#never mind that i choose to write that suffering‚ more often than not

[maelstrom-of-emotions]

Fluffy, Wangxian fic idea. (For Once)

So, this was inspired by the text post I made yesterday for the Wangxian family—one, I'm pretty sure someone already did, but unashamedly did anyway; you can never have too much Wangxian, after all, as the saying goes—and it was sitting in the well-worn (and sometimes, loved) backseat of my mind for a while and then I was watching Bluey before bed, and it set the ember aglow. 

I wanted to cocoon Wangxian in warmth, for once. Something soft and tender, this time around. And I was like, hey, can I turn this text post into something of a mini fic? Can this be something more? So I shot a text to @xiaokuer-schmetterling and just like that, the idea took flight.  @xiaokuer-schmetterling, enabler of dreams (and unhinged ideas), king among mortals, fueled the fire with unwavering encouragement, and now, here it is—no longer a fleeting thought but something tangible, something that breathes.

Modern Wangxian AU which starts Lan Wangji being tackle-hugged by his family, laughing and golden in the sunlight. Feeling so impossibly grateful like the sappy man he is, where the gods feel close and love is as simple as reaching out a hand and finding one reaching back. Content. Loved. Happy. And he stumbles through the door and finds the walls - gleaming and shining - decorated with tiny little handprints all in different colors, a chaotic mural of sorts. 

“Why are there little handprints on the walls?” Lan Wangji asks, because, with Wei Wuxian, it could be anything. And it usually, is how trouble — though, a far more fonder, softer version of the word — begins.

His Wei Ying shrugs, before kneeling down to a-Yuan, who looks terribly shy and so unfathomably adorable in his little light-up sneakers and white, bunny jacket (with floppy bunny ears on the hood) and wringing his little hands together. He is so small, so precious, Lan Zhan wishes he could carry him around in his pocket always. There is a reason two pockets were invented for coat jackets, after all — one for his husband and one for his son. 

a-Yuan nervously wrings his hands tighter,  but Wei Ying’s voice is gentle and pretty, unbearably so, even as he whispers, “Why are there little handprints on the walls?”

It is a stage whisper. Lan Wangji hears it as clear as a crisp, summer day, but Lan Wangji is used to the (endearing) antics of his husband, and so he plays along, as he always does. Fondly. 

a-Yuan, who only months ago had been a trembling thing, skittish and afraid, peeks up at Wei Ying, solemn as the moon. “Because I have little hands.” And he lifts them, as if in proof. 

Wei Ying nods at them, equally grave. He rises, and a-Yuan immediately rushes to cling to his pant leg. Wei Ying ruffles his hair, soft from yesterday’s bath, still carrying the faint scent of calendula. Then, his voice still as grave as it was before, he turns to Lan Wangji. “Because he has little hands.”

a-Yuan raises them again, this time, to show Lan Wangji. 

Lan Wangji looks at them, serious, thoughtful. “Mn,” he says at last. A slow smile unfurls across his lips. He nods his head at the handprints. “Well. They look lonely.”

And so they add their own. Hands dipped in paint, pressed against the walls, an unspoken promise sealed in color. This is not just play—this is permanence, a claim, a declaration. A home built not of bricks and beams, but of belonging.

And later, when the night quiets, when A-Yuan sleeps safe and small beneath the covers, his hands no longer trembling, Wei Ying will turn to him, eyes too bright, too full, and Lan Wangji will understand, as he always does.

This is it. This is the moment.

For a-Yuan, who once flinched at raised voices and curled in on himself when the world seemed too big, who now paints walls with fearless little hands and tugs at Lan Wangji’s sleeve with the easy, thoughtless trust of a child who knows they will be caught. For a boy who had known only instability, who had been shuffled from house to house with no roots to anchor him—this is proof that he is wanted. That he can take up space without fear. That his existence does not come with conditions.

For Wei Wuxian, who had taken one look at a bright-eyed boy chasing a bunny plush across a too-crowded orphanage and felt something crack wide open in his chest, an instinct, something older than words—this is devastation of the best kind. This is undoing and remaking. This is ensuring that no other child suffers a hollowed-out boyhood the way he did. This is his heart, raw and aching, spilling over with love too vast to contain. With so many people to give it to. 

For Lan Wangji, who will be there, always. Who will feed the ducks because Wei Ying asks him to, who will wear hideous sweaters because Wei Ying knits them, who will stare down anyone who dares to scoff at Wei Ying’s art—and make sure they never do it again. To Lan Wangji, this is everything. He had known, from that fateful day in the park, when Wei Ying knelt and reached out a hand, that their guest room would never be a guest room again. That his uncle would be a great-uncle. That he would love this child as his own, with all that he is, with all that he will ever be.

If fate was a loom, perhaps a younger Lan Wangji would have woven himself a quieter life. A simple, unobtrusive thread, neat and pale. But this thread was spun golden, and it glittered in the sun, bright and unashamed. And Lan Wangji—

Lan Wangji has always reached for the light.

I feel like I get more incoherent with every post I make, for some reason. Lemme know what you think!

@xiaokuer-schmetterling, @undercover-stories, @sun-ashes, I am suffering. This is my 117th W.I.P. Grace me with some of your holy wisdom. Have mercy on the child. :((((

[stargirl-writes]

through your eyes

pairing : librarian! reader x artist! anakin skywalker

word count : 2.7k

masterlist | ao3 link

summary

you'd find every book there is in search of a world you can get lost in. you thought you weren't really special enough to pursue an adventure for yourself. when one day, you notice a certain jedi spend a lot of time in your quiet library. strange— how he'd choose to sit in solitude when he can be pursuing a more colorful life outside, even stranger, is how he shows you a portrait he drew of you.

tags : fluff, romance, comfort, maybe a bit of angst(?), but it's a happy fic i promise!

warnings : none(!)

notes : hello angels! i REALLY needed to write a lover-boy-anakin for my sanity and this came to me because of this blog and watching 'the portrait of a lady on fire' because i just love how artists love. so if you're in for a tooth-aching soft fluffy ani fic, i gotchu!

likes, comments, and reblogs are highly appreciated!

There is nothing more magical than the worlds you escape in reading for hours.

You can become an adventurer, seeking a great legend, or a fighter, ready to give your life for a cause, or a witch, enchanting villages to heal, or something useful, like a staple gun, or in love.

It would always take you away from the realities of your world. A galactic war, you grieve at night for; because you're you. And you're only the librarian in the capital city of Coruscant.

Besides, there's the Jedi Order and the Republic to fight the war. All there's left for you is to wait, and cry silently, and try to live despite it all.

You close the book you were holding, it was the last installation of the novel you were following. Towards the end, the female lead finally achieved her life's purpose— a happy ending.

It left you feeling empty, jealous even. Because she got to live a life worth hurting for— a sweet fervor. At least her suffering is met by an ending she deserves.

With a sigh, you got up and placed the book neatly on the bookshelf. The library was quiet, like it usually is. No one seems to take interest in thousands of stories waiting to be unravelled.

Maybe, they're actually living a life worth telling a story for. And you're here, stuck, looking for anything to take you off your own reality.

You heard a chair creak from a distance. You perk your head up, trying to find the source of the sound.

A lone man sat, holding what looked like a book in his hand. He was wearing robes you could recognize were of the Jedi's. Strange, a Jedi reading, even stranger, he was holding something, a pencil or a pen, and he was writing down in his book.

As the librarian, you wanted to come up and ask him if there was anything you could help him with. Half-hoping to hear what type of books he was interested in. But his eyes were focused and intent, like he was really immersed, and you thought it best not to disturb him.

So you left him to his business. It was already late, and your energy is already depleted from finishing your book.

The following days were identical. Arranging books, cleaning shelves, helping a few readers find their books.

The Jedi you once saw that night became ever-more present. You wanted to ask what he was reading, must be something good if he's willing to sit down and go through it rather than pursue colorful adventures as a Jedi.

You were finishing the inventory one night when you curiously peeked over the Jedi. His eyes caught yours and you looked away, embarrassed to have been so shamefully staring.

But then, your curiosity overcomes your embarrassment, so you walk up the Jedi.

"I can't help but notice you come here often" You began, trying your best to conceal your excitement. You wanted to know what he was reading, you needed some place to take your mind off.

"Oh?" He looks up, closing his book.

The cover didn't have a title, and you frowned at the let down.

"Well, I've never seen a Jedi actively want to read before" You commented, earning a chuckle from him.

"May I ask what you're reading?" You blurt out.

You could feel his gaze land on you and you suddenly feel conscious of being subjected to his attention.

He shakes his head with a lighthearted smile, and tucks his book to his robes.

"No, I'm sorry, It's not a book" He answers.

Seeming to read the visible disappointment in your face, he brings the book on the table again.

"Then what is it?"

"I draw, sometimes" He answers, handing you his journal, you turn the page revealing his sketch of the architecture of the library, it was elaborate, sharp lines that capture the symmetry of the columns, darker shades where there is no light.

Your eyes land on another sketch, a mech-droid. He even has a deconstructed version beside it like he had been studying how to operate it.

You turn another page, and you recognize a woman, Madame Jocasta, the librarian for the Jedi Library.

"These are really well done." You commented. "Are you a mechanic?" You asked, finding another elaborate deconstruction of a lightsaber.

"Yeah, you can say" He answers with a smile. "But I'm a Jedi knight, I'm only drawing what interests me"

"Why come to the library then?" You asked, turning to the last few pages, and to your surprise, you saw a sketch of the night you finished a novel you were reading.

Your cheeks were painted scarlet— following the lines he used to capture your visible dismay. You look up, stuck between being flattered and feeling embarassed.

"I meant to give you that" He scratches the back of his head.

You shake your head, deciding it was an innocent act to observe and draw what he sees. "Well, you got my nose wrong" You tease.

He chuckles, as if he's relieved by your positive reaction.

You dared turn another page and find another portrait of you, you recognize that it had been the day when you were explaining the metaphor used in your favorite classical tale of a boy who's got too much in his ego, it ended up being his downfall.

The Jedi didn't fail to capture the Twilek's reaction to your rambling and you laughed at the picture.

"I think she just wasn't ready to hear the tale of a boy who got too close to the sun" You explained the reason for the Twilek's expression on the portrait.

"I don't understand why it'd be a tragedy, Icarus was smiling when he fell" The Jedi speaks, and your heart skips a beat. He knows the story, you fought the excitement to urge him to expand on his thought.

"You know the story?"

"Ah, my mother used to tell me a lot" He answers. "She told me that he knew exactly what it'd mean if he went too far"

"And you think he was happy when he fell?" You inquired, curious by his optimistic view.

"I think he finally achieved his life's purpose" His lips curl to a smile.

For a moment, you held your breath, perplexed by how he interpreted such a tragic end.

You caught him looking, and you stripped your gaze away, closing his journal and handing it back to him.

You hoped that you've not made him feel embarrassed to not want to come again. The way he gave a fresh view on your favorite tale made you want to hear what he has to say.

"Well, if you're interested in drawing, I'm always here" You invited.

His eyebrows flash. "In that case, I swear I'll never bore the way that Twilek did. You can tell me all the stories you can"

Your heart skips and you can't help but smile at the thought.

"My name's Anakin"

"[Name]"

Anakin became more apparent to your life.

With your permission, he finally was able to study you, his eyes would narrow in focus, trying to replicate what he sees and how he sees you using a pencil, and you, reading stories and tales out loud.

In the beginning, you felt squirmish. He was really intent on looking at you, seeing you. No one else has quite looked at you the way he does. and you felt like every insecurity of yours was brought up front.

It felt like undressing; you thought, if he sees too closely, and unmasks you, will there be anything underneath? You felt like you were too mundane for him to look at you the way he does.

"And towards the end, she'd settle for a quiet life. She'd have lain on the ground he'd walk on, and this was a life she could see herself in" You finished the tale.

Anakin's eyebrows furrowed, showing dislike for the ending. "That can't be her end" He states his opinion.

You put down the book, happy that he was thinking the same as you. "Why do you say?" You encouraged him to speak more.

He doesn't stop looking up and down from you to his sketch. "She was an traveller, she wanted to sail" He recalled the synopsis.

"She was in love, it made her have different priorities" You considered the point the author made.

His hand halts, and his eyes land on yours. "If he truly loved her, he would have allowed her to become a fully realized person. He'd not have asked her to extinguish her fire" He looks up, as if in thought. "If he loved her, being near her fire would have been enough"

You smiled, surprised to learn that Anakin had been such a romantic.

"Well, what do I know, I've never been in love" You shrugged.

You look up to find Anakin's expression soften. You wondered what he was thinking of in this very moment.

"It's done" He says after a while.

He shows the portrait, and immediately, you see how unkept your hair looked. Then, how he deliberately emphasizes the creases of your cheeks when you smile and how he erased a portion in your eyes to make them appear as though it twinkled with light.

"You don't like it?" He says after noting your reaction.

"No, no, it's lovely" You answered. Though, you felt like it was too pretty, too idealized. Perhaps, he was seeing you in a manner you can't, for better or for worse, you don't know.

He nods, you can see his reluctance to ask what you thought, then you mentally slapped yourself for forgetting he can sense, and he definitely got what you'd been feeling.

The following afternoons went like that. You freely speaking your mind and him carefully sketching, listening.

For the first time, you don't feel like there is a need to escape your world anymore. You wake up, filled with stories you wanted to tell Anakin. Your heart would skip every time you hear the bells of the library door ring. Or when you'd catch Anakin so deep in focus, as if he was committing you to memory, and over time, his sketches of you became more honest, he'd sketch your insecurities with charming strokes, and you don't feel as though you have to hide them around him. He looks at you and sees art. It felt like the most comforting thing.

"But that was the test, he needed to trust that she'll walk behind him, he has to decide that it would be enough" You challenged his view one time you finished reading a tale of two lovers, Orpheus and Eurydice.

He has finished drawing and put down his journal to engage with your opinions.

"Can you really blame him? The Gods were playing with his doubts" He defends.

"Right, he did walk to hell for her" You considered.

"But isn't that what makes it so tragic— they could have made it out, they were so close" You grieved, because despite knowing the ending, you still hope that somehow, they'd find a way to crawl out of hell. Enduring love like that earns an ending that is deserved.

"Orpheus was only a man. He chose to look at her, one more time. He knew if he did, he'd lose her. And he did. It's a choice not of a lover, but of a poet" He concludes, and you thaw.

You'd still find yourself mesmerized by his mind. The way he sees things, the gentleness that comes, not because of the absence of violence, he knows too much of it in the war, but because despite the abundance, he remains tender.

You don't know when you started falling in love with Anakin. You only know that he'd be the story that'll last for your lifetime.

Anakin hands you the portrait. And you smiled at the expression he chose to immortalize. One of when you're almost brought to tears narrating how Eurydice was always behind Orpheus despite him never hearing her.

"I wish I looked this pretty when I cry" You commented, tracing over the lines of his sketch of you.

You felt Anakin tuck a loose strand of hair to your ear. He was looking at you with the same focus, the same wonder, same fascination.

You've grown so used to his gaze, it felt like you were communicating something that can't be expressed into words.

"If you see yourself the way I do now, you'd never doubt my sketches" He softly speaks.

"You're beautiful"

His words latched to your heart.

Anakin is the most dream-like of all; sometimes he feels like a mere character of a novel incarnated into an etheric being.

Anakin held your face, and in the heat of the moment, you pressed your lips against his.

You thought, if anyone else can feel how he makes you feel, they'd never doubt that true love exists.

The understanding you craved for— he gave you most ardently.

Saying 'I love you' came easy. Sometimes, you feel as though saying it would not suffice for how enormously you felt for him.

Your afternoons became late nights, and early mornings. Anakin would ask you to stop smiling, so he could draw you in honesty, but how could you not? You loved the way he'd be so immersed, so lost by gazing at you.

It was a bliss you've only known with Anakin.

But you watched how slowly, he was becoming more and more tense. You're not fighting the war the way he was, being a General, wielding a weapon at the front lines.

He'd rip away pages in frustration, and though you try to soothe the tension and pressure, you're afraid that this story will end in a tragedy.

All your favorite romances leave you feeling hollow towards the sad ending. And with Anakin, you keep being haunted by the thought that any moment might be the last.

What an odd plot to be involved in; loving and being deathly terrified of losing it.

You wrapped yourself in his robes— wishing the feeling to stop plaguing you. Anakin had been asleep, and you stood by the balcony, deep in thought.

You tuck your hands in your pockets, feeling your fingers grow cold by the crisp midnight air.

A piece of paper crumples, and you unfold the portrait.

It was the night you first shared yourself with Anakin. Your mind is flooded by the memory; how he made sure you felt comfortable, how he took every moment slowly like the world outside didn't matter.

You didn't know he drew you, or that he kept it in his pockets. It was strange— to see the picture he loved most was one where you were sleeping. You tuck the paper back inside and go back to bed.

He's gone most of the days now. But you can tell he's making the effort to stay awake when he'd come to your quarters.

"—Love is not an everlasting performance in which you have to attempt to keep your lover's attention. Rather, it's the release of insecurity to trust them to choose to stay, no matter what they see" You narrated softly, thinking Anakin had fallen asleep.

You planted a kiss on his forehead.

"I don't think I've heard this story before" He speaks up after a while.

"No, you haven't" You managed a wan smile. "I wrote it"

Anakin was looking at you the way he used to before. Your heart ached, but you proceeded. "I love you with what in me is unfinished, with what in me remains changing. By you, I am forever undone."

Anakin holds you tight.

"Do you think it'll have a happy ending?" You spoke nakedly.

"Not all stories end in tragedy, my love" He reassures.

You bit your lip "We'll have to conquer the fates, it's been written so many times, a cruel ending" You can't entirely let your fears go.

"Fate gave you to me"

"If by some twist, we end in tragedy, then I am happy to have loved you" He says.

You let out an exhale. There was the simple truth of it; that all things must go, even Anakin. And like him, you felt as though you were blessed to even share a portion of your life with him. Loving is never a waste, even just for the brief time you're allowed in one lifetime. You decided it would be enough for you.

In his arms, it felt like you're unravelling a story that may have a happy ending after all.

[cthulhus-curse]

Since it's pretty much Canon that Rio's The Father, do you think she (before she knew what would happen) enjoyed having Agatha carry her child? I feel like she'd be somewhat anxious, like yes her wife is gorgeous and just the sight of her has Rio practically drooling, but she's walking on uneven ground, and what if she's cold, and is she eating enough? Just... Rio fussing over Agatha, whose primary concern is getting some god forsaken sleep.

Rio knows better than anyone that life is so so fragile, and now there are two lives she cares for. She's watched over all lives to ever happen but never as a parent. She's a bit freaked out and overprotective of her two favorite mortals.

-🦝

Rio experiencing anxiety for the first time when Agatha gets pregnant would be such an interesting concept to write about and I am so glad you brought it up! She would definitely try to intervene here and there, ensuring that Agatha does not end up suffering throughout the pregnancy. Rio would stick to her like glue, and although Agatha does not let her live it down, always teasing the green witch, it doesn't matter. Not if it helps keep her beloved safe. Agatha leaves her sights for half-a-second and Rio is already hyperventilating and running off to find Agatha, who probably just went to lay in bed.

I also think that while Rio cannot particularly meddle in who dies/doesn't, she would lure witches to Agatha. The pregnancy, in my mind, would take a lot of her power. So she would need to feed off of other witches' magic more often. Rio knows it's wrong, that her job is to reap the souls of those who pass, not choose who does or doesn't. But it's not the first or last time she bends the rules for Agatha. Even if it kills her with humanity little by little.

[citrusandrottefruit]

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Some thoughts on this

My thoughts on the Hanahaki fic:

I think the whole idea of ​​Hanahaki is really interesting and can be quite romantic in a tragic way, but I also think a lot about how horrible it is and the potential for it to end badly even when it's about reciprocated love. I think Hanahaki itself could be explored so much more in so many ways, but it often becomes so secondary, even though it's the theme of the fic.

How could anyone focus more on the fact that they're in love than on what that love has caused? Why don't these people try to confess early on, when they're still relatively okay? Some characters are so quick to choose to die without knowing for sure.

Hanahaki is horrible, but it’s usually portrayed as being horrible for the cause, not for itself. The suffering of dying, of feeling the slow decline of one’s own body, is understated, I think.

Another thing I was also thinking about is how stories about sick people end in miracle or tragedy. I don’t like that. Why can’t a sick person have something good that will last? Why can’t they be happy? Why does happiness have to be fleeting and end in death? Or a miracle? Why is it always about transforming other people’s lives?

People don’t have to be healthy to be happy. Health can be an important part of that, but it’s not an option for many people. Finding moments of happiness, joy, satisfaction, and pride should still be possible. And that’s not about making a bucket list and skydiving.

With that in mind, I wanted to write about a moment in the life of someone with Hanahaki, like a chronic illness. Just a moment. It’s not when Steve was diagnosed and had to learn to accept the fact that he wasn’t healthy, it’s not that moment in illness when the decline is so rapid that you run out of options. It’s just a moment in his life, where everything is influenced by the illness, but the big thing isn’t the illness itself. It’s him falling in love and deciding to open up to the family he found.

Also, since most Hanahaki fics have as their main themes poor communication and romantic love triggering the disease, I wanted to do something different.

Hanahaki is not something magical here that can happen to anyone (if it could, it would be much more common), it is simply a genetic disease that is triggered by emotional distress and starts to fill the person's lungs with something that looks like roots (what is that? I don't know. Some kind of cartilage hyperplasia that doesn't directly affect the joints, but causes a lot of cartilage to spontaneously grow around the lungs, maybe).

So, I decided that here Steve recognizes the importance of communication and does something about it, telling everyone who matters about what Hanahaki is really like. And Eddie, who would normally be the cause of Hanahaki, is not. He is simply someone Steve has started to love, who will not be the main cause of his suffering.

In this case, it's also easier for him to confess, because he doesn't have to say, "Hey, Eddie, if you don't like me, I'm going to die, because you made me sick." Technically, he would just have to say, "Hey, Eddie, I'm sick, love me, because loving and taking care of me will help me survive longer." But he didn't say any of that. He talked about himself, about his parents, and about his illness.

Because he wants to be loved, he wants to have a family, but he could never live in peace with himself if he didn't make it very clear what his life is going to be like. Right now, he's stable and relatively well, but things are still going to get worse and he needs to be sure, for himself and for the people he loves, that he won't be abandoned.

I could have done a lot worse. I considered it. Putting Steve through a lot more hospitalizations, having a lot more invasive procedures, spending a lot more time in the hospital, but I think that would have been inconsistent with everything he's done in canon. And I didn't want to take away all of his heroic deeds because his disease was so advanced, so I decided to give him 10 years of stability, with the disease progressing at a manageable pace.

Unfortunately, that also involved a lot of neglect of treatment, so his health started to decline further, but it's far from terminal.

Being sick is a very lonely experience, especially with rare diseases, because it feels like no one understands. Even the people closest to you, friends and family, are often unwilling to even try to understand. So I wanted to write an Eddie who searches for everything he can on his own, and who listens silently when Steve has the courage to talk about Hanahaki and his parents. He will never fully understand Steve, but he is trying, and that is very important.

Since Mrs. Harrington also has Hanahaki, it was possible to bring two different perspectives, and get this! Neither of them died, neither of them is a “one-sided love,” they just deal with the disease in very different ways.

I thought a lot about how to write Steve’s parents’ relationship, because it’s so complex, but I decided not to try to understand the nuances, because it’s being presented from their son’s point of view anyway, so it’s not like he knows everything. The fact is, they balance between decline and survival.

Mrs. Harrington is doing well because her husband still makes a point of spoiling her and giving her attention, and that’s enough to make her feel loved. He may like how loved he is, how much she adores him, and I can’t say he doesn’t want her to be well. He does. He cares for her, deeply. He wouldn’t spend 15 years (counting from the diagnosis) with a sick woman if he didn’t want to keep her alive.

But he doesn't understand Hahanaki, he doesn't even expect her to live for another 50 years. He doesn't think of her death as something that will shake the universe, it's just a certainty. He loves her, in a distant and impersonal way, and he loves that she loves him so much. They don't communicate well. They don't face Hanahaki together, they just go around it as if it were a huge ghost between them.

Mrs. Harrington medicates herself, of course, and gets the best treatments that money can buy, but that's very secondary in her life. Being reciprocated, believing in it and being with the ones she loves helps control the disease, but they don't do it in a healthy way.

To make matters worse, she isolated herself from many people and focused on who caused the circumstances that triggered Hanahaki.

Steve does the opposite. He talks about Hanahaki, he wants to make sure everyone knows how unavoidable Hanahaki has become, though he does his best to ignore it until 1985, when he has to tell Robin. Even then, he tries to downplay the fact that he is sick, because he doesn't want to worry her.

He changes his outlook because shortly after Vecna, he can feel how much weaker his body seems to be, and when he doesn't get better, he realizes that he can't be well enough to hide it anymore. Then the tests, the realization that he has actually gotten worse, and with that comes a new understanding of how uncertain his future is.

Steve could be like his mother. They share the same blood, the same disease, they spent years having similar ideas about keeping things a secret, they both watched Mr. Harrington go away while they stayed behind.

Then he watched his mother go away too.

Steve had a relationship that didn’t end well, and he was able to forgive, and he might have been able to get back together with Nancy and ignore everything that went wrong between them during spring break. But he didn’t do any of those things. Maybe that’s the choice he would have made, if Robin hadn’t been there for him, and if he hadn’t fallen in love with Eddie, if he didn’t care about the kids. If there wasn’t so much else in his life.

He made very different choices than his mother.

Anyway, that's it. Chronic Hanahaki, having a support network that goes far beyond a boyfriend, complications caused by the disease and the agony of living knowing that any day could be THE day you'll go into the hospital and won't get out so easily.

@eyehartart

[mrradmccoolman]

hello everynyan!! it's baby's second (?) tumblr post. i present to you:

ELLIOTT'S ANDERPERRY SONG ANALYSIS

okay, so, here's the gist of it: i have an ever-growing playlist on spotify of songs i feel fit neil, todd, or their relationship as a whole. each song is not only one i like, but also has lyrics that represent something specific about them. this sort of thing is something ive done for multiple characters for a long time, and ive always had carefully curated reasons behind my choices. i just recently got back into the dps fandom, and thought this would be a good way to not only show how i see the characters, but also become a part of the community on Tumblr myself :)

i will not be doing every song simply because i do not have the time and the playlist is way too long for that, but i'll definitely be choosing some favorites. i'll most likely just post whenever i feel like it, so i can't promise any sort of a timeline. this is just a little project i thought would be fun, especially considering the fics im working on take me ages lol 😅

sooo without further ado: song number one is....

Habanero by Rosie Tucker

i've been listening to a lot of rosie tucker's music lately, and this song really stood out to me as a todd/neil song from neil's perspective. one of the reasons i connect so much to neil as a character is because i see myself in him, and subsequently how he handles what i see as a very real depressive disorder throughout the movie. this song makes me think of his feelings and relationship with todd in canon, how he sees himself and todd, and the bittersweet-ness of loving someone in the "wrong" way.

"...you said "this never happens to me, this never happens" but you smile while you suffer so you're lying or wrong" this lyric encapsulates a big part of neil's perception of todd, especially towards the beginning of the movie. it specifically reminds me of the "what do you mean no?" scene and the argument they have leading up to it. it also alludes to todd's poem scene in front of the class and neil's reaction to it. he sees todd as saying this sort of bewildered, in awe, "this never happens to me," because, well, for todd, that's how it feels. he doesn't speak in front of people, he doesn't share parts of himself like that. i actually believe he didn't even really write poetry on his own before keating's class, either, so even writing at all is a big step for him- never mind showing others. we know todd hates public speaking and being perceived (although it's a lot more complicated than that, but i won't get into it here) so he "smiles while (he) suffers" because even though this is something he hates and feels so much shame about, a part of him is amazed and happy he did it at all. thus the "you're lying or wrong" from neil- i see this as neil recognizing that actually, knowing todd, this isn't the first time he's done something like this like he might think. in truth, todd says and does beautiful things like this all the time. though todd sees himself as dull and embarassing, neil sees the truth. we often think of neil as recognizing todd as a diamond in the rough, but people are more complicated than that. really, todd has always had this beauty inside him- this is just the first time he (and everyone else) has gotten the opportunity to really see it. neil feels vindicated in a sense, because he knew it was there.

"i'm never happy, but i've never been better" i feel this lyric is pretty straightforward when it comes to neil. he has depression, which makes it so so hard to feel happy, even when you think you should- and most of the time, neil doesn't even have those moments. todd isn't some cure-all for his problems, and certainly doesn't make his depression go away, but he's a huge aid to neil. he's the one person who really sees him. even if neil still isn't happy in the traditional way, he still feels better around todd. another thing i could get into buttt this post is already gonna be long enough as is lol.

"i need to see you sweat" i feel this one is also pretty self explanatory. it's sexuality and desire, something neil has likely not felt to this level before. especially when you're depressed, it's hard to feel any sort of desire. i feel that any thoughts neil would have would already be pretty vague because of his internalized homophobia, but this would be similar to the way he would allow himself to verbalize his feelings. there are a lot of great fics out there that i feel really encapsulate this well.

"wouldn't we be perfect together if we wanted exactly the same thing?" i would argue that the majority of the fandom kind of accepts neil's feelings for todd as pretty obviously requited, even though interestingly enough, from an outside perspective i would actually argue neil's feelings are the most obviously canon. not that i don't definitely believe todd feels the same, nor do i think this is a bad thing- it's just that the entire movie revolves around identity, and neil's passion for acting serves as a metaphor for queerness pretty obviously, and beyond that acting is associated with queer identity as a whole, another reason behind mr. perry's aversion to it. neil doesn't know if todd feels the same as he does. even if things may seem obvious to us, this isn't "normal" for the time period and so i believe wholeheartedly that neil didn't know todd had any feelings for him. was this more his own self hatred, him protecting himself, or that anything he saw that may have alluded to reciprocation he convinced himself was his own mind playing tricks on him? probably a mixture of all three.

"but i smile while i suffer like a sucker supreme" even though neil knows this won't end well, that his feelings are "wrong" and this is hurting him in the long run, he can't help himself when it comes to todd. he's a sucker for him and the feelings he gets being around him.

"all at once i'm a child trapping tadpoles in a cup, and i know they'll never make it (...) but i smile while they suffer 'cause i want it so much" neil knows being in the play, being with todd, and defying his father is a losing game. he knows, on a distant level, that he'll never get away with it. maybe during the play he finally, for one gorgeous moment, truly believed things would change- but then his father shows up and proves he was right all along. he knows he's doomed, that todd was right to doubt his plan to lie to his father in the first place, but he wants it so badly he doesn't care (or, more than that, he feels so incredibly trapped that he's given up and has resigned himself to the consequences). not only this, but his depression has made his latching onto the one thing that gives him hope even more intense. to be ripped away from this, the only thing he's ever wanted- the only person he's ever wanted- is the end. he knows that. even so, even though he can see the futility of it all crumbling beneath him, he sees the fall through.

"i can't believe i'll die before becoming a frog" there's a sort of disbelief in his resignation to death in his final moments, a darkly humorous "i can't believe it's come to this, that this is really happening" despite not really being surprised. neil is cutting everything short and throwing away his potential before his father gets the chance to do it for him. he'll never "become a frog" in so many ways- never get to live for himself, never get to become an adult, never get to act again, etc.

well...that was very long! if you've made it to the end of this post, i hope this was as fun for you as it was for me :)) i'll definitely be doing more of these as time goes on!! let me know your thoughts!!

(the playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3Fh97W8EItmoJHjQvjsBl4?si=WoH7J5GHTfmt3v7OuqbHnQ&pi=6x2g03n8Q1Knc )

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[supernaturalscribe67]

Breathe

Words: 5,466

POV: 3rd Person

Pairing: Team Free Will x Male!Reader [Platonic]

Warning(s): Language, Character Death, Extreme Gore, Description of Death, Angst with absolutely no comfort, Description of a corpse

Summary: A hunt gone wrong leaves the reader in a situation that often plagued hunters' nightmares. In his final moments, his mind goes to the people in his life he cared about the most, and he realized that he had one final call to make...

Request:

Hello! I hope you're having a good day :)

I was wondering if you could do TFW where Reader(gn, fem, masc, you choose) is on a hunt alone. (Idk what supernatural creature you can choose) Reader is caught off guard because there were more monsters than expected ana got hurt really bad. They manage to get away, but their wound is too severe to get to their car.

Luckily, they have their phone, and they call Dean's phone and say their goodbyes to them and stuff (yknow, Dean puts it on speaker so Sam and Castiel can hear and speak) I can imagine TFW tracks their phone and finds them, but it's too late.

Sorry if this is a bit specific! l'm just a sucker for angst, and love your writing. ♡♡

@abducted-cowz

A/N: Happy Sunday! I wrote this (with love) to make you guys suffer. I hope the level of angst is to your liking <3 - As always, feedback is greatly appreciated! Let me know what you guys think!

~Much Love!

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

It was supposed to be a simple hunt. A get-in get-out kind of scenario, something (Y/N) had been through more times than he could count. The vampires had set up shop at the edge of a small Kansas town, about twenty miles from Witchita, in a farmhouse that had depleted with age. After his initial scope of the location, he had determined there were close to five vampires on the premises. He had enough confidence to know he could take them on easily. So, when night fell on the next night, he parked his truck a quarter mile up the dirt road and used the natural foliage to make his way to the farmhouse undetected. The situation was perfect, every hunter’s dream of an easily obtainable celebration at the nearby bar, almost as if it was too good to be true.

He needed to learn to trust his gut more often.

Double the number of vampires were present, well over what was initially inspected. (Y/N) didn’t take into account the presence of a cellar. He should have known better. The house was most likely built in the sixties or seventies when it was more than common to include a shelter to fend off natural disasters. Why it never crossed his mind that a house in the middle of a large, abandoned farmland would have that sort of accommodation, he wasn’t too sure. It had been a lapse of judgment. Perhaps he was too overzealous. Zeal had claimed the lives of young hunters more than any monster.

The fight was long and agonizing - as tedious would be too lighthearted of a word to describe it. Some were skilled, others were followers. It was easy to take out some, but a good amount knew how to fight, which made it even more challenging than it had already become. A part of him wanted to retreat and return to his motel room to call for backup, but the continuous wave of enemies made it nearly impossible. He didn’t have a moment to catch his breath, let alone leave safely. He had to fight on. It was the only way.

In the end, the corpses of the vampires lay scattered around the wooden and stone flooring in the house and cellar. Heads were strewn about, blood splattered on the once-magnificent wallpaper. (Y/N) stood at the top of the stairs that led to the cellar, his lips slightly parted as pants fell past them. His chest heaved, sweat trickling down his forehead and neck, coating the collar of his t-shirt. The way his heart hammered in his chest, he swore it would break out past his rips. His arms and legs felt like jelly.

The adrenaline rush that once plagued his mind began to falter, and the aches and pains surfaced. A groan rumbled in his chest as he took a moment to look down at himself. Much like the walls and floors, he was covered in vampire blood. If he had any injuries, it was hard to tell which blood spots were his. He looked back at the carnage at the bottom of the steps. The bodies needed to be disposed of, but (Y/N) could feel the strength drain from his body. He would not be able to carry a dozen bodies to the middle of the field. Not that night. He made a mental note to come back the next day.

After some time had passed, he was able to catch his breath enough to turn and make his way out of the house, careful as he stepped over his fallen enemies. The front screen door was slightly ajar from when he came in. The closer and the hinges were rusted, so it was no surprise that they couldn’t work with the force of his previous entry. He was surprised it hadn’t broken off at that point. They didn’t make things like they used to.

The summer air was crisp and warm, with high humidity that made (Y/N) feel disgusting. Despite that, it was the best air he could ask for. His nose was cleansed from the stench of death, and, for that, he was grateful. Any smell was better than the smell of death.

(Y/N) began the quarter-mile trek back to his truck. His lips were parted, his breathing slightly labored with each step he took. It felt as if his chest rattled like a pair of dice were being tossed around inside. Something was wrong, he knew that much, but he couldn’t assess himself until he had his medical supplies on his person. The risk of infection was high when out in the open like that, especially with the ticks that were undoubtedly lying somewhere in the grass that brushed against his ass, and the last thing he wanted was the contract Lyme disease.

Every ten paces or so, (Y/N) had to stop to catch his breath. It got increasingly difficult to dull the ache as if smoke harassed the soft, pink tissue. He knew he had to continue. Had to get to his car. Had to leave.

In the distance, the roof of his ‘91 Dodge Truck glimmered in the pale moonlight. A sense of relief washed over him, and his steps quickened. The weak smile he had was prominent on his lips, despite the pain that resonated through the muscles in his legs. A way out. His escape. A light at the end of the deep, dark tunnel.

The cold metal of the door handle caused a shiver to run down his spine. As he tried to open the door, the handle caught. Locked. A curse fell from his lips as he reached into his blood-soaked pant pocket and pulled out his car key. He fumbled with them, his grip weak and fingers shaky. Just as he was about to place the key into the door, they slipped out of his grip, hit the dirt ground, and settled under the truck, barely out of sight. He closed his eyes tightly and leaned his forehead against the glass of his window. More obscenities.

He had to be strategic. Every part of his body hurt. Which was the best way to get on the ground that would result in the least amount of pain? He was sure there was a way, but his brain wasn’t working as it should. Any critical thinking had gone out the window. The only option, at the moment, was the simplest.

Using whatever strength he had left, he held onto the door handle for support and lowered his right knee to the ground. His movements were slow like his entire body was covered in molasses. For a moment, all that appeared were slight aches in his thighs, and he had high hopes that he would be able to make it. However, as he reached the halfway point, a sharp, needle-like pain washed over his stomach, striking his entire nervous system.

(Y/N) let out a cry of pain as his body collapsed onto the ground, which sent even more agony through his limbs. He turned and landed on his ass, his back pressed against the truck’s chipped frame. In an instant, he could feel any energy he had vanish, immediately replaced by exhaustion. His eyelids were heavy, and the urge to sleep overpowered any other desire. He knew he couldn’t, though. The possibility of him having a concussion from the hunt was great, and he wouldn’t risk the damage it would do to him if he did slumber. 

Then again, the injury he was sure to have under the blood-stained clothes was even more of a risk.

With great struggle, (Y/N) removed his flannel. As he moved, he took note that the pain came from his right side. He grunted as he lifted the side of his shirt, the blood acting as a glue to hold it in place against his chest as his hands came to rest at his side. That was when he saw it.

An eight-inch gash was present, starting from his side and ending right above his naval. It wasn’t a simple surface scratch, either. Layers of muscle and skin tissue were visible. If it had gone any deeper, (Y/N) was certain his organs would lay in his lap. Blood spilled like a waterfall out of the wound, slowly, but aggressively. Most of the blood he had lost was no doubt already soaked into his shirt. It was the biggest injury that he had gotten in his whole hunting career. It was one that he knew he couldn’t fix with the simple sewing kit in his first-aid bag, but one that needed to be medically attended. He didn’t have the willpower to stand up and drive himself, though, let alone get the keys that rested under the car, merely a foot from his hand. Regardless, the nearest hospital was over forty minutes away. An ambulance, even when a hospital was around the corner, could take over an hour to get to the location of an accident. He couldn’t imagine how long it would take to get to him, let alone the legal trouble he would be in when law enforcement discovered the house. 

It was then that the realization struck him;

He was going to die.

He tried to convince himself that he was fine. That he could get up. He was just in a negative mindset. He would be fine.

In reality, any movement he tried to make only made his muscles tense and seize. He had to face the truth. He was going to die. But, damn, if he didn’t go down fighting.

It wasn’t obvious to him how long he had left, but he knew, just the same as anyone else, that he had to make his final moments last. So, with his last bit of might, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The screen was stained red but, thankfully, the device was intact. He opened it, went to his contacts, and clicked on the one at the very top.

Dean Winchester

He had met the Winchesters over ten years ago through Bobby Singer. Fate had decided that they would all meet at the Singer residence after their respective hunts. They were introduced, and it was as if they clicked instantly. He got along well with both brothers and connected with many of their friends throughout the years. He considered them family. Sam and Dean offered him a bed in the Men of Letters bunker, which he had turned down, as he had become too accustomed to motel hopping to accept.

God, he wished he would have.

At first, he opted to place the phone next to his ear, but a couple of seconds in that position proved too long as his side cried out. Instead, he placed the call on speaker and sat it in his lap. The ring was dull and echoed slightly through the trees. A part of him was nervous that no one would pick up, that it was too early. He was conflicted, though. Did he even want them to answer? If he knew anything about the Winchesters, they were naturals at taking the blame for any deaths around them, even if they did nothing to warrant fault. He didn’t want to add to that burden.

“Hey, (Y/N)!” Dean’s voice greeted him.

(Y/N)’s lips curled upward into a weak smile as he let out a rattled sigh.

“Hey, Dean,” he replied. It was the first time in a couple of hours that he truly heard his voice. He sounded faint, hoarse, weak. He wondered if he looked nearly half as bad as he sounded. 

“Man, I haven’t heard from you in a couple of weeks. What’s been going on?”

“Oh, you know,” he trailed and leaned his head back against the truck. “Same old, same old. What about you guys?”

“Well, we just got back from - hold on, Sam wants me to put the phone on speaker.”

Pause.

“Hey, (Y/N)!” Sam’s voice came through the speaker.

“Hey, Sammy,” (Y/N) felt his smile become weaker.

“So, anyway, as I was saying,” Dean continued. “We just got back from a week-long hunt in Baltimore. Nasty ghost business. The news articles about this guy seemed like it came right out of Law and Order. I was so happy to pump some rock salt into that son of a bitch.”

“Since when do you watch Law and Order?” He asked.

“Law and Order: SVU to be exact,” Sam said.

“All I’m going to say is Detective Olivia Benson can arrest me any day.” There was an obvious smirk on Dean’s face.

(Y/N) let out a chuckle, which instantly progressed into a coughing fit. His fist was balled up in front of his lips as he tried to will his lungs to have mercy in his final moments. What seemed like an eternity later, his lungs listened, and he pulled his hand back. His thumb, index finger, and part of his palm were covered in blood. He brought his hand back up to his face and wiped his lips. More blood.

“Shit,” (Y/N) mumbled.

“You okay?” Dean asked.

“Yeah,”

“You feeling sick?” Sam added.

(Y/N) hesitated. “Sort of.”

“That sucks, man. Have you gone on that vampire hunt yet?”

“Wait, what vampire hunt?” Dean inquired.

“The one near Wichita? I told you about it a couple of days ago.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did! You were watching The A-Team.”

“Oh yeah…I remember that. Hey, why do you get told about his hunts but not me?”

“Because, unlike you, I actually talk to him on an almost daily basis.”

Tears appeared in the corners of (Y/N)’s eyes, but he had little stamina to cry. He was going to miss this, the bickering. The brotherly back and forth between Sam and Dean. The late-night talks they would have over the phone. The week-long trips he would take to the bunker after recovering from a hunt. The prank wars. The diners. The bars. The terrible karaoke. The movie nights. The long hugs as they bid farewell. Oh, how he wished he could hug them one last time.

“(Y/N)?” Sam’s voice sounded more distant than before.

“Uh, yeah, sorry, I’m here.” He weakly cleared his throat and brought the phone closer to his ear, ignoring the throbbing in his stomach.

“Everything go okay with the hunt?”

“Well…going into it, I figured it would be about half a dozen vamps or so? Not much activity when I scouted. Turns out, there’s about a dozen or more.” He explained.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean mumbled.

“Do you want us to come down and help you? It won’t take us that long to get there. Maybe two hours or so.” Sam added.

(Y/N) shook his head. “No, no. I took care of them…but it seems like they took care of me, too.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked, his voice low and on edge.

A lump appeared in his throat and threatened to cut off the next couple of words. He tried to push through it as he spoke.

“I’m not gonna make it.”

As soon as the words fell from his lips, shuffling could be heard on the other end of the line. No one said anything for a couple of seconds. The next person to speak was Dean.

“Listen, (Y/N), tell us where you are.” Dean’s voice was louder and more frantic, indicating that he had been taken off speaker. “We can come get you, patch you up, and you’ll be good as new, alright?”

“No, no, Dean-”

“Sam! Where are my keys!?”

“Dean-”

“You’re going to make it, okay, (Y/N)? Then, we can come back to the bunker and watch that stupid horror movie you’ve been begging us to watch.”

“Dean, I-”

That time, (Y/N) was interrupted by another coughing fit. Blood and spittle dribbled down his lips and chin. He could feel just how weak his lungs were, so it took some time for him to recover. Once the coughs died down, he was able to hear the familiar rumble of the Impala’s engine over the phone. What a beautiful sound. He was going to miss it.

“Did you get ahold of Cas?” Dean mumbled.

“I’m here, Dean,” Castiel’s voice came through.

“Great! (Y/N), tell us where you are, come on, buddy.”

“Cas,” (Y/N) croaked. “It’s so good to hear your voice. How are you?” His words were slow.

“(Y/N) you need to tell me where you are. I can come heal you.” Castiel’s voice was laced with seriousness and worry.

“No,” he said simply. “It’s too late.”

“It’s not too late!” Dean shouted.

“It is,”

“No, it’s not! You’re still talking to us, you’re still awake. Cas can come over and heal you.”

“Got it!” Sam exclaimed. “Make a left.”

“Guys, it feels like half of my blood is outside of my body. If I move, I think my stomach will fall out. I don’t want you to see me like this. You don’t deserve that.”

“(Y/N), please,” Castiel said. “I can help.”

(Y/N) huffed and would have smirked if he could. “You Winchesters with your stubborn attitude…” he took a few shaky breaths. “No matter what I say, you just never listen.”

“We never listen!?” Dean yelled.

“Dean-” Castiel began.

“No, Cas, this is bullshit. (Y/N), we are family, and family is supposed to be there for each other. They’re supposed to help each other when things get back. Why the Hell won’t you let us help you?”

“Because I’m already dead, Dean. I put this on myself. I-” he stopped to catch his breath. “I blindly went into the house without backup. This is on me. I’m meant to have-” breathe. “-a hunter’s death. To die fighting, and I can proudly say that I killed every last one of those slimy bastards.”

“(Y/N)-”

“Dean, let me finish. Please. I don’t want our last call to be remembered like this.”

Dean stayed silent. (Y/N) waited a moment. The corners of his vision had gone blurry, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open. He didn’t have much time left.

“I love you guys, all of you. My life wouldn’t have been nearly as exciting as it was without you. Sam, I’m going to miss our little nerd talks. Miss seeing Dean’s face when we talk about Lord of the Rings. Dean-” his voice trailed as he felt his head lull to the side.

“(Y/N)! Hey, (Y/N), stay with us,” Sam said.

(Y/N) lifted his head. “Dean, I’m going to miss trying to out-drink you at the bar.”

Dean gave a sad, dry chuckle. “You never even got close.”

“And, Cas, God, I’m going to miss our late-night talks. I can’t even count on one hand the amount of times our calls lasted longer than four hours.”

“I do enjoy talking with you,” Castiel confirmed. 

“(Y/N), please,” Sam begged.

“I love you all. I love you, Dean. I love you, Sam. I love you, Castiel.” (Y/N)’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“I love you, (Y/N),” Dean answered. 

“Love you, (Y/N),” Sam followed.

“I love you, too, (Y/N).” Castiel finished.

Their voices were quiet, filled with sadness and defeat. He hated that that was the last he would hear from them.

“Goodbye,” he breathed.

“No, (Y/N), please,” Sam tried to plead.

The call ended.

(Y/N) took one last look at the phone before he gave into gravity and let his arm drop to his side. 

By then, his breathing had slowed substantially. His chest barely rose and fell with the efforts his lungs put in. And that rattle, the death rattle. He knew it all too well. Years of witnessing death firsthand made a man knowledgeable on the topic.

On the horizon, past the field and toward the distant treeline, the sun began to rise. Speckled layers of early morning sunlight coated his skin, but he felt no warmth. On the contrary, he felt cold. Slow. He didn’t know that a human’s body could get so cold. With it, though, there was numbness. No more pain, no more aches. Just peace.

He never knew what it would be like to die - it didn’t occur to him to ask Sam and Dean about their countless encounters with death - but if he knew it would be so calm and, dare he say, tranquil, he might not have spent so long fighting for his life as he had in the past. It was an experience unlike any other. Perhaps that wasn’t his true feelings on the subject. Perhaps it was because he knew that was his fate, that he had no chance. Acceptance. He was ready.

The last thing he saw before his vision faded to black was the sun, uncovered by the foliage, in its bright glory. It felt like an old friend who wanted to greet him one last time, and he appreciated the sentiment. The welcoming of a new dawn was short-lived. Once his vision faded, his eyelids closed, his muscles relaxed, his head lulled to the side;

And he died.

*~*

Dean didn’t drive nearly as fast as he had wanted to. The foolish part of him still had hope. Hope that they would find their friend unconscious, but alive. That (Y/N) had been exaggerating his wound. That he would be fine. 

He has to be fine.

But the logical side of him, his brother, told him that he knew better. He had seen more than his fair share of friends die in his life, and it seemed to develop into a pattern. He met someone, promised himself he wouldn’t get close, got close, and then they died. An endless cycle. Wash, rinse, repeat.

And now, he was back on repeat.

It was nine in the morning by the time they spotted (Y/N)’s truck. Dean had to turn the car around, as they had passed it before. The treeline that sat on the edge of the road was thick, leaving visibility to be quite reduced. When they pulled onto the dirt path, they stopped a good twenty feet from the white pickup and sat there. None of them spoke. Instead, they sat in a heavy, dead, grief-filled silence, as if a fog had descended upon them. Time moved leisurely, at least from their perspective. In all actuality, it passed by them at the speed of light. By the time any of them moved into their seats, it was closer to ten.

They got out of the car and slowly made their way over to the truck. They walked steadily, as if on autopilot like their limbs were being held back by chains. They had to continue, for (Y/N)’s sake.

When they turned the corner of the front of the truck, they saw him. (Y/N)’s lifeless body lay against the side of the car, shoulders drooped, and mouth hung open. The gravel surrounding him was caked in uneven layers of dried blood, along with his shirt and jeans. Any color had drained from his skin. Bugs buzzed around the open gash still visible on his stomach, which had stopped bleeding at some point.

Sam choked back on a sob that tried to escape his throat, but he would not allow it. He covered his mouth with his hand and turned his back. He could feel the cry of pain threaten to claw its way out, threaten to break him down. He had to stay strong, though. He couldn’t possibly let Dean and Castiel deal with it all. (Y/N) was his friend, his brother, and he had to take responsibility for his body, as well. He couldn’t just let his brother and best friend handle it. That wouldn’t be fair to them. Wouldn’t be fair to (Y/N).

Dean stopped as soon as he saw his body. The visual of it made realization hit him like a truck. (Y/N) was dead. He was gone. All those times together watching movies, drinking at bars, or bickering with each other were a thing of the past, never to be repeated. The moments they shared would never get spread through a jovial reunion after retirement, nor would they get to grow old together. They would never get the opportunity to call each other ‘old bastard’ before they sat in their lawn chairs and talked for hours. Dean never even got the chance to teach him how to fish. The potential ‘what ifs’ turned into ‘what could have beens’, and the fact that he tricked himself into thinking it was possible made him feel like an idiot.

Castiel lagged when it came to turning the corner, for he knew what awaited on the other side. He had seen his fair share of death in regards to people he cared about, but he and (Y/N) had gotten rather close in the years they had known one another. He was the one who introduced Castiel to a larger variety of music, television shows, and films that Dean would have otherwise not done. He had opened his eyes to a world far beyond anything he could ever imagine. For that, Castiel would be forever grateful. When he saw (Y/N)’s body, he felt his chest ache. It wasn’t heartbreak, as Castiel knew he was unable to feel such emotion. Rather, he felt empty, as if a part of him had been ripped away and burned. One of his dearest friends had been taken. His family had been taken. True, he would get a chance to visit (Y/N) in Heaven, but it was not the same. 

Castiel was the first one to move over to his body. The cut on his stomach made him realize that, perhaps, (Y/N) wasn’t lying. It was deep, ghastly. Most likely, the time between the call ending and his time of death was minimal. Minutes if not seconds. There was truly nothing Castiel could have done. Even if he had the grace of an archangel, there was not enough power to heal him. His body was too far gone. 

With one look over at Sam and Dean, Castiel could see that any strength had vanished from their bodies. Their shoulders were slumped, and any light had left their eyes. He knew they would not be able to carry him, not while he was like that. He took the initiative and wrapped an arm around (Y/N)’s back and legs. It took little effort to lift him, despite the dead weight. Castiel was cautious when moving his body, knowing that the wound was still fresh. (Y/N)’s head shifted to the side, cheek pressed against his chest. Castiel walked over to Sam and Dean. Their eyes never left his body.

“I believe someone should take his car,” Castiel’s voice broke the silence that had hovered over them for hours. His voice was uncharacteristically soft and quiet. “I saw the keys under the driver’s side.”

Tears were flowing freely down Sam’s cheeks, his eyes red and burning. “I’ll-” he cleared his throat to steady his voice. “I’ll drive it.”

“No,” Dean’s broken speech interrupted. “Um…I’ll take him. Do you mind driving the truck, Cas?”

“I do not mind.” Castiel shook his head.

Dean nodded. Wordlessly, he dug into his pocket and pulled out the keys to the Impala. He held them out to Sam, who looked at his brother to silently confirm his actions. When nothing was said, Sam took the keys. Dean dropped his hand to his side as if the keys had been the only thing capable of keeping them up before he turned back to Castiel, arms held out.

Castiel began to carefully transfer (Y/N)’s body from his arms to Dean’s. It was almost ceremonial, and when Dean felt the heavy weight of the body in his arms, he held him close, as if he were made of glass, that he would shatter into a million pieces if Dean moved the wrong way.

But he was already broken.

They spoke nothing more before they dispersed. Castiel turned back to the truck to fetch the keys, Dean made his way to the Impala, and Sam followed. Sam opened the back passenger door and took a step back. Dean got in, his movements deliberate and guarded, the lifeless body still held tight to his chest. It took a moment for him to finally get settled in the backseat. Once he was, Sam shut the door and made his way over to the driver’s side.

Dean’s eyes never left (Y/N)’s face, determined to take in every last detail. He looked so peaceful, as if only in a deep sleep. There had been a handful of times Dean had carried (Y/N) to one of the many spare bedrooms after he fell asleep watching a movie, but he had never felt so heavy. Maybe it wasn’t him, but, rather, the weight Dean could feel on his heart. Dean held countless regrets. He wished he would have talked to him more. Wished he would have remembered being told about the hunt. He would have suggested that they stop to help on the way back from their previous hunt. If only he had listened better, maybe (Y/N) would still be alive. 

If only…

Dean didn’t even notice when Sam started the car, backed out onto the dirt road, and began to make the silent journey back to the bunker. As Sam drove, he would periodically sneak a peak in the rearview mirror at his brother and best friend. Each time, he had to swallow the lump that had threatened to make an appearance, but he let the tears flow. When he wasn’t looking at them, his mind wandered to the day ahead. The preparation for a hunter’s funeral didn’t take that long, as they were used to the process by then, but it didn’t make it any less painful. Everything had to be perfect. It was what (Y/N) deserved, and they would make sure to give him the best send-off they could. 

*~*

They gave themselves time to grieve - a day and some odd hours - while they collected the necessary materials for the funeral. While (Y/N)’s body lay in the spare bedroom he always claimed as his, they took turns alone with him. They shared memories, regrets, jokes, and emotions that would have otherwise been kept under lock and key. Then, when the pyre, just northwest of the bunker, was ready, they had Sam carry him out to his final resting place, giving them each an opportunity to hold him one last time.

With his body wrapped up tightly, he was placed on top of the pile of wood underneath the stars. Dean, Sam, and Castiel stood back and silently stared for a couple of minutes. As the late-night song of crickets came, Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out three lighters. He handed Castiel and Sam each one before he returned to the spot next to his brother. In unison, they clicked their lighters to life and tossed them to the pyre, one after another.

It took a moment for the wood to catch, but, in an instant, the faint crackling from the burning wood roared to life, engulfing (Y/N)’s body in its warmth. It was poetic, to die a hunter. To die protecting others, even when they didn’t know. They would never get their names in history books or their own documentary. No recognition is to be found. Only stories spread through fellow hunters and close friends kept their memory alive. They were true heroes of their time. Martyrs for a cause unknown.

That night, Sam, Dean, and Castiel vowed to never let his story die. In every way they could, they would spread (Y/N)’s story to everyone who would listen. They would light fires with their words and watch the world burn if it meant everyone knew of the person he was. For as long as they lived, (Y/N) would never truly die.

“Please, don’t worry so much, because in the end none of us have very long on this Earth - life is fleeting. And if you’re ever distressed, cast your eyes to the summer sky when the stars are strung across the velvety night, and when a shooting star streaks through the blackness turning night into day, make a wish and think of me. Make your life spectacular. I know I did.”

~ Robin Williams

[zoloteh-volossya]

I think I know exactly what post you’re referring too and blocked that user (as well as all the people who liked the post) immediately after their string of posts that are horrifically inaccurate readings of both Orin and Minthara, but also joking about Minthara being forced to interact with her rapist for the rest of her life. I’m personally not a fan of the Orinthara ship because it is innately noncon and there is no way to argue that it isn’t, and I despise it being called toxic yuri. The only people I trust with the ship are Minthara fans because they are the only ones who understand the full dynamic between the two. There are some people, like the poster you’re referring too, who have total hate boners for her and only ship Orinthara as a means of punishing her in their heads. And it becomes so obvious that their desire to ship Orinthara is out of complete malice when they only have negative and violent opinions about Minthara and are using “toxic yuri” as a cover.

I can’t even imagine hating a character that much, but still thinking about them all the time. If there is a character I hate, I don’t spend any time thinking about them. At all. They choose to let Minthara live in their heads rent free and it bothers them for some reason, lol.

Yeah. I think that the differentiating factor is care.

To illustrate using a nonsexual, non-BG3 example, in one of my previous fandoms two writers both wrote fics in which the antagonist had a conversation with the protagonist about her crimes. In one fic, the protagonist talked down to the antagonist, listing out all the things she had done wrong while she ranted and raved and screamed. Then she died. Victory!

In the other, even as the antagonist grappled with the magnitude of her failures and the consequences thereof, the author kept her perspective in mind. They used flashbacks to her past to put the audience in her shoes and let her argue her case. And they did it so effectively that I have never felt more sympathetic to this antagonist than I did when reading that scene. She was still wrong. She still died. But the scene landed so much better. The character felt respected by the narrative, her death lacked the almost voyeuristic authorial glee that made the similar scene in the other fic honestly a bit uncomfortable to read.

In a similar vein, lots of Minthara fans write about Orin doing absolutely horrible things to Minthara. But because they care about Minthara (and often also about Orin, who is doing all this for understandable reasons given the absolute shitfuck of a situation that she's coming from) there's a level of respect for the character by the narrative even as she suffers. It's the energy of "I'm going to put my blorbo in situations," it's the phenomenon of taking your favorite and making them bleed because you care about their emotions. Because the point of tragedy is that even if it all ended poorly, it still mattered.

I've seen fic about Orin impregnating Minthara during her time as a slave to the Absolute done, and some of it was done very well. (Orin cut the fetus out of Minthara and killed it, because she's Orin and was actually written in character.) But it worked because the author cared about Minthara, about the horror of the situation, in a way those flippant comments that sparked this conversation did not.

In contrast, if a person who hates a character is talking about them suffering there's this general vibe of, "look at this bitch getting what she deserves", that hangs over the entire conversation like a haze. And because "toxic yuri" encompasses both scenarios but has progressive implications (ooh, look at me paying attention to female characters!) it can easily be used as a shield against criticism for that vibe.

The question, ultimately, both with this Orinthara situation and with the author I discussed above, is whether a person extends the same grace, the same sense of interiority and assumption of an inner life, to the female characters as they do their male faves. And the answer, very often, is "no."

[jumpywhumpywriter]

The Wise wolf and The Foolish Fox

Warnings: death, animal trapping, grief, pain

🔥🔥🔥🔥

This story is more special to me than most. Why? BECAUSE MY 12 YEAR OLD LITTLE SISTER WROTE IT! 😱 I'm so insanely proud of her, and she did a great job too! I let her use my character "Wise Wolf" from the other stories I've written, and she decided to write her own "moral ending" story all on her own! I got her permission to post it here. Please like and comment so I can show her that people like it! (She'd be so excited to read positive & encouraging comments, especially since ths is one of the first official stories she's ever written) 😁😁 She's following in my footsteps as a writer, and I think she shows some great potential for only being 12 years old! Anyone else agree?

My sister chose the moral to be about "enjoying life while you have time", and appreciating the small joys it has to offer instead of focusing on the darkness and pain that often haunts us. To not worry about the future, but to enjoy the present. You'll see that the style is a bit different since this is NOT my writing!

-------------------------------------------------------

Wolf elegantly flew over logs and debris as he raced after the morning rays. Sunlight streamed through the forest canopy as he burst out and into a beautiful meadow crowned in light like a large golden blanket had been draped over it. Dry grass wet with morning dew crunched under his delicate paw pads.

He lunged into the frigid river, delighting in the bitter cold as he snapped at the fish that darted away from him, knowing he would never be able to catch one. Wolf splashed onto the rocky shore, shaking water from his shaggy gray pelt; droplets splattering on the rocks beneath him. He snapped at a curious monarch butterfly that had investigated his muzzle, barking joyfully as he slipped and scrambled to regain his balance on the rocks that covered the shore.

Fox had observed his strange antics, and thought him a fool. For only a fool would chase after things that they could never dream of catching, and frolic around like a pup outside the den for the first time instead of hunting. Fox had lost her 1st litter of pups to hunters, and had lost her 2nd litter to hawks and badgers, and she was filled with bitterness and emptiness.

She had howled into the wind a mournful cry of bitter rage, “What is the meaning of all this if we are all just to die and be forgotten? Why put us through all of this misery just to be swept away by Death? What is the meaning of life if life will never come without death? Why do we make friends if we shall lose them someday? Why do we try if we shall always fail?”

So Fox approached Wolf; her mind was filled only with sorrow and depression, she no longer felt joy or happiness, only pain and suffering.

“Wolf, why do you do such frivolous things? Why do you chase things you could never catch and stalk creatures that will always become aware of your presence before you can pounce? Why do you run through the meadows and trees expending all your energy that you should be using for hunting and surviving? Surely only a fool would choose to frolic around like a pup that left the den for the first time. Surely only a naive beast would play like a little pup instead of working. Surely only an idiot would waste energy catching butterflies.”

Wolf locked his beautiful amber eyes on her, and replied, “Look at the stars. They never worry or fear, and yet they might die just like the rest of us. You should savor every moment, for it may be your last. I choose to live my life to the fullest; to enjoy every moment and every success. I should ask you; why do you mope around expecting life to be nothing but misery? Do you not know that for every fall there's always a rise? Do you not understand how beautiful life is? I choose joy because I can. Life isn't short, it is quite long. You might as well enjoy the moment for there will never be another. There will never be another today. So I might as well enjoy it. After all, only a fool sees wisdom as foolish.”

And Fox barked a laugh, barely believing what she heard, “Ha! What a fool you are! I have never seen a more naive idiot in all my days! And you're younger than me by 2 years! You should be listening to me, little pup! I am no fool, and you are no genius. You are so naive with your head in the clouds! Life is nothing but cruel and unfair. Unfair in the sense that it gave me more brain cells than you!”

Wolf frowned, and turned to leave. But before he left, he threw one last thing over his shoulder, “You may be laughing now, but when death comes to take what is owed, I shall look back on my life, and I won't regret a single second of it.”

And when death came to take their lives, Wolf came peacefully, and of no regrets. For he had lived his life to the fullest, and had made far more good memories than one could count. And he joined his pack among the stars in eternal joy.

But when death came for the fox in the manner of a hunter's snare, she regretted everything. She wished that she had listened to Wolf, and that she had lived her life in full instead of living the half life she had. In her last moments, she wished that she had not been such a fool. For the Wolf had chosen hard happiness over deep depression. He may have been mocked by many because of his young age and pup-like actions, but he was indeed the wisest of them all. For age never defines wisdom. And it is better to live with hard happiness than with deep depression.

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @i-don't-know-sal

[hexcrystals]

[CW for discussion of severe mental illness (PTSD) and suicide]

I want to add my perspective to the conversation about canyon people picking and choosing which disability rep is worth telling. It’s really offensive to me because I’m mentally disabled so it feels like these people are glossing over the mental illness rep in the show.

I hesitate because i do not want to seem like I’m chastising people for acknowledging the physical disability rep. OFMD has better physical disability rep than any show I’ve seen, while I’ve seen many shows with mentally ill characters. I also do not want to give credit where credit is not due, because ultimately these characters don’t have any diagnosed mental disabilities. However, I don’t think that that subtracts from the representation because 1)the show obviously takes place before many mental health diagnoses that we have now did,2) even if those diagnoses did exist, the crew would not be able to access them, and 3) I think the show is clearly trying to tell us that characters are suffering from PTSD, or at the very least struggling to process a traumatic event, they just don’t have the words to describe it as such.

Many characters exhibit what would today be classified as symptoms of a psychiatric disorder. In this fandom we often joke about that, especially Ed’s (which is more than okay), but I also want to appreciate the way that season 2 deals with the trauma of the kraken era. They freak out and have flashbacks over blindfolds and birthday cakes because of what they’ve been through. They have interpersonal conflicts due to differing ways of processing the trauma and not seeing eye to eye on each others own unique experience (Lucius and Pete come to mind). Lucius takes up smoking to cope with the pain. Ed dissociates (I think, because he doesn’t remember wanting to have a talent show) and is literally suicidal, first passively (“you mean curl up into a ball and die?”) and then actively (the whole storm thing). He also turns to using drugs to self medicate.

Anyway sorry for the novel I just wanted to add my perspective because this show means a lot to me as someone who’s mentally disabled and I want to know if anyone else with a mental disability feels the same/differently.

no don't apologise this is a really good point!

i've posted about it a few times and so has glam and several other people whose links i don't have to hand but the depiction of ed's mental illness and his suicidality is fucking spot on and the show absolutely deserves all the praise it gets for that

especially because it's quite possibly the first show i've ever seen that depicts suicidality in a way that manages to be accurate without being pitying and manages to be hopeful without romanticising the issue. the show brings ed to his lowest point and then shows him being helped to come back from that by people who love him. it tells us that there's always a way for things to get better and that you can get there by yourself but it's easier if you have help, and it tells us that this help is available because there is always going to be someone waiting for you even if you doubt that. it never shows ed as 'cured'. it never shows stede being angry with ed for his symptoms. when lucius suggests that ed might just be 'broken', stede very quickly shuts him down and the show makes it clear that the narrative is on stede's side here.

and all of this just doesn't get brought up by izzy stans. discussion of mental illness portrayal tends to be one of the following:

ignoring ed's arc altogether to focus on izzy's suicide attempt and his 'i want to go' line while he's on his deathbed (and in a massively different place to where he was in s2e2) and using this to pretend that the show's message is 'disabled queer people deserve to die' (yes unfortunately this is a take i have seen with my own two eyes)

writing ed's arc off as an example of 'magic dick' and using this to pretend that he was fine as soon as he got stede back

ignoring ed's arc completely and instead insisting that he's a violent serial killer and abuser with anger issues who traumatised the crew and will inevitably physically abuse stede and kill all their inn's customers

ignoring all portrayals of mental illness completely because they will deliberately downplay the disability of every other disabled character in order to centre izzy

the canyon will bend over backwards to centre izzy and to view the entire show through a lens where he is their longsuffering protagonist who can do no wrong and it's led them to ignore so much of what makes the show great

[friesian]

my father is dead and i couldn't be happier.

the following is a sort of. reconciliation/vent post since i just got the news a few hours ago that my father died, and i finally feel like i can sort of talk about everything that happened to me as a child. for the first time. without the threat of potential violence. so. tw for neglect, abuse, parental death and honestly just. a lot. if you don't like the most stereotypical 'bad dad' shit, don't read this post.

my father was a cruel man. it was only until recently i was informed that my father used to actually shake me as a baby, no more than a few days old. when i was a few months old, he used to do the same to watch my 'funny reactions' and had to be actively reprimanded by aunt and mother in order to get him to stop lest i die a very sudden death.

when i was a little kid, my father i guess got this idea in his head that i was a little innocent flower and that if anything touched me, that'd be it. i'd be sullied. i'd be dirtied. somehow 'impure'. mind you, my father wasn't a religious man. really, honestly, the opposite. i wasn't allowed to talk about religion or god, explore spirituality, really have 'faith'. this would earn me hostile looks, a loud scolding, or called stupid. this also might displace onto my mom, who received it much worse than me.

when i was 7, my father made the move to go somewhere out into the deep west virginia mountains where i would never be in danger. except by him. we moved to a place where the closest store was 45 minutes by car, getting home from school was 35 minutes-- not counting school bus routes, that was up to 2-3 hours-- and there was not a single neighbor that could see the house nor talk to us. we were alone. for good. for over 11 years of my life i was alone in a house with a man who grew actively more and more hostile to being in that house. as i aged, tried to be a teenager, explore my gender, sexuality, ect. it was all shut down. my computer-- my only lifeline-- was bugged with spyware that allowed him to look at my screen and take control of anything i was doing. a vivid memory of mine is when i used to write fanfiction of innocent teenager things. kissing, holding hands, professions of love, the usual-- nothing explicit. at some point i was caught and had my computer thrown and i was screamed it. i could only run to my room and cry, and hope i wasn't chased. this left me with no sense of privacy, as any computer or technology i ever got passed through him, and as he was a engineer for networking, most things were bugged by him first as much as i tried to remove them. my mom suffered similarly to i, both of us being called slurs and having things thrown at us for existing in his radius. we walked on eggshells. we had no room to breathe. if we weren't in his general space, we were yelled at for avoiding him. if we were actually there, we were yelled at for laughing or even breathing too loud. there was no right answer. my friends never wanted to visit because of him, or he would often get mad at their parents for being 'flakes' or 'untimely', leading for me to be berated about my choice of friend. i wasn't allowed to go out unless it was with 'other girls', and i didn't have many friends to begin with due to the many social problems i faced due to his neglect. i grew up in that house, with many other issues i can't even begin to list, but i grew up and left as soon as i could, and didn't really do much. mostly just coasted by after dropping out of college that he pressured me to be in, lest i end up homeless. my mom divorced him shortly after i left due to being threatened with a gun, and at that point i was pretty sure he was officially off the deep end. this is sort of my 'getting it off my chest' moment as i was never able to speak out about what i faced in any regard due to him consistently monitoring my online presence. for all i know, he could've known about this blog-- choosing to hold onto it for some sort of legal proceeding as he had done to my mother. he tracked her car, recorded her calls, did everything he could to fuck her over. his father did something similar to him back in the 90s, and i needed to avoid it at all costs.

he never got the chance now. i never felt like i had a father, more like an angry dragon that guarded a tower with someone who didn't wanna be there. some sort of 'king' that transformed into a dragon, i suppose. but, i remember relating a lot to the imagery of people trapped in towers by beasts. i wanted to make a comic about it at one point. 11 years of solidarity does a lot to a motherfucker.

to this hour, i haven't shed a tear. i cheered and celebrated, put on my mask as i'm talking to the funeral home people, family, his friends, whatever it is. i've just been blaise and calm. i have to go back to my 'tower' this weekend and see it for the first time in years, now with the memory of my father dead seeped in those walls.

it's been a relief i didn't know i needed, but that house haunts me with the horrors that went on in it. i guess this is sort of my testimony to his life. i refuse to have a funeral. i refuse to have a memorial. he's being cremated and disposed of as soon as i can. i can already tell what little remains of his side of the family has an issue with it, but i don't care. they didn't live the life me and my mom had, and they never will now. for what it's worth, somehow, even though i was forged in fires that i don't think any man should go through-- it made me a more hardened and aware person. you get time to think when you're alone for 11 years. a lot of time to see emotions, patterns, understand, and just pick things apart. he never knew me, elf, he knew my dead name. and i'm thankful for that. i came out a good man all things considered, i have my flaws and issues, but who doesn't. but at least i never was like him. here's to getting out of the tower.

[maxrowave]

The long-awaited drarry cannibalism writing

This is only a snippet and is part of a much bigger thing, albeit the quality of the writing is a bit dubious because when writing, I'd never intended on them being read, I will provide some context for this + other notes at the end. I would also like to mention that this writing does contain the contributions of a writer who has requested to remain anonymous.

Draco has been subtly manipulating Harry to resent among his closest friends, because of orders from Voldemort; Draco puts Harry into a situation where he needs to either kill Seamus or Draco. Harry chooses to kill Seamus however faces lots of regret. It is also snowing and they are outside, disposing of the body.

Harry Potter is a fool. A stupid, ginormous fool. Whenever Draco traced his forearm, Harry leaned into Draco’s touch, craving it like a child craves approval. He still could not bring himself to meet Draco’s eyes, feeling undeserving after the heinous act he had done. Harry killed Seamus with his hands. He could have pulled out his wand, making his suffering minimal, but a part of Harry wanted Seamus to hurt for abandoning him. Harry wanted- Harry became all too aware of the fact Draco was towering over him and slender fingers found their way into his hair, forcing him to look down and not bow his head in shame. Harry had never bowed his head to Draco before out of pride, but now he didn’t cower solely because of the acceptance offered to him.

“You saved me from David. I saved you from Seamus. Now we’re even.” Harry says plainly "Seems righteous."

Harry began averting his gaze to stare at Seamus. Unlike David, Seamus was not beautiful in death. It was the stark opposite. This was the ugliest thing Harry had seen in his entire life. He looked down at his hands, briefly imagining what it would have been like if the roles were reversed. Harry’s hands would be around Draco’s neck instead with Seamus cheering him as he stood behind him, urging Harry to punish Draco for years of torment. Harry would squeeze as hard as he could until that angelically pale face burned red with vessels bursting, but then Draco would only look at him with those inhuman silver eyes and Harry would pull away ashamed. Harry would have spared Draco, feeling guilty for wanting to hurt him.

Draco stepped a little closer to Harry, not intentionally, but perhaps some subconscious animalistic instinct for warmth; a moth to a flame. He was to report in his next letter, Harry had struggled with killing one of his closest friends, yet he'd done so anyway. He'd indulged himself in a sin and his hands were stained, Draco's curiosity burned with where Harry's limits were. How far could he push this lion? Poke and prod it in its cage and teeter on the tightrope of danger as he observed him. Draco wanted nothing more than to break apart his skull and look into that brain of his.

Alas, he kept the thought to himself, the awareness of Harry's crumbling state as he'd killed Seamus for him like a lamb to a sacrifice. There was this slow and steady building of Harry's commitment to whatever arrangement they were calling this, with Seamus's death and Harry finally sealing his soul to Draco.

This was the moment Draco had fully decided on taking Harry under his wing.

___ OTHER INFO AND BITS Throughout the whole actual writing, in Harry's mind, he often refers to Draco as angelic because of his features -- blond hair, and pale skin, Draco meets a lot of conventional beauty standards. However, in a lot of Draco's subconscious, there are a few metaphors about the devil in contrast, with the devil being a fallen angel and all that. All around some religious references because what's sexier amiright? Furthermore, Harry mentions Draco saving him from someone named David -- that is the first person Harry kills, and it is by accident. The name David was chosen because in the Bible he symbolises goodness, obedience and morals, therefore by killing him, Harry has killed his own morality.

[merakiui]

mera mera did u read the platinum jacket vignettes for jade and floyd??? there’s some new tweel lore that would make good character analysis 👀 👀 👀 👀

>:) my writer brain is bouncing around the confines of my skull!!!!! It's too good. I rambled a lot, but I hope it makes sense. Forgive me. orz I wanted to share my thoughts and write something of an analysis/characterization. >_<

Floyd who plays with things until it's broken and thoroughly in disrepair, whereas Jade prefers to dissect said interesting thing until there's nothing left to glean. The both of them tossing aside these interesting things after they've "broken" them because it's no longer fun or entertaining. The implications of the physical and the mental, which is how I often characterize them: Floyd is more physical in everything he does. Jade is more about the mind. I think this is rather obvious, though. Floyd is very physical, both in affection and in intimidation, within the game. Jade is always so meticulous and calculating. Whereas Floyd would rather execute vengeance right away with his fists, Jade prefers to stall the suffering so that it truly cuts deep (mentally).

To illustrate the hurt: Floyd will break bones, spatter organs, leave you completely, horrifically, bodily devastated. Jade will dig into you with metaphorical scalpel, stir your brain around within your head, and watch you squirm, all with the sweetest smile. The difference is that Floyd is swift, like a hatchet splitting wood, and perhaps there is some level of mercy in the quickness. Jade is not. He's the type who tilts his head at a cute angle and asks, "Does it hurt? I should hope so," all while you're (very obviously) hurting. Jade thrives off of the build-up and the consequent break-down.

Floyd likes the chase, the euphoria of a quick capture. He plays with you, breaks you, and skips off to find something else that'll grab his attention; he doesn't linger or loiter or spend time considering the other ways in which he could have fun with you because he's already lost interest. Jade becomes your second shadow; he dwells in the corners of your mind, the little paranoid parts that spur you to think, "Am I truly alone?" And you're not. He puts you under his microscope and he studies you; turn the scope or spotlight on him, however, and he hates it because there are no shadows to hide within.

These "interesting things," which we can classify as hobbies or fleeting/temporary interests, hyperfixations, or even obsessions, mean that the twins require stimulation from such obsessions (naturally, as most of us don't like feeling bored). When the obsession no longer serves its purpose, it's useless, meaningless, and boring. It makes sense for Jade to have such an attachment to terrariums and cultivating mushrooms because the unexpected almost always happens with plants (which keeps him properly invested) and, as he's mentioned in the game, he enjoys "controlling what lives and dies." Again, the mental implications of control, of getting to pick and choose and be particularly selective when playing with the thing. If Jade likes you enough, you should hope he never tires of you because once he's finished playing with his obsession it's soon discarded. He has no feelings for it anymore. It's nothing to him.

In that regard, Floyd's interests may be slightly more fleeting than Jade's because of how mercurial he is. That, and Floyd doesn't look towards the future as much as Jade does when it comes to hobbies. For Jade, it's a matter of how long will the hobby sustain him, keep his interest, provide entertainment and stimulation? For Floyd, it's a matter of how will this entertain him in the here and now? The present. In his basketball club wear, Floyd remarks how he and Jade once found a ball floating on the surface and they spent time throwing it around. But it was short-lived fun because it soon deflated, which essentially means they were likely whipping it at one another. Both twins play rough and are only gentle when they want to be or when (or if) certain situations call for it. But playing rough is the most fun because that's how they get the most use out of the fun things.

At the core of it, though, they both want to obtain things that are difficult to get or things they can't have. No matter what, at any cost. And when they have it, it's not enough to derive satisfaction from simply celebrating such a success. They have to truly appreciate it until it's breaking, which makes me happy because I love to imagine both of them (especially Jade) loving until breaking. They love their thrills. Life wouldn't be any fun if it was predictable and mundane. They need their thrills. And sometimes it's thrilling to break something. To enjoy something until it's no longer usable or enjoyable must be quite cathartic; there's a level of ownership to that, too. No one else can play with it because it's broken (physically or mentally). Or: no one else will want to play with it because it's broken (physically or mentally). By that logic, it belongs solely to the twins. No one else will ever be able to experience or play with that thing in the way the twins did.

There's so much more I could say, but I fear if I continue anymore it will start to sound like an analysis paper. ^^;;; I'm grateful if anyone read up to this point!!!

[fallingskiesandrisingseas]

Dear all,

I've been watching Netflix's BLUE EYE SAMURAI and I'm in love! And I know we are going to get a season two and that Mizu's origins will probably be explained much more but I wanted to give you some headcanon already. Here's how I think Mizu came to be. ________________________________________

Mizu's mother knew she was damned from the moment she laid eyes on the handsome foreigner.

Later, when it all went to hell, she'd often wondered why she fell for him so swiftly, so loudly. She cursed herself for not being able to control herself, but deep down, she knew why.

Those blue eyes.

All of her friends and suitors had dark eyes, nearly black. Her people, from lowly farmers to extravagant prostitutes, had eyes like the night. Eyes that could hide so much.

Once, left unattended, she had wandered the halls of her family urban estate, ventured beyond the walls of their dwelling at night. There was a large party going on in the town square, her parents were in attendance. She easily slipped the mind of her supervisor, an old woman that didn't dare tell her parents she was becoming too blind to take care of a six-year old.

From the shadows, a beggar had emerged, eager to take a hostage, already spending the money he'd get from her ransom.

His brown eyes had been filled with darkness.

She still remembered the panic, running away from him. He caught her all the same. What chance did a six year old have against a grown man?

She could fell his bad breath on her face as he squeezed her against his torso uncomfortably.

"I'm going to make a lot of money from you, little girl."

She screamed.

Then she felt blood splattering on her face as a samurai cut down her attacker.

"What were you doing out on your own?" he asked, kneeling down to meet her eyes. His blade was still wet with blood.

"I just wanted to... see the party..." she stammered,

"You can't!" The man sheated his sword. "Danger is everywhere for a girl like you. Do not forget that."

Her parents didn't let her go out much after that. The old lady was fired, the samurai promoted.

She'd never forgotten those dark dark eyes. But she hadn't stopped wandering, either.

Growing up a noble was quite boring. Other children could play; she had lessons in kaligraphy, weaving, economics. She was taught to read and write, how to ride horses. She snuck into the library often, reading the mightiest tales of adventure.

"A lady must know how to sew" a younger copy of the blind woman told her, when she pricked herself with a needle again. Her hair was raven black still, her hands steady.

"You are of an age to be wed now, miss. You need to be careful."

Angry, she'd stormed off to the library.

The samurai, who was now much older, gray showing in his beard, her father's most trusted advisor and most important bureaucrat, had found her there an hour later sitting on the floor reading a book.

"What are you doing in here?"

"Hiding."

"Why?"

"I don't want to marry."

"You will have to. Not long from now, too"

"Spare me the lecture on duty. I'm not in the mood. "

He crouched down, looked somber. "You will have to get better at getting in the mood, then. There are few choices for a lady like you, unfortunately."

She sneered. "So I just do whatever my dad wants. Marry whoever he chooses?"

The old man shook his head. "I'm sorry. Love is not in the cards for you, milady. That's the way it is."

The young girl turned her head, refusing to look him in the eye. "You're no better than the man you saved me from, all those years ago."

The old man sighed, then stood up.

"You know nothing of suffering, milady. You've lived your entire life with food in your stomach, servants to satisfy your every whim. I pray you will learn to appreciate what you have."

"I will appreciate marrying a powerful man for my dad's influence, sure."

"Just promise me one thing."

She looked at him.

"Do not forget danger."

"I promise, wise one."

He rolled his eyes, turned around. Then he walked away. It was the last time she saw him.

And despite his warning, despite her reassurance to heed danger, she'd forgotten to do just that.

During a long boring night of trying to find a suitor, half a week later, Mizu's mother slipped out of the estate, made her way to the town square.

Her supervisor, younger this time, didn't know the estate like she did, found her attention elsewhere and then couldn't find the girl once refocussed.

She went to the town square once again. This time, there was no samurai to save her. He'd been called away, there was conflict somewhere.

She took a cup of strong liquor out of someone's hands, danced. The village was watching in disgust. A lady shouldn't behave like that. The noblemen weren't even near the dancing crowd.

In Japan, modesty was virtue.

But the man she danced with that night wasn't Japanese.

He was loud and brazen and blue-eyed. He knew he wanted her the second he saw her.

"How are you tonight, lady?" he asked her, elegantly adjusting to her rhythm.

He was a foreigner, but she didn't care much about that. His Japanese was heavy, each word pronounced with a heavy drawl. His hands were strong.

"I'm doing well, lord."

"Could I have this dance?" he asked.

Bold. Foreign.

Exiting.

She looked into his eyes. In the dim light, they seemed to shine.

She gave him her hand.

"Yes."

They danced and danced and then she found herself underneath him. He made her see stars. She was never allowed to watch those, back home. He was a powerful man, that she knew from the clothes she tore off his body, but he was kind.

When they were lying on the bed afterwards, her slowly drawing circles on his chest, she asked him what he did for a living.

He smiled. "I trade."

Suddenly, all the alarm bells were ringing. White traders in Japan were normally not smooth-skinned talkers like this. They were criminals, trading drugs and weapons.

And flesh.

"I need to leave" she said, attempting to get out of the bed.

His hands pressed down on her slightly, but commanding. "I don't think you do."

His eyes, warm hours before, were cold now. Not sea, but sheets of ice.

She didn't escape his grasp again. No samurai, no mentor, no one to save her, nor the baby that was developing in her belly.

For 4 years, she was taken around Japan. She was beautiful, yes, and young. She found ways to make herself... "useful". Her parents had stopped looking for her. The old samurai died in his bed, wondering where she was.

She and her child were neglected, but not starved. She lived a life in a cage on the second floors of large castles while her white devil traded lives, drugs and guns. While he terrorized Japan. Her only contact was with a woman of old age.

A woman of her age, she corrected. She wasn't young anymore. Not like she used to be. A kind woman, doing her best to take care of the mother and daughter.

This was not the life she wished on her child. Mizu, she'd named her. Water. After the ocean in her eyes.

One faithful day, she saw her white captor come home with another girl. She knew it wouldn't be long before she'd fall for him too.

Before her and her little baby were no longer kept around for entertainment. She needed to act, and needed to act now.

Before he decided to turn her into one of the trophies she saw hanging on the wall.

She knew of a village, by the sea. Far away from Edo, out of reach for the white bastard. Best fish in the area. She'd been there, once.

She also knew that the front door was locked with a large key only the white devil had access to.

She knew he liked it ugly. She knew where he kept his stash of ryu.

One day, when the woman came to take care of her, she made her case.

"Please help us get out of here" she begged the lady. But she shook her head.

"I can't. He'll kill me, and there is nowhere we can go. "

"Please! Haven't you seen what he does to the other kids once they are old enough to talk?"

The woman nodded. His other bastard children lived in cages, three levels lower, or were sold into slavery once they were old enough. Mizu, a pretty and blue-eyed Japanese girl, would earn the white devil a fortune.

"I'll think about it."

For two weeks, the servant struggled. It was the right thing to do, right?. But it could get her killed. She twisted and turned in her bed. Those blue eyes...

After two weeks she'd made up her mind.

"I can't help you. I'm sorry."

"Please. You have to. He'll kill us."

"I can't take you both!" She screamed. Too scared, too cowardly. Too weak to carry the woman.

"Please, at least take her. Take her and go far from here." Her mother pleaded. "I'll pay you to take care of her. "He keeps his money.."

"I know where he keeps his money!" The lady screamed. "Don't you think I want to get out of here too?"

The mother's voice broke. "Please. I'll do anything. I don't want this life for Mizu."

She took off her necklace. Expensive. Gold.

"Here. Sell this. I'll distract him so you can get to the key. But please, take care of Mizu."

The caretaker looked at the jewelry. It was refined gold, a large gem in the middle. She'd be able to sell that for a lot of money. Live in the countryside with a child, the one thing life had denied her.

"What about you?"

The woman smiled. She lifted the hem of her shirt. A large black spot showed, just below her ribcage. Red streaks were already creeping up her arms.

"He hit me three days ago. Had all his rings on. Broke the skin, and he didn't clean his hands after trading opium."

The older woman looked, in shock. "What... what does.."

"I'll be dead soon. Too weak to make an escape myself. But I'll distract the white devil. Just promise me she will be safe."

The old woman nodded, pocketed the necklace. "I promise."

"His gold is in a locker. 5.000 ryu. You'll need to bribe the guard and get passage away from here."

She nodded, planning her escape. The two women looked at each other. About the same age, one weakened by sepsis, the other terrified of the life ahead of her.

"Thank you"

They nodded to each other.

Three hours later, she sat nearly naked at the dinner table, hands shaking. Mizu was with the other woman, ready to run.

When the white man came in, fresh from the port, he looked suprised. But then he grinned, slid his hands over her exposed shoulders. "What are you doing, darling?."

She shivered. It wasn't cold. "I want to please you, lord."

He lifted her out of her seat, her breast pressing against his chest as she messed with his belt. Her hands were shaking so bad she couldn't get it open.

"You Japanese woman are all the same. Whores for white cock."

The other woman snuck into the bedroom as the white man had his way with her on the table.

She lifted the key off the hinges, hid the baby in her robes, took the gold.

She disappeared like a thief in the night.

"WHERE IS MY GOLD!?" the white man thundered the day after. The sound boomed through the castle, reached the woman in her cell, woke her up.

He stormed in, smacked her in the face. "Where!?"

She smiled at him. She had a high fever, could feel death approaching. She would soon meet her old samurai again. "You'll never find it. "

The white man pulled a knife. His blue eyes were cold as ice. "Where is the kid, then? The blue eyed bastard?"

"She'll never be a slave. And you won't sell her."

She felt the tip of his blade open the skin of her throat. "Tell me!" he commanded.

"You'll never find her, and I won't tell you."

He let her go, roared.

When the blade came down, she was smiling.

[ititledit]

Terrible headline choice, but overall I'm glad child free women are getting some mainstream coverage

________________

The number of women choosing not to have children is growing and the global birth rate is plunging.

While their reasons vary from climate worries to financial concerns and health complications, those making the decision to be "child-free by choice" say societal acceptance is yet to come, often leaving them feeling ostracised.

The BBC spoke to members of Bristol Childfree Women, a social group with more than 500 members, set up by women and for women who have decided not to have children.

While Caroline Mitchell always knew she never wanted children, she wasn't prepared for how hard reaching "child-bearing age" would be.

The 46-year-old, who lives with her husband in Brislington, Bristol, said while it never bothered her when she was younger, she had not anticipated the barrage of personal questions she would face as friends and acquaintances started to have children.

"I have felt like a freak because of it," she said.

"I feel like my perspective and my experience is just not acceptable."

In Caroline's eyes, society is set up for motherhood.

"You realise how you're quite excluded from a lot of life," she said.

"It's really hard for me to meet people, because it's all about the women you meet at the school gates or the writing clubs for mums."

Caroline said she thinks that sometimes women with children believe the "whole world" is set up for child-free women.

"Actually, it's really exclusionary," she said.

Many in her circle of friends have children and while they have never knowingly done anything to make her feel different, she says, the fact they are "all doing one thing" and she is doing another has been "quite hard".

While Caroline is "100% certain" and "very comfortable" in her identity, she admits she has, on occasion, “agonised" about her decision.

She said that was down to the "cultural expectation" of what was normal and the concept that if you were a woman, having a child was "the natural thing to do".

Official figures released in 2022, external show record numbers of women are reaching the age of 30 child-free.

More than half (50.1%) of women in England and Wales born in 1990 were without a child when they turned 30 in 2020, the first generation to do so, according to the Office for National Statistics.

Megan Stanley, who is originally from Oxfordshire and lives in Bristol, was so certain about her decision to not have children, she has been trying to get sterilised since the age of 19.

When it comes to her painful periods, Megan said it feels "cruel" to go through the "suffering every single month for a body function" she feels she does not need.

"I know that sterilisation doesn't solve periods but it does alleviate a lot of those major symptoms," she said.

But the 31-year-old said she has come up against hurdle after hurdle.

“The doctors would say ‘you're still a bit young’ or ‘you might change your mind’,” she said.

The furthest Megan got was when she was 29 and had an appointment with a surgeon.

"I'd prepared everything - my medical history, prepared all my line of reasoning. I'd even gone as far as to get a testimony from the therapist I was seeing. I'd gone the full mile," she said.

However, permission was not granted once the gynaecologist asked about her relationship status.

"At the time I'd been dating my now long-term partner for maybe three months," Megan said.

She told the doctor that her partner also definitely did not want children and he had already had a vasectomy.

Megan said the doctor then told her that if her partner had a vasectomy, “then you don't need to have this done, do you?"

It was then that Megan said she realised it was "inescapable" and they were "just not going to do it".

"Why should what happens to my body be beholden to what he's done to his?" she said.

"It's got to the point now where I long for the menopause. That's what I'm looking forward to."

Caroline believes women without children may be “complicit” in keeping cultural expectations as they are.

"We don't talk about it - so there's still this thought that it's what everyone does," she said.

"Motherhood is just everywhere all the time, in your face."

She said it was hard not fitting in with the "norm of society" and at times, she had wished she was "different".

"My life would have been easier in some ways," she said.

Yet for many women, whatever choices they make, they seem to beat themselves up about it and "seem to be not very accepting of everyone's choice", Caroline added.

Fiona Powley said she knew she did not want to be a mother from the age of 12 after seeing her own mum struggle with motherhood.

“I just thought motherhood didn't look like lot of fun," she said.

Now 49, Fiona runs the Bristol Childfree Women group, external and while she is currently experiencing menopausal symptoms, she has "no panicking feeling" that she did not use her ability to reproduce.

"It feels very comfortable," she said.

Ironically Fiona now looks at herself and thinks she could have actually done “quite a good job of parenting" but she "never really wanted it enough".

However, like Caroline and Megan she said new people she meets can react negatively when she tells them she chose not to have children.

“There's being told you'll regret it. What's your point of existing? If you don't have children you're not valid as a woman," Fiona said.

Fiona has even been called "selfish" and some have questioned who will look after her when she is old.

“It's almost like people feel uncomfortable," she said.

“It's probably because it never occurred to them that they also had a choice.”

Megan can sympathise.

In the past, the reaction to her not wanting children has been quite "visceral", she said.

She claims some people have painted her as "a child-hater, or a mean person” because of it.

"I think my not wanting kids is just an innate thing to who I am," she said.

Fiona said there were so many reasons why people decide not to have children.

Looking back, she thinks her own reasons were "probably quite unhealthy", but she knows that she is not going to "suddenly wake up as an old lady and feel bitter and regret".

Caroline said she would be a "resentful mother", adding there were a "huge amount of upsides" to not having children, like focusing her time on her relationship with her husband and her hobbies.

Megan agrees.

“There’s a lot of joy to be had in not having kids," she said.

“It isn't all about freedom and money. It's about choice."

[generalluxun]

One thing I really hate to see in fics is Adrien casually ending his ties to Chloe, often in anger, or more, irritation.

It just feels very off and not just co sit ignores the fact Adrien is someone who generally avoids that kind of motivator when decision making if not entirely by his own choice. Ala trauma.

But also because it just really glosses over the fact both of them actually seem to put a lot of weight on their relationship and history.

The thought of Chloe leaving has Adrien utterly miserable, that is not the reaction of someone who seethes every time Chloe is around. The prospect of Adrien not being her friend sends Chloe spiraling; that is not the reaction f someone who only cares superficially or for clout.

It often feels like the two struggle to imagine their lives without the other. Oh they may disagree or drift or differ but the idea of the other just choosing to be gone, to cut them off seems to scarcely enter their minds.

Plus, I feel it also ignores that there are frankly some legit similarities between them. I know we agree the train thing is overhyped, but I still will never get over Adrien's response just being "I totally get where you're coming from, fair enough" to her sabotaging a train to impress her mother. Let alone the more general stuff with how she antagonizes people he really, really wants to like him. Or disrespects him as Chat Noir.

& regardless of how angry, petty or selfish Chloe can be. She never took advantage of Adrien when he was so lonely that she could have likely gotten him to do anything. She might grump but she didn't stop him from befriending people she hates. & she genuinely weeps at his suffering & the prospect of him being denied school even though she frankly gets next to nothing out of him being there save that he exists in her vicinity.

Like there is a relationship, a bond there, its messy as all hell and neither of them are close to what I'd call healthy in of themselves or each other, but it is real and it matters to them. They'd not end it cavalierly or contently.

Oh yeah. Adrien's friendships were all sacrificed on the altar of the Adrienette plot the writers wanted.Nino suffers from this big time too. He basically vanishes from Adrien's life most of the time.

Adrien has to be alone and isolated so Marinette can 'save' him. He also has to be 'perfect' and put zero emotional complexity into Marinette's life. So he is shown to fit in perfectly to uer friend circle and we have *other* people to take the emotional weight early on. Then just, poof, they vanish or are forced out so the isolation plot can proceed in the 11th hour.

Fanfic just bows to canon on this because the canon approach is lazy and easy. I can't blame people writing for free for not outting in more work than the paid writers. 🤣

Well I *can*, but I won't.

[katurdayss]

It’s been a full week since the finale of Rings of Power and every time I've sat down to try to write my S2 review I see a new take and start rethinking. I eventually circle back to the same ideas tho, so fuck it, here are my thoughts in no particular order.

Season 2 was a lot better than Season 1. This is true for most shows, as S1 is usually a 'lets find our footing' scenario, but also these seasons are SHORT. Which leads me to...

This show would benefit GREATLY from seasons longer than 8 episodes. The way they've structured it means they juggle a LOT of storylines at once. Sometimes this is great, other times it feels like storylines suffer because they're just planting seeds for the future and it doesn't really have an impact on the Main Storyline for the season. For me, Arondir was one of these. His started with this great potential for how an immortal would understand the concept of grieving the forever loss of a loved one. Unfortunately that was really watered down into tracking down Adar to kill him, full stop. Which brings us to...

What.the.fuck.is.the.timeline? How much time has passed? S1 and S2 feel like they happened in a month. I don’t care if the timeline is compressed, I still want to feel time passing other than noticing Annatar's/Sauron’s hair magically grew like 4 inches in one episode.

Speaking of Annatar, I feel like what the show did really well was creating original dialogue/moments (even with canon things) instead of what I would call fan/studio service. The parts that I have loved the most were the more original moments: like anything involving the dwarves, the development of Miriel and Elendil, the Ents, and Cirdan. The parts that I felt were weakest were when the show relied too heavily or used dialogue from the Jackson movies. I didn't want the Stranger to be Gandalf, not because it isn't canon, but because Peter Jackson already did that. I don't need multiple call backs to his movies (I love those movies too). I'm here for NEW STUFF. Expand my Tolkien universe, show me shit I've never seen before that will make my head explode. That weird nameless thing Arondir killed? Imagine the Cardi B 'What is that' meme and that was me. Fucking great. I don't want to be constantly reminded of the Jackson version of shit, I'm here to see Prime's version.

That brings me to the idea of consistency. I have yet to figure out what the methodology the showrunners/writers have when choosing to follow or not follow canon. Example, they included that little orc family but didn't make Elrond an elf lord? WHY? His lineage is like royal af. Even when not following canon, I feel like the writing can be really inconsistent. The Numenor storyline is a great example of this. Sometimes it's awesome, but the dialogue for the Kings Men characters are often really cringy, and not because what they're saying is fascist. Galadriel is another one for me. Do I need to like her, no, but her character is also used as a studio catch all for every woman character archetype possible. She's single-minded and driven, she's soft and caring, she's thoughtful and wise, every dude apparently is in love with her and it swings WILDLY from episode to episode. You need space to build in these changes to make them believable, which see points 2 & 3.

And finally, on the subject of romance/shipping, for the love of god a story can be great without all the fan service romantic tension editing and teasing. People can exist without romantic partners. People exist without romance. I literally do it every day. I'm not saying you need to make characters asxeual or anything either. Just you know, let people be people. Did The Kiss bother me? No, but you also could of written Elrond slipping Galadriel a lock pick numerous other ways. Is Sauron obsessed with Galadriel? Sure, but maybe its because her hair shines with the light of the west or something and not this tired trope of 'bE mY qUeeN'.

There are other things I would personally change, but I thoroughly enjoyed this season. It made me do a whole lot of reckoning with the ideas of canon representation vs just good storytelling for the audience, which is a really good thing. But it also showed me the folly in treating every media property the same, because Tolkien is not Marvel is not GOT is not The Witcher. You can't be like, 8 episodes works for X so it should work for this too, or x worked for GOT so we'll use that here as well. Maybe it's the Graphic Designer in me but just because Pepsi and Coca Cola are brand soda's doesn't mean the design language and marketing is the same, ya know?