#i say this as if i’m not the one who went crazy insane making lore for it

[crepusculum-rattus]

pre-flood endlantis u will always be famous to me….

[800db-cloud]

tell us about Mr Orange, the people wanna hear of his glory and your thoughts on him (I'm people)

this will be the post where i tell everyone about my mr. orange interp and expose to everyone how crazy i am about him :3

BEHOLD!!!! i present to you Maximillian Romeo Orange !!! Or just Max !!! he’s my headcanon mr. orange and I’M INSANE ABOUT HIM!!

(info under cut teehee <3)

i have a toyhouse page for him, and i go into a lot more detail about him there :))c

BUT whenever I draw Mr. Orange, i’m 99.999% always drawing Max !! he and theo were separated at birth, theo went to their mom and max went to their dad.

Max had a hard time making friends growing up, mostly because he wasn’t very interesting and he was essentially imvisible to every one else. one day he saw a young boy who looked just like him on tv! crazy how that happens, right? he saw that boy everywhere, on commercials, products, shows — he ends up idolising him and that’s when he figured out his dream in life is to be popular! a star! he wants to be loved and adored and have lots of people talking about him and fawning over him!

of course, that dream was shattered real fucking quick… now he’s a 30-something nobody who works at a convenience store. With a twin brother who got everything he’s ever wanted in life! Safe to say Max isn’t very fond of The Noise.

this is all very condensed info about him, i highly recommend checking out his toyhouse page if you wanna read up more abt his lore and stuff hehe :3c

i love max soooo much he’s my biggest comfort charatcer/oc right now and i draw him with fake peppino constantly look at them LOOK LOOK AT THEM ‼️ they’re my life force im barely even kidding they make me so happy you have no idea

ANYWAY this post is getting long. READ MAX’S TOYHOUSE PAGE…. please :3 and please let this post make you consider thinking about mr orange and form your own content/hcs for him too heehee (if you make mr orange content i’ll love you forever and ever and ever and even a while after that)

[mikubilliards]

Hey guys I’m back with another ridiculously long appreciation post! There will be massive spoilers for Xenoblade Chronicles 3 in it, be warned. It’s still probably my favorite game of all time so please play it if you haven’t before you read this…or don’t…I can’t stop you…

Alright so

Miyabi Xenoblade Chronicles 3

She’s probably my favorite side character in this game, maybe even favorite character as a whole. Something about her is just so relatable to me and also just like, she’s genuinely so well written is actually insane.

In the flashbacks with Mio, she’s presented as just like an average person, maybe even a little below average when it comes to fighting and such. Mio is obviously upset that she’s paired with her cause unlike with Sena she isn’t just inferior at fighting in her own head. She’s actually not that great at it, but she tries her best to contribute either way. Immediately this clashes with Mio’s sense of having to be the best and deserving to be an elite soldier, not to be relegated to off seeing duty. She doesn’t initially put that much stock in the whole deal, and sees it as a waste of her talent.

But then there’s one scene, seeming about midway through their 10 year lives, where both of them are sending the soldiers who died off. Mio confronts Miyabi about her issues with the role, and Miyabi looks at her, and tells her that this is the most important role they could be playing. That they are helping their fellow soldiers find peace in the beyond. And that’s the greatest gift they could give. She wants her to know that even if they aren’t fighting the enemy, they are still serving their fellow soldiers and that’s something to be proud of. This conversation instills that same mindset in Mio, and even allows her to connect with Noah later on since he shares that mindset. It’s kinda crazy how little Noah and Miyabi interact given their similarities but that’s for a little later. This conversation is the start of Mio’s own journey towards discovering that fighting isn’t everything, and you can see it going back to some of the earlier scenes with her. You can almost see that conversation playing back in her mind during some of those early scenes at the end of chapter 1.

I don’t have nearly as much to say about Miyabi’s hero quest, mainly cause it’s not as much about her as it is about Y and the experiments that are going on. It gives more lore for Moebius and how they got the world to the position that it is now but not too much on Miyabi herself cause she’s mind controlled essentially for most of the quest. Not a knock against the game, especially considering this hero quest is part of the story so it makes sense that it’s more of a broader story than about one single character.

But that brings us to her ascension quest. What do you think her ascension quest, the way to further develop her character after all that we’ve seen from her previously, will do? Well, her feelings of insecurity regarding her own talents and abilities never really went away. She was able to suppress them through her own actions before, but now that the world has been turned upside down for her, shes struggling to find a new way to do what she wants, to serve people in a way that brings them something positive. Enter: the City’s cooking competition. A place where everyone can enter to compete and see who can make the best dish. Since she’s already hanging around in the city, she decides to compete, and even affirms her desire to Mio, who notes that it isn’t really like her to compete in these things. Manana enters too, she’s the resident chef after all, it would be a waste not to compete. So they go ahead and go look for ingredients to make something with. One of those ingredients is a special sauce produced by one of the families in the city. Apparently Miyabi had spent some time with that family, and so the lady who makes it is more than happy to lend her some free of charge.

And thus, the competition begins and everyone makes their dish! The whole competition is filled with fun moments, like Ghondor having to judge her mom’s dish and reluctantly admitting it tastes good, to the ever glorious Mr. Boomer line. Manana’s dish blows everyone away obviously, that’s her job as chef. But then we get to Miyabi’s dish. Compared to the stuff that the other chefs had made, it’s rather plain. It doesn’t look extravagant, use any ultra rare or bold flavors, or any of that. But every judge notices something that isn’t really present in the other dishes. It’s a dish with a certain feeling, that of hominess and warmth. If there’s anything that reflects her character, it’s that spirit of warmth she brings to everything, even her food. And thus, the competition ends and the victor is decided. And the winner is…

Manana.

Yeah, Manana. I mean of course she’d win. Given the new lore from the art book she’s probably been doing this for centuries. What hope did anyone else have against a cook that proficient, right? But yeah, Miyabi loses. Of course, she’s not too bummed about it considering who she was up against, but you can feel that twinge of sadness at losing either way. But that’s when the lady whom she borrowed the sauce from comes up to her. She had sampled the dish and wanted to express her appreciation and proudness that Miyabi’s dish was as good as it was. And that’s when it clicks. Her goal was never to be the best at anything, not since the beginning. She knew she wouldn’t be the best. Even so, she can still make a difference in people. She doesn’t have to be the best or win in order to make others happy. She just has to be herself. She, and everyone for that matter, has the ability to serve and better themselves and others, and people will appreciate it regardless of whether what she did was the best or not. Thats the message of her character, and that’s the message I hope people can take.

As for my own commentary, man it was just awesome rewatching that scene for this, there’s so many details that you don’t pick up on first viewing that you see later and are just like OOOOHHHH I GET IT!!!! Man I should really do another playthrough of the game, I don’t even know how much I’ll pick up on that I don’t see right now or didn’t when I first played. Maybe over the summer when I’ve got days off between work…

Anyways, thanks for reading and have a good day/night/ambiguous time!

[justanotherpersonsuniverse]

Hey cap :3

miscellaneous meta lore question for OM this time!!

also I need you to know that I can't spell miscellaneous. every single time I have and will type it have been autocorrected it's like my worst enemy

Anyways- prelude time.

Other Magic is like so much fun because of the sheer variety of mythos and magic you incorporate into it. I mean; Alya is a twist on Selkies which have always been one of my favourite scottish folklore stories, there’s this one story about a boy who was a selkie that I read when I was way younger but I cannae remember enough details to find it again. Then you’ve got someone like Kagami who is a Nekomata from Japanese folklore which was super interesting to see and then subsequently do more research on, cause I didn't know they existed before that which was a failure on my part. And then you’ve got the more miscellaneous monsters of vaguely european origins which also fit the specific character themes wonderfully, like Juleka being a Vampire, Nino being a Gargoyle (which btw rocks (pun intended) for the whole protection thing he has going on) and Sabrina being a changeling the list goes on.

I honestly can’t tell if you’re just really good at finding the perfect fit or just such an excellent writer that what you chose feels like the perfect fit for your version of the characters. Probably a bit of both. 

Obviously you know all this, you’re the one who wrote it. What I’m getting at is; how the fuck did you decide how the magic system works?

Is it, like, not a concrete thing? Do you make it up as you go along?

Or do you have a proper magic system in place that fits behind all the crazy variety of sources you’ve pulled the monsters from?

If you make it up as you go along, what are some of the things you have decided are like hard rules of magic? (which do not go into spoiler territory! Perish the thought that I am vying for spoilers. Your response about how time worked in the PN universe without veering into spoiler territory was fantastic. and I'm insane about your drawings of Alix.) 

And if you don’t… how the fuck have you got a system in place for all this? Is it a hard magic system or a soft magic system? Please I beg of thee tell me how it works. 

Deciding on magic systems for things is the bane of my existence. Pokemon types and moves even count as one, so don’t get me started on how crazy insane I’ve gone for the origins of magic and how it works for the planning of my own miraculous fic is. like I need to stop. 

Anyway. The point is. Every single time you introduce a characters monstrous side you inevitably have to explain how that works in relation to the other magic (pun intended) and the fact that you’ve managed that without contradicting yourself or making things seem far fetched or shoe horned in has me clawing at the walls in my cage. Are you a magician. seriously, how did you do it.  

That and I’m curious if you’ll get more into how Miraculous magic affects regular magic (that feels like an oxymoron, as if magic could be normal). Cause obviously we got Little Red and Wicked Witch being akumatised together cause they were both holding the glove, but their closeness even while evilised felt like it was because of the familiar bond. 

This is a super broad question sorry if that’ll be difficult to answer!! however observations and notes on things plus hyper specific questions are coming soon! I simply must organise myself. (and have my 18th birthday tomorrow… so soon may be later than expected, i keep forgetting that’s happening this has changed my plans significantly. fuck)

Magic systems are pretty tough!! I originally made it up as a I went along, but what I did then that I feel like was important was- instead of just doing things and saying they were related, I tried to branch out the system by asking lots of "why" and "how" questions with myself.

So, for example with Alix, my base was; "Wouldnt it be cool if she wrote down spells like Luz and the Kane Chronicals" which is kinda lame. But still, I worked to try and clean it up. "Spells and Runes are like Code commands to magic." became the cleaner base. Then I asked; "Why not just use a wand?" So I asked myself "What makes wands different?" and so on.

I then asked myself if the answers I made could connect and become answers for other things. Which creates an interconnecting system.

Making it up as you go along is natural and inevitable, the only difference between planning and making it up is how long you think about it without touching your keyboard. I asked myself my big magic questions because of points in the story where I had no idea how something worked and instead of trying to fit it with what I originally knew, I tried to figure out how things would accomodate the new thing.

ALSO HAPPY EARLY BIRTHDAY!!!!

[ariathemortal]

lore inspire by Fay’s <3

Start recording

“wait is this working? hi! my name is isabel- isla don’t break it!”

“i got it, bells! her name is actually ariadne so if anyone finds this, here’s her home address-“

*laughs* “isla no!”

End recording

Start recording

“….zae?”

“yea?”

“i’m scared.”

“i know….me too, bells. me too.”

End recording

Start recording

”you haven’t had your first kiss yet?!”

“no? i don’t see why that’s a problem, isles.”

“…..do you want to?”

“want to what?”

“..have…your first kiss?”

“……ok…”

End recording

Start recording

“day one. ariadne brown here. gods that feels weird to say. i-i’m running away. i don’t belong here and im not wanted here either. i see it everyday on dad and moms face. so isla, zae? if you find this, i love you guys. i won’t forget you.”

End recording

Start recording

“hey, it’s been a minute. day….i’ve lost count. it was just my 16th birthday and i’ve found a place. Camp Half-blood. sounds weird but it’s better than the streets.”

End recording

Start recording

“turns out i can see the future! zae would be absolutely amazed. i made a friend. her name is rosalie. is it a bit too early to say friend for life?”

End recording

Start recording

“so i’ve been adopted. i met him about 20 minutes ago. it’s insane how much of an impression someone can make because i totally thought i would get murdered here. not find a…….nevermind. ari out.”

End recording

Start recording

“i met someone else! her name is fay and she seems pretty cool. i think……i think she’s gonna be one of the ones who stays.”

End recording

Start recording

“a camper died today…..it’s all my fault. i gave him a prophecy and he went through with it. i just- ugh! i feel like this power is a curse. i feel like……i make everyone’s lives worse…”

End recording

Start recording

“it’s been 6 years, 2 months, 3 weeks, and 21 days since you left. I’m not giving up on you, Belle. You’re out there. You have to be because I don’t know what’s i do if- gods, you make me crazy. Love, your shitty older brother, Zae.”

End recording

tags!:

@chaos-pers0nified @that-girl-cupid @demigod-jack-hearth @divine-wine-daughter

[solsays]

So I have a headcanon.

Grian’s EvoSMP. We can all agree Grian either is a watcher or is directly tied to the watchers, it’s a large part of his lore. However, Grian is not the only hermit/lifer that came from EvoSMP. Timmy, BigB, Pearl, and Martyn (SolidarityGaming, Bigbst4tz, PearlescentMoon, and InTheLittlewood respectively) are all also from EvoSMP. And Martyn does heavy watcher lore in the life series to show that “they are still the ones pulling the strings”. So here’s my headcanon.

Martyn is a listener who tries to distance himself but can’t, so he tries his best to ignore it but he sees and hears what others don’t. He’s less chaotically fueled than your typical watcher, being a listener, but supports a few of their decisions, such as Jimmy’s canary curse, going as far as to help it happen himself as a player (“go canary hunting”). They controlled him temporarily in the finale of Limlife (spoiler alert) when he went crazy and killed both Impulse and Scott, which is why he acted so insane, was because of the watchers and the listeners.

Grian is a watcher who put himself into the death game, regardless of whether “he was only ever meant to watch” or not. He uses his powers to roll boogeyman, design the games, and put everyone back into this never ending loop of death that even he can’t escape now. The watchers basically said so you want to play? Then you must play, forever.

Pearl is also a watcher. She has pretty much successfully distanced herself, so she doesn’t interact with the watchers or mention them, but she acts mad (Scarlet Pearl) and defies them for putting her there (not sticking with Scott in DL and even hurting him even though they’re soulbound). Most people wouldn’t suspect her since she hides it better than Martyn and Grian, but she said to Scar in Limlife “I’m always watchin’ Scar, I’m always watchin’.” Which heavily insinuates she is a watcher among the regular players much like Grian. And the way she played Limlife, as a nosy neighbor, someone who just observes everyone else? I guess they do say old habits die hard.

BigB is a listener. He knows about Pearl and the two of them form the nosy neighbors, to use their experience from who knows how long of watching and listening to survive. He is fairly quiet and doesn’t exhibit the pure chaotic evil energy of most watchers, which makes me think listener rather than a watcher. Also Grian being so eager to team up with BigB in double life? Maybe he chose specifically BigB because he knew that BigB knew why they were here.

Jimmy was never a watcher nor a listener, but he knows about them, even if he doesn’t know what or who “them” are. All he knows is that they’re the reason he dies first every season, no matter who he’s teamed with, no matter how well he tries. And he knows they pushed him off the bridge in Limlife. He doesn’t like them.

[katyspersonal]

WASN’T THAT MICO COMIC GOOD?? Did you see the little hints about Rom in the first two parts? I loved that so much and it fits so well with our ideas about them being siblings. I’m so obsessed with the idea that Rom ascended unexpectedly and left Micolash behind, which sort of sent him spiraling into further madness. If I remember right, you have different ideas, but the sibling thing is mutual!! Idk, there’s something so natural feeling about. Kos choosing Rom and Mico being left in the dust, only to go crazy trying to play catch up. I love these characters.

And unhinged madman Micolash is the best. It was so nice to see him in character <3

That comic with Micolash going full psycho mode on a poor Choir member is just...

I mean there was also the sheer agony of seeing that comic was made in 2016, I feel like Micolash is hardly ever portrayed that way anymore. Maybe Rom decided to also hide the secret of his depraved, mad personality from humanity for a good measure so now everyone blissfully sees him as the cutest blorbo that isn't dangerous at all? heheh; /lh

Also YES for the siblings headcanon club! I honestly just came up with it based on this line:

It felt like it had to be them based on various tiny things! Each Brain Fluid has different description, and this particular one drops from a female just-head patient guarded by the black Church Doctor doctor! However it doesn't feel for me like THEY are the mysterious brother and sister, since black doctors are lower rank and I feel someone that discovered Arcane has to be the white doctors rank. Lore does say that black ones dispose of "failures" but the white ones are who experiment! Besides, that head calls for Maria for a comfort which is odd if her brother is RIGHT here?

My latest idea on how the things happened came from not knowing in canon where did OoK's umbilical cord go! So here is the timeline:

🎀 Byrgenwerth obtains OoK's cord after Fishing Hamlet massacre, along with other things, Willem is unsure of how to make the best use of it but intends to investigate its features

🎀 Rom casually goes, 'Wait but if we don't know, why won't we ask his mother? o:' and nobody has a heart to tell her Kos was murdered and cord wasn't "just found laying somewhere" (Caryll attempts to say something but the whole class gives him killer glare). However, this exact question gives Micolash an idea, as the only one who figured by now that every single thing Rom says, even if naive/dumb one, tends to be worth of considering (fate foreshadowing much?)

🎀 He steals the cord and has a hunch to call Rom with him to attempt a ritual of beckoning spirit of Kos with it, trying his hardest to ensure her he wants no harm but instead to advance humanity in the way no such terrible thing can happen again

💦 Kos blesses Rom with eyes, thus making her 'Patient Zero' brain fluids of which could be used to transmit to other people with the water; Micolash gets no eyes but weird telepathic connection with her - similar to Willem/Ebrietas, Izzy/Fauna and... whatever strange thing went down between Ludwig, Laurence and Flora. Being the will of a Great One in mortal world is the closest analogy I could give.

(I have an idea that after this point the eyes of siblings change from brown to arcane blue... Because Micolash's face data oddly has brown eyes, but his cut-scene model has blue)

💦 Willem is angry when he discovers the insane plan the two pulled, but can't deny that despite being crazy it was genius. (Except he fucking can because Micolash is cursed with never having his contributions acknowledged). But this encounter is not only the root for Research Hall antics, but also for Laurence learning that grieving Great One moms can be beckoned by a child's cord!

💦 Research Hall gets a different formal leader in stand of Willem however in actuality everything there is manipulated by Micolash from the shadows, Insight-granting brain fluids found within Rom's spinal cord quickly become mass distributed and created in large quantity (of course at the expense of other humans), but instead of true progress, it seems like patients are merely suffering witnessing horrors of the Deep Sea. Micolash is THE cruel mad doctor everyone is terrified to get under treatment of, always yelling at patients for being 'useless cowards' upon failure after failure to reach deeper into Sea and giving them more 'water' than they could handle (and always using Adeline as a model patient example -_-)

💦 Some patients discover the alternative - ones reaching for cursed Amygdalae knowledge become Gardens of Eyes (to later to be taken in Byrgenwerth), others discovering the 'stars' to give Blacksky Eyes and some live to become Living Failures. However...

sjdsahdsgs no, no, sorry, but seriously tho, Maria was soon to suspect that something is wrong and the "progress" with the Sea doesn't seem to be... a good faith, to say the least. That was true; Micolash knows just what Kos wants, remember? Hunter's Nightmare is meant for HUNTERS, yet patients, innocent victims, are there too! And that was Micolash's fault; during his procedures, he'd ensure that combining their sheer terror with arcane would make them good fundament to ensure the creation of the Nightmare, as Kos was weak and her wish alone was not enough. (not saying he didn't still genuinely wish to learn more about the Sea from them...)

💦 Maria begs Brador to get a word out for her because Healing Church would LISTEN to him, and it works out in the end. Micolash is striped of his influence, along the lines of the Church re-purposing itself to seek the abandoned Ebrietas and focusing on the 'stars' for good, much to Micolash's resentment.

☄️ Speaking of resentment! His envy and bitterness towards Rom were increasing, largely based off the fact that Kos chose her as knowledge-bearer, not him. Around this time, he was to take the pain and anger about his failures out on her, rejecting her as a sister, calling her names, asking why Kos picked him as the one to ruin human lives and not Rom because 'you did just fine having ruined MINE!' and so on.. She never was ready to hear something like this from the brother that she was looking for her entire life and idealised. That caused Rom's attempted s*icide by downing way too much liquid, and she had another communion with Kos - never knowing whether it was just a dream or she did go somewhere that day. It was attempt of Kos to truly adopt her as a child upon her pain of 'no longer having family', that Rom rejected because she was unwilling to abandon humanity without even trying to help them against the mess they got themselves into. However, that still gave Rom absolutely unique Insight and properties (and gave her those strange tails).

☄️ Micolash was able to restore his presence and status in Healing Church's 'nerds' faction (that was only Choir by that time) by presenting Rom and her new abilities! Like 'look, I can not only ruin patients, but give them skills none of you can dream about, right? :)' . Rom became the head of the Choir, and the best way to communicate with Ebrietas, especially since Caryll was gone by then.

☄️ Rom's precedent also became an inspiration for the Choir to use little orphaned children to beckon the hearing ear of the Great Ones the best! She had intellectual disability* making her as naive as a child, and just like Micolash, she was an orphan herself. So like... why not use people with the same features, right? Pure naive mind, combined with yearning for a parent.

🕷️ In uncertain time, Rom reconnected with Patches and was able to seek selling herself to Amygdalae - ensuring her association as a 'Spider' despite connection to all three kinds of the divine. It was done under encouragement of Micolash, as Amygdalae knew the secrets most forbidden, all about immortality, splitting soul and body, true nature of the 'Moon' behind the 'Stars', and much more.

🕷️ Micolash would eventually separate from the Choir and have his own faction, researching the forbidden and knowledge basically opposing the 'stars'! Some left with him, like our friends Damian or Iosefka! Depending on the timeline, Edgar would either fake leaving the Choir with him to be the secret agent, or only appear later after Mico's leaving and...

🕷️ Rom, however, would stay in touch with him - especially through various reflective surfaces. And because she could use bodies of water to hide things, when Choir provided her a whole giant puddle in where Altar of Grief is now. She would secretly help, down to coordinating his cultists to be undetected, helping him with directions and... reviving body of Queen Yharnam (and Mergo that got fused with her womb, an actual thing happening irl). So the cord of her (eternally) infant could be taken...

And... this is where I get lost. x) No, honestly. I am not sure how she became a true Great One. Since Altar of Grief has her petrified body but we fight her in the lake (astral) and dungeons (physical), I presume she has the same body-soul split as Queen Yharnam, but... how?

I have this scene in my head where Fauxsefka discovers all the lies, secrets and twists Rom was pulling all along, and how she was helping Micolash all along, and how there is now a perpetual ritual to beckon Bloodmoon that was obscured. Naturally she exposes her before everyone, asks her how much Rom truly knew and said nothing, calls her a twisted monster (with only Julie getting defensive). And Rom is not able to explain her motivations, or how she had to play the slow game because Choir people were not ready for harsh truth about the world, nor they had the same approach as Micolash.. She just cannot deliver her point at all, and both ascends and soon turns into stone out of raw panic and despair. She was willing to escape the uncomfortable situation, and she is an idiot god that doesn't realise the extent of her powers, so... this happens. It'd put a permanent tension between Fauxsefka and Julie, that will only truly break later when they have to work together upon return to Byrgenwerth. Also Micolash would probably comment how undergoing something as extreme as becoming a god for a 'dumb' reason was a very Rom thing to do, ahaha.

But yeah, for all I know it could be something else? I just gotta agree with Micolash here - it IS a her thing to do, to accomplish something incredible without trying over a very humane reason.

And I totally agree that he was jealous. And... well, I guess he also did resent her for rejecting Kos' offer. She rejected something Micolash wants above everything else (being Kos' surrogate baby) for the sake of something he has nothing but disdain for (the humanity). He had to hate her, we know this much </3 On the other hand, it is things like this that make me slightly regret picking the siblings idea, because can you even comprehend how much drama it'd contain as a romantic ship, and how satisfying the happy alternative would be?

But heyyyyy, the story makes sense, right? This is kind of more important! Because I do not have feelings, only logic, right- right...? sighhhhhh

Anyways, you didn't really ask for this, but the ask felt prompting enough, so here are my thoughts on the timeline and the story! Would like to hear yours!

[mo-mode]

OH BUDDY THERE IS SO MUCH MORE AND I AM SO HAPPY TO SHARE IT

So Dionysus is mainly the god of wine-making, orchards and fruits, vegetation, fertility, festivity, insanity, ritual madness, religious ecstasy, and theatre, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg (i.e. the top of his Wikipedia page)

He’s ALSO a god of resurrection/reincarnation, his Roman form is the god of freedom, he has a strong connection to satyrs and nature, he was hailed as the protector of those who don’t belong to conventional society (WOW wonder why he runs CHB) AND he’s a direct descendent of Poseidon AND Oceanus (a titan that controlled the great river)

(Now Technically, there’s over three versions of him, Zagreus, Bromios, and Iacchus being the three most prominent, but if those were taken into account, he would be a son of Zeus, Persephone, Demeter, and himself all at once so I’m not going to mention that corner of the lore. It is, however, one of the many reasons he is considered a resurrection god because he was resurrected several times before becoming an actual god. But what we’re going to follow is him being the son of Zeus and Semele.)

In ancient times, there were a TON of festivals based around him, with heavy emphasis on theatre and religious ecstasy (cuz the performing arts were a big thing then) and they were SO crazy that people said the dead would rise just to join in on the festivities! He was also hailed as the “god of many names” and had a strong connection to the stars (there’s a LOT of star symbolism)

The Bacchae (which there’s an amazing play of the same name btw, one of my favorites) is a group of his most devoted followers who believed in subverting or even overthrowing those who abused their power. (WOW I WONDER IF PERCY WOULD RELATE) they routinely accepted those who wanted to escape the limitations of their normal life, and this included servants and slaves. (Again with the whole “I don’t want to conform to normal society” thing) they lived freely in the woods and occasionally went insane

In mythology, he invented wine, stole his mother back from the underworld, turned his own grandparents insane, gave a donkey human speech, turned men to dolphins, granted King Midas the golden touch, and a bunch of other insane stuff.

Now we COULD also dive into the theories that Hades, Zeus, and Dionysus are considered the same god in certain times but that’s for another post

His cult-like followings most likely influenced early Christianity, and some religious scholars theorize that Jesus’ tales are either inspired by or direct parallels of Dionysus. Could I make a Dionysus iceberg? Probably, but that’s not the point.

I think the funniest way to approach this AU is for Mr D to explain to Zeus that Percy just so happened to inherit his dormant water powers from Poseidon and Oceanus, which would absolutely terrify Zeus because if he could inherit those powers, then what other absolutely bonkers powers did he inherit? WHAT IF Mr D also claims Nico and says his death-like powers are just from Dionysus’ dormant powers of resurrection??? And knowing full well that Dionysus literally has cults dedicated to overthrowing power structures, what does that mean regarding the prophecy? What if Percy, a descendant of Poseidon, is actually the son the prophecy is talking about after all???

@fresasconsal for your pondering pleasure :)

AU where Mr. D claiming to be Percy’s dad accidentally counts as Claiming according to Greek god law or whatever and now all the other gods legitimacy believe Percy is his son, but if Mr. D corrects it, he has to explain to Zeus why he pretended he was Percy’s dad so now he’s like “YEP ol’ Perry Johansson is MY child wowie just look at the little fry, you have your mother’s eyes. Please stop standing next to water or you will blow my cover”

Meanwhile Poseidon is just standing off to the side like “how on earth did I dodge THAT bullet”

[maniacal-butterfly]

Thoughts on Sheogorath: 1) The other Daedra thought he would be harmless, being the antithesis of the most powerful Prince, but they failed to account for the fact that Jyggalag’s power was not purely a part of his sphere 2) The Aedra and the Daedra had an arrangement, where the Aedra would give the Daedra a piece of Lorkhan to use as a foundation for imprisoning Jyggalag, so long as they promised they would keep that piece of Lorkhan in check. Sheogorath was grown from that piece.

Hi anon! Thanks for the asks! I want to prelude this by saying, I'm not in any shape an expert in TES lore. Which is why, before I answer your ask about kalpas (I'm guessing it's from you as well?), I'll take a refresher dive into uesp.

Now about the Sheo thoughts. Hope you don't mind the resulting wall of text you're going to get.

I always thought Jiggy to be closer to madness than he'd admit to be honest. There's insanity in wanting the world to follow perfect order and he'd need a crazy amount of denial not to realise mortals will not follow whatever statistics he may have planned for. In a world where people can become gods and twist reality from thousand of years in the future, you're bound to go batty if you want things to follow order. I find there's a comical level of hubris to the other daedric princes when they decided to curse Jyggy with becoming what he "hated the most". As if madness and chaos didn't reach all minds and realms. It's just good fortune for them that Sheo seems to be happy with simply having a foothold everywhere and doesn't share Jiggy's expansionist plans.

While I know Sheogorath is said to be the "Sithis-shaped hole" who came to the world once Lorkhan's spark was removed, quite frankly, I have little knowledge about what that would mean. So your idea about the Lorkhan piece is as good as any other in my opinion. But then I have a question for you: have the Daedra failed their part of the bargain with the Aedra? Because, especially after getting rid of the Greymarch, Sheogorath isn't what I would call "kept in check".

Going to combine 3 and 6. I like the parasite/butterfly/mushroom theme you have going there. Got me thinking about the body snatcher wasps that lay eggs into caterpillars and other insects; the larvae turning their hosts into living cocoons as time goes by. Or the fungus that takes over ants; its spore first digging itself through the exoskeleton til it forces its victim to find a good spot to die and allow the fungus to grow to adulthood. It makes the Greymarches an attempt to eradicate the infestation but as we all know, "you cannot kill [mushrooms] in a way that matters". Even after the Isles are bleached white, there would remain a root, a spore, and from it the spread would start anew. Allowing Sheogorath to regrow from the husk of his realm. As for the screaming plants... they'd hold the key to a network of information if only you knew how to connect to it. Maybe they could talk if they wished to. They'd tell you what's the best route to follow. Go that way, or the other. We never said the information was truthful however.

Did Sheogorath sneeze or blinked when Cyrodiil went from being a Jungle to a fertile land? Or did that not count as an impossibility? What would count as impossible and is Sheo having a loose grasp on the concept why some things just make no sense in Tamriel? How much of a headache would Jiggy get during a Dragon Break? While we are talking about Aedras, there are two others I'd imagine Sheo would work with. Dibella and him both have artists and musicians in their "sphere". They may compete over the methods of inspiration but I can see them working together for more awe inspiring, revolutionary, projects. A more "obvious" one, so to speak, would be Kynareth. I was going with the simple path of her bringing rain and storms, both phenomenon giving a chance of calling onto Sheogorath while wishing for another deity. But, after some research, and I’m quoting uesp here, “She is associated with rain, a phenomenon that is said not to have occurred before the removal of Lorkhan's divine spark.” Here is that spark again. The one which disappearance brought the Madgod to the world. And sure it doesn't mean much, a simple coincidence probably, but I appreciate the idea of those two being close. There is a wildness to the elements and the wind after all.

Anon, why matcha? Sure it's toxic green but it's also extremely bitter. though it is usually balanced by the sweetest treats. Is that why you chose it? Sheo and Jiggy's relationship is bound to be an odd one. And you're right to say they are opposite spheres. Which makes me wonder. They are like two sides of the same coin, and the Shivering Isles is represented by a flat land. Could Jyggalag's realm simply be on the other side of that land? Not "beneath" it. Though as far as one is concerned, the other's realm is basically in their basement. None is upside down, there is no real up or down in Oblivion anyway, given what you see is how the daedric prince wants it to be. And well, I'd guess there's still a few spores on Jiggy and tiny sandlike shards of crystal on Sheo once they separated.

Sheo being Sheo and doing what feels like a good time to him despite of, and to spite, the other daedras is such a Mood. May he continue to do so over time.

Whether it's lore friendly or not, I do not know, but I tend to see Aedras and Daedras as neither good nor bad, rather as being closer to Seelie and Unseelie Courts. Some may be cruel and hate mortals, sure, but they also sometimes interact with mortals and just end up breaking them. For instance, the lady who got turned into instruments had a gruesome fate, but the intent wasn't evil. I'm not saying Daedras are all good, just pointing out that both Aedras and Daedras have used mortals as tools and taken sacrifices. I also wish we'd have more insight as to how the different cultures impact the way Daedras interact with mortals. For instance, the Reachmen have the "Spirits" a lot more integrated in their daily lives and, while mistakes can lead to dangerous outcomes, are not worse from wear from it. Would different races or cultures perceive daedric realms differently given their different beliefs?

Anyway. I don't know if you expected the length of the answer. I'm sorry if you weren't. Feel free to send me other thoughts on the topic (sorry if it takes a while to answer, I'm away from home often). I'll be answering the Kalpa one in the next few days.

[felassan]

The rest of this post (quotes from the article) is under a cut due to length. [source]

(There are discussions of colonialism under the cut / in the article.)

After speaking to various devs who worked on MEA I’ve learned quite a bit about what happened here. First of all, there were several more species designed for this galaxy. One writer lists having proposed “five or six” new alien types, while another states that the ones BioWare opted for in the end were specifically chosen for being in “cosplay-safe” territory. Another dev mentions that an entire system was constructed just to facilitate communication between species who were indigenous to Andromeda and those who had arrived from the Milky Way. The “species who were indigenous to Andromeda” part is important, given that there were also different ideas for how to handle first contact - making the Pathfinder a violent colonist who shoots first and asks questions later wasn’t something that was set in stone from the get-go.

“I think it was a project that couldn't have possibly lived up to expectations,” Neil Pollner tells me. Pollner was a senior writer on Mass Effect 3 before going on to write parts of Andromeda. “Not just the high bar of the original trilogy, but the logical expectations anyone would have of Mass Effect going to a whole new galaxy. Because the scope of [the first] Mass Effect was so incredibly massive, there was an inherent promise that you'd be getting a massive new experience with a ton of new things in [what was supposed to be the first] Mass Effect Andromeda - new species, new lore, an entire new galaxy at your fingertips, etc.

“But we were only given the budget for two new species, plus the Remnant. Not to mention that we couldn't even include all the Milky Way species. And we weren't going to be able to let you travel throughout the galaxy. This meant that we had to develop the story around some pretty glaring inorganic limitations. So, not only did you get something that felt (and was) much smaller than what you got before, almost everyone playing the game probably had something that they really liked about Mass Effect that just wasn't there.”

Pollner goes on to explain something I mentioned above - that there’s an inherent disconnect between making your character an explorer in a game where the vast majority of gameplay involves killing. “Ryder the explorer should have a challenging and dynamic first contact experience,” he explains. “Instead, you're almost immediately killing kett. So, some very basic pillars just weren't lining up.”

When I ask about the fact that several species had apparently been cut from the game - something I had already learned in previous interviews - Pollner assures me that I had “no idea” of what was dropped in the early days of Andromeda. He also lamented the iconic narrative and branching complexity of earlier BioWare games, stating that he wishes the team had been able to maintain the same level of variation, options, and consequences as the revered RPGs the studio was known for.

“The other BioWare Montreal writers and I were dreaming up and developing things for Andromeda months ahead of Edmonton officially starting the project - i.e. before the budget and scope had been decided/communicated,” Pollner says. “We just knew that we were going to Andromeda, with almost nothing else established, including even when in the timeline it would happen. And we set out to brainstorm and grow ideas that could organically serve that general premise. “That first contact expectation I mentioned? We'd developed ideas for how the player would navigate that. We were working on a process for the Milky Way species to learn how to even communicate with the new alien species. We were developing several additional species for the new galaxy, as well as several different storylines for why the expedition had been undertaken. Most of that pre-development work ended up not being used.”

“I proposed five or six new alien species when Andromeda was in its infancy, and I still think they had a ton of potential,” Hepler says. “[Ex-BioWare writer] Jo Berry came up with a few, too, they were awesome.

“However, I'm pretty sure those ideas are still property of BioWare, so even though I'm 100% certain they won't be used, I can't talk about them without getting some kind of permission.”

Given that Pollner had his own ideas for new species, and that Hepler had “five or six” on top of a “few” more from Berry, it’s reasonable to conclude that concepting was done for up to ten additional species that never made it into Andromeda.

“I remember some early concepts that were pretty out there,” Dorian Kieken tells me. Kieken was a design director at BioWare Montreal for Mass Effect 2 and 3 before being promoted to franchise design director at the beginning of Andromeda’s development. “One of the strengths of the original Mass Effect trilogy is that you can actually cosplay most of the alien characters - except the Hanar, although I wouldn't underestimate the creativity of some cosplayers. The intention in Mass Effect Andromeda was to introduce new races that would still be in the realm of cosplay, which is probably why more crazy concepts were abandoned.”

I was surprised that this was even a consideration, so I followed up. Kieken assures me that after Andromeda’s two new races had been decided on, their evolution of their design gradually went into more “cosplay-safe territory,” with the team consciously steering away from “jellyfish” types of aliens. “In the early development of the game, we explored a lot of new species. I'm not sure why we settled on the specific number that were in the final game, but my guess would be a mix of production reasons and having a reasonable amount of races to deal with knowing we were already bringing quite a few from the Milky Way as well.”

As Pollner mentioned earlier, the team only had the budget for two new species plus the Remnant. On top of that, they weren’t able to bring all of the Milky Way species, which corroborates Kieken’s recollection of why so many species were cut.

Given the context of these conversations - species being cut from Andromeda, first contact being muddled with militance, and even cosplay potential governing alien design - I also ask why, in the devs’ eyes, Andromeda was poorly received in relation to the original trilogy.

“I think it’s more story-related than setting-related,” Kieken says. “Andromeda has strong core gameplay that improved a lot over the trilogy, but the story didn't feel as strong. I didn't connect with the new character cast as much as I did with the original trilogy.

“It's also not a fair comparison as the trilogy is three games, so you have a lot more exposition and time to bond with the characters. That being said, I seem to recall a stronger rollercoaster of emotions in the original trilogy, which I think led to more memorable moments. From the tension of almost blowing up Wrex with your shotgun or gathering everyone on a suicide run, to the lightness of listening to Mordin sing ‘I'm the very model of a scientist Salarian’ or shooting cans with Garrus in the Presidium.”

Pollner also explains why Andromeda was perceived so differently from the original trilogy, citing differences in the amount of time the team were given to make the game, but also noting that the core issue was more systemic in nature.

“I think the thesis statement for why is that the Mass Effect trilogy was an incredibly demanding endeavor,” Pollner says. “The checks that were written for it, the complexity of the experience was insanely massive. The team worked their asses off non-stop for so many years, on back-to-back-to-back games. The prospect of doing the same thing again was not only exhausting to imagine, but totally impractical. Some of the ‘lessons’ learned from the original trilogy are ones that are important for game development but result in the player experience being less. When you're talking about triple-A development, the original trilogy is actually the anomaly, not Andromeda.

“Because I moved on from BioWare after my work on Andromeda was complete, I have no idea what, if any, future plans there might be. At the time of my departure, there were none.”

It’s worth noting that Pollner is clear about Andromeda being better than a lot of people give it credit for. While some of the concerns people had have now been verified by people who worked on the project - that there could have been more species and that the core premise of Ryder the explorer becoming Ryder the killer is inherently flawed - the team still worked hard on delivering an ambitious game within the constraints of what they were given.

“I find the game to actually be pretty darn fun, and once the technical flaws were ironed out, and the initial reactive disappointment faded, the game does stand on its own,” Pollner says. “There's some really good stuff in there.”

[source]

[24-guy]

A theory on the reviving c!Wilbur situation.

/rp

/dsmp

Warning, swearing.

So... Let's start from the first important thing.

Wilbur died. We know this.

Then wilbur speaks to tommy after the disc confrontation, we know that Ghostbur and wilbur are different from each other.

Wilbur is told tommy wants to revive him.

Wilbur doesn't want to be alive again.

So now we move onto the main point of this theory.

Tommy dies, and talks to wilbur in the afterlife. Immediately, they're like.. already fighting.

Says there's 8 more eons. Which is 80 billion years.

But then wilbur starts with his competative solitaire. And I'll probably link back to this in a second, I don't know. These theories are just my train of thought as I write things down. I don't have a plan. Just a main thought and I expand on it. So yeah. Wilbur talks about solitaire.

And tommy declines, proceeding to blow raspberries.

Wilbur spends "six hours" setting out the cards.

And tommy despises the fact that wilbur is glad tommy is dead with him.

Wilbur said he knows that if he gets brought back in some way, the server is going to go to shit in some way.

But then wilbur is happy he's death.

And then tommy is brought back.

Now. Dream says he's going to bring wilbur back to break him out of the prison. And in all honesty, I don't think wilbur will be doing that. This wilbur is crazy and bringing him back to life will pull him away from that brink of clarity he had left when he blew up l'manberg. There will be nothing left of the wilbur that dream or anyone else knew.

So why would he help dream? Dream has a point, wilbur would owe him his life. But wilbur isn't Technoblade. Wilbur might not hold up on the promise to pay dream back.

Now onto tommy. Tommy begged dream to not bring wilbur back to life. That wilbur had terrible, terrible plans for when he was brought back.

I've got two to three possibilities of what the meaning behind this begging could mean.

1, tommy is using this to help wilbur stay dead, knowing that his brother-figure wants to stay dead with his solitaire cards and jschlatt and mexican dream. This, however, is clearly failing.

Or 2, tommy knows that if he shows weakness around dream, dream will use it to exploit him. Tommy has had months of time to sit and plan with wilbur what is going to happen. And tommy might still want his brother back. So.

Tommy acts like wilbur terrifies him. Like wilbur isn't playing competitive solitaire somehow and he's got big plans for the server, playing into Dream's want for manipulating tommy and, if I'm honest, I think he also wants to see the world burn.

However. Maybe this is false. We saw tommy and wilbur arguing at each other before, and plus wilbur is sick in the head. There is a possibility that he knows the silly little solitaire is getting at Tommy's nerves because he's annoyed easily.

Or 3. "Come back in any way".

Wilbur has put himself onto tommy again. Maybe it wasn't physical. But due to talking to wilbur again, tommy is influenced by him. Kind of like how ranboo thought he had gotten rid of the dream voice because he hadn't been talking to dream enough to remember what he sounded like.

What if that's what's happening here?

It would play into the "don't become this person" trope that they're playing onto the kids. Tommy shouldn't become wilbur, tubbo shouldn't become jschlatt, ranboo shouldn't become dream. That kind of thing.

Now tommy has listened to and been around wilbur, tommy is being influenced in some way.

Maybe the bit that's influencing tommy is the small bit of wilbur that's left that's terrified about what could happen if wilbur is revived.

But. Now a part of wilbur has been revived within tommy.

And we look around and realised how much lore is going on.

Techno streamed, phil did lore, ranboo took a break from tubbo and michael and did lore and is now panic brewing potions, foolish has done lore for the first time, the egg is having a crimson banquet, puffy has done an origin story where apparently she's lost memories as well, we had another tales from the smp episode set in the near future. And that's only the ones I've been able to find and watch as they're my main streamers I watch. I know niki was involved with the syndicate now, and jack manifold is getting grief. I know something is happening with quackity. I still dread the day sam does lore because that's gonna break me if he still thinks tommy is dead.

The lore seems to be picking up and in a more... Disastrous way.

And it's due to the egg.

And I link back to solitaire. I swear. I will link these two together.

Competative solitaire is weird because solitaire is a single player game. So what if the point of "competitive solitaire" is who can get the most cards in the right order, or something? Or who can clear the board of cards first? Gain every card?

The definition of solitaire is, after all, "any of various card games played by one person, the object of which is to use up all one's cards by forming particular arrangements and sequences." And yes. I looked this up for a minecraft theory. I'm insane. I know.

So. Competative solitaire.

And wilbur knows things will go to shit if he gets brought back in some way.

Competative solitaire between tommy and the egg.

Tommy currently has the upper hand. The egg doesn't know he's back as far as we're aware, I don't think.

The question is, who's going to make the first move? Who's going to move that first card?

But as with solitaire, there's always a possibility that you won't win. Or in this case, nobody wins. There's always a chance.

So what happens if this chess game that dream is playing, turns into one of cards? Where each player has completely different cards to each other? We know wilbur has been playing solitaire in the afterlife, perhaps tommy brought that knowledge with him when he was revived?

Maybe the begging for wilbur was his first card being dealt.

I don't know anymore. Cards? Chess? Eggs? Block men? Who would have thought that our lives during this would bring us here.

But yeah. Just a weird train of thought that I went on. It seemed a little weird that competitive solitaire is a thing that wilbur repeated more than a few times.

We know cc!wilbur is back with writing the plot now. Who knows what that man could bring us all.

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of wildfire relief, @jesusonthetortillas​ donated $10, and requested pre-series pining!Sam, with diary discovery. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

After his little lesson from Sabrina, the hot librarian's assistant, it's not hard at all for Dean to find what he's looking for. He drops Sam off at the library the way he usually does, and flirts with Sabrina on his way out like he usually does, but instead of going to his shift at the construction site like Sam thinks he's going to, he circles back around, through the library stacks on the main floor, and waits like a dingus by YOUNG ADULT – ADVENTURE, watching the back of Sam's nerdy, nerdy head where he's hunched at the computer banks, getting up to no kind of good.

It wouldn't have come to this, Dean thinks, if Sam weren't so—he doesn't even know how to think about it. He doesn't know when to pin it down. They were doing okay. Sam ran away, a few years back, but since then he's—well, he's always bitching at Dad and bitching at Dean half the time too, but he's done good in school, he's done his part with the hunting. It was sometime at that last school. September in Maryland. Dad was gone a lot of the time, because Dad always was, and Dean went with him on about half the hunts but Sam got to stay behind, got to just call in research tips and last-minute lore checks, and Dean thought he was pretty happy, as much as Sam ever seemed happy. Chill, just doing his homework at the rickety desk, not complaining any more than usual about Dean's usual dinners of fast food or Kraft or Top Ramen. Seventeen and getting tall and mellowing out, and finally hanging out with his little brother was just fine. Dean thought.

That was two towns ago, three months ago. Dean picks his nails with his pocket knife, leaning on one elbow by the Hardy Boys. Sam's still working away on the computer. Anymore he always is. After school he's always angling for Dean to bring him to the library and if Dean won't drive him then Sam walks, even when it's raining, like it is half the time in frickin Washington, anyway. Always finding a free computer and settling in and disappearing onto the internet. Not coming home until the library closes, and moody if Dean's there when he walks in, and Dean just—he thought they were past all this crap. He thought that maybe Sam had—settled. Figured out how things were, how things had to be.

Well. Either way. Sabrina, with the glasses and the sexy dreads and the legs that very much went all the way to the floor under those wide-legged pants she was always wearing—she gave Dean a computer lesson, free of charge, and he's got a way in, now. Sam won't talk to him, won't hardly look at him. Dean chews the inside of his cheek, watching Sam type on the battered public machine. Sam's not the only one who knows how to research a case, in this family. Dean's going to figure this out. He's gonna fix it.

A bell rings, at five o'clock, like the end of a school day. Sam jerks like he's been shocked and looks up at the ceiling, clearly annoyed. He's been engrossed for two hours, typing away, reading. Real frickin' boring, on Dean's end, but he stayed put. Like staking out a house for a job—nothing to do but wait. He takes a few steps backwards, makes sure the shelves hide his face, and there's a general rustling as people leave—a mom and her kid, and tears because the kid's favorite book wasn't here—and when Dean looks again the computer banks are empty, and Sabrina's checking out the last few patrons, and Sam's—gone. Walking home in the rain, little goth that he is. Fine with Dean, if it gives him a few minutes.

When he settles into the chair Sam was in it's still warm. He opens up Netscape Navigator, the library's homepage welcoming him in a friendly kinda way—big yellow smiley face, that's fun. He goes to where Sabrina taught him, in the menu at the top: view, and then History, where it turns out the computer saves all the webpages you went to just in case you need to find them again, and there—oh, jackpot. Gotcha, Sam.

All kinds of crap. A weather website, a bunch of Ask Jeeves searches, something called DiffEQandU. Some mythology stuff, too, and Dean goes to one that turns out to be a history of kitsune. That's something, at least—Sam doing his important homework, in there with whatever other crap he's been working on.

The last bunch of results are all pages from some website called Livejournal, which Dean's never heard of. He clicks one at random and is brought to—huh. A splashy red page, with a big picture on top of kids graduating from high school in those dorky blue robes. He scrolls down, skimming, looking for the important details among the mess, but it's hard to tell what it is. A forum, it looks like. Kind of like the ones Dean's been on where people trade car parts, or swap ghost stories. A square box, dated yesterday, that says WHEN IS HARVARD'S APP REVIEW???, and a panicky paragraph where some chick might die if she doesn't get in. Another, the day before, with questions about the SAT, and a link that says 43 comments that, when Dean clicks it, brings him to a bunch of apparently teenagers all giving each other tips from some test they're worried about taking.

College. Dean's stomach curls into a knot. It's all—college stuff, applications and tests and deadlines. The usernames are all weird shit: tmntpizzadelivery, quistis4ever, willyshakes. Dean can't tell—is one of these kids Sam?

Sabrina's nearly done with her line of book nerds. Dean rubs a hand over his mouth and clicks away, tries another of the Livejournal results in the history. Another forum, this one apparently about—soccer? Jesus, Sam. Another forum, this one about Conan the Barbarian, and that one's at least easy to snort at, with people's shitty drawings of Red Sonja and excitement about a possible remake. There are personal pages, though, too—one titled Delaware Sucks, in which some girl complains about her life—one titled trent reznor rules my soul, featuring a goth kid who won't shut up about Nine Inch Nails and his bitch of a mother. Another, with a plain blue-and-grey color scheme, with the title on the road, and a new post from today—from an hour ago—with the text just reading, I don't know what to do anymore, and six comments underneath, waiting.

"Hey—ready to go?" Sabrina says.

Dean jerks in his seat. Sabrina's raising her eyebrows at him, behind her glasses, a little smile curving her mouth that promises something a little better than book dust and computer lessons. "I'm always ready," Dean says, grinning, and gets her to roll her eyes—yeah, he's in there—but his eyes drag back to the webpage, the posts. He scrolls down, quick—post after post, waiting to be read. "Real quick—borrow a pen?"

She has one—she's a sexy librarian, of course she has one—and he uncrumples a receipt from his jacket pocket and writes down the URL, careful to get it right. rearviewmirror.livejournal.com. He wants to click on the comments, but.

"Come on, the movie's starting soon," Sabrina says, and Dean closes Netscape, folds the receipt very carefully into his pocket, stands up. He's got a date to make out with a hot chick in the back of a movie theater, and maybe a little more, and Sam's whole Eeyore routine has to take a number. Dean will figure it out. He's got an easy way to run a stakeout, now.

*

December 4

Still can't decide. Anyone else going through this?

current mood: agonized current music: motorhead (AGAIN)

Comments:

teenagehamburger: Yes!! I still don't know where I want to go. Mom wants me to stay close to home, but Delaware sucksssss. Where are you looking?

       rearviewmirror: Anywhere. TBH I'm still not even sure I should apply.

               teenagehamburger: WTF?? Of course you should!! College is the big escape, remember?

 December 1

He's driving me INSANE

current mood: annoyed current music: motorhead (again)

Comments:

bloodofreptile: lol you got it bad

       rearviewmirror: right now I just want to hit him with a brick, actually

teenagehamburger: LOL!! Sorry :(  :(

       rearviewmirror: Sigh. I guess it could be worse, right?

             teenagehamburger: Definitely!! He could be the cute cheerleader from 4th period who doesn't know I exist….

                     coppertonebuttgirl: oh, sorry hammie, that sucks <3

 November 29

The thing is, I don't even want anything crazy? I just want to be—me. Just me, without anyone breathing down my neck. Trig teacher says I could get in to one of the top ten, but I just want to go *anywhere that's not here*

current mood: restless current music: Pearl Jam (home alone!)

Comments:

bloodofreptile: i hear you lol. why don't they get that the rules and hovering and all that shit just makes us want to run faster?

    rearviewmirror: Exactly! My teacher keeps talking about college like it's a place to expand your mind and stuff, and that's fine, but lately I just want to expand my horizons. Kind of ironic?

         bloodofreptile: yeah lol haven't you lived like everywhere?

               rearviewmirror: Feels like it.

teenagehamburger: Is You Know Who going to college too?

 November 18

I feel like it shouldn't be this hard. Normal people have it easy.

current mood: indescribable current music: silence

Comments:

coppertonebuttgirl: feel free to talk to me anytime <3

 November 3

Dad's gone again. Didn't say goodbye. We went to the movies and he gave me a beer, and we watched the stars for an hour in the parking lot even though it was freaking freezing. Happier than I've been in a while. Don’t want it to change but it has to change.

current mood: current music:

Comments:

teenagehamburger: OMG, that sounds so romantic?? I can't believe you were drinking!! Aren't you underage?

     bloodofreptile: lol relax it's not a big deal

           teenagehamburger: I'm just saying!!

coppertonebuttgirl: wish it wasn't hard for you <3

bloodofreptile: dude you've got to say something

     rearviewmirror: I literally can't.

          bloodofreptile: ok but it's gonna drive you crazy. do you even know if he's gay? start with that maybe

*

The posts go on, and on. Reading backwards through time, it's a strange piecing-together. rearviewmirror is active in about ten communities and Dean reads through all of them, that week, bringing an illicit cup of coffee in to the library when he doesn't have a construction shift. He reads with his hand over his mouth and by the time he has to get off the computer he's got a headache, every time, his throat dry and aching.

The journal's been active for six months. Dean clicks through the pages to the very start and reads it in the right order, his heart pounding oddly in his ears. I don't know what this place is. A journal, I guess, considering the name. I just need somewhere to talk where no one will listen.

It's not a pouring-out, like some teenage girl doodling hearts around her crush's initials. He holds back. Never says exactly where they're living, never mentions names. To figure out who it was, you'd have to be one of two other people, and Dean knows that Dad can barely turn on a computer, much less go onto the internet and pore over some teenage angst-fest. Dean spends half his time wishing he were the same. Maybe if he hadn't asked Sabrina for help.

At home, Sam's the same as he always is. Comes home after his own stint at the library, eats the dinner Dean gives him. He reads, most of the time. Does his schoolwork. Dean says, careful one night, "Hey, True Lies is on. Wanna watch?" but Sam only gives him a strange, uncertain look and says, "No, I have a paper due," and he shuts himself into their bedroom with the door very firmly closed, and Dean sits there on the couch alone with a beer and Jamie Lee Curtis being sexy as hell on the fuzzy TV, and he—he doesn't know what to do.

He remembers that day, the looking at the stars day. It was November 2. A nasty anniversary, in their family, and yeah, Dad left. Dean got it. He'd thought Sam did, too, by now. It was better to have Dad gone, on a hunt, than trying to drink himself to death at home in the apartment. At least he was working, that way, and not hurting himself. To distract both of them, Dean picked Sam up from the library and they went straight to the movie theater—the Blair Witch sequel, with Dean providing running commentary about how dumb they were about dealing with ghosts, which at least made Sam grin and elbow him to shut up, even if he was laughing too, the liar—and, yeah, afterward they'd picked up Taco Bell, and then after that Dean swung through the liquor store drive-thru and they parked out, and he let Sam have a beer, and they both sat on the trunk and leaned back against the cold glass or the rear window and didn't really talk, much. The stars, big above them. The night, quiet. Sam was pressed against his side, chilled out and not bitching about anything, and Dean tucked his hand behind his head and he was pretty content with the world, right then. His brother, here, and a six-pack waiting, and nothing happening right then that'd hurt them. Sam smiled at him, that night, before he went to bed. It was sweet—like he used to be, when he was little—and Dean had ended up falling asleep on the couch, watching the public access, but his dreams that night were—good, like they never were on the night of November 2, and it had felt… okay.

do you even know if he's gay?

The college prep—that wasn't a surprise. It hurt but it didn't shock. All his worrying, all his whining, wanting to be 'free'—whatever free meant—it was all part and parcel of the last decade. Dean should've known better. Sam wasn't mellowing out. Sam was a stubborn little shit and he'd always wanted to have a life that wasn't—this.

The gay thing. That hit different. One of the communities Sam followed was for lesbian and gay youth, talking about their coming out experiences. Sam didn't post there much but he commented, asked questions. How do you know? What does it feel like? The hamburger girl was from there, a lesbian chick trapped in some Delaware high school. Encouraging, commiserating. They talked about how college would be their big escape, their chance to go to a big city and find their way. Meet people. Only apparently hamburger girl was crushing on the cheerleader from fourth period, and Sam—

Dean makes an excuse the next day. Saturday: no work for Dean, no school for Sam. Alone in the apartment together, all day, after Dean's week of reading—he can't face it. "Where are you going?" Sam asks, eight a.m. with his hair fucked up and coffee clenched between his hands, and Dean looks at him in his pajama pants and his ratty hand-me-down shirt, skinny and tall and hiding things Dean can't handle, and he says, snappish in a way he doesn't mean to be—"Out, Sam, for christ's sake—" and sees Sam's expression shutter before the apartment door slams behind him.

He goes for a drive, out of town. Cold, threatening rain like it always is, but it won't snow. Out—past the airport, past the suburbs, out to Black Lake. They killed the nymph that was drowning people out here, him and Dad, when they first arrived. Sam stayed home. Sullen on the other end of the line when Dean called to say they'd finished the job, and they were getting burgers for dinner, and did Sam want one. Whatever, Sam had said, like even answering was an imposition. That was November, too.

He sits on the hood, heels braced on the bumper, arms locked around his knees. The lake looks cold. He wants to sink into it, wants to feel that freezing shock, like the polar bear dive he did on a dare back in Illinois. The way the brain just goes blank, tv-static filling up everything and washing all the shit away. All the weird crap you don't want to think about, frozen, and the only thing to focus on just—getting out.

He's not going to dive into the lake. It's nine in the morning and he's wearing his only pair of boots. He hasn't gone out with Sabrina all week. He's been piss-poor at the construction site and McMillan nearly brained him with a hammer yesterday, because Dean wasn't paying attention, and the foreman screamed at him in front of the whole crew. None of that feels close, right now. He breathes the wet-clogged air, cold and mossy, turning his ring restlessly on his finger.

Back at that high school they went to in Raton, Mrs. Encinas in 6th period English told Dean he'd be smart, if he didn't just give up all the time. All he needed to do was take the time to read between the lines, to actually interpret what he was reading and not take things on face value. He made some joke. He doesn't remember what it was, now. Like he didn't know what the fuckin Great Gatsby was saying, when he hoped and hoped and never got what he wanted. When happiness always felt like it was about a thousand miles away, on the other side of a lake he couldn't cross, and hope went out like a snuffed light. Dean can read what's not there. He's done it his whole life.

The problem: Sam's little online journal went back six months. They've lived in four towns, in that time. He never uses names, never puts up anything that'd really identify him. They were in Maryland, August-September-first of October, and it was a comment right at the end of August, on the community for gay kids, talking to the hamburger girl: I like someone, too. He doesn't know. He. The same he that carried forward, through all his journal entries, from Maryland to Washington across whole breadth of the country. He likes classic rock. He drives me nuts. He gave me a beer, and I wanted—

Dean curls forward over his knees, sliding his hands into his hair, breathing hard between his knees. He can read between the lines and he wishes that he couldn't. He wishes—god. What? That Sam would just meet a nice girl and fuck her and get it out of his system? Except how he was writing, it wasn't like it was new. It was something he'd been thinking about. When did you know? had read one of the forum posts, and in the responses, among all the dumb teenage crap about formal dances and jerking off to the wrong person in the music video, there was a comment by username rearviewmirror that said, I broke my leg and he carried me to the car and I wanted to kiss him.

Sam broke his leg in July, the summer he turned fifteen. He'd been trying to stay quiet but he'd had this trapped whimper in his throat that he couldn't stop, and Dad had stayed behind to cover their backs and it had been left to Dean, to scoop Sam up, his whole body quivering with the shock—to hug him close between the trees, humid Georgia night making every place their skin touched slick with sweat—to let Sam cling to his neck, shuddering, and to put a hand on his back and whisper, hey, Sammy, it's not even that bad, huh? no bone sticking out, you did good. we're gonna get you a cast and I'm gonna draw you a great picture, okay, Cindy Crawford with her tits out, right there on your shin and Sam had been so shaky that his laugh sounded like he was crying, but he'd nodded against Dean's neck and chattered out sounds cool, Dean, and when Dean got him to the car Sam hadn't wanted to let him go—so they crawled into the backseat together, Sam still half in his lap and with his arms still tight around Dean's neck. Dad got into the front and frowned at Dean in the rearview, and Dean nodded, and when the car leapt forward Sam gasped and gripped at Dean's shirt when his leg got jostled, and Dean put his hand in Sam's hair and said, it's okay, you're okay, and Sam—wanted to kiss him.

He can't square it. It's like there's some twinned version of his brother, in this place Dean never knew existed. All these secrets he's been hoarding, this other person he's been. These wants that make him a stranger.

He goes back home with stuff for lunch around noon. Sam's reading, in the bedroom. "Got pb&j or grilled cheese," Dean calls, down the shotgun kitchen through the thin-carpeted hall, and Sam calls back, "I'm not hungry," which is a goddamn shit of a lie. He grows like an inch a day, he's never not hungry. Dean braces his hands on the counter and counts to five, in his head. He puts the bread away, and puts the cheese in the fridge. He goes into the living room and turns on the TV and it's college football, which is boring as hell, but it fills the apartment with noise. He wishes Dad were home. He wishes he were hunting.

The Huskies lose. Sam hasn't come out of the room, as far as Dean can tell. He's had—four beers? He looks at the table. Five. It's getting toward dark and it's raining, a-fucking-gain, and Dean's still wearing his jacket and his boots and his ears are cold, because the heater in here sucks, and he's shredded the label of the beer everywhere, everywhere. He brushes it off his knees and that just means it's gonna get ground into the shit-brown carpet, but—who cares. He's got other things on his mind.

He gets the last beer out of the fridge. Should've bought more. "Got some spare cash," he says, to the dark hall. There's a halo of light around the half-closed bedroom door. "Thinking pizza for dinner."

Silence.

Dean pushes the beer bottle against his forehead. "C'mon, Sam. It's not going to kill you to prefer pepperoni or sausage. Just say something."

"Doesn't matter," is the response.

Dean squeezes his eyes closed, slams the bottle down to the counter. It's four steps to the bedroom and the door flies open under his palm. "Just fucking say," Dean says, and Sam's looking at him with big eyes, curled up on the twin bed with his back up against the wall, books spread open all around him. Homework, of course. "Just say it, okay? What do you want?"

Sam stares at him. "I don't care! Get—whatever, pepperoni. Jeez, what's up with you?"

"Sure you don't want sausage?" Dean says, kind of nasty, and Sam frowns, shakes his head. Goddamn it. Dean drags a hand over his face, sags against the door frame. He's—a little dizzy. Oh—okay, so maybe he should've eaten, sometime since this morning. "Damn it, Sam," he says, his stomach twinging.

"What?" Give him this—maybe he's sneaking around, maybe he's lying about half his life, but Sam doesn't shrink back from an argument. He's still in his pajamas. He shoves his notebook away, lifts his chin. "What?"

"Been doing some reading," Dean says, and watches Sam's face scrunch disbelievingly. "Rearviewmirror? You don't even like cars."

It's weirdly satisfying to watch Sam blanch. He's been so unaffected the last little while it's almost a relief to get a real reaction. His mouth parts, his eyes go big. He stares at Dean in total silence except the rain drumming on the roof, and then he says, "That's—private."

"Not that private," Dean says. "You're putting shit on the internet for any asshole to read, Sam. It's not a pretty princess diary with a sparkly lock."

Sam's face is white. He licks his lips, his back rigid against the wall. "How did you—you never—"

"I know how to use a friggin computer," Dean says, and watches Sam close his eyes. "So? Got a lot to say to a bunch of strangers. Might as well say it to me. I mean, I'm your brother, right? Family."

It comes out hard but his voice cracks, on the last word. He swallows and some of the anger dissipates. Sam's jaw flexes and he tucks his hands behind his neck and his knees drag in, like defense. Like he needs defense. Against Dean. Like it's Dean who's wrecking things.

Dean's legs go out from under him. He sits down. Right there, in the doorway to the bedroom, the frame hard against his spine. The rain's loud and he doesn't—what is there to say? "You should've told me."

That's really it. Sam looks at him. Disbelief. "How?" he says, and Dean tips his head back against the wall, looks at the popcorn ceiling, says, "I don't know, it's not my damn secret. But you should've."

"Yeah, that would've gone great," Sam says, sarcastic.

Silence. The rain. Dean drags his hand over his face again, clears his throat. "So. You're—queer." For some reason it seems like the simplest thing to start with.

Sam snorts. "I'm not, like, jerking off to JC Chasez," he says, bitter.

"Who?" Dean says, but shakes his head. "God, whatever. Jesus, Sam, I can't—don't talk about you jerking off. You're not—you don't date chicks, either. Ever. So you're—"

"I don't know," Sam says. Kind of firm. Dean closes his eyes to not look at him. "I don't know, okay? But that's not what—" Pause, while he drags in a breath that's audible across the room. Dean curls over, his forehead between his knees. It's too big to hear. Sam blows out air. "You read the whole thing?"

Frail. Cobweb soft, like if Dean breathed too hard it'd break. Dean folds his hands over his head. "I read the whole thing," he says.

"Don't—" Sam says, quick, and cuts himself off. Dean can't stand it—he looks, peeking up, and Sam's made himself small, there at the head of the bed. His mouth is small, his lips between his teeth—his eyes, big and scared. "Dean. I wouldn't—I swear. I wouldn't—"

"Kiss me?" Sam flinches like from a raised fist, when Dean's all the way over here. Dean licks his lips, dropping his hands so they dangle useless between his knees. "Or, what. Leave? Either way it's pretty fucked up, for me, Sam."

"Oh my god," Sam says, very quietly, and—christ. Looks like he's gonna cry.

"Sam," Dean says, and no matter how pissed he is, that's not—Sam fights back. Sam always fights back, he's frickin' annoying that way. He's not supposed to crack like this. Dean rolls up to his knees and Sam's looking away, neck craned unnaturally so that his face is pointed at the broken-blind-covered window so that Dean can't see, but Dean can—Dean can see his teeth so hard in his lip that the skin there's white, and his chest shaky, and his fist clenched in the thin fabric of his pajama bottoms, and, and—"Sammy," Dean says, again, and Sam's eyes close and there is—shit, shit, a tear, running fast out of the corner of his eye, streaking down his cheek so quick that if Dean could blink he might've missed it.

Dean's gut hurts, like he took a punch from a werewolf and he's gonna be bruised for the next three weeks. He doesn't have anything to say to make it better, not when it's this screwed up. This isn't Sam bitching about Dad or whining about crossbow practice or pouting about a move. Sam's been thinking about this for two years and he's managed to talk about it with people, online at least. Dean's coming at it with a week's slow raw realization and he doesn't know how to make it—not how it is.

He gets over to the bed, on his knees. Sam won't look at him, like the view of nothing through the blinds is the most fascinating thing in the world. There's a wet shining trail, down his cheek to his jaw. A damp circle on his t-shirt. Dean says, because he can't think of what else to say, "You really—you want—" and even then, can't articulate it. A kiss. Sex. A kind of close they've never been. He says, slower, "Is that why you want to go?"

Sam drags in air. Sounds like it hurts.

Dean drags his teeth over his lip. There are books all over the bed. He pushes them away, and Sam's notebook. He pushes up—knee on the mattress, and sinking down to his hip, and Sam's close enough to touch, now, and he jerks and looks at Dean like he's an alien. A ghost. Something that can't be real, only they both know that it is. Dean touches Sam's hand, fisted there in his pants, and Sam jerks again, his stiff shoulders back against the wall, and he shoves Dean's hand but no matter the crazy growth spurt Sam's been having Dean's still stronger, still has the reach—he grips Sam's wrist and yanks, gets him off balance, and then he's right inside Sam's grapple and has his hand flat on Sam's chest, pressing him harder against the paint, and Sam stares at him wild-eyed with his breath both fast and deep and Dean leans forward and presses their mouths together. It's a bad kiss—he barely hits on center, and Sam freezes—but there's the touch of warmth, Sam's lips—soft—and the shocked air hitting Dean's face—and Dean drags in breath through his nose and resettles, fits his mouth to Sam's soft open lower lip and makes it better, his head tipping, easy pressure there, just the faintest amount of suction so that when he pulls back a millimeter there's a little smooch sound, and that makes it—real.

He kissed his little brother. No getting around that. No pretending. His nose brushes Sam's cheek and Sam's not really breathing, and Dean—fuck, Dean does it again, pressing in and letting Sam's wrist go so that he can get a hand on Sam's jaw, tipping him so it's good. Sam makes a tiny noise and breathes out hard against his mouth, and when Dean kisses him for a third time Sam meets it, his lips moving finally out of that still shock, his fingertips brushing Dean's arm all careful, his heart pounding under Dean's hand.

Dean pulls back. An inch between them—not enough but all Dean can seem to manage. He swallows. His lips are tingling, and his eyes are closed and he doesn't want to open them, and his fingers—jesus, he's got them tangled in Sam's hair like Sam's some easy hot chick he's picked up at a dive bar, pressing her up against the wall in the bathroom hallway, knowing how the night's going to end.

"We can't," Sam says. Sam. His voice, steady and familiar. "We—Dean. This isn't—"

"No," Dean says, god knows why. He pulls back, though—pulls his hand out of Sam's hair, stands up. His legs wobble for a second. He has to open his eyes and so he drags in a breath and does, and Sam's sitting there with his shoulders high and tight and his hands fisted on his knees and his hair a little fluffed on one side, a little screwy. His mouth parted and his eyes—fixed on Dean's face, looking all over it. Like he's memorizing a trail map, for an unknown stretch of land.

"I'm drunk," Dean says. It's not true. Five beers—he's buzzed but he knows what he's doing. Sam doesn't contradict the lie. "Acting nuts. Sorry, Sam. I—"

"I want pepperoni," Sam says. His face isn't white anymore. He's flushed, dark pink in the hollows of his cheeks. His eyes are dark, wide and fixed on Dean, and there's still that shining trail on his cheek but it's drying. "Order from that place on Melrose. Garlic knots, too."

Dean backs up a step, pins on a smile. "What, you think I'm dumb? Like I wouldn't get knots," he says, and Sam doesn't smile but he nods, brief and fast like Dean's picking up a play in some con they're running, and Dean snaps a finger-gun at Sam—fuck, what is he doing—and turns out of the room, says—"Okay, dinner in thirty minutes or less or your money back!" and walks through the kitchen and out into the living room and out the front door, and closes it behind himself, and leans against it and stares blindly out into the rain, the setting sun still sparking some tiny golden bit of light out to the west, past the horizon.

He licks his lips and tastes salt, not his own. Sam's hand, on his arm—skimming, brushing light through the thickness of his jacket. Like he wasn't sure he'd be allowed to really touch. He drags in the rain-soaked air. He'll drive, to get the pizza. He'll drive, and he'll give Sam time. When he gets back he'll offer Sam half the pie and a beer, and there'll be some movie on TV that Sam probably won't want to watch, but maybe he will. They'll be—brothers. Dean knows how to do that. It feels like it's all he's got left.

*

It's—not easy but it's not all that hard, either. There's a brutal week where Dean's torn between walking on eggshells and wanting to wrestle Sam to the ground, and Sam goes perfectly silent—not pouty withdrawal or furious silent-treatment, but as still and quiet as though he's not even there. Dean can't bear it. It takes Dad coming home to break it—Dad, and christ, when he calls to say he's coming back Dean completely freezes and his mind fills up with—with—but then Sam looks at him and takes the phone out of his hand and says, his mouth's full—what's up? and after that it's like things… settle. It's not okay but it's livable.

rearviewmirror.livejournal.com goes quiet. Dean checks, occasionally, over the months that pass. When he's looking up some random piece of lore for Dad, when they're hunting alone and Sam's stuck back at whatever shitty hotel they stored him at, and Dean's on research duty because Sam's in high school and can't answer his phone. Dean types in the address and checks, and it's still that last post. Anyone else going through this? He hopes, sincerely, not. It's too fucked up for anyone else to bear. At least the Winchesters have practice.

They run PT. Sam does his homework. Dean watches TV. Hunting focuses things. There's stuff to kill and people to save and things aren't falling apart any more than they ever are, so—Dean deals.

Sam leaves.

*

It's January. Dean's in a library, alone. Dad's working a job north of Boise and he sent Dean down to Wendover to take care of a haunting, and Dean's done and Dad called and said two more days and there's this raw wounded spot where Dean should be able to turn, to look over his left shoulder and say—but it's empty there, and so he's in a library.

Sam started posting again, when he got to school. Small stuff. That he was sorry for the long break. That he'd ended up at a university after all. The hamburger girl doesn't respond anymore but the Nine Inch Nails boy does: thought you were dead, he says, no-caps like he's so goddamn cool, and Sam says, Just working some stuff out.

Sam likes his professors. He plays pick-up soccer with some of the guys from his dorm. His roommate snores. He doesn't listen to music at all. There's nothing—real. There's none of the sadboy shit, nothing about what he's feeling, no pondering of what it all means. He picks up a few different Livejournal friends, clearly people from his classes, who crack jokes about Ancient Civ and Linear Algebra. He joins a community focused around civil rights litigation. He might as well not be there.

Dean reads it all. If Sam's not calling then Dean's gonna check in whatever way he can. When Sam left Dean made sure he had at least one good knife in his bag and he said don't forget the salt when Sam hiked his backpack onto his shoulder, and Sam snorted and looked at him like a gunshot but he nodded, and Sam's not dumb, he knows how to take care of himself, but. Dean's the big brother, here. He's within his rights, to check and make sure baby bro's not being a dumbass.

January and it's fuckin cold, in Wendover, but the library's too warm. Dean keeps his coat on anyway, scrolling through the comms. He's kinda turning into an expert, navigating the pages, recognizing the shorthand. He hasn't made an account. Doesn't know why he would. He finishes his scan of the comms Sam's part of and doesn't really see any relevant posts, and no comments from rearviewmirror that he can find. He chews his cheek and goes back to the main page, thinking—okay, he can get out of here. Beer and dinner, and finding a motel that doesn't look toxic, and waiting for Dad to call. Not the worst night he could have. He refreshes, one last time, just in case, and there's a new post. He reads:

January 23

Done with class for the week. Feeling restless.

current mood: current music:

Comments:

lawblog69: we should go out!!

bloodofreptile: go get laid

Dean snorts. At least the NIN kid is consistent. He refreshes again and there's a new comment.

bloodofreptile: go get laid

    rearviewmirror: Not really in the cards.

He takes a breath, sitting there at the computer bank. It's quiet in here—the good people of Wendover aren't much for the library, apparently—but he feels like someone's right there. Like he could reach out and touch, when it's just words on a glowing screen. Still—the speed of the comment—Sam's… sitting there. Right now, on a computer in Palo Alto, looking at the same thing Dean is.

He refreshes.

bloodofreptile: go get laid

    rearviewmirror: Not really in the cards.

        bloodofreptile: still holding onto that? very hufflepuff. how long has it been?

              rearviewmirror: my whole life

Dean presses his knuckles to his lips, hard enough that he can feel his teeth pressing back. Jesus, Sam. He refreshes—another comment, from coppertonebuttgirl, agreeing about the restlessness but apparently she's off to a date with her boyfriend, and Sam responds and says sounds nice :), and jesus, Sam, Dean thinks. Off to have the big college experience like he wanted so bad, off to have that new shiny life, and after five months away he's still all sadsack, still not actually living.

He clicks the comment box. He types, unaccountably mad. He hits submit, and gets a warning that it'll show as anonymous. He waits, and refreshes, and reads:

Anonymous: Just go hit a bar. Live a little. Thought you were supposed to be smart, college boy.

     rearviewmirror: Since when does smart have anything to do with it?

Dean rolls his eyes. He can hear Sam's voice saying it, nettled and trying to sound like he isn't.

Anonymous: You're on here mooning after Cindy Crawford when Claudia Schiffer and Tyra Banks are out there in the real world. Have a beer, get over it.

A pause. Dean has to refresh twice. The librarian walks by with her cart of books and gives him a distracted smile, and Dean's so addled he doesn't actually process and then return it until she's already gone.

rearviewmirror: I don't think it's something you get over. It mattered. It still does, to me.

Dean chews his thumbnail. Sam's face, turned unnaturally, looking out that window at the rain. The wet track, on his cheek.

Anonymous: Matters enough that you're never going to move on?

    rearviewmirror: I didn't think you could move on from family. Maybe I was wrong.

The air goes out of Dean's chest. He turns away from the computer, entirely, swiveling the chair so he's looking out at the lonely bookshelves. He flexes his jaw and swivels back around. Hits refresh.

The thread of comments is gone. He blinks, confused. He doesn't think he was hallucinating—been a while, since he was that tired and drunk. But—oh—in its place, a single comment, under the brief conversation with the NIN kid:

rearviewmirror: Tell me if it's you.

Dean licks his lips. He closes out of the browser, picks up his notepad and keys. On the steps outside it's cold, cold, fucking cold, and this town is bleak. He walks down to the Impala, waiting there in the iced-over grey snow, and braces his hands on the hood, and blows out a long purling winter-dragon breath, and then fishes his phone out of his pocket. Another new phone, but he's got Sam's number memorized, and he almost calls before he chickens out. If it's not actually wanted—he imagines that conversation and he's just not constitutionally capable, right now, of facing how goddamn awkward it'd be.

He texts: It's me.

The response, after seconds: Where are you?

The shitty part of Utah. That's saying something. Easier, like this. Like it's not him kicking down a doorway right into Sam's head.

I don't have class tomorrow.

Could be random, if he didn't know who he was talking to. Dean leans his elbows on the hood of the car, looking at the little box of black-and-white text. He chews his lips and thinks. Before he can respond, another message:

I don't want to move on.

Dean tips his head enough that he's pressing the edge of the phone into his forehead. His fingers are cold. He sniffs, his nose dripping in the icy weather, and types, careful to make sure he gets it right: I'm nine hours away.

Less, if he goes over 100 in the boring parts of Nevada, and if he doesn't stop at all for a catnap.

Stop in Reno for a nap. You get weird when you drive all night. Text me when you're close.

Dean works his jaw, standing there in the cold. He's got nothing to do, for two days. He's got most of a tank of gas. He's got—nothing. Nothing. He gets in the car, and he drives.

It's only 9:30 when he gets to Reno. There were parts of Nevada where he drove very, very fast. He pulls into a truck stop, gets more gas and parks out near where the semis are lined up, the drivers early-birding the night away. Still cold here but less so. He twists around so his back's to the passenger door and looks out the driver window at the neon signs of the truck stop, the cars going in and out of the gas islands. He ate a little but his stomach was all twisted up and he couldn't get much down. A beer would go easier but he doesn't want to be drunk. Well. He does. This is insane. This is—completely stupid.

He pulls out his phone, looks at it. Dials and holds it to his ear, and it rings three times—long enough for him to change his mind four times—before there's an answer, and Sam's voice says, "Dean?"

His voice. Dean closes his eyes, tips his head back against the cold glass of the window. "Long time, no speak," Dean says. It feels rusty.

Sam's quiet for a second, on the other end. "Not really, though. Right?"

"I guess so. It's not the same." Dean listens to the little acknowledging sound Sam makes. There's silence again, for seconds that he counts—one and then two and then three. He listens to the cooling tick of the engine, through it, and then says, before he loses his nerve, "I shouldn't come. Right? This is nuts."

There's some noise, staticky. Like something passed over the mic on Sam's phone. After a beat, Sam says, "You should do what you want to do."

"Oh, should I," Dean says, and it comes out sarcastic, but he doesn't really mean it to be mean. Sam doesn't take the bait, staying quiet on the other end, and Dean opens his eyes again, watching a huge truck muscle past the gas island, watching the normal world go by. He rubs his eye. "I've been—it's been weird, Sam."

Understatement, but he doesn't know why he says it. That kind of stuff isn't for Sam to worry about.

"Go to sleep," Sam says, instead of responding. "An hour or something, just enough so you won't drive off the road. Text me when you're close."

Same thing he said before. "It'll be like three in the morning when I'm close," Dean says, and Sam says, "I'll be awake," and then the line disconnects, and Dean's left there alone again on the bench seat, but it—feels different.

He sort of sleeps, sort of doesn't. He's got a talent for going to bed wherever and whenever he has to—on spare tires and on forest floors and in a closet, once, with a propane tank as his pillow—but his brain won't shut up. He drifts in and out, for the hour Sam asked him for, and then he gets out of the car and goes into the 24-hour c-store and buys a big cup of coffee and a Hershey bar, and points the hood west, and follows the yellow dashed line home.

He texts from a gas station outside Sacramento. Sam texts back in less than a minute with an address. Dean glances at his map of California and responds: 45 minutes, and it's more like thirty when he pulls up to the—yeah, the motel, and he makes a sound that's sort of like a laugh except it doesn't feel like one. He turns into the parking lot and the headlights flash the building, and there, sitting on the sidewalk with his back to a pillar.

Dean parks. Sam has his arms folded over his knees, but he unfurls, stands. Dean gets out of the car and Sam's—jesus, ten feet away, his face totally visible under the streetlight. His hair's a little longer. "Did you get taller?" Dean says, and Sam huffs, his head ducking, and—fuck everything else, it's Dean's little brother, and he drags Sam into a hug, folding his arms over Sam's shoulders even if he has to lift on his toes a little to do it. Sam goes stiff for half a second, but he hugs back, and Dean turns his face in, Sam's hair in his nose like it always is, and feels him—warm, and safe. All Dean ever wanted for him, pretty much.

"You have to get the room," Sam says, when they pull apart. At Dean's eyebrows he shrugs, the corner of his mouth curled. "What? My scholarship doesn't include seedy rent by the hour stuff."

"Oversight much?" Dean says, but he goes in, and he gets a room. Two queens, because that's what the tired miserable little desk clerk says they have available. Means Dean doesn't have to think about other possibilities, and it means that when he dangles the keys off his finger and Sam half-smiles at him, when they've walked down the cold sidewalk side by side, when Dean opens the door and finds the different motel room, same as the first—Sam sits on one bed, and Dean sits on the other, and they look at each other, and it's like it's two years ago and they're just two kids, waiting for Dad to come home.

Sam is taller. Taller than Dean, now. His hair long enough to fall in his eyes, which it does constantly. Newish sneakers, and old jeans, and a hooded sweatshirt, and a denim jacket over the top of that. Not warm enough for the Bay in winter, but Dean bites his tongue before he says anything about it.

"How are your classes?" he says, instead.

Sam's cheek sucks in, like he's chewing it. After a second he says, "You don't want to talk about my classes, man." His head tips. "Anyway. You read about it, right."

It was a mistake not to stop for beer. Dean needs something to do with his hands. "Your algebra professor sounds like an asshole," he says.

Makes Sam smile before he ducks his head, looking down at his lap. "I thought—" He swallows, audibly. He shakes his head, his hair falling down and hiding his face. "Only reason I started posting again was that I wondered if you might still—if you'd check."

It's quiet, honest. Dean hasn't talked to Sam in person for half a year and he's off-balance. Expecting Sam to snark, to be dismissive, to roll his eyes. Small hours of the morning, maybe he's too tired not to be honest. Maybe he's growing up. Dean's not prepared for that.

Sam looks up at him when Dean's silent for too long. His teeth dig into the corner of his mouth and he drags his hand through his hair, gets it off his forehead. "I said I didn't want to move on. You know what I meant, right?"

Dean huffs. "Yeah, I'm not an idiot, Sam," he says, and Sam's eyes tighten. Dean leans back on his hands, tips his head back on his shoulders to look at the ceiling. "Thought this was the whole point of getting out. Getting away, making a whole new life. Being someone else."

"I'm still me," Sam says, unseen. "And it wasn't the whole point. I want a life. That part—whatever, that doesn't matter right now. But I never thought the other thing was going to go away."

He stands up, so Dean can see him. Dean looks at him down his nose, and Sam's—god. Tall. That keeps being his first thought. Tall, and maybe not a stranger, even if he's real damn strange. Sam steps closer, in the little space between the two beds, chewing his lip again. He's gonna make a sore there. "Dean," he says, and Dean raises his eyebrows in response. "You came."

"Yeah," Dean says, rueful. "Well. I'm Cindy Crawford."

Sam's face ripples—a frown, surprise—and then a huffed little laugh—and then he steps between Dean's knees and touches his chest, his jaw. Leans down, slow, telegraphing like they're practicing a fight, and Dean stays exactly where he is, leaned back on his hands, and Sam's mouth touches his—softly. Not hesitant. Dean lets his eyes close and feels it. Puff of air against his face as Sam lets out a tense breath and then another kiss, the damp inside Sam's lip catching against Dean's, and Dean kisses back then, reaching up and getting Sam's jaw, his jacket, fisting the denim and pulling Sam closer. There's a stagger—Sam's knee landing on the bed by Dean's hip, and Dean gets an arm around his lower back and kisses him again, tasting him. Salt, and when Dean kisses him again and presses his mouth open, licks inside, there's coffee-taste, Sam's tongue—slick, tentative—he stayed up, to wait for Dean—his kiss clumsier now, like he doesn't have much practice.

Dean pulls back a few inches. Sam's half-draped on him, his weight nearly in Dean's lap. His eyes are dark but big with surprise, like he didn't expect Dean to go with it. "Sammy," Dean says, and Sam—shudders, his hands closing hard around Dean's shoulders. Okay, Dean thinks, filing that away. He drags a thumb over Sam's jaw, where he's got a barely-there prickle of stubble. "What are we doing?"

Sam shakes his head, licks his lips. "This," he says, holding the side of Dean's neck. "This."

They peel Sam's jacket off, and then Dean's. Sam's still in that hoodie, soft black, and Dean gets his fingers just under the hem of it, barely grazing Sam's stomach, kissing him again—tangled up close on the edge of the bed, Sam's thigh slung over his. Sam keeps touching his face, his chest. His amulet, swinging forward between them when he urges Sam down to his back on the mattress, a knee between Sam's and his hand still there on Sam's belly. Sam grips the amulet and breathes out hot against Dean's face and lifts up for another kiss, which Dean gives him easy, and it's—god, it's good. The lights on, the room warm, Sam wanting underneath his hand. His mouth, slick and open, learning how to press back, how to give as good as he's getting. Dean kisses his cheekbone, his jaw, settles his hand flat on Sam's stomach to ground him, says, "Sammy, you've done this before, right?" Sam hitches breath, nods. Dean sorta laughs, lifts up so he can actually see Sam's expression. "More than once?"

"Twice," Sam says, and when Dean raises his eyebrows he frowns, vaguely indignant. "Jenny Morrison, just before graduation." He licks his lips. "And—a guy. After student orientation, here."

"Playing the field, huh?" Dean says. There's no reason it should make his stomach go molten hot. He rubs Sam's stomach, feels the rise of his breath. "You like it?" Sam nods, again. "What'd you do?"

Sam's cheeks are dark, brick-red. He licks his lips again and Dean ducks back in to kiss him, knocking his mouth open, tasting inside. Earns himself a small deep noise and Sam's hand sliding through his hair where it's too short to grab. He nudges Sam's nose and sits up, peeling off his overshirt. "C'mon. What'd you do? Didn't put that up on your journal, how am I supposed to know?"

"It was a rush party," Sam says, looking at him. He pulls his t-shirt off over his head, making sure his amulet stays put, and Sam blinks heavily, his lips parted. Jeez—it's weird. Hot. Sam wants him, Dean thinks, and it sends a rush of blood south. "He's—uh. Pre-med, smart."

"Not looking for his biography, Sammy," Dean says, and spreads his hands on Sam's hips, pushing up. The hoodie moves, the t-shirt underneath rucks up—Sam's pale here but still that faint all-over tan, darker than Dean's skin. He licks his lips. "What'd you do? Jerk each other off?"

Sam nods, again, his mouth open. God, Dean can imagine it. On some dorm-room bed, their heads leaned together, Sam's mouth open just like this—panting, his hand fumbling down—fuck, fuck it's hot, Sam nervous and into it and trying, making sure. "You liked it, huh?" Dean says, stroking his thumbs over Sam's bare belly.

"Yeah," Sam says, thin on not enough air, his knee drawing up. "But I—I thought about—when you kissed me—" and Dean kisses him again, groaning. Jesus, Sam's gonna kill him. Thinking about some shitty nervous freaked-out kiss when another guy's got his tongue in Sam's mouth. Sam grabs his shoulders, sits up, and Dean accommodates him easy, letting Sam touch him back—Sam's hands sliding down his chest, around to his ribs, grasping. "Dean," he says, panting.

"Let's get this off, huh?" Dean says, pulling, and Sam yanks the hoodie off in a second flat, his hair all ruffling up behind it. The shirt comes with it and there's just Sammy's bare smooth skin, that same pale tan all over. Small brownish nipples, slim muscles. His body. Dean dips and kisses his bare shoulder, licking there, biting, and Sam's nails dig into his ribs so he does it again, swinging a leg over so he's straddling Sam's lap, taking his time. He scrapes his teeth over the swell where Sam's collarbone dips into the arch of his trap, and Sam grips his neck, his back arching. He's hard. Shit, he's nineteen, he has to be hard. Dean slides his fingers down Sam's belly to his belt, tucking under the waist of his jeans, but Sam grips his wrist, then, groaning, saying—"Wait—wait—"

Dean drops his head to Sam's shoulder, groaning back. "We waited," he says, but Sam's hand is on his shoulder, pushing him back, making him look. "What?"

Sam's pink. "Have you—with a guy?" Dean rocks back but Sam's holding him close, looking all over his face. "Dean. Have you—"

"Yeah," Dean says, and watches Sam's ears go red. Sam doesn't need to know when, but it was all in the last year. Three dudes, hookups that were way too easy. They were good—turns out that Dean just likes sex, any way someone will give it to him—and he learned what it felt like to have a dick not his own in his hand, how it felt to slip a cock into his mouth and make a man groan. He hadn't thought about Sam while he was doing it, not really, but he's thinking about it now, and Sam's eyes have dropped, his lips between his teeth. Jealous? Dean smiles while Sam can't see and breaks Sam's hold on his wrist, and slides his hand down, and cups the crotch of Sam's jeans where he's swelling them out. Sam jerks, eyes flying open. "Means I know what I'm doing. Yeah?"

"Yeah," Sam breathes, and then it's—undoing his belt, and unzipping, and then—god, he's still got his sneakers on. Dean backs off and kicks off his boots, deliberately, and Sam blinks at him hot-eyed with his chest heaving and his jeans half-open looking like a friggin porno, but then he gets with the program, and the shoes thud to the shitty carpet and then they're practically racing, undressing, and when Dean kicks his boxers off to the side Sam's—naked, half on the bed, staring at him. Dean stares back, circling a hand around Sam's ankle. God, to look at him, in the lamplight. Long legs, hairier on the shins and lightly furred on the thighs, and a decent dark bush around a dick that's—jesus, that dick. Big, bigger than Dean's, bigger than—Dean licks his lips and looks up with an effort and Sam's staring right back at him, focused between his legs, his mouth parted. "Like what you see?" Dean says, and Sam doesn't answer, just reaches for him, and Dean crawls up the bed and settles on his elbow above Sam with their legs brushing bare, Sam's dick hot against his hip, and Sam kisses him with both hands on his face, his thigh dragging up against Dean's, his lips almost trembly.

Dean soothes a hand down Sam's ribs but Sam's—fuck. Shaking. They haven't even done anything. "Sammy," Dean whispers, between Sam's needing brief kisses, and Sam shakes his head and kisses him again and then ducks his head down, his nose brushing under Dean's jaw. Dean pulls Sam closer—tips, so they're on their sides—and pulls Sam's leg over his hip, pushes in, and—ah, shit, shit that feels good, Sam's big dick brushing in against his, dragging heavy and hot. "Oh," says Sam, small, and Dean slips his hand further and grips Sam's ass, the muscle tight and small—pulls in, and pulls again, encouraging, and Sam grips Dean's shoulder underhand tight enough to hurt but follows, pushing in with the rhythm Dean's urging. He's breathing fast, hot against Dean's throat, but he's got it—humping in, meeting Dean, making their dicks slide, his cockhead smearing wet against Dean's belly. Dean hums, kissing Sam's temple where he can just reach it, just enjoying the—insane way it feels. He lets Sam's ass go and Sam keeps going—good, good—and he licks his fingers sloppy, and reaches down between them, and for the first time he gets a grip on Sam's dick, feels the heft of it. Sam makes a sound like he's been shot and Dean says shh, easy, slicking his hand down to the base, squeezing hard as he pulls back up, and Sam makes another gulping strange sound, his thigh clutching hard around Dean's hip, his hand crushing Dean's lower back in closer. "That feel good?" Dean says, and Sam—comes. Fast, humping in, spurting up Dean's belly and his own, the slick getting all over Dean's dick, hot and wet, the sensation enormous. Dean squeezes him through it, knowing, and Sam humps in again and grabs his ass, nails digging in. Dean tips his head back, feeling it. God, it's good. Sam. His brother.

He swallows. His dick's throbbing, wanting more, feeling left behind. Sammy shudders and Dean licks his lips, pushes Sam back so his shoulders hit the bed. He flops—boneless, shocked—and Dean drags his hands over Sam's ribs, frames his hips. His dick is still big, flushed and wet, his balls clutched up high, and Dean licks his lips and says, "Okay," to no one, and leans down, and gets Sam's dick in his mouth.

A shock, Sam's body practically lifting off the bed. "What," he says, somewhere Dean can't see him—"What are you, oh—" and Dean thinks, oh, what if no one has done this? What if Jenny just opened her legs and she and Sam humped awkward and teenage in some backseat—what if pre-med only wiped his handful of Sam's jizz on the mattress and passed out—what if Dean's the first one, here, opening his jaw wide, careful of his teeth, slicking down, getting the whole fat length of it in his mouth. Only—he can't, fuck, Sam's too big. He fists the base, pulls off, spits and slicks the wet down. When he glances up Sam's up on his elbows, staring, and Dean grins at him, jerks it again, swallows. He can taste Sam's jizz, leftover from coming before. "Hang on," Dean says, and goes back down, letting the head bust his lips open, slicking tight down to his fist, dragging his tongue hard against the underside, suckling easy. Sam takes his statement as an order and grips his head, his shoulder, his hips cringing up into Dean's mouth, and Dean heaves in air, feels Sam firming up again, thick and needing and good.

He's only done this a few times but he—shit, he liked it. Likes it better the other way around, of course, but like this—his dick pressing into the bed, throbbing—Sam splitting open his mouth—yeah, it doesn't exactly suck. He bobs up and down, making sure to pay special attention to the soft ridge at the head, and Sam's making insane noises, now, up above him, petting his head and his shoulders and gripping, trying to shove up. Dean leans into his hip so he can't, fists his dick, pulls off gasping and licking his lips. Sam's still staring, down the length of his torso, and Dean jerks him through the goopy mess they're making—his spit, Sam's precome, what Sam's already come. "You like it?" Dean says, and Sam—rolls his eyes, the little shit.

"You're smug," Sam says, and Dean raises his eyebrows and says, "You're damn right I am," and lets Sam's dick go and goes down, down, no fist in the way until Sam's dick hits the back of his throat and he gags—breathes through it—slurps up with tight lips and then goes right back down, getting his throat used to it, learning the feel of this massive, awesome dick. Sam moans, pushes his hips up, and Dean lets him, rides it—lets Sam fuck up, lets him get a rhythm, like fucking—Sam, fucking his face—and Dean reaches down between his own legs and fists his own dick, finally, groaning in relief and making Sam shudder as the vibration rumbles through Dean's open throat. Sam grips his head with both hands, holding him down, and Dean drags in air through his nose and holds there, filled up with Sam and choking, spit flooding out of his open mouth—the world dark and just Sam's taste, his smell—and Sam makes a little sound—and Dean grunts and lifts off, breaks Sam's hold and crawls up his body, straddling his hips and dragging his dick against where Sam's is all sloppy-hot, dripping wet. Sam gasps up at him and grabs his hips, his ass, fucking up into him, and Dean grips both their dicks in two hands, fucking into the tight wet channel he's making for them both, and Sam pulls at his ass, spreading it, rocking his hips to help, moaning and looking helpless up into Dean's face, and Dean leans down and breathes against him and Sam still comes first, creaming them both, his dick flexing and twitching in Dean's grip, and Dean braces one slick hand on the bed and fists himself seriously, jerking fast, and Sam moans and kisses his jaw and pulls at his ass with those big hands, his fingers slipping low, dipping—and Dean jerks and spills, his belly seizing, his thighs clamping around Sam's hips, Sam's lips open and dragging wet against his throat, his fist gripping the bedspread so hard that his fingers cramp.

Sam's stroking his hips, repetitive and soft, when he's done panting. Dean swallows, shifts his weight. He's slumped on top of Sam, his face buried in Sam's shoulder. Wet between them, sliding, and he releases his dick and slips his sticky hand out, bracing on the bed enough to get some air between them. When he lifts up Sam's eyes are half-closed, but he focuses on Dean's face right away, and his hands stop their stroking and just squeeze, warm and tight. "You okay?" Sam says.

"My line," Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes again, squeezes again. Dean sits up more but Sam doesn't let go. "C'mon, we should clean up."

Sam's eyes tighten, just barely. He sits up, keeping his grip on Dean, and Dean rocks back but doesn't tip over. He gets a hand on Sam's shoulder to keep his balance and Sam says, steady, "Don't freak. Okay?"

"Who's freaking?" Their dicks are still pressed wetly together, though Dean's basically soft, now. Sam's still plump, thick. He swallows. "C'mon, we're gonna get cemented together," he says, and Sam's mouth purses but his grip goes light, and it gives enough room that Dean can lift off, get his feet under him. Jesus, there's enough jizz on him that it's rolling down his belly—he claps a hand to it before it can drop, smearing it over his abs. "You come like a geyser, dude," he says, not really complaining, but Sam's cheeks are red when he looks back up, and he feels—shit. He doesn't know.

He goes to the bathroom. Fluorescent light, pink-painted sink. He wets one of the five-cent washrags and wipes himself up, and he's not turned on anymore so his thought is mainly that it's just gross, and that bed's going to be wrecked, and also, what is he doing. What is he doing.

Sam's hand appears, reaching around him. He jumps. In the mirror behind him, Sam's tall, looking over his shoulder. Looking at Dean, even as he wets the other rag, cleans himself up. Dean chews the inside of his lip and can't really turn away. Sam's got red marks on his shoulder, where Dean was biting him.

"Stay," Sam says. He tosses his wet rag back into the sink and settles his hands on Dean's biceps, squeezing. When he steps forward his dick presses into the small of Dean's back and his chest is warm, damp. "Tomorrow at least. We've got the room. Stay."

"You want your dick sucked again?" Dean says, and that time it is mean and he did kind of mean it to be, and Sam's eyelids dip and his jaw clenches, but he only slips his hands away from Dean's arms to his ribs, holding him. It feels… Dean shakes his head. "Sam," he says, but there's not really anything that can go after it.

A big hand slides up and over, flattening on his breastbone. "It's not just this," Sam says, meeting Dean's eyes in the mirror, and it makes Dean's cheeks go hot.

He covers Sam's hand with his. He shivers, for some reason. He says, "I should take a shower, I've been in the car all day," and Sam says, "Okay," and Dean takes a shower and Sam sits on the closed toilet, watches him through the clear curtain. Gives him a towel when he comes out. Takes his hips, when he's dry, and presses him to the tiled wall, and tips his head up, and kisses him clean.

Five in the morning, or later. There's a clean bed and Dean hasn't slept in a day. He lays down and Sam lays down with him, a few inches away until Dean relents and turns over, and Sam curls up behind him, holding on, his mouth against Dean's shoulder. There's going to be a call from Dad, at some point. Dean's going to have to meet him somewhere, because there's going to be something bad that needs killing. He can't stay. He's wired and tired, all at once.

"Sleep," Sam says, and Dean turns his head against the pillow, knows he will.

"Hey," he says, and Sam makes a quiet noise. "If you put this on your journal, maybe bloodofreptile will finally shut up about you getting laid all the time."

"His name is Dennis," Sam says, and Dean laughs, weirdly glad. Dennis. Yeah, that fits. "And this isn't going on the internet."

"Probably a good idea," Dean says, and Sam says, again, "Dude, go to sleep," and Dean tips back into Sam's warmth, and does, and it's the best sleep he's gotten in a year.

[melchron]

Nightmare Time Episode 1 Thoughts

Ok. It took me about an hour but I think I can develop some thoughts on Nightmare Time. I'm just gonna type as I think so events will be all out of order.

My mom decided to watch it with me last minute so that was nice. She doesn't remember much from the Hatchetfield shows but she enjoyed this anyways.

The Knok Twist made me mad and happy at the same time. I have adopted all of Joey's soft boy characters and now I have to send my new son back for being a defective creep. But also Ted is hilarious, I kind of missed him (just a little though), and it was a nice twist.

Was Konk fully naked the whole time? Was he at least wearing pants or shorts or something?

Every entrance Robert made as Hidgens killed me. When he kicked down the door but had to scoot into frame with his leg still up, I died.

His dramatic Hidgens reveal made me squeal. I knew he was coming but I love how his reveal was dramatic anyway. It was like he went "Oh they want Hidgens? Time to Hidgens harder than ever."

Angela was so good as Lucy. I love how she is nothing like Lex. I love seeing more if her acting range. She is so talented.

I think I might like Ted now. Like before he was fine. I know people were obsessed with him but I was one of those jerks being like "They only like him because of SSN and their weird CharTed ship. He was funny in SSN but he's not that great. He's just fine. (I never said any of this to anyone. People can like what they like no matter my opinion. I kept my negative thoughts to myself.) I don't know what happened here but I think I like him. Still not obsessed but he's pretty cool. Maybe I'm still trying to have Konk idk.

I knew Hidgens was insane before but know he's absolutely unhinged. Before he was crazy like "A musical world is my dream and I want it. You think I'm crazy? Well it would also bring world peace so there I justified it. My actions are actually helping and not at all selfish." And now it's like "I will murder to make my musical. No justification here. I am absolutely selfish and I don't care."

How, when, and why did Ted decide to join Hidgens on his crazy plan?

I wonder how CharTed shippers feel about Lucy.

Bill is back and I'm loosing it!!

When did Alice get so moody? I know we didn't see much of her in TGWDLM but she seemed chill. I know denying doing drugs while underaged isn't the goodest possible thing but she seemed like she was a rule follower. I'm not mad at this Alice and I don't think it's bad, it's just different than what I imagined.

Bill is trying his best and I love him.

James's Blinky voice is cool and I love it.

James's bowtie was effected by the green screen background and that was funny to me.

I can't wait to meet Ziggy.

TED HAS A LITTLE BROTHER?! AND HE'S NERDY?! I WANT TO LEARN ABOUT THEY'RE DYNAMIC SO BAD!! NAME? LASTNAMES? MORE PLEASE!!

Bill saying he loves Alice but doesn't like her hit different. I had a friend whose mom said that to her as jokes and now I do the same to my brother. It was weird hearing someone be serious and then the person they said it to got actually hurt.

Is Snigglette ok? Do they sniggles have their own minds? I always thought they had a hivemind too. Why is there a Papa Sniggle? Did he birth them (Male sniggles can probably give birth we don't know) does every god in Drowsy Town have their own brand of sniggles? Where did the original sniggle come from? Is Papa the original? Who birthed him? Do the sniggles decided which god they want to follow. Do they have to follow whoever their Papa follows? Is Papa just a Smurfs reference and I'm overthinking his importance to sniggle lore? I have so many questions.

Do Wiggly and Blinky coexist or is this a different universe?

Can I get a date for whe this takes place? Like a month drop would be good.

Deb being an artist and Alice being a playwright made me extremely happy. Just two creative girls loving each other. Can we get a script drop? I will pay money?

Can we get a Blinky doll drop? I will pay money.

Matt did such an amazing job scoring the whole thing. Everything he played set the perfect mood.

Jeff is one of the most talented people I know of. All of the songs were so good. OMG that intro gave me chills in the trailer and everyone singing was so beautiful I love it.

I am obsessed with the Blinky song. James, Curt, and Jeff is now one of my new favorite harmonies I love their voices together.

Was the Becky Barnes tree thing a reference to their little Irish girl Becky who didn't come down for supper? If so, how does Hidgens now about Becky's childhood? How does Hidgens know Becky? Is she actually Irish?

How did Ted know about Lucy falling?

Why was this so spooky? I love horror movies and this actually had horror movie vibes. TGWDLM and Black Friday had its moments and they were spooky but I never got chills from them. I got chills from this.

What was Jon's character? Was he a sniggles or just some guy that was under Blinky's control? Either way he was creepy. He was just so eerily normal.

I wonder if in universe they were actually swearing in the Blinky song. Imagine parents just being like "I don't know what this is but I think it's supposed to be for kids. Oh well, their enjoying it so idc."

Surprise Jaime appearance was appreciated.

Everyone is absolute royalty but Corey and James are the kings.

Bill got a happy ending. It's what he deserved. Wait.....WE GOT A HAPPY HATCHETFIELD ENDING!!!!!

I think those are all of my thoughts. I absolutely love this and am most definitely buying tickets for 2 and 3.

[skeleton-richard]

A Fact About Me That Sounds Fake

But is true. I went to Dashcon.

Dashcon, for those unfamiliar, was the one attempt at a convention organized by and for tumblr users, much like a regular geek convention like Comic Con, just smaller and essentially limited to people on tumblr. At the time, early 2014, it didn’t sound as crazy as it does now, I swear. July 11th, 12th, and 13th, 2014. I was 19 and had just graduated high school. I was a nerdy autistic homeschooler who had made most of my friends through online fan communities, on tumblr and deviantArt. One of these friends was planning on going to Dashcon, since she was in Illinois at the time, and I ended up deciding to go as well. The previous year I’d gone to ChicagoTARDIS and it was a blast, so this would basically be the same thing. I lucked out that not only would my parents let me go, I would get to stay at the hotel hosting the convention by myself, they were getting a room at another hotel. I had never been away from my parents for more than sleepovers and I’d never been entirely on my own. I was going to go to college that fall, but I would be living at home, so this was my one chance to experience that sort of thing. The convention… the convention has entered internet lore for how poorly it was managed and how some of the organizers were flat-out shit. I won’t waste time recounting it here – if you’re interested in the whole story, YouTuber Sarah Z has done a far better job than I could explaining what went down that week. The important parts to my story are 1) my friend and I would finally meet and we would on the last day cosplay as Cecil and Carlos from the science fiction podcast Welcome to Night Vale, and 2) the actual Night Vale podcast would be doing a live show on Sunday. It was great getting to meet my friend M, who I’d known for a while now through our mutual interest in Doctor Who. In fact, we’d made a trade of our skills, she knitted the Fourth Doctor’s scarf for me and I sewed a replica of a particular jacket from the Third Doctor. Oh yeah, I used to sew. Anyway. The insanity on the first day, Friday, happened. No, I didn’t give them any money (Please, if you don’t know what I mean, watch the video I linked above, its explanation is the best I’ve seen). The next day was way better, though. I got to meet my fellow Hoosier Doug Jones, the modern Man of a Thousand Faces, who played Abe Sapien in the Hellboy movies. Doug is 6’ 4" and one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met. I told him about an essay I’d written for school about the Christian themes of the Hellboy comics, since I knew he’s a Christian like me, and he thought that was awesome.

Me meeting Doug Jones. I’m wearing my Eighth Doctor cosplay. My hair is not actually curly, it was a perm. My hair does not perm well. Then Sunday, the last day of the convention, Welcome to Night Vale was scheduled to do a live show, which cost extra. In the end, they walked because the con refused to pay them. I don’t blame them, honestly, but it was a little disappointing. Until someone had the idea to have a fan panel. They had several Cecil cosplayers and they asked if there was a Carlos, and my friend told me to go up and be on the panel, which she joined too. I have massive anxiety issues and I don’t like being the center of attention or even having multiple people looking at me. I’m always nervous when I have to go in front of people, but I gathered my courage and sat at a big table in front of a lot of people and talked. We answered audience questions in character, which was very fun, especially when an audience member asked me as Carlos how I escaped from the desert otherworld he was at the time trapped in. I had one of my rare moments of quick thinking and said “Have you ever heard of a man called the Doctor?” The assembled geeks, with many Whovians among them, cheered my response. It sounds conceited to say that, but they applauded and I knew I’d made someone– lots of someones– happy. That’s the best feeling in the world. Then we decided to do our own show,  and we chose “Old Oak Doors Part A,” which had been released the month prior. It’s a great episode, the beginning of the end for Strexcorp, and in its original form was a live show. Sharing iPhones and tablets to read a transcript online, we recreated it. My friend M played Intern Dana, I playing Carlos. There’s a part where Dana calls Carlos a hero, to which Carlos replies “I’m not a hero. I’m a scientist.” I read that line and the audience went insane. It was my finest moment. Dana’s next line was “Then scientist will always be my word for hero.” The audience exploded again and to this day I marvel at how a short exchange between two characters had such an impact on those listening. This panel and reading are, as much as I can recall, the first time I’d ever really had people applauding something I’d done on my own rather than as part of something else, like plays at church. And what made it even better is that it was something I would never have thought I would do. The convention was a disaster and many things could have gone better, and I still feel sorry we didn’t get to do some of the things we’d planned. But the good things that happened were worth it, to me. I listen to WTNV while doing chores and every year I start from the beginning again, and when I get to “Old Oak Doors,” I’m reminded of the spontaneous reading and my Big Line and how I’d faced a ton of fears that weekend and come out making others laugh. There is, as far as I know, no recording of that panel and reading online. I’ve searched YouTube and googled it but nothing has turned up. If anyone ever comes across it, I’d love to see it again. I’m also looking for pictures that were taken that I know were on my old blog at some point, in the hopes that I got them to my current blog before I deleted the old one. But even if I never find those pictures I have the memories. And a line that reminds me that I may not be a hero, but I still am what I work on being.

(I was originally going to post this on my Dreamwidth, but it was too big. Wow.)

[grayintogreen]

I was not technically tagged, but at least two people on my dash were like DO WHAT YOU WANT NO ONE IS YOUR GOD, and you know what? They’re right and valid. 

1) How many works do you have on AO3?

96! And 90% of them are from just this year. Can’t wait to find out what the big 100 is gonna be. Any one of my WIPS could be Disney’s next 100th fic.

2) What’s your total AO3 word count?

455,024 (also mostly from this year...)

3) How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

In my entire life??? Since I was twelve??? I don’t even know, man. I wrote a lot of ooc crackfic and fic for cartoons when I was on FF.net, and then I was on LJ and wrote for a TON of different fandoms, but on AO3, I have written for Critical Role (so much CR), Yashahime/Inuyasha, Guardians of the Galaxy, His Dark Materials (TV), Steven Universe, Bleach, Alias, Supernatural, Dollhouse, Pushing Daisies (the last four were all transferred here from LJ, though)

4) What are your top five fics by kudos?

- turning wine back into water (Critical Role, de-aging fic with plot, 30457 words)

I STILL CANNOT BELIEVE HOW POPULAR THIS FIC IS. It beat out two of my super popular GotG fics that have been up since 2017 BY A LOT. Apparently, there was a market for the Mighty Nein being adorable cocktail brats and saving the world. Thanks, Liam’s Quest!

It is probably one of the most wholesome fics I will ever write too. I love it.

- Sunshine Came Softly (Guardians of the Galaxy, Rocket and Mantis friendship, 3188 words)

THIS FIC STILL GETS HITS EVEN TODAY. It was written right after I saw the movie so it hit hard and fast on the hype train. 

- Mine Is Just a Slower Sacrifice (Guardians of the Galaxy, Rocket-centric, 2248 words)

BOY YOU CAN TELL THESE FICS ARE ANCIENT BECAUSE I HADN’T DEVELOPED MY TITLE NICHE YET. where are the lower caps and Seanan McGuire lyrics!!

Anyway, this was written probably IMMEDIATELY after I saw the movie and had to process Rocket’s emotions during the last moments, because of who I am as a person. For what’s mostly a character study, it got some mileage on it.

- they drink dreamers up like brandy (Critical Role, 1625 words)

Back to Critical Role! I wrote this one when I was in a fucking blind post-finale haze and producing massive amounts of Kingsley content and I wanted to write a silly fic about Caleb being tiefling catnip. 

- if adversity breeds character (we’ve character enough for two) (Critical Role, Beau and Molly-centric, 1824 words)

I feel like most of my most kudos-ed CR fics are Beau-related, which is funny because I never really wrote her EVER. I guess I need to write her more often. ANYWAY, this one got jossed immediately after 141, but I needed to write Beau and Molly bantering and I couldn’t get her flipping him off after revealing her card is Rumor out of my head.

(Incidentally my sixth most kudos-ed fic is my Fjorester next gen fic, WHICH I WAS NOT EXPECTING AT ALL. IT’S A FIC BASED ON MY OC FANCHILDREN!! I’M VERY EMOTIONAL ABOUT THAT!!)

5) Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

Usually!! There are times when I forget and then it’s been so long that I never go back, but I like responding to comments. They make me so happy and I want to make sure the people who take the time to comment know that I see them and appreciate them. Especially if they give me long comments. You long commenters know who you are and I value you and also flail incoherently in your direction.

6) What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

God, probably this church takes no conversions simply because, like, the whole ending scenes are MISERABLE AND FULL OF ANGST and then it has the hopeful ending that is actually a bullshit lie.

But second place probably goes to what couldn’t i offer, what couldn’t i give, which is just misery porn in disguise as a character study. Sorry, Cree.

7) Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

Okay, so back in the day when I was a tineh fanbrat I wrote a lot of self-indulgent crossovers featuring my friends and I in true Mary Sue format being ~saviors of the world~ alongside our favorite fictional characters and after I grew out of that, I very rarely did it again, because as someone who can only write AUs if they’re high concept and can only write crossovers if the canon welding is pristine, it’s difficult.

I have ideas for some! I just haven’t written them yet. Or they’re sitting in Google Docs partially written.

8) Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Not to my recollection, which is insane, because I’ve written some things in my youth that deserved it, but also I was a kid, so maybe I definitely did not deserve it. Don’t send hate to kids!!

9) Do you write smut? If so what kind?

The first smut I ever posted on AO3 involved some fucking American Gods flesh horror shit, so that answers your second question.

Basically, yes, but I write smut to facilitate character development in a way that regular story beats can’t, mainly with characters who are in some way deeply fucked up and have unbalanced dynamics. 

So basically chances of me writing smut that isn’t Creecien or Lucigast? Very low. (I haven’t written Lucigast smut yet but I will. Inevitably.)

10) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that anyone’s told me, but one time when I was a teenager someone ripped off an entire group messageboard RP I was in and tried to pass it off as a fic they wrote.

11) Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that anyone’s told me!

12) Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I tried and it did not work out, because of (non-wanky) reasons, but it’s just not something I’d be very good at. I was the kid who wanted to work alone on group projects. I’m bad at group work.

13) What’s your all time favourite ship?

That I’ve WRITTEN??? Because that at least narrows it down significantly. Sesshoumaru/Rin hands down. It’s a good dynamic and they’re fun and sad at the same time. 

My self-indulgent ass does also enjoy writing Creecien though. I’m putting it out there because I want it.

14) What’s a WIP you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

GOD POOR SUPERNOVAS OF ALL SOUND AND LIGHT. THAT FIC COULD’VE BEEN A CONTENDER, but I unfortunately posted it RIGHT BEFORE the White Diamond episodes aired and it became so jossed by canon so fast that I gave up on life with chapter two half finished. I need to delete it but I can’t bring myself to bury my shame.

15) What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue and meta-narrative and character-specific stuff. I go into every story with CHARACTER FIRST mentality, which is how I end up writing so many damn character studies or why my word counts explode. I’m just out here naval gazing because I love character stuff SO MUCH.

I’ve been told I’m good at fight/action scenes too, which... Shocks me, but I think watching and playing a lot of D&D stuff has really improved how I write fighting and action sequences.

16) What are your writing weaknesses?

[whispers] too much naval gaze. dial it back, bitch. 

I get really caught up in character stuff and forget to do important things like ADVANCE THE SCENE OR DESCRIBE THE SCENE OR LITERALLY ANYTHING. I also don’t think my prose is all that great, but I’m pretty sure every writer feels that imposter syndrome bullshit, so /waves hands. All I’m saying is I have seen some writers on AO3 who are writing some fucking vivid imagery and stringing flawless sentences together and weaving introspection and description together like beautiful baskets and they are stronger than any US Marine and I salute them and wish to be them.

17) What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

Iiii try not to. There’s times where I want to throw in, like, a little Zemnian for Caleb flair, but I try to stick to things that are either untranslatable (like German compound words), common phrases (like please or come here), or insults/curses/ pet names. Things that I don’t think Google will fucking lie to me about.

18) What was the first fandom you wrote for?

I think it was a Sailor Moon crackfic about Haruka being forced to enter a beauty pageant which was just a blatant rip-off of Ms Congeniality and oh my god was it awful. I don’t even wanna talk about it.

19) What’s your favourite fic you’ve written?

this church takes no conversions, probably BECAUSE it’s my little red-headed stepchild of a fic involving so many things that are just never going to make it popular (backstory fic, fic that is almost 85% headcanon, doesn’t involve popular characters, etc.), but godDAMMIT I love that fic so much. It was fun and I use every bit of that headcanon in almost everything like it’s my job.

shattered stage is a close second, because it was such a crazy concept for a fic that I PULLED OFF SOMEHOW and is this wonderful mix of crazy plot and character and lore and my three favorite tieflings having to work together. And also Jayne Merriweather as the main villain. 

A lot of love went into both of those fics and they are my babies. this time next year we’ll see if I add Creedemption and shoot at fate to this list- probably. All of my epic long fics resolve to be my babies because I spent so much time on them, and I have to love them and cherish them because I raised them into gigantic wordy attempts to write a doorstopper.

[heraldofzaun]

//Still lurking.

Some thoughts below the cut. A little melancholic. A little ranty. Many thoughts on how Viktor is perceived by the fandom at large. It got away from me.

I think I’ve mentioned it elsewhere, but I have followers here and this is also a Viktor blog... I think it would be nice if people stopped making fun of Viktor’s accent - I saw T/BSkyen’s (I think that keeps me out of the tag) shorts video on Viktor, and it was disheartening that he chose to make fun of Viktor’s accent several times throughout a one-minute video. No other character with a hammy, over-the-top accent, as far I know, receives this treatment. No one makes fun of Caitlyn’s British accent in character analyses of her. No one makes fun of Fiora’s French accent in character analyses of her. (I just checked his videos on them, actually, and guess what - no mocking their accents by doing them! Although Fiora’s accent does get mentioned, at the least.)

Just... stop doing it? We know the accent is cartoonishly bad and not accurate to actual Russian accents at all. But why, specifically, are people - T/BSkyen, in this instance - compelled to make fun of Viktor by putting on an accent and saying “Get reed of all emotions“ and “GLORIOUS EVOLUTION” and “BEEP BOOP ROBOT BRAIN”? (The misspelling in the first is not mine. It is in the actual subtitles for the video.)

I mean, we all know that the answer is the fact that American (and other countries, but we can focus on America for now) media spent the Cold War convincing Americans that Russians and Eastern Europeans were mindless followers of ideology and/or Crazy Insane Scientists, instead of like... people with diverse thoughts and feelings who may or may not agree with their government, but like... I have to ask the rhetorical questions here because no one else is going to apparently. Anyways it’s 2021 stop conflating people and the governments they live under, I guess.

Anyways, also very disheartening that I just checked the pinned comment on that video and he is now saying that Viktor’s endpoint is the Battlecast universe, which is not a canon fact even in current lore. It’s an assumption. I can’t even say that Full Machine Viktor is Viktor’s endpoint, because that was retconned into being a janitor skin that randomly breaks into Spanish in the skin bio for a... “joke”? (Because that’s a cool thing to do. I’d ask how that got past anyone, but that’s a pointless question.) But Battlecast is not stated anywhere to be the end result of canonical Viktor, as far as I know. I suppose it’s not stated to not be the result, but... Like, what other character gets an AU skinline that people then say has to be their canonical endgoal when it is not said to be their canonical endgoal by any official source?

Quothe the loremaster... “The endpoint of Viktor's quest is the Battlecast universe. In case y'all forgot. Read between the lines of his stories even a little bit before stanning him, I'm begging you.”

The entirety of the pinned comment is frustrating. It is frustrating not only because it clashes entirely with the funny comical tone of the minute-long short, which also decides to yet again conflate transhumanism with being trans (we have heard my thoughts on this before. Please stop doing this), but because it is unfortunately true in aspects about current Viktor. He is really not a good man, even though you may be able to argue that Riot’s biased narrator choices mean that a canonical version of the Viktor-Jayce fight does not exist. (Because both lores tell their sides of the story. Biasedly.) But as the story stands, his character getting filled out didn’t make him more morally ambiguous than his original counterpart. The ambiguity that existed originally was due to us not knowing a lot about him and thus being able to interpret things the way we wished. (I’m sure that there is still room for interpretation in the new lore, but it seems lesser to me. Also, his color story is framed atrociously. It’s going for warm and fuzzy when the content of it is giving a kid drugs but this is a long enough post already...)

Riot does not know what to do with Viktor. They’re content to portray him as a Russian mad scientist and buffoon in LoR and in some other media, because... [gestures at the struck-out paragraph above]. But then they have his lore which... could be interesting, maybe, if it weren’t convinced that the way to tell a morally grey story is to have narrators more unreliable than a pull-start lawn mower. Like, they just don’t know what to do with him.

Any analysis of him needs to come with that caveat, not someone deciding that the best way to spent a minute of analysis is to make multiple jokes about Viktor’s accent being stereotypical via... feeding into it being stereotypical... and saying that transhumanism is related to trans rights in any inherent way.

Also, T/BSkyen says that Viktor only has an augmented hand and the third arm, which conveniently ignores the fact that Prototype is probably supposed to be taken as semi-canonical considering its name and the fact it was made when backstory-related skins were a more common thing. (And also because it hasn’t been retconned into being a janitor.) It also conveniently ignores the fact that Viktor’s lower legs clearly don’t look like armor on his model, but this is a side tangent that doesn’t really matter, so...

Whatever, right? I’ve clearly put more thought into this than League’s local loremaster put into that video and subsequent “no guys he really is a baddie stop stanning him and grow critical thinking skills” comment. Sorry if I sound jaded here or am taking this far too seriously or whatever, it’s just... man, it’s a lot. It makes trying to do my take in any public capacity feel kind of like shit, because it’s clear that the general perception of Viktor is currently 1) Haha Funny Accent Man, 2) Trans Rights!1!, and/or 3) He’s Evil :(, and it sucks. I already am writing for a niche audience who will accept a Viktor who never went to Piltover and who exists in old Zaun. I know that that’s niche. I’m okay with it being niche, I think.

But it sucks to build up all this character and do all this writing and try to... I don’t know, present a nuanced view of someone, and then just get another fucking joke about his accent or his design tropes or about what transhumanism is. Especially when those jokes are what people remember, right?

Sorry. This got whiny. But I think it explains why I’ve lost so much steam on writing our favorite Machine Herald, because stuff like this just keeps kind of... happening.

Thank you to the folks that send in anons about my analyses or who like my posts about my artistic endeavors or just... well, interact in general. It does mean a lot to me that you guys are invested enough to hang around and read 2k words of me doing the Pepe Silvia scene from Always Sunny as I connect dots that might not have been meant to be connected. It’s just hard to keep doing it, sometimes, and I guess this is one of those moments.