve been keeping things as calm as possible here,” they said with a glance at Isaac. “Mostly just… sleeping.” They laughed. “All of us. Mostly Gray.”

“I don’t appreciate the accusation,” Gray said good-naturedly. “Although, god, I’ve never slept so much in my life.”

“What about you, Gavin?” Tori said softly. She reached over the back of the couch and rested a hand on Vera’s shoulder. “How are you sleeping?”

Gavin relaxed further against Isaac’s side and drew in a deep breath, thinking. “Well,” he murmured. “Better than in… than with Schiester. That’s definitely for sure. But…” Isaac bit his lip and waited for the second shoe to drop. “…it’s… sometimes hard to tell where I am. When I wake up.”

Isaac’s heart twisted. He knew all too well the things Gavin said, and fucking believed, when he wasn’t sure if he was staring at Isaac himself or merely a figment of his own imagination.

“D-don’t you want to… to punish me? …you want to, right? It’s… Isaac, it’s… it’s okay. It’s not… real, I know that. You can do… whatever you want. I can give that to you… if you want. I know it doesn’t really help you… But it’s what I have. P-please don’t stop touching me. Please… Isaac… please, this… this feels better than… a-anything he does to me.”

Shame clogged Isaac’s throat. His fingers itched for his knife. Fuck.

“Yeah,” Vera was saying. “Yeah, that’s… that’s the hardest part, I think. After. The waking up and not knowing, for a while.”

Isaac’s head snapped up. Vera held Gavin’s gaze, and he stared at her with an understanding that Isaac had never shared. Even though everyone except for Gray had been held captive, tortured, collared – what Gavin and Vera shared now was different. They had both been taken, punished by a sadist, had their minds broken down by pain and time – and drugs, in Gavin’s case. They had been kept in a basement, shackled for use because it brought a madman pleasure.

And they had both been alone.

Isaac’s hand shook as he slid it into Gavin’s and squeezed.

“Does that ever go away?” Gavin murmured, as if he had forgotten anyone else was there. Tears shone in his eyes.

“Yes,” Vera answered immediately. Then, she said, “Mostly. Months or years go by, and then you’ll have a shitty day or a bad nightmare and you’ll wake up not knowing where you are again. But the thing that matters is, it passes. And you’re always, always out once it passes.”

“Unless I get taken again,” Gavin whispered as the tears spilled over. “Like you did. Twice.” He shuddered and muffled a sob against Isaac’s shoulder.

Isaac’s arms wound around him in a trembling embrace, pulling Gavin into his lap. Vera stared at the floor, chewing on her lip.

She was taken again three times, if you count the time she went in to save Tori and killed Joseph Stormbeck to escape.

Isaac bit his tongue and shook his head to clear the thought.

“Alright, scootch over,” Tori mumbled as she crossed the living room to drop into the spot where Gavin had been sitting, gently laying a hand on Gavin where he now sat shivering on Isaac’s lap. She pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and draped it across Gavin’s shoulders. “There, better?”

Gavin nodded with his face pressed to Isaac’s neck. His tears streamed into the neckline of Isaac’s shirt. He wrapped Gavin up again, carefully tucking him in, and glanced at Tori inquisitively.

Tori nodded at Vera. “She’s a lot more sensitive to cold when she’s in the thick of it,” she said gently. “And he’s got goosebumps.”

“No shit?” Vera said. “Is that why you always get a blanket when I’m having a bad day?”

The corner of Tori’s mouth curved up. “Yes, dear, that’s why I always get a blanket when you’re having a bad day.”

Vera raised her eyebrows. “No shit,” she mumbled.

“Schiester k-kept the basement cold,” Gavin muttered into Isaac’s neck. “If I wanted blankets I had to… t-tell him things.”

All the blood drained from Isaac’s face. “What… kinds of things?” he croaked.

“Confessions,” Gavin whimpered. “I… I don’t think most of them were true. I don’t remember. I didn’t care. I was cold. Ziegler told me most of the things I admitted to weren’t true.”

“Who the fuck is Ziegler and are we killing them?” Vera said, sitting up straight and staring at Isaac. “Someone who knew you were down there?”

“Y-yes,” Gavin managed through a particularly violent shudder. “He… he didn’t… hurt me as much. And he… let me go.”

Vera’s eyes went wide. “Like—”

“Not like Ryan,” Isaac said sternly. Tears glittered on Vera’s eyelashes. “Just a guard who decided not to kill me when I was pulling Gavin out.”

“He didn’t hurt me,” Gavin said in a small voice. “He… he could have but he… didn’t.”

“But—”

“Fair enough, Gavin,” Vera interrupted. She shot Isaac a glare. “I get it. That can be enough to keep you sane. Just one person who doesn’t want to hurt you as much as the others.”

Gavin nodded weakly against Isaac’s neck. Isaac tried to meet Vera’s glare, but she shot daggers at him and he faltered. Tori’s hand moved in small, gentle circles on Gavin’s back.

“No one’s taking you again,” Isaac whispered against Gavin’s hair. His arms shook with how hard he squeezed Gavin. “No one. You’re safe, alright? You’re… you’re safe.”

As soon as Edrissa is dealt with—

I wonder if I could get to her before anyone realizes what I’ve done—

“You’re okay, Gavin,” Tori said gently, her hair mingling with his as she leaned in close. “We’ve got you.”

“Y-yeah,” Gavin heaved, and shuddered violently. His hand wrapped around Isaac’s wrist. “Yeah. I’m out.”

Edrissa’s the one who last made him question where he was. I’m going to fucking—

“What the fuck is that?” Vera snapped from her place on the couch.

Isaac’s head shot up and he glanced around the room, ready to neutralize the threat. He met Vera’s eyes and realized she was looking at him – no, not at him.

At his arm.

The sleeve was pulled up slightly on his forearm, exposing a scar left by Gavin’s knife – and the cut he himself had made over it, not five days ago. The angry line flared red in the dim light, and it was devastatingly obvious what it was.

Isaac dragged the sleeve down over the cut, obscuring his entire hand. “Nothing,” he growled.

“Isaac, fuck,” Vera breathed. She rose from the couch and stood over Isaac, staring down at him, looking stricken. “That…” Her hand shot out and she grabbed his wrist, pulling the sleeve up to reveal the line of cuts up and down Isaac’s arm.

Isaac yanked his arm out of Vera’s grasp, cringing back into the couch. Gavin slid off his lap and partially onto Tori. Isaac couldn’t even look at Tori; he could barely bring himself to look at Vera, who stared down at him in horror.

“It’s nothing,” Isaac pleaded with a broken voice.

“Vera, let’s respect Isaac’s desire for privacy,” Gray said, a little weakly.

Isaac could feel Gavin’s gaze drilling holes into the side of his head. He blinked back tears and swallowed hard against the shame strangling him. Slowly, he opened his mouth to speak.

Vera beat him to it. “I… told you not to punish yourself,” she said. She held her hands lamely out to her sides. “You said you wouldn’t—”

“No, I didn’t,” Isaac said through his teeth. “I never said that.”

Vera shook her head. “But—”

“I wouldn’t have said that,” Isaac said. His voice was fading, cracking under the pressure of Vera’s gaze. Having Gavin so close to him, feeling all eyes in the room on him, on his arms, safely hidden again under his long sleeves, was too much to bear. He swallowed again, hoping his dinner would stay down. “I never lied to you.”

“I n-never said you did,” Vera croaked. Her hands were in fists at her sides now. “I… how long?”

Isaac shook his head. He glanced at Sam, who stared right back at him. A quiet sort of pain pinched their mouth. “I… would really rather not have this conversation,” he said thickly.

“Yeah, I bet you wouldn’t,” Vera breathed. She sniffed and lifted her chin against the tears that glittered in her eyes. “Isaac… why didn’t you tell me?”

“What, and have you react like this?” He meant to snarl the words, but they came out weak and pathetic sounding.

She nodded slowly. “You’re right,” she murmured. “That’s… that’s fair. I’m sorry, I… This isn’t… how I should be reacting.”

“Let’s everyone take a breath,” Gray said softly. “Vera, do you want to sit down?”

Vera returned to her couch on stiff legs and fell to her seat beside Sam. Isaac could breathe a little easier, without her standing over him. Gavin crawled back onto his lap and wrapped his arms around Isaac’s neck.

“Sorry,” Vera said flatly. She drew in a deep inhale and let it out in a gusty breath. “Sorry. That’s… probably the last fucking thing you needed.”

“Yeah,” Isaac said. He shrank as Gavin laid his head on his shoulder.

“Isaac, can I touch you?” Tori said. Isaac jumped, but relaxed a little when he met her eyes. Her gaze was soft, sad, but not filled with horror. Not like Vera’s. He nodded, and she laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“I’m really sorry,” Vera whispered. “That was… I wish I could take that back.” She wiped her eyes and sat up, taking another deep breath. “That was shitty of me.”

“No,” Isaac grumbled. His arms stung as if all the cuts were brand new. He longed to scratch at the ones that itched, but he couldn’t bear to draw any more attention to them. He swallowed tightly. “I should never have…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

“No.” Vera held up a shaking hand. “Don’t… don’t do that.” She raked her fingers through her hair and stared at the floor. “Um…”

Isaac couldn’t bring himself to say any of the things that were echoing through his head:

I know this hurts you. I know I did it because I’m weak. I know I would never have had to do it if I had just kept my family safe in the first place. I know…

He knew right where his knife was, too. Gray had taken the one he usually used, but he had another in his pack. All he would have to do is—

“Boy I wish someone else would say something,” Vera said with a broken laugh.

Gray leaned forward with a warm glance toward Isaac. “Did you hear Sam is going to be staying with us?” they said, without missing a beat. Isaac could have cried with gratitude at no longer being the subject of discussion.

Tori beamed and glanced at Sam. “I didn’t hear that! That’s so great.” Her voice was tighter than Gray’s, but it was still light. Isaac felt a wash of gratitude for her, too.

“Yeah,” Sam said. They sounded so tired. But happy, too. “Yeah, I talked to Zachariah about it and… I’m going to be staying here for a while.” They grinned at Isaac. “The foreseeable future.”

“That’s awesome,” Vera said, with only a little flatness to her voice.

“We’re definitely happy about it,” Gray said with a smile.

“It’ll be really nice to… to have you here, Sam,” Isaac croaked. He rearranged his face into what was probably a smile and willed the darkness in his chest to dissipate. “It’ll be nice to be together.” His arms tightened around Gavin as he said it.

Sam nodded, their expression brightening further. “We were worried about where I was going to sleep, but…” They patted the couch cushion next to them. “Turns out this couch is extremely comfortable. After how long we spent on the road, just about anything feels good.”

“You slept on my floor on an air mattress for months,” Tori said with a laugh. “Anything is better than that.”

“Even sleeping on the ground during winter?” Sam said with a mischievous smile. All at once, the exhaustion around their eyes faded away, and they looked like themself again. They looked like the Sam Isaac had always known.

“Depends on the winter,” Tori said. “In the south it wasn’t bad.”

“I’ll take the air mattress,” Vera interjected, raising her hand. “If I get a say.”

“Yeah, because it was on my floor,” Tori shot back with a conspiratory grin.

Everyone laughed at that, even Isaac. He felt the cold fist around his heart loosen a bit, then fall away entirely. As he looked around at the people he loved, feeling Gavin’s warm weight in his lap and Gray’s shoulder brushing his, he could breathe a little easier. He could survive another few minutes without his knife.

Perhaps he could go without it entirely, tonight. It would still be there in the morning if he needed it, and he figured he would. But… maybe then he could just hold some ice instead, if he didn’t need it too badly. What he knew for sure, though, was that he didn’t need the knife tonight.

With his family around him, alive, safe… he could go without the knife for a little longer.

Continued here

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[diselthecat]

Adventures in cake decorating.

I am a cake decorator and yesterday I had a funny call with a customer. People don’t always realize the information I need to make what they want. There’s a picture at the bottom that I don’t know if it is NSFT.

Customer: Do you make cupcakes?

Me: Yes. What are you looking for?

Customer: I want to celebrate getting a breast reduction and I want to have boob cupcakes. Can you put that on a cupcake?

Me: Absolutely. Did you want it to be one to cover the entirety of the cupcake or a pair on each?

Customer: Oh! Oh, I didn’t think about that. I guess two on each.

Me: Sure thing. And what skin tone?

Customer: Pardon?

Me: What color do you want me to make them? Like, are you Caucasian, Hispanic…?

(Long pause where I’m about to ask again…)

Customer: Oh!!!!! Um, I’m white. So, yeah, Caucasian.

Just wanted to write this down so I can remember and laugh later. Maybe I’ll put more silly things that happen with customers here or some of the more fun cakes I make. I don’t know what I’m doing.

[androgymagnus]

ohhh my god speaking of house md and brilliant minds comparisons. yikes. like. okay. i understand why people try to start with this. i truly do. i think if you're trying to communicate something you like about the show to someone who hasn't seen it, and you do that by relating it to a very popular medical drama, that's like. i get why you're doing that. but while there's a pretty good common thread here (ie, medical drama starring disabled doctor who will do anything to help his patients and his gaggle of diverse interns) it's.... largely surface level and reductive, because these are two very different shows other than that little logline.

like, their disabilities and how they're handled and what they mean to their characters and how they handle them are very different. (SO different i'm not even gonna get into it. but they serve different purposes you know?) the tone of the whole show is different--my god is the tone different. the shows are actively trying to do different things.

and like (this one deserves its own line) while i personally believe house is very empathetic and cares about his patients under All That, uh, All That still exists, and does not excuse any kindness he might have under All That, and All That is still a problem (ie yes he will go to any lengths to cure his patient but he will also call them and their whole family slurs. blah blah blah complex character motivations and trauma the effect is still bad no matter the cause) and anyway, that's just what i think from his characterization, generally, he is still incredibly rude and caustic and you could certainly argue for the reading that he actually cares about the puzzle, not the patient. and even if you, like me, believe he deeply cares about his patients even when he doesn't want to, he still largely focuses far more on their literal health than their feelings or lived experience in the hospital. he'll save your life but he'll be a dick the whole time. he'll make patients cry and not really care. meanwhile dr wolf cares about his patient's lived experiences, how they feel, not just their literal physical health. that is literally his entire approach: getting to know them as people, treating them with kindness and understanding when other doctors have brushed over them or signed them off as a lost cause. rather than any kindness/empathy being subtext or shown through certain actions, it's the text.

now, i'm not saying this makes dr wolf a better character than house (a better person, perhaps!) or even a more complex character, since again. they are very different characters serving very different purposes. house is a deeply fucked up little man dealing with very bad chronic pain, childhood trauma, probably repressed bisexuality but let's not go there, etc., and he lashes out. he's a complex character, he's sympathetic but not a victim, he's an asshole but often you like him anyway. wolf is serving a different purpose as a character--i'd say his speech about harold in the first episode really speaks to it. like. he cares, about things other doctors don't, that even house probably wouldn't (depending on the episode and season probably). he's got his own backstory, albeit one we don't know all of yet, that plays into how he interacts with people now and why he is the way he is.

like. agh. gestures frusturatedly. there are interesting contrasts one could make here between these two characters (for example: if we buy that house is deeply empathetic, he deals with this by not wanting to get attached to patients at all, refusing to see them directly, and treating them like puzzles, because when he does see them as a person it hurts more when they die; meanwhile dr wolf does the exact opposite and loathes the idea of seeing patients as their diseases, as a puzzle, but as a consequence gets maybe even too attached every single time, which, while admirable, can lead to burnout or just, you know, getting fired or being a bit single-minded with blinders on trying to save them), but ultimately, it's kind of apples and oranges (that previous parenthetical is fun and all but they have very different backstories and motivations and context and that's kind of just isolating one thing, you know?) and seeing people uncritically compare the two is at least mildly irksome. they have, again, wildly different backstories and motivations.

these shows are trying to do different things! neither one of them is better than the other (i think i'm enjoying brilliant minds more personally, although with only seven episodes out to house's eight seasons i think it's a bit of an unfair judgment to try and make objectively as of yet) because they are trying to do different things. they just happen to be medical dramas about a doctor who will do anything to cure their patient, which is, when you think about it, a very broad category. you could throw in 'and he's disabled!' but let's be real, their disabilities (and how they're handled and interact with the plot) are very different.

the point is, i understand why people make this comparison but i think it's a little reductive and misguided. but at the same time like, i get it, trying to get across something in an easy to understand way when you're trying to convince someone to watch the show, just--don't go giving them the wrong impression! if someone goes into brilliant minds expecting house md, and they like different things about that show than you did, they're gonna end up being disappointed

anyway, disorganized ramble: end. hope it somewhat made sense

[ivanttakethis]

End of Round 13 - Tov’s Log

Jae (64) vs. Vii (35) - Jae Win

————————————————————

Wren found Tov again that night.

Round 13 had just finished.

64 - 35

Jae won decisively.

Vii was dead.

The guards allowed both classes to mingle during free time in the hour prior to curfew.

Most people chose to stay inside. Tov and a few others ventured out into the fields.

At night, the simulated daytime of the Anakt Garden dome was switched off, allowing those inside to see the true night sky above.

The stars seemed further away somehow, but they were no less beautiful.

It was a perfect night for stargazing.

Tov stayed close to the main buildings, tucked away around back, out of view of anyone passing by.

She knew the spot from childhood. It was a good place if you wanted to be alone for a while.

“There you are!”

At least it was…

Wren sat down in the grass beside her, crossing her legs and mirroring Tov’s position.

“I figured I would find you out here.”

Wren’s tone raised her hackles.

Tov furrowed her brows, turning to look at her, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Wren shrugged, but kept her eyes on the sky, unbothered by the slight edge in Tov’s voice. Her white hair seemed to glow in the moonlight. Even her roots were white.

“You seem to like the stars, and they’re awfully pretty tonight.” She said.

Tov couldn’t argue with that, so she didn’t.

“They are pretty.” She nodded, looking back up at the constellations hanging overhead.

The two were quiet for a moment, before Wren spoke again.

“What was it like performing on stage?”

Tov tried to think back to Round 10, but her mind drew a blank. She couldn’t recall much of anything.

Only fragments of that night remained scattered around the void in her memories.

The stars.

The heartache.

The first line of her song.

The gunshot.

The smell of blood.

The way Nyx hugged her like she was something fragile.

Everything else was gone.

“I don’t remember much.” She said quietly. It almost sounded like a confession. “I wasn’t really thinking about the stage, or the crowd, or the cameras.”

“Then what were you thinking about?” Wren asked, “That emotion in your voice didn’t come out of thin air.”

Tov’s eyes found Tallis’s constellation instinctively.

Was she really about to spill her sorrows to a stranger?

Regardless of how friendly Wren behaved, they didn’t know each other.

But… who else did she have in her life to talk to?

Cassio? No.

Nyx? He had enough on his plate preparing for his upcoming round.

Himei? Tov didn’t know if she would ever talk to her about this; about what she and Tallis said and did.

She’d already been isolated once because of all this grief they found themselves neck deep in.

Tov wasn’t going to add to that, or make things worse. It would just make the situation more confusing.

She briefly closed her eyes and sighed, “Did you watch Round 7?”

Wren nodded in her periphery. “Of course. I watch every round.”

How can you stomach it all?

Tov didn’t ask that thought aloud.

“The contestant that lost…”

“Tallis?”

She almost winced at the sound of his name. The wound was still too raw.

“Yeah… him.” Tov swallowed around the growing lump in her throat. “He… he meant a lot to me.”

Andromedas, why is this so painful?

“He was a friend of yours?”

She shook her head immediately, “No.”

The word “friend” was far too reductive to encompass everything that Tallis meant to Tov.

But how else could she describe their relationship?

Even with her face placidly neutral, Wren still managed to sense Tov’s internal frustration.

“Ah, more than a friend.” She mused. “Did you love him?”

“I did— I do.” Tov amended. Nyx’s words came back to her then.

“Just because he's gone doesn't mean he doesn't still love you.”

Guess that meant she didn’t have to stop loving him either.

“When I was singing, I was thinking about him.”

“I see.”

This time, the ensuing silence bordered on comfortable. Tov’s chest felt a bit lighter too. Maybe talking about it isn’t so bad.

“You named a star after him.” Wren said it like a statement, not a question. It startled Tov.

“How did you—” Her eyes snapped to the odd grey gaze staring back at her, expectant but already knowing.

“You keep looking at the same spot in the sky.” Wren explained. “You kept looking up at the stars when you performed too.”

Tov felt strangely exposed, like Wren could see through her skin and straight into her soul.

It was different from the way Tallis looked at her, though. But she couldn’t put a finger on why.

“It’s a constellation.” She conceded, finally.

Wren smiled a little, almost giddy, “Ooh which is it? Wait, wait, wait— let me guess!” She scanned the stars intently and her brow furrowed in concentration.

It made her look much younger than she probably was.

How old is Wren anyway?

She pointed upwards with one eye closed for accuracy, “Is it that one there? The one shaped like a cresting wave?”

“No, that one’s for Azure.” Tov said.

“That guy from Round 1? With the sea green eyes?”

Something about Wren’s description of Azure made Tov huff out a chuckle.

“That’s him,” She nodded. “The song he performed was called Nouvelle Vague, ‘new wave’. I thought it was fitting to name a wave shaped constellation after him.”

“It fits him well.” Wren nodded, then pointed to another constellation nearby, “What about the one that looks kind of like a thought bubble?”

“That’s Moran’s.” Tov said.

“Ah, the redhead from Round 2!”

“Yes, she was a good friend of mine. A great friend, really. She taught me a lot about philosophy; always thinking.”

Tov took over from there, pointing out each constellation she’d named after those she cared for.

Stasya. Minori. Flor. Even Min.

Min protected Himei when she didn’t have to. She was the only reason her closest friend was still alive.

For that alone, Tov cared about Min too.

“That one,” She said finally, pointing to the cluster of constellations in the shape of a harp, “That one is for Tallis.”

“I believe in you.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

For once, Wren quieted first.

Tov felt her eyes on her, but she didn’t break the silence; content to simply look at stars.

It still hurt. But it was better than the numbness from before.

“You know…” Wren started, “You look at everyone else’s constellations the same way you look at Tallis’s.”

Really?

“Really.” Wren said.

She paused for a moment. Then two.

“If you ask me, it seems like you loved all of them.” Wren murmured.

At that moment, something in Tov’s heart clicked into place. A gentle warmth unfurled inside her rib cage.

Oh.

Oh.

Maybe… maybe I do…

The realization brought tears to Tov’s eyes. Her heart ached in a new, novel way.

Bittersweet. Melancholy.

It made her laugh for some reason. She hadn’t laughed in a long time.

As she stared up at the celestial memorials of everyone she’d lost, Tov found herself smiling ever so slightly.

What a terrible time to realize it was all love.

————————————————————

We love sisterly bonding, even if one of them doesn’t know it yet 😌

Plus a little feelings realization and healing, as a treat!

Tov has a lot of love for others, even if she doesn’t think she does. Only now is she beginning to realize how deeply her relationships have affected her as a person.

Tov’s current thoughts about Wren are like: “this girl is kinda weirdly friendly, and there’s something odd about her aura, but I would rather die than talk to anyone else in my life about my problems, so I will continue to trauma dump on her since she’s cool with it”

My girl probably needs a therapist, but we don’t have time for that lmao

Next up: End of Round 16!!

Jae belongs to @kofeedoggo.

Min and Vii belong to @starry-skiez.

Nyx belongs to @rockwgooglyeyes.

Tallis and Himei belong to @lookatmysillies.

Azure belongs to @azureitri.

Moran belongs to @geospiral.

Stasya belongs to @billwasnot.

Minori belongs to @minori-dash.

Flor belongs to @sotogalmo.

[skaruresonic]

What the fuck do neurotypicals smoke in order to reach the conclusions they reach? As an autistic person myself, even I know not everyone under the autistic spectrum is gonna enjoy Sonic. I've seen autistics like Pokémon, mainly for the cute monster designs, the number games with battling, and so on and so forth. And I've seen autistics like Pikmin for similar or different reasons.

When you meet an autistic person, you just met one autistic person. Autistics aren't a conglomerate of people, they're just average people who have a rough understanding of social cues.

tfw other video games don't exist

Honestly, Sonic is the outlier among my interests. The others are much darker by comparison, and despite their own occasional moments of silliness, don't share the same aesthetics or narrative tone at all.

Pyramid Head kart racing. PYRAMID HEAD KART RACING.

For some reason, outside of maybe Paper Mario, I find it difficult to get into similar colorful mascot games. Sonic fills that need for childish joy too well to permit anything else in, I guess, lol.

also, as I read that ask, I kept thinking "yeah, you probably don't mean the Deadly Gang brand of neurodivergence, we just get called stupid" lmao

Been seeing "Sonic appeals to neurodivergent people" takes float around recently - though it's not a new idea by any stretch of the imagination - and, well. I don't want to step on anyone's toes since I'm not autistic myself (as far as I know; strongly suspect ADD though), but isn't it equally reductive to say you must belong to a certain demographic in order to have good takes?

You don't need a PhD or a diagnosis to have accurate takes on the series. All you need is to have paid attention to the games. That is literally the only "barrier" to entry. The bar resides in hell, and yet folks continue to cha-cha slide right under it. Two hops this time.

Besides, they always mean a certain kind of palatable neurodivergence, not the kind of brain spiciness that causes you to "over"analyze the games and gets you branded an extreme game purist.

Because deep down, liking Sonic in the "wrong" way is still weird to these people. You can't be into Sonic NSFW, you're ~lewding minors~. You can't be so attached to the games that you prefer that other media follow suit, you need to make concessions. You need to espouse the "correct" opinions, and those opinions had better be transformative, lest you be considered a stick-in-the-mud who hates fun.

And it's really ironic too, because it's like well what did you expect, this is a Chili's and I'm still waiting for my shrimp tacos a place where people who like Sonic express that like. Do you also go to the aquarium and complain that there's too many fish?

[mewos-laptop]

heya :3 we just wanted to check in after passively seeing that absolute divvy in your reblogs i literally know next to nothing about the intricacies of how trans men struggle and stuff but i just you know. hope you're okay.

because seeing the replies, she was like pretty dismissive and stuff especially when you're talking about your own unique struggles in the confines your own tag and she was going out of her way to track down posts in a tag trans men talking about their own struggles specifically to try and make an argument of it.

all of that to say we hope you're okay lol. how are you doing? /nfta, friendly tone

We're doing okay, just very annoyed and hung up on it after the past two days of getting reblogged by transandrophobes. It just hurts more bc they've both been trans as well, and should know how hurtful the denial of their oppression is.

If trans women's oppression is different to just regular transphobia, then why are trans men not given the same freedom by our own community to dictate our own terms for ourselves ? Do we not experience starkley different oppression for our specific identity, or are we just 'polar opposites' when you want to divide our community further ?

Why are our feelings within the community not paid attention to ? Why are we expected to all be either stereotypes or "the big scary men who are our abusers" ? Is that not just as reductive as hating trans women for the same reason of having "higher" testosterone levels ?

Idk, it just rlly hurts to see constantly. I love trans women with all my heart, and I know it's a very small minority of them who actually do spread TERF and transandrophobe rhetoric about trans men, but that number seems so large when it's all you can see when you decide to open up about your OWN experiences. It just sucks.

Sorry for the sudden block of angsty text lolz. We'll be okay, just upset over it still I suppose. /gen

[henrysglock]

Henry Was Set Up To Fail In The Eyes Of The Viewers Before We Even Knew Him.

Hello class. Today I would like to talk about two things: Henry and NINA, and how he's been set up for reduction to a 2D villain before we even know him, and how his monologue dupes us into judging his child-self through a warped lens or perception.

The first time we see Henry in ST4 is El's entry into NINA.

She's not prepared, she's already confused and afraid, and so are we. We know as much as she does about the situation, which is to say nothing at all. We're a blank slate as much as she is.

She's inserted into a memory of Henry where he's already essentially directly behind her. He jump-scares us, through no fault of his own, but he scares us nonetheless. This, in combination with NINA glitching/the lights flickering wildly/vocal distortions as El tries to reject NINA and the fact that he supposedly holds a position of power in the lab, shapes our first impression of Henry.

He's associated from the very start with fear, dishonesty, and manipulation. This sets the tone for his entire story.

Our next impression of Henry is then, of course, colored by the fear El feels from NINA and the lab.

Henry isn't scary in that first memory. In fact, it's one of many moments where he's treating her with nothing but compassion.

He informs her that lessons are starting soon, which gives her the chance to mentally prepare for the day. She expresses fear/trepidation over the lessons, and he assures her that she's going to do well. It's nice. He's nice. He's an orderly, and orderlies aren't typically so nice (as we see in ST1). He's done nothing wrong, and yet...

It should be endearing, and on a certain level it is, but the fear from the opening scene colors our judgement so that we're already looking for faults. His kindness automatically comes off a little creepy. It's natural. We've been spooked by him. Now we're on alert, and we see him as a potential threat, even when he hasn't done anything to warrant threat status. We're looking for reasons to distrust him.

Throughout the rest of NINA (pre-massacre), we're shown nothing but good behavior from Henry. He's respectful, he puts himself on El's level so he doesn't loom over her the way Brenner does, he doesn't grab her or talk down to her or treat her like she's stupid. He actively builds up her confidence and even goes so far as to try to help her escape without him. Pulled out of context, he’s undeniably a good guy.

And yet, as soon as the violence starts, we all go "Aha! I knew there was something wrong with you!". We’re so caught up in the violence, so caught up in being right, that we don't spare it a second thought. We don't ask why, it doesn't strike us as unusual behavior, we just accept that he must have been an evil manipulator all along. This is because we were conditioned to from the start.

We're more than happy to ignore inconsistencies, because we've associated him with fear from the moment we met him. Henry never stood a chance. We were set up to expect something evil from him, even if his intentions were good right up until the massacre is underway.

This stops us from asking:

Why did Brenner look the other way about Henry’s conspiratorial behavior with El?

Why did Brenner let Henry, the supposed master manipulator, run around with the lab children at all?

Why did Henry try to free El with no personal gain?

Why were all of his meetings with her (besides the escape) public and interruptible, and why did no one interrupt them?

Why did Henry look so conflicted before he starts killing?

Why didn’t Henry kill El once she took Soteria out?

Why did Henry’s behavior change gradually rather than being an immediate snap when the killing started?

When did 1979 turn from self defense to unprovoked attack, and why?

We don’t ask questions because his new behavior fits with the preconceived notions that we were fed during our introduction to him. We immediately assume he was evil all along, even before he starts monologuing about being a predator. We never stop to think that maybe someone else is pulling the strings to put him in a situation where he’s forced to kill people and by extension absorb them, changing him intrinsically.

Granted, the monologue doesn’t help him going into the next section of this talk, but it also does one very important thing:

It influences our perception of him as a child based on what we see from his adult self who has finally snapped after 20+ years of horrific mental abuse, and who is no longer just himself but an amalgamation of himself and every person he’s just killed.

Including the bad ones.

But nonetheless, we take him at face value for everything he says after that point, because if fits our preconceived notion that he’s evil.

This plays into our perception of the Creel massacre.

So, now that we’ve been “validated” by the narrative (I was right! He’s evil!), we automatically take as fact anything that “proves” that we’re right about him. Because we’ve had our mind made up about him from the get-go, we don’t stop to ask questions. If we ignore inconsistencies, we stay correct. If we ignore the inconsistencies, we stay comfortable in our black and white thinking, our initial snap judgments and intentionally poorly-contextualized impressions.

We go ���ah yes, we’ve just seen him commit mass murder. What he says about himself as a child must be true!” and ignore the fact that he’s a victim of MKULTRA and that he’s no longer just himself. We take him at face value because it’s spoon-fed to us, and we like it that way. It’s easy that way.

We see his recollection of the Creel massacre, and we don’t stop to ask:

Why does he look so scared?

Why is his plan so rushed and disorganized, if it was so premeditated?

Why are we missing so many details that were present in Victor’s retelling?

If Henry had Victor in a trance, then who killed Alice? Henry has never displayed the ability to trance and kill different people at the same time, and Alice was alive the last time Victor saw her.

How did Brenner show up so soon after the murders? What tipped him off to come collect Henry?

Why does Henry flip-flop between framing himself as both victim and predator? He’s a victim as a child, and then a predator as a child, and then a victim again as a child, and then a victim in the lab, but then a predator in the lab, and then a victim again as an adult, but now a predator as and adult…

Why can’t he keep his motivations straight? Is he a victim freeing himself from his prison, or is he an apex predator taking his rightful place at the top of the food chain? He talks about how hurt he was and how betrayed…and then he compares himself to a god using spiders as a proxy. He can’t keep his story straight. Does he want us to fear him or sympathize with him? (Both. The answer is both. The people he just absorbed have always been about fear as a method of control, and Henry himself has just spent the entire last arc giving us reasons to sympathize with him.)

Why does his retelling look so different from Victor’s in every regard, from color grading to MKULTRA/LSD hallmarks on the lights to missing subtitles?

How did Virginia know about his abilities, and how did she find an expert on psionic abilities so easily?

Were Henry’s actions that night a generally unprovoked preemptive strike, or were they reactive self-defense?

We just go with what they spoon-feed us. It fits our preconceived notions from our first impression of Henry combined with our impression of him as an intrinsically altered adult rather than the man we’re shown pre-absorption. We assume that, well, he must have done all that somehow. He must have been born evil. He must have been manipulating El from the start.

We don’t stop to consider that his truth might not be the full factual truth. We don’t stop to look closer because the story fits so nicely with what we’ve been expecting from him from the very first time we see him, and the monologue only reinforces that response.

Henry never stood a chance in the plot or in our perceptions of him. We’re as much chess pieces as he is. Brenner was manipulating Henry’s path, as well as shaping El’s perception of him by skipping footage, and the Duffers shaped our mental path in much the same way.

We got duped.

[annoyinglandmagazine]

‘We have dealings with other elves, you know I wondered if you might know them,’ Telchar inquired as he leaned over his workbench to observe the embellishments the elf was pounding onto a swords hilt to finish it. Curufin looked up to fix him with an unimpressed raised eyebrow as he slid the sword into its scabbard and set it aside, ‘so because I’m an elf you expect me to be best friends with all others of my race? Because we’re all the same? And you call us haughty and small minded?’

Telchar snorted at his affronted tone and held his hands up in an appeasing gesture, ‘peace, lad there’s no need to get all indignant I simply asked a question.’ Curufin scarcely bothered scowl at being referred to as ‘lad’ by someone many millennia his younger at this point and merely muttered under his breath, ‘well I just feel it’s a bit reductive is all. Alright then, give me the name.’ Telchar rolled his eyes and said ‘well we have dealings with an elf lord known as Caranthir.’

Curufin froze and then glanced firmly at the floor ‘I …… may know him.’ Telchar smirked catching his uncertainty and probing further with a raised eyebrow ‘May? How closely acquainted are you?’ Curufin mumbled under his breath unintelligibly. ‘Pardon?’ and oh was he curious about this. Curufin spoke more clearly ‘Caranthir and I have a millennias old rivalry of a complicated backstabbing nature.’ ‘Oh?’ Curufin paused before admitting ‘He’s my brother.’

Telchar’s eyes widened in shock, ‘You’re siblings?! I never would have guessed, you look as different as any two elves I’ve met.’ Curufin shrugged awkwardly, ‘well I suppose we don’t share much of a resemblance compared to you and your sisters. Moryo-’ Here Telchar interrupted ‘Is Moryo Caranthir? I’ve never heard that name used for him before.’ Curufin looked down guiltily ‘Don’t mention that name to anyone, alright? I’m not really supposed to use it anymore what with the ban on Quenya and all that. Even otherwise it would be best for you not to use it, it’s a nickname see, for family use, it’s quite personal.’

‘Of course, of course I understand. You were saying?’ ‘Well Caranthir took after our mother and paternal grandmother more than anyone whereas I am supposedly an identical copy of my father. So identical that both of my names are based around that fact. It wouldn’t be wise to mention our grandmother in reference to Caranthir. Or mention her at all really, though I don’t see what circumstances would compel you to.’

Telchar, though never being partial to family gossip in general, found the idea of the seemingly only elvish family that actually talked to them having regular familial dirty laundry very intriguing. ‘You can’t say something like that your lordship and just leave it there once you’ve piqued my curiosity.’ Curufin snorted, a very unelvish sound, and seated himself down on top of the workbench and patted the spot next to him, ‘if you want even a summarised version of that story best you sit down.’

Telchar pulled a flask of something out of his pocket and knocked a bit of it back while readying himself to enjoy what was most certainly not a gossip session. ‘ My grandmother had always been weary, she’d suffered a great deal in her life and even when she arrived in Valinor she was not healed. When she became with child it was too much for her, her fea gave out and she passed not long after giving birth to my father. Ordinarily when one of the Eldar pass they will wait a period of time for recovery before being reborn but my grandmother did not do this.’

‘She had lived so long weak and unable to find even traces of happiness in her life that she told the Valar she would never be prepared to live again in all the Ages of the world. This was a great blow to the people as she was a much admired queen and the knowledge that something like that could happen left many feeling ill at ease. But none were impacted more than our family, for it left a gaping wound that our grandfather could scarcely bring himself to hear spoken. Especially not as in choosing to remarry he solidified her fate and ensured that she can never reconsider and be reunited with her kin.’

‘Apart from the tragedy of it all,’ here Curufin’s eyes got a dark look in them, making clear this topic was one he had Opinions on, ‘there was always the point of view from a not insignificant amount of people that it was some fundamental flaw in my grandmother herself that this happened when it never should have been possible for one of my people. That she was a representation of how marred the world truly is, a mistake. And that we, as her line, are as well. That we shouldn’t have existed and our blood shouldn’t be permitted spread its inherent weakness.’

‘I ask you not to mention it to Caranthir as he bore the brunt of it, so closely resembling her in face as well as spirit, with his chosen crafts of needlework and mathematics echoing her own and his tendencies towards the emotional.’ Telchar snorted at that despite the depressing topic of conversation. ‘The only emotion I’ve ever seen from Caranthir is frustration at everyone else’s apparent idiocy.’

Curufin rolled his eyes ‘Well you don’t know him very well do you? Just for trade deals. He’s not exactly the easiest person to get close to.’ Telchar bumped his shoulder teasingly ‘And you are?’ ‘Well not normally. But how could I resist such smithing skill?’ This was said with great sarcasm but in his years of knowing the elf he’d learnt that that was his favoured way of being genuine.

‘Still though. Caranthir. Emotional. You really expect me to believe that?’ Curufin smiled softly ‘You should have met him in Valinor. He changed. We all did but him especially. He doesn’t laugh anymore or cry or anything really. People always worried that his sensitivity was a sign that he would end up the same way, or end his own life, grandfather couldn’t bare to look at him some days without thinking of his grief. But those people didn’t truly know him. His feeling things was never a problem, that’s just who he is. It’s the emptiness that worries me.’

‘And here I thought a high and mighty elf lord like yourself didn’t worry about anything.’ He paused and twisted a gold ring on his finger, emblazoned with an oddly shaped star and no further ornamentation. Now that he thought about it he remembered Caranthir doing the same with a similar trinket. ‘Family is family. I’m sure you can understand that at least. If it isn’t too improper of me,’ he hesitated as if unsure of himself for once and forced his voice into a more casual tone ‘if you see him again could you pay attention to his manner? Keep me posted if you see something out of the ordinary, uncharacteristic silence, weeping, zoning out, excessive alcohol consumption and the like. Just out of curiosity of course. Plotting, scheming and blackmail purposes and all that.’

[soft-pine]

Can I ask about monsters vs humans discourse? Some of your categorizations seem quite strange to me and I am genuinely interested in your thought process. For example, by what rules are you categorizing someone as a human or monster? If by "monster" you just mean "non-human," then why are people like Kelly Kline listed as monsters? If the special children are human, then why is Magda a "monster"? Most baffling to me, if the people infected with croatoan are human, then why are the people infected with the darkness monsters? It just seems arbitrary. The same goes for whether or not characters are listed as "villain or villain adjacent." For example, Crowley is on the list twice, and that category says "no" both times. But objectively speaking Crowley is often a minor antagonist in the plot. Is it really accurate to say he's not even villain adjacent, not even "kinda," which other characters are listed as? Emma is also listed as "no," despite the fact that she was literally there to kill Dean, and Amy is listed as "yes," even though she presented no danger to sam and dean and no ongoing danger to humans in general. So how are we distinguishing who is a villain and who is not? Again, it seems very arbitrary and I'm wondering what your thought process is here. Thanks for taking the time to read this!

yeah totally! this is not one of the tabs i would ever claim is like all that useful as like a reduction to the numbers or the way i categorized things. in my navigation page description for it, i said, "This is a bit hard to summarize because, of course, there are several episodes whose plot revolves around these opinions shifting. And having a negative view of a monster who turns out to be harming people is not concerning in the same way as having a negative view of one who doesn't." mostly i was just trying to keep track of the way that both sam & dean actually tend to have varying opinions about good vs bad humans & monsters over the show and it's not monolithically dean saying All Monsters Bad and Sam being consistently more sympathetic which is the fandom take that i've seen a lot.

but you bring up some good points in that i made this over a long time and it was hard to keep consistent episode to episode like humans with powers vs monsters etc as you pointed out. so all that is to say, i made a new row for kelly vs jack in the first instance you bring up. very well pointed out about magda vs the other psychic kids so i've switched all that to human. you're totally right about the croatoan vs darkness so i updated croatoan to monsters category! i agree that villain / villain adjacent is messy (like again im not trying to like use this page and act like it's comprehensive!!) but for crowley specifically, in s5 and s10 where the two instances i noted are, he is not the villain but you're right it should say "kinda" so i fixed that. like this page is kinda messy right bc i'm not listing every time that a monster is a monster and they agree and try to hunt them - which most of the other crowley instances fit under, you know. but that would be like 327+ rows long and insane. so,

i am not going to relitigate amy vs emma here as people have done a much better job than i could. but i listed emma as no because she hadn't killed anyone and might not have (not actually punishing thought crimes here). and i listed amy as yes because she killed people (and i care about people's safety beyond sam & dean's).

i appreciate your tone and genuine questions and help making things a bit more consistent!

i also want to say for anyone else reading this that from their blog, i can tell this person clearly is more of a samgirl(gn) than i am but if you actually ask specific questions in a way that isn't blamey and accusatory, i'm so happy to reply and work on things!!

[1stthingsfirst]

This is the Ray side of my previous post about the portrayal of his recovery, in part prompted by @quaintrelle17's comment about Thai rehabs (Thank you! I didn't ignore you, I just took forever to respond).

Note: I use "sobriety" as shorthand. Not everyone who abuses alcohol needs to go sober. Some can drink in moderation. Some need to abstain for their whole lives.

I originally only briefly addressed Ray drinking in rehab. So, the two general ways to stop drinking/go sober are:

Cold turkey -- You go from your current alcohol intake to zero, no steps in between.

Tapering off (aka weaning off) -- You decrease your daily alcohol intake over time until you reach zero/a desired amount.

From this tweet and Jojo's comments, I believe Thai outpatient rehab programs follow a harm-reduction model using tapering and deemphasizing abstinence unless deemed necessary.

Tapering off aims to both decrease the severity of and prevent withdrawal symptoms. Chronic alcohol abuse alters your brain chemistry. Tapering off helps your brain adjust to functioning with less and less alcohol and decreases the likelihood of severe withdrawal symptoms such as seizures and delirium tremens, which can cause disability and death.

Issue #1: Lack of Clarity

Ray is a good candidate for tapering. He carries a flask to drink on the go and his hands shake when he doesn't drink, a withdrawal symptom. It makes sense for Ray to drink while he's in rehab.

However, tapering is a systematic process. You don't just slowly drink less. A professional may determine a tapering schedule specific to you, but the general recommendation is to decrease by 2 drinks per day. When tapering, you should track what drink you're on and even measure to ensure you stick to one standard drink each time.

I would not expect to see this level of detail in the show. However, as is, we see Ray enter rehab at the end of episode 10, and then in episode 11, we see no visible change in behavior. He still goes to bars and drinks beers in the bath and has whiskey in the pool in a tense almost-threesome. We're supposed to intuit that he's changing simply because he says he is.

The show could have made it clearer without dedicating much time to it. It's as simple as a lingering shot of a handout from the rehab center or Ray saying, "last drink of the day" in the tub. Responses to Only Friends have highlighted how little the general public knows about addiction. It's unreasonable to expect us to know that people may drink as part of rehab.

This is a "show, don't tell" error. We have been told that Ray is in rehab, but we have not seen behavior indicating that he's in rehab.

Issue #2: Tone and Narrative

I'd be surprised if Ray's support team encouraged him to casually drink with his partner while trying to go sober. I could be wrong; they could be fine with it. A person could maybe healthily drink a beer in the tub with their partner if it aligned with their tapering schedule, but it doesn't feel appropriate tonally or narratively.

We have seen how destructive alcohol has been in Ray's life: his mom's alcoholism ruined his childhood; he blames himself for her alcoholism-related suicide; he nearly lost all his friends and his boyfriend multiple times; he drove drunk, crashed his car, and had to be hospitalized for his injuries; he was charged with a DUI and has to complete social service (legal consequences); and so on.

Tonally, it does not make sense to show Ray drinking casually at this point. It could make sense to show him drinking, but not in the settings shown in episode 11. Drinking should be portrayed as weightier by now, if not for Ray, at least for Sand when he's with Ray (see my original post). Sand has said multiple times that he worries about Ray's drinking, so it feels odd to see them to chat in the bath over beers while Ray is in rehab. Ray may be allowed to drink then and he may be able to drink for pleasure in the future, but week one of rehab is not the time for drinking for pleasure.

Additionally, from a storytelling perspective, it doesn't make sense to include Ray accepting that he needs to go to rehab with two episodes left unless you then show him either improved or struggling. By showing Ray drinking after entering rehab, it suggests to the viewer that Ray's drinking will continue to be a major plot point.

But I don't know if it is because we have one episode left, two other couples' stories to wrap up, Ray's already in rehab, and they just introduced Boeing to Sand and Ray's dynamic. By introducing Boeing this late in the show, with this little time left, it's pretty clear Boeing is Ray and Sand's final conflict, not Ray's recovery.

I'm normally all about nuance, but filmmakers only have so many opportunities to convey information to their audience. Unless they do want to keep Ray's recovery a main conflict, it is more logical, for both tone and storytelling, to simply not show Ray drinking at this point. Is it less realistic? Yes. But is it clearer? Yes.

TL;DR

There are scientific reasons why Ray would drink during rehab; however, most people don't know that and it was never explained in the series itself, so the scenes of him drinking in ep 11 landed poorly for many viewers. This is a problem with how the show told the story of Ray's alcoholism and recovery. The show would have benefited from prioritizing clarity over realism, unless they plan to take the time to explore Ray's recovery in detail.

[spacemonkeysalsa]

Appetites

Five years ago the Vampire Ascendant Astarion helped save Baldur's Gate. He has everything he ever wanted, and he's miserable.

Isolde is nobody, and has nothing. When given the option to become a vampire spawn, her response gives Astarion a moment of pause; “No. Thank you. I think I’ll just die.”

(Angst and fluff and smut) Changed up the format because it was starting to look so silly with 20+ chapters.

Check it out on Ao3 from the beginning or jump into chapter twenty two below the cut.

If the last few days had Isolde feeling out of her depth, then there was no reason that the present situation should be an improvement. But, she checked her heartbeat, her breathing, and examined her feelings and found that she was no longer panicking, no longer on the edge of drowning. She felt a little guilty about the whole thing, actually. Astarion’s life was falling apart, and somehow, her presence within it was contributing to that, but she felt a kind of relief. This might be the extent of the punishment that Mephistopheles had in mind. It was only then that she realized that she had been expecting something much worse for him. In comparison to the possibilities, being fiend-marked was manageable.

She did feel guilty for that thought, though. Astarion wasn't able to take this optimistic view, and why would he?

He knelt on the floor of the ballroom, clothing in tatters around his changed body, concentrating and failing to transform, either into one of his typical animal shapes, or back into his true form. Every moment that passed and he was still in this new, fiend-marked form was clearly agonizing for him.

Alice kept the gith child at an educational distance. Close enough that he could still see the master, but far enough away that he wouldn’t feel threatened by his very presence. She was whispering to him quietly, and he was nodding, so Isolde imagined that some reductive explanation was in order.

Leon and Aurelia were closer, but speaking in hushed tones that Isolde couldn’t catch a single note of. She didn’t see guilt in their countenances. Good. They shouldn’t feel guilty about any of this, she decided. It was his doing, in the end.

But, she still wanted to help him manage the consequences, if she could. Just because he was responsible for what had happened, didn’t mean he deserved it. She didn’t know what she could do to help, but to start, at least, she decided that she wasn’t going to keep her distance. Even if this new form made her uncomfortable, she was going to endure it.

Except, she didn’t feel uncomfortable with it at all.

It was tempting to attribute it to her childhood with Vovka, but honestly, Astarion and Vovka still didn’t resemble one another, even now that they shared some specific hell-touched attributes. Being in Astarion’s presence didn’t feel quite the same as being in the presence of a cambion. He was still himself.

And, even on a purely aesthetic level, the differences were stark. Vovka’s horns had been lacquer black and smooth when he was younger, drawing in and pointing high above his head like a wicked crown, and as he’d gotten older, they started to split with yellow and orange lines of infernal light, like molten lava, cracking through that smooth exterior, especially when he was upset. By the time he ran away from home, they were almost always burning bright through the tips.

In contrast, Astarion’s looked more like a sort of horns she’d seen on some of the humble tiefling citizens of Bladur’s Gate; they resembled white, unpolished bone, carving in more of a halo arc, and running parallel to his pointed ears in a way that complemented the angles of his elven features. His skin remained the bloodless, vampiric shade of pale that she was used to, though the sclera of his eyes had changed to black as pitch, and though the irises remained red, the new contrast seemed to add a sheen that hadn’t been there before. He also didn’t seem to have quite so many of the extra prongs, ridges and vestigial claw-like nubs that dotted Vovka’s skin. His tail was ridged though, that was a little different, and with a subtle lean and a swerve of her eyes, she could see that the ridges continued up his spine to the nap of his neck. 

The strangest thing was his wings, and his back.

The scars that his master had carved into his flesh were no longer in their original place, instead, the marks were distorted and stretched across the reach of his leathery wings. The infernal glyphs were huge, and now, easily exposed and readable. 

He flexed his claw-like hands and then fisted them against the ground with a crash of frustration. “Godsdammit,” he lamented in an almost imperceptible whisper. Another failed attempt to take control of his own body, and transform back.

It had only been minutes, and so Isolde was not ready to write off that possibility, but it seemed unlikely to her that Mephistopheles intended for the change to be anything less than permanent. At least, on some level.

Tentative, but determined not to leave him feeling worse, or abandoned, she scooted nearer, placing herself directly under the shade of one arced wing. He looked up sharply, sensing her, but he couldn’t quite lift his eyes.

She thought about telling him how very handsome he still was, but knew that wouldn’t make him feel better, even if it was true. The point of being marked as a fiend was not to lash one’s vanity, but to send a message, not just to the soul being punished, but to everyone who saw them. And the message about Astarion was clear, red, and written in angry infernal on his new wings. He was bound. Mephistopheles had him in his collection: a new monster.

“Why would he believe that you might try to go back on the deal?” the question slipped out from between her lips, thoughtless at first, but in the silence that followed, Isolde did think, and decided that the question was a very good one, though she might already know the answer.

Astarion finally met her eyes, and she read pain and shame and fear in them like she’d never seen before. “Because, even if it’s not what I intended, there must be a way to reverse the rite of profane ascension. I haven’t yet done anything to take any of those souls back from him, but… if it’s even possible.” His voice went toneless, and he managed to remark on the seemingly impossible task with no passion, even as he declared, “It must be possible.”

Isolde nodded, that’s what she had been thinking as well. Mephistopheles was warning him not to mess with the parameters of the deal, because, as with any deal, there was some way out of it. But, it appeared that it was not as simple as using a few scrolls of true resurrection on the victims.

Still. It might be something down that same path.

“If you knew how. Would you?”

“I don’t. I don’t know,” Astarion said in barely more than a murmur, and it wasn’t clear whether he was simply reiterating that he had no idea how to reverse profane ascension, or if he was saying that he didn’t know if he would even want to, if it was possible. He seemed to pick up on this ambiguity as he watched her face, and with a sigh he clarified his explanation, “I don’t know how, so there’s no point speculating—”

“—for the sake of pointless speculation.” Isolde pressed him.

His wings dropped, his shoulders slumping as his head tilted, almost crashing into his own chest with the new weight of his horns. “I suppose it would depend on how difficult it would be, and what it would mean for me,” he admitted. “Becoming a vampire spawn again would not be desirable. I’d never see the sun again, be limited in how and where I can live. The hunger would rule me again,” he winced at that last thought.

“But it still depends?” If it would only bring him inconvenience, and if he’d already purchased what he wanted from hell, why even entertain the idea?

“Well. If it wasn’t such a huge amount of trouble,” he groaned, “I suppose—not that there’s much hope for it,” he scoffed and rolled his eyes, “honestly—I’ve known for a long time that the best afterlife I could hope for would still be faithless and lost. But. That might be better than whatever is fated for me now.” But his gaze flickered to Leon and Aurelia, softening ever so slightly before he steeled himself and looked back at his hands, frowning, perhaps at how growing claws had positively ruined his manicure. He tsked.

“And if it’s very complicated and difficult? Likely impossible?”

“Well, it must not be impossible, if he’s this worked up about it,” Astarion gestured to himself in such a way that the last of his torn shirt flopped over his wrist and he flicked it away in annoyance. “But. I’ve had a few years to get to know myself, and one thing I have learned is that the longer a plan may take me to execute, the more likely it is that I will get distracted or lose interest.”

“Or, despair,” Isolde wasn’t sure why she said it, and she kept her voice quiet, but not so quiet that Astarion couldn’t hear her.

His gaze was hard on her face. His jaw clenched over his fanged teeth. “Yes,” he said the word in a clipped, dangerous tone. “Or that.” If he was angry with her, he fought it off, and when he spoke again his tone conveyed only concern, even if his words were harsh. “Now you’ll see how fickle I am. Just last night I begged you to stay, but you must see now that your plan to leave the city was a wise one. You should pack your—my things and go.”

“No,” Isolde said flatly, because for all his bluster, she didn’t believe that was really what he wanted.

“I think that I can land you in more trouble than either of your former horrid masters.”

“Undoubtedly,” Isolde agreed. “The hells already know I’m here with you.”

“But if you run—”

“—consummate predators,” she stated grimly. “The devils see us as things to be exploited or consumed. As I am, I’m in reserve. If I run, I incite their instincts to chase.” 

Growing up, Isolde was firm in her stated beliefs that there was nothing inherently evil about her brother. Unfortunately, Vovka himself often advocated the counterpoint. He’d confided in her about the drives he had, many of them dark and destructive, and aimed at himself as well as those closest to him. He’d once said that he never saw someone run without feeling the urge to chase them down like a dog.

Astarion was gazing at her like he wanted to argue, but for once he didn’t seem to have words.

She leaned in and caught his mouth softly with her own, taking him by surprise, it seemed. He didn’t so much lean into the kiss as she felt him resting his forehead against hers. His hands found her fingertips, and as though overcompensating for the new claws, his touch was more tender than usual.

Aurelia approached them, tugging Leon’s wrist and dragging him along, and glancing back as if to present him. She waited, looking at Leon expectantly.

With a sigh, Leon admitted, “I can probably put together some kind of glamor. It will take a little time though. And money.”

If Astarion heard him, he didn’t seem to comprehend what he was saying. He nodded, but his ascent felt mindless to Isolde. 

“I can see to Alice and Barnes and your little ward,” Aurelia offered, “if you need to take some time.”

Again, Astarion’s main form of acquiescence came only through silence.

He let his siblings leave him, Aurelia leading Alice and the gith child away as well. Their shoes were still clicking on the ballroom floor when Astarion finally gathered up enough will to say something in farewell. “I don’t regret it,” he declared, voice filled with the gravel of defiance.

Aurelia acknowledged him only by glancing back over her shoulder without slowing her stride.

Alone again, Isolde thought that she would be glad to spend the rest of the night sitting here with him while he failed to work it all out in his troubled mind. She wasn’t sure what she could possibly do to help—probably nothing much. But, his efforts to send her away aside, he didn’t want to be alone, of that much, she felt certain.

Heavily, Astarion began to lay back, tentative and awkward with his movements. He winced as his wings spread flat, his back arching and the tips of his horns clicking on the floor behind his head. “Oh gods. You really just can’t lie on your back like this, can you?” he sighed, “even if I could find a comfortable, folded position for the wings, or tail, the horns won’t allow it. So much for sleeping as a hobby.”

“Vovka always had to lie on his stomach,” Isolde recalled, “he didn’t sleep much either though.”

“...Perhaps some kind of neck splint.”

“They sell those for tieflings,” Isolde tried to remember where she’d seen them, or at least which vendors she could ask about the item. From a practical standpoint, these were problems that had solutions. He could use Leon’s glamor, or various temporary spells to change his appearance back, even if his true form was indeed, forever altered. Again.

And that was the real problem, she realized, with a pang to her heart. The issue wasn’t a practical one. It was a matter of emotional turmoil. A reminder that his body still wasn’t his own.

After a few moments, Astarion gave up on his attempts to find a comfortable position on his back, and struggled a little to sit up again, accidentally pinning one of his own wings as he tried to find purchase with his palms. He glared at nothing in particular.

Somewhat invited, and somewhat intruding, Isolde’s thoughts turned back to moments just mere days ago, when they’d made love less than a few yards away from where they sat now. Everything had seemed so complicated at the time, but looking back, those were surely the very simplest of days. The palace had felt so empty, and their time together was entirely dictated according to their own devices. And gods, had they ever spent it well.

That could easily never be the case again.

A low chuckle from the shadows made her start from her dreamy recollections. If Astarion too was startled by the sudden appearance of an on-looker, he only expressed it through another aggravated sigh.

From the far corner of the room, shrouded, a long body unfurled itself from dark leathery wings. Isolde’s denial only lasted a few heartbeats, but for an instant, she was certain that it was any monster in the world other than her own lost Vovka.

She might not have recognized him, if she hadn’t already spent so much of the day remembering him and recalling the details of him. He was so changed.

That Astarion deemed his height inconsiderate made perfect sense now that she was seeing him in the flesh. Vovka wasn’t larger than a human man could be, but she couldn’t immediately recall having ever seen a man taller. The horns and wings enhanced this impression. When she’d seen him last, they'd been roughly the same size, and he’d been wiry and lithe rather than muscular like he was now. His hair was long now, piled back off his face with the sides shaved lower, but still, undoubtedly long when it wasn’t tied up. Their parents had always kept it cropped rather short for convenience and because their mother wasn’t convinced it couldn’t catch fire from his horns when they sparked and smoked. His face was grown, and more than ever before, his bones made him look like their father, and her guts twisted at the implications. She’d speculated, as had others, that the mortal parent was not the one who carried the child in her womb, but that her mother had only been used as a forced surrogate for their father’s indiscretion. His maturing features seemed to confirm that theory.

His eyes were different from how she remembered them. Like Aurelia, and now, Astarion, the sclera was black, but his iris was not the wreath of flame she remembered, there was a cool, bright light to them, nearly a flat white straight on, though even as she thought this, the sheen and the angle of his face sparked red, then yellow, then purple.

Though he’d announced himself with a laugh, there was no hint of amusement on his face. He approached at a worrisome pace, gradual, like he wasn’t quite ready.

“I honestly didn’t know what he was going to do,” Vovka offered, cocking his head at Astarion, and then she saw the amusement, but it was fleeting.

Whether or not they should believe him, Isolde decided it didn’t matter. She couldn’t imagine a world in which anything anyone thought about it could sway an archdevil. She didn’t even realize she was on her feet until they had carried her directly to her long lost half-brother. She charged at him, still in a debate with herself over whether she should strike him, embrace him, or perhaps some combination of both.

It the end, she only managed to come to a halt directly in front of him, just inches before she might’ve wrapped her arms around his waist, or her hands around his throat. She looked up at him, and for the first time she ever remembered, couldn't read his face.  “I looked for you. Everywhere.”

“A waste of effort.” Vovka informed her curtly.

“It was not.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, seemingly trying to create a barrier between them, and now, for some reason, she could bring herself to hug him. First, she grabbed his arms and untangled them to his visible discomfort, and forced him into an embrace. She’d forgotten how warm he was. Of course, it was the fires of hell, so the longer she stayed close to him, the more painful it would become, and she released him mere seconds after he started to relax just a touch.

“Should I leave the two of you to catch up?” Astarion managed to infuse his voice with a little of his old bravado as he rose to his feet.

“No,” Isolde and Vovka said in unison.

“Too painful,” Isolde clarified.

“Too much trouble. Not in keeping with our family tradition of avoidance.” Vovka cocked his heavy brows.

“Precisely,” Isolde agreed with Vovka’s cynical correction.

“So that’s it?” Astarion seemed to welcome a momentary distraction from his own drama, at least.    “Two decades of estrangement and—”

“—more than that,” Vovka grumbled, “time can pass in hell according to its own metrics. I might be older than you are now, big sister,” he seemed amused by the idea, but it made Isolde feel despondent in the extreme. He gave her the slightest reprieve from his so familiar and yet so different gaze, and turned his attention to Astarion instead. “You know, the Erinyes used to be regularly mistaken for aasimar by mortals. Big feathered wings and serene countenance. But, they traded all that for cloven hooves and more bestial features.”

“By their own leave?”

Vovka laughed at that, “when is it ever?” he shrugged. “I can teach you the spell to take on your old appearance.” he added, “no charge,” just at the moment that both Isolde and Astarin started to open their mouths to ask about the other end of the bargain.

Astarion regarded him suspiciously, but after a moment said, “thank you. I’d appreciate that,” slowly.

“It’s going to hurt. A lot.”

“There it is.”

Vovka sauntered over to the spot of ballroom floor that was severely scuffed from where the githyanki’s woman sword had connected with it, and drew his boot over the marks absently. “It’s not perfectly reliable, and it's not going to be something you can use all the time. It might take you years to get a decent number of hours out of it.”

Isolde remembered vividly how frustrated he had been when Vovka was a child and couldn’t maintain his human form long enough to spend any substantial amount of time outside of the house. It was a kind offer, but freely given? “Will he be unhappy with you? For helping us?” Isolde asked, foregoing the temptation to just thank him. Leon’s glamor might be safer, less likely to cause trouble, if only because it came from Leon.

Vovka gave a shrug that said for all the world he didn't give a shit if Mephistopheles was unhappy with him, but Isolde knew better. They all did.

“Why help me?” Astarion asked bluntly. “Feeling impervious?”

“Apathetic,” Vovka corrected. “They want me to keep close? Keep watch? They know how this works. Why bother sticking to the shadows when a soul is already bound? If anyone asks, I can turn the question around and wonder at what methods they would use to keep you close and beholden to hell? Offering help is usually more effective than threats when dealing with mortals. Even devils out for their first harvest know that.”

His blunt delivery and deadpan tone was a bit chilling to Isolde, but Astarion’s mouth lifted into a sharp smile for just an instant. She could have sighed audibly, of course, he'd find that reassuring. Astarion desperately craved compassion and understanding, but could never quite accept those things when they were offered freely. He was more comfortable with artifice. “Independent contractor, you said?” He asked, contemplative.

Vovka groaned. “Slipped out. Bad joke.”

“But you're not one of them. Beholden to them yourself, I gather.”

“I’m just a cambion. I can serve an infernal purpose, when it's demanded of me, or I can be a light snack for Tiamat.” He shrugged again, this time with a little shudder through his wings that suggested that was less a casual example of hell’s cruelty, and more an anecdote. “I’ll serve.”

Astarion stole a glance Isolde’s way. She wanted to read it as conspiring, at first, but decided after a moment that perhaps she simply needed to get used to reading him with the newly blackened sclera. Astarion looked away after a moment, lips pursed before he reasoned out loud, “They’re just using you too.”

Vovka furrowed his brow a little at that, but not like he didn’t understand. More like there was nothing more obvious in the world.

[consistentsquash]

5 meta recs!

Some meta recs because we have lots of interesting/relevant meta.

1. Fiction Works 1/2: Different Strokes for Different Folks and Fiction Works 2/2: Storytelling, not Teaching or Preaching by @danpuff-ao3

The two posts are totally worth reading/framing on the wall/preserving in The Library of Congress. It's essentially Fandom 101. Also Life 101. But it's something a lot of folks forget. Danni goes incredibly incisive in the two posts. She looks at the basic problems and zooms out to look at what's the real point of creating a story? What are the limits? What does it mean to feel something is problematic? It's a super uncomfortable read because it's talking about things with more clarity/detail than just the normal vague words we are used to seeing on proship posts. Love, love, love these two essays. <3

Right off the bat, I feel the need to clarify that I understand there are portrayals in fiction that can be troublesome, and sensitivity readers are a boon. However, even here there seems to be too firm a hold on what “should be.” This does not take into account that everyone is different.

People accept this in a vague sort of way. “Dave likes football, and Carrie likes soccer.” This goes beyond people having different favorite colors, or different skin tones. We are all born with different bodies, different genes. We are all born into different circumstances, and are raised differently. We are all molded into different people, and have different preferences, and choose different life paths.

What people also fail to take into account is: the world is a big, crazy place. All sorts of things are possible. How probable they are is another question, but “probable” matters less than “possible.”

 

2. Don't Quit Your Day Job, AI by @squibstress

AI!!!! So I have been following a lot of AI news about how it's going to replace actors, designers and other creative jobs. Also a lot of fandom posts about fanfic/fanart created by AI getting posted on AO3 and also about authors/artists locking their works because AI is using them to improve. Squibstress did an investigation for what I really, really cared about.

So, okay. We know AI is already writing copy and fiction, but the real question, the important question, is: Can it write fanfic?

To find out, your intrepid reporter made an account on ChatGPT and gave the bot two simple fanfiction prompts.

Love, love, love.

[. . .] I use way too many smirks and rolled eyes in my Minerva/Severus fic.

That's how Minerva/Severus works! I need smirks and rolled eyes in my Snagonagall!! Definitely going to stick to Squibstress and Jane Austen for my reading diet for now. Sorry, AI <3

  3. Laughing, Crying, Killing Myself by eldritcher

Fandom has like two big problems now. Ok that's really simplifying things. But AI and antis. Eldritcher has a lot of super clear insights about fandom and why some type of cults/mobs happen here. We definitely know this but it's the type of message which is good to repeat a lot. Cult stuff is scary.

So many who came to fandom and similar creative spheres in the last decade have only known belonging in cliques that are one turn away from becoming mobs. They haven't had the chance to explore discomfort in creation that goes against the norms of their clique, because it endangers belonging and often endangers more than merely belonging because of how dependent they are on the validation of the group what with little support available elsewhere outside. It is tempting to think these mobs are only prevalent in circles that are against shipping or slash or kink or anything seen as transgressive by some consensus, but that's harmfully reductive. Ostracisation via pitch-forks are as present in the bastions of those who ship the most transgressive ships as they are in the bastions of those who don't. The mob is a weapon and all factions have learned by now how to weaponise it to vanish those they don't like.  

4. Heroes, Villains, and Blorbos by @danpuff-ao3

I kind of gave up on reading convincing Marauder group characterizations in Snape centric fics and convincing Snape characterizations in Marauder centric fics esp with the more recent fanon takes. But omg. I love those characters/potential. Danni's essay really, really goes into the reason why some characterizations don't work for me because she is spot on about identifying what makes those characters tick. Including their flaws. Flawed characters are sexy because they are human. Our fandom really really doesn't get that point about these characters a lot of times.

None of them were perfect. All of them had potential.

So much of their promise died in the war. They were all so damn young, and so deeply impacted. They all made grave mistakes. They all achieved great feats.

But what draws me to them all above all else is the horrible humanity of them. All of their virtues, and especially all of their flaws.

5. What is good writing anyway? by @danpuff-ao3

At this point I'm rambling, but the point is: how can any of us really judge what good writing is? Even if we can, how do we recommend what is "good" in a way that is fair, or in a way that will be well-received? But most of all, I sort of want people to think beyond the popular view of what is "good" because what is "good" doesn't matter so much as how much you enjoy it, and how it touches you and your life.

Really not sorry for triplereccing danni's essays. I read them in a binge this week and that got me inspired to do a meta post. So! Everybody needs to read them because they are really getting at the heart of a lot of fandom things we can identify with. This essay especially was so personal for me because of why I got into reccing. The fics I normally saw recced didn't work for me. Totally not a fault of the fics/recs. But I wanted to rec fics I loved. I feel those fics are definitely worth reccing because they made a big difference to me beyond just good writing by some definition. But also this is a really good read for authors who feel they are not good enough/comparing to other authors/feeling imposter syndrome. The readers that love your fics are really in love with those fics. For those readers your fics are the best fics in the world. Like Danni says because what is "good" doesn't matter so much as how much you enjoy it, and how it touches you and your life.

[pmpmyread]

Anchor

A/N: Another x-post from an older Ao3 piece. I wrote this before seeing the events in Week 2 of Season of the Witch. It is so so nice to see the Drifter fully support Eris on her journey. This was my take on how this outcome could have come to be. Pairing: Eris Morn x The Drifter Summary: When Eris Morn shares her plan to defeat Xivu Arath with the Drifter, the two do not initially see eye to eye. Takes place shortly before the opening events of Season of the Witch.

Tags: Slow romance, friendship, hurt/comfort, Season of the Witch. WC: 3.2k

The day had started as many did: the Drifter had received a voice memo from Eris Morn. She’d had a recent breakthrough in her research that she’d wanted to share with him, as she sometimes did. He told her he would be all ears, as he always did. 

They had convened to meet each other shortly after that, in his quarters, a semi-secluded area in the Tower’s Annex. They sat across each other at his small dining table. Drifter had brewed them each a cup of coffee and was already halfway through his by the time she began her explanation.

She gave him an overview of her strategy to defeat Xivu Arath. Objectively, he thought, it was a brilliant plan; defeating those pesky hive gods at their own game and with their own logic. However, he did not need to know the intricate details she was sparing him to understand the implied risks such a process could have on her. His mind was elsewhere by then, as the more he pondered this, the more difficult it was to ignore the gnawing unease that settled within him. "It is the only way," Eris concluded, marking the end of her explanation. 

Unable to prevent the lowered scoff that escaped him, Drifter fixed his cup in a feeble attempt to conceal his failing poker face. 

"What is it? Speak frankly, Rat," she said, raising an eyebrow.

Drifter shifted in his seat before glancing up at her from his cup, finally meeting her gaze. 

"It’s the only way.” he finally said, repeating her words. "That's one hell of an absolute statement for what’s at stake, sacrificing yourself into a weapon for the sake of cleaning up a mess created by the oh-so-righteous Vanguard,” he hung on the last word with contemptuous emphasis, the irritation which he tried so hard to conceal now in full display.

"That is…" she started, pausing to measure her words “a rather reductive way of putting it." Eris was puzzled by his palpable apprehension. It was no secret that Drifter still was not fond of, nor did he fully trust the Vanguard. She had maintained a healthy independence from the group herself, but what did any of that have to do with the topic at hand? 

"Hey, you asked me to speak, Moondust, so here it is,” he said as he set his cup down to cross his arms. “From where I’m sitting, you’re being dragged back into this hyped-up Light versus Dark tug of war, and I don’t see anyone from the Vanguard putting nearly as much skin in the game.”

"You speak without listening. This is my scheme, not the Vanguard's. Had you truly heard me out, you would not be equating this process to sacrifice." She now felt her own irritation rising.

"I just really hope this isn’t coming from some misplaced sense of duty to overcorrect an outcome that hasn’t even happened, cause this ain’t the dark future and you don’t owe this cause a damn thing, let alone your life. And, by the way, it is a sacrifice if you wind up unable to return from this."

"Do you not trust me, Drifter?" the tone in her question was both genuine and tinged with disappointment. 

"I trust you with my life-”

"Then trust in my abilities,” she cut in before he could continue, “and trust when I say this is the only way. If you choose to ignore the fact that I am the only one well-versed and equipped enough to wield Hive magic in this way, if you find yourself unable to see beyond a vulnerable lightless ex-Guardian who is doomed to succumb to corruption, then it is you who are emulating the Vanguard’s behavior."

Before he even got a chance to respond, the Drifter was interrupted by the ever-growing bustling noises emanating from the Annex, voices that belonged to eager Guardians showing up for the first Gambit matches of the day.

"Perhaps it was a mistake to come to you with this,” she said as she got up to leave. The dismay in her tone stung him. He already regretted his knee-jerk reaction. Deflated, he opened his mouth but no words came out. Eris exited the room, leaving him with his arms still crossed, staring at her untouched cup of coffee sitting next to his empty one.

If showing up to host that day’s Gambit matches was half the battle, Drifter now felt like he’d been in the deep trenches of war. What he had hoped would serve as a much-needed distraction turned out resuming itself to several moments of downtime in between matches, much like the one he was having now. He sat alone in his corner of the Annex, with only his thoughts to keep him company. As he mindlessly flicked a gold coin between his fingers, his mind inescapably wandered back to Eris and to their earlier dispute.

The Drifter couldn’t pinpoint the exact point when his dynamic with Eris Morn had first shifted. What had started as a simple strategic partnership had grown to evolve into so much more. Their close collaboration had fostered numerous small, yet profound moments spent exploring each other’s depths and venturing beyond the walls they had each built to protect themselves. Without even realizing he’d been lost, the Drifter felt like he’d now been found. By the time he’d realized it, it was already too late, his deep fondness for her now a fait accompli. The same rogue Lightbearer who would kill for less than being accused of having attached to someone found himself facing the unfathomable; for in Eris Morn, Drifter had found an anchor for his chaotic life.

The wisdom she had bestowed upon him over the years, first in her capacities as his respected peer and later as his close confidante, had far-reaching effects. She had reintroduced the concept of trust in his life, and, in turn, he’d surprised even himself by naturally warming up to newfound allies in the Eliksni and even the Vanguard.

Indeed, he’d had his vulnerable moments of healing, but so had she. Drifter had replayed a particular voice note from hers, far more times than he would ever care to admit. I might allow myself to want more than peace. What, I am not certain. Is joy the word? Might I find that again?

He had memorized each word, each hesitating pause, each shift in intonation. In a moment of pure candor, Eris had conveyed a deep desire that resonated with him. He too understood all too well what it was like, to live an abbreviated version of one’s joy for so long to the point that yearning for anything beyond that self-imposed baseline felt completely foreign, if not downright unattainable.

While Drifter knew that he could never repay Eris for everything she had done for him, he’d figured that the next best thing would be to do everything in his power to see her wish fulfilled.

It was the very prospect of Eris never having a shot at this life, whether by losing herself or worse, that had rubbed him in every wrong way imaginable. Years of witnessing the Vanguard dress up as sacrifice what were countless deaths had made him a pessimist in this regard. Even in the best-case scenario, wherein Eris physically survives the transformations and manages to defeat Xivu Arath, there was no guarantee that Eris would emerge unscathed. If his experience with Orin and his severely altered relationship with her after her transformation were any indication, some fates may as well be equivalent to death.

Whether in the form of senseless death, noble sacrifice, or of permanent transformation, loss was loss. It all resonated the same to him, and he dreaded it, so much so that this train of thought alone was damaging enough to dredge up these old wounds. The true underlying source of his outburst that morning was a manifestation of an internal conflict he’d been facing for as long as he could remember.

On one hand, the Drifter was not naïve. All noise pertaining to Xivu Arath, Savathûn, the Witness, and the Traveler aside, he’d known deep down that whatever time he had with Eris would be limited. It always was. It was all the more reason for taking what little time he was given and making the most of it. This was not uncharted territory and he certainly was no stranger to working within the limits of fate’s cruelty.

On the other hand, there was a latent fear of loss and the chaos it brought along with it. With enough emotional distance, he could distill this to its essence, an insecurity borne out of selfishness, a reversion to a green desire to hold on to a status quo. Even with the fate of the universe in looming jeopardy, there was a part of him that had grown just comfortable enough with the current state of his deepening relationship with Eris. As much as he hated that vulnerability, it was something he would have to learn to accept and deal with. Ultimately, the truth lay somewhere in between those two extremes and Drifter still struggled to find the balance.

Such was the load on his mind when his attention turned to an approaching group of Guardians, chattering away as they geared up for the next Gambit match. These Tower-dwelling Guardians have it so good. There was no real risk or danger that their Ghosts couldn’t undo. Here they stood, ignorant to the fact that the fate of their futures potentially rested squarely on the shoulders of a single, selfless, lightless Guardian who no longer shared the same privilege.

Now there’s a truly unfair burden for a single person to bear.

A nervous tremor coursed through him, causing the coin he’d been fidgeting with to slip through his grasp, sending it spinning into the air before landing on the floor with a metallic clatter. It was then that it dawned upon him, not in a loud revelation but a quiet, profound realization. He had been so blinded by his own worries that he hadn’t truly stopped to consider the magnitude of what Eris was taking on. She had come to him to share a part of her with him and he’d somehow found a way to make it about him. Damn it.

It was an unfair burden for her to bear and Drifter would never concede otherwise. But he also knew Eris. He’d seen it in the look in her eyes earlier that day, she had made up her mind. If Eris was going to see this through, she should not have to shoulder this burden alone. He would make sure of it.

He shook himself out of it, a newfound resolve carrying him off his feet. “Sorry mavericks,” he announced to the approaching group, dismissing them with the flick of a wrist. “Gambit’s closed for the rest of the day. Drifter’s got some business to attend to.”

That business was to go make things right.

When Drifter found Eris’ ship still docked in the hangar, door ajar, he heaved a slow breath of relief. It was much later the same day. He’d wagered on her still being in the Tower’s vicinity and so far, his gamble was paying off. What remained to be seen was whether he would find her aboard, and if she would even welcome his unannounced arrival — he would not fault her if she didn’t. Despite this uncertainty, he’d dropped by the local Spicy Ramen shop anyway to pick up two orders of their usual favorites before making his way to where he’d suspected he would locate her.

When he did find Eris, she was sitting upright on a bench in a back corner, fast asleep with a large tome still in her lap. His breath hitched as he observed her in quiet admiration. She looked so peaceful in the moment, and he decided against waking her, opting instead to disencumber her from the book that threatened to slip out of her loosening grasp at any moment. Right as he moved to gently pull it off her, the heavy hardcover suddenly clapped shut, leaving his hand ensnared. “Ow!” he shouted as he quickly jerked his hand back to safety, his eyes widening as they rose to meet the gaze of a now very awake and startled Eris Morn. Her own face twisted in horror as she contemplated what her reflexive movement had caused. It was only when Drifter cradled his hand in an exaggerated gesture, feigned pain now discernible by the familiar twinkle in his eyes that Eris eased up. He would be fine.

“I’ve cautioned you against sneaking up on me, Rat,” she uttered, in a failed attempt to mask the relief in her voice.

“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean to startle ya. I guess I deserved that,” he conceded with a chuckle as he took a seat right next to her. “Good thing I didn’t come here empty-handed! Let’s call this a settlement?”

He carefully took out one of the containers out of the takeout bag, substituting the book on her lap with it.

She hadn’t eaten since the previous day. Her mouth watered almost immediately at the warm and familiar aroma that wafted over her and she pretended to contemplate his offering — egg rolls, and they were her favorite ones too. He knew her too well. “This will do, for now,” she said, feigning concession as she picked it up, wasting no time to unwrap the packaging and taking her first bite. Delicious as expected. 

“Thank you,” she said, after a while. “You’re very welcome.”

The pair sat in silence for a couple of minutes. He watched her as she devoured her meal, as he tried to figure out how to begin. This time, he was the one to leave his portion untouched. He would not take a bite until he said his piece.

"Eris, I came here to apologize. I had no business overreacting like I did this morning. I know damn well the Vanguard ain’t put you up to this. And even if they had, it would not be my place to comment on something you didn’t ask my no-good opinion on.” He turned to face her directly, indicating he had more to say. “Truth is, I’ve lost so much, so many people in the collateral damage brought by this Light versus Dark nonsense. The pain from the loss is inevitable, I know that. Over time though? I’d honestly convinced myself I’d hacked the way to become somewhat immune… You can’t lose what you don’t have.”

This was it; he was laying out all the cards on the table. He was at the point of no return. Eris faced him and placed her hand on his shoulder, a wordless response to his implied question: He had her. “I appreciate and accept your apology. I understand your concern, Germaine, I really do, and it touches me.” His breath hitched ever so slightly at the mention of his other name. She continued, “The risks associated with this experiment are not lost on me. I too have my moments during which dread seeks to take over. But then, it hits me,” she hesitated to continue. 

He placed his hand over where hers rested on his shoulder. His eyes bore directly into hers in an inquisitive gaze that indicated that he was listening and that she had his undivided attention. She averted her eyes, fixing her half-empty takeout in an attempt to ground herself. It was her turn to open up to him.

“This ritual is both the means and the end,” she started, her eyes unfocused as she slipped into memory. “Ever since that fateful day on the moon, the Hive have made their mark on me. A part of me died that day along with my Fireteam, never to be recovered. I lost my Ghost. I re-live my horrifying Hellmouth days every single day. It is only recently that it’s all become a little more bearable.”

She pointedly lifted her head and met his gaze, in a silent confession of her own. His eyes softened but he stayed silent, allowing her the space and time to unburden herself.

“You questioned earlier whether I was doing this to overcompensate for the alternate dark future that never came to be, the one Elisabeth Bray envisaged. I am not. My dark past is not a theory, it is very much real. For centuries, I have fought and repudiated making it my identity, but the undeniable truth is that the Hive happened to me. The opportunity that presents itself before me today is an answered prayer. This ritual means much more to me than simply defeating Xivu Arath. Now it is I who will happen to the Hive.” 

Her voice trembled as she articulated that final sentence and she averted her eyes. It was not fear but a mixture of pure rage, raw grief, and indefatigable determination that Drifter detected in her tone. He was all too familiar with the sentiment, having felt it himself countless times before. He not only understood her but admired her for it. “I get it,” he said, breaking the brief silence that had settled between them, “this is personal.” “It is. Mine is a personal retribution… And if I am ever to find true peace and joy, I must see this through,” she concluded, her voice small but resolute. “Well, Moondust, they won’t know what hit them. You are absolutely right about being the only one who can take the Hive’s little empire on. You not only know your stuff, you’re a damn expert. And what you’re fueled with, they couldn’t prepare for in a hundred years.”

He smiles at her before continuing. “You give ‘em hell. I’ll be there for you along the way.” Eris hadn’t realized just how much she’d yearned to hear his unwavering support articulated to her until she did. Without even knowing it and through only his genuine words and gestures, he’d managed to reveal the answer to the question she’d spent the afternoon trying to answer: What had compelled her to go see the Drifter in the first place? 

“Thank you, Germaine, for everything.” She squeezed his shoulder before gently freeing her hand to get back to her meal. “For the record, I do value your opinion,” she said.

“You do?” “Yes. It serves me well when it comes to food selection.”

Drifter’s laugh rumbled and echoed through the ship. “Oh, I can see that,” he retorted, pointing an accusing finger at her now near-empty container as he took out his own bowl. “You didn’t even wait for me! I need to get started on mine. And while I do that… you know I love listening to you talk. What happens next?” he approached her in mock conspiracy, “I want to hear the nitty gritty from the Hive god of vengeance herself!” 

He gave her a wink and she turned away in mock annoyance, hoping she’d managed to conceal her blush in time. Why did his trite comments always seem to get to her?

The day would end as many did: with Eris Morn diving into the intricacies of her research and the Drifter actively listening and enjoying the sound of her voice.

As much as she had been his anchor, he was hers. For neither of them knew it then, but the bond they had repaired that evening would be the one thing to keep Eris Morn tethered to herself when she would need it the most.