#not directed at anyone i just have many thoughts

[dontmixpaintinyourcoffee]

This one goes out to all the bitches who love some good Safehouse Era Horror. It's me, I'm bitches. I want Jon and Martin to be fucked up and eldritch but I want them to be fucked up and eldritch and loved

(Notes under the cut because I can't help myself. Heads up, I do go into some detail of how Jon gets injured so I can explain my thought process for how I designed his scars. All canon-typical and fairly clinical in tone.)

Here's how I picture Safehouse Jon!

He doesn't need glasses anymore by this point, so he should just be wearing empty frames, but I drew this before I settled on my glasses headcanons. This drawing looks better with the reflection anyways.

He hasn't gotten a haircut since before his promotion to Head Archivist. He doesn't love the weight of it on his neck, but he also uses it to fidget, and he really doesn't want to go through the whole process of cutting it. He's disliked haircuts since he was a kid (People: Bad. Small talk: Bad. Touching: Bad. Loud sounds: Bad. People talking all at once: Bad) and since his time with the Circus he's only grown more reluctant to go and get it done.

At this length his hair is naturally pretty curly but he is. Not taking care of it. I actually put a lot of effort into trying to make it look brittle and tangled (I have a lot of experience lol, my hair is quite thick and I've always hated taking care of it. Yes I am also projecting my feelings about going to a hairdressers onto him why do you ask.)

The various scars were a bit of a strange task, but anyone who has seen my takes on The Bad Kids knows I'm not averse to selective realism in my fiction. Easiest one was the neck, I always pictured Daisy making a vertical cut based on "through the voice box". The larynx is longer than it is wide, so I think Daisy would go for the method that dealt damage across the largest total surface area. Yes I am aware that I'm speaking the same way Martin does when he explains his corkscrew.

The worm scars were easy because I barely drew any. There are a few marks on his cheek, but they're just surface bites. I picture most of his encounter with Prentiss showing on his legs, particularly on the right side, with enough damage there that he starts using a cane after the incident to keep weight off his right leg. More research to be done on this particular detail.

Finally the burn on his hand from Jude. This was the weirdest one to figure out just because of the nature of the injury. How do you quantify the damage done to an epidermis by a living manifestation of sometimes-boiling wax that can heat and cool at will? I settled on it being a second-degree burn that healed supernaturally fast, containing the damage to the space Jude had direct contact with. He'd probably have some mobility issues there as well. I know there are ways to help with mobility and pain after a severe burn, but I don't know how much of it Jon would actually. Do. Like I said, definitely further research to be done on these last two.

Hey so I'm gonna ask you to stop and consider the horror of the watcher. The helplessness. The guilt. The inherent terror of being a spectator, a participant by proximity but not by action. The horror of not being able to look away, of being a bystander. Jon forgets to blink sometimes. But wouldn't it be so much worse if there were no eyelids at all? That's how I interpret the description of The Archivist being "All Eyes" :D

I love a good Many-Eyed Jon, so I whipped up my own interpretation here. I think the more he Becomes the more he starts to resemble the thing from the dreams. He has a lot more control of it in S5, but it still creeps up on him and he has to consciously go back to a human shape.

[jovialsongdefendor]

"Sonamy is canon and sonic likes amy back! he is just shy!"

What. Uh. The claim that "Sonamy is canon and Sonic likes Amy back but is just shy" is a misconception because it lacks clear evidence in the games or official media that Sonic reciprocates Amy’s romantic feelings in a meaningful or consistent way.

Sonic’s interactions with Amy across the games show that he cares for her as a friend and ally, but there’s no solid indication that he sees her romantically. Sonic often dodges or avoids Amy when she expresses her romantic feelings. While this is played for comedic effect, it’s far from a sign of shyness. It suggests that Sonic may not share the same feelings or simply isn’t interested in pursuing romance. Sonic cares about Amy’s safety and well-being, but this aligns with his general heroic nature and how he treats his other friends (e.g., Tails, Knuckles, or even strangers). His protective attitude doesn’t necessarily imply romantic feelings. And that some fans doesnt understand.

The evidence that some fans showed is mostly mistranslations that sega of the wester side do it on purpose when in the japanese version, where sonic is originated created, the text is completly different. So yeah, the voice over where tails read the questions about sonic having feelings for amy in the sonic cd resume of amy being sonics love interest they are already spreading wrong information, so yeah. They are literrally spreading a lie the america sega when they dont have any power on it lol. (sonadow wiki next)

"If anyone uses this to claim that it is Sonic saying that he is calling Amy his girlfriend, that is misinformation/disinformation, they are lying and it shows that they don’t know how to read Japanese at all.

This sentence has nothing to do with Sonic calling anyone his girlfriend. And what is in the parentheses is not a part of the sentence, that is a personal interpretation of what the person thought of after mistranslating the sentence.

What the sentence says is this: “Sorry but, I find a girlfriend to be an inconvenience (burden or discomfort).” or “Unfortunately, a girlfriend is something that I don’t want to inconvenience myself with, you know.”

The sentence in Japanese: “あいにく, ガールフレンドには 不自由して いないもんでね”

If you take the sentence apart (which you can see on this website) you will see each word on it’s own to see the direct translation.

あいにく = Unfortunately or Sorry, but…

ガールフレンド = Girlfriend

不自由して = Doing Discomfort or Inconvenience

いない = (something along the lines of) Do not (when paired with 不自由して)

もん = Something/Person/Thing

でね = You know

Another thing to point out is that the sentence in Japanese does not have the word or meaning “have” in it. “Have” in Japanese would involve the character or particle “が.”

One more thing to point out is that with the incorrect translation, if Sonic was saying that, then it does not reflect in the game it is in, nor future medias where he runs away from Amy constantly (like in Sonic Battle) or considers her only a friend."

Even Ian sayed that amys love is one-sided and sonic considered her as a friend, nothing more. Everyone, including employess, are just lying to this point!

And even in the video down below sonic sayed that is nothing complicated, and she is just a important friend that can be difficult to handle sometimes.

"Oh, but sonic sounds like a boy with a crush"

NO. That doesnt mean necesarrily that he have a crush People claiming "he sounds like he has a crush" are basing their argument on subjective interpretation of Sonic’s tone of voice rather than the actual words he says. Tone can be influenced by many factors: Sonic might be playful, casual, or dismissive because he doesn’t see the topic as serious.

His tone might even reflect mild awkwardness—not because of romantic feelings, but because Amy’s affection can sometimes be overbearing or embarrassing for him. When Sonic curtly responds to questions about Amy (like saying she's "an important friend" or "nothing complicated"), some fans interpret his brevity as embarrassment or an attempt to hide his true feelings. However, this interpretation comes from the fan’s desire to see a romantic connection, not from what Sonic is actually communicating.

Without concrete actions to back up this tone, interpreting it as proof of a crush is a leap. So no, friends, not everything has to be romantic.

And even in the japanese sonic channel amy is still saying that she is a "self-proclamed" girlfriend so... yeah.

And about that some fans sayed that in sonic unleashed sonic gets sad because amy doesnt recognize him and walks away, more like sonic gets sad because with that form his friends couldnt even recognize him anymore and thinks he looks like a monster. that doesnt show that he likes her romantically. He is trying to adapt to his new form, so is understandable that he felts sad with his new form if a friend doesnt recognize him. And about sonic flirting with lady percival thing: bro, sonic is acting normal like he do with knuckles, tails and even shadow. what are you into bro.

[that-hazbin]

I have some HCs from twitter I'd like to transfer here, so pspspsps come get some food

Alastor hung out with women who liked to seduce their way to success, and inadvertently picked up their body language. When he was alive, many people thought that he was intentionally seducing men and women alike, which had landed him in some hot water once or twice. There is a DIRECT correlation between this and Vox's One-sided Psychosexual Obsession with him. He is not doing it on purpose and he has no idea what his body language comes across as.

Alastor has Uber Autism, specifically the kind where he needs to listen to the same exact song 379 times before he is satisfied. Dying and going to hell was an absolute delight because he no longer has to uphold standard broadcasting procedure, and instead can do whatever the fuck he wants. Everyone in Hell believes he's attempting to torture them when he plays Duke Ellington's "It Don't Mean a Thing (If It Ain't Got That Swing)" for the 67th time. He's not, he genuinely just loves playing the same song over and over. (He also loves that magic can prevent his records from wearing out so quickly.)

Alastor likes to divulge the Deep Lore to Angel because he knows no one will EVER believe him. It does not bother him at all that Angel knows things about him that no one else does, because Angel ALSO hates the Vees and therefore is very unlikely to go around spilling any of it to anyone outside their mutual circle of merry misfits. And, again, no one would believe him anyways.

Alastor is hyperaware of other people's facial expressions, and believes this is normal, which is why he controls his own facial expressions so obsessively. He thinks it's a universal behavior to hyper analyze facial expressions and guess what goes on in people's heads that way. He has yet to figure out that it's not, even after a near century in Hell.

Vaggie reminds Alastor of Susan. He vaguely believes that if he ever pointed out the similarities to Charlie, it could possibly ruin their relationship. Which is pretty cruel even for him, so he'll be keeping his mouth shut.

Alastor built the entire radio network in Hell. Before he arrived, Hell was actually pretty far behind technologically. People were too busy suffering. Luckily for them, Alastor is Autistic and his special interest is Radio. Nothing will stop this man from indulging in his passions.

[matteglaze]

Thinking abt Todoroki Shouto, and how he isn't as dense as he comes across...

When reading fanfics Shouto is always oblivious and dense, and yes, I wholeheartedly agree with that—

But i feel like Shouto also does it on purpose, you know? Like, one day you're both talking, and he's just soo up close to your face. 'He probably doesn't realize' you rationalize inside your head, but no, he's definitely aware of the affect he has on you. Your reactions are cute, he thinks, cute in the way he can't seem to stop teasing you.

I think he'd pay extra close attention to people that are close to him, people he holds dear, so whenever you stutter, or your mind goes and blank and you think 'Oh, I hope he didn't notice that—' he does.

I think that's why I like the idea that he's actually a little menance, but the worst part is that he gets away with it !!

Whether it's saying something so humbling and out of depth— something that many would take offense to but think, 'well, he didn't really mean it that way— that's just how he is', NOPE!! he definitely meant it that way, but not clarifying anything saves him the trouble so why should he care yk...

Though, he mostly (all the time really) does it with you. Getting up in your personal space, saying things like "When we're on a mission together, I feel like I can handle anything as long as you're the one by my side"— and it flusters you sooo badly, but no, this is Shouto we're talking about, clearly he didn't mean it like that, right? Right? (And the entire time, he's trying to bite down a Cheshire grin)

So, yes, in the earlier years of being a hero he wasn't really great at communication and unaware of social cues— but now, he's practically evil with the way he acts around you.

Sometimes you think you see it; you're going to call him out on his behavior. There's no way he didn't know what he was doing when he held your face in his hands on a hot summer day, pulling you close and saying, "Is this cooling you down?" (No, actually, this was just heating you up)

But whenever you do call him out on it—

"You know, you're not that slick." You say one day, ice cream cone in hand as you walk next to him, bumping him with your hip. Your eyes slide over towards his mismatched ones, gauging his reaction closely. If you were anyone else you would have probably missed the slight quirk of his lip; the uplift of his brows. But you don't, and the grin on your face overtakes most of your features. Maybe today will be the day he finally admits it. Instead he doesn't speak, takes one lick of his mint chocolate ice cream and then he turns to you, a silent question appearing on his face. A taunt.

You let out a humourless breath, cone tight in your hand as you point it in his direction. Accusing him of something both of you know you won't be able to prove, but he knows you know, and you know he knows you know. But, it'd be really great if he could just admit it, because it's almost like a game.

A game between just the two of you.

"Don't try and act blonde now!" You chide, biting on your bottom lip to control the smile that tries to force it's way on your face.

Shouto smiles at your antics, leaning in close to you, and all of a sudden he completely invades your senses. The smell of mint on his lips is so close, and yet so far. He stares deeply into your eyes, and just as you thought you were getting closer to the truth— he brings his thumb up to wipe absent mindlessly at the corner of your mouth. He pulls back, looks you in the eyes, and takes a tentative lick at the frosty flavour on his thumb. With a cat-like tilt to his head, he says, "I'm not blonde?"

But, the worst part is whenever he speaks about you to others, he speaks so fondly of you; like one would do about their partner— but you guys aren't together. Sometimes he does it right in front of your face whenever you guys are at a hero gala. Shouto sees you talking to a new and upcoming, young, pro-hero and he immediately comes to your side. With how close he is, and with the things he says to them, "I can never imagine myself without them by my side." It gives people the idea that you're both, you know, a thing.

Little do you know, he's been playing this 'game' ever since high school, and even though the two of you aren't exclusive— it doesn't mean he can't get in his fun.

Todoroki Shouto is not good for your health.

[velvetvexations]

on one hand i am a very big believer that reading written theory does not inherently define politics and that you can engage with most ideas without ever once touching a theory book directly and be just fine

HOWEVER - the number of people in general (not even just in transfeminist spaces) who think they can just write up their own theory without engaging with any other queer / feminist history or queer / feminist theory outside of their own bothers me so much

like, even re: people not understanding radical feminism and it's roots -- it's not just that radical feminism was born out of man hating, it was born out of genocidal rhetoric towards men. valerie solanas and ti-grace atkinson are the names to look up for anyone interested in the militaristic and genocidal roots of radical feminism that have never once gone away in the almost 70 years since the ideology's conception.

and you don't even need to be a scholar to look these things up!! you don't need to be an academic to learn history or to understand the basic principles of a political ideology. you literally just need a sense of curiosity and a search engine. hell - over half the time you just need wikipedia. then you could, if you really wanted to, support a local bookstore or used book website or your local library to read about the subject in your free time if you really felt compelled to. but again! books are not a requirement! if you're on tumblr the whole internet is at your fingertips!!

there are just so many routes to take the time to learn and be a metaphorical student, even just briefly, before you start acting like an authoritative teacher. the entitlement that comes with just thinking you can say anything about a subject and expect to be carried by your identity rather than the merit of your knowledge of a relatively accessible area of study bothers me to no end.

(also just for clarity none of those "you"s are directed at you velvet! they're the general "you")

The problem is that they read and don't internalize any of it. They just recycle all the big words they learned. Actually understanding the history of radical feminist thought is anathema to them because it'd pretty quickly make them realize no, for real, radfems don't think you're a woman, and also hate trans men. Being moderately educated on radical feminism would make their house of cards instantly collapse.

[metaphorfordeath]

Anti-Psychotic

A person living with schizophrenia finds that their delusions may have more basis in reality than they thought. Originally published in the Fall/Winter II issue of Diet Milk Magazine, available here. Content warnings for depiction of psychosis, violence, ableist language.

No one is watching me.

Julie has me write that down at our session. She never listens to me. She says, it can be comforting to realize that people don’t think of you as much as you think they do. I know this already. She asks, what evidence do you have that you are being watched? I say there isn’t any. Just a feeling. She writes something down, and asks about my meds again. 

So fucking patronizing. Of course I take them. I have taken mine like clockwork, every day, for five years. Maybe I missed a few days, but who doesn’t forget sometimes. My meds are cleat spikes jabbing into the earth. Helping me keep my footing. Making sure I don’t slip.

Last week I started getting the prickle again. Like fingers up my back. Someone standing behind me, breathing. I live alone. When I felt it, I wasn’t scared at first. These things happen sometimes. I’ve been around the block. The prickle and I are old friends, practically. When it finds me, I have ways to forget it. 

I drew the blinds, which helped a bit. I had a drink—nobody's perfect—but the prickle didn’t dull. So I peeked through the shades at the street below. Normal street stuff. The sun was setting, painting the world in shades of fire. Cars went by, all the usuals. Some kids were yelling in a driveway. A wasp tapped at my window, wiggling its feelers at me. No obvious source for the prickle. So, probably nothing. For the rest of the evening I puttered, read my book, ate some frozen nothing heated in the microwave, and took my meds. The prickle was temporary, I told myself as I lay down to sleep, the usual fog settling over me in a cool, clammy layer. No one was watching me. No one ever is.

That was a week ago. It’s only gotten worse since then. The prickle turned into a terrified stomach ache that kept me up for nights and nights. I called in sick to group, told Cheryl the caseworker that I have the flu. She sounded alarmed, but she’s only worried because of what happened to Devin.

Devin was like me: good at meds, good at therapy. We were friends, in a psycho kind of way. A few weeks ago, Devin started to get bad. Stopped showing up to group, didn’t even call. I haven’t seen him in a while, even when I went looking for him in his usual bad places. I miss him. I told Cheryl not to worry. I’m steady, just sick. I’ll see her again soon. 

I keep taking my meds, but they aren’t helping like they should. The fog I count on to sleep is thin, or missing. Something scrabbles at my skin from underneath, and I keep catching myself scratching little bits off of me. When I lay down, a low, neutral voice whispers nonsense at me through the pillow I clamp over my head. I can’t shower; that’s when the prickle gets stronger. Someone standing on the other side of the shower curtain, someone looking down at me through the water stain on the ceiling. I hiss and babble out loud just to hear myself talk, to shut up the voices that aren’t mine. I get sicker by the day.

By now I haven’t been outside in over a week, but my meds are ready to pick up. I don’t want to miss a dose, so I put on shoes and the big jacket that makes me feel safe, and I go outside. Birds leer at me from the tops of buildings. Walking in the opposite direction, an old lady frowns at me.

“Hmph, same to you,” she snaps.

My stomach lurches, but I don’t say anything, just keep walking. I hadn’t spoken. Had I? 

The drug store is brightly lit. It hurts to be inside. Too many things to look at. Faces on packaging look strange now. Confrontational. Interrogative. But at least they look like faces. When I look at anyone real, their features shift. Static snow eats at the air around their heads in a halo. It frightens me, so I keep my eyes on my shoes. The pharmacy tech who’s always there gets the packet for me, rings it up.

“Any questions about your medication?” he asks. I shake my head, pay with a card. He has glasses that give his face a sort of stability, so I look at it. His eyes are brown, beard gray, no hair on his head. He smiles at me. “Have a nice day, miss.”

“You too,” I mutter.

And then I go home, have to stop myself from running for safety. The walk is twenty minutes each way; harrowing, the passing cars huge and hungry, huffing and snorting at me. The prickle is more than a prickle by now. It feels like someone is pulling out the hairs on the back of my neck, one by one. My heart thuds against my ribs so hard that I’m afraid it will burst out, plop on the sidewalk and keep throbbing without me. The paper bag with my pills turns damp and tattered in my sweaty hand. 

And getting home doesn’t even help this time.

Julie says too much TV can be a trigger for me, but I start leaving it on all the time. Noise beats silence, any day. No empty spaces that need filling. I can’t watch sitcoms or anything fictional, so I tune it to the news. The news is always. Steady, real, factual. There’s a story about a body they found by the freeway. Pushed out of a moving car. No one knows or cares who it was. There’s a picture of the scene, taped up yellow and covered in those little numbers that say where a bit of evidence is. A tattered jacket lays in a ditch, dark with blood. 

I stand and race to the bathroom, cool porcelain against my hands, bile and nothing coming up as sweat pours down my back. My head pounds, edges of my vision sparkling. I can only see the jacket. Not dirty or bloody or ruined but the way it used to look. Devin’s jacket.

Something is horribly wrong. Men-in-black wrong. The-end-is-nigh wrong. 

The prickle wasn’t imagination. It was intuition. 

Someone got Devin. Who else did they get before him?

---

The next week, I force myself to go to group. I need to see faces. See who else is there, or not. Cheryl picks me up for these, since I don’t drive. I’m sicker than I can remember being, and try to remember to ask Julie about my dose on Tuesday. I sit silently in the passenger seat, feeling Cheryl’s eyes on me. Caseworkers all have the same eyes.

“Feeling alright today, X?” 

My name isn’t the name she calls me. You don’t need to know it.

“Fine,” I say, pinching my hands between my knees. They shake if I don’t. “Still getting over that flu.”

“Sorry to hear that,” she says. Her sedan has beige fabric seats. The passenger seat is dark, stained with sweat and whatever else from all the people she’s ferried around. A vanilla air freshener dangles from the rear view mirror.

Someone shouts in my ear, so close I feel a little blast of hot breath on my neck, and I flinch. Cheryl looks at me suddenly.

“Everything okay?”

She didn’t hear that. “Yeah. Sorry. Weird itch.”

“Hmm.” 

Group is fine. It’s usually fine. I don’t say much this time, just look around at everyone in their folding chairs. Their faces are wrong. It makes me nauseous to look, but I look anyway. I need to see who isn’t here.

There are no empty chairs, but there are fewer. One or two down from usual. All the other regulars are here, picking at their skin or looking at the clock or chewing their hair. I glance across the room and for a second I think I see Devin, sitting in his old coat. But when I look again, it’s just Tom. I almost hoped.

When it’s over, there’s bad coffee to drink. I suck on a red straw and let the bitter taste anchor me to my tongue. I inhabit my body, touch my fingers to the side of my face to know that it and my fingers exist. Sufficiently convinced of my realness, I go to Amber, our de facto leader.

She’s drinking water from a bottle with cucumber slices in it, cloudy with pulp and seeds. Ectoplasmic. It makes my stomach turn.

“Amber,” I say. My voice feels far away. She looks at me, expectant. “I missed last week. Have you seen Greg, or Mariah?”

“Oh, no, I haven’t. Greg was here last week, but I haven’t seen Mariah since like, last month. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

A crinkle appears between her eyebrows. I focus on that, since the rest of her features won’t stay put. “You’re worried because of what happened to Devin?”

“I think Devin is dead.” There is a sudden hush as other people in my vicinity overhear. “I saw his jacket. On the news.”

Cheryl appears beside me. “X, would you like to talk in the hallway?” 

She pulls me out before I can answer. “Have you been feeling alright?” she asks again. “Taking your medication?”

“Yes,” I say, a little forcefully. She clicks her tongue.

“Really? Because if you need to move up your next appointment, I can make some arrangements for you.”

Despite the fact that I do want to move my appointment up, her tone hits a button in my brain and my face turns red. “No,” I say. “I’ll wait until the next one. I’m fine. I just need to know what’s happening.” A rancid taste creeps up the back of my throat. “Where are people going?”

“Honey, everyone’s here that needs to be here.”

“No—that’s not right. I need to know.” 

I can tell from the way she moves that she thinks I’m getting agitated. She doesn’t understand what I’m saying. “People call in sick sometimes. You did, just last week. Mariah was having issues sticking with the program, so we’re working something out. No one’s gone.”

“Devin is gone. Devin is dead. He’s dead and no one knows it.”

Cheryl comes closer, her voice so low and venomous that it starts to meld with the others. “I’m going to give Dr. Bern a call and try to get you in with her sooner than Tuesday. If you can’t keep up with your regimen, we’ll have to consider another in-patient stay.”

Anger chokes me until my vision goes white. “Okay,” is all I can manage. I have some unsavory thoughts, which I won’t repeat to you now.

“Good,” says Cheryl, holding my leash. “Let’s get you home.”

I don’t sleep. I don’t even try. Someone is watching me. I think about Devin, the last time we spoke before he was gone. He got paranoid, too. He jabbered sometimes, when we would see each other. The same face, he said, with glass eyes. Looking at him. Following him. He said his pills were replaced, his furniture moved, nothing looked the same as he’d left it. No one listens to me, he said. I’m scared, he said. I’m scared of what will happen next.

“I’m scared, too,” I say to no one. A chorus laughs at me. 

---

“So,” says Julie. “Cheryl told me you’ve been having some trouble sticking to your medication.”

“I stick to it,” I say, and set the pill bottle on the desk in front of her. “Count them and tell me I’m not.”

She doesn’t move to count them. I’d hoped at least that she would humor me. “It sounds like some of your persecutory thoughts are returning. Tell me about what you’re worried about.”

“I saw on the news that they found someone’s body in a ditch off the interstate. They showed pictures. I think the body was Devin.”

“Devin from your group?” I nod. “We actually just heard from him last week. His brother answered when we called his phone. Devin is currently in a private rehabilitation clinic in Cincinnati. He’s alright, X.”

A numb feeling falls over me all at once, like a sheet. Something crawls up my thigh and disappears into a deep hole in my flesh. “Oh.”

“Amber talked to us, too. She said you asked her about Greg and Mariah’s absences this week?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I followed up on those for you, too. Greg had an accident at home and was in the emergency room during your meeting time this week. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to reach Mariah personally, but her father informed me over the phone that her family has pulled her out of the program. She won’t be returning.” Julie leans across her desk. “X, can you please look at me?”

I look at her. Her face is twisted, like a mask, papier mâché, drooping strips of plaster bandage. The static threatens to consume her, and me.

“I’m going to increase your dose to eighty milligrams. For now you can take two of what you have at the usual time, but I’m sending in a new prescription to the pharmacy.” She scrawls something on a pad at hand, and I take the opportunity to look away. “I’ll see you again this time next week, okay? And if anything’s the matter, you can call the nurse’s hotline. We’ll take care of you.” She hands me the script. 

“Thank you,” I say, and then someone brings me home. I am silent for the drive. Thinking.

Wasn’t Devin an only child?

I start doubling my dose. The fog doesn’t come. The prickle intensifies into ceaseless paranoia. I check the window locks three times a day to make sure, even though I live on the third floor. Chair under the doorknob, empty bottles stacked on it so I’ll hear if someone comes. I can’t stop thinking about Devin, and the others. Were they all really fine? Was this just a breakthrough-breakdown, pills ceasing their function and leaving me alone, spiraling? 

I hadn’t tried calling Devin in weeks. He didn’t pick up the first few times, and anyone in that state doesn’t usually want to talk anyhow. But Julie said someone answered when they called. Maybe they would answer for me.

The phone buzzes. Surging forward and receding, like a tide. Devin could be there on the other end. Getting better. Being cared for. I close my eyes and wait to hear his voicemail, or something else.

Click. “Hello?”

The voice startles me so much I can’t speak. A stranger.

“Hello?” says the phone. “Who is this?”

“Um,” I say suddenly, “Devin?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the voice says. “Devin isn’t here right now. May I ask who’s calling?”

“I’m—his friend. X,” I clarify. My voice is not of me. “Can I talk to him soon?”

“No, unfortunately he can’t talk. But I’ll let him know you called, he’ll be happy to hear people are checking up on him.”

“What’s—who are you?”

“I’m Eric, Devin’s brother. I’m taking good care of him, miss. Have a nice day.” 

The call ends. Something in my stomach shrivels. I run to the bathroom, but there’s nothing to bring up. I don’t know why that voice scared me so much. Why had I thought Devin was an only child? He hadn’t mentioned his family—maybe I’d just assumed, or forgotten if he’d said. Of course he had a brother. He was alright. They all were, now.

---

Days pass. Bugs make their homes in me. My medication runs out, the new pills ready for pickup. I’d rather die than set foot outside. But I need my stability. I steel myself to leave, and exit my apartment into the world. 

Everyone looks at me. They all want to hurt me. A car drives slowly past me and I try not to look at the people inside. My head hurts. It’s hard to see where I’m going, but I go.

The drug store is bigger than it was last time. Brighter. Angrier. People avoid me as I shuffle towards the pharmacy counter. The pharmacist who’s always there smiles at me again.

“Do you have any questions about your medication?”

I shake my head, fumbling for my card. He’s staring at me through his glasses.

“Do you need me to call someone for you?”

His voice makes me want to puke. I shake my head again, take the pills and make for the door. A crowd of voices shout at me as I stagger out into the air. I miss the way things were. My cleats don’t fit anymore. I tear the bag open, pop the lid off the bottle and shake a pill into my mouth, force it down dry and sticky and hope it does its job. My mouth is sweet where it lingered. It didn’t used to be so sweet.

There is a dull shock of understanding that blooms at the edge of my mind. The prickle rises on the back of my neck, and I look over my shoulder again. The pharmacist is looking at me from his position behind the counter. His face ringed in static. He waves at me. And I take off running.

There is no one I can call. No one who will listen. There are only doors that will slam in my face, white speckle tile and fluorescent lights and needles. He knows that. He knew it for Devin, too. He knew it for the rest of them. The wind in my face feels like fingers grasping at me, tugging at my hair, slowing me down. I race home, up the stairs and lock the door, brace it with furniture and then I sit on the floor and cry and cry. They’re laughing at me. Trading whispers. Look how stupid. Look how gullible. Go on and cry, crybaby. 

So I do. It’s all I have left.

The next time it’s group, I don’t come to the door. Cheryl calls me, but I don’t answer. There will be a wellness check if I don’t come. I want them to, now. When her calls finally stop piling up, I wait fifteen minutes, then step outside. I leave my door open, leave what I can to show that I am gone. I leave the pills out, and the script. Crush a few with my heel for good measure. I hope they can put the pieces together.

It’s dark, cool. It reminds me of the fog, makes me wish I could sleep. Eyes follow me through the evening. Headlights burn me as cars move past. I walk slowly in my big jacket, letting myself be watched. Letting the prickle come up my neck, creep over my scalp, trickle down over my face until it covers me in a thin layer and I prickle all over. The prickle and I are old friends. It tells me when to be afraid.

Then there are headlights at my back that don’t go away. The growl of an engine crashes into me. I stop walking, and someone gets out. I don’t turn to look. I can’t stand to look at faces anymore. Suddenly, I have a funny thought. Maybe I do have some questions about my medication, after all.

Something whistles through the air above my head, and the world disappears.

When I wake up later, I’m not sure if I have. There are stars. It smells like gasoline, copper and dirt. My jacket is gone. My mouth is gone, too. My hands. You’re caught, someone says in my ear, you let it happen. With my eyes, which I still have, I look across the floor. It hurts to look. There’s blood under me, sticky black. The prickle is gone. I discovered its source.

I’m alone for a long time. It’s hard to say how much. I realize that there’s a door behind me when it opens. Light falls across the floor, yellow tractor beam coming to take me away. I long to be weightless, but the earth won’t let me. Then the pharmacist who is always there puts his shoe against my face and turns me over. He doesn’t speak. He crouches down and looks into my eyes like he is trying to take something from me. Then he takes the tape off my mouth.

All I do at first is scream. It's all my body knows how to do. He sits and watches me. When I can see his mouth, it’s smiling, and I realize he likes it when I scream. So as soon as I can, I stop. Silence rushes back into the gaps, roaring in my ears.

“Good girl,” he says when I am quiet. His voice is a distorted growl, infrasound, rattling my eardrums. “Aren’t you such a good girl?”

I think about his throat in my teeth. I think about his blood on my face. For a moment it feels like I am lunging for him, jabbing thumbs into soft and fragile places. But he still has my hands, turning numb and purple at the small of my back. So I sit up as much as I can and spit at the floor near his feet. Faster than my eyes can track, he lurches forward. Fist in my hair, hauling me up to hip height.

He looks into my face with his glass eyes. His mouth is monstrous, all his white teeth sharp in a thicket of gray.

“I’ve been watching you,” he says. 

I know this already. There is nothing satisfying in the confirmation of it. 

He is not the man in black I always pictured. He could be anybody.

“Think of this as a favor I’m doing you.”

Then he hits me again. And other things.

When I’m alone, voices chatter in my ears. No one is coming, they say, you are alone. They will not find you. You and the ditch will be friends soon. So you amounted to this—better than nothing, we suppose. I shush them, rock myself against the cement floor and hum and think about grass, and birds. I try not to leave myself room to cry. I don’t want him to have the satisfaction.

A thousand years go by. Outside the room, there are voices. Not any of mine. His, and others. They start loud, and get quiet. His voice goes away completely. Doors open, distant, then closer. Light falls over my body again, and I feel the weightlessness. Real this time. My hands come back to me, but I can’t move them. There are faces, more than I’ve seen in a while. They scare me, but I can’t run, so I try not to look. Except at his. They take me past him, and I look. Through his glasses I see his eyes, still trying to take something from me. He has, by now. But not what he wanted.

I sleep for a long time, and when I wake up, the world is the way I remember it. My feet on the ground, cleats and all, not slipping. When I’m well enough they bring me to identify Devin’s body, since he didn’t really have a brother after all. They find Mariah’s, too. Greg really was in the emergency room, turns out. But there are others. Too many to think of.

Cheryl changes careers afterwards. Probably for the best. I find this out when she drives me to group the first time after I get out of the hospital. She doesn’t look at me much, but when she does, I can see her eyes are different. Not caseworker eyes anymore.

“Lauren is going to be taking over your case starting next week,” she says after a long silence. “So this will be the last time I see you.” I can tell she’s trying not to cry.

“Okay,” I say. 

She never apologizes. No one does. They all say they’re sorry for what happened to me, but that isn’t the same thing. People who don’t listen never think to apologize for it. They think they were listening all along.

Things are mostly the same as before, except I get my pills mailed to me now. And I think about Devin a lot. When I pour myself a drink, I pour one for him too and pretend he’s with me. I don’t have any pictures, so mostly I think about his voice. The last time we ever spoke, he told me, no one listens to me, X. 

What I said then was, I know the feeling, man.

But now I just tell him I’m sorry.

[letteredlettered]

Hello there! I recently read your thoughts about By the Grace, in which you mentioned that you've never been happy with how it turned out. (I am one of the readers who love BtG, btw, I found it transformative in the sense that i loved it so much that I felt changed afterwards. my comments trace my slow disintegration 😅). I wondered if you'd be willing to share which fics of yours you like the best - which fics came out as you wanted them to, which fics make you feel understood and known? (Totally understand if this is too personal an ask btw but just thought I'd see if it's something you'd like to share).

Well, hi. You sent this ask in August of 2022. I am apparently very very behind on a lot of things. I just had a lot to say to you and didn't have the energy to say it. I'm currently dealing with some health issues so fandom is actually now one of the only things I have energy for, so here I am.

The first thing I want to say is how glad I am that you liked By the Grace. It's hard not to love something I've written, but I think it shows so much about our humanity that something I find so deeply imperfect could be something that really worked for you. Thank you so, so much for all your kind words.

The second thing I want to say is that for me, the fics I like best are the one that came out as I wanted them to, but they are not necessarily the ones that make me feel seen and known. For instance, I wrote By the Grace because I felt upset about the world, and I also felt upset about some things in fandom that felt like an ugly reflection of the world in a place where I didn't want to have to think about such things. The fact that people love BtG, in spite of its flaws, makes me feel that people understood what I was trying to say, no matter how imperfectly I said it; they care about its message and its values, even if I couldn't deliver those messages and values in the way I hoped and worked for.

Another example is The Way Down. The Way Down is one of the first Harry/Draco fics I ever wrote. I started writing it in 2007, and I was in a very difficult place at the time. It was two years after I finished college; I still wasn't doing anything with my life; I felt like a failure. I started to want to stay inside, never leave the house, never see anyone I knew, never do anything but talk to people on the internet all day long. Incidentally I felt very lonely and left out of the fandom I wanted to be a part of, which was H/D. No one was interested in my writing and I couldn't make friends in that community. I couldn't finish the fic. I got myself out of that situation, moved across the country, got a job, made new friends, and also stopped caring as much about whether my fic was popular. I was able to finish the fic because I as a person changed, and that fic reflects both parts of that journey. I don't actually think it's a good fic; some of the characterizations are too fanon for my taste; some of the scenes are a bit too silly; a lot of the deeper parts don't go deep enough. But when someone loves that fic, when it really touches someone, it's like they're loving me as I was then, loving the fact that I got myself out of it, loving a person who can struggle in that way. And that means so much to me.

Meanwhile, Away Childish Things is a perfect fic to me. It came out exactly as I wanted and said so much about both Harry and Draco that I had been wanting to say, that I felt I hadn't been seeing in fic. I knew it was good when I was writing it. Frankly, I thought people would like it, and I was right. I'm not sure that people loving it makes me feel seen and understood. It's not like ACT isn't a personal story for me--it's terribly personal! But I don't think it's saying things that make me feel bad about myself, or that I think other people or the world are struggling with. It's a sharp story that I think many people can identify with from different directions.

In terms of fics that turned out exactly as I hoped, The Eighth Tale is another such fic. It always makes the list because I had this idea for so, so long--a fic in which the war didn't go as it was "supposed" to, but instead drags on and on and on, a fic in which the canonical ending is glimpsed, but other endings are glimpsed too, a fic in which universes collide into the idea that the ending is never set, it's always the choices we make that give us our own endings. But whenever I imagined such a fic it was half a million words long, and while such a fic sounds interesting, I am so glad that @tacktigerfic would come along so many years later to write that grand epic. Meanwhile, what I had in mind was just a little paradox timey-wimey business that should take only 15-20K to get out into the world. I just didn't know how to do it. But finally, I read a fic that really inspired me with its voice (in a completely different fandom; it's Crow on the Cradle by Refur in SPN fandom if anyone is interested) and it helped me to understand I would need a very particular narrative voice to make this fic happen. Then I sat down and wrote it in about two or three sittings. It's exactly what I meant to do.

Ginny Weasley: Dragon Slayer is a similar fic in that it did exactly what I wanted to, and I wasn't sure I would get there. I think both of these fics are things I often think of as perfect because I have a habit of having rather small ideas that quickly turn huge and unwieldy. It's why BtG is a problem, imo. I love that I was able to make these fics concisely what I wanted them to be, no more, no less.

There are fics in other fandoms that are exactly what I want them to be: Sincerely Your Pal, in Captain America fandom, Say More in The Untamed (CQL) fandom. The End Resting Only on Air is the perfect end to my series of fics in The Walking Dead fandom. I still think Or Even Rearrange You has the best Tony Stark voice I've read, and that's cool because I wrote it. The Chuck Writes Story for SPN fandom is one of the cleverest and most incisive things I've written, because it's about SPN fandom more than SPN--and I happened to write it before SPN even had the mythos that it does now. But in terms of fics that make me feel seen/understood and I'm perfectly happy with how they are written, Responsible Science in MCU is always my answer to which fic I've written is my favorite fic for a reason (although it's actually a series). That Lesson Alone in Schitt's Creek fandom is probably one of the most personal things I have ever written, and I wouldn't change a word of it.

But in H/D fandom, if you want a fic of mine that I'm happy with, that came out exactly as I envisioned, and makes me feel seen and understood, only one fits the bill: The Pure and Simple Truth. I actually don't think the writing is perfect--I would tighten it up a little, maybe. But it's exactly what I wanted to write, and it was so fun to write; I still think it's fun to read. But on top of that, this fic is also trying to say something about morality that I think is really fundamental to who I am. It's trying to say things about friendship and forgiveness that I believe with my whole soul. It's trying to say things about conversation, what that means for people, what that can build, what community is and what it isn't. I've gotten a few comments over the years from people saying they didn't really understand it. I've also gotten a lot of comments yelling at me about it because there isn't a kiss at the end. I've also seen people saying that the fic is suggesting that Neville's a bad person because he struggles to forgive folks who tortured him, which is the exact opposite of what the fic is about.

But when people do get this fic, when they comment or message me to tell me what it means to them to see folks who have hurt each other, some of whom have been actual torturers and part of hate groups, come together and grow from that, discuss that, and learn to love in spite all of that...wow, that makes me feel like the things I care about aren't just mine; other people feel that way, which is a wonderful feeling.

[osamucide]

you should know that I ⭐️ annon am the same annon as floras 🐯 annon i am the one obsessed with feaksushi nakajima

i felt like it’s only appropriate i answer this ask with tonight’s thoughts and contemplations because tonight im contemplating and thinking a lot about gross pathetic perv stalker!Atsushi

gross pathetic perv stalker!Atsushi who trips and falls into his obsession with you. he really wasn’t looking for anything, much less this. he probably meets you on an assignment, or you happen upon the Agency with an inquiry, whether you’re a civilian or from a neighboring organization—it doesn’t matter, because whatever way it happens, he never expects to be so taken with anyone so intensely, so quickly. it’s generous, really, to even say he’s met you; more like he saw you and was so awestruck that he immediately turned you over for Dazai or Kunikida to deal with so he wouldn’t have to worry about looking like a flustered mess in front of the most beautiful person he thinks he’s ever seen.

gross pathetic perv stalker!Atsushi wholly avoids you whenever you’re in proximity for business outside of sneaking longing glances at you; no way, he thinks, anyone who carries themselves like you, looks like you, talks like you, would ever go for someone like him. you fill him with a desire he feels all over; he could almost hate it, hate you for it, want to stay far away from it. but when the office empties out at the end of the day, he’s thumbing frantically through files for anything on you—a picture, a middle name, an ability, anything. he can’t pinpoint a sole reason why but he’s utterly hypnotized by you.

it’s by total chance (and thorough combing through the president’s filing cabinet) gross pathetic perv stalker!Atsushi stumbles upon your address. he snaps the folder closed when he sees it—maybe he can talk himself out of what he already knows he’s going to do—but ultimately, he cracks it back open, studies it, commits it to memory. it’s funny, you’re put up smack in the middle between the Agency and that place that serves really good chazuke. for good measure, he slips the wallet-sized photo identifying you out of the paper clip holding it to your file and tucks it in his pocket.

gross pathetic perv stalker!Atsushi knows it’s wrong, but he can’t help himself. since your case was resolved earlier this week, he hasn’t seen you in days—he feels deprived of your presence, your beauty, and it would be so wrong to say he’s nabbed your number from a professional setting. better to be subtle, he thinks, and plans for it to be a one time thing: the way he’s standing across the street, watching your lights, skirting your building, hiding on your fire escape, peering up over the windowsill to catch a glimpse of you inside.

needless to say, it’s not a one time thing for gross pathetic perv stalker!Atsushi to slink by your place every so often; in fact, it quickly goes from only once a week to multiple times until he’s doing it every day, even many times a day—slipping out for lunch, on a late night walk, when he should be running Agency errands. it’s like you’re drawing him in with some sort of magic. when he can’t make it by to watch you from the shadows, he sits at his desk or lays in bed looking at that little picture of you. you look so quietly stunning—so professional, so assured. the desire he feels could easily breed resentment, what with how much he’s convinced himself you’d never even look in his direction under normal circumstances.

gross pathetic perv stalker!Atsushi can’t help, either, the way he comes to need you so badly without you even knowing. he lays in bed holding your photo with his lip bitten raw between his teeth while he rocks his hips back and forth against a pillow; when he closes his eyes, he pretends it’s you, pretends to hear soft, quiet good boy, Atsushis and other praises he just knows would sound heavenly leaving your lips. when he wraps his fist around his aching cock he pretends it’s your hole he’s fucking—he imagines what your sighs and moans would sound like woven between his own, fully aware that you probably don’t even remember he exists while he twitches and pants your name and spurts cum all over that little picture of your face.

gross pathetic perv stalker!Atsushi gets grumpy and weird when he hasn’t had a taste of you in too long, which winds up being alarmingly short periods of time. he snaps at his coworkers, finds the strangest excuses for scuttling out of the office—to the point where Kunikida’s irritably comparing his tardiness to Dazai’s, and Dazai’s mockingly (and knowingly) comparing his little outbursts with Kunikida’s. he’s so not himself. he knows it, too—but he can’t stop crouching beneath your window, drinking you in between the tiny gaps in your blinds, palming his dick through his pants while he watches you do the most mundane things—make dinner, sit at your computer, read a book, stretch out on the couch in nothing but a t-shirt and underwear.

gross pathetic perv stalker!Atsushi holds onto all the little details—the way your shirt rides up when you reach for something in your cabinets, the way you absentmindedly start undoing your belt on your way to the shower, your reactions to whatever you’re watching on television—all of it. he eats up every crumb of you like he’s starving. he’s so desperate for each new piece of you he finds. soon, however, it stops feeling like enough; he needs more of you, and he feels horrible, already having gone through your file and kept your photo and watched you in what you thought was the privacy of your home, but he can’t help it. he can’t resist you.

somewhat reluctantly, gross pathetic perv stalker!Atsushi hatches plans to break in through your fire escape door and sneak around your place. he already knows your schedule by heart, and his mentor’s taught him enough about lock picking that it won’t be messy; he’ll wait until you’re out on the weekend, or maybe away for work, and satiate his curiosity what he thinks will be for good—this too, of course, he tells himself will be a one time thing. he just needs to be in your space, smell you, feel you—perhaps take one more little something for him to remember you by and then he can be content with the prospect of maybe seeing you around the city sometime.

but it’s not that simple for gross pathetic perv stalker!Atsushi, of course. no matter how terrible he feels, no matter how much his conscience screams at him that he’s a creep, he’s disgustingly desperate, once he gets a little closer to you he knows there’s no going back. the first time he pokes around, innocently admiring your thoughtfully curated trinkets and spunky magnets on the fridge and houseplants you maybe forget to water sometimes, it’s a given that he comes across your basket of dirty laundry. he wasn’t looking for it, he’d swear up and down, if someone were to ask; like you, like everything, he just found it, and he couldn’t help himself. how is it his fault you’re so perfect, and that he needs more of you like you’re a drug?

gross pathetic perv stalker!Atsushi lets himself steal things he’s mostly positive you won’t miss too much—a cone of your favorite incense here, a stick of your chapstick there, and eventually the old briefs that always end up forgotten about at the bottom of the basket. he makes his own sick little shrine to you, burning the incense while he thinks of you, putting on your lip balm and imagining you’ve kissed him with it, jerking off with one hand while the other holds your dirty underwear to his nose and he inhales so hungrily he gets dizzy. it makes it all sweeter when he cums, out of breath and sucking oxygen down, surrounded by you, while he keeps that soiled photo close enough by that he makes a mess on it over and over again. oops.

gross pathetic perv stalker!Atsushi pushes his limits with how much he can take from you without you noticing—he watches you exit your building, sees you off on your way to work (which he’s also swung by a couple times—not that you’d have noticed), and tiptoes up to the sanctuary that is your apartment. he ends up with all sorts of souvenirs: a tiny sample bottle of your signature scent, locks of your hair from at home-trims, another photo of you off your crowded fridge door, a second pair of your underwear to blow his load into. it just gets better and better. but he needs more.

gross pathetic perv stalker!Atsushi thinks he must be crazy, breaking in this late, when he knows you could be back anytime. it’s almost like he wants you to catch him. it all comes back to the fact that he can’t help it; he needs something, anything to keep himself at bay for tonight because your underwear is so saturated with his cum these days that it’s starting to lose your smell. he’ll be quick, he thinks—that is, until he assumes he has time to jerk off facedown in your pillow, humping another pair of your underwear, and he doesn’t hear you closing your front door behind you.

[botanikos]

Image text: It's Lisa Simpson giving her presentation with the words "I blocked and deleted anons for months, and left this blog/Stolas only for it to all keep going anyway."

Today, while singing around the kitchen after having a hard time at work, I had some "post-stress clarity" or whatever you want to call it.

I have been so exhausted, anxious, and genuinely saddened by the ongoing anonymous tirade that continues to mention my name (and others — but I don't speak for them, only myself). So allow me to make some clarifying statements, shall we? Not that I owe anyone a single word... besides, those I am close with or who know me know the truth. And let me just say thank you.

To everyone else, I refuse to apologize for making this post. As a victim of this circlejerk of an anonymous harassment campaign that people don't want to acknowledge or take seriously and just label as regular old "drama" even though it's been going on for months and that is fucking WILD — I am tired of keeping quiet. So here it is, why I "left."

1. My very first anonymous "criticism" was not that at all. I still wouldn't classify it as "hate" either, despite what others thought of it at the time. However, I have come to the conclusion now, months later, that it is entirely possible, and very likely, they mistook me for someone else. "Jude, that is awfully generous" ; no it isn't. It's what I believe to be true. My URL, at the time before it was changed to botanikos, was very similar to another person's. Knowing what I do now, it makes sense. No harm, no foul.

2. I have no real proof of who has been / is / was sending the constant barrage of anonymous messages. The Cam blog stepped up and said it was them. I believe they played a part in it, for sure, but considering things are STILL being said and I received messages even after blocking them. . . Huh. Interesting, don't you think? Anyways. . . That being said — Not once have I ever made a post about or directed towards another name that has been consistently mentioned in all of this, yet my posts were stolen and used. Linked, of course, because I took the reblog feature away. So again. . . The only things I have ever addressed are a select very few (2-3 messages at most) anonymous asks. I have. . . So many screenshots of messages I consistently received. Let that sink in.

3. "Just ignore and block. They will stop." If that were true, do you think I would have left this blog? No. Again, I don't know who is behind any of this, but it doesn't take rocket science to realize it's because I write Stolas and started befriending people? I assume that is what I am guilty of and what drew the attention? Coz otherwise, WHAT is the reason FOR ALL OF THIS/THAT? I'll wait, if anyone has a valid explanation. . .

4. Yea. I DID make a new blog! Wow! It's almost like I felt unsafe and anxious on this one after everything that's happened/been going on! And the only real way I saw myself regaining control of the situation was to take a few days away, shut down this blog, and start anew?!?! And even still, my name is being dragged around to other people. . . Funny how cowards don't want to ask or talk to me themselves about whatever curiosities they have. Huh! But no longer surprising. I'm just disappointed that I know 6 year olds with more decency and respect than the adults over here.

At this point, I am acutely aware that whoever is behind this, while I may not know their direct identity. . . It is SOMEONE or a group of people who are either close friends with one another and have interacted with me on some level (or the people around me) or they are someone I am close to and unaware of their double standards.

So, of course, I'm going to use a different name and different blog, be private and highly selective, and slow to follow people back or write anymore. Because my spirit and desire to be here while not entirely gone has been severely broken. If you feel like you need anything made clear or confirmed from me, just ask. I have screenshots of everything I need/felt was necessary. I'm an open book. Talk to me in private if you need anything more from me. But there's your explanation.

So let it fucking go. At this point, I'm done being sad about it; now I'm just furious. And if saying all of this makes you dislike me or question my character, I hope you take a moment to do a little reflecting yourself, too. Because nothing I've said above is in any way demeaning. I have given you my experience(s). This blog has brought me so much joy, and sparked new friendships that I am grateful for. But the fact remains that I had to leave. I have to be someplace else, and I'm not even fully present there either.

[enquiringangel]

Statements like: ‘None of the Lost Boys like Star’ lack a firm basis in canon. Talking just movie canon here rather than novels, scripts, etc. which actually add a bit more nuance to the whole thing.

Star's place in the story is as Michael's comphet love interest and as window dressing, because all movies must include a hot chick(tm). She has very little agency or role in the plot other than to lure Michael into the vampires' world. The story could have easily worked without her with only a few minor changes.

But that's typical of the film industry doing lady characters the dirty. We all know this. And we all know that characters of her type are widely disliked across Fandom as a whole for a bunch of reasons, one of which is probably that those of us who identify as women became sick to death of being portrayed as objects without agency because it can hit too close to home. Let's not flog that dead horse anymore.

Back to her relationship with the boys: they don't share enough screen time for us to definitively say they feel any particular way about her. Aside from Paul briefly saying "Ah, chill out girl" when she tells them off for hazing Michael, the only one who interacts with her at all is David. And that is very limited too: after the two scenes where she gets on the back of his bike, he basically pays her no attention for the rest of the movie. Though it is implied that they have some conversations off screen (about making Michael her first kill, etc.) that we don't see .

The boys' focus moves to Michael, and on male-male bonding. (I am very straight-faced while typing this.) Star fades away into the shadows during Michael's initiation not only because she was unable to stop him from making her mistake, but because her presence is unwelcome. It would be like someone's girlfriend going along to a wild bachelor party: probably doesn't happen that often and likely to be uncomfortable as hell. It's a boys' night. She'd cramp their style.

Whatever the writers' intentions may have been, any attempt at creating a rivalry between David and Michael for Star's affection falls flat on its face because David simply does not care to play that role. He does not seem to give a damn that Michael is obviously lusting after her, and shows no signs of being bothered about them sleeping together. In my view the scene where he makes Star get on the back of his bike instead of Michael's has very little to do with Star - that triumphant smirk makes it clear he's trying to get a rise out of Michael.

From the little interaction David does have with Star, I get the impression that their relationship is one of ownership. He views her as belonging to him, but obviously he has no problem sharing her if it means he gets what he wants - Michael joining them. For her part she comes across as being a little afraid of him, which is understandable considering the boys are literally horror movie monsters who brutally murder people. (Contain yourselves you monsterfuckers, yes I know, we all love them because of, rather than in spite of this.) But the way she laughs while riding on the back of his bike, the sheer joy in her eyes, it makes me think that's not all there is to it. There is happiness in her time with them as well.

[preciouslittle-bhaalbabe]

I think some people treat Astarion too much like a fragile porcelain doll sometimes.

Listen, I completely understand the instict to be super gentle and never push anyone to do something they don't want to. But that's just the thing. Astrion doesn't do it if he doesn't want to. If you don't push him into sleeping with you in act II, he doesn't. If you don't have enough approval at the party, he doesn't propose sex. He WANTS to. The reasoning behind why he wants to may be a bit fucked up in the beginning, but if he didn't at least like you a little he wouldn't bring it up. If he didn't want to try experiencing other forms of sex again with the drow twins, he wouldn't agree. In fact, if you ask him before his personal quest is over he tells you pretty plain that he doesn't want to. He's very clear about boundaries and consent is VERY important to him. If he doesn't want to, he won't. This is also demonstrated with his reaction to the astral touched tadpole. It's a VERY clear "no".

He wants to enjoy sex again. He wants his mind to match his body's desires. He is SUPER into the player. He wants to be able to have that kind of intimacy with them.

Does that mean he doesn't struggle still during the act? Of course not. Healing isn't linear. I remember shortly after a particularly bad experience my body would refuse arousal. I was with someone I love deeply and my mind was in the right place, but my body just refused to cooperate. I feel like Astarion goes through something similar, but reversed. His body takes over (muscle memory most likely, he's done this MANY times) and his mind receeds. Having an orgasm while dissociated is not a pleasant experience. But again, if he didn't want to try, he wouldn't. He can communicate his boundaries and when he feels uncomfortable. It's not the players job to protect the smol precious sex repulsed bean. He's figuring it out on his own terms and the best thing the player can do is listen.

[iwanttobepersephone]

Rant about Harry Potter and JK Rowling, stick with me here

Ok, so, I hate JK Rowling. I feel like that's a given, right? Like, she's a transphobic homophobic bigot who hides behind feminism and routinely denies massive parts of the holocaust, and I despise her in ways that I don't think words can even express. I can't stand her, but y'know what I also can't stand?

When someone implies that my mother, who is one of the most supportive people I know, and a massive part of the founding, organization, and actions of a local group made specifically to fight Moms for Liberty and school boards in our area trying to harm trans and queer people, is transphobic because she likes Harry Potter

Wanna know why my mom likes Harry Potter? Because when she discovered the series at 12 years old, she quite literally lived in a cupboard under the stairs and was in an abusive household. The magic of the wizarding world or whatever was her escape, it's the reason she's still alive, and by extension, the reason I was ever alive.

But, sometimes, not even often, when I try to express even the most minimal amount of appreciation of that, someone says to me "but isn't JK Rowling transphobic? Why would you support someone like that? Are you transphobic?"

Which pisses me off beyond belief, as one might imagine

In this situation, "separate the art from the artist" isn't exactly a good phrase to use, given the fact that the goblins or whatever run the bank are Jewish stereotypes and the house elves generally being happy to work under their masters being a straight rip from the whole happy slave myth, and those are very very important things to recognize and understand, among others

I feel like it's a lot closer to "separate the hundreds if not thousands of lives she's helped from the hundreds if not thousands of lives she's ruined", or even better, understand that the good she's indirectly done for people makes all the bad that much more horrid

My mother is the closest thing to a hero in this entire world and I will not stand to hear one more person accuse her of being transphobic purely because she thinks fondly of a book series that saved her life. I will not stand for people saying she's just as bad as a holocaust denier because she owns every book in the series. I will not stand for anyone going entirely against their point of not judging a group as if it's monolithic by saying all Harry Potter fans are bad people, including my mother. And, once again, it's not often at all that this happens, but it happens and I'm pissed about it and needed to rant

Anyways rant over JK Rowling sucks don't believe a single thing she says and don't support her unless you wanna support someone actively trying to make the existence of queer people illegal

[jamiethebeeart]

Sketches

[efingcod]

Just a reminder that Woods isn't an unfeeling asshole. If you write him that way, uh, fine I guess, I'm not gonna read it. But it's in the damn games that he's not. And ok, I get this is only one scene, but given how brief CoD campaigns are, they pack in quite a lot. Why include this line unless they're trying to say something about Woods' character? Why have him run up to the kid to check if he's all right? (spoilers he's not - RIP kid who's name changes every game)

Watch it here I even started it at the beginning of the mission for you ⬆️

[bedforddanes75]

im curious whos everyones least fav member of 1d cos i HATED liam and idk why

[lionbearfox]

okay furina teaser how are we doing everyone