#maybe i should split it into chapters and post what i've already got later?? if anyone is interested in reading that

[applestorms]

OOO this is right up my alley. i definitely need to read more beauvoir to get more up to date on the figure of the adventurer, but it's interesting that op specifically associates dirk with the passionate person since to my understanding the passionate person is specifically associated w/ nietzsche, and in turn beauvoir's criticism of nietzsche.

quick background on western existentialist philosophy: iirc, you kinda have two different main generations of philosophers from the 19th/20th century. in the first generation, you begin with kierkegaard, but then also have nietzsche and (though yes he's more of a fiction author) dostoevsky, with none of them really being aware of the others minus nietzsche learning about dostoevsky for like a year before he went crazy and kicked it. in the second generation though, you have beauvoir, sartre, and camus, all of which are french and therefore aware of not only the works of the previous generation, but each other.

what i really like about beauvoir is that a lot of her existentialism that i've read is built off of crticisms she has of the other existentialists. in particular, she is very critical of the individualism of kierkegaard and especially nietzsche.

it's important to note two things here:

1. as nietzsche outlines it, there are really two main flavors of nihilism. the first is that there is no absolute meaning, or that there is no greater (christian) meaning that governs/explains our lives, and the second is that there is absolutely no meaning, or that there is never any chance we could find any meaning, anywhere. nietzsche and beauvoir both actually seem to agree that the second is terrible since it basically just saps your life of all substance and just sucks ass in general, and instead go for the first, where you can create meaning in your life (really all of the existentialists i've read thus far have some iteration of this idea THOUGH ALSO i haven't read basically any camus and it seems maybe his idea of the stranger goes more for total nihilism??). where beauvoir differs though is that beauvoir doesn't think you can let go of people in the same way that nietzsche does, arguing against his strong individualism with a more socially conscious view that eventually leads to her theories on oppression and social justice, especially with regards to feminism.

2. the guiding line of basically all existentialism is this idea that people are constantly dealing with a conflict between two opposing halves with the ultimate conclusion that the two sides must be synthesized together instead of denying either side. for beauvoir this is a conflict of body/soul, but also a conflict of object vs. subject, which is particularly potent when it comes to dirk and all of his goddamn puppets. this is the "ambiguity" in the ethics of ambiguity, basically. but also it relates to the idea of projects, which is where beauvoir thinks that meaning is created. to beauvoir, all human projects are basically destined to never be finished within a single lifetime, maybe not even more than that, but she still thinks that it's important to pursue them regardless of that inherent absurdity (this is what the whole pyrrhus/cineas thing is about). i think it's a twisting of these projects into something more absolute that is a big part of beauvoir's criticisms of both nietzsche's idea of the passionate person/artist and kierkegaard's knight of faith.

anyways, i mention all of this just to point out that beauvoir's criticism of the passionate person is largely a response to nietzsche's ideal, which specifically comes out of beauvoir thinking that nietzsche is too individualistic in his pursuit of his passions, ignoring the social structure that surrounds him to the detriment of both himself and everyone around him. the passionate person as nietzsche outlines it is basically inclined to pursue their goals at the cost of all else w/ no regards for other pre-existing moral standards, which sounds real great until you realize that hitler fits into that structure quite nicely, to the point that the nazis explicitly took a lot of nietzsche's philosophy and used it for themselves, regardless of nietzsche's original (perhaps still a bit questionable?) intentions.

i was actually just talking about this the other day, and this is in part what motivated my astronaut ramble about agency in homestuck as well as undertale/deltarune. undertale is actually a very beauvoirean game w/ how it treats relationships, in particular the idea of choosing to continue to keep up relations ("If I cry over him, he is no longer a stranger to me. It’s my tears that decide." from the ethics of ambiguity, god that quote is fucking good) and i think homestuck has a lot of the same ideas! like take caliborn's session for instance- the entire point of it is basically the most cruel punishment sburb could give him for refusing to collaborate and thus form a meaningful relationship with his sister. even more so than dirk, i think that caliborn is a fantastic example of nietzsche's passionate artist (because yes, he says that everyone should be an artist; an additional layer to caliborn as the flawed creator god w/ the yaldabaoth stuff) gone wrong, the individualism and fanatic chasing of his passions to the point of fucking over multiple goddamn universes.

i don't think it's a coincidence either that the alphas main issue comes down to not only miscommunication, but also a kind of social and physical isolation. dirk and jake have by far the closest relationship with caliborn and therefore lord english out of everyone in the entire cast, humans and trolls both, and in turn they both have a very particular relationship with isolation. as i was talking about w/ borzoi the other day (in response to a question about who would distance themself from their friends for the sake of doing the "mature" thing):

for jake, i think he would absolutely use the excuse of “it’s better for them if i leave” to try and justify his need for distance. jake is just introverted in general and needs a lot of space but he’s also got his social anxiety going, so his instinct is gonna be to try and come up with some kind of explanation to get what he wants. from that post-trickster conversation it’s actually kinda clear that both jake AND dirk feel guilty for all of the bad shit that happened, regardless if it was actually their fault, and since jake is smart enough at least unconsciously to pick up on the fact that he genuinely hurt jane and kind of knew about it the entire time he’s gonna be feeling extra guilty and avoidant. TLDR jake is avoidant as fuck and being able to justify running away with “it’s the good mature thing to do” would be incredibly appealing to him.

FOR DIRK. it’s a little more complicated imo, i generally read dirk as a lot more In Need of people than jake is, but he also has a major control problem, especially when it comes to himself. dirk has a low view of himself generally so yeah no shit he’s gonna take on more responsibility than he maybe should’ve, and he’s just as likely as jake imo to be able to logic himself into thinking that distance is the only acceptable answer. honestly though i think their approach to that distance would still be kinda different: jake would distance himself from EVERYONE because that’s kind of what he truly wants, he’s not ready to deal with a whole bunch of awkward social shit, and definitely not all at once by the end of the game. dirk though, i think he’d be the most likely to distance himself from jake, but figure out more specific boundaries for everyone else. like he didn’t shy away from that awkward as fuck conversation with dave, right? it kinda came outta nowhere cause he didn’t know the history but dirk to me seems more like the type to be hyper aware of other people and beat himself up for making them even slightly uncomfortable later, but still wouldn’t be able to avoid those interactions regardless, if only cause then his old material for self deprecation would go stale. dirk might emotionally distance himself by locking himself away but he still feels the need to deal with everyone else’s problems, at least in a practical sense if not emotionally, so there’s only so far he could run before that itch for micromanaging comes back

anyways. very messy thoughts here i may come back and edit these more later when i'm not ten minutes away from running out the door but YES, fantastic analysis, i just wanted to add more of that stuff on nietzsche since now that i think about it his particular flavor of existentialism is hells of relevant to not only beauvoir but homestuck as a whole (and imo caliborn in particular too). i suppose this response is more focused on the ways that social isolation plays a role in all of this, but everyone should definitely read op's essay for a more formal/clean take on jake and dirk lol.

DirkJake & Beauvoir: An Existential Analysis

posting this here again because i am insufferable and this is currently my magnum opus 

https://docs.google.com/document/d/e/2PACX-1vTIEpH7wYe9_PWNu7sqk_HlmjpEnNMkDzA9S2QdaJp4rXi6_O2fovQ3RB0fJ6y0aTjNgQDU9E76Bbem/pub

jk i’m working on something about the kid guardians right now!! not all the ideas are there but it’s rotating in my brain very often so it’ll come at some point 

[paper-cloud]

i. the crushing weight of what happens next

part of "(there will be a) tomorrow"

fandom: prospect (2018) characters: ezra, cee rating: T words count: ~3K context: post-canon general warnings/tags: see series masterlist warnings/tags for this chapter: ezra's pov. angst. not graphic descriptions of wounds, blood and amputated limbs. mentions of minor characters' death. (probably very) inaccurate but anyways vague descriptions of medical treatments and post-anesthesia symptoms. taglist: @ravensmutty @buttercup--bee @thegreenkid (again, thank you all for your interest and encouragement! :3) @krissology @ezrasarm @bonktime (please forgive my nerve, i won't tag you in the next chapters unless you'll explicitly ask me to! just thought about someone else who might be interested and you guys are AMAZINGLY talented and inspiring "prospect"/ezra writers. it's not my intention to waste precious moments of your time! 🤡

[SERIES MASTERLIST] [MAIN MASTERLIST]

He'd have thought it was almost ironic – opening his eyes to the light only to see nothing. To feel pain.

He'd have laughed about it, most likely. A bit later, he'd have acknowledged it was a reasonably fair compromise; for him and any other wretch that'd ever dared play dice with darkness and miraculously made it out alive.

And in the very end he'd come to laugh at himself, too.

He knows the drill. Someone who trades their own life with the contract of the highest bidder doesn't see the universe in black and white, let alone is in a position to draw the hypothetical line between the two of them.

Must be an even more wicked universe than he's ever cared about, then.

At least, that's where the struggle of opening his eyes made him stumble upon; when a blade of light thrust through that hint of a gap he'd pushed himself to create in the middle, resonating through the dark coils of unconsciousness like a harsh, unforgiving bell.

A skilled mariner over silky rivers of natural redundancy and rapids of professional edges, Ezra is a man who can appreciate a sharp wit when he recognizes one.

That was too much even for him.

Floundering in between a blinding whiteness and a black hole that wasn't even completely black, but permeated by a thick, suffocating haze that filled every ghost haunting his mind with its stench. With the color of diabolically lush leaves.

Forest— spores— poison— death.

It hadn't been enough to let him dangle in apnea above a roaring vortex of lifeless emerald; take him away from the grey flow whose elusiveness he'd come to appreciate more than he'd ever hated to endure its chaos— from the bubble built on the routine series of one last jobs that, in the end, never really were.

There'd been a moment when, from the higher parts of the room, his pupils tumbled down, tripping over a patch of green discreetly lurking in a corner.

He almost threw up.

It had taken him a while to clear out the misty grit clotted in his corneas— focus on white walls, light wood paneling... a harmless seedling in a pot.

He'd breathed heavily, deeply. He sure hadn't got much relief from it. Still, he'd been able to hear its sound, louder than he'd ever heard it before, the musical, cooling mesh of oxygen particles in and out of his lungs almost begging his fingers to be touched.

Oxygen.

Fresh air.

Had he been less sore – less convinced it was just the residual effects of anesthesia pulling pranks on him –, he would have burst out laughing. Even more so if some poor soul of the medical staff nearby would have called for reinforcements from the other side of the space station before storming into his room.

He'd be laughing now, too. The best he can manage is sitting on his bed, leaning his back on the headboard – which is what he's struggling to do right now— and well, sometimes the room lighting still slightly bothers him. Of course, with all the painkillers and antibiotics they've given him, he wouldn't feel like the wound on his stomach is swallowing the entire arsenal of stitches and bandages.

He just wouldn't like her to get the wrong idea.

He blinks several times, like a man who no longer trusts his eyes. How can he, when they're burning like that, in such a different fire from the one from days before – damp and flickering? For reasons he can imagine, she seems to be faltering. Totally beyond his comprehension, he could swear she's smiling at him. Something inside his ribcage creaks oddly, while the curve of his chest arches upward.

"Birdie."

It's just a huff of breath, weak and hoarse, yet scratches his throat all the same, in a way that its walls feel studded with rock spurs. Actually, Ezra doesn't remember talking since they left the Green behind – which, being him, is saying something – and it's like an eternity has passed since their pod docked up there.

The nurse who let her into his room has just left and Cee sinks her hands into the pockets of her sweatpants. She's still smiling— just the faded shadow of a smile, now that he takes a better look at her.

"How's your wound?"

It sounds a lot less plain than he expected.

She hasn't moved towards him any further, and for now she's not showing any hints at wanting to. In her irises, Ezra recognizes thumping stars and cerulean clouds, all clustered in the black circle cut by the large porthole next to his bed. All before catching the thin mist veiling them. As if she did want to reach those stars, let herself get carried away by those streams of bluish dust, but she had no idea how or what to do there.

He looks down, the borders of the bandages over his abdomen slightly raised under his black short-sleeved tee. He clears his throat.

"S'healin' nicely", he says, with a deliberate lightheartedness that costs him a sharp, bizarre inflection in his voice. He closes his eyes soon after, tilting his head condescendingly. "That's how the nurse feels about it, anyway... S'not like I can feel much more right now."

This reminds him of those vacuous moments between brief, chaotic waking states and delirious dreams. When he'd managed to reconnect some essential key points scattered around in the talks of surgeons and nurses; the weariness he felt from simply gathering he was on a space station due to enter the orbit of Mesos in three cycles and something standard hours. All while his only solid reference point – the only indisputable proof he was still alive – was the sequence of beeps chirped by the medical monitor perched nearby. Constant, not monotonous. Friendly, even. Sometimes, he actually comes to miss it.

"A trust fall to the extreme, I'd guess", he snorts, a sly laugh as weak and heavy as the words trudging out of his mouth. As the whole rest of him.

Whatever answer she's considering, Cee freezes it in a quick purse of her lips – maybe a nod, but for his own good he'd rather be doubtful. Then she starts looking around.

There's a chair under the board firmly anchored to the opposite wall – probably a desk or something he's never needed to test, whatsoever. She grabs it and puts it next to his bed. She sits down, bringing her legs to her chest, squeezing them in her arms.

Waiting for what, Ezra has no idea, and he's afraid she doesn't have any, either.

He doesn't speak, though, nor does he encourage her to do the same. Her pearly gaze roams steadily but unhurriedly from him to somewhere beyond him, her nose buried in the gap between her knees. He studies her carefully, two purple crescents above her cheeks, a few hair strands swinging down her face without her wiping them out. The nights she's slept through haven't been any more peaceful than his.

Trust, he recalls in the meantime.

It sure brings an odd taste to his mouth. Something close to sweaty spacesuits, grimy paths and gone-off ration bars. A single word for two human beings forced to share the same air filter for days; that, and the image of a dead body left to rot miles behind and the desperate commitment not to end up in the same way.

His gaze just happens to trip over his right side, taking in the deflated sleeve over the emptiness that saved his life. When he lifts it back to the girl, meeting her eyes just before they can flutter away, he realizes they were both looking at the same spot. And he realizes something else— something he's already understood, yet not quite.

There is no tube binding them now.

"Why d'you do it?", he mumbles a split second later, almost like somehow the thread of his question has immediately knotted to the one of his previous thought.

He huffs. He shouldn't even have asked her, in all honesty. Seeing her like this, at least he should have put it in another way, danced around it, it's not like he’s never been good at stalling, after all—

"Comin' back", Ezra says instead, and when he swallows, he mainly does it to send his heart back down his throat. If he'd died without being given the last chance to be this straightforward on this matter, he would have probably kicked his ass all the way to the other side. 

This time, Cee doesn't avoid his gaze. He shouldn't be surprised by how collected she looks, given the calmness she handled his infected arm with and then told him about when she used to slip into Jata Bhalu carcasses. But he can't help it when he thinks she can't be much older now than what she was then.

He watches her breathing in, wobbling her pupils here and there, seemingly considering his words. She's not afraid, not any more than what she seemed to be when she walked into his room. Maybe she's just better than him at playing pretend – but this, he can't tell whether it's more of a good than a bad thing. Especially for her.

One thing he can tell is that she's not the same girl who pointed a trembling gun at him before running away into the woods. He knows she's not afraid.

He knows...

So is it the hunter's instinct he has to blame if he feels she is?

"Guess I've seen too much death on that forsaken moon to just... turn my back on one I can help– one I can do something about."

If he was standing in front of an entire mountain crumbling down into the ocean, he wouldn't hear its sound. ‘Wouldn't even be the worst he deserves. She did hesitate before adding the last few words, but Ezra refuses to believe she did that because she was afraid of hurting him. He may be a wretch, but not a fool.

Kevva, for a man who's always managed to untwist himself from far tougher situations with the tangles of his tongue alone, he's sure having a deal of trouble – and he wishes he could put all the blame on his current physical condition.

There is no word he doesn't have to weigh carefully now, to prevent it from taking too sharp edges once out of his lips. He may float around it forever. But once he's let her go without saying anything, he'll hardly find the courage to look within himself again, more than after any other job that hardened his hands with calluses and tarnished his eyes with blood.

He doesn't know for sure. In fact, everything he was sure to know – about the turning direction of the universe and the one of the wheels in his head – has already collapsed in front of him, tracing a flaming tail. An unforgiving meteor following a trajectory far beyond his grasp.

He just knows silence scares him, in a way that a wrong word will never do again. It terrifies him. More than as a talkative person, as a castaway on a hostile moon for too many cycles to keep their count – with the only company of a mute. Silence is green; the green of the most poisonous pollen, lethal in his brain just like toxic spores enveloped in his lungs. The green of snake scales ready to stand and scratch his flesh until liquid crimson pours out of it.

And at the end of the day, this is the only fucking thing he can tell himself to know without having his guts churning and chest heaving a beat later.

"Stop looking at me like that."

It's more of an exhausted prayer than an annoyed remark. Ezra blinks, stunned by the sudden return from the shapeless stream of his thoughts.

"Like what?"

"Like you're looking for the words to thank me", Cee settles back into her chair and this time she lets one leg touch the floor, "Tell me you owe me, and you– you're sorry about what you did."

Ezra sniffles. "Would it be bad?" 

"No, it—". She closes her eyes for a moment, clenching her jaw. "Just no good", she breathes out, calmer.

And the discordant note in those words conjures up ghosts not yet vague enough for Ezra to be able to tolerate them without something twinging inside him— like a violent flutter of wings. Voices groping their way up ravels of compromises. Damon, deep in the forest. Himself, with the mercenaries in the Queen's Lair. Cee, days before that. After he—

She's right— those words she hasn't said yet, but whose shadow he feels looming every time he catches her wetting her lips.

Some things just can't be split evenly.

"This is not the Green", she states, suddenly more confident but no less exhausted. "If you're going to hang around just because you need to, once we reach Mesos¹ you'd better be on your way."

Ezra doesn't interrupt her. A faded echo starts making its way into his ears. A former prospecting partner, many years ago. An easy job on a forgettable Fringe moon.

Gems don't have an expiration date. Deals do. Strike 'em if you need to, get rid of them as soon as you can. Unless you care to dig a quicker way to your grave.

He didn't pay attention to it, then. He'd thought it was just the empty rhetoric prospectors drop absentmindedly to fill the time between an unrewarding digging and the next. All the more so under the rickety advice of a couple too many.

His eyes still wide open, hands shaky, he merely reciprocated the awkward bottle lift of his partner, whom he didn't know more than the meanders of that quarry. A toast to a faceless future – a nothingness still more reassuring than what was all around and behind them. Not to the darkness of the cave, basically unbreakable if only for the red halo thrown by the twinkles of sharp, sinister Prystines². Not even to the two poor bastards that had set out with them, ending up skewered a few hundred paces behind – one by mistake, the other to return the favor of saving him from the clutches of a furious Aiu³.

Like an idiot.

Several contracts later preventing him from missing a beat in front of similar hiccups, the logic of that statement no longer sounds so absurd to Ezra. Luckily for him, Cee understood it long before him.

"I was just lookin' for the words to tell ya you'll be better off without me—"

Half a truth. Half a heartbeat. After all, she isn't the only one of them who knows how to sell it.

He leans his head back against the headboard, eyes half-closed, a sly grin baring a couple of his upper teeth. It would almost be intimidating, except that the glint hitting them doesn't quite match the dying one in his eyes.

"—But you beat me to it", he finishes, and he sounds like he's about to fall asleep.

He slowly turns his head away, looks through the porthole. His gaze clutches to the passing asteroids outside, distant nebulae spraying the sidereal black with hues of purple, blue, red— then green, again. A climbing plant squeezing him from the inside, discomfort starts creeping on him an inch of his body – what's left of it – at a time.

He doesn't want her to think he's angry at her, and it's the only concrete foothold emerging from the fluid, magmatic chaos in his mind.

How could he be, when she came back to get him?

She didn't have to.

She doesn't have to be here, either...

"I'm sorry", she suddenly blurts out.

He meets her eyes again, a mix of bewilderment and disapproval shading his own. He shakes his head.

"Don't."

"I just—". She starts fiddling with the extra fabric created by the folds of her sweatpants. Then she sighs deeply. "I have no idea what I'm gonna do now."

He snorts. "Not that it's s'pposed to make you feel any better, but... neither do I."

He doesn't have a hazy helmet choking the glimmer in his eyes, an air filter breaking some frequencies in his voice— maybe just those making him sound sincere, while saving those trapping him into the swamp of self-loathing.

He was nothing but honest when he told her the rules of the game on the Green. When he openly admitted he was a killer, and when he assured her he wouldn't trade her for the Sater's Aurelac. And she's always seemed to believe him, maybe for that kind of desperate inertia that washes over people when they need something to cling to. Whatever the case, Ezra can only hope she wants to believe him now. But she doesn't speak, and for a moment his fear of not saying enough overcomes that of crossing her boundaries.

"But w—", he immediately bites his tongue, "—you still have three cycles to figure things out. Someone up here will be able to help you. Even so, please know you'll always have my most sincere gratitude."

The effort of lining up all those words and so few pauses to catch his breath casts a thick fog over his ears. His eyes suddenly hurt again and he finds himself squinting.

What happens next, he just records it, hardly managing to follow each cause-effect relationship. A series of events softly raining on him without making a noise, while he can quite imagine them to be way more prolonged in time. Cee leaning towards the lighting panel on the wall, sliding her finger counterclockwise, and the white coating the walls turning less painfully bright; her getting up, walking away, dwelling just before the door. "I'll come to check on you tomorrow", she says, sniffling.

She tilts her head, holding his gaze in her watery one for an agonizingly slow while – Please, don't ask me why.

He blinks once – Of course.

Then, the automatic door is once again engulfed by the wall, closing behind her with a metallic rustle.

Tomorrow.

His heart is taken by a spiraling jolt that leaves an empty cave behind. When it falls back into place, Ezra finds something has tripped in there, shapeless and quivering like the nucleus of a newborn star.

Hope, terror and everything that lies in between. 

___________________

NOTES:

1) Mesos — Invented planet. Its only raison d'être is that "mésos" in Greek means "middle" and my intent was to frame this story in a moment of transition (after those of movies) for both Ezra and Cee. 2) Prystines — Invented kind of crystals. They're implied to be huge, red and very sharp, thus endangering the path through the cave. 3) Aiu — Invented predator, ideally a big feline.

A/N:

Yeah, uhm... at this point, if someone was ever to give me any kind of feedback, constructive criticism or random thought, I think I'd just melt into a puddle for the attention alone. And to all those who came all the way down here, your bravery shall not be forgotten. ♥️✨

In my defense, it's (almost) all P**** P*****'s fault & of his habit of taking orphans under his wing from one planet to another.

I know people in the fandom generally tend to make Ezra and Cee go along straight away after the movie, so this will be a slightly different take on things, I guess... But even if I don't know if I'll keep this series going atm (life & maturity exam suck), a final reconciliation is definitely on the way. ;)

Oh, and any beta reader that should feel like helping me out for when I'll have the next chapters ready is warmly welcomed! My DMs are always open and I swear I don't bite! :3

[lazinesswrites]

WIP Wednesday

Hello! A few updates on They Say Love is a Journey:

The Document has now rounded 60k words, which I feel earns it a capital letter. There's a bunch of notes included in those 60k, but there's less and less notes, which leads me to:

Chapter 28 is mostly done, just one or two more scenes/moments to write + of course editing, though I've been doing some of that already.

Chapter 29 is also on the way now, with notes + some 'real' text

Chapter 30... who knows. I have some rough ideas/notes, but... Eh. (This will be the last chapter. Unless I decide to split 28 and/or 29, in which case 30 will still be the last, but will not be no. 30. But 30 is such a nice, round number...)

Not related to They Say, necessarily, but about writing: I've read/heard a lot of 'writing hacks' over the years, and one that sort of stuck with me (other that Neil Gaiman's "write!", but actually kinda related) is to. not stop writing. Obviously, sometimes you need a break or to do something else (like sleep. and eat. and other non-writing activities), but when you're writing, and you have the time, keep writing.

Okay, this got kinda long, so further explanation + examples under the cut.

For example: You're writing, it's going well, it's first draft, but you know where things are going, and the words are actually cooperating (I know, wonderful feeling when that happens!). But then there's a word you don't quite remember. Or you remember it, but in the wrong language. Or you think you need to check a thing in the source material, if it's fanfic you're writing. Or maybe you need to know when and where, exactly, the shower was invented.

Do. Not. Stop. Writing.

See, when you're just writing; putting one word after the other, you're in a creative mind-set. When you stop to fact-check or whatever, you bring yourself out of that and into a mind-set more focused on editing. And those are two entirely different processes! You can't do both at once! It's literally impossible! You can switch back and forth between the two (and sometimes you should!), you can even switch very quickly between the two. But you can't do both at once. And sometimes it can be hard to switch back to creative after you've already started editing.

What I do instead is, I put in a placeholder. Usually a * or two. Example: "Jace's parents were ** and Celine Herondale," - I don't remember the name of Jace's father (might've been James? I checked, it's Stephen) but stopping to google it would drag me out of the 'zone' or what you wanna call it, so I put **. From the context, it's clear what is missing, and I can search the document for ** so I can easily find it later (do be sure to do that, though, so you don't end up posting something with the placeholder still there).

I've heard people say you can write VT or something as your placeholder, and maybe with a short explanation in brackets: "Jace's parents were VT(google canon name) and Celine Herondale". VT is apparently a combination/order of letters that isn't often used in the English language, or something, which makes it easier to search for, since you don't have to sift though the actual words to find your placeholders.

Personally, I like ** better, because it's visually very different than the rest of the text so it's easy to find, and because I don't think I've ever actually used ** in a text as anything other than a placeholder. The brackets can still be a good idea though, or adding a comment or similar. Sometimes I'll also write the explanation between the *s: "Jace's parents were *dad's name* and Celine Herondale", though mostly I use that for when I remember a word in Danish but not English: "She added a *suppevisk* to the pot" (suppevisk= bundle of herbs you use when making soup/broth/stock). This means that I'll often just search for one * in my document, since both * and ** will show up then.

I actually use a similar system when I write by hand/in a notebook. Of course I can't search for the * the same way, but I'll find them when I type whatever it is up anyway, and if I figure out the word or whatever before I type it up, I'll just add a little sticky note or something.

So, yeah. TL;DR: Writing and editing are two different processes that you can't do at the same time (though you can switch between them) so often it will be easier to simply put a placeholder of some sort (i.e. **) and come back to it later, if there's a word you're missing or a fact you need to check.

[a-crimson-lion]

That new analysis is great, and I haven't even read that chapter! Personally, while I still dislike Bakugo, the things I'm hearing about 284 actually sound good to me--I feel like not only are his stans being annoying about it though, but those who dislike him *might* be being a little hard on him? Not YOU, of course Crimson, you did a great job keeping your analysis balanced, but I've been seeing people still hoping he dies and that doesn't feel right to me (1/2)

(2/2) Like it's not perfect, but he's getting there, y'know? If it's true, and he really is starting to see that he was an ass, I'm willing to finally give him a chance. I agree though that he also has to finally acknowledge the impact this had on Deku.

The State of the Fandom: Katsuki Bakugo

‘Kay, gotta keep this short so I don’t write another 4K essay out of nowhere. (Foreshadowing)

So first off, if you have no idea what @cjcroen1393 is talking about, check out the analysis here.

Second off, if you still haven’t read Chapter 284, check out the official VIZ translation here. New chapters are only free for the first three weeks after their debut, so make like an Ochako and get them savings!

Alright, now back to the subject at hand...

First off, while I appreciate the flattery, if I’m being completely honest, I’m still sort of skeptical because we just got Chapter 284, y’know? I wanna hold my breath, but I’ve already been through Bakugo’s Start Line, the Final Exams, and the Remedial Course Arc, three concrete moments that should have showcased Katsuki’s development and either came with conflicting results or were later debunked (Katsuki sticking to his original bull-headed strategy, Katsuki only working with Izuku as a last resort after stating he’d rather lose earlier, Katsuki saying not to look down on others and then looking down on the rest of UA due to a problem he inadvertently contributed to). But yeah, I’ll stick around and see what happens.

Honestly, I feel like 284 has a lot of opinions focused around Katsuki when you’re looking at him specifically. And no, I’m not talking about a direct AntiBaku vs BakuStan thing, that’s not what this is about. I can’t speak for all AntiBakus, obviously, but from the discourse I’ve seen, we’re all currently split into one of three categories:

Cautiously optimistic, willing to see how things play out.

Perpetually exhausted, nothing Katsuki says or does will make him worthy of atonement or redemption.

Kill him with fire, burn him at the steak, he’s worn out his usefulness.

I’m stuck between the first two categories, and the only reason I’m not in the third category (aside from Katsuki’s basic human right to live) is this:

A dead person can’t change. A dead person can’t suffer. Take that as you will.

And that’s not even discussing how the entire fandom is looking at things. Again, from what I’ve seen, the opinions split into three or four categories:

Look how far he’s come! (←The majority of fandom.)

Look how far he has to go… (←I am here. And maybe some AntiBakus.)

He AlWaYs CaReD!1! (←Cease your existence.)

I want to believe, but the narrative has taught me otherwise. (←The majority of AntiBakus.)

[‘Kay, this is where I’m cutting it off. Click “Read More” if you’re still awake.]

I’ve already said my piece on why the “HAC” take fills me with righteous fury, but let me see if I can explain it better with an analogy:

Let’s pretend for the moment that you’re a gold miner. Obviously, you’re looking for gold.

Your boss has you sent down into the mines to head into one of the more… frustrating caverns. Figuring you have nothing better to do, you get to work.

As you get into picking away at the rock in the search for gold, it takes you hours. And eventually, you stop striking bits and pieces and find a solid chunk of gold ore.

Now, your response can vary based on which of the categories you’re in.

If you’re in the “He’s come so far” camp, you are very excited to find this piece of gold.

If you’re with me in the “He’s still got a ways to go” camp, you remember that this chunk of gold ore doesn’t meet the quota. You still gotta dig.

And if you’re in the “HAC” camp, it’s essentially the same as walking back to the cavern entrance, digging down, and finding the quota of all the gold you need.

Sure, it seems like a good deal for most people, but you just wasted a long time getting to one good chunk when you could have dug down from the start. So what was the point of digging your own tunnel to begin with? That’s several hours, or even days of your life, you’re never getting back, because the cavern decided to be cheeky.

(Also, if you were in the "I don't wanna get my hopes up" camp, you've been digging through a pyrite vein and are skeptical.)

I hope that makes sense.

If it doesn’t, essentially the “HAC” line of thought feels cheap because it makes it seem like Katsuki was being needlessly extra from the start. If he always cared, why does he have to suicide bait? (Yeah I know y’all hear that too much but that doesn’t change the fact that it happened.) If he always cared, why does he have to even risk almost killing Izuku in the Battle Trial? If he always cared, why does he almost consider losing in the Final Exams? It just opens up a lot of holes.

I’m not gonna tell you to not be a fan of Katsuki or to not like him, because that isn’t realistic. Hell, if I shouldn’t have to justify why I don’t like him, you guys certainly don’t have to justify the opposite. But there has to be a sort of awareness that comes with either territory.

Because whether you like it or not, Katsuki HATED Izuku from Ch. 1 to getting kidnapped.

He saw Izuku as an OBSTACLE from Deku vs Kacchan 2 all the way to the OFA meeting in Ch. 257.

...and right now, Katsuki is finally, FINALLY recognizing Izuku as a person. A person who is in real f***ing danger and can’t bear the weight of the world on his shoulders. The extent remains to be seen, but what Hori has set up so far is really promising.

But that’s the thing: we’re still in the setup phase. I talked about this before in my last post, but right now we’re only in the third phase of Katsuki’s attitude. The “What The F*** Is Your Existence” phase lasted 116 chapters. The “I Can’t Let You Get Ahead Of Me” phase lasted 141 chapters. And the current phase, the “Why Don’t You Care About Yourself” phase, has only been going on for 27 or so chapters. And Katsuki only recently acknowledged that he bullied Izuku in a flashback somewhere in that time frame.

And the thing is, this doesn’t absolve Katsuki of anything. I still firmly believe Katsuki was being legitimate when he was talking about hunting down Tomura and using Izuku as bait, because that competitive side of him is DYING, not DEAD. And Katsuki still has yet to address the issue in his relationship with Izuku beyond internal and external monologues to people who are decidedly not Izuku, though there’s a high chance of that changing in Chapter 285. And the thing is, all Katsuki recognized is that Izuku’s inherent selflessness made him uneasy, and that was the main reason he bullied him. He still has yet to realize that he is a direct contributor to Izuku’s selflessness being warped into hardcore martyrdom. In his acts of beating Izuku, he lessened his self-worth and thus, made him believe his life was worth giving up. We still got stepping stones to cross, and while Katsuki’s making progress, he’s not across the creek yet.

...and while I’ve personally given up all hope of viewing Katsuki’s redemption in a satisfying light, I am hoping that Hori gets it right for the rest of you.

Thanks for reading.

-Crimson Lion (22 September 2020)

[dyker-farmer]

Ok this was supposed to be a quick draw and a description to go with, that blew into a full chapter and now it's also on Ao3 SO happy reading ig idk

I never see Shane works that don't go all in for romance nor explore the more realistic ugly parts of recovery, and I kind of crave That TM. So let me have at it too with the self-insert whump mumbo jumbo; no romo version.

Set post-8 hearts event, Farmer Uidelsib is two years or so in, full house built and married to Emily. They/them pronouns, same as me.

Diverges from then on, Shane-centric from an outside POV for the most part.

[[MORE]]

Take that can away if you can.

Gulp it down. Chapter 1/2/3/4

There's a few to-know to survive life in society, in the valley; there's no good way to comment on the age nor weight of both resident housewives, you can't say no to Evelyn's homemade cookies- and why would you, you fool-, you do not fight at the Saloon or you'll get no cheese anymore on your pizza and only sparkling water for drinks, and-

And you don't mess with Shane's alcohol related ritual.

Except I did, that night, because you do that, when your two-years long friendship with the guy taught you better than letting his impulses overcome yours, when your buddy is trying to recover from teenage long-lasting into early adulthood, trauma-enhanced heavy addiction, and you know, you know tomorrow he'll feel like absolute shit and question his right to therapy the moment he'll stop his pounding skull from splitting. Wonders what a three-dosage paracetamol can do. 

At least he doesn't drink it out anymore.

So yeah, when you're in my shoes, you get that Joja store-bought crap out of Shane's hand, and you brace yourself for the incoming lash out.

The first fractions of seconds are always those to look closely into most. It's only a glimpse, but before the scowl slips on like a well-worn boxing glove ready to strike, there is always this open page I learned I needed to decipher as quick as I could.

Tonight, it's heartbreaking. When I peck his forehead- doting big sibling habits die hard, even when you're actually the youngest of the pair- the eyes I catch looking at me are so confused and bare of any emotion, except for the sorrow that goes beer-soaked tears, it pangs. I get used to the breakdowns, working in the fields I do when I'm off the farm's, but it's not the same when it's a friend.

When I straighten back, offensive beverage in hand, it's already gone in a flinch, away from the empty space behind the chair and onto the table, as he snarls.

"Wha- giv'me back- 's mine!" I don't know how much he drunk before he met up with me, but from the slurring, it's a Lot. A season and a half into sobriety. That's harsh.

I ignore him and walk behind him, pondering where to put the beer for now.

"Y-you can't just do that! It's my booze I got with m'money, not some- who d'you think you are?-" He sputters indignantly, angry tears fewer than the sad ones but still there. He tries to turn around and grab behind his back, but the wild movement is way off and only gets the chair to nearly topples down. I rush in time to stabilize it, and profit off the moment to set a strong hand on his shoulder.

"I can just do that, 'cus it's my house I got with my money, and I think I'm your pal who knows when you've had enough. Dude, I trust you to be an adult, but minutes before, you were already so torched I had to keep your neck upright so you didn't faceplant into the table, and you nearly just kissed my floor good evening. Not to mention you clung to my arms the whole way from the little entry stairs to the kitchen because, quoting, 'If I don't I'll fall in the hole and won't get up'."

I turn to the fridge again, going to open it, before I think better of it. Likely enough, we'll both forget it was there in the first place, it'll stink up my fridge- it's Joja's- and it'll be money out of Shane's pocket for nothing. I set it on the counter, with the rest of the pack. He'll put it to cool down when he's back to Marnie's. Or he won't, probably. 

That's not a worry for now.

When I caught up with him, it was a few feet below my doorstep; he'd probably slipped up trying to climb the three steps up to it, and settled for it. He was nursing that same can, muttering to himself, head down, curled up on himself. Except for that leg sticked out, he probably hurt it when he fell, I'll have to look at that and work on it if it's too swollen. Hopefully that'll spare us from a visit to Harvey's.

Bad memories. Not mine, and it's warm and not raining outside, but. Déjà-vu.

Anyways, he looked the picture of "help I've fallen and I can't get up- and even if I can I won't because Fuck You", and it's been a hassle to have him cooperate. But when I asked if he wanted to leave, he shook his head with a fervor no somnolent drunk should have. That resulted in a lovely streak of vomit down the wall right next to the door. That's also for later. If Eryza doesn't lap it up. Ew. This cat's never predictable.

Now, he's staring at his hands, sitting at my table, contemplating something too far down for me to see- or maybe just zoning out with a sleeping brain. Then he mumbles. "Sorry."

I get back to the table and sit at arm's length across of him. "Nah, 's okay. I don't mind being a helping hand or touchy-feely, must be the frog-eater in me. Not for the helping part." I'd chuckle but my quip falls on deaf ears.

I go to put my hand over his. When he doesn't blink at it, I try and shake a reply out of him, gently. He startles and hawkeyes our joined fingers. When he's finally looking at me, I raise a single eyebrow. He doesn't say anything, but when he pulls back his arm, I let him. We both straighten up, and it's hard to keep up the eye contact.

"So…" There's a heavy air on us. Suddenly, like the last year didn't happen, we're sitting a stride away of each other, and yet it feels like he's all the way back to the forest, looking down at waves.

"Do you want me to do something?" I bend myself a little closer to him, not moving otherwise.

He puts his head in his hands, shivering. Can't tell if it's the AC or his system kicking the alcohol out, or itself, in stress. I think I hear something, but it might as just be his shuddering breath.

"Shane" I insist, voice level, not pressing. "I need words. I want to help, I truly don't mind, but I need words to know what to do." He's never shown signs of going nonverbal before. If he does, I'll improvise. Until then… I need words.

Time ticks slowly as we wait. Then, with great effort and deep fatigue, he drags his palms up from under his nose to his temple, spreading some snot and wet tears across his face from his scrunched shut eyes. Lips trembling but finally showing, that attempt to let out a sound that's not too garbled. He coughs, sniffles a bit, breathe in again, sounding like a sick dog, and blows through gritted teeth before his jaws go slack. Eyes still closed, he whispers, and I have to lower myself some more toward his crouched form to catch it.

"Can I get something to drink…?" His voice is hoarse.

The demand could be comical, if we were into sour humor. And we usually are. But right now, we're not finding the joke in the lines. I stand silently, and as I walk to the fridge again, I let my hand brush his shoulder- same spot as before.

I take a minute to choose, look into the pantry. When I'm back at the table with my items of choice, he's still sitting there, his cheek is cushioned on his arms, face hidden from view. His shoulder, except for the occasional tremor, rise and fall in rythm with his snores. Breaks my heart to interrupt that, but not really. Hangovers are mean bitches with the sharpest nail art on the blackest of boards.

"Psst, dude. C'mon." I rustle his hair backward. He hates when I do that, says it tickles, and it makes him sneeze. So I obligatory do it once a day if I can. Let's say today's my late quota for the last four days I haven't seen him.

He gruffly tells me to kindly refrain from such pleasantries, and raise bleary eyes back up at the table. I can also guess he tried to bat a hand at me, but his coordination is off and he slaps himself lightly on the ear. Then he glares bewildered at his hand for a few seconds, obviously insulted. I profit of this moment to grab a small basin from under the sink, on second thought.

When he brings his attention back to me, I'm sitting again. Between us, a jug of fresh milk from this morning, a small sack of peppers, and a juice carafe sit aside a green glass bottle. There's also some bread, mostly for me to munch on. Because, hmmm dough. He squints at it all, especially at the bottle. Probably trying to read the label.

"Yeah no, didn't get you one of my best wine, not sorry."

"Hot pepper… juice?" He looks at the actual peppers next to it. "With actual peppers?" And then I get the squint too.

"Hmph, I know you like your elongated hell tomatoes, man, what can i say."

At that, a feeble snort.

I decide that it is the highlight victory of my soirée.

"Welp, have at it." I gesture to the half-liter liquor glass right by his left.

He fumbles with the drinks and some splashes around, but I lay back on my chair, arms crossed, letting him do his thing. While I don't hold back from growing downright doting on him when I got to- or even when I don't- I don't see how more devotion right now would be not smothering. He can break my fancy glass cups if he wants and spill my milk, so long he doesn't cut himself or cry over it.

Now, you could be thinking that plain water would have done the trick just fine, if not better, in rehydrating him. Here's the thing, though; going from booze to tasteless liquid, for Shane, that's a sure way to puking his heart out. And I'd rather not have us deal with an acid bile throat burn on top of near alcohol poisoning. Sorry to not spare you the squeamish details, but his oesophagus is pretty sensitive ever since that stomach pumping back at the clinic. Hot fiery hell fruits he can do just fine, with relative moderation and hydratation- hence the milk and juice- but liquor bursting its way back from his guts? Nuh uh. 

It had taken lots of coaxing, but he'd explained the plain tastes, or lackthereof, were very hard for him to deal with, especially when contrasting with strong ones like beers and whiskeys. I'd shackle it to gustative hypostimulation, but I don't know enough about him that way to say. He'd said sparkling water was a good compromise.

But I don't have sparkling water, because I do not like suffering.

I might buy a pack for when he visits though.

And I do know a handful about him already. Shackle that to perceptiveness and a stubborn streak on top of a year and so long camaraderie.

And having a certain uncontrollable fear of failing to act quick the next time coped with by accumulating information and patterns compulsively.

I shake my head to focus on the present again. He's switched from juices to soaking bread in milk to eat it small portion after small portion. He pauses in mid-bite when he catches me staring. He's still hunched on himself and red-faced and a tad bloated. His cheeks are drying and he's blown his nose. I smile calmly. Worst of the storm passed, unless I screw up and blow it.

"Ywou wan' chom'?" He offers a dripping piece of bread. In moments like this, when he's sobering but not quite, the resemblance with Jas are unmistakable. The glint in his reddened eyes that open wide, and his blank-but-not-quite wondering expression, it's all here to paint a scrutinizing but vulnerable picture of tired but bright minds.

"Nah thanks. You done with that milk?"

"...Sure." He eyes it, wary. He knows where this is going, and he doesn't like it. I take the drink off the table, and his gaze follows my movement until I bring it to my lips.

He frowns. A silent warning. 

And as I lock onto him with a dead stare, not blinking a millisecond, I down the rest of the 2 liters jug in three, five gulps. I even take the time to lick my new mustache away, and close my mouth with a click of my tongue.

His expression is the macabre marriage of beffudled horror and pure affliction, disgust if you will. The face of someone who doesn't hate milk, but has grown out of it enough to not be able to live off the stuff like the brave souls I'm apart of. And probably with reason, as I actually can't, like most 20+ years old, digest the liquid in large amount. But I smile like a smug cat, perfectly content.

Cats really can't digest milk once adults, it's all social mythos.

We silently judge and fuck with each other like that for a while more, as more time passes, until the room's elephant gets it all humid with its prancing around. Enough that tears and nervous sweats start again, for no apparent reasons but the residual anxiety from the whole chain of events that led to this.

"I think we should talk about this."

--- to be continued.