#it’s less so that it’s a ridiculous question and more so about the complete lack of autonomous thought

[wet-paiint]

we may be doomed as a species i fear

[villainousauthor]

Hero continues to rock the wailing infant, trying to shush her. It's been hours, and still they haven't been able to get her to calm down. Nothing has worked, not a bottle, a diaper change, nothing.

Hero places their hand against her small forehead, checking for a fever, maybe. They feel so beyond their depth right now. Hero's barely slept the past day, and they're dead on their feet, eyes barely staying open.

"I wish you could just tell me what's wrong. This is so frustrating." Hero whines, still bouncing the crying infant.

"It's unfortunate, most babies can't talk." The familiar voice comes from behind, and Hero whirls around defensively to see Villain standing in the doorway of the nursery.

"What are you doing here?" Hero demands, clutching their child closer.

"You haven't come to fight me in months. I've sent out clear messages-"

"You mean constantly blowing up buildings and taking people hostage?" Hero interrupts, still holding their baby close to their chest.

"-but you never came. I was starting to think you died," Villain finishes eloquently. "I can see now that you've been a bit busy." They take a step closer, and Hero takes another step back, trying to keep distance.

This was bad. Hero very much intended that no one would know about their child, enemies especially. They could feel anxiety rising in their chest, clawing at their throat.

Villain eyes their movement before speaking again. "Shame, I would have sent a gift if I'd known. Who's the other parent?" Their eyes shoot back up to Hero's as they ask.

"No one. She's mine, her other parent is irrelevant." Hero says defensively. The baby continues to cry, face red.

Villain looks over the both of them, humming as they consider this. "So you're doing this alone. How long have you been up for?"

The question seems harmless, and yet Hero hesitates, still not trusting Villain. The way they ask though, seems simply curious.

"...A few hours now. I can't get her to sleep." Hero finally says quietly.

Villain steps closer again, this time slowly, as if to not worry Hero. "I can tell," They snort, but the words are soft, "You look completely exhausted."

"Jeez thanks-"

"May I try?" Villain asks, voice gentle. Hero looks at them like they've grown three heads. The very idea that Hero would hand their child over to Villain is so beyond ridiculous, that they can't believe they asked.

Vilain sees their expression and rolls their eyes. "I'm not going to do anything to harm her. I know you'd kick my ass if I even tried. I'm good with kids, and you look like you're going to fall over any minute."

They step even closer and lift a finger to the small baby, which she grabs with her chubby little hand. Villain chuckles at the sight.

Hero watches, eyes fighting to stay open. Villain is right, they do feel like they're on the verge of collapse any moment. Arms are heavy from continuously rocking the baby, legs feel like jello.

"Okay, you can hold her for a moment. But I swear to everything that if you do anything to harm her, your body will end scattered in tiny pieces across the country." Hero warns, their voice more deadly than it's ever been with Villain.

Villain simply smiles as they reach out for the baby. "I wouldn't expect anything less." They take her in their arms, holding her comfortably. Hero immediately collapses down into the nearby rocking chair.

They rock her in their arms like it's the most natural thing in the world. Hero watches on in surprise as she starts to calm down somewhat, though she's still fussy. The lack of wailing level crying is a godsend though.

"How in the world.." Hero asks, amazed at the sight.

Villain grabs a pacifier off the near by changing table, giving it to the infant. She accepts it easily and finally settles down.

"I told you I'm really good with kids. Plus babies just like me," They say as they look down at the infant in their arms with the most genuine smile Hero has ever seen, "Also have you considered that she might be teething?"

Hero raises an eyebrow before yawning suddenly. "Ah..no I haven't. I'm new to this, and I feel like I'm learning as I go along..."

"It probably doesn't help that you don't have any help either. Why don't you rest for a bit while I hold her?" Villain suggests, noticing how on the verge of falling asleep they are. "I promise I'll stay right here, and she'll be okay. You should get some sleep."

"I'm not so sure about that..." Hero replies, though their head is already starting to sag. "How'd you get so good with kids anyways?" They ask, their eyes beginning to flutter.

Villain chuckles quietly. "You don't get to unlock my tragic back story that easily." But Hero is already asleep, passed out over in the chair. Villain continues to hold the baby as they drap a small blanket over Hero.

[acevid]

DRDT X DESPAIR DISEASE

what if the danganronpa despair time cast had the motive of despair disease? well, i’ve made diseases for everyone! (i may write a oneshot for this but to be determined..)

╔═════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ═════╗

Teruko Tawaki - Childish Disease. Since her childhood is..probably not the best, considering what information we have about her thus far—it causes her to act childishly and to make up for what had once lost! (And makes her an easier target.)

Xander Matthews - Lazy Disease. This disease is exactly how it sounds. This makes it so that Xander is no longer the energetic and determined person that he is, but rather someone who doesn��t put much effort into things, or sees the reason to care about others too much.

Min Jeung - Confidence Disease. This disease makes it so that Min is completely confident in her abilities and whatever she does. This makes it so that she is much less anti-social towards others, and not afraid to prove anyone wrong.

Arei Nageishi - Cowardice Disease. Because Arei has this disease, she will act meekly due to pretty much everything. Often times another student will see her shaking or on the verge of tears. She can be comforted, but many things can set her off again.

Ace Markey - Truth Disease. This strain of disease makes it so that Ace can only say the truth. While, yes, he can simply change the subject by saying random but true stuff like “It’s cold right now”, but it’s harder to fight the more he does it—and it’s especially hard whenever somebody directs a question towards him.

Levi Fontana - Empathetic Disease. This gives Levi what he’s always been lacking—empathy! And not just any old empathy. His empathy is seriously high, like off the charts. 

J Rosales - Villain Disease. While, yes, making it so that J had some ‘murder’ disease would’ve been funny, considering how she hates murder—that would’ve been too easy. And so, we’ve resorted to making her act like a really bad cartoon villain. Why? Comedy. Makes the show go up in ratings.

Rose Lacroix - Forgetfulness Disease. Pretty self explanatory, Rose simply is unable to keep long-term memories. (..Actually, change that to memories in general, as she seems to forget a lot that happened in a short time-span as well. Such as—half an hour.)

Arturo Giles - Kindness Disease. This disease makes it so that Arturo doesn’t see the ugliness in people, but rather the good qualities about them. He’s rather vocal about this too.

Hu Jing - Antagonist Disease. This causes her to act rudely to everyone, as if she is above them, and cause troubles just so that her classmates struggle. She doesn’t seem to have any want to cooperate with everyone like this.

Nico Hakobyan - Aggressive Disease. This makes it so that Nico is more easily aggravated, and will lash out more. He’s becoming Ace-core

Whit Young - Stoic Disease. This disease makes it so that Whit can no longer use the humor and carelessness that he so desperately loves. In fact, he acts the opposite of how he typically does.

Eden Tobisa - Jester Disease. This is different to Charles’ disease. While he makes jokes and acts somewhat childishly, Eden does so somewhat maliciously. Her jokes always seem to hit hard in someone’s core (and definitely not in a pleasant way). Her way of making others laugh seems to be by putting others down. On the outside, she may look the same—but there is a certain evil aura around her.

Charles Cuevas - Jokester Disease. This disease makes it so that Charles can easily find humour in situations. (He uses so many puns it is ridiculous.) It’s almost as if Whit and Charles switched personalities.

Veronika Grebenschikova - Considerate Disease. Veronika will act respectful towards others, always trying to help and never breaking any boundaries. (Think Ibuki’s disease except she actually has a personality.)

David Chiem - Naivety Disease. This disease makes it so that David believes everything that others are saying—or at least makes it easier to. Because of this trust that he’s putting into others, it’s also much easier to get the truth out of him about matters important and unimportant.

╚═════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ═════╝

[eddieandbird]

Answer the Question—

You and Eddie get interviewed and talk about your relationship.

Part 1 | Part 2

tags/warnings: fluff | 2.9k words | f!reader | rockstar!eddie

———

Eddie’s crooked smile was illuminated by the dim yellow light of the hotel room and that was about the only thing you could see in your haze.

“To us getting hitched. Cheers, sweetheart,” He said, severely underestimating your lack of coordination.

Your distorted vision paired with your poor reaction time didn’t allow you to correctly tip your wine glass to his beer. He continued anyway, pushing the glass right out of your hand and onto your dress.

“Aw, dammit! Look what you did,” You whined, uselessly patting at the crimson stain.

“It’s not my fault you’ve got butterfingers,” He grumbled, unsteadily hovering as he pointed to you.

“You’re such a dick,” You huffed, rushing to the bathroom to assess the damage.

You were much more of a mess than you thought. The formal up-do you had was holding onto your hairpins for dear life and your mascara had morphed into dark circles around your eyes.

Despite the rough state you were in, Eddie refused to leave you alone, especially when he felt guilty for ruining your dress. You tried to push him away as he attempted to interrupt you studying your reflection, yet his hands still found a way to get to you.

“C’mon, let’s take this off, huh?” He took the top hem of your dress in between his fingers and tugged on it lightly.

“No, I feel so gross,” You slurred, stomping petulantly in place.

“That’s why we’re getting you out of this thing, you brat. Just let me help,” Eddie scoffed.

He slowly unzipped the back of your dress, revealing your back. He paused, a lump forming in his throat as he drank in the sight of you. He'd seen you in tank tops and even a bikini once before, but seeing you nearly naked in front of him made him nervous.

He swallowed as he took a step closer to you, gently nudging you away from the mirror. "You're not gross. Don’t be ridiculous," he whispered, his eyes glued to you protectively.

“Oh, please. You’re just saying that because you’re my wife, huh?” Your brows were knitted with your eyes barely peeking open.

“You’re my wife, stupid,” He snickered at your verbal mistake. He couldn’t tease you too much for the slip up considering he was the one struggling to get your dress off, a bathrobe on you, and lay you gently on the bed without dropping you.

“Whatever,” You stuck your tongue out at him.

All his drunken hard work was for nothing as you just as quickly shed the bathrobe, tossing it over the bedside lamp and climbing into the covers.

Eddie took a moment to take in the sight of you in just your underwear, his heartbeat quickening at the thought of being so close to your nearly naked body. He quickly stripped down to his boxers and climbed into bed next to you, pulling the sheets up.

He moved closer to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer to him. "Go to sleep, idiot," he sighed affectionately.

“You suck,” You quipped, playfully biting his hand as you watched it hover over you and rest right at your collarbone.

”Um hello? Did I lose you somewhere?” Eddie waved his hand in front of your face, making you blink rapidly.

“What? No- I mean yes! Sorry, what are we talking about?” as always, you were frazzled when you woke up from your daydream.

“God, you’re impossible,” he scrubbed his face in his hand. “I was asking you if we should say we went on our first date before or after you became my manager,”

“After. I think it’ll sound better,”

He rolled his eyes. It was the right answer, however, he could just tell you were only halfway there physically. The amount of times Eddie has caught you completely spacing out since your wedding night was becoming concerning.

“You’re about to do your first televised appearance as my wife, could you please act a little less like a zombie?”

“Cut me some slack! I don’t typically do public speaking, I’m terrified!” You squeaked.

Eddie scoffed, readying a quip to give back to you, but quickly dropped it. Instead, he hooked his arm around your shoulders and pulled you into a hug. For a split second, you considered pushing the gesture away, but similarly to Eddie, you gave in and returned the embrace.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I guess I’m just a bit nervous too. I don’t want to embarrass you or whatever,” He muttered.

A pout crept up on your face as Eddie let himself slip into vulnerability again. “Hey, it’s alright. You’re really good at these interviews. You’re a pro at this point, I can’t imagine you letting me down,”

You applied a few comforting pats on his back. Eddie leaned into your embrace, taking comfort in the way you wrapped your arms around him.

"Thanks," he mumbled, his voice muffled in the crook of your neck. "You're right, I just..." He took a deep breath. "I don't want to screw this all up."

He pulled back slightly to look at you, his eyes flitting across your face. "But I know I can count on you to have my back, right?" he asked, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.

“Always, rockstar,” You nodded before scooping his hand into yours.

“Mr. and Mrs. Munson, we’re ready for you now,” A stagehand popped into the green room to say.

In unison, you and Eddie both took a deep breath. Your hands remained linked as you stood up and began your journey to the back of the stage. Once there, the both of you instinctively got into your typical warm-up positions that you’d get into with the band; flicking out your wrists and articulating your faces to relax the muscles. Eddie couldn't help but feel reassured by the sight of your linked hands and your shared warm-up routine. He was grateful for the familiar ritual, something that felt like a small tether to the life he was used to.

“Break a leg, Munson,” You saluted him.

“You too, Munson,” He shot a smirk back.

With a final deep breath, he patted you on the shoulder before stepping on stage to the sound of applause and cheers. You and Eddie came out with your heads held high and your hands attached. With a few waves and blown kisses to the crowd, you sat on the set couch in front of the interview host, Jessica Terry.

Her first set of questions was pretty light. They were all surface-level and predictable; Where did you meet? How long you’ve known each other? You almost felt like it gave you a false sense of security because it wasn’t long until Jessica asked a harder-hitting question.

“Why did you wait so long to tell the world about your relationship?” The host asked.

That was the question that burned the hottest in the minds of spectators. Even though you and Eddie had spoken in great detail about how you wanted to answer this, you couldn’t help but feel like there wasn’t enough discussion to fully prepare each other. You swallowed your anxiety and let him take the lead.

Eddie was in his own head as you looked at him to answer. Even with a pre-made script in his head of how he should go about it, he still felt like something was missing. He had a strong desire to speak from his heart.

He cleared his throat before he said

“The obvious answer is for our privacy, but I think it might be deeper than that. When you have something special like love, you can’t help but want to keep it all to yourself, if only for a little while. I wanted to make sure what I felt wasn’t just a small rose bud, but a whole blooming garden before I got to make a whole bouquet out of it,”

Your jaw involuntarily dropped but you lacked any words to say. It was the most eloquent thing you’d ever heard him utter. An unfamiliar ache in your chest came crashing onto you in powerful waves. It now made sense why he refused to speak about his feelings for you before. He laid it out plainly for you and the whole room to hear. You startled yourself as you felt tears beginning to roll down your cheeks.

“Sorry, I um- I get really emotional when he talks like that,” Your voice strained through the tightness in your chest as you dabbed at your face with your knuckles.

Eddie's heart practically stopped as he saw the tears stream down your cheeks. He knew he was laying it on pretty thick when he spoke in such poetic terms, but he didn't expect it to impact you so deeply.

He reached over and placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, gently squeezing it. "Hey, it’s alright," he whispered.

Jessica smiled at your apology, touched by the sight of a rockstar known for his wild antics getting all soft and sentimental in front of the cameras.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Mrs. Munson. We all find your guys’ story to be inspiring. It’s obvious that you love each other very much,” The host offered a sympathetic smile and claps to encourage applause from the audience.

She mentioned that dreaded four-letter word and for a moment you forgot to keep up the etiquette around speaking to the interviewer and the audience. Your eyes were set on Eddie, looking a bit vacant as more pieces began to connect in your mind. He nodded at you, silently communicating that you needed to continue.

“Yeah, you’re right, Jessica. I do love him. I love him a lot,” Saying it caused your voice to tremble subtly, but the nodding of your head reinforced it.

Your sickly sweet response was enough to fool everyone in that room except for Eddie. His brain felt like it was on fire. He couldn’t tell if you were being an amazing actress for the sake of your precious plan or if there was any truth to your words.

He knew you well enough to tell that something was off. Your words felt too genuine to be entirely fake, but at the same time, there was something else in your tone. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on. He was eager to ask why the hell you were crying and saying all these things, but for now, he was locked into this interview with no way out. He had to act like this was all some romantic moment between the two of you.

“I love you, too. More than anything, I love you,” Like a child would do with their favorite toy, he took your hand in his and pressed it to his chest. His heartbeat vibrated against your palm and it caused your own heartbeat to be just as erratic.

The audience let out a collective "aww" at his declaration. Eddie's heart skipped a beat at the feeling of your hand, the rapid beating of his heart almost as fast as the thoughts racing through his mind. The host, sensing the sincerity of the moment, wrapped up the interview quickly, leaving Eddie and you alone for the first time since you stepped on stage.

As soon as they called cut, Eddie practically dragged you behind the curtain, away from the prying eyes of the crew and cameras. Your legs struggled to keep up with his frantic movement.

“Hey! Slow down, you know I can barely walk in heels. You’re gonna make me break an ankle-”

“What the hell happened out there?” Eddie halted your half-hearted complaint with a more pointed question.

A shrug was accompanied by your sheepish, wide-eyed look. “What do you mean? I think it all went great. I mean the crowd was practically eating out of the palms of our hands,”

“Oh cut the shit, would ya?” he gave an exaggerated sigh. “You think I didn’t notice the way you looked at me out there? All smitten and shit while you said you loved me,”

You wanted to take a step back, but his arm snaked around your waist and yanked you to him.

“Please don’t make me feel crazy. That look meant something, right? Don’t tell me it was part of the act,”

“That look? I mean-” You stuttered.

This should have been easy to deny. You should have been able to laugh it off, but your inability to lie to him came in when you least expected it.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” You sighed, hanging your head in surrender.

"Don't give me that!" he snapped, pushing you closer to him. "I saw you crying out there, and don't think I didn't notice you spacing out in the green room before the interview.”

He took a deep breath, trying to keep his cool. “Just tell me. What the hell is going on with you?”

“I don’t know. I know that’s probably the last thing you want to hear, but that’s the truth,” Your eyes widened like a scolded child’s.

“You have to understand how confusing all this is for me. We got married one night and the next day you’re telling me I need to pretend I love you, so I do it. I do anything to be a good manager and a good friend, but now I also have to be your wife for the cameras and you tell me you have real feelings for me and I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel,”

You two were silent for a moment, the only noise to be heard was the chatter outside and your heaving breaths. What tethered you to this moment was his golden brown eyes locked onto yours, both of your faces now mere inches away from each other. Eddie took his hand and traced your collarbone to your shoulder before pushing your hair behind it. From your shoulder, he dragged his fingers down your arm and connected his hand to his.

“I don’t care about how you think you’re supposed to feel… What do you actually feel? How do you feel about me?”

His request hung in the air like thick smoke. You couldn’t escape those questions for much longer, not when he had his hands on you like this. You could feel the heat from the crimson flush blooming on your cheeks.

“Eddie, please don’t-”

“Answer the question,” He deflected your plea.

Your tea kettle of emotions was finally whistling with steam. “Fine! I’m in love with you, okay?!”

You shocked him with your outburst. His mind struggled to process your confession. He knew deep down that you couldn't have just been putting on an act during the interview. He searched your face for any sign of dishonesty, but the flush of your cheeks and the way your eyes flicked between his own told him everything he needed to know. You were telling the truth.

“Don’t just stand there, Eddie. Say something,” You demanded quietly. He stood motionless. He could hear you, but he couldn’t do anything.

“Hey… Hey!” You swatted at his arm repeatedly, desperately trying to get him to say something. “This is your fault. It’s all your fault,”

It was just to get a reaction out of him, but it still didn’t prevent Eddie from scoffing into a chuckle under his breath.

“It’s my fault? My fault that we got married?”

“It’s your fault that I fell in love with you,” You pushed his shoulder to create distance, but all he did was grab hold of your hand again.

He took a step closer, closing the gap between the two of you once again then ran a thumb over your bottom lip. "Let me get this straight. You're saying falling in love with me was entirely my fault?"

You nipped at his thumb to get him to move then stuck your tongue into your cheek.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. It’s your fault that you’re a pain in my ass but at the same time, the most incredible person I’ve ever met,” The fight in your voice died down as you finished your sentence. “You’re messy and annoying and charming and sweet and—“

“Mhm, mhm,” Eddie nodded almost condescendingly. “So when’s the part of your rant where you shut up and kiss me?”

“You really suck, you know that?” You shook your head with a wide grin of disbelief.

He began leaning toward you, his head dipping down to capture your lips with his. His teasing demeanor quickly faded as he kissed you. The initial soft pecks slowly turned into something deeper and more passionate as he held the back of your neck. He took a step forward, pressing you up against the wall and trapping your body with his.

Then the sudden sound of the curtain swooshing open startled you and Eddie, breaking your kiss.

“Ugh, gross. There you two are,” Gareth’s voice dripped in his disgust as he discovered the both of you.

“Dude, what the hell?” Eddie angrily gestured to his bandmate.

“I’ve been looking for you guys everywhere. We gotta get on the bus if we wanna make it to the next show. Let’s get out of here!” He lightly smacked Eddie’s cheek.

You could tell Eddie could beat the shit out of Gareth for interrupting the moment. You tugged on his arm and gave him a glare that said ‘Behave,’.

“He’s right, rockstar. We gotta go,” You smiled with your nose scrunched before leading him out.

[runninriot]

Beautiful Boy

written for @steddiesmuttyseptember

week 3 prompt: lingerie | rated: E | wc: 4.551 | tags: shy eddie munson, lovingly mean steve harrington, dom/sub undertones, sexual content, self confidence issues, body worship | complete fic on ao3

  “This is stupid. So, so stupid.”

Eddie has been keeping himself locked away in the bathroom for way too long now. He should go out and face the music, but he can’t, feels too humiliated to move.

   “What the hell am I doing?”

He should’ve known it was a bad idea to agree to this, should’ve known his childish behaviour would come back to bite his ass.

Eddie lost a bet to his boyfriend, a stupid bet he’d agreed to easily because when has he ever said no to a challenge? But Steve beat him and now Eddie is getting ready to pay up.

Or at least he’s trying to. Because he’s still not sure he can really pull it off.

He keeps turning from left to right, skeptically looking at his reflection in the mirror.

    God, he looks ridiculous, doesn’t he.

This stuff isn’t made for him. It’s for people with less bony asses. People with more meat on them and with defined muscles they can show off. Pretty people, whose perfect bodies would shine covered in black lace.

Eddie just looks… wrong. Like he’s trying to be something he’s definitely not.

The dainty floral pattern is a harsh contrast to the crooked lines adorning his skin – too soft, too delicate, enhancing all his little flaws and blemishes rather than fulfilling the purpose of making him feel good. That’s why people usually choose to wear these things, right? To feel hot and pretty and confident.

Well. He definitely doesn’t.

He hates the way the panties sit too low on his hips, digging into the sharp edges of his bones. The way they sit snug around his flat ass, revealing the lack of shape. The matching bralette is made of the same lacy material, thin straps holding nothing in place – Eddie’s not graced with the body of a god like Steve is. He’s got nothing much to show off.

Eddie takes one more look at himself and sighs defeated when he sees someone he doesn't recognise staring back from the mirror.

And it bothers him, how much he hates the view. How insecure it makes him feel, how it makes him question what Steve sees in him, why he settled for someone like Eddie when he could’ve had anyone else.

Someone just as beautiful as him.

At least Steve will get a good laugh out if it. That’s probably why he thought of the punishment in the first place. Not necessarily to make fun of Eddie, he’s not that mean. But- whatever.

A bet is a bet, and he lost, so he’ll suck it up and get it over with.

He’s got a one-man-crowd waiting for him in the bedroom and the sooner he gets what he wants, the sooner Eddie can get out of this fucking lingerie.

-----

Steve’s buzzing with anticipation. He’s been sitting on the bed for what feels like hours, waiting for Eddie to finally come out of the bathroom.

He’s been dreaming about this forever, literally. It’s a secret fantasy he’s had ever since Eddie and him started dating a few months ago, since they started exploring each other’s bodies in the most intimate ways.

To see Eddie’s perfect body covered in lacy lingerie, to let his fingers dance over the soft fabric, gently caressing what’s underneath, mouthing at his cock through his panties just to tease, just rile him up – God, what a vision, what a thought. And soon, so soon, it’ll become reality.

He can’t wait for his boyfriend to walk out dressed in the matching pieces Steve had chosen himself, went for the black set because it’s Eddie’s favourite colour.

Steve’s hard just from imagining it. Can barely keep his hands to himself at the dirty thoughts looping in his mind.

He needs to see it. Needs Eddie to come out right now or he’ll combust.

And then, finally, Eddie does. Slowly opens the bedroom door before he hesitantly steps in. And he’s even more beautiful than Steve could ever have imagined.

Standing there, all shy and pretty, with his cheeks tinted pink and his arms crossed before his chest, looking so… so perfect.

   “Fuck,“ is all Steve can get out, too stunned, too lost in the vision his boyfriend is.

He let’s his eyes roam slowly from his face to his shoulder, following the line of the straps down to where the v-shaped neckline reveals Eddie’s hairless, tattooed chest. Stops to take in the sight of his pierced nipples, metal glinting through sheer fabric that hugs his shape so beautifully.

Eyes raking further down, Steve feels his own cock twitch - the low cut panties enhance Eddie’s narrow waist perfectly, catching Steve’s full attention where the lace encloses Eddie’s glorious dick. He’s soft but still prominent under the see-through material that leaves nothing to the imagination.

It’s a mouth-watering vision and Steve silently curses himself for not being bold enough to get the fishnet stockings, too. They’d sit so perfectly around Eddie’s muscular thighs and long legs.

    “It’s okay, Steve. You can laugh. I know I look stupid.“

Eddie’s words pull him out of his trance and Steve blinks a few times, feeling a little hazy.

The words take some time to sink in but once they do, Steve suddenly notices that what he thought was Eddie just being a bit shy is actually him being uncomfortable. That the way he tries to hide his body behind his own arms is not him acting coy, it’s him being ashamed.

    Oh, hell no.

That just won’t do. That’s not what Steve had planned.

Luckily, he knows just how to turn this around.

-----

continue reading here

[chaoticallyfluffy]

Rules: You will be given a word. Share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that start with each letter of that word.

Thank you do much to @zorilleerrant for tagging me! It’s been so long since I’ve been tagged in one of these I’m so excited :D My word is JUICE.

—-

1: J (Unnamed WIP. Yes obviously Billy is the kid, who do you think I am?)

Just as he was about to start CPR, the kid opens his eyes, looking blearily up at him and breathing calmly as if he hadn't just died. No gasp of air to make up for at least five minutes of breathlessness, no panicked glancing around wondering why they're under tons of rubble. The kid just… blinks at him.

—-

2: U (Unnamed WIP, Clark's POV)

Ugh. Magic. He should have minded his own business from the start. Unfortunately, there's no way he can run from this now, not with Zatanna looking at him with so much hope in her eyes.

—-

3: I (From an almost completed one shot)

"... Is he high?" Barry questions. Victor turns around to glare at him. "What!? I'm just asking!"

—-

4: C (From chapter 6 of 'Learning to Live')

Captain Marvel pulls a jar of metal screws from… who knows where, and hands it to Clark with the most innocent face known to man. He was practically glowing. Hal has no clue whether he did this to screw (hah) with Clark or if he was genuinely just trying to help, but he honestly couldn't care less when he sees the resigned look cross Clark’s face before he eats the entire jar, glass and all, in seven seconds flat.

—-

5: E (from and unfinished fic called ‘Two Halves, Never Whole’)

Excuse him?? Was he just profiled by an old rich jerk with an ego big enough to purchase a gold encrusted pen? (Yes, you heard him right, there is a golden pen laying on the coffee table.) Just because Billy doesn’t have any money, a home, or any way to sustain himself doesn’t mean he’s a thief by default! He’s a hero for goodness sakes! Billy walks past the table, now lacking a golden pen, and plops down onto the ridiculously comfortable couch. Rich people are so annoying.

—-

Doing this made me realize that I dont have nearly as much writing done as I thought. It was really difficult to find all the sentences! Also I got tagged in like three more of these while I was working on this one! Am I supposed to do all of them? I want to but I’m not sure if I have enough drafts!

Tagging @teehhhhhhhhhhh and @wildglitch ! Anyone else is encouraged to join as well! I don’t know who has been tagged already or not.

Your word is “WORD”

[tanix-dragon]

To Be the Dragon: Living as Tanix lei Dramon ak Hyuukii

For many years now (about 6!), I've been in the alterhuman community, thinking about how I want to write about my dragon kintype. I’ve never written much, though, despite being fairly comfortable doing so. This isn’t out of lack of things to talk about—it’s more because I have such a basic run-of-the-mill spiritual dragon kintype (in my mind) that I wasn’t sure that writing about it would do anything for anyone. Besides, it’s all so normal to me. It’s hard to write about your life when it feels so utterly mundane that to pick each piece out of it feels ridiculous. I have a dozen concepts for essays in my Tumblr drafts, but in the end, I’ve just decided to write something big. I’m going to go through it all, all I can think of, because I don’t know if I can pull it apart enough to write about each piece separately. It’s all so intertwined that it’s just easier to write a big one.

Strap in. This is going to take awhile. I’m a wordy bastard and despite how little I actually go into it, I do know a lot about this kintype.

Awakening

This is where most people start, and I’m sorry to disappoint; this is a short one. When I was a kid, I loved dinosaurs, and when I discovered dragons, and I mean really discovered them, realized how cool they are, I felt some kind of deep resonance. As a kid, I figured that it was just because they were the coolest thing of all time. In reality, this awakened phantom limbs (I think? Or just strengthened them. I don’t really remember very well; “I” as I’m known didn’t quite exist at the time, system stuff, you understand) and set me on a path of self-discovery and overwhelming draconity. I was known as the “crazy dragon kid” at school, even for years after I stopped talking about them, and I’ve always been very recognizable, even at a distance, even for people that barely know me, because I “move differently.” A friend once told me that I move like someone put a lizard or a bird in a human’s body, that I have a dragon’s walk cycle, that I have the wrong animation set for my skeleton. That was a very nice thing to be told.

I don’t know. I spent a lot of years with constant phantom limbs and sort of figured that they were normal, more or less? I didn’t think about them. They were just a part of me. Only once I tripped over a dragonkin’s blog completely accidentally in early 2018 did I start putting pieces together, and then it hit me like lightning: oh. I’m a dragon. I’m actually a dragon. And I’m not alone. I started my Tumblr kin blog and that was that. No questioning, no kinsidering, no “am I really?”--I had known that the thing was dragon, but I hadn’t known how it applied to me, and the second I did, I knew it was right. I am a dragon, and that was that.

I’d wondered off and on for a while if someone could have a past life as a dragon, but had never mentioned it to anyone (at least as far as I remember), because I was worried about the response I’d get. Once I realized that I was otherkin, though, I embraced that wholeheartedly: I had been a dragon, and that had rolled over so powerfully that I still am a dragon. It fits, and I love it.

What’s it like?

“What’s it like being a dragon?” my non-kin friends ask me sometimes. It’s kind of almost exactly the same as being not a dragon, except my mental image of myself is a big blue dragon instead of a human. Chronic pain flaring up? Dragon curled up and complaining about it. OCD lashing out? Dragon resting head against the wall with shut eyes and half-bared teeth. Someone annoying me? Dragon with exposed teeth and fangs all puffed up to try to make them back down.

My dragon body maps onto my human body to produce feeling like an anthro dragon most of the time, even though my dragonself isn’t even bipedal. It’s the happy medium my brain can settle on between what I feel I should be and my physical reality, although, again, mentally, most of the time when I imagine myself, I’m as I should be. In headspace where my headmates can see me, I’m quadrupedal unless I’m doing something that requires me to be bipedal. (Our headspace is pretty flexible, don’t worry about it.) All of this evens out to me moving kind of oddly—toss in how stiff and sore I am all the time (it’s some kind of unknown but disabling condition, hooray), and you get someone who moves very oddly. I turn my head like there’s significantly more weight to it than there should be, I visibly squeeze through spaces that are plenty big enough for me as if trying to accommodate great wings, I walk with a slight adjustment to my hips to compensate for a heavy tail, and I lift my shoulders to flare or gesture with my wings. I have slight head movements that correspond to how I move my ear fins, expressions that call for me to bare my teeth, gestures that only make sense with wings, tail, and claws, and a dozen other little things I probably don’t even notice that I do.

I don’t get a lot of species dysphoria anymore. I’d prefer to be able to switch in and out of dragon form (ideally with that anthro dragon that my brain has invented for me as an option too! I do love it as a middle ground), but I can make do as-is. I spent untold centuries as a dragon, I can handle some decades as a human. I’m here now, and I have a different life to live, and frankly, I love humans. I love the things they do, the cultures they have, the things they make, the ways they act, and I feel really lucky that I get to be in one of those human cultures and witness others. I have a minor in anthropology—I promise I’m not about to become a misanthrope anytime soon. I believe that humans are inherently creatures like any other, and can be driven to great good or great evil. I don’t believe that’s a reason to hate them, and besides, some part of me identifies as human as well as my kintypes. Not everyone does, but I do, and it’s comfortable for me.

I do have a few draconic instincts I have to juggle, but none are terribly maladaptive or troublesome. I know exactly how to breathe fire and want to when angry or struggling to keep a fire going in winter, and I know that there’s something in my chest and something else in my throat that are missing, structures that allow firebreathing, but I have phantoms and can mimic it okay, so I can huff and puff and burn nothing down. I have a prey drive that kicks in hard watching squirrels or, worse, rabbits out of my window, but I don’t ever actually chase anything (not that my slow ass could catch anything even if I did). I want to sharpen my claws, curl up in the sun, growl and threat-display with my wings (and do flare my phantoms when I’m in the car and another vehicle does something I don’t like), and a bunch of other small things I can’t think of right now. Again, it doesn’t bother me—it’s just affirmations of my draconity, and most are subtle enough that I can do them in front of people and they don’t notice, or, if they do, they don’t think much of it. 

What’s it like? What a question. What else do I say? Sometimes my chronic back pain reaches into my rhomboid muscles, which is where my phantom wings connect, so it registers as wing pain, I guess. That doesn’t usually happen, but it can. I walk on my toes a lot because I naturally want to move digitigrade. Shocker, I know. I don’t know—what’s it like being a dragon? What’s it like being human, or anything else? What’s it like to be who and what you are?

The Dragon Driik’lor

Tanix lei Dramon ak Hyuukii. Tanix of Fire and Breath. What a name—and one I have known parts of for a long, long time. As a kid, I’d sign off messages and emails as Tanadin of Fire and Air. When choosing a name for myself when I came out as trans (Tanix), I knew that I wanted something with the nickname ‘Tan’ still, derived originally from my username “Tanadin,” because it felt right. Was my name truly Tanix? I don’t know. It feels right, or at least, right enough. I swapped out “air” for “breath” because Tanix lei Dramon ak Voron didn’t feel as right. I guess the question is—who is, or was, this Tanix, and what language is that?

(I'll occasionally be referring to my dragonself as Tanix and myself as… me, I guess. I know, I’m sorry, that’s confusing, but that’s driiv name as far as I know, and calling driik anything else feels weird.)

Tanix lei Dramon ak Hyuukii was a mature adult dragon of a sapient and extremely intelligent species with its own language. My noemata have provided me with pieces of this language—individual words and ideas on its structure, some suffixes, some sounds and pieces of what a sentence should sound like. A few letters, even, for the written version. For the past fourteen or so years, I have worked on uncovering as much of this language (that, as a kid, I called Dranonic, and I haven’t changed that) as I can, and have made up much of the rest. I will never reconstruct an entire language from noemata alone, and I know that, so I just do what doesn’t feel wrong and change things if I get an inkling that I’m off somewhere.

Tanix’s species had some extremely complex social rules and dances that driit largely didn’t do much with. Dragons could be either solitary or live in clans, and driit was pretty solitary. Driit was also fucking annoying. Sorry, but it’s true—Tanix lei Dramon ak Hyuukii was a pretentious, self-centered, prideful, overconfident bastard that had other dragons going “oh gods here comes Tanix again, just smile and wave.” Driit was a bulky, powerful, physically imposing dragon, and driit knew it. (In this human life, my family is actually fairly dense and stout despite being quite tall, so that’s free species euphoria.) As far as I can tell, given driiv five horns and larger stature, driit was female. (I talk about horn count and dragon gender more in my essay Counting Horns and Making Assumptions, or, Draconic Age and Gender, if you’re interested.) However, pronouns in Dranonic are based on age category, not gender, so the fact that Tanix and driiv mate have different pronouns is because of a difference in age, not gender.

Oh, Selkhenar. Selkhenar of the Darkened Swamp. I wish I knew more about you. Muut seems to be the only dragon that Tanix wasn’t a huge bitch to—and let me tell you something. Driit was vain as fuck. My dragon instincts know what driit did and did not find attractive in a dragon, and Selkhenar was considered, in that society, to be a kind of dumpy little green and black swamp beast with a weirdly long face, short ass legs, and kind of weird proportions.

And driit loved muut more than anything. Every time I think about Selkhenar, I get holdover fuzzies and butterflies from my time as the dragon the first go-around, and man, driit was gone for this swamp dragon. I have flashes of memory of much more impressive-looking dragons trying to woo driik and getting passed up, but accidentally tripping over Selkhenar in the swamp just beyond the edge of driiv territory was apparently what driik needed.

They had at least one clutch of eggs together. I remember guarding them ferociously, even growling at Selkhenar once before recognizing muuk. I remember them hatching into the cutest little whelplings of all time, and I remember them being a mix of blue and green and red and black. I remember teaching them to fly, throwing them over the ledge outside of the cave and off the cliff. Selkhenar was below, ready to catch if they didn’t figure it out, but still, uh, not the strategy I would recommend, necessarily. I remember hunting for them, both land animals and skimming the lake outside of our cave, down in the evergreens at the base of the mountain, for fish, even though… Selkhenar was a water dragon and therefore better suited to fishing…. I think it was a pride thing. Tanix was a ferociously prideful dragon and I suspect driit was like NO, MY LOVE, I WILL HUNT FOR YOU, YOU TINY THING… YOU GUARD THE BABIES WHILE I PROVIDE FOR YOU…. and then proceeded to accidentally driik’lor (Dranonic for him/her/themself) into the water. Repeatedly. Over and over. I have very firm noemata of hunting fish, eating fish, and fucking up while hunting fish and fouling my wings and falling into the lake. I was an okay swimmer and was mostly just glad that no one saw, but like… come on. Let the swamp dragon do it. I mean, I’m sure muut did, but I don’t have memories of that.

What’d This Dragon Look Like, Anyway?

Good question! That’s something I have the firmest grasp on. I’ve been drawing this dragon for as long as I’ve been super aware of dragons, and driit has been through a lot of iterations, but I think I’m very close.

Tanix lei Dramon ak Hyuukii was approximately fifty feet long from nose to tailtip. Driit was a deep, intense blue (take a peek at any art I’ve ever done of driik/myself) with bright red stripes along driiv midline—basically, along the spine, down the tail, and along the face. The stripes also appeared on driiv legs and maybe wings, but I’m not sure about that one. Driit had five horns that were either darker blue or slightly purple that curved slightly back and were slightly offset from one another, with each set being slightly smaller than the last and a bit further back, with the single horn being the smallest and furthest back. Driit also had a single nose spike that matched the horns. Driit had big (kind of disproportionately big) ear fins, a more recent discovery of mine and out of date on most of my art, used for communication and showing of mood, mostly. Driiv “hands” had three fingers and a thumb, driiv back feet had three toes and a dewclaw, and driiv wings had four “fingers” with membrane stretched between them and a fifth “finger” that seemed to serve little to no purpose. This wing membrane connected pretty low down on the body (near or on the tail), providing a large area for lift. I believe this membrane was a lighter color than the scales around it, and I have the distinct feeling that I could flush blood into it to make it change color—red, I think? Maybe it was just some markings that could appear. I’m not sure.

Along driiv back were spikes or spines, of a similar color to the horns, lined up perfectly with the stripes. I know that driit had some kind of dangerous weapon on the dip of driiv tail, and I know that this thing had three sharp points, but its exact shape and color, I’m less sure on. I know that the tail itself was fairly flexible, especially near the tip, but was most assuredly a powerful weapon when needed. Driiv belly was lightly plated, providing protection for the vital organs. Driit also, of course, had sharp teeth and a forked tongue, although two of driiv teeth were elongated and poked slightly out of the mouth when shut, which I tend to call driiv fangs.

The Binding

Back in August of 2023, I tripped over an image that made dragonbrain click on and triggered a fear response as well as a flood of noemata. The post I wrote at the time of that discovery is here, but I’ll write it out in a more comprehensible format, both for your convenience and so that I have a more organized version in general.

Some kind of humanoid species (not humans) on my planet found and trapped me when I was quite young, and dragged me to a structure not dissimilar to the image I found, not far from or in one of their cities. My limbs and jaws were chained so that I couldn’t fight or escape, and I so clearly remember feeling my claws and scales scrape over that rough, coarse stone, and the sound of the chains dragging across it. Some of the humanoids rode other dragons, who were clearly enslaved and, in many ways, broken. They had no choice but to obey, or face punishment. Their eyes were dull and they passed over me without registering me, because to acknowledge that such a young dragon was facing their same fate was, I imagine, too painful.

For the record, I was so young that I thought I might be able to carry one of these humanoids, maybe, and not all of my red markings had come in yet. I was very young.

For some reason or another—maybe I was misbehaving, maybe this was protocol with all new dragons, I don’t know—they dragged me to a dungeon underneath a great arena where they made some dragons that they figured they could never turn into mounts fight for their amusement. I was chained up down there, fairly tightly, barely fed and barely able to move. There were a couple of other dragons down there with me, in the dark and the damp, curled up on those horrible stone bricks just like I was. I could barely see them, it was so dark, but they could see me, their eyes more adjusted due to years or decades down here.

My primary companion was a dull red dragon, an adult male, as far as I can figure. I don’t remember muuv name, but it started with an Ez- or an El- with a z in there somewhere, and ended in -iel or something along those lines. Elaziel, Ezkhaliel, Ezkerial, Elzariel? I don’t remember. I wish I did. I remember muut being as reassuring as muut could be, trying to do muuv best for this poor scared youngling. Muut was beaten and broken but incapable of either fighting or being a mount—one or more of muuv limbs were gone or broken and healed incorrectly. Muut couldn’t fly and I think muut struggled to walk. I don’t know why the humanoids kept muut alive, but I do know that I reinvigorated muuk, and muut decided to do whatever muut could to get me out.

I don’t remember what happened, really. All I know is that, at some point, there was an escape, and multiple dragons made it out, or at least tried to. I remember the red dragon shouting “Mor anor axid, mor anor axid! Mor anor axid veran!”, which is Dranonic for “Let them fly, let them fly! Let them fly away!” with “anor” being distinctly plural—you would never call a single dragon “anor,” indicating that there were multiple dragons trying to get away. I know muut wasn’t among them—muut would never make it out, and I’m sure that the humanoids killed him after. I never looked back. I never saw.

I know that there was a light green dragon involved in all that, a female, I think. Muut was chained down there with myself and the red dragon, and maybe others. Maybe muut was the other one in “anor.” I don’t know. I don’t remember much about muut.

I do remember part of the escape—the red dragon’s shouted pleas, the hesitation of the dragon mounts, the sting of the dragonbone arrows fired from the humanoids that pierced my scales (because of course they harvested the bodies of their spent slaves, why wouldn’t they, the bastards), the screaming of my underused wing muscles as I tore out of that place and never looked back, not once.

I never returned. Not even as an adult, not even once my fifth horn came in. I flew far, far away, and never drew closer again. I never wanted to see that place, never wanted to fear it, never wanted to risk it. My two fears as a dragon were that place and the ocean, and the second, I feel, had some kind of horrible dragon-slaughtering beast in it that was a long, instinctive, genetic terror. That horrible place beat it out by miles.

A Couple Other Memories

I remember other things, too, not just that whole… sequence, or what I talked about before. I know that there were some kind of “dragon mimics” out there, some kind of insectoid things that looked like dragons at a distance but revealed what they were close up. They’d either do displays intended to anger a dragon and draw them close, or courtship displays to interest a dragon. Either way, once a dragon was close enough for the mimic to strike, it was too late. A lot of insectoid dragon designs set off my dragonbrain’s “mimic alarm,” and it’s kind of interesting to play with and see what triggers it and what doesn’t. I’m sure I had personal experience with them—I have too clear of a mental image of one trying to lure me in for anything else—but I don’t know the specifics.

One of the memories that I’ve had, crystal clear, for a long time, is my death. I was falling from a great height, wings too damaged to hold me, uselessly streaming behind me as I fell. Selkhenar flew down with me in a panic, knowing muut could never catch me (I was far bigger than muuk), trying to talk me into getting my wings sorted out and at least slowing my fall or something. I remember there being wounds all over me—I’d been losing some great, horrible battle—and peering at Selkhenar, thinking it was very sweet of muuk to be so worried about me but I was clearly lost, muut needed to get out of here—and then a sharp pain at the base of my skull, where it connects to my spine, and nothing. I feel like it was some sort of projectile, well-aimed, that took me out instantly.

I’m still afraid of heights without my wings.

Wrap-Up

There’s more, I’m sure. More specific essays that I feel like I can write now that I’ve gotten most of it down. I could write an essay on draconic courtship, or what little I know of rearing offspring, or whatever else comes to mind. For now, though—that’s most of it. That’s The Everything. I’ve been meaning to put this together for a long time, and now I have, and I hope it’s helpful to someone—either in understanding me, or in understanding yourself. I know that, when you’re questioning something, reading about someone else’s experiences helps a lot. I’ve never felt like talking about my dragon kintype was ever going to be terribly helpful in that regard—after all, there’s a dozen other similar essays out there—but I decided, well, it’s not for other people. It’s for me. And no one’s written four thousand words detailing my kintype before.

That’s the thing about writing like this. It’s for you, and if it helps someone else, that’s just a bonus. Write what will help you, what will let you figure yourself out and document it so that, if it changes, you can pinpoint when that was and track your own growth and change. I wonder what, in a few years, will be inaccurate in this essay? I wonder what I will add, what I will change, in a theoretical future version?

I guess we’ll find out together. Thanks for reading.

[cellarspider]

14/30 Gnosis, and lack thereof

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⛬

We return to the movie that could’ve been a contender, Prometheus. In this episode, a two-year-old poisons a man.

I’m not alone in thinking David is the most well-realized character in this movie. Michael Fassbender was given the most space to act through expression and reaction to others and his environment, which helps create an android character that has much more inner life than his human castmates. He also gets what I’d call the Data bonus: android characters can more easily get away with screamingly clunky exposition or explicitly stating the meaning of a scene. You can give them absolute gibberish if you want to, and it sounds perfectly logical when they say it.

[Video description: A small selection of technobabble from Star Trek: The Next Generation, mostly featuring Data.]

David is also the easiest to be sympathetic to, because people keep being assholes to him.

Yes, David has received mysterious orders from a mysterious man who’s still in stasis. It’s Peter Weyland. It’s obviously Peter Weyland, this is why David has the dream-reading helmet thing that felt so out of place at the start of the movie. This is also why Guy Pierce, a 45-year-old, was hired to play an infinity-year-old man. Weyland was going to appear as his ideal self in one of these dream sequences, but it was cut from the movie. So instead, we just have Vickers demanding to know what “he” wants, and the answer is “Try harder”.

Peter Weyland, beginning a trend for the company bearing his name, has an obsession with this alien stuff. …This trend was actually begun by Charles Bishop Weyland in a completely different continuity that also featured ancient alien contact with Earth, but hey, details. This Weyland wants results, damn it, and David gets an excuse to kill one of the crew.

Although it’s not quite that simple. The movie indicates that David can’t go against orders from the company, especially from Weyland. He has to “try harder”, and he’s brought back one of those alien urns that apparently nobody cares to examine but him. 

It’s got a goth lava lamp in it.

While we don’t get much indication David knows why this stuff is dangerous to organic life, I’ll give the movie a very tiny pass: it’s implied that David has figured out how to read the Engineer’s cuneiform script. He decants a droplet of Menacing Black Goo onto his (Weyland-branded) fingertip, and sets off to find a test subject.

Thank god, he chooses Holloway.

I don’t like not liking characters. I don’t generally anticipate seeing someone’s comeuppance, but this movie gets me damn close to that feeling. In the movie’s partial defense, some of this was probably intended. Mainstream American fiction sets a high bar for what a bigot looks like, and Holloway’s been clearing that. I’m less certain the movie knows everyone’s behaving like a bigot, but we’ll get to that eventually. But Holloway? Definitely. 

This creates a fairly interesting scene. One that even reaches towards good. David has the means to kill Holloway. The audience knows this. And we get to watch when he makes the decision to commit to it, and why. And, blessedly, it actually ties into an intentional theme of this movie.

Holloway’s still drunk and miserable–he’d previously muttered that the alien structure on the planet was “just another tomb.”

I, speaking hyperbolically, would consider that grounds enough to off him. He’s an archaeologist who can be sent into a drinking binge by finding a thing made by dead people. An archaeologist. That in itself is such a ridiculous indicator of how unfit this character is for his role.

But no, he wanted to meet his maker, “To get answers.” Sure, lots of people have existential questions they feel are important to them. That is understandable. Even clueless assholes can wonder about that. But it takes an especially hubristic asshole to decide they’re the one worthy of asking someone who might have the answer. 

Did anybody notice they didn’t bring any diplomats or orators on this trip? They didn’t bring any cultural exchange gifts with them when they approached the alien structure? They weren’t treating the Engineers as people, just something to discover.

David, someone else they’re not treating like people, asks Holloway “Why do you think your people made me?”, and the answer he gets is “Because we could.” David is quietly but openly disappointed in that.

This is the whiplash of this movie. We have the biggest bunch of shambolic assholes klutzing around, waiting to get killed off by the plot, and then we have David expressing the horror of Valentinian gnosticism.

In brief, because even the wikipedia page says “The theology [...] is extremely complicated and difficult to follow”, the strain of Christian gnosticism expressed by the 2nd century theologian Valentinus believes that the world was created by an ignorant being. They believed there was a benevolent god out there which was/produced Jesus, but the “demiurge” (lit. “craftsman”) who created the world was not this deity. The demiurge was an imperfect, lesser being, that believed itself to be the supreme god of the universe. In Valentinianism, as with other gnostic schools, to be born into the world was to be trapped within a creation of a creature that was prone to fits of abusive behavior.

Gnostic christianity was, at the time, an attempt to square a number of contradictory ideas: the incredibly influential ideas of Plato on the formation of the universe, the growing theology of the new Christian movement, and the examples of divine wrath and jealousy in Jewish scripture, that were hard to square with what early Christians saw as a less violent deity they wanted to worship. There were probably also some anti-Jewish Egyptian myths thrown in as well, depicting their god as a donkey-headed incarnation of the malevolent deity Set. Some may recognize that particular slander from its deployment against early Christians, including our first-ever depiction of Jesus’ crucifixion: a rude bit of graffiti.

In our time, there’s only one remaining gnostic (non-christian) religion with direct continuity to the period, the Mandaeans. Christian gnosticism was deemed heretical, when one of the many different gospels circulating at the time was selected as orthodox in the 4th century, along with an attendant theology. But it remains a fertile ground for philosophers, fiction-writers, and every once in a while someone reinvents bits of it when they hit upon contradictions in christian thought.

The latter seems to be the case with Ridley Scott. He’s sometimes described as an atheist, but his actual statements on the matter show he’s either casually gnostic or a deist, very much influenced by christian doctrine: 

“If we looked at the whole thing practically speaking, the Big Bang occurred and then we go through this evolution of millions, billions of years where, by coincidence, all the right biological accidents came out the right way. To an extent, that doesn't make sense unless there was a controlling decider or mediator in all of that. So who was that? Or what was that? Are we one big grand experiment in the basic overall blink of the universe, or the galaxy? In which case, who is behind it?”

https://www.bbc.co.uk/films/callingtheshots/ridley_scott.shtml

Tangent: that question came right after he’s quoted as saying “I think there's no originality [in modern films]. I think everyone is stealing from everyone else and going back to the originals. I usually go in for 20 minutes and then get up and leave.” This interview was back in 2006. The next year he’d direct American Gangster (loosely based on a biography), then Body of Lies (Roger Ebert called it "a James Bond plot"), then Robin Hood (it’s Robin Hood), then Prometheus, the movie I only watched because it seemed to be in dialog with a film he directed in 1979. Buddy, if that was your problem, you were part of the problem.

But anyway. We have a director who had stated interest in a christian-influenced cosmogony: he seems to state a belief that we exist because we are supposed to exist, rather than being a random event. This is a movie where he does seem to be trying to do something with that. He is beginning with that premise, and using Alien as the shared language to express it. He doesn’t know why we exist, but he can imagine why we would make someone exist.

Placing that in amongst these characters is bleak to the point of puerility, frankly. Why would we create a being like us? Well, this one asshole doesn’t know.

David, at this point in Prometheus, has already determined that humans are fallible creators. Hell, he’s decided the Engineers were also failable. He, y’know, witnessed how gooey one of their corpses was. But he’s yet to decide on whether humans are just ignorant, trying and failing to be good–as per Valentinus–or if they’re actively malevolent.

The fact that David doesn’t poison Holloway’s drink until just before handing it over does neatly show that he was quietly given a chance to answer that question. Holloway continues to be a jackass and, when asked what he’d do to answer the existential question he wanted to pose to the Engineers, he says he’d do “anything and everything”.

The movie eventually treats Peter Weyland as especially deluded in his self-serving quest to get the Engineers to answer his more selfish questions, but I don’t think his ego was unique in this movie.

On our journey into the movie this time, Prometheus has attempted to grapple with subjects its script hasn’t earned. Next time, it incorporates imagery it hasn’t earned. It’s worse than this scene, but in a far more subtle way.

If you want a neat look on european and middle eastern mysticism from an academic standpoint, Esoterica is a pretty damn good channel, put together by a self-described “dialectical materialist in the tradition of Structural Marxism”. I’ll happily take recommendations on other academic sources aimed at the general audience.

https://youtu.be/7EwRD6SzXws

https://st-takla.org/Feastes-&-Special-Events/Coptic-Nativity-of-Jesus-Christ-Milad-El-Masih/Coptic-Jesus-Incarnation-Christmas-03-Incarnation-of-the-Word-Book.html 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Masbuta 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Drabsha 

https://www.deviantart.com/pretty--kittie/art/Prometheus-Engineer-407322241 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Archon_(Gnosticism) 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sethianism

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[artsybelle1015]

Azul x Chubby!Confident!Reader

His friend tilted his head, smiling though in amusement. He had expressed to Jade about these thoughts, which was a mistake now he realized. This irritated Azul, it would be a foolish idea to bring you in…

Warnings(!!!): body insecurities, talk about bullying, self esteem issues, other than that it’s all good! SPOILERS FOR BOOK 3!!!

•••

He hated you deeply.

It wasn’t fair, how come you were liked? He was your weight in his childhood, yet was ridiculed all his life for that.

How could you not hate your chest, stomach, arms, and legs? It made no sense to him.

You were a pulled apart puzzle, needing to be pieced together, or at least that’s how he felt about you in his mind. Most of his thoughts whenever he saw you in the halls or at Mostro Lounge was how were you able to be so happy, how were you not bullied, what made you so special that he lacked.

“Ugh, you’re still thinking of Shrimpy?” Floyd whined, laying himself across the couch in Azul’s VIP room, giving a dramatic body language to accentuate his boredom. “Why don’t you just ask, you were probs just unlucky.”

Azul glared up at his supposed friend and subordinate. He was trying to get paperwork done, but a part of him was distracted heavily, and Floyd clearly caught onto it.

In his mind, he kept wondering about you, whether he wanted to or not. You were just an impulsive thought to him.

With a sigh, Azul finally spoke, “Floyd, I would appreciate if you headed out the door.”

Floyd laid on his stomach, kicking his legs and smiling. “Are you in love with shrimpy?”

A jolt happened with Azul, eyes wide and face red. That was not expected, he was not prepared for such a thing. No, he did not love you, what a putrid thought. He was simply curious about your mentality…

“Oyyy~ am I correct~?” Floyd cackled.

“You are in fact incorrect,” Azul scoffed, face still on fire, “and I think this is your cue to leave.”

The normally stubborn and moody Floyd stood up and headed to the door with a smile, simply leaving. Azul knew he was about to cause mayhem.

___

He was absolutely correct, Floyd informed Jade of the misunderstanding. Now Jade was giving Azul a look, a creepy smile forming and slowing a slight glimpse of his sharpened teeth.

This made Azul continually redden throughout the day and get sloppy with his business man persona.

It’s ridiculous, Azul thought. I don’t not like the Prefect.

Although he swore to himself and the twins that was the case, but his actions spoke in a different way.

Ever since Floyd asked that really dumb and specific question, Azul couldn’t help but notice you even more. The way you walked, how you smiled, how you looked sleepy, how you were with your first year friends and Grim. It was all becoming enchanting. You were so interesting.

It became less about your body and more about you. He just loved every part of you from top to bottom.

There was no hatred in your heart, it was him projecting his insecurities onto you in his mind.

“Just tell them that,” Jade cooed.

Azul pushing up his glasses, having a pink tinted face. “I will not.”

His friend tilted his head, smiling though in amusement. He had expressed to Jade about these thoughts, which was a mistake now he realized. This irritated Azul, it would be a foolish idea to bring you in…

“Yo, boss, shrimpy’s here~” Floyd called out, opening the door without consent.

And there appeared you, standing there confused and having your arm in a death grip by Floyd. Azul jumped and became more red seeing you.

Jade chuckled, “My, Azul, we were just talking about the Prefect now, weren’t we?”

Angry eyes flicked to Jade, he had pieced together they were setting him up now. He decided to take charge and speak up, keeping his eyes off you of course, but his voice stuttered despite that, “W-well Prefect… you are f..free to leave if you… you so like.” The businessman persona was completely gone.

“But Floyd told me you needed talk to me,” you inquired, a little puzzled look from his behavior. Floyd finally letting you go so you could walk over to him.

Floyd snickered and motion for Jade to head out with him.

And so they did, leaving only you and Azul, who had a pure red face.

“What’s up?” you decided to ask, weary of the shady business man, but decided to take a seat across the couch from him.

Taking a deep breath, Azul finally looked at you. He looked so vulnerable and like his teenage age, he was in love. Love was something he kept distance, mainly preserving for his family. There was no preparation for the outcome he could fall in love with another like him too.

He had expected if he were to have a lover they would also be as hard-working and able to adapt to other people, but you didn’t try to change yourself for others. In fact, no one minded you, you were loved. He was both jealous and happy about that. You deserved it after all. This was more attractive to him than he originally thought.

“Why don’t we make a deal?” he muttered.

You scoffed, “Is that why I’m here?”

“No… no, I promise I won’t… try to hurt you… I just…” he was stammering on, trying to think of the words to say, “I’m not sure how to use my feelings…”

The originally annoyed Prefect gave a soft look, you were amazed hearing Azul out of all people say that. It was sweet.

“Well… I’m interested in you, and I know we haven’t talked as much,” he exclaimed, finally cooling down and feeling a bit more prideful. “Would you like to spend time with me sometime soon? Just the two of us? No business deals or contracts… if you desire.” He gulped, antsy about your answer that his leg began to bounce.

You chuckled, thinking on it a bit, then looking to him with a blush across your face. “Sure! Thank you.”

He made a stupid smile at that and pushed up his glasses. “How about we exchange phone numbers.”

The two of you exchanged numbers, and you headed off, Azul’s heart was racing so fast. How could you be so perfect? Although he was quite upset with Jade and Floyd, they had helped him.

Who knew he could fall in love with someone who reminded him of his deepest insecurities?

•••

Author’s Note: I hope this is okay I didn’t really want to make a super long post because I’m a bit tired going back to school and it not being a weekend. My friend requested for me to do this so shout out to them!

[ironmandeficiency]

council meetings

pairing: kíli / fem!reader (established)

word count: 1349

summary: politics suck worse than kíli does at keeping a secret

req: "do you want me to kill that guy for you? because he seems like a real dick and i would totally kill that guy for you." + "an annoyed but affectionate slap to the back of the head" with kili?

a/n: he’s such a dork and i love him very much

read on ao3

being an advisor to the king of erebor was no breezy endeavor. the heavy workload that came with continuous restoration efforts, four headstrong durins, and that’s not even counting the most uncomfortable chairs your ass has ever sat in.

the worst part, though? it had to be when fellow councilmembers didn’t take you seriously because of your lack of graying hair. every disparaging comment made about your youth tested your patience and almost had you showing your age by bounding the table and choking them by their own beards.

your inexperience in a formal setting, silly notes passed to cheeky princes, your sneezes when the dust of a withering tome invaded your nose — the old snots took them all as signs you were unfit for office. they questioned every bill you proposed and called you a foolish child (among other things) every time you disagreed with them.

speaking of silly notes and cheeky princes- you felt a tap against your foot under the table. of course it was your kíli, trying to get your attention so you could accept the note he wrote you.

“do you want me to kill that guy for you, ghivashel? because he seems like a real dick and i would totally kill that guy for you”

you snickered and stomped his foot under the table for nearly making you laugh. he didn’t react save for a smile and a playful wink.

once thorin was well enough to give orders as king, he appointed members of the quest as guild masters and seats on his royal council. having his shield brothers among him meant far more than the tradition of keeping nobles in positions of power, but he couldn’t blatantly show such favoritism this early into his reign.

bofur was named head of the miner’s guild and was clearly repulsed by political agendas and personal vendettas. he didn’t want to be here just as much as you. every time lord ashuk started his bitching, he would plop his hat over his eyes, kick his feet up on the table, and block out the bullshit.

lucky bastard.

that’s why you wished you were anywhere else other than where you were right now. sitting in the council chambers at the asscrack of dawn with nobles and guild masters all around, a vacation would be the least amount of compensation you’d accept for your suffering.

maybe mordor was pleasant this time of year.

this ridiculous session was only happening courtesy of lord ashuk, a noble who got his moniker during the battle of azanulbizar for his excellent hiding and pissing skills. no one knew why he was on thorin’s council to begin with, much less why he hadn’t been ousted before now.

he was determined to question the integrity of every other dwarf on the council simply to make himself look superior.

as per ashuk’s personal itinerary, no session is truly complete without your name getting a good dragging through the mud.

“there are far too many members of this council with no knowledge of the inner workings of erebor! and one of them is a woman, no less!” ashuk sent a nasty glare your way and you returned it to him tenfold.

it took every bit of willpower you could muster to not flip your hair oh so discreetly and reveal your status as future queen of erebor.

nearly every dwarf who reclaimed the mountain erupted into furious yelling. gloin shot his chair out from under him and called ashuk every foul name under the sun. this startled bofur from his dozing and with a quick update from bombur on what was going on, the miner rushed to your defense as well. dwalin’s voice was made clearer with the way his hands gripped the hilt of his axes.

even fíli, typically the calmer of the princes, was outraged. you were the sister he never had, one of his dearest friends and the second bravest woman he’d ever known behind his amad. you were soon to be his sister in law, for mahal’s sake! he had every intention of rising from his seat and getting in ashuk’s face to defend your honor, but thorin’s firm grip on his shoulder steadied him.

and your dear kíli, for all his typical silliness and cheerful disposition, could turn rightly sour when the time called for it.

the youngest prince may not be well-versed in politics, but he knew how to read the intentions of those around him. with every thinly veiled insult thrown at those around him, ashuk was blatantly questioning uncle’s decisions as king and ostracizing himself from the rest of the council.

to quote bilbo, ashuk was a hen stuck in the fox’s den.

kíli rose from his chair calmly, a fire in his eyes that many had never seen from him before now. balin noticed his moving to stand and went to pull him back down, but the attempt was shaken off.

as the other council members noticed the dark prince rising from his seat, their voices puttered out. young or not, kíli was still a prince and his status alone demanded attention and respect.

with a subtle nod, thorin told kíli to say his piece.

“i must disagree with you, ashuk.” the name was spit with all the disgust one gave when speaking of goblins. “it is my personal opinion that there are far too many members of this council that called their king a fool when he called for aid in reclaiming this very mountain.”

he leaned on the table, hands spread out as he leveled every noble with a cold stare. “nearly every noble in this room laughed in thorin’s face when he presented his plan to reclaim our home. yet now that the hard work was done for you, you expect to be treated with respect you didn’t earn.”

members of the company nod along, many of them beaming with pride at k��li. “you speak as if you intimately know the trials we had to face while you called us fools for facing smaug.”

“she can’t even stand up for herself!” ashuk interrupted when kíli paused for a breath.

that was the wrong thing to say, thorin mused to himself. balin was barely holding in a smug laugh because he knew exactly what kíli’s reply would be.

if kíli wasn’t angry before, he sure as shit was now. “your future queen should not have to justify her presence and capabilities to filth like you! she could have your beard on our mantle for the way you’ve spoken to her these past months and i don’t believe a single dwarf in here would object!”

well. this was decidedly not the way you planned on announcing your courting status to the others.

ashuk shared the same blank stare as a dead fish and it nearly had you and bofur doubling over in laughter. before everyone could erupt into yet another fit of chaos, thorin called the meeting adjourned and sent away those who weren’t of the company.

once the outsiders left, shouts of joy and laughter echoed through the lapis hall.

“did you see his face?! priceless!”

“if it weren’t so ugly, i’d like to preserve it!”

“i didn’t know ye had it in ye, lad! great job!”

“you’ve got yerself a good one, lassie!”

kíli went to your side after you both escaped all the well-wishes and hugs from the others. he kissed your temple lightly and pulled you into his embrace.

“thank you for telling off ashuk for me, my love.”

your prince grins and leans down for a kiss, which you happily give him. he’s distracted enough by you that he doesn’t notice your hand moving ever so slightly until he feels a thwack! on the back of his head.

he winces and moves a hand to rub at the sore spot, giving you his signature kicked puppy eyes. “that was for spoiling our surprise, kee.”

“you have to admit, my dear, it was a pretty interesting way to break the news.”

“you are definitely right about that.”

“as always!”

“don’t push it.”

[kolebrew]

I'm Your Ken, Barbie Pt. 1 | Gojo X Reader

summary:

When you wake up and realize that everything is pinker then usual you find yourself concerned with more than just your dream house.

There are many kinks, and sexual activity past the first chapter... please be advised.

We are Black/POC in this household.

Every Barbie needs a Ken. Gojo is your ken.

'What the hell is that noise-'

“Ughhh who’s playing music it’s so early” No matter how many times you yell for your roommate to turn the volume down the music keeps going, in fact it feels like it's playing everywhere all at once. You love Lizzo but you don’t love Lizzo right now. Your pillow is over your ears and when you realize that the music is still going for what feels like forever you yell and you just want to scream. You adjust the pillow over your ears and can feel that your bonnet has come off your head.

‘So everything just got worse i see-FUCK’

“WOULD YOU SHUT I-”

You were completely stunned, more than stunned you were shocked. Suddenly you couldn’t even scream.

Oh yeah and everything was PINK! Or at least that's how the song that was playing went. Dam, maybe the song was catchy.

You slowly get off the bed and you refuse to address that the bed was a hot pink circle and your bed frame was a pastel heart. You were continuing to analyze the satin sheets and fuzzy rug when suddenly…

“HI BARBIE”

“AH!”

You tripped over your feet and fell next to the bed, when you sit up on the floor and crouch behind the bed you look to see who yelled “Barbie”

“Who the fuck is Barbie??” you ask yourself. When you look up you realize the room you were in had no walls, in fact the surrounding houses also lacked walls yet there was no draft coming in.

‘Wtf’

When you lock eyes with the woman who appears to have been the one who yelled at you the music seems to lower and the upbeat funk quiets enough for regular volume conversation?

“Um h-hi”

you see her waiving at you and so you wave back awkwardly before hiding behind the bed. You try to think of what to do, one minute you are sleeping in your bed in your apartment and next you are… apparently wearing a silk baby pink sleeping gown. Everything about this was ridiculous and pink. You try to think of your first course of action, which happened to be getting out of this gown and changing into something less… pink.

You were in a weird situation and have yet to process any of it yet you feel a very weird and sudden urge to take a shower and have breakfast? When you strip from the gown that was somehow your exact size you step into another pink room with a shower in it and well, water doesn’t exactly come out but you will NOT question that or open another can of worms. It felt like you had a daily routine and you were sidetracked, everything felt weird. When you go to the closet in your room you are glad to believe that maybe there will be something other than pink, you were right because there was the color blue… a lot. You try to forget it and switch to the simplest dress you can find and there are many dresses. You did look nice in them.

‘Okay, let's get the hell out of here ' you thought to yourself when you looked at the fridge and everything was plastic, you weren't a fan of eating plastic.

The only thing left to do was figure out how to get out of what looks like a play house, to your right is stairs and to your left is a slide… when in Rome you guess. You brace yourself from the top floor and take off the very uncomfortable pair of heels you had put on to of course match your outfit because what else would you do. You hold on tight to your dress and heels as you make your way down a very long long set of loops and turns.

By the time you make it down there you are greeted by another woman in what is an outrageously gorgeous dress with her hair pinned up and styled without a hair out of place. It’s with that you realize you didn’t do your hair and you didn’t wake up with a bonnet so your hair must be-

“I love your hair Barbie!” you wonder what it is she just said. “Oh- um me?”and she nods her head with a big smile, when you feel your hair you realize that you have a large curly and kinky set of hair…and oh my god it feels amazing to you. “Thank you… Barbie?” “You’re welcome Barbie!”

That’s when the realization dawned on you. The pink life sized playhouse, plastic food, no water, perfect hair and clothes and-

‘Oh my god im a Barbie’

… You find yourself wandering and come across a huge beach with waves that shined like plastic because they were plastic, then if it couldn’t get any weirder a ‘Barbie’ comes up to you and says “Oh there you are Barbie, I’ve been looking all over for you, your Ken is looking for you.” with a smile she turns her head and points at a figure coming out from a shack.

“Oh my god” “Who’s god?” “No one Barbie.”

You walk a little closer and until you could get a good look at the man in front of you. He was something but definitely lived up to the Ken name. When he got close enough to you to shoot you a smile you faltered.

“Hi Barbie” his voice was smooth like silk and even though you weren’t a small girl he towered over you.

“Hi Ken.” was all you could let out

“Can we talk, back at your dream house Barbie.” your mouth was wide open but you managed to respond. “Yes Ken.” he led the way although it was technically your dream house, when you appeared in front of the steps he smiled wide at you.

“Barbie, i’ve been looking all over for you, i’ve searched for you.”

“Oh okay, I'm sorry I dont know whats going o-”

“I wanna be boyfriend girlfriend with you. You are my Barbie, Barbie.”

You didn’t know what else to say once again and this time he held the tips of your fingers of both hands, so the most responsible thing you could say was- “okay Ken.”

His smile fainted into a smirk and he stepped even closer to the point you had to lean your head back to avoid touching the tip of his nose with yours. As he moved his hands up your arms to grasp you he says. “I picked out a name for myself that you can call me, that I would like if you called me.”

“What’s your name?” you couldn't help but wonder.

“Gojo Satoru, I’m your Ken, Barbie.”

[jawritter]

My Brother’s Keeper

Chapter 5

Summary: Y/N, Sam’s roommate, so far have a pretty good thing going. Both work and function around one another well. What happens when his big brother comes down for the holidays with his mysterious past, mixed with Sam’s own mysterious previous life? Can Y/N and the grumpy older brother find a way to get along? Or will it be a not so happy holidays at the Winchester house?

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus Sized!Reader x Sam

Word Count: 1.5k

Prompt: Snowing On Christmas

Written for: @spnchristmasbingo​​

Rating: Mature (because of future chapters, this story is 18 + only, and not fit for minor consumption.)

Warnings: It’s getting warmer... Inside at least...

A/N: This is the first Christmas fic I have written in a long time! You guys will get this one real time, and I hope to finish it before New Years! Fingers crossed! Anyways, This fic is unbeta’d, so all mistakes are my won! Feedback is golden! My work is 18+ only! No minors! Thanks so much for reading!

Main Masterlist

As much as she'd had to drink the night before, she thought she would have slept better, but nope! Instead, while she slept off the copious amounts of liquor Sam had poured into that horrible eggnog, her dreams were filled with soft, pink lips, and swimming green eyes. 

Then, by two in the morning, she was wide awake. Which sucked, not only because of the obvious lack of sleep, but also because laying there in bed, her mind racing, all she had time to do was let her mind wander. That can be dangerous.

When she lets her mind wander, it tends to point things out that are hurtful. Things she already knew about herself but hated. Like the fact that she most likely completely misinterpreted Dean's actions last night. Surely, it was the alcohol they had both drank. There was no way in hell that Dean would be interested in anyone like her. He was a good bit older than her, and so far out of her league. 

Men like Dean wanted those beautiful women with hard bodies that looked amazing no matter what they were wearing. Women that had flat stomachs and spotlessly clear skin. Women whose thighs don't always touch together. Women that wore perfect makeup and had soft beautiful hair. She was NOT one of those women, not by a long shot. Men like Dean usually showed up with Victoria Secret models. Not overweight, knocking middle-aged girls that hadn't even slept with a guy, much less been noticed by one in over two years. 

God she hated when her inner voice was so brutally honest. 

She was just about to force herself out of bed and into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, at least then she'd be doing SOMETHING instead of just laying in bed thinking, when a tentative knock sounded at the door. 

Immediately, her heart jumped from her chest to her throat. She knew Sam never knocked. That only left one other person in the house.

Another soft knock sounded, and Y/N knew she needed to say something, so she cleared the knot in her throat, and was able to accomplish a tentative, "come in".

She watched the door, wandering for a moment if she'd imagine the knock, if she'd just finally gone crazy. Then, to her utter, and maybe even ridiculous surprise, it opened ever so slightly, and Dean’s face appeared just shy of the crack he’d made in the door. His hair was a mess, and he was still in his pajamas. It was more adorable than a man that was in his forties should be allowed. 

“Morning,” he voiced, holding up a cup of coffee through the door. “I come bearing coffee!”

“How long have you been up?” She questioned, sitting up slightly and fussing to fix her hair that she was sure was sticking up at all angles. “And how did you know how I liked my coffee?” 

Tentatively, she reached for the cup he held out to her, taking a sip of the warm, comforting liquid, mostly because her throat still felt tight like it was going to close in on itself.

“Watched you made it yesterday, remember?” He stated, and she blinked at him in surprise, she had no idea he’d been paying that much attention to her. “I’ve been up for a few hours now,” Dean confessed as he settled himself on the foot of her bed, leaving a respectful distance between them. “I don’t sleep much anymore.” 

Just then, outside the window in her room, the sound of wind hit hard on the side of the house, and Y/N shivered in spite of herself. She usually didn’t mind the cold, but it had been cold this year, even for Detroit’s standards. 

“Is it still snowing outside?” Y/N questioned, and Dean nodded furiously. 

“At this rate, I think I might end up having to be here until after New Years,” he admitted, eyes drifting back towards the window. “I mean, I’ve heard of people wanting a white Christmas, but this is a little bit ridiculous.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes for a moment as realization dawned on her that it was indeed Christmas day. She'd been so worked up yesterday that she'd clean forgotten the holidays, she was far too focused on Dean.

"It's Christmas day already," she mused allowed more to herself than Dean. "I hadn't even realized…"

"Neither did I," Dean admitted somewhat sheepishly. "Not until about five minutes before I saw your light turn on in here."

Y/N hummed, taking another swig of coffee from her mug as a suddenly heavy silence fell over the room. 

"So, what are you gonna do when you go back home too…?" 

"Kansas," Dean answered for her, his thick fingers picking at a loose thread of his pajama pants. "Honestly, and I haven't even told Sammy this, but I'm not sure what I'm gonna do yet."

Y/N sat up a little straighter, sitting her half empty coffee mug on the bedside table next to her. 

"What do you mean?" She questioned, and Dean ducked his head in a way that was almost bashful. It made her heart flutter just a little. 

"I quit my job three days before I came here," he admitted, and Y/N's eyes damn near popped out of their sockets as she listened. 

"I thought… I thought when I was told I'd never be able to do field work in the FBI, that I'd do something like Private Detective work on my own. Ya know, help people that really need it, and not just what the feds say you can do. But now… I don't know. It just doesn't get me up in the morning anymore." 

The solemness in his words were almost tangible. She knew that feeling, all too well. She'd found herself there a lot lately, but to hear someone as attractive as Dean say it, it was startling. 

"Well, you're not too old Dean, you're still young enough to change things if you're not happy."

Dean chuckled humorlessly to himself. "Baby I'm not exactly 22 anymore, ya can't just start over when you're my age. But what other choice do you have when you've had all you can take in the shit you're in?"

"Oh come on!" She attempted to tease him by nudging him with her covered foot. "It can't be that bad! Look at you! You're attractive—"

"So you think I'm attractive?" Dean immediately teased back, and Y/N blushed so furiously she could feel the heat boiling up from her toes all the way to her face. 

"Oh stop it," she insisted as she hid behind her covers a little. 

"Don't hide from me, pretty girl," Dean said, and was so stunned that it must have shown on her face, because it made him laugh. 

"What? You don't believe me?" He questioned, and she shook her head no furiously as she blushed for what felt like the millionth time. 

"Not even a little," she revealed. 

"Well, you are," he insisted, as he tentatively made his way up the bed to sit a little closer to her. 

"You're too nice to me Dean," she insisted as he settled himself next to her. 

"No I'm not, but I got a feeling that not nearly enough people have been as nice to you as you deserve," he voiced. 

She looked down at her hands that were folded onto the covers in front of her, refusing to meet his ever pricing gaze. He was right, and the tone of his voice seems to prove that for her. But still, there was no judgment in it. 

"Yeah, well, I guess life isn't always fair," she admitted. 

"You're not wrong," he said as he reached over and grabbed her hand in his massive one before lacing their hands together. "I can assure you, I've seen just how many monsters are out there, but I've seen some pretty amazing things too, and you're definitely one of the most captivating women I've ever met."

Y/N smiled and blushed as she looked away from him, but she didn't pull her hand away. The weight of it around her own was comforting. 

Just as she was about to speak, the door burst open, and Sam came staggering in, half sleep dazed, half annoyed to be awake. 

Dean didn't pull away as she'd expected, he merely shot his baby brother an annoyed glare. 

"There you two are, I was about to start breakfast," Sam announced, still completely unfazed by the fact that Y/N was sitting on the bed next to his older brother with her hand in his. 

"Is that how you enter her room? Ever heard of knocking?" Dean questioned in a mildly annoyed tone. 

Sam just snorted as he turned to leave the room. Apparently quite amused at his older brother. 

"She knows I love her. Come on you two, it's Christmas morning, it's snowing, it's ass off, and I want to Y/N to see who the real lightweight in this house is, but first food."

Y/N giggled, mostly at the sheer bitchface Dean had made while he watched him leave, and just like that, just at the sound of her laugh, Dean melted from grumpy and annoyed, to a much softer version she'd seen moments before. 

Somewhere, way down, she was still questioning herself, but watching him just now, the way he'd been with her this morning when he didn't have to be? It made her think that maybe he really did like her, but it was going to take some convincing herself to believe it, that maybe, just maybe, he felt some of the things she was feeling when she looked at him…

"Come on," Dean said with a huff. "Let's go drink that little bitch under the table, then maybe you and I can spend a little time together later? Just the two of us?"

"I'd like that," she admitted, taking the hand he'd extended to her to help her stand up out of the comfortable confines of her bed. "I'd like that a lot." 

Chapter 6 HERE!!!

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@christycreature​​​​​​​​​​​

@whiskey-infused-dreams​​​​​​​​​​​

@supernatural79impala​​​​​​​​​​​

@deandreamernp​​​​​​​​​​​

@forgetthisbull​​​​​​​​​​​

@miraclesoflove​​​​​​​​​​​

@slamminmine​​

@deanwanddamons​​

@rvgrsbrns​​

@chevyharvelle​​

@i-love-superhero-movies​​

@lyss-dw79​​​​​​​​​​​

@magssteenkamp​​​​​​​​​​​

@lemondropirwin​​​​​​​​​​

@squirrelnotsam​​​​​​​​​​​

@hobby27​​​​​​​​​​

@spnbaby-67​​​​​​​​​​​  

@mrsjenniferwinchester​​​​​​​​​​​

@defenderrosetyler​​​​​​​​​​​

@thecreatiivecorner​​​​​​​​​​​  

@vicmc624​​​​​​​​​​​

@busy-bee-angel-misska​​​​​​​​​​​

@justanotherwinchester​

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@flamencodiva​​​​​​​​​​​

@itmejado​​​

@thoughts-and-funnies​​​​

@teresa-67

@thoughts-and-funnies​​​​​​​​​​​

@hearteyes-j2​​​��​​​​​​​

@peaches007​​​​​​​​​​​

@bobbie3939​​​​​​​​​​​

@vulgar-library​​​​​​​​​​​

@writercole​​​​​​​​​​​

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@twinkleinadiamondsky​​​​​​​​​​​

Jensen and Dean’s Babes

@deans-baby-momma​​​​​​​​​​​  

@impalaslytherin​​​​​​​​​​​

@perpetualabsurdity​​​​​​​​​​​

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@love-jackles​​​​​​​​​​​

@irmcpar​​​​​​​​​​​

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@siospins2​​​​​​​​​​​

@herstarburststories​​​​​​​​​​​

@mimaria420​​​​​​​​​​​

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@pascal-rascal424​​​​​​​​​​​​

@myloversgone​​​​​​​​​​​​

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@bts-spnlvr12​​​​​​​​​​​​

@jxackles​​​​​​​​​​​​

@lassie-bird​​​​​​​​​​​​

@samsgirl93​​​​​​​​​​​​

@shawnie74​​​​​  

@kaz11283​​​​​​​​​​​​

@mlovesstories​​

@ladysparks78

[polarisbibliotheque]

So like, less of a suggestion and more of a question - I recently found your works and have just been blown away by the details (like, seriously, you're on the top of my favorite writers list) and just how... perfect you craft everything? I genuinely inspire to be like you, but the problem is that I've hit a rut - I'm super unsatisfied with my writing, and whenever I try to get back into the writing zone, I just fall flat. Is there any advice you could give on how to improve one's writing? What would be your tips and tricks at getting into that writing zone?

(Do apologize me taking SO LONG to answer, but I had some health emergencies the last couple of weeks and ended up in the hospital – I’m doing better now, chilling at home and trying to recover. My doctor is 90% sure I have Crohn’s Disease and I’m having many ups and downs trying to find a proper treatment that I seem to respond to. BUT…)

…I hope you are aware of how much you made me smile, blush and almost indulge into my teary eyes upon reading this. Hahahaha seriously, thank you SO much!! I can’t even thank you enough, I’m just in pure awe that another being in this big ol’ world we live in thinks so highly of my writing!!

I mean, not even I think that highly of my writing. Notice a pattern? ;)

One thing I learned being an artist – not only writing, I also draw, play the piano, write music on my free time/when inspiration hits, everything creative, I’m there, doing it – is that we’re never really satisfied with our work. We will always think we could’ve done something better, and we’re definitely going to be pretty “meh” about a lot of things we do – even when other people think it’s a masterpiece.

And that is good! We’ll always strive to perfect our skills! You just have to remember to appreciate the work you do even when you’re not completely satisfied with it. You will get to where you want to – but then, you’ll wish to improve even more! And that is awesome!

But hey, I do have some tips and tricks on improving and getting into that writing vibe!

For the people getting to the party now, my main tip on improving is here, in the first part of the answer for this ask! Now, now…

(long post below, as expected YEE BEEN WARNED!)

Regarding improving:

Read. A. Lot. Hahaha I know that’s quite an obvious one, but it’s really important. Personally, I think reading mindlessly just to fill a quota of “I read 25 books a month” doesn’t work. It works when you absorb it – when you allow yourself to plunge into the world of the book you’re reading, feeling the characters, the emotions, the settings… That helps you build your “mental library” so to speak! And sometimes you’ll find things and expressions you like that you might use both on your daily speech and while writing – for instance, I have this awful thing of saying “there’s a lack of wings to my words” whenever I’m speechless, because of Homer’s Odyssey. I freaking LOVE that book, I loved that expression, I use it all the time, and it has definitely bled into my writing.

WRITE! A LOT! Write bad stuff, good stuff, short 2 pages thing-ys that you go “hey that’s a good idea!” but you’ll never actually turn into a full story, random scenes, fanfiction, stupid fanfiction, serious fanfiction, self-indulgent stories, stories for your family, stories for yourself, stories for whoever wants to read or not, dreams that could be great stories… The point is to write. It’s much like drawing or playing the piano: if you don’t practice, you won’t get better and you won’t develop your style. The more you practice, the better you get! So don’t be afraid to write bad stuff, cringy stuff, or ridiculous stuff – or even stuff you thought would be awesome and turns out bad, or stuff you think will never turn into anything that turn amazing! One way or another, you’ll be refining your craft!

Identify what you like on writers you admire. I started noticing that while reading The Silmarillion. The Lord of the Rings is my favorite book since I read it for the first time when I was 15, but I didn’t pick up The Silmarillion until I was around 22 – and by then, I started underlining with a light pencil all the phrases I liked most, something my mom did on her old books when she was around my age. I then started taking a look at what I liked about Tolkien’s writing so much – and in other books too: what kind of phrases seemed to resonate more with my soul. Which ones brought tears to my eyes and a smile to my face. And then I notice I tend more to the unconventional ways of describing things.

For instance, instead of going like “she was beautiful, with pale skin under raven dark hair, blue eyes shining on her fair face” I tend to go for the unconventional, sort of eerie, not so much taken for granted kind of describing “her beauty glowed like the first pale star to glisten in the evening sky, under a deep sea of dark, velvety hair, making her eyes twinkle like sapphires with a smart look while carrying the light she kept in her soul”. If I had to, the second one would be how I’d describe Arwen or Lúthien, giving them that ethereal otherworldly beauty they have. It's also the one that evokes more feelings inside of me rather than just a mental image.

That’s why I try to describe some things in a different light. When I’m writing, I want people to feel something – but how can you describe that feeling of joy when you hug someone you love and the whole world fades for a minute? That’s when I go for the “his heart bled with gold while his hands never wanted to let them go. For a minute, time seemed to stop and there was nothing else but his heartbeat intertwining with theirs, beating as the same song – even if theirs was more melodic while his was more melancholic. It was that kind of tune that made his lungs not remember how to breathe and his eyes pour – while his lips reflected all the gold that cascaded from his heart.” It’s a quick (rather ridiculous) example, but I do think about some things: how when I feel like that, I tend to have a hard time breathing and I do cry, but it’s because I want to smile so much I cannot contain it. Then I try to describe those feelings with metaphors and poetic stuff because I’m a melodramatic bitch.

Jokes aside, it’s because I like that sort of writing that has that beauty behind it – or more of a melancholic approach. It’s what resonates the most with me and I adopted it, even if sometimes it feels too… Abstract. I like that ability of people piecing the abstractness together and having their own interpretation – and that’s what makes people have different feelings while reading the same thing.

Is this for everyone? Absolutely not. I bet some people despise all that poeticness I like to put on words to lace them like a painting, you know? So, the more you re-read the things you like, you’ll start identifying what resonates with you and you can apply that to your own writing!

And that doesn’t mean you’ll have to be locked on that writing style as well. I’m currently trying to finish a book (I hope someday I can publish it) which is a cyberpunk style story, with lots of inspiration from Cyberpunk 2077, Blade Runner, John Wick (yes, Keanu Reeves sends his regards) and all that poetic writing doesn’t quite fit there. I’m using more of a direct approach, but there’s a lot of existentialism and reflecting on overcoming grief, trauma, owning your own life and contemplating one’s own mortality – and that’s where that poetic, metaphoric, melancholic, bittersweet characteristic of my writing style comes into play. And then everyone starts cursing and shooting each other again :)

Having a style doesn’t mean getting stuck in it – it means knowing when and where to use it!

Now regarding getting into the writing zone:

I freaking ADORE music and it helps me A TON while I’m writing. It’s like setting the mood. I’m trying to be sexy, or mysterious, or having that vampire-y vibe? Depeche Mode playlist it is. Fight scenes? Metal and Electronic. I need to freaking focus and get to work without thinking too much about the music (or start dancing like crazy whenever a song I love comes in and there I am, dancing and singing in my room at 3 a.m)? Piano playlists – classic, modern, everything and anything, as long as it is piano.

Playing music that goes with what I’m writing also helps. For my cyberpunk book, for instance, I put on the Cyberpunk 2077 OST playlist/radio on, or I search for “Cyberpunk Ambience/Playlist” on Youtube and let it roll while I write. For my King Arthur stories (yes, still working on them), I put on Celtic music compilations, Enya, Loreena McKennitt or the piano playlists. For my vampire stories, be the medieval or the near-future one, dark piano, Dark Wave, etc. Perhaps searching for that one playlist that has to do with your story setting and listening to it for some time might get you in the zone!

I also usually write deep in the night. Because I’m a spawn of Dracula. After everyone at home has gone to sleep, I make myself some hot tea, sit on my computer, start listening to music and write. That’s because I know I won’t be interrupted, and I can do just that. Sometimes, I start writing at 1 a.m, other times earlier, other times later. Try to notice when your ideas seem to flow better and when you get more into the zone – but please, don’t be unhealthy as I am and go to sleep at a decent hour. I’m not an example here with my sleeping schedule hahahaha

Cringy moment: when I’m stuck, I act the last scene I wrote as one of my characters in the shower and, usually, ideas start to come in (and I have to get off the shower). Hahahaha now that’s just a weird one, but I have NO idea why, my best ideas arise in the shower. Water has a weird effect on me, so sometimes I just stand there with warm water pouring over my head and, lo and behold, I’m exiting the shower in a hurry because I just got my writer mood back HAHAHA so maybe some very mundane activity – like cooking, taking the trash out, cleaning the room – might be where your writer brain will come to life. You never know.

Needless to say, I talk to myself a lot, sometimes as if I’m talking to the characters. That is a very bad coping mechanism I developed when I was being bullied at school – I used to pretend Dante was with me when I was alone or something had happened and I needed someone by my side, so nowadays I have a very easy time writing this man. I started doing that with some of my characters, and that goes for repeating lines or part of the stories I’m writing to see if I can get un-stuck. It’s not the greatest of things, but it works. My neighbors might think I’m crazy, though xD

When I’m completely unmotivated or I keep staring at the blank page without being able to write, I try to immerse myself in what I’m writing about. So, if I’m stuck on my cyberpunk book, I watch some Cyberpunk 2077 let’s plays, I re-watch the Edgerunners anime, I re-watch Blade Runner, I re-read some parts of Do Androids Dream of Electrical Sheep? or I, Robot, I listen to Blade Runner’s soundtrack, I even try to play Cyberpunk 2077 (while praying not to get motion sickness or not having my pc exploding from overworking). If I’m stuck on my King Arthur works, then I re-watch the 2004 movie (may the gods bless Ioan Gruffudd and his wonderful Lancelot and Mads Mikkelsen as my beloved Tristan), re-read the 3 books on the Chronicles of Arthur series, listen to some Celtic music, research Arthurian stories for hours on the internet, search for my encyclopedias at home to see if they have something on King Arthur, read obscure translated manuscripts from ancient times on it … So, immersing yourself on reading, researching, listening to music, watching movies, playing videogames, listening to stories, watching series, reading mangas, watching anime, documentaries, going to the movies, basically doing anything that has to do with the theme you’re writing, may get you in the mood. Next time you sit down to write, it might flow wonderfully!

I don’t force myself to write, though. If I do, I usually can’t write a single decent word and I’ll hate it. If things aren’t flowing – and this I learned with my mom, who also draws – I leave it for a while and go do something else. Maybe I’ll have some warm tea, or watch a completely unrelated movie, or read my current book, or talk to my parrot in the kitchen, play some piano, draw a little, or just take a good nap. My mom says it refreshes the head and the eyes, and when you come back to it, you’ll be a lot more inclined to find things that weren’t working and let those creative juices flow.

I also have a very weird search history and I’m not ashamed of it. All writers do, and it’s better to have a weird search history than not knowing what you’re talking about, honestly. And sometimes, researching takes a lot more time than writing and might get you motivated – time spent learning is never wasted. Even if you’re learning what kind of dates grow in Greece and are offered to Apollo (bless his heart).

Sometimes, I write something completely unrelated, with a very different theme, and stupidly goofy – and that gets me back to the writing vibes. Sometimes there’s just this need of writing something for the sake of writing, and you just want something foolish to make you smile like a goof. It’s valid and it might be your ticket out of writing-rut-land.

Now some little uncalled for advices:

I spent too long being self-conscious and too serious about it. If it’s not your style, don’t force it. Some people need structure, other people thrive in chaos – know what’s your style and go for it. I hate planning novels, for example. But I will outline the main points of the story and the ending – the rest, well, the characters have to show me whatever else they’re doing, and I have to go with it. Sometimes there are huge arcs I didn’t plan as a main point of the story, but they pop up in the middle of it and they are important – I like leaving that room for impromptu writing/creating. So, find out how it works for you, not how it works for everyone else.

You don’t have to create masterpieces right at the first time you’re writing. Take my King Arthur thing-y for example. I wrote the full story when I was 15. When I was in college, I decided to re-write it. And then, when I was at work, I decided to re-write the re-write. And now, I just took all my files, read them, thought about it all, outlined a whole new story and decided to write anew. Not re-write, but take all that work and write as if I had never written anything before – in the original file, the main characters were 15 years old and in school, now they have their jobs at Universities and work on the secret society that is now a lot more fleshed out and built with loads of new characters around (including a new one I created yesterday after months not thinking about it).

If I hadn’t written the Twilight-sort of embarrassing thing when I was 15, I wouldn’t have this whole universe, characters and story to build upon nowadays. It wasn’t a masterpiece, but it was a good idea – and I’ll keep working on it until I’m happy with it. It’s been 13 years I’m working on it now, maybe when it reaches its 15th anniversary, I’ll be able to finally let it see the light of day!

Don’t listen to the “NEVER DO THIS!!” advices. Seriously. Writing is a form of art – and, as in all art, there isn’t a right or wrong. By all means, see what people are saying it’s bad and you should never do – I watch and read those advices so I can learn to be better too! – but don’t take it to heart. As Captain Barbossa would say, it’s more of a guideline than rules set in stone. Sometimes, something people say you should NEVER EVER do is something that works perfectly fine for you and your style of writing. Learn to make up your own mind: learn new things, listen to advices, but absorb those that resonate with you and leave those that don’t. That’s how you create your own opinion about things and how you find your writing style!

One fun thing to point out on this as an example: me, my mom, my sister and my dad ADORE reading. My sister loves Jane Austen, my mom is a super fan of Dostoyevsky and Russian literature, while my dad lives for Isaac Asimov and all things sci-fi. I love sci-fi, my mom can’t stand it. I read Dante’s Inferno in a week and my mom couldn’t get past the first verses. My sister can’t read poetry at all and is terribly bored by Lord of the Rings. My dad read my Chronicles of Arthur books and even told me to buy the complete the series. Me and my sister enjoyed Khaled Hosseini’s books a lot, but my mom never felt like reading them.

All of this to say: it’s not a matter of who’s more intellectual than the other, it’s a matter of who likes which kind of literature and writing styles. Some people are more comfortable with one way of writing or a certain kind of literature and can’t stand others – and that’s ok. Writing is pretty much the same. THERE ARE NO FIXED RULES! BE A REBEL!

If it helps you: character sheets. Around 8 years ago – or more – I searched and searched online for the character sheet that could help me the best. I had never done it before and thought it was quite useless, until I downloaded one and started filling the infos on my main characters of my Arthurian sort of story. Lo and behold, they became SO MUCH BETTER and that’s when I started rewriting everything: I understood all characters a LOT better and made better decisions when writing them. It doesn’t work for everyone, though, but it’s a lot of fun for me. Currently, I don’t use it much because I now know what are the main things I need for my characters to seem alive, but it’s always nice to have a reference when you’re writing.

My cyberpunk story, for instance, it has A BUNCH of characters with scars, different hair colours, different eye colours, the way they dress, birthmarks, cyber-implants, cyber-prothesis, dressing styles… And sometimes I get lost in it. So it’s nice keeping a character sheet when I go like “wait, she has burn marks on the left arm or the right arm…?”

And keeping a file on worldbuilding might be helpful as well. I noticed that writing my cyberpunk thing. The first thing I wrote was a huge file explaining the city, the factions, the districts, people’s styles, who are the viruses, the sub-types of viruses, the political parties, the police and secret police, the difference between artificials and organics, how does access to the world works, what is the Ocularis system, the most important corporations, their names, their owners… And all those things will probably never appear on this story.

But I felt a HUGE difference. Instead of info-dumping right at the beginning to make the reader understand how the world is built and how it works, I started it right at an important point in the story. No one knows anything about how things work, but, as the characters speak to each other, they talk about so many things that the reader catches things and pieces together how all things are organized.

Don’t try to explain everything. Tying with I said before, if you have a very good idea of how things work, how the characters relate to each other, how they react and how they think, you won’t need to info-dump. I usually think I’m seeing my characters going about their day and that is ALL I’m describing: what they are saying, feeling, thinking and doing. If I feel something is missing for people to fully understand, then I add something quite minimal to help. But I don’t overexplain: people are intelligent and they can piece things together.

Don’t go full Marvel movies and explain everything as if no one can understand unless you say it. Go Nolan and try to make people understand with images, feelings, glances, metaphors and such. It’s very effective in writing! (Don’t get me wrong, I do like Marvel movies, but they have become those kinds of movies that require little mental effort because literally everything will be explained in a huge monologue or through dialogue. You don’t always need dialogues – and if you say “oh that’s too ambiguous and people won’t be certain about it” that’s the beauty of art: it’s always up to interpretation)

Having someone to read and give you feedback might be very helpful too. I have a few friends every now and then I send some of my stories so they’ll read and give me an honest feedback. I try to listen to their opinions and refine my work – but if I think they critique doesn’t make sense, I thank them anyway and keep on doing my thing. Like I said, know when to take what makes sense and when let go of something that doesn’t. Also: feedback is NOT a personal attack. DON’T TAKE IT TO HEART. See it always as something you may need to improve – and you’ll improve quicker.

At the end of the day, writing is art. And all art is relative.

Your art will be great to some and horrible to others – and that’s ok! Again, learn to NOT make it personal (the critiques, I mean, because art is always personal and that’s wonderful, I think).

And repeat after me: you will not please everyone. The point is to make yourself proud. You’ll find your people along the way.

Do it because you love. Do it because it comes from your heart, from your soul. The world has become so filled with content, mindlessly created by artificial intelligence so we will keep consuming, that things have lost so much of their soul.

To make art, to write, is to have soul. If you have that heart, that passion in your work, it will show – and people will follow. When you sit to write, don’t make it a chore, don’t make it an aesthetic tiktok post, don’t follow the routine of this or that famous artist – do what you have to do and let your heart flow. Do it for you.

I think that’s the main advice I can give. Don’t do content to post on social media and look good, do your art. Push your boundaries, test new things, write in ways you never did before, but do your thing.

When everyone is doing the same thing over and over again, you’ll realize your words will stand out by doing what you want to do.

Again thanks for attending my TED Talk xD

[apocalypticavolition]

Let's (re)Read The Great Hunt! Chapter 29: Seanchan

Let's get right to the point: Spoilers spoilers spoilers. This book, last book, next book, every book. Don't like? Don't read. I'm in a hurry, no time for big explanations.

We have a new chapter icon! This is the very buggy helmet of the Seanchan, which will be showing up whenever the Empire is the primary driver of events of a chapter.

Reining up before the inn, his eyes went past the prisoners his soldiers held near the village well to the long gibbet marring the village green. It was hastily made, only a long pole on uprights, but it held thirty bodies, their clothes ruffled by the breeze. There were small bodies hanging among their elders. Even Byar stared at that in disbelief.

Considering how awful the Seanchan are as a nation, you really have to appreciate how the Whitecloaks manage to be so deeply morally lacking as to be the bad guys during a colonial style invasion.

Also, I guess it's appropriate we're seeing these the Seanchan get introduced in a chapter that starts on a Whitecloak, since both represent the modern equivalents of Aridhol's paranoia to a large degree. The Seanchan also somewhat end up eclipsing them as the "With friends like these..." player of the setting.

“Cut them down,” Bornhald said wearily. “Cut them down, and make sure the villagers know there will be no more killing.” Unless some fool decides to be brave because his woman is watching, and I have to make an example.

Just so you don't think that Bornhald is a reasonable authority figure in all this. He's as good as Whitecloaks get in this time, but that's still not very much.

Bornhald’s requests for information from the Sea Folk had been met with silence. Amador did not hold the Atha’an Miere in good favor, and the attitude was returned with interest.

Oh no, I can't believe that Amador's irrational xenophobia is coming to bite them in the ass now that they need the xenos. Not even Pikachu could be surprised at this.

I would kinda like to know how the disdain was born though. Do Whitecloaks disapprove of boobies? Do the Sea Folk not let Questioners kill their sailors? What ridiculous pretext have the Whitecloaks come up with?

“My Lord Captain, he—he says you are moving too many men too close to Toman Head. He says the Darkfriends on Almoth Plain must be rooted out, and you are—forgive me, Lord Captain—you are to turn back at once and ride toward the heart of the plain.”

Oh no! The authoritarians who value unquestioning loyalty have been subverted by the very enemy they wish to destroy.

Even this Jeral dude knows this order is not a great one, poor dumb bastard.

“The sins of the mother are visited to the fifth generation,” Byar quoted, “and the sins of the father to the tenth.” But he looked uneasy. Even Byar had never killed a child.

Moms sin less because they've got less taint in them, I guess.

Also JFC Byar are you seriously okay with this?

“Has it never occurred to you, Byar, to wonder why Carridin has taken away our banners, and the cloaks of the men the Questioners lead? Even the Questioners themselves have put off the white. This suggests something, yes?”

It does! But even Bornhald doesn't dare say it, even as he plots his (completely justified except for how it doesn't go far enough) treason.

“Now, young man, you will tell me everything you know about these strangers, yes? If you need to think on what to say, I will send you back out with Child Muadh to consider it.”

Again, I cannot emphasize this enough: There are no good Whitecloaks. Not even Bornhald. Thankfully, we're done with them for now.

When Seanchan ships anchored off the coast, the villagers who drew up to defend their homes were rent by lightning from the sky while small boats were still ferrying the invaders ashore, and the earth erupted in fire under their feet. Domon had thought he was hearing nonsense until he was shown the blackened ground, and he had seen it in too many villages to doubt any longer. Monsters fought beside the Seanchan soldiers, not that there was ever much resistance left, the villagers said, and some even claimed that the Seanchan themselves were monsters, with heads like huge insects.

You gotta hand it to these Toman Head guys, in a world themed around the loss and corruption of information the further from its creation it gets, they manage to get just about every detail right.

New mayors were chosen by the Seanchan, and new Councils, and any who protested the disappearances of the women or having no voice in the choosing might be hung, or burst suddenly into flame, or be brushed aside like yapping dogs.

I wonder how the Seanchan are choosing to elevate the peasantry. Are they picking successful, rich types who seem compliant or something else?

The eruptions died as quickly as they were born, spray from them blown across the deck. Where they had been, the sea bubbled and steamed as if boiling.

Say what you want about the White Tower's failings (goodness knows I'm going to), for over 3,000 years they've kept their corner of the world safe from this crap. For all their failings, they certainly haven't been useless.

Then the armored figure removed his helmet, and Domon stared. He was a woman.

Domon is of course extra panicky about this because of the prophecy that no man of woman bo-

Wait, that was that other guy. JRR Shakespeare.

If this woman wore a dress, no one would look at her twice. He eyed her and revised his opinion, that cold stare and those hard cheeks would make her remarked anywhere.

She also probably doesn't have the body shape or way of carrying herself for the expected formalwear of the west, being far more muscled and disciplined than the average noblewoman.

The two women dressed as women were coming up from the longboat, one drawing the other—Domon blinked—by a leash of silvery metal as she climbed aboard. The leash went from a bracelet worn by the first woman to a collar around the neck of the second. He could not tell whether it was woven or jointed—it seemed somehow to be both—but it was clearly of a piece with both bracelet and collar.

There is so much to say here but since the sheer horror of this isn't evident yet, let's just all be disgusted by this form of chattel slavery for a moment and then move on. I don't want to use all my good invectives right now.

And I make no claim to be of the Blood. Not yet. After Corenne. . . . I am Captain Egeanin.

Well we'll see what you get after Corenne, Egeanin. But hello for now! It's funny to think how intertwined you and Domon are even now.

“To obey, to await, and to serve. Your ancestors should have remembered.”

Yeah god forbid things go weird after a thousand years. The Seanchan are way too high on their own supply, especially when you consider the textual evidence that the invaders themselves have been pretty fully absorbed into the upper echelons of those they've invaded and are thus barely even the ancestors of the High Blood.

A dark-eyed man in his middle years, with an old scar above his eyes and another nicking his chin, his name was Caban, and he had nothing but contempt for anyone this side of the Aryth Ocean. That gave Domon a moment’s pause. Maybe they truly do be. . . . No, that do be madness.

I'm impressed Domon got him to talk at all, to be honest. I'm also wondering where else Domon can think the Seanchan are from at this point. He knows all the major naval players.

“Oh. That is the First Watcher. Not the one who sat in the chair when we first came, of course. Every time he dies, they choose another, and we put him in the cage.”

One can't help but wonder how long Falme would have lasted against this initial Seanchan strike. One also wonders why people always remember the whole "They bring order" propaganda and never remember how they enforce that order.

He guided Spray to a place at one of the docks, and wondered, while the crew tied the ship fast, if the Seanchan might buy some of the fireworks in his hold. None of my business.

Moral cowardice, Domon. Though of course, his questions already show that he doesn't really think this. He wouldn't be our POV if he did.

A hulking creature with a leathery, gray-green hide and a beak of a mouth in a wedge-shaped head. And three eyes.

Have we met before?

The Seanchan captain had something wrapped in a piece of yellow silk, Domon noted warily. Something small enough to carry in one hand, but which she held carefully in both.

Domon doesn't even try to deny to himself what she has found, because there's really no point.

“Some of them be on your side?” Egeanin frowned over her shoulder at him, obviously puzzled.

"What other side is there other than Empire?"

The man’s hands went white-knuckled gripping his knees, and there was suddenly sweat in his voice. “I have sworn the oaths, Captain. I obey, await, and serve.”

And how many people had to be tortured and killed for him to come to this level of dedication so quickly? At least the First Watcher and their successors. Presumably more.

Domon understood why the Seanchan could allow the people as much freedom as they did. He wondered if he would have had nerve enough to resist. Damane. Monsters.

Something something monopoly on violence. Another thing that the One Power pretty handily provides, since even the "monsters" ultimately derive from its applications.

Two men appeared in the doorway at the far end of the room. One had the left side of his scalp shaved, his remaining pale golden hair braided and hanging down over his ear to his shoulder. His deep yellow robe was just long enough to let the toes of yellow slippers peek out when he walked. The other wore a blue silk robe, brocaded with birds and long enough to trail nearly a span on the floor behind him. His head was shaved bald, and his fingernails were at least an inch long, those on the first two fingers of each hand lacquered blue.

Since the Seanchan are a fictional culture, I have absolutely no regrets in pronouncing their fashion choices "ugly as sin".

Domon imitated her with alacrity. Even the High Lords of Tear would no demand this, he thought.

Something worth remembering when we meet them and have a chance to consider the things they demand that perhaps the Seanchan would not.

After the Return, new names will be called to the Blood. Show yourself fit, and you may shed the name Egeanin for a higher.

Or a lower. Just saying.

“I do collect old things, High Lord, from times past. There do be those who would steal such, did they lay easy to hand.”

Another great Aes Sedai lie. They're just so powerful.

“Unshaven dog! You speak of giving the High Lord what Captain Egeanin has already given. You bargain, as if the High Lord were a—a merchant! You will be flayed alive over nine days, dog, and—”

I have a suspicion that even in Seanchan proper, this particular rank exists in part to vent anger in place of the High Lords and Ladies while allowing them to seem merciful by not permitting such grandiose threats to be followed through. Sort of a hideously inverted version of the court jester.

Domon took one look at the girl and pulled his eyes away with a strangled gasp; her white silk robe was embroidered with flowers, but so sheer he could see right through it, and there was nothing beneath but her own slimness.

Not creepy at all. Also fun to note that it's been a mere six chapters since our last naked lady incident and while this isn't been "all ladies must be naked" it's still interesting how we went from a very chaste book one to this.

Ah well. Next time, we check back in with Rand as the plot remembers that we're only three-fifths of the way through the story and that he really shouldn't have the plot coupons just yet.

[isfjmel-phleg]

The Secret Garden on 81st Street has lovely art and a lot of good intentions. But one reason I don't find myself revisiting this one for personal enjoyment is how it handles the story and characters. While the broad plot remains and the same roles are all filled (except for the notable absence of Mrs. Sowerby), the point of the narrative is now to impart Lessons on anxiety and grief, and to serve this centralization of an issue to address, the characterization is altered. This results in not merely a less effective adaptation but a less effective plot and characters.

To illustrate this, let's start by looking at how Frances Hodgson Burnett handles Mary and Colin's argument that leads to the tantrum scene in The Secret Garden (Chapters 16-17).

Mary has been spending a lot of time with Colin after meeting him. But when the rain that has kept her indoors finally ends, she spends the whole day out in the garden with Dickon. When she returns to the house, she gets into an argument with Colin, who is angry that she didn't come to see him. The two exchange insults, Colin plays the I'm-going-to-die card, Mary questions this, he is so angry that he throws a pillow at her, and she leaves. Late that night, she is awakened by his having a tantrum, and Colin's nurse asks her to try to get through to him. A furious Mary yells right back at him, orders him to stop, tell him that she and everyone else hate him, and contests his insistence that he has a lump on his back. She examines his back and confirms that there is nothing wrong with it. This upends Colin's entire worldview, and he is able to calm down and process the notion that he is not really doomed to die. His arc has reached a major turning point, and from here on, he is open to going outdoors, which leads to further progress.

In The Secret Garden on 81st Street, this plays out completely differently (pp. 156-168).

This version's Colin has anxiety/panic disorder and is portrayed as very emotionally fragile and self-doubting. Burnett's Colin has those qualities too, but 81st Street leaves out any of his negative traits. He is not ridiculously spoiled. He does not have an uncontrolled temper. He is not demanding, possessive, and entitled. He's just super, super anxious, which is a struggle rather than a flaw. He has no apparent flaws.

81st Street's Mary doesn't just devote a day to work in the garden without seeing Colin; she ignores him for an entire week. This sets her up from the beginning as in the wrong and makes his being upset with her more sympathetic--which is the opposite of what Burnett presents. When this Mary finally comes to see Colin, excitedly telling him about what she's been doing in the garden, he points out how long she's ignored him and how she knows he can't see the garden. She asks him why he's being like this, and he proceeds to guilt-trip her: "Because you forgot about me! You're going to leave me, too! You'd rather spend time with normal people, like Dickon. And this is all my fault. If I could just be normal and not be broken, I could be your real friend, not just someone you visit when you have time." He starts to cry.

I would consider this emotionally manipulative behavior, not unlike what Burnett's Colin does in the equivalent scene, but it's clear that this narrative wants us to fully side with him by portraying Mary's responses to him as lacking in understanding of his condition. Mary tells him he's being ridiculous and insists she didn't forget about him. He escalates into a panic attack. Mary, like her counterpart in the original, tells him that he's not dying and there's nothing wrong with him. His attack continues, she says he's overreacting, and the adults come running in to tend to him and shoo her out.

Later, Colin's therapist has a long talk with Mary about the nature of Colin's panic disorder and how to properly respond to it. Mary is abashed at not having understood but says she doesn't know why Colin is still upset about losing a parent, because she doesn't feel that way about her similar situation. The therapist talks to her about how grieving is different for everyone. This is followed by Medlock telling Mary to "please be aware of [Colin's] condition" and to apologize to him.

Mary apologizes, Colin berates himself for not being able to control the panic, and she repeatedly affirms that it's hard and she knows he's trying. She then apologizes for having to leave to tend to the garden and asks if it's okay with him if she does. He grants permission. Shortly after this, he decides for some reason that he's ready to go outside now.

In Burnett's story, the purpose of Chapters 16-17 is to establish conflict between the two deeply flawed protagonists which will build to a climax that furthers both the plot and Colin's arc. The argument is the natural outcome of a clash of interests between two characters who are self-absorbed and not used to being told no. Mary reacts with obstinacy and aggression, Colin with entitlement and self-pity, and these characteristic behaviors emerging their interactions move the plot forward. Going outdoors would be good for Colin, but he has always been vehemently opposed to it--so what would it take to get him past what's holding him back (i.e. his belief that he is destined to die young)? Mary returns to her renovation of the garden -> Colin is angry at being left alone and tries to control her -> she attacks his worldview -> he can't handle this and has a tantrum -> she lashes out at him and supplies concrete evidence that he's not going to die -> he has to reconsider his worldview and can thus start on the path toward growth. It's a logical progression of actions consistent with the characters as established, and they respond like humans, not plot devices.

In 81st Street, the purpose of these scenes is to deliver a lesson about responding to people who have panic disorder. It accomplishes what it sets out to do, but from a narrative standpoint, it does much less than Burnett's version. This Mary and Colin do not function so much as individual characters here as they do roles in the lesson being taught.

Mary is a stand-in for a hypothetical audience who is ignorant of panic disorder and liable to be dismissive. It is her job to be wrong, to be called out by an authoritative adult who imparts instruction, to meekly accept this rebuke, and to apologize and be accommodating, because this is what the narrative is teaching the audience to emulate. Whether any of this behavior is strictly in character for her is less important than the example that needs to be modeled.

Colin, meanwhile, embodies panic disorder. Since he is defined by this condition, he cannot have flaws or be wrong in any way lest anything disparaging be suggested about the condition. He is an Issue for other people to correctly react to. So nothing that he does in these scenes is affected by his personality or flaws, and he does not need to learn anything from other people. Other people have to accommodate him. (There should be mutual accommodation and understanding, with her learning to understand his condition and him learning to take ownership of his own feelings without expecting the world to walk on eggshells around him just because he has anxiety, but that's not what's being portrayed here.) Instead of external factors leading to growth, he just...changes his mind one day.

This Colin could have panic disorder and still have significant character flaws like his counterpart in Burnett's story, because these two factors (a psychological condition and one's personal character) really have nothing to do with each other. It would have made him more complexly human to allow him some negative traits, as well as moving the plot forward by allowing his and Mary's flaws to clash and giving him an opportunity to grow as a person, not just learn to manage his condition better (important, yes, but the heart of a story is not in a character's increasing in skill or knowledge but in how they personally develop).

What the graphic novel presents isn't an effective arc for either protagonist. Mary doesn't have any agency in her change; she must be instructed by an all-knowing adult instead of learning things for herself. Colin's change of heart is utterly arbitrary because he hasn't had to learn anything and hasn't had his misconceptions about himself and the world meaningfully challenged. It's just: Mary reacts incorrectly to Colin's condition -> she is corrected and instructed in what to do in the future -> she apologizes and corrects her behavior -> Colin decides he's ready to go to the garden. This isn't a plot; it's a PSA. Instead of letting the characters drive the action, they are there to be vehicles for the Lesson. And that may be instructive, but as far as I'm concerned, it doesn't make for a very compelling story or characters.

[anxresi]

GOD am I sick of this. (Watch Out, MAJOR Rant Ahead)

Why do Chloe haters (nearly) ALWAYS insist on using this tired old line to ‘win’ an argument?!

No-one (at least anyone I’M paying attention to) is saying Chloe should get away with her bullying because of her shitty parents.

We’re saying poor Chloe has been a victim of character assassination, sabotage, purposeful vandalism, ruination etc by the very person who created her! No... not her fictional dad or mom... but a certain real-life Frenchman by the name of Mr Thomas Astruc.

If you want a somewhat over-exaggerated parallel, it would be like Da Vinci painting a moustache on the Mona Lisa, Michaelangelo chopping David’s ‘bits’ off or Geppetto making Pinocchio into firewood (I say this because there’s been TWO movies about the lying puppet in the last year. Hint: don’t watch the Disney one).

It’s like... I can’t even debate these people, because they haven’t just got the wrong end of the stick, we’re not even in the same forest!

My point is to those somewhat disingenuous individuals, and let me be VERY blunt here, because I ain’t repeating myself... (clears throat): 

Chloe’s Character Writing Has Been The Worst I’ve Ever Seen In A Professional Cartoon Show. The Fact They Utterly Destroyed One Of The Few People In Miraculous With Any Potential For Serious Development For Growth And Basically Replaced Her With Another Girl Who’s Just As Blandly ‘Perfect’ As Most Of The Other Females Demonstrates How Utterly Lacking In Ambition, Creativity And Talent The Makers Truly Are. (As If The Glaring Lack Of Other Positive Attributes To The Show Isn’t Evidence Enough) The Only Reason You Use A Completely Manufactured And Different Scenario Than The Case I Put Forward As Your Lone Defence Proves You KNOW I’m 100% Right. THAT’S Why So Many People Are Defending Her... Not Because They Think She Should Get Away With Her Progressively More Ridiculous Misdemeanors Inserted Into The Scripts To Convince The Audience To Hate Her More And More, But Because We Recognize The Less-Than-Subtle Route The Writers Have Taken In The Last Few Seasons To DESTROY Her Character, Her Role, Her Agency And Any Hidden Depths Or Layers She Might Have. This Is A Girl Who LOVED Her Daddy, (Occasionally) Valued Her Best Friend, Adored Adrikins, Confessed How Inadequate She Felt In Front Of Her Idol Ladybug, Made A Heartfelt Apology To Her Teacher In An Emotional Hug (It Made Me Cry :,/ ), Made REAL STRIDES With Her Behavior In terms Of Being More Independent Towards The End Of S2, Had An Intriguing Relationship With Her Favorite Stuffed Bear Which Acted As Her Conscience, Was Setting Herself Up To Be An Efficient Anti-Hero With Questionable Loyalties... And All This Fascinating Narrative Was Left To ROT In Favor Of Turning Her Into The Most Boringly Generic Baddie In The Entire History Of The Show. WELL DONE, EVERYONE. Then To Add Insult To Injury, They Claim This Was The Plan All Along And Her Rapid Deterioration Into A Teenage Psycho From A Standard School Bully Is Some Kind Of Bizarre Statement On ‘How Some People Can Never Change’ Rather Than The Obnoxiously Terrible Piece Of Hackneyed Writing It Actually Was. Damnation Arc? A Fancy Title For Utter Bullsh*t That’s An Insult To Miraculous Ladybug Fans’ Intelligence Everywhere, I Say. I Don’t Know About You Guys, But I Feel Cheated, Swindled, Bamboozled... You Name It, Or Just Thorughly P*ssed Off Should Suffice. Want Some Evidence For My Claims? Okay, Here Goes: Get Comfortable... Removing ALL Of Chloe’s Positive Traits And Redemptive Moments Overnight After S3. Pretending They Never Existed Or Happened In The First Place. Turning Her Into A Villainous One-Dimensional Sociopathic Object Of Ridicule. Giving Us Zoe Who’s Goodie-Two-Shoes Non-Personality Is No Substitute Whatsoever For The True Queen. Cynically Producing AN ENTIRE EPISODE in S5 For The Sake Of Retroactively Making CHLOE Solely Responsible For Adrinette Not Happening Sooner. (Thus Purposefully Exposing Her To More Vitriol From Obsessive Shippers) Pretending That She Had ‘Plenty Of Help’ To Change When The Truth Is No-One Seriously Attempted At All. (Even Saint Marinette ‘Encouraged’ Her And Good Ol’ Toxic Audrey To Bond By Being Awful To Each Other Instead Of Getting To The Heart Of Chloe’s REAL Issues), Breaking Up All Her Closest Relationships One By One Until The Only Person Left Is With Her Is Her Tyrannical Mother Who Promises To “Take Control’ Of Her Life Now In A Different Country That Her Father Has Disowned Her. (So I Guess Letting Chloe Get Further Traumatized By Her Main Abuser is Thomas’s Idea Of ‘Punishing’ Her... Great Message There For Children!) This Means Adrien Wants Nothing To Do With Her, Sabrina Has Been Unceremoniously Dumped And Even Butler Jean Has Been Fired With Little Fanfare. (Not That Chloe’s Had Any Interesting Interactions With Adrien Since S2... What Was The Point In Making Them Childhood Friends Again?! Her Dad Is Basically An Enabler Who Got Off Scot-Free Now He’s Resigned As Mayor And Looks To Have A Fresh Start With His ‘Perfect’ Adopted New Daughter, Sabrina Has Been MIA For YEARS And Only Gets Acknowledged This Once To Further Isolate And Damage Chloe And As For Butler Jean... Who?!) What It Boils Down To Is That Thomas Doesn’t Just Want To Strip Chloe Of The Bee Miraculous Permanently And Write Her Out Of The Show, Oh No! He Wanted To Transform Her Into The WORST Possible Version Of Herself To Try And Forcibly Extract Away The Last Few Fans She Has, And Then Give Her The WORST Possible Ending In The S5 Finale Despite Other Characters (E.g Gabriel) Doing FAR Worse And Yet Either Ending Up Getting ‘Redeemed’ Or Thought Of As Heroes(!). Oh, And Lila Has Multiple Moms Now(!), A Completely New Identity(!!) And Is The Main Antagonist From Now On(!!!)... I Think Her Superpower Is Dumbing Down Everyone Else So They’ll Believe Her Obvious Untruths. GREAT STORYTELLING, GUYS. Mr Astruc Is A Pathetic, Petty, Spiteful, Talentless Excuse For A Showrunner Who’s So Problematic To Discuss His Many And Numerous Controversies Would Take Another Post Probably Five Times As Big As This Already Overlong Wall Of Text, So We’ll Save That For Another Day. Good To See Though, That His ‘Brilliant” Scheme Appears To Be Failing And The More He Sticks Pins In Chloe’s Likeness The More Support She Gets Online And The More ‘Very Sweet’ Zoe Gets Hyped Up Into Something She’s Not, She’s Recognized As The Shallow Shill She Truly Is. I Just Hope Little Kids Aren’t Taken In By His Obvious Crusade To Make Chloe The Most Hated Teenager Since Joffrey. Why Couldn’t The Idea For Miraculous Have Fallen To A Guy Who Had Some Semblance Of Ability, Instead Of This Mediocre Hack Who’s Happy To Wallow In Stale Romantic Cliches, Underwhelming Superhero Fights, Uninteresting Lore, Non-Existent Continuity, Bbaadd Dialogue, Filler, Filler And More Filler, An Overabundance Of Characters = No Development For Them, ‘Special’ Episodes Abroad That Are Anything But, Prioritizing The Merchandise Above The Show ALWAYS, Allowing SO Many Spoilerific Leaks To Spread Under His Watch, Blocking Fans Left, Right And Center When They DARE To Question ANY Part Of His Writing (Because Apparently We’re Too Dumb To See The GENIUS)... And... rreesstt.

I am well aware that this post started out as one thing and ended up rather more convoluted than I hoped for, but Tumblr has always been a great source of therapy for me... so what better to get all my major bugbears out in one word soup of a paragraph that nobody will ever read if they know what’s good for them, before slouching back in my spinning chair with a glazed yet satisfied look on my face?

Nothing, that’s what.