#not tagging with the first five tags anymore

[random2908]

I mean... OP is from Australia, I think? As are some of the other commenters? This isn't entirely about the US.

In America, the degree to which this is unadorned truth versus exaggeration depends what you're buying. I expect a sweatshirt to last at least five years of daily wear; however, I don't wash them unless they are visibly dirty or it's been, like, several months. I expect a t-shirt to last about 5 years in rotation where I might wear it once every 2 weeks and wash it regularly. My winter jacket was purchased 16 or 17 years ago (from a random store at the mall) and my fall jacket was purchased 8 years ago (from Kohl's, a mid-range department store), and although my winter jacket doesn't fit all that well anymore, neither jacket is nearing the end of its lifetime. I generally keep 2-4 pairs of jeans in rotation, washing them about monthly, and expect them to last about 3 years. My dad bought me two bed sets from Target (cheap department store) 20 years ago, and for a long time I just alternated between them; the fitted sheet on one of them tore after about 7 years and the other lasted 19 years. (Admittedly, I'm apparently really gentle with all of my possessions, because my electronics, furniture, etc also seem to last relatively long.)

So yeah, some stuff lasts. However.

My jeans that wear through in 3 years, first of all, would wear through in a couple months if I treated them like a child would--I know this with some certainty because I do occasionally tear them at work. Whereas when I was a child in the 80s/90s, my jeans lasted 1-2 years of running around and falling down. And some people have jeans from the 1970s that are still wearable. So yeah, my jeans don't wear out in a season, but they do last at most 1/2 as long, probably a lot less than that, compared to jeans of decades ago. And you can feel that the fabric is much thinner.

I remember in 1998, on a road trip, my mom bought me a t-shirt from a t-shirt stand, for $5, and the material felt completely different. Much softer, much thinner, than any of my other t-shirts. (I was 15, so I'd had a lot of time to learn what a t-shirt should feel like.) But it still said 100% cotton--it wasn't a different material, just a worse construction. These days, it's the other way around: I have exactly one t-shirt with the texture of the ones of my childhood, and all the rest feel like that one cheap shirt. And all but that one t-shirt has ripped on my belt buckle no matter how well I file down any sharp edges, because the shirts are so thin and flimsy. Sure, I usually wear these shirts for about 5-6 years until the holes are bad enough that they aren't presentable. The design has usually all the way worn off by then. But I was still wearing t-shirts from middle school when I was in grad school, and some of them had almost no degradation of the design (luckily when I was in middle school oversize t-shirts were in, so they fit properly when I was a young adult). Also, the t-shirts from my childhood, when they finally wore out when I was an adult, it was because the seams ripped. The t-shirts from my adulthood, when they wear out, it's because holes tear in the fabric itself.

So far I've been mostly talking about all-cotton clothing, except for the sweatshirts, and sometimes the jeans, which are a mix. The synthetic stuff falls apart a lot quicker. I have a dress that I've worn twice, that I washed once (careful of the instructions on the tag) and it's already pilling. Pilling means significant fabric loss, which means its days are number until it's ready to tear.

So yeah, a lot of generic clothing does last longer than people are saying--but some doesn't. And even so, the failure still happens a lot faster than it used to, and the failure points are in different places than they used to be.

I'm so pissed right now. I know that fabric has been declining in quality for a while but I just bought new pajamas from kmart and they are literally see through. Not just through one layer of fabric either; I can see through the leg, that is, through 2 layers of fabric. These aren't clothes. I am not exaggerating when I say that I have strained soup through cheesecloth thicker than these pants. These are men's flannel pajamas, the kind people wear in winter, and they are made if shittier thinner fabric than even the most bargain bin bullshit halloween costumes. This "flannel" feels like plastic and is thinner than a chux wipe. Why is this even for sale.

[gigglemugger]

The Naked and the Blind (or The Ballad of Meg Halsey) | Chapter 7.

Fandom: Re-Animator (Movies - Combs), Herbert West - Reanimator - H.P. Lovecraft.

Pairing: Herbert West/Meg Halsey

Rating: Explicit, or at the very least Mature.

Archive Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence.

Chapters: 1. | 2. | 3. | 4. | 5. | 6. | 7. | 8. | 9. | 10. | 11.

Synopsis:

"Meg Halsey had a problem. In fact, she had several problems, the first of which, she acknowledges while looking at her semi empty living room, is that she can't afford to live alone anymore. The second one is that she doesn't wanna go back to her daddy's house again. This would be an inconceivable notion to her thirteen year old self, even her sixteen year old self, but at twenty five, she'd really choose living under the bridge first. Ok. Maybe not that." Meg Halsey is perfect: Beautiful, accomplished, a bright future doctor. She escaped her hometown and moved to New York, where she likely would have stayed forever. After her mother dies, though, she is forced to move back to Arkham and face everything she wanted to leave behind. --- A.K.A I made a tumblr post about how Crampton/Combs are romantically involved in all of their collabs, got replies and decided to write down a suggestion of "what if Meg was the protagonist, not Dan?" Also I did the cop-out summary thing and pasted the first paragraph of the fic. It's highway robbery. Criminal (I'm sorry).

Word Count: Multi Chapter, so far 22,356.

AO3 Tags: I uhhh......... I have no idea what I made it started with one tumblr post then one reply and here we are, I included other works by Lovecraft here and rounded Arkham up and then ran, Character Study, In a way, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Dan Cain, he doesn't exist, Danbert shippers cry I get it, Canon-Typical Violence, Animal Death, Eventual Romance, Slow Romance, Slow Burn, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, this fic is an affront to god just like herbert's reagent, Not Beta Read.

Language: English.

CW: Meg went through some trauma. Dead parents, dead cat. She also helps kill her dad later on, considering, so. It's a heavy fic, but if you liked the movie you'll be fine.

Chapter Summary: Things get much worse. In the aftermath, Meg watches Ghostbusters with Ace. Yes, that's right. Ghostbusters.

AO3 link.

(Happy holidays!)

Chapter notes:

Continuation of what I said before. This is also where the explicit rating comes in, in the sexual sense. Weeee! Also, if I got the chronological order of Ghostbusters scenes wrong, I'm sorry. I only watched once.

7. Cause there's nothing else to do...

Silence, in Meg's head. Complete void. Her very core shook, her hands, legs, everything with it. The crunching sound of her dad's bones, the man walking over him with force beyond what would be possible—those came in slowly.

West was mangled, but breathing.

She herself was breathing. Was she?

The room started up again around her almost too fast when her dad started crying out. The subject mimicked the sound, putting his hands over his ears…

And Meg could do nothing but stare.

The subject—the reanimated subject that both she and West had been responsible for—started hitting her father's head against the cold floor.

She watched.

Herbert made a noise behind her. Why couldn't she move?

This is a dream… A weird, horrible dream. When I wake up, I won't even remember.

“Stop!” Herbert yelled, a mimic of his early cry. He sprinted towards the subject, taking his arms, but was unable to move him

The dean cried.

This is what shock feels like from the inside.

The beige telephone, the breeze.

You've felt this before.

After the phone call you couldn't move.

You needed to go back home.

It was exam week. You stayed.

She died.

“Meg!” Herbert yelled. She looked down at him. “Snap out of it!”

A move, a twitch of the leg and she was on again. She threw herself at it—fruitless, as the corpse flung both of them away with ease.

The dean cried. Meg looked at him from a distance, being raised, hit against the wall.

He wouldn't be strong enough to fight. The subject bit his fingers off.

Meg heard the saw buzzing before she saw it. West perforated the center of the body, coming through bloody and victorious.

She watched as he laid him on the floor gently, before sprinting towards her father.

He shook him, he checked his pulse. Meg laid down, looking at the bright fluorescents. They pierced her eyes, which she welcomed, considering the alternative was replaying her father's fingers being bitten off one by one.

The room was silent, as silent as her brain had been, but not still.

She was cold.

“He's dead.”

“I know.”

Meg raised her body and threw up. She saw the vomit and only then computed what was happening. When she turned back to West, he was dragging her father's body.

The floor is cold… The floor is cold.

“What are you doing?” Her voice came out labored. Her throat was sore. When she screamed she couldn't feel it, but now it was burning. Old Miskatonic had nothing on it.

“I'm getting results,” he answered as if it was obvious. His reagent was removed from his pocket, a new syringe was employed—and her hand was on West's thigh in a second. He looked down at her with wide eyes.

“Don't.” She sounded confident and determined. She felt like she had fallen from a building, broken through the floor and kept going for several floors. He kneeled to talk to her, eyes wide in desperation, begging to be let through into her brain.

“The subject listened to us, made a conscious move…” She grabbed his shirt on the shoulder, bunching it up. The blood and sweat were cold against her skin. They were close together, noses almost touching.

“Herbert, you will not turn my dad into that.”

He paused.

“You're right,” he nodded, agreeing. “Maybe the subject just wasn't fresh enough, but I can bring him back…” She waved her head and he looked at her.

“Don't.” West's face contorted into a mask of annoyance and impatience. Meg's didn't move.

“This is the freshest subject we'll get save for killing one ourselves…!” She laughed, more of a shriek really, making him pause mid sentence. Her body convulsed forward, the smell of vomit, blood and chemicals making her stomach churn again. (She continued laughing for ten seconds. He counted).

“Sure!” Meg said, finally. “I'll kill someone. We'll get someone straight from the main floor. I don't care.” She held him even tighter, knowing it was bound to hurt. “Don't. Touch. My dad—he's not a subject.”

“If you could have done this for your mother, would you?” He asked. She remembered the conversation she had with her father mere hours ago.

“How did you…”

There is nothing one can do against death.

“Yes…” Meg admitted, softly. She let her forehead touch his shoulder, feeling empty. His tie was crooked. She fixed it before moving away to lay on the floor, limp.

“I will bring him back,” Herbert assured. Without further argument, he picked the flask back up, not bothering with recorders, the freshness of the subject taking priority.

Meg didn't do much, just laid there, waiting.

“I’ll show you…” Herbert murmured. The fluorescent lights didn’t bother her anymore. “I’ll show all of you...”

A beat, two beats. Meg was shaking, but didn’t feel it—she knew it from seeing it.

When her dad started moaning to indicate he was alive, West spoke again.

“Dr. Halsey, you once did me a favor by letting me into your medical school. Welcome back to life.”

Meg was sitting at a hospital bed. That was the first real recollection she had of that day, or at least of after she successfully reanimated her first corpse. Her father was dead.

Twice, Herbert's voice said in her head. He failed…

They failed.

“Meg?” She lifted her head. It was Harrod. “Here, it's for your throat.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking the plastic cup, but holding it limp over her knees. “Did she pick up?”

“Yeah, she's coming to get you.”

“Thank you.”

“Take those,” was all she said in return before leaving.

The official story was that Dean Halsey ‘went crazy’ after finding out that Meg and West were indeed together—behind his back. He flipped out, attacked both her and West, before being mercifully stopped, leaving behind two victims in a complete state of shock. He was in a padded room, taken away in a straitjacket. Meg was sitting, free, in a hospital room. Her pills were limp in her hand.

Her parents were dead, her cat was dead… All she had in the world was her roommate, who was coming to pick her up.

And West…

She shook her head, like an etch-a-sketch. At least the hospital was calmer. Meg wondered if she could ever step foot there again without having a mental collapse.

She finally dawned the pills.

When Ace arrived, she hugged her.

“So your dad flipped out?” She nodded. Ace smiled, sympathetic. “Don’t worry, I get it.”

They stood huddled together against the cold. It was getting firmer, the weather, which meant it was only going to get chiller.

“Where's West?” Ace asked. Meg sniffled.

“No idea.” It was true. After being cleared out, he looked at Meg briefly and disappeared—probably knowing that once she recovered complete control over her body, at least psychologically, she was gonna rip his head off.

It’s not only his fault, but you know that don't you?

“I know we haven't known each other for too long, but you could have told me you two were like that. I wasn't gonna say anything.” Meg smiled.

“I know. I'm sorry.”

“It’s ok, I have my private life too… Still, next time I’ll cover for you.” She hummed in response. “Is your dad going to be okay?” Instead of answering, Meg started crying.

Home was inviting, warm. Felix the cat greeted her, a souvenir from better times.

“I'll make you some tea.”

“Thank you,” Meg said. Ace arranged for Ed to bring her car back home. Nothing to throw on the bowl. Her face was swollen, puffy. She had an extreme headache and when she finally found the couch, she knew she wasn’t getting up.

“Ow…” Meg said. Her body ached—she could remember being thrown all over the place. The pills weren’t enough to make it all go away. No amount of ibuprofen could, probably.

I held onto West’s shoulder. There was a rotten smell. I gave up, we were getting ready to leave…

“Here,” Ace said, putting the mug in front of Meg. She stared at it. Yesterday it had been coffee… “Have you slept?”

Oh yeah… Right…

“No,” Meg admitted, taking the mug. Earl Gray, the only type of tea she had around, the only one she drank. “I should, shouldn’t I?”

Ace sat down, criss crossed her legs and looked at Meg with her big brown eyes.

They were shiny, like West’s.

“I think the right thing for me to say would be yes: Yes, you should go to bed, yes you should try to forget this for a second—but you won’t. So, instead, I’ll ask you: What do you need?”

Meg cried into her mug. The ride home wasn’t enough? But Ace looked like she expected that.

“I have Sixteen Candles on VHS. Do you wanna watch that, to take the edge off a little bit?”

“Is that the one with that red haired girl?” Meg asked, using both her hands to dry her tears. She could barely lift her arms.

“Molly Ringwald, yes. She’s sixteen and her parents forgot her birthday, real tragedy.”

“Why do you have that on VHS?” Ace shrugged.

“I have Christine too, if you wanna watch a killer car. I also have The NeverEnding Story and Ghostbusters…”

“How many VHS tapes do you have?” Meg managed to ask. Her throat was sore and her tears were still flowing—she wasn’t hiccuping or convulsing, but she was steady.

Perfect little cry for the perfect little girl.

“A couple. They’re expensive, but I buy the ones I like, or stuff I saw on TV and wanna see again.”

“Sixteen… Candles…” Oh, here we go. The hiccups. Not so perfect after all.

Well, at least you are human, unlike that… Her brain conjured up the image of the subject hitting the door. Next came the feeling of West holding her back, his arms around her as she cried out, his breathing on her neck, his voice close to her ear…

“Yeah,” Ace said, unphased. “It’s light, but it’s romance…” Meg waved her head.

“Let’s watch Ghostbusters. I didn’t catch that one in theaters…”

And you go to the theaters since…?

Not since 1979, at least.

“Ok, it’s good. Doubt it will make you laugh, but it’ll try. You should really finish your tea. I’ll make popcorn, do you think you can eat that?”

Meg wasn’t sure.

“I’ll try.”

Ghostbusters was fun. It didn’t distract her—her thoughts were with her dad, in a padded cell somewhere, in the dark—but as far as comedies went... Ace did a lot of the talking about how it was much more accurate when it came to real life ghosts and supernatural phenomena than she expected when she took Ed to see it with her.

“Since when have you two been together?” Meg asked. Rick Moranis was running through New York. She was trying to eat some more butter popcorn—it was soggy and it stained her fingers, making them slimy. She appreciated any other sensorial sensation other than pain, though. At least the tears were gone. Small talk would surely fill the crater forming slowly in the decaying tissue of her heart.

Dramatic much?

Shut up.

“We met during a club meeting, at Miskatonic. People who believe in the paranormal, all that,” Ace said without looking at anything other than the screen. “He was interested in my history with the practice, I was interested in why someone who looked like him was interested.”

“Why do you say that?” Meg asked. Ace smiled.

“Eddie looks like a rich boy and is a rich boy. I wasn’t poor growing up, my family does pay for my education, but Eddie is old money. It made more sense when he told me he was sick a lot as a child and read copious amounts of… Anything, really, to pass the time. His family is also weird, not like mine, but…”

“How weird is your family?”

There was silence. New York boomed through the speakers. Meg looked at the screen and fought her feelings.

She desperately wished she hadn't left, that she hadn't come back for her mother's funeral, to take care of her dad, to meet Herbert West…

“I’ll tell you if you tell me the truth about you and West.” Meg looked at her, glad to ignore the television. Ace continued. “I know you and him weren’t together. Sure, it made sense, but other things didn’t click. Your dad suddenly losing it, really losing it makes no sense. I mean, I thought it did, but then I thought about it again, and…”

“Ok,” Meg said, stopping her. She put the bowl down. She had no idea it had even been on her lap—she must have eaten almost all of it. Ace looked expectant. For a second, Meg almost felt like telling her everything—to unburden herself:

Let someone else have all this mess, go to bed and don't think about it for a while. C'mon. Of everyone you've ever met, she is probably the least likely to judge you.

C'mon, Megan. Say it.

Say it.

“It's complicated. It's…”

“OK,” Ace said, with a nod. “I get it. Let's finish the movie, ok?”

Dark at first. Slab, in the middle of the room. A corpse, looking at her. It was her own mother's, of course. Her dreams were getting less subtle.

“Meg,” a voice, a hand on her arm. Herbert materialized in front of her, the needle full of green—pulsating and neon. The newfound fluorescents did nothing for her complexion.

“You are cold, sure, but you have some warmth to you. Your aura. I read it somewhere…”

“Thanks mom.”

“How old am I?”

Why do you ask?

“Meg,” Herbert's hand went further up, to her forearm. He was closer, the needle squirting reagent. “I can save her. I can cure her. I can experiment on her.”

Less and less subtle.

What?

She didn't know. She looked at her mother's corpse. She had no head.

“She doesn't have a brain.”

“She doesn't need one,” Herbert said and smiled. With an almost skip of his step, he walked to the slab.

Meg watched. She also wanted to know what would happen.

“The head is in the trash can,” she said. “I should put it back.”

“No. It'll cost us results.”

Meg watched.

“Maybe if I…” Herbert looked back at her. His eyes were green. Expectant.

There was a tick tock. It was her Felix clock. Eyes going back and forth.

“Ms. Halsey.”

“Yes. I want you to save her.”

I want to know.

Meg watched. Herbert injected the reagent. He looked at the watch he had on his wrist.

“Twenty seconds…” She approached the body, and him. She put her own hand on his forearm. He didn't move. He seemed to be sweating, damping his blue shirt. “Thirty seconds.”

The trashcan started screaming. Both she and him looked at it, startled.

“Go get it,” Herbert said, finally. Meg turned towards him, an indignant expression on her face, nails against her palms. “Well? It's your mother. Not mine.”

“Your parents are dead.” The screams were louder, but she didn't budge, she kept looking into his eyes. Herbert looked back.

“So are yours. Fetch the head.”

Meg walked to the trash can—her doctor resolve on, her pink scrubs immaculate, ready for surgery—and pulled it out. Her father looked back at her. He was screaming, but no sound came out. That seemed natural to her.

“What now?”

“We'll sew them, of course.”

Meg never did see the sewing. The dream shifted. It was her house—not her old house, the house she shared with... Her mother and father were drinking tea with her. The television was on, airing Sixteen Candles.

“I'm so happy you invited us here,” her mother said, putting her cup down. Her head was sharing a neck with her dad's.

Meg beamed.

“I'm glad you could make it at a time in which… is at home.”

Her fiance… Husband… Was a doctor. She stayed at home a lot. She was happy. He was making noise in his office, getting something. She didn't know what.

“A bright young hope for the future of medicine,” her dad said, assuring her mother. He turned his head towards her. They had half clothes, her mother wore red, her father wore tweed. He had an earring on, she had his reading glasses.

“I'm back,” he said, entering the room, well humored. Meg was happy with the choice: He was tall, athletic, brown eyed and brown haired. He was bright. He was perfect.

She fixed her bob, making sure it was flipping inwards.

“...Is happy to finally get you here, mom,” Meg said, when he sat down.

“Oh yes, Meg talked so much about you. You're basically her idol.”

“Oh, please. I did my best with Meg, but it was all her. She's the bright one. She gave us no troubles.”

“No bottom drawer files,” her dad said and laughed. He laughed too, her mother laughed. Meg didn't laugh immediately, but read the room and followed suit.

The dream shifted. Meg was fucking West on the slab. There was no mother, no father. The room was darker. The clock was gone. They panted and sweated out.

She had her old white bra on, which she sometimes wore beneath more sheer blouses. It was loose on her, he had pulled it down to see her body better. Otherwise, she was naked. West dragged his hands up her torso, towards her breasts, and squeezed them. She was on top. His glasses were gone—had fallen somewhere.

He looked up at her while she looked down.

The room seemed to be composed of them alone. There was no sound other than the metal underneath, the panting, her moaning, his moaning.

More vocal than originally expected…

But he is intense, isn't he?

That's a way of saying it…

“Harder,” Herbert said, commanding. Meg stopped, locking her legs on both of his sides. “Meg,” he said, putting his hands on her hips, to pull down. She didn't budge. They were both out of breath. Her hair definitely looked ragged, but he still looked prim.

She hated that. She wanted to keep hearing him make those noises. His naked torso was illuminated by the shallow fluorescent light, his legs were half naked…

God…

“Or what? What are you going to do?” His eyes sharpened.

“Leave, but you don't want that, do you?” Meg locked him further in place. He smiled. “I figured as much…”

Mockery. His main defense mechanism.

That and attacking.

Silence again.

“Why?” Meg asked. The question seemed to echo throughout the room. Herbert raised an eyebrow.

“Why?” He repeated, half laughing. She wanted to kiss him, but had a vague notion that much of the sex was prefaced with her being pressed against a wall—or vice versa. “Why do you think?” He buckled again, she didn't let him.

“I don't know. That's why I'm asking.” He grunted, squirming.

“You and I… Are similar.”

“How?” Meg asked. She couldn't possibly understand. Herbert stopped trying to push into her and she counted that as a victory. He raised his body, pulling her closer, his lips touching hers briefly. Meg didn't try to pretend she didn't want to and raised her hands to bury her fingers into his hair.

“The main difference between you and I,” he began, looking into her eyes, caressing her neck, going down to her collarbone, with the hand he didn’t squeeze her waist with, “lies in upbringing. You were appropriately raised by a cushy family, in a cushy neighborhood. Had I been brought up as you were, maybe I'd be more like you. I'd be a nice proper doctor. I would have had swimming lessons. I'd have an alcoholic mother. I'd learn how to pray. I'd have found myself a nice girl…”

“...Or boy…” Meg completed. He smiled.

“Oh. You're not even sure I'd be interested in having you like I am now, are you? Pretty little Meg Halsey…” He took a strand of her hair in between his fingers and let the thought trail off as he began thrusting into her again, with some effort. “How long have you wanted this?” Meg sighed. He sounded perfectly normal, unphased. The sounds were gone.

This was natural to her.

“A while…”

“What's a while?” Meg didn't want to say. Herbert laid her down on the slab once more, for a more comfortable position. She flinched at the cold against her back. His head covered some of the light in that strange space and she saw him with a halo around his head. “What's a while, Ms. Halsey?”

“A… week? Two… weeks?” She asked. She didn't have the capacity for coherent thought while he was fucking her. “At least since… Since you…”

“Yes?” He asked, leaning his head slightly to hear her better.

“...Came to my house…” He laughed. Meg hated the way it made her body tingle. She put her hand over his heart and the facade fell through when she felt how fast it beat, pumping blood into his veins.

He didn't stop. It was as if he wasn't human.

“God, you are such a little whore, ms. Halsey. Maybe our sweet red haired classmate was right…”

“I didn't… Think about it…” Meg explained. “I don't think I know. I wanted you to…”

In the car. She remembered. You stared at his hands too much not to want them on you.

Herbert hummed as if he heard her thoughts, putting his hands over her again. She had one leg raised—he had a hand on it and another over her stomach.

He thrust into her harder and she moaned louder. It was rare she had full freedom to make noise like that, to show how pleased she was. He smiled.

“You used to ride those stupid men, in dormitories, inside your childhood bedroom,” he dropped his body further into hers, kneading them together. She put her legs around his waist. “And now look at you. You're under me. You and I, ms. Halsey…”

“Yes…” Meg agreed, powerless to think or say anything else. Her mouth was dry. She dug her nails into his shoulder, wanting to grab him as strongly as she felt, as much as she wanted. He didn't seem to mind.

Didn't you have a husband? Fiance?

You did…

Somewhere…

“You and I…” He repeated, thrusting, slightly out of breath. Meg put her head against him, moaning against his skin. “...Will live lifetimes together.” He raised his head and kissed her forehead, next to the roots of her hair. “You'd make a fine specimen.”

When she came in the dream, she woke up.

[marswasnothere]

Maxiel + pup Daniel + thigh humping + orgasm denial

They make a game out of seeing how long Daniel can last before he cums, getting treats and treating the whole thing like training perhaps 👀

Max is being chill and fun and teasing about it while he's got Daniel writhing around on top of him, breathing heavy into his shoulder, biting back swears and replacing them with barks and woofs because its what Max wants to hear, and Max has got a timer on his phone going, only to add to the teasing. A training session, he said it'd be. To make this puppy more obedient for his owner, he said.

"Wooow, thirty-one and- thirty-two minutes! You are doing very, very good at this, puppy," he smiles.

Daniel has to lift himself up off of Max's thigh so he doesn't come. He's shaking, little jittery movements, twitchy hands holding onto Max.

He rolls his head back and forth, unable to decide or even notice if it hurts his neck, he just needs to do something else. Its too much its too much itstoomuchitstoomuchitstoomuch-

"Daniel." Danyul.

Max is pressing on his hips, trying to push him down. Onto his thigh. Make him stay there. Make him hump it like the dog he is til he comes all over it. But- but- but he needs to be good. He needs to hold on. He needs to not come. He wants a treat. He wants Max's treat.

Daniel yips and pushes against him, legs straining, chest heaving. he knows Max is smiling when he talks to- at him, he can hear it.

"Half an hour, my lovely pup. You're an over-achiever."

The tag on his collar jingles. He can't open his eyes, he'll cry.

"You've done more than enough."

Daniel gives in and settles back on Max's thigh. His balls hurt, wedged between skin and leg muscle and his aching, aching dick.

"You can let go."

Daniel whines and blinks up at Max. Is- is he sure, is he tricking him, is it part of the- the denial thing? Hands are on his hips, trying to rock him back and forth, little circles, set the pace for him.

"Will you listen to me or no?"

Daniel barks right in his face. Nods.

That set pace means nothing for him when he's five seconds away from coming. Humping Max's leg. His thigh. Like a pillow. Soft yet firm yet smooth yet hairy, and bare, so bare. He grinds his hips, and humps and humps and humpshumpshumpshumps-

- - - - -

"You've ruined me, mate."

"Hm?"

"I- thats- I won't be-"

"Ohhh nooo, we cannot fuck normal style anymore?"

"Max-!"

"Oh no, you can't cum normal anymooore, only my legs and table legs and the sofa pillows and-"

"I will hit you-"

"More training then! A dog doesn't hurt its owner, you know."

"What if I bite you?"

"I'll get the muzzle then."

"You're saying that like it's a bad thing, mate."

"Sexy punishment. We both like it."

"Whatever. Gimme another treat."

"Heeey, give me paw first!"

[the-way-astray]

hey, was wondering why your censored version of "kotlc" so that it doesn't end up in the main tag is "cawtulk"?

ah, that. that's because that's how i pronounce "kotlc" out loud. i say it "cawtulk". so that's why i chose that lmfao

[romanitas]

look at me go, it hasn't even been a month! we're back with (i think) the penultimate part of the spy au !! thanks to @perseannabeth who helped me figure out some plot points literally irl for the final stretch. there's always been a vague plan for the end, hopefully it lives up! also again available on ao3 if tumblr formatting screws up.

-

Annabeth hasn’t seen Percy for four and a half weeks. She’s been off the Jupiter Industries case for just as long, what with Luke Castellan’s involvement; they’re currently restructuring the plan forward. She’s not used to boredom, but she’s not sure she could consider it full boredom when her brain will not stop churning. She’s aware it’s usually a stomach churning, but no, in this case, her mind is on the go in a thousand different directions. She doesn’t feel nauseous or sick - just overwhelmed mentally, which as far as she’s concerned is one of the worst kinds. She’d rather be vomiting.

She’s back at her apartment - her real one. It’s nearly as empty as the fake one. She doesn’t keep a lot of things around, not wanting too many distractions on top of the fact that she feels like she spends very little time actually in it. The most personalization is an owl throw pillow with a matching blanket on the couch and a few architectural prints across her walls. It feels emptier than it ever has, and she cruelly imagines what it might be like if Percy came here. She really, really needs to stop thinking about him, but it feels impossible, because if she’s not thinking about him, she starts to think about Luke. And that’s worse.

She faceplants directly into the owl blanket with a groan and lays there, ignoring the wafting smell of her Korean BBQ takeout sitting on the countertop. This has been her life each day for the last week: different dishes but a very familiar static and face full of fluff, followed by dejectedly eating lukewarm food. And then she just gets mad at herself for being such a sad sack. She’s Annabeth fucking Chase. What the hell did Percy Jackson do to her?

Reyna checks in periodically. She sends minute updates, but not enough for Annabeth to start doing her own poking and prodding. Frank stops by a few times to make sure she’s eating, and she does welcome his company in an absent way. He brings some of the best takeout, but he knows all her favorites. He carries the conversation in directions that serve the best distractions.

“You should use this time to get out,” he says one day, dragging some naan through the rest of his curry. When Annabeth stares at him, he clarifies. “I mean, maybe think of it like a vacation? You never take a vacation. Do things you’ve always wanted to.”

She grumpily shoves her own naan into her mouth to avoid answering him. But maybe he has a point. Maybe she does need to leave the house more often, if only to refresh herself. To get back on her feet. It’s only a matter of time before they give her a new assignment, and she refuses to fall into distractions again next time.

She takes herself out. She ventures further than a ten block radius and tries a new Pho place she’s been wanting to check out. She looks up a current run of temporary exhibitions around the city, buys tickets for three of them. She makes a reservation for herself at one of the museum restaurants, uncaring that it’s definitely overpriced and she can get a burger down the block for half the cost. She is utterly determined to give herself a good, clean, solid break from her time with Percy, so she’s prepared for the next chapter. Whatever it brings.

Naturally, it’s at one of the exhibitions that she runs into Sally Jackson.

Annabeth isn’t sure she could have been caught more off guard by Luke. She turns the corner and nearly runs into the woman, but her instincts make her sidestep at the last second. She’s not fast enough to avoid eye contact, because Sally moves at the same time, an apology on her lips.

“I’m so sorry - Annabeth?”

Why is this her life? Annabeth freezes, and she can feel the guilt rain down on her like a tsunami. She’s very rarely caught off guard like this, but this warm, wonderful woman unnerves her in an unexpected way. She just assumed she would never see her again, another casualty of her break with Percy.

Despite it all, Sally offers her a small, tentative smile. “Hi,” she says, tone infused with that very same warmth Annabeth knows she doesn’t deserve.

She swallows. “Hi,” she replies, weakly.

Sally reaches out to give her arm a gentle squeeze, and Annabeth nearly combusts on the spot. But the older woman can sense her discomfort, because she pulls her hand away just as quickly and sighs. “Will you get a coffee with me?”

Every single part of her is telling her to say no; every rational, logical piece of her being knows this is a bad idea, but there’s a quiet desperation that wins out against her better judgment, and Annabeth nods mutely. Sally smiles again, then walks them both towards the museum cafe. She orders Annabeth’s coffee exactly the way she likes it and orders herself a chai latte. By the time they sit down at the table, Annabeth’s nerves are shot, so she just wraps her hands around the cup and takes a sip, burning her tongue immediately. She winces, and Sally offers her a napkin.

“Percy told me you broke up.”

Annabeth almost laughs, hollowly. There’s no way he would have told her anything - Percy might have been royally pissed at her, but he’s also not cruel, and she knows he wouldn’t jeopardize her by spilling all the beans to his mother. He also wouldn’t want to put his mom in danger. Instead, her shoulders sink, and all she can do is nod once.

“He didn’t really tell me why,” Sally continues, wringing her hands around her own cup. She gets a thoughtful wrinkle in her forehead that looks so much like her son Annabeth almost flinches. “He said it wasn’t his place to share your history, but he did tell me you lied about a lot.”

She doesn’t know if hearing that from Sally is worse than her whole exchange with Percy a month ago. She doesn’t say anything, but her lack of answer is its own confirmation.

“My son is everything to me,” she says, and Annabeth prepares to be reamed out. Why wouldn’t she be? She just broke this woman’s son’s heart, and they’re two of the kindest, best people she’s ever met. “And I have never seen him so miserable.”

It’s not yelling, but it might be worse for real this time. Which is why the next thing Sally says is the most surprising part of all.

“I think he misses you.”

Annabeth’s head whips up so fast, and she says the first thing since her awkward greeting, which isn’t much more articulate. “What?”

It’s Sally’s turn to be quiet, again looking thoughtful as she finally takes a sip of her own drink. “I’m only telling you this because I know he was happy with you. Happier than I’ve seen him in a long time. And I know what he’s like now. I’m not going to ask you what happened. I know you hurt him, deeply, and I know maybe it’s not my place to sit here with you and tell you all of this. I know maybe things have been damaged too greatly. I know it’s his life, not mine. But what I want to ask you anyway is if you want to fix it, and if you still love my son.”

Annabeth’s eyes well up. She can’t answer this one with a nod. It’s everything she’s been trying to push away, the impossibilities of Percy chasing her down more harshly than Luke in the alleyway. “I love him,” she admits, and saying it aloud to someone else nearly knocks the wind out of her. “But I don’t know if I can fix it. I really, really hurt him, and there are parts of it that feel too broken.”

She shouldn’t be sharing this with Percy Jackson’s mother, but there isn’t another person who’s spoken to her about Percy specifically like this. A person who prioritizes Percy the way he should be, no matter what her own stupid heart and head are doing. Frank worries about her, but she’s the one who needs to grovel, and Sally will always, always put her son first.

Sally takes another sip, watching her carefully over the brim. She’s never felt more scrutinized in her life, and she’s a goddamn spy. Annabeth’s been alone for a very long time, and those months with Percy and his friends and his family were the closest she felt like a real, normal person in a long time. But she isn’t normal. She can’t just slip into a real architect’s life and become a new Annabeth Chase.

“Are you willing to try?”

She’s taken aback by the question and the way it connects to her thoughts, and she’s sure the surprise is on her face. “I don’t think he wants me to. It should be his choice, not mine.”

Sally hums. “Will you give me your address?”

“He’s not going to come to my house.”

“It’s for me. Not him. I won’t give it to him.”

She hesitates. She’s unlisted for a reason, her residence deeply under wraps. She still gets mail, of course, and it’s not like she lives there most of the year. But then she stubbornly takes the receipt from the drinks, scribbles the P.O. box on the back before she can second guess herself, and slides it back over. “Can you memorize it and burn it?” she says teasingly, trying not to feel ashamed of joking about it.

Sally slides it into her pocket. “I’m giving you a chance now, because I love my son and I want his happiness more than anything else, but I can see you're in just as terrible a state as he is. I wanted to see for myself, after I realized it was you.” She lifts her drink again, and Annabeth’s not sure if the pause for dramatic effect is intentional or not. “This is not forgiveness. It’s not my place to give it. This is me having a conversation with you, because you’re a very smart, put together woman who has spent a significant amount of time with Percy.”

Annabeth doesn’t feel very put together at the moment, but she’s hardly going to interject.

“And above everything, Percy is my son.”

It’s not a threat, but it almost feels like one. In lieu of another response, Annabeth takes a cowardly sip of her coffee.

“Thank you, for having coffee with me,” Sally says, and it sounds like a goodbye. Like this might be the last thing they ever say to each other. They sit in silence for a few more minutes, finishing their drinks, and it’s Sally who leaves first. She climbs to her feet in a cool movement and adjusts her bag before giving Annabeth a nod, then walks away from the table.

Annabeth sits there for another thirty minutes, though what she spends it thinking about, she doesn’t really remember.

-

Three days later Annabeth receives a package in the mail, with Sally’s return address. She holds the box in her hands and doesn’t really know how to process it. She sets it on the kitchen island and stares at it, afraid of opening it for stupid reasons. Watching it out of the corner of her eye, she heats up a box of frozen mac and cheese, then reaches for a steak knife to slice open the packing tape as the microwave beeps.

Inside she finds a dozen chocolate chip cookies, wrapped up neatly in a transparent blue bag. Underneath them is an envelope, which she nervously lifts and carefully opens. There’s a note inside, and what looks like two tickets to - to an aquarium. Not just any aquarium, the one where she met Percy - or rather, where she orchestrated her meeting of Percy. Puzzled and sad all at once, she reads the note in Sally’s loopy writing.

Annabeth,

I bought these for you both a month ago. I’m giving them to you alone now as a final gift from me to you, and I hope you use them. Use the time to think about everything. Don’t try to return them.

Perhaps one day we’ll see each other again. Take care.

Sally

[radarsteddybear]

I'm not going to lie, I'm not a fan of the phenomenon of people indiscriminately copy/pasting the original poster's tags in their reblog. Not the "prev tags" thing (which is a separate issue that I have fewer problems with), but just straight-up lifting the OP's tags and slapping them onto the reblog so they end up tagging someone else's post with things like "my art" or "original post" or someone's personal art/thoughts/life stuff/whatever tag. Because like...no? That's not your art, it's my art. That's not your original post, it's my original post. Come up with your own tags for those things or just leave OP's tags out.

I see this a lot more on Pillowfort than I do here (and I don't see it all that frequently on either), but I find it jarring every time.

[jasvi-art]

raven & lloyd in l.c. leyendecker's "couple descending a staircase". why not!

[the-officially-kat]

...so, I just finished season four of the umbrella academy, and usually I try to stick with the positives with my fave shows, but... Damn is that hard to do with this

[moongothic]

Get excited to post OP fanart in the middle of the night and then it doesn't even appear in the tags...

[sortanonymous]

Wait, they're making another one? Oh-kaaayyyy... Not holding my breath, but hopefully it's at least better than the $h!tshow that was the second movie. (Even if that "version" of Silver is still there.) If it's any consolation, I don't know how much Sega is involved with the Sonic movies, but if it's a good bit, then maybe they can help out! At the very least, there's this amazing comment under the reveal teaser. (GOLDEN ISLAND MENTIONED)

[itsbenedict]

Games I Played In 2023 And Whether Or Not I Thought They Were Good (Part 2/4)

Yup, there's more! Lot of 'em this year.

[1] - 2 - [3] - [4]

Trails into Reverie

Sad to say, a... nightmarishly bad finale to the Erebonia/Crossbell saga of Trails.

The one thing I'll give it is that the core combat gameplay remains super fun, and carries the experience- they're always finding new ways to expand and iterate on the battle system, and this time is no exception.

Otherwise... man, where do I start? The story is just... such a mess. They clearly intended this to be, like... the big climax to the Crossbell games, where the people fight to reclaim their independence from Erebonian occupation- but, uh, whoops, they obviated that entire conflict with the end of Cold Steel, so they pull ridiculous Ouroboros shenanigans out of their ass to recreate that conflict as if the previous resolution never happened. Feels like they developed half the game with a specific set of antagonists in mind, and then whatever hack writer they have running the show over there changed their mind about how Cold Steel would resolve and they had to bend over backwards to make up a new antagonist who just happened to be using the same occupying army and main badguy they just dealt with already.

And structure aside, it's just... wow. Just playing the hits of awful hand-wavey writing decisions, villain motivations that make no sense, anime-ass fanservice, and sucking its own dick over how cool the cast is despite most of them doing nothing and existing only as action figures for the combat. It started stupid, threatened to become halfway interesting as it set up the intrigue, and then shat the bed in the finale by revealing that absolutely none of the intrigue mattered and that the villain was like dogs and just sort of did things arbitrarily. Never hated Trails writing more than this one. What an embarrassing display.

also like half the game's runtime is padded out with level grinding in an inexplicable magic cyber-dungeon like in Sky 3rd, which keeps acting like it's going to be important to the plot but then manages to somehow not come up even a little bit at all. and it's got a gacha in it even though it's all in-game currency and there's no real money shop so why would you bother doing that? does someone at Falcom think that gachas are actually intrinsically fun and not a shitty tactic to get people addicted to gambling? what's even wrong with them???

DREDGE

This is a fun fishing game! Except you're fishing for Lovecraftian nightmares! You're a fisherman on a fishing boat and the locals will pay extra for fish that have been horribly mutated by the unholy energies of the depths, so you have to keep finding weirder and weirder fish to finance the boat upgrades you need to find weirder and weirder fish.

I'd say... it works very well in the first half, as you're upgrading your boat and being slow-rolled on the eldritch horror, and kind of falls apart towards the end. The first couple areas are full of various NPCs and sidequests and things to do, and you always have something to do with your resources...

...but later on, the game's economy gets a little lopsided and a lot of the stuff you're hauling up just wastes space in your inventory because you're past the point where it matters but the game keeps throwing it at you. Areas are also a lot more sparse and lonely, and it ends up getting kind of repetitive.

Still, it's not too long, it has some really good atmosphere, and that first stretch is really engaging and tightly designed.

Wildfrost

This is one of them roguelike deckbuilders that are all the rage lately! And it is a difficult one. Even when you're good at it, you probably don't win most runs. Enemies are strong, you only get to play one card per turn, and you have to be really careful managing the action economy to make sure you don't get hit. You are a unit on the map, a unit without that much more health than normal summons, and if you die it's game over. Enemies hit hard and have various triggered abilities that punish you for playing sloppy- you'll frequently find yourself in no-win scenarios out of nowhere because you didn't sequence your moves right.

The other crazy thing is... the final boss? When you beat it, your hero gets possessed and becomes the final boss of the next run. Find some crazy broken synergy that steamrolls the boss? Great! Good luck finding a way to beat it next time around! The final fight's difficulty starts to scale out of control, and forces you to keep one-upping your own strategy with clever tricks.

The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog

This was released on April Fools, and... it's not that great, honestly. The title's basically clickbait- it's a murder mystery-themed party, and Sonic's not actually dead and no one thinks Sonic is actually dead. That wouldn't really be a problem (just kind of a missed opportunity), but...

I mean, this game is for babies. I guess I'm spoiled by real mystery games, but like... it's this completely linear sequence of rooms with one or two suspects to interrogate each, hiding precisely one secret that you uncover via the most dead-obvious deductions in the world. The core mystery works but doesn't really make you feel clever or anything.

It is, like... funny, though. Sorta. I mean, as funny as it can be with the totally toothless premise and a cast that's...

...I'm gonna be honest, I've never understood why people have so much love for the Sonic cast. They all feel so one-dimensional and tedious, and they're typically unmoored from any consistent world or setting that could give them something interesting to do. They have to get by on the strength of their personalities, which are a little flat since there's only so far they can push the bit in a kids' game.

The other thing that bugs me is... y'know ProZD's Danganronpa video? This game has a bad case of "BUT CAN YOU SPELL THE WORD KNIFE?", where in between every bit of deduction or progression, you have to play a completely unrelated minigame where you play as Sonic running along a course where you have to pick up X rings by the end or else restart it, which serves as a loose metaphor for the process of Thinking Really Hard. It's got a wonky isometric perspective and the levels are all both boring and difficult and it felt like a huge waste of time. And they get harder and longer over time, until you're spending longer on the bad minigame than on the actual game game.

Touhou: Lost Branch of Legend

This is a Slay the Spire clone, but it's Touhou.

...That's about all there is to say on the matter. It has a couple unique mechanics- colored manabases, "Teammate" cards that act kind of like planeswalkers, a chargeable super instead of potions... but it's Slay the Spire. You know what the deal is.

That said- I find it a lot more fun than Slay the Spire, honestly. The colored mana thing adds some depth to deckbuilding, boss relics give you unique buffs instead of debuffs, and a lot of the archetypes are crammed with explosive synergies that make it really fun to go off. Plus there's Touhou music through the whole thing, and it's generally better-produced and prettier despite being in early access. Only point where it loses to STS is the lack of a robust modding scene.

Labyrinth of Refrain: Coven of Dusk

I did not finish this game! It was very bad!

I saw my cousin playing the sequel to this game on his Steam Deck at an engagement party, and I was dazzled by the screens and screens of party members and stats and mechanics all over the place, and thought- this has to be fun, right? I'll check it out- oh, hey, it's a sequel, I guess I'll play the first one.

This game is... very much an Etrian Odyssey clone, except they kinda make everything worse. You have have a ton of party members, but the thing is they don't learn active skills when they level up- there's no build choices to make, just Number Increasage. The only way to customize your skills is to assign units to covens, which have preset lists of abilities and drop randomly as loot. There's the appearance of customization, but in practice there's not a lot of options. Throw in "at any time an enemy might crit and unhealably disable one of your party members until you return to town, ruining your run", and it just feels like a slog.

The other thing is that it is completely repugnant. Like it's just deeply unpleasantly anime horny in the worst ways. The main character (sorta- you play as her mute faceless magic book, not her) is the worst. She's introduced beating a child and murdering her pets, and pretty much maintains that tenor throughout. And this is not an isolated incident! This game has some kind of fucked-up child abuse fetish- there's a significant number of child characters and all of them are physically assaulted by the nearest authority figure within seconds of being introduced. And it's not a problem, or even a theme- it's just a thing that happens all the time, practically as a gag. Also used as a funny gag: sexual assault! Wow! I couldn't stomach it!

PowerWash Simulator

This game seems like a giant shitpost- and to be clear, it absolutely is a giant shitpost- but it's shockingly cathartic and satisfying. There's just you, some levels implausibly caked in a ridiculous amount of grime, and a power-washer with various nozzles and soaps you use to hose off every inch of the place. There's something about it that just feels so nice! Objects flash and go ding when you fully clean them, there's a checklist of stuff and how clean it is, there's lots of fun little details in the levels...

...and it has a story campaign, which is very silly. You start off taking normal jobs washing normal things, but as you accrue Fame, you unlock weirder and weirder clients that wanted bigger and stranger things powerwashed. Without spoiling anything, it gets pretty wacky towards the end.

It's a fun game to play in the background when you're watching a show or listening to a podcast or something and want something mindless for your hands to do. (At least, at first. Some of the later levels are multi-hour behemoths, and it never feels good to stop in the middle.)

-

I still have... fourteen more games to write about. It's like they say...... the work of a gamer.......... is never done.......................

[1] - 2 - [3] - [4]

[eissaphir]

[kaeyapilled]

So with the hangout.. do you think that settles the issue of mistranslation or not of Kaeya and Diluc being brothers?

is it even possible to settle it? i feel like there must be some insane cultural difference between me as a western person and chinese people when it comes to adoptive siblings because, i honestly don't see how the biological son of the guy you consider your adoptive father isn't, by extension, your adoptive brother; how would that relationship not be familial? even when you bring in the "sworn brothers" trope as a means of queercoding, which is a concept ive had explained to me more than once – like, okay? i agree that it's true you can't properly translate/localize that, but. how else did you want them to translate it? even if the word brother was never used once in the eng translation, how do you make it so that kaeya and diluc calling the same guy "father" doesn't imply some uncomfortable things if he and diluc are romantically involved..? but then, who knows, maybe i just don't have enough knowledge about how censorship works in china, how they do queercoding over there, how they deal with adopted relationships, whatever. it's fine. different cultural upbringings, no? it's funny when it's the western side of the fandom discussing this, though. because you'll have these extremely white people arguing with you about the intricacies of chinese BL media. as if either of us knows what the hell we're talking about. anyway, none of this matters in the end because most klc shippers just... like the incest. and the day we stop arguing about mistranslations and simply accept that people either 1) see this relationship in a different light due to their cultural background or 2) are a little bit of a freak online is the day i will finally know peace as a kaeya fan

[todayisafridaynight]

tumblr stop trying to copy twitter and for the love of god please improve your tagging system i just want to find A Post using keywords i know should work

[labwebs]

🕸ALSO if i've got my timelines right: confirmation that matt didn't get dusted??? and that he brought back daredevil during the blip because other heroes disappeared????????? yes/yes?????

[vargamornight]

one thing i will say about supernatural is: the whole thing is like, free will vs predestination, right? fate, destiny, the grand plan, whatever they call it. and everyone keeps insisting that fate is the end all, be all, that it's inescapable, that every choice the boys made brought them where heaven and hell wanted them to be.

except heaven and hell both sent people to fuck up their lives like, nonstop. their parents, referred to as both "destined to be together" and "a match made in heaven" fucking hated each other, and would not have gotten together if there hadn't been literal divine intervention. sam and dean wouldn't even have been BORN

and then there's the obvious: the nursery fire, yellow eyes' infection of sam, without which he could not have been the vessel for lucifer. and then he went to college, away from his abusive father, away from the supernatural world, and they couldn't have that. so yellow eyes stepped in and ignited that fire in sam, pushing him to the hunt, hoping for a little bit of bloodlust. but sam doesn't really get affected by the demon blood until, what, season two? so he's in his mid twenties. all the other psychic kids developed, or at least noticed, their abilities around puberty. and THEN, in the battle royale nobody knows is a battle royale, he fucking DIES! he does not win! his powers are useless there! he is nowhere near the most effective combination of human and demon, but heaven and hell are both so dedicated to casting him as lucifer, they pick the dominoes back up and try again, and again, and again, until FINALLY, after years of manipulation from both sides, sam lets lucifer in... WITH THE FULL AND SOLE INTENT OF STEPPING RIGHT BACK INTO THE CAGE! sam was never, not even for a second, similar enough to lucifer for the grand plan to work. not even beaten, broken, seduced by a demon, and pumped full of evil.

and i can't even get into how dean fought tooth and nail against every part of the grand plan every step of the way. i just can't.