#i need to draw parallels where there are none

[girltomripley]

For a moment the two merge, Lou Lou and Louella.

Sunrise on the Reaping - Suzanne Collins x Us (2018) Dir. Jordan Peelee ; Conjoined twins lambs ; The Silent Twins (2022) Dir. Agnieszka Smoczynska

[matt-murdockk]

Atonement

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader words: 4.2k summary: Spencer battles his addiction and self-loathing, only to find the possibility of redemption in the unwavering care of someone who refuses to leave. warnings: oh boy, ok so we've got a LOT OF ANGST!!!, Spencer's addiction (!!!), suicidal thoughts, a lot of self-loathing, Spencer is spiralling (rip), mildly descriptive withdrawal process, possibly incorrect etymology facts, a dead fish, the self-loathing really is heavy on this one, I'm serious. a/n: i am holding your hand, i scared myself with this one, BUT the ending is pretty optimistic so it's not all pain :')

Heracles atoned. His crimes were a result of madness— divine madness, not his own. It can be argued that they weren’t even his actions at all. And still, he atoned.

The Oracle of Delphi instructed him to give twelve years of service to the king of Mycenae, and even though Heracles believed Eurystheus to be beneath him in stature, he accepted the 12 labours. Heracles completed the 12 momentous tasks as atonement for the crime of killing Megara and their children, even though it was Hera's vengeance that drove him mad and tricked him into committing the crime in the first place.

If Heracles sought redemption for something that wasn’t truly his fault in the first place, what about the rest of us? What about atonement for crimes not born of divine madness, but of choice? What about the consequences that stem not from insanity inflicted by gods, but from choices made— cold, human, and deliberate? Is that something one can atone for?

Apophenia. A common human tendency to see patterns where there are none. It makes you believe in coincidences. It’s why people find meaning in lottery numbers, in shuffled tarot cards, in the sequence of a roulette wheel. It's what makes Spencer draw parallels between himself and perhaps the mightiest of Greek heroes, only he doesn't see them as equals, but one as a sorry excuse, an imitation, a failed attempt at living up to the other. He sees one as a myth, and the other as a mockery. A hollow echo. A failure.

I feel like a kid again. That's a nice thing, right? Feeling like a kid? Innocent. Loved. Nurtured. Pure. Scared. Wait, scared? Scared. Alone. Vulnerable. Guilty. Crying to sleep every night. Curled up into a ball on the playground, busted eyebrow and broken glasses with stains of blood and dried-up tears. I gotta tell Mom I need new glasses. Again.

Oh. He feels like a kid again.

Do they know? They might know. They must know. They know. He pretends they don't. They pretend they don't. Everybody knows. Was it kindness that kept them quiet? Decency? Look the other way so he wouldn't be ashamed? Not exactly helping, then. Or was it so they could have deniability? We had no idea. Spencer Reid? Our Spencer? They gasp. He wouldn't.

They've definitely noticed. That much he knows. All eyes are on him when he's in a room. Not in the usual Spencer is being his brilliant self again way. In a Spencer is a disgrace to himself, look at his pathetic face way, except no one would look him in the face anymore. Like if they looked at him, it would be painfully obvious in their faces what they really thought of him. Like there was no way to look at him the way you would look at a normal person.

Every day, he comes in to work screaming: Look at me. Do you see me? Do you see what I'm doing to myself? Do you see it? Do you see me? Look at me. Don't look at me. Stop looking at me. Stop. Don't look at me. Please. Stop. Stop. No. Stop. STOP. "Morning," is all they hear.

You look at him. Oh no. Not you. Please. You're... not disgusted? You're not looking at him as if one would an insect. Huh.

Great. You are so pathetic, you're pretending people like you. Do you realize how pathetic that is? Do you realize how pathetic you are, Spencer? You're so deep in delusion that you think someone cares. No one cares. Nobody cares.

His thoughts are loud today. Louder than usual. Not ideal. You're still looking. You're crying. You're crying?

Amazing job! You've made the one person who probably cares about you cry just by existing. Hey, do you know what you should do? Do you know what you should do, Spencer? Kill y—

"Hey, are you okay?" It's his own voice. An act of rebellion against himself. A lifeline.

"Spencer, are you?" you ask, sniffling. That's the first time someone has stopped to ask him that question. He didn't know what to say.

At the depth of my delirium, I think of you. I think we're in love. I think of being in your arms. I think of you holding my hand and telling me you love me. I think of you telling me I'll be fine. I think of you telling me I'll be okay. I'm not fine. I'm not okay. I need you. I'm sorry. Tell me you love me. I'm sorry.

He just stares. You look at him just a second longer than he wants you to, give his hand a little squeeze, and then you're gone.

See? She's gone. You know why she's gone? You know why she didn't stay, Spencer? Wait, actually, think of a reason why someone would stay. Go on, try. That'll be much harder, yeah. Pathetic.

Mirrors don't work anymore. Whenever he looked in one, he used to see himself. He just sees a silhouette now. A hollow void that only moves seconds after he does. Somebody he knows but cannot quite recognize.

You see that? Even your fucking reflection thinks you're pathetic.

They're mocking him. They are taunting him. They don't even have the decency to look back at him. Pretty shitty for a mirror, he thinks.

Hey. Idiot. Yeah, you. What are you looking at? You're feeling sorry for yourself? You're sorry, buddy? You're guilty? You wanna go back? Back to mommy? Back to before all this? Back to how it used to be? Back to... what, exactly? Back to being brilliant and broken and hiding it better? Back to when you still had the energy to fake being whole? Weak.

Spencer doesn't remember what home feels like. It used to be Vegas until he had to leave. It used to his job until he had to hide. It used to be his apartment until he couldn't trust himself to be alone anymore. Sometimes when you look at him, talk to him, touch him, he thinks this could be home. But it's never enough. The more of you he had, the more of you he wanted.

Boy, you never stood a chance, did you?

The first time, he promised himself it would be just this once. It's wrong, yes, but it's for recovery. It's just this once. He can stop whenever he wants to.

Second time, the last time. It's not like he can't stop if he wants to. He's in control. It's fine.

Third, the final time, for sure. It's only for a while. It's not permanent.

He can stop whenever he wants to. He can stop whenever he wants. He doesn't want to stop. He can't stop. The more he had, the more he wanted.

The pull, the calling, the addiction, it's far too evil. It's a siren. It's a mimic. It fools you into thinking it's taking you somewhere beautiful. Some place you need to get to. And every time, it promises you that you're getting closer. That you'll get there soon enough. Just a few more steps. Just a couple more times. Just another leap. But all it does is lie to you and make you feel like you're close. Like you're getting there. Like you will be home in no time. When in reality, you've regressed. You're worse off than you were when you started. Only then do you notice you're all alone.

What a wonderous, massive, cosmic joke. Doctor Spencer Reid. Child Prodigy. Genius. Criminal Profiler. Special Agent with the FBI. Drug Addict. Liar. A threat to himself and the people around him.

The walls are too close tonight.

Everything is itchy. His clothes. His skin. The thoughts under his skin. The thrum in his veins that won’t quiet down.

You don't know who you are when you're not in pain. That's why you keep coming back, Spencer. Not for the high. For the silence. The certainty. God, what a burden it must be. Having to pretend they're not afraid of you. Like they don't flinch whenever you open your mouth.

"Shut up. Just shut up," he yells to his empty apartment.

He rubs his face hard enough to leave marks. Paces the length of the living room five times. Seven. Twelve. He forgets what number he’s on.

He wonders, not for the first time, if this is the moment he finally fractures beyond repair. If this is where the brilliant, broken, bullet-dodging Spencer Reid finally snaps and nobody notices. Maybe they already did notice. Maybe they’re just waiting to see if he self-destructs before they have to say something.

This is pathetic. You are pathetic.

He sits. Then stands. Then sits again. The couch is too soft. The floor is too cold. The apartment smells like nothing and everything. Bleach. Dust. Failure.

You don’t even get to be tragic. You’re just exhausting.

His hands are shaking again. Not just the twitchy, ignorable kind— full tremors, rattling like change in his pockets. He tries to hold them still. Fails.

You’re not going to get better.

He closes his eyes.

You're alone, Spencer.

He opens them.

Nobody's coming for you.

No one cares.

You are all alo—

Three knocks. Someone's here. You're here. You're here? What are you doing here?

"What are you doing here?"

"Hello to you, too, Spencer. Care to let me in?"

~

You're leaning against his counter. He's stood on the other side, facing you, but not quite meeting your eyes.

Can't even look her in the face. Loser.

"Spencer?" He responds with a hum that sounds like it is meant for him as much as it is meant for you.

"I've been here for fifteen minutes and you haven't said a word."

"Right. Ah, there you go. That's a word. That good enough for you?"

That's right. Push her away. Antagonize her. Make her hate you. That'll show her for caring about you.

"Spencer, don't be like that, come on."

"Don't be like what? Like a junkie? Like an addict? Is that what you mean? Jesus, you can't even say it." I am not trying to push you away. I cannot help it. I am so sorry. Please still like me.

"I meant, don't be distant with me. I meant, don't be a jerk, you jerk," you say, your voice more reprimanding than angry. That shuts him up.

"Spencer, I am not going to walk around eggshells with you. I don't want to. You have a problem. You need help. You know that. I cannot sit still at work, pretend everything's fine, nod my head and hope you'll be okay and forget everything when I go home. I cannot be like that."

Spencer looks at you like you're hanging stars in his sky. You continue.

"I am so sorry that it took me this long to figure it out and come help you. I had to be sure we're doing it right."

"Doing what right? What are you talking about?"

"Getting you sobered up. I don't really know much about it, and I didn't want to go somewhere that would leave a paper trail. You could lose your job. I did some research, pulled some strings, and well, I was able to get some supplies and over-the-counter meds and worst case scenario, if something does go wrong, which I'm really not counting on, I know some people who would be willing to help off the record."

He stares at you like you're some kind of hallucination. Some fever dream conjured by withdrawal and regret and too many sleepless nights. For him? Why would you do this?

“Why would you do this?” he says aloud, voice flat. Hollow. “What is wrong with you? You could get fired for this. Do you understand that?”

Please don’t stop. Please don’t take it back. Please don't leave me alone. Please don’t say this was a mistake.

You cross your arms, unfazed. “Yeah, I know. Thanks for the concern, by the way.” You look at him and see his face contort in confusion.

"Honey, no offence, I say this with lots of love in my heart," you put your hand over his and continue, "but you're a self sabotaging moron who thinks he doesn't deserve good things. You are very wrong, for the record, and I deeply care about you in spite of that."

Exactly. Why?

“Exactly. Why?” he says. The words are louder this time. Angrier. Desperate. “You don’t owe me anything. I’ve treated you like crap. I’ve lied to you. Pushed you away. I'm a mess. A tragic self-fulfilling prophecy. I’m not— I’m not someone you should still give a damn about.”

And there it is. That trembling, cracked little part of him. The kid who got beat up on playgrounds and cried about it alone. The man who thought he had to earn affection with perfection.

You take a breath. You move your hand, which was on top of his, to hold it now.

“I don’t need reasons or incentive to care about you, Spencer. You don't have to deserve or earn anything from me. Or anyone, for that matter. You are a good person. You deserve to have joy in life. You were not this self-loathing, withdrawn, quiet person, not when we first met. I love listening to you. I love when you get excited about something. I know you're still in there. You’re still my friend. A huge part of my life, whether you like it or not. I love you.”

I love you too. Oh god, I love you too.

"I miss you when you’re not around,” you continue. “And I’m done missing you even when you are. So pony up. We’re getting you sober.”

"Did you know that the word sober originates from Latin? Yeah, se meaning without, and ebrius meaning drunk. The word sobrius which is where sobriety is believed to have come from, literally means without wine."

"There he is."

~

"Alright, so it's nothing you don't already know, but I'm telling you anyway so you know the drill. It's going to be painful. You'll have cold fevers, nausea, you'll sweat a lot, your body will hurt, you may have episodes, and you will feel awful. And that's all before it gets to the hard part."

"You know, you don't have to do this. You don't need to— I don't—"

"Spencer, Spence, hey," you hold both his hands in yours and continue, "Look at me. It's okay. I know what I'm getting into. We can do this. I'm not going anywhere, okay?"

I hope I hold on long enough for you to see me when I'm not like this. When I'm okay. Like I used to be. Like I was when I first saw you. But God forbid, if I let go, I hope it's in your arms.

"Okay."

It comes in waves. The chills start first— sharp, stabbing needles running down his spine, crawling beneath his skin like he’s being flayed alive from the inside out. Then the nausea, rising like a tide, acidic and angry. His body betrays him over and over again. Sweat clings to him, drenching the sheets, pooling under his neck. Every movement feels like a punishment. Every breath feels borrowed.

And she’s still here. Still here. God.

He can’t look at her when it’s bad. When he’s shaking so hard his teeth chatter. When his limbs lock up and his sobs catch in his throat like barbed wire. He hates that she sees him like this. Hates that he can’t hide the worst parts of himself.

Why are you still here? Leave.

Every time he opens his eyes and finds her still at his side— cool rag in hand, whispering his name, smoothing the hair back from his forehead, holding his head up when he vomits— it shatters something in him. A tenderness he’s not strong enough to hold.

You shouldn’t have to see this. You don’t deserve to.

He tries to apologize. For the sweating. For the smell. For the vomiting. For the crying. For the memories he’ll never let himself say aloud. For existing like this in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and cracking.

“You don’t have to be, you have nothing to be sorry for,” she says every time.

But he is. So, so sorry.

You could’ve loved a hundred better men. Men who would’ve taken care of you, who wouldn’t need saving, who would know how to say thank you instead of I’m sorry.

And still, she stays.

Maybe I’m being made new. Maybe this is what it means to be reborn, to be stripped down to nothing, to be known in every terrible inch, and still not be sent away.

He doesn't believe in God. Never really has. But if he did, if he ever were to believe in something divine, it would be this. Her. Here. Now. In all her human mess and radiant grace, holding the pieces of him steady like they're sacred.

If I make it out of this… If I make it to the other side… it’ll be because she walked with me through the fire and didn't once let go.

And if he doesn’t—

Let it be here. Let it be now. Let it be in her arms.

He shakes his head, eyes glassy and wild, muscles locking in protest. “I don’t think I can do this. I don’t— I can’t—”

His voice is barely human anymore. It's all pain and fear and shame twisted into syllables that sound like defeat.

You kneel beside him, one hand on his shoulder, the other brushing damp curls from his forehead. “Yes, you can. You’re doing great. You’re doing so good, Spencer. We’re almost there. You’re so close. You’re doing great.”

He wants to believe you. God, he wants to. But everything hurts. Everything burns. His bones feel like they’re breaking and reforming all at once. His mind is louder than ever, telling him he’s weak, that he’s wasting your time, that you’ll hate him after this.

But your voice cuts through the noise like light through smoke.

You’re still here.

You’re still here.

You’re still here.

When the worst of it passes, you're both tired. Him, more so than you, of course, but you're exhausted regardless. His world is still spinning, but not violently anymore. Just slow, dizzy loops. You're sitting beside him on the floor, hair messily tied back, sleeves rolled up, skin warm where it brushes his.

“Hey,” you say gently, pushing a water bottle toward him. “When was the last time you ate?”

He blinks. “I… don’t remember.”

You nod like that’s what you expected. “Okay. No worries. I’ll look around your kitchen, see what I can make work.”

God, you’re so… gentle. It’s devastating.

You're holding a knife in your hand, looking at his fridge, hoping to find some vegetables, fruits, anything. You don't. You absentmindedly hold the knife as you ransack his kitchen as politely as possible.

He watches you shuffle toward the cabinets. He should offer to help. He should stand. He should do something. But all he can do is sit there on the counter, hunched, wrapped in the too-big hoodie you made him change into, staring at the way you move around his space like it’s your own. Like you're allowed to be here.

And if you could just twist that knife into my heart, stab me lightly, yeah, that would be great.

You start opening drawers and cabinets and make a little sound of horror. “Spencer, honey. You live like a caveman. Where’s all the food? Have you been eating at all?”

He shrugs. Tries to play it off. “I’ve… had protein bars. Mostly.”

“Mmm.” The noncommittal hum you make isn’t exactly believing. But you don’t push. “That’s okay. We’ll do takeout tonight. Figure out the rest tomorrow.”

He nods, too tired to argue. Too in awe of you to try.

“Go relax, okay?” you say as you pick up your phone. “I’ll order something. Just rest until it gets here.”

You wait until he’s curled under a blanket on the couch— he didn’t want the bed— and that’s when you really look around.

It’s chaos. The kind that builds slowly, quietly, until it drowns a person.

Books are scattered everywhere. His meticulously labeled files are out of order. His fish tank light is flickering and dim. The automatic feeder has maybe a day’s worth of food left. And worst of all, one of the tiny fish is floating belly-up, pale and still.

You cover your mouth and breathe through your nose. He hadn’t noticed. He didn’t even see it. That’s what breaks your heart. You step into the hallway and call Garcia.

“Penelope. I need you to do me a favor. No questions asked. I’ll owe you forever.”

You hear the shift in her tone instantly. “Tell me what you need.”

“I’m sending you a picture. I need a fish. Exactly like the one in the photo. Same kind, same size. I need it tonight. As soon as you can.”

There’s a beat. “On it.”

By the time the takeout arrives, you’ve got the new fish hidden in a thermos packed with water, and you’re swapping it into the tank just as Spencer wanders into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes and asking if he should grab plates.

“Yeah,” you say, forcing a smile. “Grab whatever you’ve got.”

He disappears into a cabinet, and you finish the switch in record time, flushing the old one without blinking. He doesn’t notice.

He just sits down beside you a minute later and says, “Thanks for staying.”

You hand him his plate.

“Always.”

He smiles at that— tired, but genuine. You both eat in silence for a few minutes, the clinking of forks against ceramic the only sound between you. You keep glancing over, watching for signs of nausea, ready to intervene. But he seems okay. Exhausted, but okay.

After a while, he leans back, running a hand through his hair.

“I think I need to lie down.”

“You shouldn’t lie down just yet,” you say gently as he settles onto the couch.

Spencer looks up at you, eyebrows furrowed. “Why not?”

“If you end up throwing up again while you’re asleep, you could choke on it. Just for tonight— until it’s fully out of your system— it’s safer to stay upright. By morning, it should pass.”

“Oh,” he says quietly, like he hadn’t thought of that. Of course, he hadn’t. He’s not used to someone else worrying about the aftermath. He's not so used to someone else worrying about him, period.

I love you.

You sit down beside him, not too close, but close enough that he could lean if he wanted to. “You can rest here. Sit with me. Like you do on the jet.”

He turns to you slowly. “You’re… not going home?”

You shake your head once. “I’m not going anywhere until I know you’re okay.”

There’s a sharp sting in his throat, and for once it has nothing to do with withdrawal. Have I mentioned that I love you? In case I haven't, I love you. I'm sorry. I love you.

You open your arms a little, wordlessly offering, and after a moment’s hesitation, he lowers his head to your shoulder. He doesn’t even realize how tightly he’s holding onto you until your fingers slide through his hair.

"You're fine. You're going to be okay."

The next morning, he wakes up before you do.

The light’s different today. The early sun filters through the blinds in soft, dappled gold. For the first time in what feels like ages, it doesn’t feel too harsh or blinding. For the first time in longer than he can remember, the sun doesn’t scream. It just… glows. Gentle. Warm. Alive.

You’re still asleep, head tilted, mouth barely parted. Your brow’s furrowed even now— worried in your dreams, probably about him. Always about him.

He watches you in silence. Not like a man haunted. Not like someone waiting for the sky to fall. Just grateful. Reverent.

You saved my life.

If there's anything the BA in Philosophy has helped him understand, it's this. Existentialists argue that life has no inherent meaning, and individuals must create their own meaning through their choices and actions. By that logic, his choices and actions, having subconsciously led him to you, must mean that you are the true meaning of life. Not an existentialist? Not a problem.

Plato believed that the meaning of life lies in attaining the highest form of knowledge, which is the Idea of the Good, from which all good and just things derive utility and value. Considering how Spencer's pursuit of this exact idea is what led him to you in the first place, this must prove beyond a reasonable doubt that you were the true meaning of life. At least to him.

Nihilism suggests that life is ultimately meaningless and that there is no objective value or purpose. Nihilists must have never encountered you, he concludes.

This could be home. You could be home. It could be enough.

a/n: it could count as fluff towards the end but like only if you're mildly fucked in the head like I am

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

hi batman :) this felt too tangential to directly contribute to the post literally specifically about reading books by black women BUT re: “would this ‘i don’t know who writes the books i read’ phenomenon be happening if the question was just ‘have you read a book by a woman’” i’ve often come across folks at work (bookstore) and online saying things along the lines of “i need to be reading more women writers!!” (probably true!) or asking for stories by queer/trans people specifically, (and having that be pretty much their only criteria for a recommendation at the start of the conversation). and like, that’s cool! i think it’s admirable to seek out voices you’re not familiar with. yippee! but NONE! of these requests (bookstore mostly, but in some casual convos online) are ever for books by Black people! let alone “hey do you have any books by Black women?” i don’t really feel equipped to speculate as to why that would be, but i’m wondering if you have any thoughts on why folks seem so much more comfortable (or even eager) broaching their comfort zone to talk about queerness or gender but not race. i mean. it’s the racism, but i’d love your thoughts. thank u for enduring some of the most insane takes ever it’s led me to reflect on how i engage with media in some really useful and actionable ways.

it's absolutely the racism, and I think it's very interesting that you specifically draw this parallel with people actively seeking queer authors, because I do have some fucking Things to say about that.

I believe it's actually on this sequel post, rather than the original that you're referencing, where some very confidently asserts that they only bother learning things about authors to make sure that queer books are written by queer people, which to me begs the obviously follow-up question of why this perceived authenticity of authorial experience matters for queer narratives but not for those of narratives by people of color, to which I fear the answer is that this person either doesn't care or simply isn't reading books that center people of color in the first place.

and while I have personally seen lots of white people, including many white queer people, doing the work to decenter whiteness in their reading (#notallwhites) I am also very familiar with the kind of white queer readers you're talking about, who treat "it's gay" as the end all of media recommendations. huge shout out to a former (white, bisexual) coworker from my time at the library, who once tried to pitch me on a "queer sapphic YA beowulf" retelling he was reading and couldn't understand why I wasn't interested in it at all when it had gay characters in it.

and I think for queer readers like this, who prioritize the consumption of queer #content above all else, there's an alleged willingness to engage with any book that will offer up LGBT characters that still prioritized white characters, white authors (especially when those white authors write some characters of color, so it still feels #diverse), and what's considered a normative (white, western) LGBT experience, with anything outside that framework being treated as unrelatable and optional to the white queer literary canon because it doesn't meld nicely with, I don't know, Red, White & Royal Blue and Heartstopper and Song of Achilles and Legends & Lattes. it's the classic move of white queers getting so caught up in being marginalized in one particular way that we forget there might be any other groups whose voices might be getting drowned out and need prioritizing.

and also, you know, having to read books about people who experience other forms of discrimination in addition to homophobia/transphobia gets the ol' white guilt churning and make them feel attacked, which many of my folks just cannot stand. white supremacy is built on comfort, and all that.

[callizinc]

so how do you interpret the significance of the themes in ena overall. like potential messaging. and how does dream bbq interact with the themes established in the youtube series.

i’ve seen people say they interpret it as anything from commentary on immigration (particularly how immigrants are treated poorly) to like, internet culture, or autism, or whatever really. i noticed a lot of people relate their own experiences to it. it’s cool how many different interpretations people get out of it (even if folks get a little in the weeds about the symbolism sometimes, and personally i’m not as focused on potential symbolism as the worldbuilding in itself)

This is an absolutely diabolical (/positive) ask to send me . This is like opening the floodgates to world's largest and most dangerous dam. Oh my goodness gracious

WELL!! That is of course such a good and cool question!! to be honest, i hope i can answer it sufficiently, since i've spent the most time thinking about Specific things in dbbq so far as opposed to the bigger and greater picture—But here's the thoughts i have about all that at present!

I guess, for one, i think interpreting the series to be commentaries on immigration, internet culture, and/or neurodivergence and the like are all completely fair and valid. I don't have much to say about those interpretations at the moment myself, but still, I think they're all interesting in their own right! I also agree 100% that it's super cool how many interpretations people have; even if i. Don't vibe with all of them LOL, i genuinely really like how much thought it inspires!

Right now, i can't help but interpret the game as a commentary on unhealthy work/life balances and abusive work dynamics. Which feels like the most obvious interpretation possible but... still LOL.

Ena's literal only moods are "smooth talking salesperson obsessed with work" and "pissed at everyone because of her stupid job she doesn't even like". There's her line where she goes "Oh, I am no longer the boss of myself" with extreme nonchalance, Not to mention she goes to The Club one single time and has a breakdown and starts like. turning into branches or something ("I need to get back to my deplorable job... I can't afford another moment of joy.." LIKE GIRL...).

We don't even know what her job... Is? like obviously she's a salesperson but, What is she supposed to be selling? and i know they have the slot machines and everything, but what does her Business even Do? The fact that none of this is clear IS amusing, but i also feel like it represents how her job, ultimately, is Not of importance. Nothing she's doing is of true value to herself, nor to others, but she commits her entire life to her shitty job anyway, leaving no room to even consider breaks or ANY life Outside of work ("any good business should be open all hours" ...).

Not to mention how. you know. Everybody hates her 😭 WHICH IS A WHOLE CAN OF WORMS ON ITS OWN, But i feel it also fits into this interpretation; She, for whatever reason, commits her life to work, the thing you're Supposed to do to be a valuable member of society, so to say, yet it gains her no respect, no benefits, seemingly nothing good at all. Maybe she works so hard to try to gain the respect of others, even though, just like how our capitalistic workplaces will chew you up and spit you back out, and no matter how hard you work, those people will never truly care about you.

However, the references to violence in regards to Ena are also important, i think, with the "I'm not doing ANYTHING!" scene, and the fact that the game trailer shows two accounts of Ena wielding a gun, and also.. A shot of Ena as an armless crumbling green zombie in the same desolate landscape full of raining bullets.

I'm unsure where to go with that as of right now—mostly because I don't think the game would draw parallels between Specific real life events, I'd still want to ensure i'm being respectful if i am to start talking about something like war/soldier theming. Still, i think this has to be significant, there's two separate depictions of Ena wielding a gun in the game's trailer, and I truly don't know how to else you're meant to interpret the scenes of distressed and desolate Enas around giant knives and raining bullets LOL

...I also just remembered you also asked how DBBQ's themes interact with the youtube series's themes, But. i feel embarrassed enough already having written this much. and also I don't know. About that one. I don't knowwwww. So um. I'm gonna stop here 😭

[centrally-unplanned]

Japanese website Forest Page is shutting down ~today, a tragic loss of "Heisei otaku memories", as so many are calling it. Launched in 2003, Forest Page was a "Geocities for mobile", a site that hosted user-created websites and gave them tools to allow non-coders to make them. In practice, it became one of the premiere places for fanfiction in Japan, with the stories hosted on author-created sites.

It wasn't quite the Fanfic.net of Japan, as for one the Japanese fandom just never centralized quite the way the 2000's western one did, instead being spread out over a half dozen or so sites. But additionally, it wasn't initially popular for fanfic so much as cell phone fanfiction, because in 2000's Japan the "cell phone novel" was a specific thing. These websites were being made for flip phones, not smartphones, and not only would people read them on those phones, they would often write them. None of that was very conducive to the creation and consumption of a "traditional" novel; so starting in the 2000's Japanese writers started making stories fit for the medium, namely:

Very short

A huge focus on dialogue and inner thoughts, with no/minimal description or scene detail

Using a limited POV of a specific character

Often employing the medium-as-message, like using emojis, structuring the story as IM's or emails, etc.

Also they all had huge gaps between lines, I'm not really sure what that is about:

Probably for readability on the phone given the small screen size? But it was absolutely part of the genre. A few of these novels actually made it big, got movie adaptations, people wrote articles about the "cultural phenomenon", it was the 2000's so Hiroki Azuma had a take on it of course, and so on. It slotted neatly into the vibe of the time of technology changing culture, paralleling discourse around otaku in the same era.

In fanfic those trends met up, and anyone familiar with fanfiction probably read that list of traits of the cellphone novel and thought "oh, this is perfect for fanfiction". Skipping out on description? I don't need it, I know what they look like already. Focus on conversation and POV? Perfect for shipping fics. Short lengths? Yeah, we are shortcutting to the good stuff, that is the point. Mirroring trends in the west, Forest Page's userbase was ~95% female, and the most common content on the site was romantic or edgy-dramatic stories in the franchises you'd expect. The closure page linked above actually summarizes the site's history by year, and lists the biggest fandoms:

Which is exactly what I would expect from a female otaku fanfiction website. Congrats to Pirates of the Caribbean for making it though, freeaboo's represent.

I do think the fact that the site was a website hoster as opposed to a fic hoster did align with the way the Japanese fandom was more "creator focused" and embraced the media mix more. There were "fic circles" a la doujin circles who made their own pages, people would make fanart, fan video games, and so own to host alongside it, and all of it was centralized to the creator; it made following them-as-a-person just a little bit easier. Most websites were simple text, but others did have the full Geocities experience:

Something that was somewhat common were basic visual novel concepts where the reader could make choices, or even insert their own name so they would be the "MC" of the story:

(Dream novels are in fact their own thing in Japan) My understanding is the site was quite popular through the 2000's and into the 2010's, though over time the "cellphone novel" as a concept fizzled out. People got smartphones, more people got PCs, and the constraints didn't make sense anymore - you can read ebooks and normal websites on your phone now after all. You can probably draw a line between these kind of stories and the webfiction/light novel boom of the late 2000's/2010's, something that was equally born on the internet, that streamlines the novel to "shortcut to the good stuff" but without the need to fit on a flip phone's screen. Though I will admit my own understanding of their histories shows them more as two sides of the same "youth demand for new literature" coin.

In 2017 Forest Page launched Forest Page Plus, a new service fully optimized for the smartphone era; but it did not transfer over all the old content, starting the clock ticking on the original Forest Page. My understanding is that in June they announced Forest Page was officially closing down; and from what I have gathered from reminiscing writers on twitter, they did not provide any easy, one-touch way to save any of the content, so people are archiving Wayback Machine links or sharing tips on how screenshot-save stories (I think the rub is they gave people a way to transfer content to FP+, but most don't want to do that, as places like Twitter & Pixiv are the content kings of this era).

As of tomorrow I would bet the large majority of the content will be gone; quite sad given both the quantity of stories there and how many got sometimes millions of readers. I am sure most of the biggest stories are archived at least, but particularly the early stuff was a very ephemeral genre, one that doesn't make sense to revisit once you aren't a 16 year old teen writing and reading fics on a flip phone in between classes. Which means another legion of the ghosts of the Wired is being born today. May we pour one out for a fellow online community that lived and died!

[simplydnp]

WAD: Cover Art

dan is still working on selling the distribution rights for We're All Doomed! so i decided to make some DVD/Blu-ray disc jacket art!

this is my attempt at a traditional jacket design! none of the images used are mine, but i did create the concept and design:

as i was making the first one for myself, i was struck by the fact that 'well, it's for me, so it doesn't have to look like a stereotypical jacket cover' which led me to be more artsy in my approach for the next one:

i was really enjoying the creativity and space to explore, so i went looking for more inspiration for a third design. this led me to dan's favourite Muse album: Origin of Symmetry, which i paid homage to:

after the first Muse album, i looked at their catalogue to see if there was more inspiration there. i was just thankful dan's favourite was easy stylistically to mimic, unlike say, 2009's The Resistance...

thank you @danielhowell for the inspiration!

nerdy stuff & reference pics below the cut!

General notes

i don't know how to use photoshop! i entirely brute-forced my way through the whole project, and the only tutorial i looked up was for the gradient text in the 4th cover

this wasn't even the original project i was working on! you'll eventually get to see that though

and this one also inspired art for the disc itself so stay tuned 👀

i will do anything for authenticity so these are Full of intentional details

matching fonts is a nightmare

the traditional cover

took the longest, as it was the first.

the barcode numbers are the date of the first video he uploaded on dinof, and the last tour show date (in m/d/y)

i changed 'iceland' to 'poland' on the front cover, as he never actually went to iceland, and poland wasn't ever on the list even though he did go there

the orange may look a little off-center in the front, but these designs need to include space for a spine between the front and back cover, i promise it's right 😂

the black and white cover

inspired by the 'i want to believe' aliens poster

the cover art comes from his metal band merch shirt design

i had to manually shrink the text, line by line, and ensure it all lined up on the back!

i even made the logos on the back greyscale

the Muse: Origin of Symmetry cover

a shockingly perfect style for a WAD cover. i'm so glad i used the cubes, even if they couldn't be orange.

there's some versions of the art online where the sky is even more orange and it baffles me how i haven't seen any parallels like this before

the Muse: The Resistance cover

this cover was never supposed to see the light of day! i meant it when i said i was grateful i didn't have to try to adapt this complex design... and yet, i tried anyway.

i did all the grid lines by hand, including the jagged/broken edge parts, shading each section, and then drawing every star.

the hardest part was getting the gradient on the back text to cooperate. photoshop's gradient settings are surprisingly limited

gotta shout out @amazingphil for being the reason i knew what this cover looked like--it's the only muse album i knew the art of before embarking on this quest!

obligatory sob story:

i've been extremely and suddenly ill for 6 months. it is difficult to function moment to moment, but especially in doing little things just for me. this is the first and only art project i've been able to feel inspired to not only work on, but to finish, and despite the pain and long hours, i enjoyed every minute of it. thank you, dan, for creating this space for me to explore, and thank you, everyone here, for being wonderful support during this time 💞

[thetownsendsw]

Today marks the premier of #Pathfinder’s Triumph of the Tusk Adventure Path, so I’d like to take a moment to discuss a relevant topic near and dear to my heart.

ORCS!

While Tolkien was drawing on some linguistic antecedents, Orcs in fantasy originate from The Hobbit & Lord of the Rings, where they’re brutish soldiers of various forces of evil.

Initially lacking redeeming quality, Orcs have become a darling of pop culture, their thuggish nature explored from many angles across TTRPGs, video games, comics, novels, and more.

Now, when you picture an Orc, you no doubt imagine something akin to the Warcraft or Warhammer franchises: statuesque, green skinned humanoids with protruding underbites and looming tusks, often locked into a primitive, itinerant lifestyle, eschewing technology beyond what they pillage from other races.

Interestingly, none of this is in Tolkien.

In Tolkien, “Orc” was essentially another word for “Goblin,” or perhaps unusually large Goblins. Far from statuesque, Gollum (a (former?) Hobbit) could easily be confused for one. The Uruk-hai, a new, stronger Orcish offshoot were described as Orcish in appearance but only as tall as a Man, not taller.

Tolkien’s Orcs are described as deformed, but nothing as specific as green skin or tusks is specifically mentioned (Tolkien saved in-depth sensory detail for trees, and occasionally beards).

Far from being savages, Tolkien’s Orcs were–in his grand Romanticist narrative–stand-ins for industrialization. They were destroying the forests to build grand weapons of war, and soot-covered Mordor evoked the smokestacks of 19th century london.

In many ways the conflict of LotR can be interpreted as Tolkien pitting the noble myths and tales he studied up against his real experiences in WWI.

(the thought amuses me of a firmly medieval fantasy setting, except when we zoom in on the Orcish Badlands they’re all shelling each other from the trenches)

But while none of these traits are in Tolkien, there is a source where they are central.

The Green Martians, or Tharks, first appeared in A Princess of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs, published in All-Story Magazine from Feb-July 1912, well before any of the kids Tolkien decided to tell a fairy tale to were born.

The Tharks are described as 15 foot tall nomadic savages, favoring mighty beasts and weapons salvaged from the more civilized races of Barsoom. They have green skin and tusks, as well as six limbs (interestingly, the middle limbs are described as functional as either crude arms or secondary legs, but art always just depicts four arms)

Culturally, the Tharks are clearly meant as extensions of the Apache raiders encountered in the early chapters of the book set in Arizona; i.e. some California ranch-owner’s idea of wasteland savages. Nomadic, inhuman raiders redeemable only when breaching their primitive traditions.

The parallels are almost uncanny, and I’ll admit I’m honestly not sure where the crossover occurs. Early editions of D&D–another driver of fantasy trends–depict orcs as pig-people, which is probably how tusks became so iconic. They later added gray skin, which persisted officially until the current edition.

Somewhere between there in ‘74 and Warhammer in the early 80s is when the pseudo-Barsoom look took over in broader culture, and at this point there’s no getting around it. Even the more recent Tolkien film adaptations can’t entirely escape the expectation of modern Orcishness.

Turning back the clock a bit, Tolkien notably was never entirely sure where Orcs came from. His first idea was that they were molded from clay by Morgoth, a dark mirror to Adam, but being a Catholic at heart, he disliked the idea of Evil being a creative force.

He flip-flopped for the rest of his life, whether Orcs were corrupted men/elves/hobbits, uplifted beasts, even (according to one post I saw) soulless bodies remotely piloted by demons. He could never quite square the need for unfailingly evil mooks with his own feelings on Good & Evil.

Personally, I find particular resonance in the parallel between what D&D used to call an “always chaotic evil” race and the very Catholic concept of Original Sin. Was Tolkien merely dancing around the idea that the Orcs only needed to be Saved?

I can’t say what Tolkien would think of modern Orcs, either their merging with an earlier, American space alien, or our attempts to humanize what was supposed to be fundamentally inhuman. But I think his insecurity speaks to the same source as our fascination.

Who among us hasn’t struggled with what it means to be good? Or to be evil? And if we are made to be evil, what does it mean to strive against that purpose or to surrender to it? Can we abandon the precepts of predestiny? Or do we reject that they were ever there?

Stare deeply into that Jungian shadow and tell me…

Is it green? And do you want it to be?

[brainworms-all-night-long]

Hello hi, I'm Brainworms and this be an all inclusive intro to the hellspace that's my brain and this blog!! Do not attempt to find any parallels in my blorbos to my behavior and desires I promise it says nothing about the very core of me as a living being haha

I also have a Bsky and PillowFort in case this place kicks the bucket fr

And if you feeling like you have a lot of money and don't know where to put it, you can Commission me (OPEN) or Buy Me a Coffe!!

While you're still here, please donate to these fundraisers for Sahar Shehab, Maryam, Wasim, Heba Al-Dahdouh, Mahmoud and Ali as I'm unable to do so myself

Every silly appearing above lives full time in my brain and refuses to pay the mortgage, in fact, is very adamant they will never do so. Henceforth, I yap about them sometimes!! Some more than others *coughNinecough* but they are always present

>Now to the tags I actively use!!

sonic prime / sonic the hedgehog / miles nine prower – The most of thoughts at the actual documented begining of life for this blog, and I like Nine!! A lot!! A character made specifically for me I think....

murder drones / arcane / nimona 2023 / dreamtale (UTMV) – Other stuff besides Sonic that I draw and yap about, although this is still mainly a Sonic blog

me does arts / littol doodl / actually finished doodl – My art tags!! I've been drawing the same character for over two years now help :D Have no idea why I decided to split them into three separate categories but I believe the names are pretty self explanatory

me when I finish writing – I do a drable or two sometimes as well just, don't expect for me to actually finish anything I start writing even though I say I will, that tag name is a lie

the silly text box – answered asks whenever I remember to use the tag lmao

silly brainworms – my yappings, Nine character analyses and headcanons!!

There's no talk tag, if you see my random unrelated thoughts, it was destined and once in a lifetime event

>I also have a few AUs but mostly of the "What if crossover" variety

Prime bros – a more or less non committed collaborative effort of random.headcanons and drables between me and @/000marie198 and anyone else who has thoughts and wants to join in on the fun on the idea of having the Shatterverse foxes (Nine, Sails, Mangey and Tails) living together in green hill and causing mayhem because the way the show left them was bullshit and unsatisfying!!

The same but different is my own personal version of the prime bros universe that is now actually being incredibly slowly written and the first three chapters are on my Ao3!!

Project 09 – a Tails gets adopted by Eggman AU except it's Nine getting "adopted" by the Chaos Council and to no one's surprise, it fucks him and everyone else up in a special way

Over the hills – is a Dreamtale and Sonic crossover brought on by The Nine-tailed travel guide through the multiverse event conceived by @/Donelywell and mashed with my long time held dreamswap au idea of Dream taking Night and running away from the village after taking some drastic measures that is also posted on Ao3!! (more stuff will come to it in time. I hope)

running from a Nightmare – another Dreamtale au, this time about corrupted Nightmare being set loose on the Sonic world by none other than Eggman and the suffering that comes with it (also fighting tooth and tail to get it written)

the n 'n n's (read as m&m's) – unserious crossover where I put Nine Night and Nimona together and have them be silly (perhaps Nuzi will tag along some day too...)

And because I keep having Dreamtale & Sonic thoughts, I do lump them all together under the dreamtale and sonic tomfoolery tag!!

prime arcane – as seen above, I like arcane!! Jinx and Nine are eerily similar in their sibling and identity struggles, I put them together, boom an Au :D other characters are there too but I need to get around actually designing them....

>This will get updated in case I get possessed by something new or remember a tag I forgor

——

Hey you scrolled this far might as well put some more random trivia abt me here :D

>paleontology and zoology nerd, but only as an avid listener to four hour YouTube documentaries, I don't actually know shit- (Miniminuteman, Casual Geo and Lydnsey Nikole hyper carry this special interest shoutout to them)

>Obviously a followup to previous point needed, favorite dinosaur is the Archeopterix and the top animals ever are the horshoe crab, Blunt Headed Tree Snake and European Blackbird in that order

>I have a pet snake, her name is Ebi and is a black head spider python!!

> maturitný diplom from Mechanical engineering

>Favorite color is pink!! (In case you couldn't tell by my art and this whole post lmao) I went through a goddamn hero's journey to learn to love it alright you can pry the seven plain hot pink shirts and hoodies I own from my cold dead hands

>I'm Slovak!! Niečo niečo hokej, Tatry, a zlatý Bažant

>Aro, Ace and Agender (that's where the AAA battery comes in lmao)

>undiagnosed but there's.... something...

> I could recite the story of the ugly duckling backwards as a kid (unrelated to previous two points)

[babyangelsky]

Color (and Fabric) Coded boys in love get happy endings!

All I have been wanting for the past two months is to see a colorful pattern on Tongrak's body so I could know that his love for Mahasamut is real.

AND THE FINALE GAVE IT TO ME IMMEDIATELY! Look at those blue stripes!

But...

It is not yet time for sunshine and roses. The shirt has solid pockets on its front, and one of those pockets is over Rak's heart. He loves Mahasamut, he's loved him this whole time, but his fear of love and what it means and what it can do to people is still guarding his heart.

He rejects Mut's confession. He desperately attempts to draw up another agreement to shield himself from the love being offered to him, not that it would work anyway. It isn't even needed. His fear has already created a barrier between them just like the frame of the sliding glass doors is.

Mut crosses it as he tries to make Rak understand that what he feels for him is sincere and that none of this was ever about the money. He asks Rak how much he has to pay to get his love and gives all the money back in an absolutely devastating parallel to when Rak offered him increasing amounts of money back on the island to speak central dialect with him.

Only this time, it doesn't work. Rak refuses Mut and his love and physically pushes him back on his side of the barrier.

Tongrak's fear is too great and Mahsamut turns and leaves because as he told Mook, it's not all up to him. He said he would accept a rejection and he does.

He sits at Rak's table and comes to terms with everything and this shot is so brilliant because it's showing us that the house itself and what it represents is a barrier. He followed Tongrak and basically walked away from his life and who he is and we can see that.

There's a pillar and glass between Mut and the multicolored light on the left. The light that's being reflected on the water.

And when he finally leaves, he does so back in his own colorful patterned shirt.

He says goodbye to his friends and his niece and he finally breaks down listening to Meena and her mother talk about how much Tongrak loves romances and the number 8 and its significance to him and it's heartbreaking.

Mahasamut has been bearing all this like a champ but he's only human and all of this is too much. He earned that breakdown and I'm glad he got to be comforted by his baby girl in her colorful patterned dress.

It's incredibly fitting that when we finally see Tongrak wear a color other than black or white is when he comes close to losing Mahasamut's bracelet and really fully realizes what he rejected and threw away.

Even more fitting? The colorful garbage truck.

He hasn't lost the bracelet, of course. Ain't no way Vivi was letting it be thrown away and in not doing so, she finally gets through to Tongrak and gets him to verbalize his fears. She comforts and reassures him and asks him what he's going to do and encourages him to be brave.

And it works!

Look at the difference between Tongrak the first and second time he arrives on the island. This is a man who knows where he is and what he's about!

He doesn't know what to say to Mahasamut or where to even begin but he knows that it's on him to make things clear and he's so scared the whole time but he still tries.

He shows up in front of Mahasamut again and again in his solid textures and again and again he fails. He wants to explain himself to Mahsamut so badly but he simply cannot find the words and he needs to because Mut is hurting and tender and trying to protect himself.

BUT MY BOY AIN'T NO QUITTER!

He finds the words and a way to apologize and explain himself to Mut and he goes to wait on that beach in his textured PATTERNED shirt with no more solid pockets over his heart.

AND MAHASAMUT DOES A CHAMPIONSHIP BL RUN AND THE DISTANCE BETWEEN THEM DISAPPEARS!

Tongrak is still so scared but he musters up all the bravery he can and apologizes face to face and finally FINALLY gives Mahasamut the words that matter.

Tongrak overcame his fear, put on his man's patterns, and finally allowed himself to love and think about a future with the love of his life.

"Home to me is you."

COLOR AND FABRIC CODED BOYS IN LOVE GET HAPPY ENDINGS!

[writing-for-life]

Dream and How He Experiences Love

(Or: When the Unreal is at War with the Real, and Finally Understanding Unconditional Love Tightens the Noose Around Your Neck That Has Been There All Along)

And as always: Send me asks about everything Sandman-related!

Let me start this one with a few adjectives from the horse’s mouth (aka: Neil Gaiman said so 🤣) as to what Dream is actually like:

from: Vertigo Chase Card Set

So in short: This is probably the most accurate way to describe Dream in a nutshell, from the author himself, fully knowing that Murphy doesn’t lend himself well to be described in a nutshell.

And of course it’s absolutely fine if we want to head-canon him just being 5 out of those 50 (or none of them at all)—our stories are our own. At the end of the day, we went through a whole year of Tumblrfication (I might have made up that word), and getting back to the series will be tough. So is trying to align what the current prevalent perception of Dream is like in parts of the fandom, and what he is like in both comics and series (show and comics really aren’t that different where it matters, and I’ll die on that hill). I already worry about the fallout if I look at what happened with GO or OFMD, but that just as an aside.

Anyway, Dream in fandom spaces is often portrayed as either a pathetic wet cat who can’t get to grips with anything and constantly needs rescued in one way or another, or as a completely unfeeling arsehole incapable of relating to the human experience and being horrible all around. There are very few shades of grey in how some fans perceive him, when just the list of above adjectives shows us how complex he is as a character.

One thing that obviously comes up regularly are his relationships, be they romantic or platonic. So I just wanted to draw attention to the adjectives that relate strongly to the relational element in him (although they all apply in one way or another):

touchy, sentimental, cold, loving, [elusive], gentle, hurt, deep, intense, solitary, romantic, shy, intangible, lonely

Dream is the unreal. His way of loving relates very deeply to what stereotypical romantic love is: Romance and reality are a contradiction in terms—romanticism is dreaming because it is, at its very core, an idealised view. The intangible dream that comes back to bite us in the arse once reality sets in. And his flavour of love is the prototype of idealised and intangible (=romantic) and can never be anything else by his very nature.

And I’ve often thought that the way he experiences love is also a large part of why his existence is so difficult for him, and why he ultimately makes the choices he makes. Yes, he detests his function, but if he weren't so lonely (and weren't doomed to be so by his very purpose), he might find it easier to bear.

Let me look at, and draw parallels to, the 7 types of love as the Ancient Greeks perceived them [quick note about the image references: I would have loved to give more, but there is a limit. Also: Apologies I have no alt text for the comic panels at this point, I might add them at a later stage if I find the time]…

Eros

That’s both sexual and romantic love (to varying degrees), and it can be fleeting (like a dream) if not anchored in a less idealised view. So there’s your first cue—he totally experiences that kind of love.

The Ancient Greeks also thought it was a dangerous type of love, one that clouds our judgment and one that won’t last if not combined with some of the other types. And Dream himself knows this and probably relates (he detests his sibling Desire for “meddling”, after all). And yet, he is the intangible, the ungrounded, the unreal.

It’s all over every single one of his relationships we witness:

Killalla—“gifted” by Desire. We never get any cue as to what exactly they were up to, but it can be assumed desire, for whatever, played a large part in their relationship. Killalla makes no secret about it either (and is at the same time uncertain whether she truly loves him while being confused Dream might actually love her after what seems a very short time, at least in cosmic terms). Suffice it to say, he has a very idealised view of her and their relationship. Romantic idiocy at its best: He has literal stars in his eyes and is so grateful for Desire’s help he is basically kissing their boots in gratitude.

Alianora—again one of Desire’s gifts. And Dream tried, and I definitely think he was at least romantically (and physically) attracted to her (the art is very hard to interpret otherwise, neither is the context--she was gifted by Desire, after all). But this relationship is generally a tricky one because there is gratefulness and guilt n the mix, and that is sometimes a very unfortunate combination. He also couldn’t fully trust her because of his deep mistrust of D/desire. And lo and behold, of course the relationship soured when romantic and (potentially physical) attraction waned.

Nada—pursuing each other on and off, broadcasting sexy time all over the Dreaming because he's just so head over heels and literally bursting at the seams—need I say more? Yes, he does say to her that her body does not matter to him, which I 100% believe is true. He also says that he will love her as no mortal man can. But everything that transpires is still deeply informed by romantic attraction, because quite frankly: You don't feel love yet after you've barely met someone. It's again a deeply idealised view and that is something inherently romantic in tandem (in this case) with physical desire. Again, because D/desire was involved.

As to the particulars of Nada’s banishment to hell, and why Dream acted so out of character compared to his other failed relationships: You can find all of it here.

Calliope—read her speech at the Wake is all I’ll say. That is someone making romantic love so integral to their whole existence, I don’t even know where to start. He puts the world at her feet and makes sure she always comes first (quite literally) while they are still loved up…

Thessaly—he's the romantic idiot (affectionately) in the rain with his coat billowing in the wind, and referring to her “weighing him dispassionately and finding him wanting”. It was only a handful of months--you don't feel true, stable love at that point. Again, it has the idealised view of romance (and potentially sexual desire) written all over it. He would have given her the world, just like he would have given the world to Nada and Calliope. That is the trope of every freaking romance novel, and that is exactly how he perceives love.

Titania—who knows, she keeps her mouth shut.

Ludus

I think he has a hard time to be flirtatious and playful (at least, we don't really see it. We never really see him during the courting stage, and what went down with Thessaly was hardly "flirtatious". `Then again, bickering like they did in A Game of You is electrifying to some, so who knows. She also said at his wake he was cautious and nervous). And if he comes across as flirtatious (there is a charming on that list of adjectives after all), it’s just because he is so deliberate in everything he does that he might just push someone’s (right) buttons, so to speak. But that’s not the same as “no strings attached”-love, because I honestly believe he’s incapable of experiencing love that way. There is no “casual” with him. He always stays attached to the people/women he once loved, even if the relationship sours. He still loves each and every single one of them, he never stops. But he also doesn’t in a way that’s sustainable, and it’s an unsolvable conflict due to what/who he is.

Philia

Most closely translated as friendship and affection. Platonic love, if you will. It is also a love between equals. He has a hard time with it and only slowly learns what it means through his relationship with Hob. Needless to say: The Ancient Greeks valued platonic love as one of the highest forms of love. Hence, I’m personally reluctant to turn it into something else/slant it towards romance, because that’s exactly what this part of the story is about: His relationship to Hob is important and grows/lasts because it is not romantic in the comics.

Storge

Unconditional love for family, especially children. Based on complete acceptance and potentially sacrifice. Doesn’t need to be reciprocated. You feel it, no matter what, and you act accordingly. And for Dream and Orpheus, that didn’t work until it did. Or, let’s rather say: I don’t want to assume he didn’t feel it. But he pushed it down in his hurt and pride (as did his son in his grief). No further comment, because that one hurts.

Agape

Altruistic, universal, all-encompassing. And that’s so deeply at the core of his being, and so central to his whole conflict that I don’t even know where to start. From not wanting to kill the first vortex (or Rose, for that matter), to telling John Dee he’s hurting the dreamers, and that being his main concern while he himself was writhing on the floor in agony, to “humanity I love you”, to a million other things. He cares so deeply, there is such a deep concern for sentient beings in their entirety that it’s quite literally impossible to call it anything other than love. And it’s also what plays a large part in his demise.

Pragma

Oh, here we go. I honestly believe he likes the idea of committed and long-lasting. And he’s trying. So very hard. Calliope is the best example. Alianora was another one, because it’s not like they broke up swiftly (hard to tell how long they lasted, but since she had stayed in the Dreaming too long to go anywhere else, it wouldn’t surprise me if we’re actually talking a very, very long time. He called it “a goodly while”, and considering how old he is, I doubt that equals only months, or even just a few years, especially since he is fully aware how short his relationship to Thessaly was). And he wanted to stay true to his promise. But he is who/what he is: the unreal. And as the personification of that, love both feels real for him but will also forever stay intangible. It’s heartbreaking really. Again, it has written the contradiction between romantic love (the ideal) and pragmatic love (the thing that is grounded in reality) written all over it.

Philautia

And that’s the most heartbreaking one. He is incapable of self-love and full of self-loathing instead. The Ancient Greeks used to say that you can’t give what you don’t have. And it’s hard to feel compassion for the flaws we perceive in others if we don’t have that self-compassion for the exact same flaw in ourselves. And that one hurts in so many ways, from his not being able to forgive himself (which is mirrored in his relationship to Nada, who also couldn’t forgive herself—she didn’t need his forgiveness, she needed her own) to Orpheus being so much like him apart from one major difference: he’s mortal in spirit, and even immortality doesn’t change that. And Dream struggles with the part of his child that is so like him for a million reasons that would burst this meta at the seams, but again: it’s hard to love in others what we detest in ourselves, knowingly or unknowingly.

So in short: The particular flavours of love Dream feels (Eros, Agape, Philia growing slowly over time) and the ones he doesn’t (Ludus, Pragma, Philautia) are also at the very root of how the story goes.

And when he finally truly understands what Storge/unconditional love is--both in the way he reassesses his relationship to Nada but especially in how he finally submits to his love for Orpheus (with all that entails)--and when he allows it to become real, it’s what tightens the noose around his neck. But that noose has been around his neck loosely all along…

[ssspork]

Some Fanart for https://archiveofourown.org/works/61679998 (which is so awesome sauce go read it) @kenshin1340 (not to sure how to tag people tbh but idk how else u would find this😭)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61679998

There’s some symbolism which I will explain down below, and perchance a rant about how I adore how Lux is written and the idea of freedom that this fic is exploring

Also the speed paint with the song

ANYWAYS, symbolism time!!

this piece was inspired by Eleanor Rigby, so the “church” Lux is buried in is the lecture room, bc this is Luxs place of sanctuary. Her freedom, though “nobody came” bc she feels so isolated from others, following things she doesn’t particularly like bc she knows she’ll never get that in the future. We see this in the party scene where she wins, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. She feels alone.

Than herself, she’s yellow, a color of happiness and freedom and light, like her name itself, but ironically, she is trapped, as is why her dress is so tight. She lays under a spotlight, the same way her family always has its eyes in her. And a incomplete halo of sorts of blood, she is so close to being free, but she can’t nor will be. The blood comes from what I had assumed to be a blunt force trauma injury, but I’m starting to believe it was a contraption and not a injury that left the scar.

Silco is the priest, alone as well, like Lux, he appears to be some sort of parallel (he was what she is) he sees her injury, as is shown with the red eye, and (most likely) sees it in himself(This is a prediction). He is difficult to see, blending into the background as unable to help. As for Lux to be free, she must figure out who will be free first, and allow herself TO be free (see rant).

Than Luxs name is wiped away, and Luxanna written in top. This is because “Lux” is the free version of “Luxanna” and Lux will die if she goes back, as with Pascal, who is also being wiped away. (Pascal would have worked better with the metaphor, however, having a variation of her name being wiped away and her full name ontop works better thematically)

And than Jinx’s signature at the bottom left, a reference to when she drew Lux in the first place. She’s drawing this because, like her father, she is observant (the both of them noticed her scar). Also, this was an accident, but to make a metaphor of it, her name is written like Roman numerals, similar to how VI’s name is. Which could be used as a sorta parallel between Garen and Vi (in some way?? I feel like Vi and Garen are going to be foils or parallels in some capacity)

Anyways, rant time:

The way this fic has handled the idea of freedom is AMAZING. Usually in Lux fics, Lux can’t be free due to external forces, which sometimes have become internal, and to fix the internal, she must fix the external. But here, the external forces are gone, she’s the one who controls her freedom. And despite having freedom, she truly, has none. Because freedom with a end is not freedom.

So to make up for the fact she will no longer have freedom, she does stuff to try to make up for it: for example, the tree fairy costume I don’t remember exactly what it was called (also like drinking and smoking weed). Stuff she knows she won’t be able to do later. But the thing is, she doesn’t like this stuff, in trying to be free, she’s trapped herself. And now she’s trapped in 2 ways, of her attempts to be free, and what’s been instilled inside her.

We see she never truly lets her guard drop (other than 1 time, but that was when she was with Jinx), she always has a set smile for everything, everything is planned out. Just as how she sees her life. Because of this, she can’t let herself be free, because she doesn’t even really know who SHE is. There’s Luxanna, her parents child. There’s Pascal, the free, but her name ISNT Pascal, it’s Lux(Luxanna as well). Pascal is free, but she isn’t really Pascal. She’s Lux, and Lux needs to be free. But who IS Lux?

And WOULDNT YOU KNOW IT?? that’s what Silcos speech WAS ABOUT. It was about how his class with allow his students to find themselves. AUGH ITS SO GOOD. And the fact that Luxs guard WENT DOWN when around Jinx, if just for a second, if just for a accident, and Jinx CAN AND DOES SEE IT. Oh my golly gee I love it when you can see the arc, this is so good,

[girltomripley]

There is no "she", there is no "you". You are one.

The Substance (2024) dir. Coralie Fargeat x I WANT 2 B U by The The

[moodymisty]

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Author's Note: @commodoreprocrastinator this is your fault, now deal with the repercussions of your actions. Part 1 of 2. I hope it's romantic enough even though it's the cardboard cutout primarch and only my second time writing him. ¯\_( ❛︠ ⍙ ︡❛)_/¯

Summary: Your knight returns after what has felt like ages apart, and decides to take part in a secret moment alone.

Relationship: Lion'el Jonson/Gn!Reader (no pronouns are used in this, but it does have a very princess/knight vibe so fair warning)

Warnings: None that I can think of

Word Count: 1305

Lion El'Jonson strides down the halls of the Invincible Reason with purpose.

The ceramite boots of his armor hit the ground louder than that of an astartes, and any one he passes by stops their task and gives a respectful bow of their head. He doesn’t demand them to bow and kiss the floor, but he expects a level of decorum from his legion. They are expected to as sons of The First; As Dark Angels.

As he walks, rain pattering down against any surface exposed to it, Lion'el sighs.

Belath had proven more than timely with his updates as to the legion’s current effectiveness, which the Primarch appreciated. He will always find one of the astarte's finer qualities to be his lack of verbose speech- his ability to get to the point. But even in it's simplicity, it had still proven irritating when he had something else on the mind.

Travel to the Fortress Monastery had proven both as unexciting and lackluster as his drawing and discussion of strategic plans had been.

He arrived during the night, the moonlight spilling through the massive glass windows and mullions forming patterns along the stone floors. The Lion breaks their design as he walks through them, a hand resting on the pommel of his shortsword. His greatsword rests on his back, overtop of the dark emerald green cape that flows behind him just brushing against the floor.

He goes higher, traveling up flights of stairs made of solid stone. Some have runners of ornate, hand woven cloth, the design in a dark emerald green embellished with golden thread. All of it- every tapestry and mural, bears the symbol or at least the color scheme of his Legion.

Higher again, until he’s far beyond where most astartes and serfs typically tread. The rug that runs down the hall is much more worn, having taken an unknown number of years worth the footfall without being replaced. There aren’t many souls who come up here, for there isn't much reason for them to. The Lion's personal quarters reside in these halls, and unless he calls them they have no need to ever step foot here.

He turns one corner, and at the end of the hall lies his destination. 

He can see two Astartes guarding the door, as he had placed them. He had placed trust in the elder of them to choose another marine to serve as his parallel in guard along with two others to rotate with. A young astartes is beside him, clear by the different regalia and symbolism he wears that gives it away to only one familiar to their legion.

Lion stands between them, his hand adjusting once more on the pommel of his sword.

“Take your leave.”

He speaks plainly to both, and they nod their ceramite helms before walking past. Once the Lion can no longer hear their heavy power armor trudging down stairs that even made of full stone complain as men so heavy walk on them, he places a hand on the door’s handle.

He pulls it open; Winged helm in his opposite hand. Not moments later does he hear a voice call his name sounding both surprised and excited.

“Lion?”

At the call of his name he looks forward, seeing you leaning away from the window. Your hands had been leaning against the sill, watching whatever had been of interest below. More than likely the sea of Dark Angels all returning, a sea of dark green. You've always had this odd sort of of fascination with it all. He steps closer, and you turn to fully watch him come to stand right in front of you. 

After a moment’s waiting, the massive Primarch slowly lowers to a knee. He sighs as he does so, as if irritated by a request you hadn’t even made. You take the invitation to come closer, as you gently press a chaste kiss against his lips. You feel his beard brush against your skin, the top half of his blonde hair pulled back. He doesn't sigh in discontent that time.

“I missed you. Are you ok?” 

The Lion finds your overt concern pointless, but somewhat endearing. He’s never had someone so overt in caring about his wellbeing. Though even if it’s pointless, he can’t expect you to shed the emotions you’ve shown for so long. He can and has as a Primarch, to a mortal they are interwoven into your very being.

“Yes.” 

He glances over to a massive table filled with stacks of books. They’re scattered about, some open and some stacked in piles of an unknown organizational system. He’s not surprised you took interest in the massive collection. 

Your hands have stayed hovering in front of your chest most of this time, though now they move forward and hesitantly reach for him. He allows you to touch his jawline as you come closer. The rough scruff of his beard tickles your palms, and you'd laugh if you didn't think he'd be almost childishly insulted by it.

“How long are you going to stay this time?” 

Lion knows that you aren’t expecting any actual answer; He cannot give you one, nor will he. The moment an uncontacted world is discovered, he will leave. It is his duty and his purpose. No matter even if he has other thoughts on his mind, thoughts of you, they cannot impede his goal. 

“Long enough for the legion to rest.” He pauses. “What do you want?” 

He always asks this, only able to show how he feels about you in these silent gestures. You don’t say anything nor blame him, as despite him being far older than yourself, you can clearly tell this sort of thing is entirely uncharted.

It's been a bit odd; He's many years your senior, but it often feels like you're the one showing him things.

You can't avoid smiling this time, though it's abit more guilty that perhaps Lion was expecting.

“I would love to watch your men spar again, but they've only just stepped foot on Caliban." Lion gives you an unimpressed look.

"You would ask something of my Legion instead of myself?" Your hands are still on his chest armor, and your fingers brush across the giant aquilla in a slightly flustered gesture.

"But, you’ve said your men aren't strong enough for you to duel them.”

He remains one of if not the best duelist that the Imperium has ever seen, and despite how diligently and strictly he has trained his Dark Angels, none of them have the natural prowess he has to be a true fight. It's simply in his nature as a Primarch.

Lion, in an extremely rare moment, softens his face with a hint of amusement. He raises and armored hand to gently hold your jaw, and brush a small bit of a hair away from your face. His massive hand overtakes much of you, but he's surprising gentle despite it. He uses a small bit of his strength however to pull you just close enough to give you a gentle kiss to the forehead.

“When we arrive to Terra, perhaps I can proposition one of my brothers for a duel then. I am sure at least one of them will be eager to accept.” 

A fight between Primarchs? You had never considered yourself bloodthirsty or violent, but something about it makes your heart race- eager to watch. Perhaps it’s what his men feel shortly before a battle, or when they begin their training each and every day.

You smile at him, and grasp at his gauntlet. It's the closest you can get to any sort of intimate gesture, with his armor still on. He looks at you with the most relaxed face you've seen on him in awhile, as you speak.

"I would love to see that."

[m4delin]

I blame @lythecreatorart for this fic's existence. They showed me the paralleling drawings of Apo being concerned about the sail in the canon version where Mratyn leaves the crew and the canon divergence au where Mratyn stays with the crew, and then the idea of "Hey, what if canon!Ren met au!Mratyn!". And this fic was born. Hope you enjoy!

Big thank you @a-magical-boy for helping me figuring some stuff out! :D

Rating: T

Characters: Martyn, Rendog

Relationships: Martyn/Ren

Tags: rats!, brief accidental dimension hopping, angst, some comfort?, sorta hopeful ending, takes place after rats smp 2, the ren who lost his lieutenant meet the mratyn who stayed with the crew

Summary:

It’s not the first time Ren thought he heard his voice, no, it’s far from it. There’s been a couple of times, when newly awoken, he’s mistaken Apo for him even. Embarrassingly enough. (Mrs. Eloise told him it’s not uncommon to hear a person’s voice when you’re heartbroken. You miss them, your heart aches for them, so your mind turns everything that even resembles them the tiniest amount into them. “It will take time to heal,” she said. Ren thought enough time should’ve passed by now.)

-----

The docking of the ship had gone smoothly, and the crew had been eager to get back on land. Ren doesn’t blame them, none of them having spent as much time as he on the sea. So with a quick debrief on what people needed to gather and when to be back at the latest, they scattered out over the harbour to do their own things.

Ren goes to the shopping district, intent on buying what he’s tasked to buy and then rest in the ship for the remainder of the time. It takes a little bit of asking around, but Ren’s soon pointed in the correct direction for the vendor he needs to visit.

He’s not paying attention at first. Cats, rats, dogs and other species pass him in the harbour, bustling away and past him, and Ren doesn’t give them more attention than you do someone you just pass on the street. Voices filter in and out of his ears, bartering with shopkeepers and arguments filling the air. Nothing worth remembering.

And then he hears it.

A voice he last heard maybe two months ago, one he thought he would never hear again. One who steals the air of his lungs and squeezes his heart between its fingers.

Ren doesn’t dare to move, eyes stuck on staring into empty air, and he barely processes when someone bumps into him and curses him out for suddenly stopping. Ren doesn’t pay them any mind, as all he does is focusing on his voice.

It’s not the first time Ren thought he heard his voice, no, it’s far from it. There’s been a couple of times, when newly awoken, he’s mistaken Apo for him even. Embarrassingly enough. (Mrs. Eloise told him it’s not uncommon to hear a person’s voice when you’re heartbroken. You miss them, your heart aches for them, so your mind turns everything that even resembles them the tiniest amount into them. “It will take time to heal,” she said. Ren thought enough time should’ve passed by now.)

With a slow, deep breath Ren turns his head towards where he thinks the voice is coming from, just to show himself that it’s just his imagination again, missing him.

The moment he catches the glimpse of an achingly familiar green vest, Ren’s knees buckle and he almost falls to the ground. He tries to look past the green vest, tries to focus and tell himself that he’s only imagining things and that what he sees is not the truth. But no. The rat he looks at is what he truly sees.

It’s Mratyn.

It’s Mratyn in all his glory. His bright fur, his green vest, his eyepatch. It’s undoubtedly Mratyn.

Ren isn’t aware that he is moving closer to where Mratyn is arguing with a vendor, not until Mratyn’s name leaves his lips.

Mratyn turns his head at the call of his name, and Ren almost collapses again at the bright, brighter than the sun, smile he does the moment he sees Ren.

“Captain!” he says, arms open as Ren approaches, but the smile turns into worry when Ren hugs him close, and a stuttering breath leaves Ren as he tries to say something.

“Captain?”

Ren’s throat feels closed up, words almost  impossible, and tears fall the moment Mratyn puts his arms around Ren.

"Lieutenant," Ren whispers, voice breaking, before a sob wrecks his body and his legs give out and he collapses into Mratyn’s arms. He doesn’t pay attention to Mratyn telling the vendor that he will be back, and is barely aware how Mratyn gathers him up in his arms and carries him away.

But he is aware of how Mratyn holds him close, how he runs a paw through his fur and mumbling to let it all out.

It feels achingly a lot like being loved.

He doesn’t know for how long they sit by the fountain, Mratyn holding Ren and Ren curled up by his side, but it’s long enough for Ren’s tears to dry up and for the distant mumblings of a busy trading street to ease up.

Ren doesn’t want to let go of Mratyn, doesn’t want to look up to see disgust on his face, but he knows he needs to face this. Face his Lieutenant once more.

With a shaky breath, Ren moves out of Mratyn’s arms, but he doesn’t lift his head to meet Mratyn’s eye, instead he stares into his lap. But when two paws gently grab his head and tilt it up, Ren doesn’t fight them.

There’s a fond look on Mratyn’s face, albeit a bit worried, and he’s giving Ren a soft smile.

“Feeling better?” He’s rubbing a claw beneath one of Ren’s eyes (when was his sunglasses removed?), wiping away at the drying teartracks.

All Ren can do is to nod. He’s feeling better, even if his chest aches and words refuse to form, which is funny because words have never been his weak point. He’s used to telling stories, entertaining his son and wife and friends, even the lies he told Mratyn and the rest of the crew, before he admitted to being a fraud, was always on the tip of his tongue. But now they’re stuck in his throat, as if he were to say something they would make this wonderful illusion disappear.

Mratyn’s paws drop from his face and Ren immediately misses it.

“Care to tell me what happened? Do I need to go and beat someone up?”

It makes Ren laugh, it’s wetter than he would’ve liked, but something bitter curls in his stomach at those words. What happened was Mratyn appearing here out of nowhere and acting as if nothing happened. As if he hadn’t left them in Paris without an explanation. Ren wants to be angry, he truly does, but it all melts away when he sees Mratyn looking at him as if he was all that mattered in the world.

“Why,” he begins, words unsteady and working against him. He clears his throat and looks to the side, avoiding the curious eye on him. “Why did you leave?”

The question hangs heavy in the air, and Ren doesn’t dare to look at his companion.

“What do you mean? I left to buy the supplies as we discussed.”

That’s a lie. Mratyn hasn’t been on board the Sangria for months, the last and only time was when he sent the boat rushing down the river by activating the ratmobile’s engine in Paris. (That moment still haunts his dreams, even if he tells Apo that he’s fine.) So that’s a lie, and Ren knows Mratyn has always been good at telling lies without a blink or hesitation, but he hoped that Mratyn would’ve taken mercy on him and just this once tell the truth, and it seems like he didn’t even think that Ren was worthy of that. Tears start to well up in Ren’s eyes. He wasn’t even worthy of that—

“Ren.”

The use of his name almost leaves Ren gasping, the pure intimacy of it rushing over and through him like a riptide. It makes his heart swell with yearing, with want. Mratyn has never called him by name before, it has always been Captain, and now it was spoken as if it was a precious treasure to be preserved.

“Ren, look at me.”

Ren does as he’s told, a paw being placed on his cheek to keep him from looking away, and he’s met with confusion and concern.

“What do you mean?” Mratyn’s voice is steady, demanding the truth.

Ren sinks his cheek into the paw cradling it, he can’t help it. They’ve never been close in this sense before and yet the act of being held like this felt natural. Normal.

“You left,” Ren begins, closing his eyes for a moment. “I-in Paris. You hit the engine to the ratmobile and stood on the dock as the boat rushed down the river. You left us without an explanation.” ‘You left me without an explanation’ is what he wishes to say. He doesn’t. Ren opens his eyes and looks at Mratyn, trying to gauge his reaction. His eyebrow is furrowed, eye searching for something in Ren, and Ren doesn’t know what.

“I never left you,” Mratyn says, slowly, as if he’s trying to make sense of what’s happening. “I’ve been sailing with you since we left Paris. I mean, I did start the ratmobile’s engine, but I never left the boat.”

The way he says ‘you’ makes Ren think that he means Ren specifically, and not just the crew.

“That,” Ren says with a weak laugh, “doesn’t make sense. I haven't seen you for roughly two months, and Apo is the lieutenant now. He- he almost made a mutiny when you left, because he thought it was suspicious that you did so without an explanation!” Ren takes a shaky breath. “We all saw you on the dock, waving goodbye before you disappeared into the fog. You said—” His heart twists at the memory, “—it had been a pleasure. To give them a show.”

Ren swallows as he takes in Mratyn’s neutral expression. “You said see you later. It’s later now, so why did you leave?”

He can’t see what Mratyn thinks. Once he thought he was at least decent in reading him, but he cannot tell what goes through his mind as he lifts up his other paw and tilts Ren’s head side to side, looking for something.

The soft ‘oh’ Mratyn makes could tear Ren’s heart out of his chest. Then the paws leaves his face and Ren looks properly at Mratyn.

“You’re not my Captain.”

The tears almost start to fall again as it feels like his throat is getting crushed. “What?”

Mratyn looks conflicted, but he reaches out again with his paws and tilts Ren’s head once more. (Why does Ren allow Mratyn to do this? He shouldn’t let the rat manhandle him like this). Then Ren feels how Mratyn drags a claw along where his head and neck connect.

“My Captain,” he begins as he rubs the area with said claw, “has a wound here. He got nicked in a fight on the way here. It has healed by now, but the fur hasn’t grown back yet. You don’t have it.”

Ren knows what injury Mratyn talks about. But it’s Bekymon who suffered it, scaring Eloise half to death thinking that her wife got her head chopped off.

“Then… What does this mean? Does it mean that you’re not my Lieutenant?” Ren asks as Mratyn’s paws disappear from his head again. He misses it already.

“Yeah.” Mratyn leans back, eyebrow furrowed. “I have no idea what’s going on, or how we even met, but I never left my Captain.” With those words he shuffles back a little, putting distance between the two.

“Oh.” Thoughts run through Ren’s mind as he wipes his eyes, trying to remove the still forming tears. Without a word, Mratyn hands over Ren’s sunglasses and Ren’s grateful as he puts them on. Maybe now he can hide from Mratyn’s intense eye. If this isn’t his Lieutenant, then why did his leave? Why did this Mratyn stay with his Captain? What did Ren do wrong to chase away his Lieutenant?

Mratyn fidgets where he sits and Ren catches him glancing to the side. He wants to leave. The thought stabs into Ren’s heart and he should just let him leave, Ren’s already made himself enough of a fool. But he’s curious.

“Did… Did your Captain tell you?”

It captures Mratyn’s attention, and he raises the eyebrow. “Tell me what?”

Should he tell him? What if it causes this Mratyn to leave his Captain and cause him the same aching hole in his heart?

Ren wants to know. “That he’s not truly a captain. That he used to be a cook.” He stares at Mratyn, waiting to see if that’s truly the cause of why he left so suddenly. (But his Mratyn had said that he didn’t care about that. That he would always have his back.)

“Yeah, he told me.”

Air fills Ren’s lungs as he finally starts to breathe again, not having realized how he had held his breath. He looks down into his lap as he tries to formulate the next question.

“Do you know why my Mratyn left then?”

Silence greets him.

Ren dares to glance up, and he finds Mratyn staring at him, studying and contemplating something.

“Please.”

Whatever Mratyn was thinking about seems to get concluded as he slowly exhales, but his shoulders tense up and he turns his whole body away from Ren. “I think I might have an idea.”

And even if this was what Ren just begged for, fear grips his heart. An answer for what he’s been wondering about since Paris, what he did wrong to scare his beloved Lieutenant away. “Please,” he begs despite the fear, “what did I do wrong? What did I do to make him leave?”

That makes Mratyn to snap his head towards Ren, eye big and he quickly shakes his head. “It’s nothing you did! It’s—” He makes a frustrated noise and drags a paw over his face. “You did nothing wrong, but it does have to do with you.”

It doesn’t make sense. How could he not be the cause, and yet be the reason?

“He left—” Mratyn hesitates, “—because he loved you.”

With a blink of an eye, Ren is standing on the edge of the plank, wind howling around him and the waves reaching for him. Another blink and he’s in the water, struggling to stay above the surface but shock cold water holds him tight in its grip, dragging him under again and again, until he’s submerged with no hope to return to the surface. Water fills his lungs, and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe—

There’s paws on his face again and a voice encouraging him to inhale and exhale.

When it doesn’t feel like he's drowning anymore, he lets out a wet laugh. “I apologize,” he mumbles as he moves away from the comforting paws.

“You’re fine,” Mratyn says, and Ren can’t find it in himself to look at him, at least to save his heart from breaking yet again. But he has to ask.

“If he loved me, then why?”

“To save the both of you from an even worse heartbreak.”

The words cause Ren to look up at Mratyn, and he remembers the adoration Mratyn looked at him with when they first met. A gaze full of love and unending loyalty. There had been no hesitation when Mratyn had gathered Ren up, no judgement as Ren cried. How did that Ren make his Mratyn stay? … Why couldn’t Ren have done the same?

“You love him,” Ren finds himself saying, heart aching for something that could’ve been.

“Yeah,” Mratyn admits, ears pressed flat as if ashamed for admitting it.

“He loved me and left. You love him and stay. Why?”

Mratyn makes a frustrated noise and gestures with his arms. “I told you, he’s saving the both of you from—”

“Why did you stay?”

Ren watches as Mratyn slowly lowers his arms, looking as if guilt overtakes him.

“Because I wanted to stay with him a little bit longer.” Mratyn rubs his face with his paws as he collects himself. “I… It’s hard to explain, but I will eventually have to leave. I have no choice in it. And the same goes for your Mratyn, but he made the choice of leaving early, cutting the ties while the heartbreak would be easy to heal. For the both of you.”

And Ren wanted to laugh. Was this supposed to be a heartbreak easy to heal from? For who? He’d been ready to offer his head on a silver platter for Apo, he’d been ready to drown his sorrow in sangria. All they’ve done was share one kiss, and yet it felt as if his world had collapsed when Mratyn had said farwell without explaining why. And the reason was that he would have to leave? Ren doesn’t understand. Surely he could’ve talked to Mratyn about it? How was anything of this supposed to be kinder than Mratyn staying?

Mratyn gives him a pleading look. “Please believe me when I say that it was probably for the best that your Mratyn left when he did.”

His heart aches, but it eases ever so slightly as Mratyn pleads. He doesn’t understand, and it seems that this would be the closest thing to an explanation he would ever get. Oh, why did his Lieutenant grab his heart?

“I’m sorry,” Mratyn says as he shuffles closer, taking Ren’s paw into his own, “that I can’t explain it better than this. Just. He loves you. A lot. I’m sure of it.”

Tears threaten to form in Ren’s eyes again, but he’s happy that this time he has his sunglasses on. Prevents him from making himself a fool once more.

Then Mratyn’s ears perk up, and he turns his head to the side as he seems to listen, before he gives Ren an apologetic smile. “I gotta go, my Captain is calling for me.”

Ren tightens his grip on Mratyn’s paw. He doesn't want to let go, he wants to keep him here.

“Ren.”

But Mratyn’s voice is soft, and there’s an intimacy in it that does not belong to Ren. So he eases his grip, letting the touch linger as long as Mratyn holds it there and he hopes in vain that Mratyn will stay.

And yet Mratyn pulls his paw out of Ren’s and stands up, just out of Ren’s range. He doesn’t belong to Ren.

Mratyn gives him a glance as Ren curls his paws in his own lap. “Good luck on your journey. Goodbye.” With that, he leaves.

Ren watches as he hurries away, each step making his chest feel more like an echochamber. Then, to his surprise, he sees Mratyn stop and out of nowhere a ghostly apparition of himself appears, and even from here Ren can tell how happy Mratyn is to see his Captain. They seem to talk for a bit (Ren doesn’t miss how their tails curl around each other), and then his ghostly counterpart leans down and presses a kiss on Mratyn’s lips.

Something ugly curls in Ren’s stomach. Why didn’t his Mratyn stay? Why is it him that has to deal with this heartbreak?

“Ren!”

The call of his name makes Ren’s ears twitch, but he doesn’t look away from the happy scene in front of him.

“There you are, Captain! We’ve been looking for you, what’s taking you so long?” Apo says as he appears in the corner of Ren’s eye. Still he doesn’t tear his eyes away from Mratyn and his Captain, who now is looking up around and for a brief moment they stare at each other. Then Mratyn pulls his Captain away and the two disappear from sight.

“Uh. What are you looking at?” Apo asks as he looks around, having not seen the ghosts that just haunted Ren.

“Nothing,” Ren says, a slight shake to his voice despite how he tries to keep it steady. “Let’s go.” With that he rises up, only to stumble as his body protests at the prospect of moving.

But he doesn’t fully land on the ground, as Apo is there to catch him. “Did you drink sangria again? Come on, I’ll help you back to the ship,” Apo grumbles, but it does bring a smile to Ren’s lips.

Ever since the mutiny attempt Apo’s been keeping an eye out for Ren, always having his back. Ren can’t count the times the young rat stayed up way too late to learn how to sail and navigate on the sea, nor the times he has coaxed a drink out of Ren’s paws.

He might not have Mratyn, but he does have a good crew behind him.

[voltaridylla]

What are you headcanons concerning Bebe's parents? We don't have proper names for them, do we? How'd you imagine they met and what their relationship is like. How that influenced Bebe and her relationship with them of course.

OKAY IM SO SAD BECAUSE I HAD DRAWINGS OF THEM BUT I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED THE PAGE WHEN I WAS HALF ASLEEP 😭 anyways. A lot of this is based purely on speculation and my own thoughts from episodes like Bebe’s Boobs, Spoiled Whore and TFBW !! I was desperate to yap about this so I’m happy hehe.

-They’re both unnamed so I decided to call them: Elanore Stevens and Justin Bonetti. Elanore is typical Welsh, Irish, French and German ancestry while Justin is Italian American. Basing this purely on vibes.

-Elanore Stevens is the matriarch. Justin took on her name when they got married. Basing this on the throw away line « Stevens women are very smart. » I just think it implies that it’s HER side of the family not her dads.

-I don’t have a story of how they met but I think it would be funny if they were college or highschool sweet hearts. Elanore had a few boyfriends while Elanore was Justin’s first or second proper relationship. Based on dynamics? what I have in mind is: Elanore is the main provider while Justin is a stay at home dad. In the FBW he is seen at home washing dishes (quote unquote traditionally ‘women’s’ roles.) For example, she’s the one who has the final say, makes the plans and is particular about every detail - while Justin is happy to help where he can, be the person she can wind down with and he gives her the needed massages.

-With that in mind, I think she works as a hair dresser. There’s something about her vibe that SCREAMS hairdresser to me - partially because back in my home country all of the hairdressers looked and dressed like her lmfao. It would also explain why Bebe’s curly hair is well taken care of - this will overlap with another point in a bit.

-I think while yes Mrs Stevens is a ditz, a bit dotty. I think she’s more on the social side, she attends all of the town’s meetings takes part in their demonstrations/protests so this could parallel her and Bebe’s need for being perceived as ‘better’ than they actually are. Bebe saw her mother making such a point about showing their faces to every event, even if she didn’t care about it. She’d converse with the other mothers and yet none of them invited her to sit with them (this is me noticing how all of the moms in the later seasons never have her around. It’s probably not deep but it works for my headcanons lol.) It’s all for show and it’s why Bebe grows up with this NEED to have control in how she’s viewed.

-Bebe gets her romantic heart from her mother too, they’d rent romcoms and watch them together. Elanore has terrible relationship advice, a bit more on the traditional side, perhaps because heartbreak isn’t nice and she doesn’t want her daughter having to go through so much searching. She’d say things like “oh he’s just a boy, they all make mistakes” and the likes and in turn this does explain a reason for why Clyde and Bebe are stuck together.

-So back to the hairstylist point - I took this from @kennys-parka-jacket’s headcanon list because I think the idea is really sweet. For years Bebe tried to separate herself from her mother, viewing her as kind of stupid and unintelligent, but as she gets older they do get closer or at least form a bond. Bebe goes to her hair salon and in PC - Bebe wears similar makeup to her mom, it would be cute if they bond over the more mundane things, like fashion, celebrity gossip, shoes and makeup and that’s where they really get on.

-As for her dad: Justin and Bebe are very close. With the line at the end of Spoiled Whore being “from now on you’ll dress like a little girl.” There’s something about it that says to me he would be a positive male role in Bebe’s life since we see how she’s been objectified and that could damage just about anyones self perception. Maybe it’s odd and I don’t want to sound weird but I think he would value his daughter wanting to not care about appearances just based on that line. To be a ‘little girl’ and I can see her and her dad having a close bond and being the figure she goes to after a bad break up. Justin and Bebe talk too, he would be the one to know about Bebe’s friend groups, the drama and he’d do his best to at least give advice.

-I can see Elanore ranting as well to Justin about why Bebe only ever seems to go to him over her but that’s just an idea that came to mind as I’m typing.

A lot of this centres around Bebe’s mom but I hope you like some of these rambles !!! I wish they’d get more screen-time in the show since with the crumbs we have it’s really intriguing to me.

[jackoshadows]

It's annoying how proactive female protagonists in Asoiaf are often labelled and seen as 'impulsive' by fandom in general. That's never a thing with the male characters. Female characters who get things done, who have agency and want to help people are very often characterized by fandom as wrongly and emotionally reacting to seeing injustice or even when they are engaged in policy making.

Arya is seen as impulsive for stepping in to help Mycah from a sadistic bully. Dany is labelled impulsive for not taking an economics course and reading Karl Marx’s Critique of Political Economy before freeing slaves. One popular post framed Arya and Catelyn as being similar because they apparently run around biting people.

Recall that Catelyn was one of Robb's most important campaign advisers, conducted the diplomatic negotiations for him, wanted less war and more of a peaceful resolution to the conflict and wanted to exchange hostages. And yet this fandom constantly frames the Arya/Cat parallels as them being impulsive and violent.

By the way, Arya does have parallels to Catelyn in terms of their proactiveness in maneuvering in a chauvinistic man's world, their loyalty to family and duty and doing what needs to be done. Fandom, however, always approach the Arya/Cat parallels negatively - as a form of critique of both female characters.

Do these characters have moments where they impulsively react in emotional situations? Yes, like pretty much ALL the characters do in the series. And yet these labels are singularly applied only to the female protagonists.

Arya for example is often careful, analytical and intelligent in her actions. When she escapes KL she carefully considers each step - where to go, where the guards would be, how the guards look, where the guards would search etc. - before planning her move. That's how she was able to outwit the adults like Cersei sending Lannister guards in disguise to catch Arya in enemy territory.

The same is true when Arya escapes Harenhall, where she strategizes, draws up a plan, identifies what she needs and where it is, collects everything and then gives the older boys - Gendry and Hot Pie - instructions on what to do

And then there is the way Arya and Dany are often characterized as violent in a way the male characters never are, when Planetos is a violent, medieval, feudal, grim dark fantasy setting.

To proactively get things done in a violent, patriarchal, chauvinistic world, one often has to engage in violence. Ned, Robert, Stannis, Jon, Robb, Tyrion, Jaime, Theon, Northern lords, NW brothers, KG have all killed people. Arya has to kill a guard to escape her captivity where the most horrible atrocities - including rape and torture - are especially committed on the female prisoners. No one is going to help her, she has to do it herself. And yet because of her gender, she gets condemned as 'violent', 'psychopathic', 'forever damaged', 'should feel guilty and bad about what she did' etc.

As ruler, Daenerys engages in the same medieval, feudal practices that other rules do - we are first introduced to the series' presumable hero Ned Stark, with him chopping off a man's head for desertion. And yet she is seen as violent and tyrannical in a way none of the male rulers are.

I still come across these jokes about Jon Snow counting beets ignoring his chosen one destiny when Daenerys also has an administrative arc in ADwD! Where are all the comments/jokes about Dany's problems with food, trying to grow food, trying to trade for food when she has encountered chosen one prophecy and yet stays behind in Essos doing the same thing Jon Snow is, except ten times harder because Meereen is a city state.

Especially jarring when all of GRRM's comments about ruling focuses on administration and specifically mentions Daenerys story in ADwD again and again. Like this for ex:

“I guess there is an element of fantasy readers that don’t want to see that. I find that fascinating. Seeing someone like Dany actually trying to deal with the vestments of being a queen and getting factions and guilds and [managing the] economy. They burnt all the fields [in Meereen]. They’ve got nothing to import any more. They’re not getting any money. I find this stuff interesting. And fortunately, enough of my readers who love the books do as well.” - GRRM

Dany, Tyrion and Jon's leadership arcs (In ADwD and ACoK) have parallels in that they are mostly of an administrative nature, dealing with money and food, making marriage alliances and unpopular decisions, with characters secretly undermining them. Jon's arc ends with mutineers assassinating him, Dany's arc ends with slavers trying to assassinate her and her fleeing on Drogon and Tyrion's arc ends with the Battle of Blackwater, Tywin coming back and Tyrion losing his power and position. No matter how well they did or didn't do as leaders, there was always someone in the shadows plotting against them, taking them down.

To single out the lead female characters alone as being impulsive and violent for being proactive and doing what needs to be done in order to survive in a violent, patriarchal world is misogyny at it's finest.