#ought things of less value for more

[sneezypeasy]

Why I Deliberately Avoided the "Colonizer" Argument in my Zutara Thesis - and Why I'll Continue to Avoid it Forever

This is a question that occasionally comes up under my Zutara video essay, because somehow in 2 hours worth of content I still didn't manage to address everything (lol.) But this argument specifically is one I made a point of avoiding entirely, and there are some slightly complicated reasons behind that. I figure I'll write them all out here.

From a surface-level perspective, Zuko's whole arc, his raison d'etre, is to be a de-colonizer. Zuko's redemption arc is kinda all about being a de-colonizer, and his redemption arc is probably like the most talked about plot point of ATLA, so from a basic media literacy standpoint, the whole argument is unsound in the first place, and on that basis alone I find it childish to even entertain as an argument worth engaging with, to be honest.

(At least one person in my comments pointed out that if any ship's "political implications" are problematic in some way, it really ought to be Maiko, as Mai herself is never shown or suggested to be a strong candidate for being a de-colonizing co-ruler alongside Zuko. If anything her attitudes towards lording over servants/underlings would make her… a less than suitable choice for this role, but I digress.)

But the reason I avoided rebutting this particular argument in my video goes deeper than that. From what I've observed of fandom discourse, I find that the colonizer argument is usually an attempt to smear the ship as "problematic" - i.e., this ship is an immoral dynamic, which would make it problematic to depict as canon (and by extension, if you ship it regardless, you're probably problematic yourself.)

And here is where I end up taking a stand that differentiates me from the more authoritarian sectors of fandom.

I'm not here to be the fandom morality police. When it comes to lit crit, I'm really just here to talk about good vs. bad writing. (And when I say "good", I mean structurally sound, thematically cohesive, etc; works that are well-written - I don't mean works that are morally virtuous. More on this in a minute.) So the whole colonizer angle isn't something I'm interested in discussing, for the same reason that I actually avoided discussing Katara "mothering" Aang or the "problematic" aspects of the Kataang ship (such as how he kissed her twice without her consent). My whole entire sections on "Kataang bad" or "Maiko bad" in my 2 hour video was specifically, "how are they written in a way that did a disservice to the story", and "how making them false leads would have created valuable meaning". I deliberately avoided making an argument that consisted purely of, "here's how Kataang/Maiko toxic and Zutara wholesome, hence Zutara superiority, the end".

Why am I not willing to be the fandom morality police? Two reasons:

I don't really have a refined take on these subjects anyway. Unless a piece of literature or art happens to touch on a particular issue that resonates with me personally, the moral value of art is something that doesn't usually spark my interest, so I rarely have much to say on it to begin with. On the whole "colonizer ship" subject specifically, other people who have more passion and knowledge than me on the topic can (and have) put their arguments into words far better than I ever could. I'm more than happy to defer to their take(s), because honestly, they can do these subjects justice in a way I can't. Passing the mic over to someone else is the most responsible thing I can do here, lol. But more importantly:

I reject the conflation of literary merit with moral virtue. It is my opinion that a good story well-told is not always, and does not have to be, a story free from moral vices/questionable themes. In my opinion, there are good problematic stories and bad "pure" stories and literally everything in between. To go one step further, I believe that there are ways that a romance can come off "icky", and then there are ways that it might actually be bad for the story, and meming/shitposting aside, the fact that these two things don't always neatly align is not only a truth I recognise about art but also one of those truths that makes art incredibly interesting to me! So on the one hand, I don't think it is either fair or accurate to conflate literary "goodness" with moral "goodness". On a more serious note, I not only find this type of conflation unfair/inaccurate, I also find it potentially dangerous - and this is why I am really critical of this mindset beyond just disagreeing with it factually. What I see is that people who espouse this rhetoric tend to encourage (or even personally engage in) wilful blindness one way or the other, because ultimately, viewing art through these lens ends up boxing all art into either "morally permissible" or "morally impermissible" categories, and shames anyone enjoying art in the "morally impermissible" box. Unfortunately, I see a lot of people responding to this by A) making excuses for art that they guiltily love despite its problematic elements and/or B) denying the value of any art that they are unable to defend as free from moral wickedness.

Now, I'm not saying that media shouldn't be critiqued on its moral virtue. I actually think morally critiquing art has its place, and assuming it's being done in good faith, it absolutely should be done, and probably even more often than it is now.

Because here's the truth: Sometimes, a story can be really good. Sometimes, you can have a genuinely amazing story with well developed characters and powerful themes that resonate deeply with anyone who reads it. Sometimes, a story can be all of these things - and still be problematic.*

(Or, sometimes a story can be all of those things, and still be written by a problematic author.)

That's why I say, when people conflate moral art with good art, they become blind to the possibility that the art they like being potentially immoral (or vice versa). If only "bad art" is immoral, how can the art that tells the story hitting all the right beats and with perfect rhythm and emotional depth, be ever problematic?

(And how can the art I love, be ever problematic?)

This is why I reject the idea that literary merit = moral virtue (or vice versa) - because I do care about holding art accountable. Even the art that is "good art". Actually, especially the art that is "good art". Especially the art that is well loved and respected and appreciated. The failure to distinguish literary critique from moral critique bothers me on a personal level because I think that conflating the two results in the detriment of both - the latter being the most concerning to me, actually.

So while I respect the inherent value of moral criticism, I'm really not a fan of any argument that presents moral criticism as equivalent to literary criticism, and I will call that out when I see it. And from what I've observed, a lot of the "but Zutara is a colonizer ship" tries to do exactly that, which is why I find it a dishonest and frankly harmful media analysis framework to begin with.

But even when it is done in good faith, moral criticism of art is also just something I personally am neither interested nor good at talking about, and I prefer to talk about the things that I am interested and good at talking about.

(And some people are genuinely good at tackling the moral side of things! I mean, I for one really enjoyed Lindsay Ellis's take on Rent contextualising it within the broader political landscape at the time to show how it's not the progressive queer story it might otherwise appear to be. Moral critique has value, and has its place, and there are definitely circumstances where it can lead to societal progress. Just because I'm not personally interested in addressing it doesn't mean nobody else can do it let alone that nobody else should do it, but also, just because it can and should be done, doesn't mean that it's the only "one true way" to approach lit crit by anyone ever. You know, sometimes... two things… can be true… at once?)

Anyway, if anyone reading this far has recognised that this is basically a variant of the proship vs. antiship debate, you're right, it is. And on that note, I'm just going to leave some links here. I've said about as much as I'm willing/able to say on this subject, but in case anyone is interested in delving deeper into the philosophy behind my convictions, including why I believe leftist authoritarian rhetoric is harmful, and why the whole "but it would be problematic in real life" is an anti-ship argument that doesn't always hold up to scrutiny, I highly recommend these posts/threads:

In general this blog is pretty solid; I agree with almost all of their takes - though they focus more specifically on fanfic/fanart than mainstream media, and I think quite a lot of their arguments are at least somewhat appropriate to extrapolate to mainstream media as well.

I also strongly recommend Bob Altemeyer's book "The Authoritarians" which the author, a verified giga chad, actually made free to download as a pdf, here. His work focuses primarily on right-wing authoritarians, but a lot of his research and conclusions are, you guessed it, applicable to left-wing authoritarians also.

And if you're an anti yourself, welp, you won't find support from me here. This is not an anti-ship safe space, sorrynotsorry 👆

In conclusion, honestly any "but Zutara is problematic" argument is one I'm likely to consider unsound to begin with, let alone the "Zutara is a colonizer ship" argument - but even if it wasn't, it's not something I'm interested in discussing, even if I recognise there are contexts where these discussions have value. I resent the idea that just because I have refined opinions on one aspect of a discussion means I must have (and be willing to preach) refined opinions on all aspects of said discussion. (I don't mean to sound reproachful here - actually the vast majority of the comments I get on my video/tumblr are really sweet and respectful, but I do get a handful of silly comments here and there and I'm at the point where I do feel like this is something worth saying.) Anyway, I'm quite happy to defer to other analysts who have the passion and knowledge to give complicated topics the justice they deserve. All I request is that care is taken not to conflate literary criticism with moral criticism to the detriment of both - and I think it's important to acknowledge when that is indeed happening. And respectfully, don't expect me to give my own take on the matter when other people are already willing and able to put their thoughts into words so much better than me. Peace ✌

*P.S. This works for real life too, by the way. There are people out there who are genuinely not only charming and likeable, but also generous, charitable and warm to the vast majority of the people they know. They may also be amazing at their work, and if they have a job that involves saving lives like firefighting or surgery or w.e, they may even be the reason dozens of people are still alive today. They may honestly do a lot of things you'd have to concede are "good" deeds.

They may be all of these things, and still be someone's abuser. 🙃

Two things can be true at once. It's important never to forget that.

[drdemonprince]

Heyyo - autist here who’s still figuring out my physical and emotional needs. I use weed every day, and part of me has shame around this (as I am a “professional” and supposedly it’s “bad for you”, and it costs money) and the other part of me says “fuck it, there’s no moral value in not using drugs and you should do what you need to”. I guess I’m wondering what perspectives you can offer on this. I’m ruminating on it a bit lately and need some outside people to share their thoughts to get me out of that cycle. Thnx

I find that I am a lot more in tune with my bodily sensations and emotions when I am high, and that I find it easier to enjoy things and to chat amiably with random people when I'm high too. It makes life easier and more pleasant to such an extent that I wonder if I ought to smoke weed daily to medicate all my Problems and Difficulties and general irritation at of most aspects of existence. But then I don't. Because I get freaked out by the brain foggy weed hangover that drifts into the next day, and I assume that it will be bad for my writing to be high, and perhaps most of all, because I am terrified of building up a really high weed tolerance and then needing to use a ton to feel anything, or to even return to a baseline.

A couple years back I tried out vaping almost nightly for a few months, and it definitely reached a point where simply *not* being high felt like being anxious, it seemed, so I decided pretty quickly to reduce my weed intake. I don't like NEEDING any substance to function or to just feel okay. so for now I keep it to the weekends. I often think of using weed more often than that, and kind of want to, but i don't.

The research on chronic long-term weed use is quite encouraging! There are no cognitive or motivational downsides to using weed every day, or even multiple times per day. Conversely, there are many emotional and psychological benefits. @testdevice and I discussed the latest scientific research on the subject at length here:

There's really only one rub to the study's findings: people who use weed multiple times per day have a baseline lower mood than people who use weed frequently, but not quite that often. NOW THIS IS NOT A CAUSAL RELATIONSHIP. Chronic heavy weed use is not CAUSING people to be more depressed -- it simply seems to be the case that people who are chronically depressed are reaching more frequently for weed to cope with it.

The study shows weed use does raise mood including for members of that group, so there really is no serious drawback to using marijuana here!

But It does align with a finding that I've made in my personal life: the moments when I want to use weed the most frequently are when something in my life is completely out of wack. When I'm super overworked and stressed out, the temptation is to use weed as a way to down-regulate my anxiety, but what actually works far better for me is taking actual steps to reduce stress in my life. I COULD use weed for depression or for failing to find life activities enjoyable, and it works, but it's also worth asking myself which aspects of my life need to change so that I can feel less depressed and get through the day feeling okay. negative emotions are a signal that something in life is going wrong and needs to be fixed, and I do not want to ignore that alarm system.

Those are just some things to think about. Personally, I think that if you have some ability to make choices in your life that can improve your general circumstances, it's better to do that than to use weed to make a life that sucks a little more tolerable. But if daily weed use is helping make your life better or less hard, the weed itself is not the problem!

Lots of people determine that daily weed use has considerable benefits for them with relatively few costs. For me, using a couple times per week is what hits that sweet spot. but ymmv.

[tanadrin]

Are you totally against the concept of evil?

In the sense that "evil" is a value judgement, being "against the concept of evil" is like being "against the concept of stinky." People have their opinions about what they think is evil and what they think is not, just like they have their opinions about what they think smells good and what they think smells bad. Indeed, in this sense "evil" is just a particularly strong condemnation of things we find morally bad.

That said, as a value judgement, I don't find it a very useful one. Even among people who profess to want to think deeply about difficult moral questions, when the word "evil" is raised, it is being used as a thought-terminating cliche, a signpost that says "I am unwilling to be challenged on this opinion further." Like, I see this a lot in rat-adj types here on tumblr who would balk at you shutting down a conversation on sexual ethics or economics or recreational drug use with a cry of "evil!" using it the exact same way when it comes to their own ethical bugbears.

And the reason that a cry of "evil!" shuts down conversations more than even other pure value judgements is that it doesn't appeal to anything, except an affective sense of ethics. If I say (for example) "legalizing weed would be bad, because of consequentialist concerns X, Y, and Z," or "foreign military intervention is bad, because we ought to adopt a strong deontological rule against violating other states' sovereignty," then you might disagree, but at least there is a conceptual basis for our disagreement. If we want to have a conversation about it, we could; it might be a frustrating conversation where neither convinces the other, but we can at least understand each other in principle, even if we continue to disagree quite strongly.

But if I say, "we cannot legalize weed, because doing drugs is evil," or "we should disband the American military, because the Pentagon is evil," what is there to discuss? We're no longer talking about beliefs about the world, just attitudes. If someone thinks I am or believe something that is evil, what am I supposed to do with that? Yelling "you are evil," or "you believe evil things" is not going to change anybody's mind. It's not going to shock them out of their moral complacency, they're not gonna think "oh, this person think I am a bad person, I should really care what they think." Of course not! They're gonna think "oh, this person is an asshole," or, even less productively, "no, you're evil!", and the traditional way of resolving those kinds of conflicts is burning an entire continent to the ground.

Nowadays, we mostly just have shitty flame wars, but those are still kind of unpleasant and I would prefer to avoid them. I can't tell you or anybody else how to use language or how to think, but if someone were asking my advice, I would say: when you have the reflexive feeling of outrage and disgust that you associate with "evil," it's worth reflecting on 1) what your actual moral objection is, and 2) the reason why someone might actually believe or do something you think is evil. And that's not "because they're evil." Again, that is a value judgement, not an explanation! No one goes around thinking to themselves, "today I shall be evil because I love evil."

I must emphasize that making value judgements is not bad. Making value judgements is a necessary component of living in the world and thinking about ethics and caring about other people. But on the basis that "evil" seems particularly prone to being reified as an objective force in the world, and a value judgement that suffices for and replaces actual understanding, I have made a self-conscious effort to exclude it from my analytical vocabulary.

[searchingforserendipity25]

An old draft resurrected for @feanorianweek! Inspired by last year's Back to Middle Earth bingo board option - gift giving. Some humor and some angst. In which Maedhros is a defiant prisoner, but not the most infuriating of his siblings.

-

Gift-Giving

In Valinor, there had been certain expectations from musicians - the minstrels, those few that devoted themselves fully to the Song. 

Every noble house ought to have one among their members, and the noblest the best; Maglor had been very obliging in that regard. Maglor had been the example to follow, the prototype, the trend-setter.

Maglor, Maedhros had thought even then, had chosen the Song as much as it had chosen him. For its own sake; and also so that he did not have to choose anything else less great and mighty. 

Minstrels were for rites, time-keeping, celebration and beauty. Minstrels were for the blessing of the fields. Minstrels were an honour to their kin, and an adornment. 

Beleriand changed things. In Beleriand, Song was power, and Songs of Power needful weapons used beyond the value of their beauty alone.

Unfortunately, kingship was also power, and not one that could lightly be set aside. Fortunately, Macalaurë had always been very able at managing a number of tasks, as long as he could accomplish them in the most impressive and aggravating performance possible. 

For thirty years he ruled singly, second-born of a great house in exile, making Siege against one of the Powers, he that first Sang discord into the very matter and memory and making of the world. 

Morgoth was besieged. Maitimo might be prisoner, hostage, slave and victim, but there was some satisfaction in knowing the manner of his binding.

Treachery there had been, and foolish anguish - but he would not have chosen other. He could not have chosen otherwise; and at least this time, when he suffered the consequences of one of his brother’s irreverence, there was a bitter pleasure in the paying of it.

No gift could be sweeter to him than the memory of the song borne over the great dark stillness of Thangorodrim. The voice soaring to the heights, saying, 

HAIL DECEIVER, SACKER AND THIEF, FROM ANOTHER MURDERER: HOW IS IT TO BE LOATHED AND REGRETTED BY ILÚVITAR, THY VERY OWN KING AND FATHER - 

“Alas for what you have wrought, fell lord,” called Maitimo Nelyafinwë. The laughter wound the chains more treacherously still on themselves, but it was worth it, and frankly necessary to defiance to laugh sometimes. “Once he is started, the true challenge is to close his mouth.” 

AND KNOW THOU HAST BEEN MADE TO FAIL AND FAIL AND FAIL EVER AND EVER UNTO THE VICTORY OF THE HEAVENS AND INDEED THE FORCE OF ELVES IN WRATH AGAINST THEE -

Morgoth roared, and shock the mountain, and thundered at the skies. 

There was a pause. The echo rang, and then the silence; it set, and settled. Morgoth’s immensity blotted out the stars, and grew to match his complacency. 

Maitimo waited. His brother held passionately to a theory, regarding the counting of time in silence as a mark authorship, from which every composed could be identified with enough familiarity, and his thesis presentation had gone something like this:

Somewhere in the far, far distance, there was the familiar sound of a harp being strummed in a uniquely obnoxious fashion. 

GIVE ME BACK MY BROTHER THOU AVARICIOUS CUR-FACED DULL-WITTED  CRAVEN -

For a moment, a terrible abyss of an instant, the full force of Morgoth's loathing filled the air in a silence made of many dimensions and many strains of incredulous rage.

“You heard him,” Maitimo said into it. Teeth-bared, words round and smiling in his mouth. “Cur.” 

The chains were really quite dreadful, where they bit into flesh to lash the bones; but he wouldn't have said they weren't worth it, for the look on Morgoth's face just then.

[poppurini]

[ m.draconia ] ﹫name tagged you in a post.

malleus n gn reader

minor dorm mal personal story spoiler, typing lilia’s line physically hurt me you’ll know what i mean, not proof read, 终于敢继续写故事型的作品了我真他妈的紧张请见谅

Many nights have passed since that incident happened. That night where he unintentionally upset Lilia by breaking his phone out of—goodness, he can’t even bring himself to say it—blatant jealousy. Now that he thinks back to it, it is rather foolish. He knew how deeply Lilia valued that electronic device, too.

But, he’s not entirely at fault, now is he? He is a dorm leader as well, he should be in that photo Kalim took. Well, yes, he did not attend that day—or any other meetings, really—but it wasn’t his intention to appear frivolous and skip important discussions, he is not like Kingscholar. He was just never notified.

Seeing everyone in a group photo without you, where you should belong in as well, doesn’t set a good feeling in one’s chest. He may not consider them as particularly close individuals, but it still inflict some sort of pain and insult to his pride.

He doesn’t wish to be seen as one of their own, because he simply isn’t but oh, when will he finally be included and not forgotten? Worse, remembered but not worth the effort to include in?

Ding!

Hm? His phone’s screen brightened. The…notif, as Lilia called it, in this device is quite loud and unpleasant to the ears. He ought to ask for Lilia’s help in changing it some time soon. Is he finally getting notified for a meeting? Malleus hope it’s easily accessible unlike last time which caused him to wait a total of three hours in different locations all for no one to show up.

Malleus sighs, It is not regarding the meeting. Were they perhaps serious about not inviting him to any more dorm meetings? However, this confusion was quickly brushed away to the back of his mind. Replaced by a light and pleasant feeling when he sees your name, accompanied by some numbers, which he recognised as your birthdate.

Magi…cam. The bolded letters show. This must be from the Magicam app. That’s right, his child of man assisted him in making one. Actually, he think he was forced, but he doesn’t complain. Nothing really came from the app after so he forgot its existence for quite a while. It is so complicated to navigate, too.

[ m.draconia ] ﹫name tagged you in a post.

This formatting looks…rather familiar than the one he saw on Lilia’s phone that day. The only thing that has changed was the bracketed name and the name behind a symbol that resembles the letter ‘a’ rather strangely.

“Could this be…?” Malleus hums, eyes widening in anticipation and tapping the bar, brows raising when a number pad appeared instead. Magicam doesn’t look like this, from what he recalled. Just then he remembers Lilia’s words.

“Place a password for your privacy! Just four numbers is enough. Most humans put something memorable, like their birthday! But Malleus you can put whatever.”

His birthday doesn’t mean anything much to him, personally. However, yours…

The device was unlocked and Malleus successfully opened the Magicam app. His lips parted in surprise, then quirked in amuse. What greeted him back was a picture of the two of you. Himself and his child of man. Yes, he does remember taking some pictures with you just a few days ago.

The caption—he hope he got it correct—was ‘photo dump with ﹫m.draconia <3’ he does not know what ‘less than three’ is to resemble or if it has anything to do with your apparent photo dump. The pictures you put are more than three. He’ll have to ask Lilia later, or maybe he could utilise this opportunity to approach you?

Still, Malleus was ecstatic. He was finally mentioned in a good light for the first time throughout his three years in Night Raven College by someone other than his retainers. His chest feels tight with excitement.

Ding!

﹫liliaa0101 commented

liliaa0101 You two look absolutely slay in here! 😉👍🏻

What does this mean.

[metamorphesque]

its so comforting to see someone unbashedly love their country and culture. the way u write and speak of it its so refreshing to me. im from india and well, the state of our country isnt good our fascist leader is successfully dividing the people and its so rare these days to find ppl just simply love where they come from, culture and language without any hate for anyone else. so i absolutely adore it when i see u talk abt armenia its like one can see how much care u hold for the language and the country. wishing for peace and sending love x

I am sorry, dear, that dark clouds are looming over your bright and colorful land of magic. In my lifetime, I’ve had the pleasure of encountering a few young Indian people (both in real life and online), and I have a lot of love and respect for your nation and its culture. I am sure that brighter days are awaiting both our homelands.

You see, what I’ve noticed is that some people often confuse their fatherland with their government. The hatred that they have toward the latter often taints the love and respect they ought to have toward their homeland. But, once and for all, we must remember that these two are not synonymous. Fatherland is a place where the roots of history, culture and identity intertwine. A fatherland is not just a geographical location; it is a sanctuary of shared memories, values and traditions passed down through generations. It represents the collective spirit of a people, their history, struggles and triumphs. To call a place one's fatherland is to cherish it as a cradle of life, as one’s own home.

To me, the love one has for their fatherland is like a mathematical function that always moves towards infinity (its designated final value) but never quite reaches it. One can never love their fatherland enough. There’s always something more you can do, there’s always something better you can do. I guess the vessel that carries one’s love toward their homeland is only ever fully filled when one gives up their life to protect their fatherland.

I can only speak from my own experience – I was raised historically and, more or less, politically conscious. When you’re a six or seven-year-old impressionable kid and you visit The Museum of The Armenian Genocide of 1915, you see the photographs, the articles, all the documentation that exists – firstly, you’ll never be the same again, and secondly, your naïve childish brain thinks that, as you’ve always been told, whenever someone commits a crime or does something bad, they get punished. Then I looked around and noticed that these heinous crimes, these massacres, were not only left unpunished, but the whole thing was swept under the rug by the world, as if it never happened. Then you grow up, sharing borders with the enemy, the dagger of war swaying upon your head, with every new day bringing more and more deaths of Armenian soldiers serving on the border. You see your enemy disrespecting you, your history and your culture. You see them erasing your history and your culture … and all of this is accompanied by the crickets of the world. Then there’s Western Armenia calling for us, a topic that I plan on writing more about. And at last, our Ararat that you can see so very clearly from Armenia …

And, alongside this, there’s this immense pride you feel in being an heir to a nation that created a culture so distinctly beautiful, a nation that gave birth to luminaries such as Grigor Narekaci, Sayat-Nova, Hovhannes Toumnyan, Vahan Teryan, Eghishe Charenc, Daniel Varujan, Paruyr Sevak, Misak Metsarenc, Silva Kaputikyan, Hovhannes Grigoryan, Vardges Petrosyan, Martiros Saryan, Sergey Parajanov, Shahan Nathalie, Gurgen Yanikyan, Monte Melqonyan, and the list goes on … the nation that invented color television, ATMs, hand-held hair dryers, coffee machines, PET scans, MRI and so much more.

Have all of this brew in your soul and dare not to love and cherish your fatherland – you can’t.

[fuedalreesespieces]

litany

ao3 summary:

If Inuyasha had to describe how he fell in love with Kagome, it would be this: as though water had been dripping onto his parched skin slowly, droplet by droplet so that he couldn’t quite yet tell if he’d dreamt it, and then, suddenly, an endless, sweet downpour - a realization impossible to ignore.

or: inuyasha and the confusion that is Kagome Higurashi.

read on ao3!!

snippet:

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He didn’t know what to think of her. 

He tried, at first, to categorize her by feature. It would keep him from fostering any attachments, he thought. She had long, dark hair, strands flaying every which way. She wore strange clothes and smelt of a fragrant aroma he had yet to put a name on. She had fair skin, but when she ran for just a little bit her cheeks would flush the color of flower buds, and it would spread through her face when her lips split to smile up at him, breathless.  

Feh, he would mutter. Hurry up, slow woman.   

Her eyebrows would dip and she’d shoot something out at him, a verbal remark, stinging like a wasp. And, naturally, he would have no other choice but to respond with worse, until they were at each other’s necks and the redness in her cheeks had become a sort of fire burning through her veins. He would seize her wrist and she would tug harshly on one of his silver side-bangs and they fought until they swore they hated the other, then, in solitude, ached for the other’s company. 

Though Inuyasha refused to admit something like that. He hadn’t ached for company since he had first been cast out into the forest, hadn’t quite ached for anything. Yearning was a privilege for those who had wishes in reach. He’d weaned himself on untrust. Ever since waking up at the base of that damned tree with an arrow still pulsing in his chest, he’d declared that would ever be led astray by hope again. Hoping was for humans, and there was never such a thing as half a hope.  

And so it was inevitable that he wouldn’t understand this girl. 

Kagome tucked her head into the slope of his neck and wrapped her arms around his shoulders like she’d done it all her life. She didn’t sleep with one eye open, like the villagers. Her fingers skirted over his claws without so much as a flinch. She smiled at him. He’d forgotten what that was like, to be smiled at without malice.  

The villagers had their opinions of her, and they ebbed and flowed in tidal waves of gossip. Inuyasha heard them whether he wanted to or not: a spy, no, a deity. But she was too immodest to be a deity, what with the garments that hiked up in the wind and hardly covered the expanse of her thigh. Does she not know shame? Does she not value her sanctity? From where does she hail, that she would be so careless? 

Inuyasha was beginning to think that it had less to do with where Kagome came from and more to do with Kagome herself. And, he thought she was far from careless. She cared more than any being ought to.  

She cradled flowers gently, and devoured the night sky as though she’d never seen it before, and helped the villagers who would praise and scorn her in the same breath. She packed strange medicines from her time and took pains to bring everything she could; did her schoolwork under the lithe branches of the trees he slept in even when dirt soiled her books and ink stained her hands from nights spent writing. They would be riding in her pink, iron cart, and she would see a man hobbling down the road and simply insist that they stop everything and help him.  

He looks so tired, she’d say, disregarding her own exhaustion. Just a second, okay?

Kagome would drag him off to help someone or another, and she would smile at his irked mumblings, somehow laughing at it all; a laugh that would echo into his dreams when the night was silent and thawing. 

She made him feel like his existence wasn’t a tragedy. With her, he felt that there was something worth hoping for. 

full thing!

[wri0thesley]

loving you keeps me alive - reader x ghost!dainsleif, 4.4k

your little house in monstadt is cheap, and though there are rumours about why . . . you ignore them, much as you ignore the whispers that something is not quite right. instead, you think about the night-time; and the handsome blond man who comes to you in dreams.

cw: not sfw, minors dni. dubious consent. yandere behaviour, somnophilia, stalking, self-hate (dainsleif towards himself), haunting, non-consensual touching. cunnilingus, piv sex. manipulation, deaths mentioned in passing. jealousy. reader is afab, but no pronouns or gendered terms are used.

[a/n: my kinktober masterlist can be found here. dain my soggy soggy beloved]

Dainsleif doesn’t think he really remembered what living felt like, until you moved in. 

Not that you can call this strange in-between existence ‘living’ - his time as a true mortal has long since passed. But as Celestia has cursed him to not move on . . . he has spent his years and centuries since then haunting these same four walls, unable to pass the doorway without finding himself bent over in pain. He has grown to know every plank of wood that makes up the little home in Monstadt - every creaking floorboard, the step on the stairs the landlord has replaced no less than three times because tenants kept simply putting their foot through.

Oh, others have tried to make this their home.

But Dainsleif values his privacy, and uses what little power he still has left to ensure that they do not stay for long.

The rumours of mysterious circumstances are not entirely baseless. Dainsleif spends his evenings whispering things into sleeping ears; pouring poison, until the former occupant of the home grows too tormented to do anything but investigate what Dainsleif is whispering about.

And so, the rumours have spiralled - the disappearances, the stained floors in ritual circles, the notes mentioning abyssal ruins and the Khaenri’an letters daubed onto the walls in blood--

Consequently, when you had come to view the property, the landlord had been terribly keen on pushing that the rent was - especially for this part of Monstadt - an absolute steal. Dainsleif had, at first, resigned himself to spending yet more of his evenings terrorising and convincing you to leave (why does nobody understand that this house ought to be left alone? Why does nobody understand that this is Dainsleif’s eternal punishment, and it is far better for everyone if he is allowed to wallow in it, entirely solitarily?) . . . when you had stuck your head into the bedroom, the room that Dainsleif spends most of his time in, and he had found himself utterly lost for words. 

Your pretty face scrunches; a shiver grips you, making your shoulders draw in sweetly. 

“It’s so cold,” you say, to the landlord - who forces a smile for you, and says;

“Well, it has been a few months since anybody has been in it other than to air it out . . . but a few rugs laid down and I’m sure it will be as warm and cosy as any home in Teyvat!”

You had not looked entirely convinced by his words, but you had let your gaze take in everything once again - and Dainsleif swears that your eyes lingered, just for a moment, on him. 

“I’m afraid you might not find anything else in your budget this central to the city,” the landlord had said, and you had pursed your lips and thought about it - and, for the first time, Dainsleif had found himself hoping that you would indeed decide to make his home your own too. 

You are not foolish. 

You tell the landlord you will come back to him with your decision tomorrow, and return back to the home of the friend you are staying with - a fellow co-worker, at one of the little taverns in Monstadt that certainly does not pay as well as it should. You have heard tell that the owner of the Angel’s Share pays lodgings for his staff himself; lets them stay in the cottages bordering his own property if they wish (and lets them ride into the city proper), or simply rents apartments for them and takes care of most of the bills himself. 

Not all tavern workers can be as lucky as the staff of that establishment. 

Your co-worker is horrified when she hears that you have gone to visit that house; big eyes and scandalised tone as she whispers that everyone knows anyone who dares live there is fated to become obsessed with things far beyond their understanding and meet a grisly end. 

But your family live too far out to travel into Monstadt every day, and you are a grown-up now, who wishes to pave their own way in the world - your job is a stepping stone, and you are unwilling to burden your co-worker any further, or continue to go into the tavern with a sore back from sleeping on her floorboards. 

“You simply can’t!” Your co-worker says, begging - hands clinging to yours. “You aren’t from the city proper, you don’t know what has happened to anyone who has even tried to live there!”

“It was perfectly fine,” you insist in return, smiling. “A little cold, perhaps! But it will pass! There was no evil presence, no sudden need to discover what happened to Khaenri’ah--”

You pause. You do not know much about Khaenri’ah. But there is, suddenly, an inextricable desire to go to the library and discover more about it, just to see what it is that so entranced all of those other former residents. You push it down; there is no need to lend credence to what she is insisting. 

“Everything will work out,” you tell her. “There is no evil in that house. It’s just lonely, and I need a home!”

You are right, in a way.

Dainsleif is lonely. 

And - for once - he is more than happy to share his home with you. 

As it turns out, there are indeed, several problems with the new house. 

The first is the breeze; a cool draft of gentle wind that seems to follow you through the rooms and corridors, no matter where you go. It does not matter how firmly you shut the windows, or festoon them with velvety curtains of thick fabric you bought for a steal from the tailor because they were the end of the bolt remnants, the breeze is a constant. In Monstadt, you suppose that’s something almost to celebrate - proof the Anemo Archon is there, looking out for you - but you cannot help but be frustrated as the candle is blown out by nothing for the third time today and you drape yourself in your warmest shawls no matter the time of day. 

(The breezes are Dainsleif, who cannot help but shadow you about the house; cannot help but stare at the way the light hits the lovely angles of your face, cannot help but wish to be with you no matter where you are. A swirling cloak past a candle puts it out; curtains flutter as he sighs and stands behind you and simply looks at you - as he longs to touch and caress and speak to you). 

The second is, you’re sure, your mind playing tricks on you - thinking that the evil presence you so insisted did not exist is actually there. It’s a flash of blond hair in the mirror behind you; of one piercing blue eyes. It makes you start every time; hairbrush clattering to the ground, a perfume bottle being knocked off your dressing table in haste. Fear, when you catch it as you’re undressing for the evening and you let your garments fall to the ground and stand in just your underclothes. You should be comfortable showing your own skin in your own house, but . . . how hard it is, to ignore that constant feeling of being watched. 

(Dainsleif is always half-surprised and half-delighted when you give a hint you can see him - when you whirl around with your pretty eyes all wide with fear. Oh, there’s something so intimate about him being allowed to watch you in these vulnerable moments - to see all of that lovely skin, unmarked and untouched. To know that you are more sensitive to him than any occupants have ever been before! Dainsleif wonders if this is not living proof that you were made for him). 

The third is your absolute inability to bring anyone home.

You try, once - a handsome man spends his evening by the bar, chatting with you whenever he can, eager and smiling and sweet. He orders non-alcoholic specialties from the menu so that he does not lose his head; and when your shift is over, he flirts and asks if perhaps you and he could meet up together one day. You give him your address and invite him over for dinner the following night--

But the dinner is plagued by problems.

A lingering freezing cold draft down his back, tripping over nothing, his glass flying from his hand and shattering into pieces against the wall. As he leaves, desperately pulling his coat on, he tells you that he had always heard that this house was cursed, but this is living proof of it all.

(Dainsleif wishes he could comfort you, as he watches you fold in on yourself after the man has gone. He does not feel sorry for what he has done - your possible paramour has been scared away, and that is what is important - but he does feel an inkling of regret for causing you pain. Still. Perhaps now you will know that you need nobody else; Dainsleif and you, together in this little house, is family and love and enough). 

There is one thing, though, that is most assuredly not a problem. 

For, since you have moved into one of the most notorious houses in Monstadt, you have found that there has been a most fascinating change in the nature of your dreams. 

Dainsleif does not mean to do it; the first time, he intends only to sit by your side. He intends to only watch the gentle rise and fall of your chest, admire the loveliness of your face in repose; but you are so, so beautiful. In your slumber, you are so peaceful and so lovely - he cannot resist leaning in, to study your features more closely without you shivering and pulling your shawls closer around you. 

Your lips look so soft.

How long has it been since he felt the touch of another’s lips? In Khaenri’ah he was always too busy for such things; the life of the head of the Royal Guard was fraught with dangers, full of fears. He dare not get close to somebody lest they be dragged into those same things.

Here, there is nothing before him but eternity - so why should he not take a kiss from you, whilst you sleep?

He leans in. You breathe softly, lashes fluttering. Dainsleif presses his mouth to yours and revels in it. He steals the kiss from your beautiful mouth, lets himself get lost in the taste of your toothpaste that lingers on your lips. Lets his teeth graze against your bottom lip and tug upon it, for whilst you are sleeping, how can you argue?

Your eyes flicker open. They meet Dainsleif’s blue gaze - and, without a second thought, he presses a hand to your temple.

It is the hand that is ruined by abyssal rot; the one that serves a constant reminder of how he is something that does not deserve to exist. The rot has one, and only one, upside - it gives Dainsleif some little power of his own. 

The fear that has blown your pupils wide seems to subside a little. Your gaze goes half-lidded, as Dainsleif pulls back and wets his own lips to murmur quietly;

“You are dreaming.”

“Dreaming,” you murmur to him in response, and you give him a smile that - were his heart still beating - he is certain would have made it cease to do so. “You’re beautiful.”

He may have been, once - but hearing it from your mouth, as you look up at him . . . Dainsleif smiles down at you.

“Not half so as you,” he tells you, and you laugh sleepily. He leans back in. Adoringly runs a thumb over the apple of your cheek, as you rest against his palm through the gloves.

“You’re cold,” you accuse him - and then, your lashes lay against your cheeks again, and Dainsleif feels - for the first time in forever - that perhaps there is something inside of him that is still human. 

It is not enough.

A few nights later, he repeats the motions - only this time, he murmurs against your ear at the beginning that you are dreaming, and so when you awake to find the covers have been pulled down and those gloved fingers are slowly exploring your body, cupping your curves and delighting in the softness of your skin, you do not panic. 

Dainsleif says your name, and you sigh; arch your back into his touch. 

By degrees, he lets himself get carried away more and more - finds himself going further and further into the rot that has begun to infest his mind as well as his body.

Common decency tells him, as he slips your nightgown off a willing body, that he is disgusting.

As his gloved thumbs gently swipe over your nipples until they harden and you sigh out a noise that goes straight to between his thighs, he decides that it does not matter. He would be a monster a hundred times over for the sight of your face as he touches you; the vision of your eyes clouded by the whispers he has put there that you are only dreaming as you let yourself be taken and touched and adored by the man who visits you in your sleep.

“You’re lovely,” Dainsleif says, his voice dry, and you laugh a pretty sleep-laced laugh. 

Days later, his fingers slip between your legs for the first time and he finds you slick and wet and hot. He cannot stop the surprise that flashes over his face, but you simply smile lazily at him.

“Finally,” you say, all indolent and lazily pleased. “Touch me more, please.” 

(For you, all these occurrences are merely a dream; you wake up, the morning after, and you think of the beautiful blond man and how adoringly he touched you. You think of him when you get dressed, a faint smile on your face, and you do not notice the cool whisper of the wind or the eyes of a spirit lingering on you. The man in your dreams has come to be a friend more than anything else - and as the house will not allow you to bring home acquaintances without rattling and freezing, he is a most welcome one). 

“How can I resist when you ask so nicely?” Dainsleif asks, through a thick dryness in his throat - and you urge your thighs apart for him, even as you’re already slipping back into that strange in-between land of not-quite-awake and not-quite-asleep. 

Fingers gently swipe through the slick folds; gathering your wetness upon his fingertips, drinking hungrily in the way your hips twitch and your face moves and you let out soft sighs that make Dainsleif ache for the want of you. They brush over your clit and win a jerk that fascinates him; he repeats the motion, the thin leather of his gloves slipping and sliding on the wetness of your sex, and your pretty mouth purses into the shape of a budding flower. 

Two fingers slide inside of you slowly; scissoring softly, stretching you open. Dainsleif imagines that those fingers are, instead, his cock - imagines how the heat that he can feel soaking through the leather would feel if it were to be wrapped around him so tight and silky. 

This is what divinity feels like, he thinks; despite how he has been cursed to never achieve such celestial leanings himself, he can have a little taste of it simply by virtue of being able to touch you. 

A few nights later, he kisses up the curve of your calves.

He scrapes his teeth across the softness of your thighs and breathes in the scent of you, heady and thick and rich and wanting. He kisses your mound - and as he feels your fingers tangle in the golden locks of his hair, he once more cannot bring himself to care about what a monstrous thing he is doing.

For your taste on his tongue is syrup-sticky and honey-sweet, as he drags the organ over your folds and drinks you in like the finest of ambrosia. As your thighs twitch and squeeze around his head, so soft and so warm that Dainsleif wishes he could stay between them for an eternity. 

Dainsleif’s lips fasten about your clit; sucking, twirling with his tongue, urging you into more and more pleasure with the needy rhythm of his own mouth until he can feel how close you are in the way you tremble and the soft noises that are falling from your lips, begging whimpers that make him unknowingly grind the stiffness in his underwear against your sheets.

He pulls back before you can come - lifts his head, your hand still raking through his hair, and meets your needy blown-wide eyes.

“I love you,” he says to you, all ragged and desperate. It doesn’t matter to him that all he has for the proof of this are the nights he has spent touching you without you even knowing - all that matters is that you are there, you are his, you mean far more to him than any other mortal has ever done . . . you make him feel, if only for a few moments a night, as though he is something more than a ghost. “Tell me you love me too.”

You think you are dreaming. 

Your body is heated and needy, your every sense inflamed and desperate, slick beads of your own desire rolling down your thighs to stain and soak the bed beneath you - but it is just a wet dream, is it not? Just a fantasy fuelled by the loneliness of your life.

Just a dream.

In your dreams, it seems perfectly natural to smile at the blond man who keeps making his appearances within them; who keeps touching you with such reverence. You have been treated with such porcelain carefulness by him, as if anything bad happening to you would be a tragedy that he could not bear - and so, too, it seems perfectly natural to murmur;

“I love you,” - even if it is only because you are close, hovering on the precipice of your orgasm, and you so desperately want to come. 

And so, Dainsleif provides. 

He keeps his head on the pillow of your thighs well after you have fallen back fully into your real dreams, letting the taste of your most intimate parts linger on his lips, and wondering if this is enough. Could he satisfy himself with just touching, just kissing, just mouthing against you and bringing you pleasure after pleasure?

. . . He does not think he could.

He thinks ruefully of the abyssal rot that flows through his veins like sickly ichor; of how once he was noble and brave and righteous, dedicated to defending those who he had sworn to protect. The Twilight Sword was a virtuous protector of Khaenri’ah.

How far he has fallen. 

The Twilight Sword of centuries ago would take him out into the city square and have him strung up for his crimes. The residents he drove mad before you made his home your own, the advantage he is more than aware he is taking, the misuse of what little powers he has.

And yet, you are worth it. Yet he longs for you even more.

Fear grips him sometimes, when he watches you leave for work, that you may not return. What would he do if you left the house and never came back for your things; if you decided that enough was enough, and left behind cold draughts and smashed crystal glass and seething jealousy and the blond man who visits you in your dreams? He needs to leave a lasting mark on you.

He needs to ensure that you know that you are his.

He needs to claim you fully and utterly and completely.

So a few nights later, he finds himself bared. He finds his cock pressing against your entrance; as slick and warm and welcoming as it has always been, as you continue to look up at him with nothing but affection.

“Dream Man,” you tell him, and you laugh like the tinkling of a bell. “You haven’t even told me your name.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dainsleif says, and he finds the courage within him to lean down and kiss you once more, until thoughts disappear from your head in favour of kissing him back. He ruts his cock through your folds; saturates it in a mixture of your own slick and his own silvery precome until it slips and slides, sensitive head brushing over your silky soft thighs. “All that matters is you.”

“You’ll make my head swell,” you murmur to him, but your arms come sleepily up to wrap about his neck. Your skin is heated against you, your skin so warm and so soft and so alive it makes Dainsleif ache down to his core. “Mm. Are you going to fuck me finally, Dream Man?”

Against his will, his cheeks heat; a flush creeps into them. In his day, such vulgar language would never have come from such a lovely mouth - nobody would dare be so open and forward with a man whose name they did not even know. It has been centuries, and you are certainly a more forward breed of person . . . but at his heart, Dainsleif was once a warrior of nobility, and he finds himself just a little scandalised.

“Is that what you want?” He asks, voice all throaty. You pout adorably at him - in your sleep, you are so much more open. In your dreams you are truly the purest, most free version of yourself. Dainsleif adores it just as much as he adores every other facet of you.

“Please,” you breathe - and Dainsleif lets the head of his cock catch on your entrance. His teeth grit as he splits you open - as he lets that same head slip inside of you, tight and hot and wet about him. He pauses, suddenly, and you whine--

But Dainsleif’s mouth opens, and despite how every molecule of him begs him to simply fuck you, he manages to shape words.

“Tell me you’ll never leave,” Dainsleif says, blue eyes - one shadowed and masked, one free and open - meeting yours. “Promise me.”

You are just dreaming - there will be no consequences, you think. What is a little white lie - even one that is a profession of love - for the sake of pleasure, when it is merely a dream? You sigh and smile and cant your hips up towards the handsome blond man who has haunted your dreams for months and you whisper;

“I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Dainsleif pushes himself inside of you; bottoms out in one gorgeous, deep thrust, until he fits perfectly inside of you and the two of you are joined completely. Dainsleif feels your heart beating fast against his chest as he drags you hungrily into a kiss. 

As he begins to fuck you, slowly and deeply and earnestly, he lets himself imagine the tight confines of you moulding themselves to his shape until only he fits inside of you so perfectly and snugly. He thinks of how utterly he is claiming you; looks down at you in utter adoration, kisses you so deeply that it robs you of your breath. 

You whimper and sigh and moan, thighs locking about his hips. Dainsleif does not remember the last time he felt so close to anyone. 

You make him feel alive again.

“I love you,” he breaks the kiss to groan against your cheeks, your neck, the hollow of your throat just above your heart. “Never go. Never.”

You can think only of how good the stretch of his cock feels inside of you; how right. How handsome he looks in the moonglow.

Before this, you had never found yourself having any recurring dreams but nightmares. If you had beautiful dreams at night, they were always the outliers; one single dream to reflect and reminisce upon and wish you may one day be able to return to - but which you never did. 

This man, though - all blonde and handsome, regal of bearing cloaked in black and navy with so much pain in his beautiful eyes that it makes you ache - has been a constant starlit companion for what feels like months.

“I won’t,” you promise again. “I won’t, I won’t, I’m yours forever--”

And as Dainsleif lets himself spill inside of you as your own body trembles and shakes in the throes of your matching orgasm, he thinks how true your words sound as he claims you for himself.

(He wipes between your thighs carefully, when you have fallen asleep, so you do not awaken to find you leaking his come. But that is only for the wasteful trickle that has escaped; the rest, he thinks with a warm glow, have settled inextricably inside of you as true proof that you are his). 

 The day after your dreams reach that nadir of affection, you leave the house to go to your job, and find yourself accosted by the co-worker that originally offered you a floor to sleep on, when you needed it most.

“I need to move out,” she says, with no other preamble. “The rent in my place is going up, and I’ve found the most darling little two-bed house just outside the Monstadt gates - if we split the rent, you’ll be paying even less than you are right now and you can finally get out of that draughty old haunted house!”

You think of all of the problems with the house. You think of the breeze and the unhappiness it seems to have when anyone else crosses the threshold--

And then, you think of the blond man in your dreams.

His fingers brushing your thighs, his tongue between your folds, cool breath fanning across your skin as he stares at you with abject adoration written clearly in his eyes. You think of the whispers that he loves you - and you think, too, of the promises you have made him.

That you’re his. That you will never leave. That you, too, love him. 

They are just things you have said in your dreams; they would hardly stand up in any Fontaine court of justice. But you cannot shake the feeling that they mean more than that. You cannot shake the feeling that going against them would be a betrayal.

“No thank you,” you say, a smile on your own face, “ . . . it really does feel like home.”

[dr33mtal3]

Pippin Bitty

Felt like drawing a Bitty today so have some more of the Pippin, with fun facts!

A Pippin is a subclass of Bonsai-Bitty (another of which is the Pazazz)

Bonsai-Bitties are a kind of Plant-Bitty that use a skeletal structure to carry a root and branch system: a walking tree

Bonsai-Bitties have 'wings' which are actually their canopy: leaves, branches, and flowers make up the many structures

The wings of a Bonsai-bitty are sensitive to touch, capable of crude vision (light, color, movement, and shape), used for breathing and photosynthesis, and are also used in reproduction

The wings of a Bonsai-bitty may secrete pollen, nectar, or sap, given relevant circumstances

Bonsai-Bitties are capable of great chemical complexity, and will often change their chemical makeup to communicate (or for some other conscious purpose). This results in changes to their coloration, smell, taste, and toxicity.

A happy, healthy Bonsai-Bitty can be harvested from for edible or medicinal substances

The wings of a Bonsai Bitty has indeterminate growth

And about the Pippin, specifically:

Pippins are a type of Bonsai Bitty which display cool-colored pigmentation

Pippins prefer cooler temperatures and semi-humid to unreasonably damp conditions. They enjoy sleeping in water pools. A Pippin can breathe in freshwater through their wings with little trouble, but cannot breathe in salt-water for more than an hour at a time.

They especially enjoy playing in ice and snow, but ought not to be kept in freezing temperatures for more than a few hours at a time: they can and will catch colds.

A Pippin is boundlessly loyal to its chosen Person, even before becoming a proper bondmate. If they 'choose' a person, they will pursue them persistently.

A Pippin that has found its chosen Person will desire to be beside them at all times, even when their Person cannot pay direct attention to them. They will hide in pockets or bags, sit on shoulders, or sit on the head, in order to remain as close as possible whenever they can get away with it.

Pippins are sedentary by nature, and will take naps often. While they can perform incredible feats of speed, strength, and acrobatics, their stamina is lacking.

Pippins are affectionate: they will show their affection with closeness, cuddles, nuzzles, and shedding.

Pippins are incredibly intelligent, and crave knowledge both fictional and nonfictional. They can often be found enjoying books, videos, comics, and podcasts.

The Pippin's personality is fundamentally easygoing and kind. They have a great capacity for compassion.

That being said: the Pippin's intelligence makes it capable of developing in a wide variety of directions.

A young Pippin is quick to learn and a model student, making them easy to train.

Pippins are emotionally brittle: once a Pippin has experienced what it perceives to be betrayal, it will quickly learn mistrust. Such a Pippin is more difficult to socialize and train going forward, but is no less intelligent or capable if handled with care.

A Pippin is excessively protective of what it perceives to be its 'things', whether those things are literal objects or the people it values. It is equally likely to imprint upon other bitties.

Although Pippins are by nature non-aggressive, a Pippin will respond to the aggression of others, especially if it is targeting something the Pippin values.

Pippins have an incredible sense of smell. They can track an individual for several miles with little trouble.

Up close, a Pippin's sense of smell can give them great swaths of information, including the health and emotional state of the person

Older Pippins and Pippins which have healed from an injury may display darker colors in their wings.

Pippin wings are generally slow growing after a certain point, and will not usually need trimming more than 1-4 times a year. It is recommended that Pippin trims be done under anesthesia by a trained professional, as they are highly sensitive.

[bestworstcase]

mankind, salem says, is strong, wise, resourceful, passionate, and ingenious. (she notes “resourceful” twice.) there will be no victory in strength, and notably she excludes “strength” when she lists the traits that allowed humanity to prevail and thrive despite the grimm; ergo wisdom, resourcefulness, passion, and ingenuity are the four virtues she actually values.

wisdom—experiential knowledge and soundness of judgment—choice.

resourcefulness—the ability to analyze a problem and apply what you have intelligently to resolve it—knowledge.

passion—intense emotion and, via christianity, connotatively profound suffering and death leading to resurrection—destruction.

ingenuity—inventiveness and originality, imagination—creation.

these are the four divine qualities she’s talking about, creation and destruction, knowledge and choice, but rather than recite them by rote as ozma does, salem defines what they mean to her, and in doing so she reveals that she values knowledge above all, because she sees choice and destruction and creation as things arising from different forms of knowledge. when she says ‘there will be no victory in strength’ what she means is ‘victory lies in knowing.’

[in ‘the shallow sea’, the god of animals is characterized as sagacious, perspicacious, and veracious—wise, insightful, honest—and fascinated by human adaptability or, you might call it, resourcefulness. do you hear the way this rhymes?]

you have traveled here today in search of knowledge, says ozpin, to hone your craft and acquire new skills. but all i see is wasted energy in need of purpose, direction. you assume knowledge will free you of this, but your time at this school will prove that knowledge can only carry you so far. it is up to you to take the first step.

salem believes that knowledge is everything; that it underlies creation and destruction and choice, that it is essential, that without it humanity would have never risen from the ashes the brothers left behind and could never have survived in this unforgiving and unforgiven world.

ozpin states in no uncertain terms that the pursuit of knowledge is a waste of energy. he believes—or at least he would like his students to believe—that knowledge is impotent, that what matters is to be given direction and guided by unerring purpose. what he values is faith, as he tells coco in ‘after the fall:’

Make no mistake, there is a higher power guiding our actions. Call it Fate. Call it Destiny. Call it the gods. Or maybe it’s simply the randomness of existence. Whatever it is, I have to trust that we are here for a reason.

from the very beginning, in plain sight, this story has been about the ideological conflict between one who champions the truth and one who stands for blind faith. the undoing of ozpin’s cause is his decision to lay his hopes on the shoulders of a more honest soul.

the grimm are manifestations of anonymity, pyrrha says. that is why they lack souls, why they are the darkness and we are the light; but it’s about knowing, understanding both dark and light (and everybody has some of both). yet it is the grimm-witch who values knowledge and the huntsman who rejects it.

while ozpin tells ruby that she has to be perfect all the time lest everyone turn against her, port tells weiss that her bad attitude reflects poorly on her and she ought to spend less time worrying about not getting what she felt entitled to and instead focus on honing her skills and becoming the best person she can be. both ruby and weiss take the advice they’re given utterly to heart, winding it into the very core of their selves; ruby drowns, and weiss blossoms.

the subtext has a bullhorn.

[bretongirlwrites]

‘The money I gave you,’ said Caius, ‘for a sword or a spell or a piece of armour, – you must have spent it on something? – you have a cuirass, I believe?’

‘You have seen it?’ said I: ‘it is half a cuirass at most. I’d wear it in battle, if I didn’t care for my chest. I imagine it will have its uses. There are people who like that sort of thing, – but it is not for battle. I was given it. By a person who likes that sort of thing, I suppose.’

Caius looked askance at me and wondered perhaps, if he’d done well after all to recommend me to House Hlaalu. Then he must have recalled that he valued his own chest even less for he coughed and said:

‘A sword? I have seen you with a dagger.’

The thing was still at my belt; and digging into me less than my lockpicks. I laid it on the table and said that it had cost tuppence.

‘A tuppence dagger,’ said I, ‘it barely opens letters.’

Whereupon Caius almost offered me his letter-opener, –

‘Useful in a pinch,’ said I, ‘but only where that pinch doesn’t involve daedra or ghosts or ash-monsters. Or letters.’

‘A spell?’ said he witheringly.

‘Oh!’ said I: ‘if you count the spellbooks Ranis Athrys gave me, when I paid my guild-subs. I’m no mage. Reading them is like learning to pick locks without ever having seen a door. I am sure they will have their uses, when the Sixth House has made off with our firewood supply.’ 

Caius by now, might have been wringing his shirt-sleeves, had he had any. There went the paternal air from his face and he glanced more than once at his remaining money, which was too close within my reach. I sheathed the dagger and put my hands face-up and said:

‘I am not ungrateful for it. Really I’m not. Oh! but you didn’t tell me to go off and become a warrior. If you thought that simply with a purse full of drakes, I could be something I’m not, –’

‘The Emperor,’ said he, ‘wants you to become one with less than that.’

It was quite plain, that if it would have helped, he’d have offered all the gold back in Cyrodiil; and thought only later, how to get his hands on it; but it was no use. I deliberately raised a scrawny arm and scratched a scrawny shoulder and wondered if I ought to tell him that last week I’d nearly been killed by a kagouti. 

‘The rest,’ said I, ‘went towards that dress I got for the dinner. That was calculated. That was useful. Maybe you don’t see it, – but, – I am not a saint, nor a warrior. I don’t fight, even dirty. I’m a thief, a gentlewoman-thief. That dress will do great things. In its own way.’

‘I do not disbelieve you,’ said he sighing: ‘people after all, have done great things with less… cleavage. But we have to give the Emperor his Nerevarine, –’

‘Or we’ll all die of the blight,’ said I. ‘Gods help us all.’

Whether his mutter was a curse or prayer, to Azura or Arkay or only whatever rotten luck had come with me into his house, I do not know; I know only that he looked me up and down as if trying to find some redeeming feature, and after a moment, poured out another handful of drakes and pressed them into my hands. 

‘I have told you,’ said he, ‘who trains the Blades. I’ll let you have a bit, if I must, – how to fight if you’re caught in a pinch and find yourself shirtless for some reason, – and Nileno Dorvayn, I hear, is a dab hand with a letter-opener, –’

‘Let us hope,’ said I, ‘that Dagoth Ur is the size of an envelope and twice as flimsy,’ and casually, carelessly, meticulously, pinned with my dagger, the pile of coded documents to the table.

[likkolo]

Changbin envies Felix for the fact that he wears feminine clothes so effortlessly, thinking that he could never do the same. The pack shows him he's wrong

(OT8, omegaverse, omega Changbin and Felix, boys in dresses, light angst, body insecurity, chubby changbin, body worship)

🤲

Changbin watches Felix’s eyes light up as he’s presented with another white giftbox tied with a red ribbon. Changbin knows what that box means. Felix has gotten a handful of them already, and it’s always something dainty and beautiful for him to wear that brings out his beguiling omegan charms.

A strappy yellow sundress, an emerald green velvet skirt, a sheer black blouse.

Felix looks gorgeous in all of them, and he knows it.

The entire pack knows it, and the alphas especially know it. That’s why they keep buying him such pretty things and gifting them to him in a white box with red ribbon.

Felix beams as he lifts the lid off the box and pulls out the dress inside. It’s baby pink with embroidered eyelets that will give a peek of Felix’s perfect skin. Changbin has no doubt that Felix will look gorgeous in it. He wants to see Felix put it on right away, wants to have the honor of tying the halter straps in a big bow at Felix's delicate nape. Wants to see Felix giggle in happiness as he turns in a twirl for his alphas.

The dress itself is lovely, but the sight of Felix wearing it will be enchanting.

Changbin looks down at his own clothes—gym shorts and a t-shirt, just like every other day—and can’t help feeling lackluster. He knows his bulk makes him different for an omega, even though he wouldn’t say he dislikes his body. But the pride he takes in his muscles has always been less about vanity and more about the evidence of his dedication and diligence. It’s a physical representation of a hobby that he loves, not unlike Hyunjin’s sketchbook or Seungmin’s lovingly curated baseball card collection. At the end of the day, he’s still painfully aware that his physique is far from ideal for an omega.

That’s okay though, because he didn’t fit the omegan ideal back when he was scrawny either. He’s never possessed the daintiness that Felix exudes so effortlessly. Now at least he has a pack who doesn’t want him to be something he isn’t, who loves him exactly how he is.

The omegan desire to feel pretty is still there though. As is the desire to receive gifts from his alphas, to be fawned over and showered with compliments. To be shown that he’s wanted, desired. Valued.

But his body just isn’t one that can be dressed up in the sorts of things that come in boxes tied with ribbons. He isn’t pretty, and he can’t wear feminine clothes. No one would want to see him in any of the garments that look so natural on Felix.

And yet—

Sometimes he thinks about what it would be like to get a box with a pretty garment inside, to have all his alphas ooh and ahh at the sight of him dressed up in something pretty and feminine. To hold them in a trance as he spins around for them.

He knows it will never happen.

“Bin-ah,” Minho says quietly, his fingers inching towards Changbin's hand. “What’s wrong, bun?”

“Nothing, hyung.” Changbin tries to smile, but the bunching of his cheeks causes a tear to fall from his eye. He hastily wipes it away. “I’m fine.”

Minho stares at him, then seems to relent. He closes his fingers around Changbin's and promises, “we’ll talk about it later.”

Changbin loves his hyung, but he doesn’t expect for ‘later’ to ever come.

That night they all gather in the den, climbing into the pack bed dressed in variations on the theme of pajamas. Changbin shucks his shorts so that he’s just wearing his boxers and t-shirt. He tries not to feel too wistful about Felix’s gold silk pajamas or the gauzy midnight blue kimono he wears over top.

It’s fine. Felix has the sort of body that ought to be adorned in things like that. Changbin, on the other hand, would look silly in anything other than his usual boxers and t-shirt.

Then Minho surprises Changbin by tugging him into his lap and carding his fingers through his hair. “Changbinnie,” he says. “It’s time for you to tell me why you were crying earlier.”

Everyone immediately turns to look at Changbin, frowning in confusion and waiting to hear what happened. “I already told you,” he says, avoiding their eyes. “It was nothing.”

“Something about Yongbok-ah’s dress upset you,” Minho presses.

Changbin glances around, sees brows furrowing at him. 

“You didn’t like my new dress, hyung?” Felix asks, distraught.

“No, of course I did!” Changbin says quickly. “It’s beautiful.”

Minho’s hand comes to rest on his nape. “Then why were you crying?”

It’s not a question this time—it’s a demand. Changbin hunches his shoulders, shrinking in on himself. He’s embarrassed, but he knows Minho won’t let it go until he confesses. “Felix looks so pretty in his feminine clothes,” he says, his voice shaking. “I just… sometimes I wish I could look pretty too.”

There’s silence for a moment, just long enough to fill Changbin with dread, and then everyone begins to talk at once.

“You do?”

“Baby, you’ve never told us that.”

“We never thought you liked that sort of thing!”

“We thought you were happy in your comfy workout stuff,” Chan says apologetically. “I don’t think any of us realized that you had an interest in feminine clothes.”

“I do, but—” Changbin hates that he’s going to have to admit out loud that he wants something so antithetical to who he is. The pack will have to tell him it’s impossible, that those desires are for other omegas who can fulfill the expectations of their subgender. “I know I shouldn’t.”

“What do you mean?” Hyunjin asks. “Why shouldn’t you?”

Oh, Changbin thinks, they’re going to make him tell them that it’s impossible. He hangs his head. “It just wouldn’t look right on me. It wouldn’t be right for someone like me.”

“It wouldn’t?”

“I’m too big. I’m— not shaped right. I can’t be pretty, so there’s no point in dressing me up in something cute.”

“But, hyung, you’re so beautiful.”

“I’m not,” Changbin denies.

“We all love your shape and your muscles, you know that, right?”

Changbin nods automatically. “I know, but I can’t wear a dress. I won’t look the way Felix looks.”

Jeongin nudges him. “You’ll look like you, and that’s perfect.”

“Hyung will buy you a dress, baby,” Chan tells him. “We’ll get you all the pretty clothes you want and then you’ll see how beautiful you are.”

“No, don’t,” Changbin protests. “You won’t like it, I know you won’t.”

“How could you know that?”

“I just know.”

“Well, I think you’re wrong.”

Changbin sighs in frustration. “Whatever, hyung, let’s just go to bed.”

They let Changbin turn over and snuggle into his pillow, effectively ending the conversation. Someone tries to cling onto him for cuddles, but when he shrugs them off they let him go. Changbin hopes that that’s the end of it. 

And it seems like it is. No one mentions it the next day, or the day after. He notices that they’re a little more complimentary about his body maybe, a little pointed with their physical affection, but that’s it.

Changbin doesn’t think about it anymore, until the next time he sees one of the white giftboxes with a red ribbon. He comes home from the gym and spots it sitting out on the kitchen counter, just waiting to be discovered by Felix. 

He’s surprised by the complicated cocktail of emotions that suddenly twists within him.

On one hand, it’s definitely time for Felix to receive another pretty little gift. Changbin would feel awful if the alphas pulled back on spoiling Felix just because Changbin has issues. But he can’t deny that he really doesn’t want to see Felix open his gift or try on the garment. His heart is still tender, and he knows it would hurt to watch the pack fawn over Felix now that they know he wishes it were him. That he wishes it were him, but knows it’s impossible.

He’s just about to turn away, to go to his own bedroom and pretend to be asleep if it gets him out of having to watch Felix open the box, when he hears Chan.

“It’s yours, baby bunny.”

Changbin turns. “What?”

“The box, yeobo. It’s for you.”

Changbin’s ears burn as he stares at Chan. “Me?” he asks. His stomach feels cold and sour, full of a trepidation that he doesn’t fully understand. “But I said not to—”

Chan takes his hand and kisses his dimpled knuckles. “It’s okay if you don’t like it, or if it doesn’t work out. We just wanted to show you that we think you’re beautiful, and that you deserve to think so too.”

“Okay,” Changbin whispers. He picks up the box, too full of nerves to appreciate the thrill of being given a gift. His fingers begin to tug at the ribbon, but Chan says:

“Wait. Is it okay if the others are here to watch you open it? Or maybe it would be better for us all to go in the den.”

Changbin nods numbly and lets Chan lead him down the hallway. In his pocket, his phone pings with a notification from the pack group chat. Chan puts his phone away, and Changbin guesses that Chan has called for everyone to gather in the den.

As the others filter into the room, Changbin notices that not a single one of them is surprised to see him clutching the giftbox. Pleasantly surprised, maybe, to see that he’s agreed to open it.

Changbin looks around, feeling exposed with seven pairs of eyes on him. “I’m really not sure about this,” he says weakly.

“It’s okay,” Minho says. “It’s just for you to try.”

“You deserve to feel pretty, hyung,” says Felix. “We want to make that happen for you.”

“Okay,” Changbin whispers again, and unties the ribbon.

All he sees when he first opens the box is black. It’s not until he reaches in and pulls the garment out that he discovers it’s a slinky little off-the-shoulder dress, probably about mid-thigh in length. He sees tiny spaghetti shoulder straps, but they must just be there for extra support since the dress also has wide bardot-style straps that should fall just below his delts. In spite of himself, Changbin is pleased when he realizes that the dress will put both his biceps and traps on full display.

Then he sees that it has an open cowl back, and he worries that something so sexy will just make his bulky figure look even more ridiculous.

"We went with something classic and a little cool,” Jeongin explains, “since it’s a vibe that we thought you’d be comfortable with. But please know that we think you’ll be just as adorable in pastels and tulle.”

Changbin hides his face in the dress as a delighted squeal bubbles up from his chest. “Iyen-ah!” he giggles. “You really think hyung is adorable?”

“Of course I do,” Jeongin says. “We all do.”

“Now go try on your dress.”

Changbin rushes into the en-suite bathroom and strips off his shorts and t-shirt. He’s wearing boxers again, so after a moment of deliberation he slides them off as well. Then he tugs the dress over his head, praying that it fits. To his relief, he feels the fabric stretching easily to accommodate his curves. He pulls it down, adjusts the straps on his arms, and looks at himself in the mirror.

Somehow the first thing Changbin notices is his bare face and wavy hair. Felix looks like a forest elf without makeup, but Changbin looks like a child. A scared child, especially with the messy curls hanging into his eyes. But he can’t do anything about that right now, so he forces himself to look down at the dress.

It’s not so bad. Maybe. It is weird to see a little black dress stretched over a built body like his. But at least it looks like he’s wearing it correctly. The off-shoulder neckline even gives him some nice cleavage, showing off about as much of his bosom as a low scoop-neck tank top would. He peers over his shoulder and finds that he seems to have positioned the open back properly. There’s a lot of skin showing, but Changbin is pleased that it actually displays his sculpted back quite nicely. Then he turns to the side and realizes that his whole gut is sticking out.

He turns forward again, only to discover that his belly is actually visible from the front as well. He hadn’t noticed before, but he can see the dimple of his belly button through the fabric and the curve where his lower belly pooch hangs down.

Changbin’s heart sinks. There’s no way he can let them see him in this. Looking weird and too masculine in the dress was bad enough, but looking fat too is just humiliating. Every inch of him is just as ugly as he knew it would be, and he should have known from the start that this would be a disaster.

There’s a knock on the door. “Binnie? How’s it going?”

“I can’t come out,” Changbin says, disheartened. “I look ugly, just like I told you I would.”

“If you don’t mind, hyung, we’d like to be the judges of that.”

Changbin hangs his head. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“Okay, but just come out so we can see what the issues are, and then we can look for something that’ll suit you better.”

Changbin sighs, sure that they’re going to keep needling him until he caves. He opens the door a crack and peeks out before nervously shuffling into the den.

He watches all the eyes on him widen as they travel over his body.

“Stand up straight, bun. Let us look at you properly.”

Changbin straightens his posture, awkwardly smoothing his hands over his hips to dry the nervous sweat on his palms. 

No one else says anything. They just stare.

Finally, Minho says, “baby, you look perfect.”

“Shut up,” Changbin mumbles.

“He’s right,” Jisung says. “It’s stunning.”

Changbin huffs. “You don’t have to lie. I know I look weird and fat.”

“You don’t,” Chan says. “Please believe me, Bin. You look so good.”

Changbin takes a handful of his gut. “But look, this dress doesn’t hide my belly at all.”

“You could put shapewear under it if you really wanted to,” Felix shrugs, “but you don’t need to hide your belly, hyung. It’s cute.”

“It suits your personality and the rest of your figure,” Seungmin says. “It’s perfect for you.”

“We like to know that our omega eats well,” Hyunjin adds. “Besides, being strong and soft is literally the sexiest thing you could be.”

Changbin’s ears warm as he takes in the praise. “You really think so?”

“Of course.”

“You look powerful and sexy.”

“So sexy.”

“Really?” Changbin asks.

“Come here and let me show you what I think.”

Changbin reluctantly steps forward, lets them pull him towards the pack bed. Suddenly all seven of them are surrounding him, their fingers scrabbling at the fabric of the dress, their hands running over the planes and curves of his body.

“It��s okay if you don’t feel totally comfortable in this, but think about what you want your next surprise to be,” Minho tells him, as he settles between Changbin’s legs. “Something cute in pastels, like Innie said? Something nice to wear to bed?” His hands run over Changbin’s knees, spreading them wider so that he can push closer. “We can take you shopping if you want. Pick you out all sorts of things.”

“I-I don’t know,” Changbin mumbles. His breath hitches as he feels Minho’s tongue on his inner thigh, as Minho’s perfect nose butts against the hem of the dress. 

Someone else is kissing down his neck, sucking along the slope of his trapezius. They pull the strap of the dress up so they can run their palm down the muscles in his arm. Changbin flexes on instinct and gets a moan in response.

“The weather’s getting warmer,” Seungmin says. “Maybe hyung would like a short skirt.”

A hand slides along his chest, reaching down to cup one of his bulging pecs. Fingers close around a fat nipple and Changbin shudders in pleasure.

“With a crop top,” Felix adds. “So we can see all this sweet belly pudge.”

Changbin starts to shake his head, then gasps when he feels someone biting his belly through the dress. “Ohhh,” he groans.

“Does my baby like that?” Seungmin purrs. “Can we finally rip this dress off you now?”

Changbin nods, hesitantly at first and then more insistent as Minho moves from kissing his thighs to nuzzling further between his legs.

Chan pulls the dress over his head, leaving Changbin fully naked.

“So pretty,” Jisung murmurs, spreading his palms over the expanse of Changbin’s back. “Don’t think anyone could be prettier than hyung.”

And Changbin thinks… he thinks maybe he could believe it too someday. Maybe the dress isn’t so bad after all. Maybe it’s enough to be pretty in his own way.

He even sort of thinks he likes the dress. Still, it’s no guarantee that other garments would suit him. He’s sure he wouldn’t have the range that Felix has to pull off so many different styles. But if the pack wants to keep trying, if they want to surprise him with gifts and make him feel pretty and wanted…

Changbin thinks he could live with that.

Then Minho takes him in his mouth, and Changbin’s mind goes blank.

[ducktracy]

HI just a quick followup on my last ask: I wholly agree with you!! I think the Bugs and Daffy shorts are good objectively (not my favorites, though, I’m biased towards the 40’s rabbit and duck as well) but I think after the run of Looney Tunes ended Daffy kind of got more and more portrayed as purely Bugs’s foil and still an unrepentant jerk even when not paired up with Bugs. It makes him feel like a Character With One Joke, and you see it all the time in post-Golden Age stuff.

As iconic as TLTS is, it’s a really bad example of this, making Daffy a callous jerk with no regard for anyone else and such a moronic failure that it’s a surprise he had the brains to hatch out of his egg.

And I think you CAN make Daffy a bit of an egocentric jerk and still have him be funny! Birth of a Notion (which PREDATES Rabbit Fire, for those who think his negative traits were birthed from it) is one of my favorite shorts and Daffy is lazy, deceptive, trigger-happy, but is still so chummy and charming that you can’t help but love him. For an even more brutal example, The Ducksters has Daffy be completely callous, but he still manages to be likable enough that you can still feel bad for him when the cartoon ends, because he’s just having so much fun the whole time. MORBID fun, he ABSOLUTELY gets what he deserves at the end, but fun nonetheless!

But when you have decades and decades of content after where Daffy’s only schtick is being ‘the angry and greedy one who always loses’, you lose the magic to his character. His charm. The reason Bugs and Daffy works in the first place, even!

I do not remember where I was going with this. But it’s something!

HONESTLY, the “Daffy as an unrepentant jerk” thing is something the actual golden age cartoons fall victim to! if you REALLY want to depress yourself, i invite you to watch the Speedy and Daffy cartoons. they actually helped me come to turn with Chuck Jones’ Duck and be less bitey towards him—there’s a difference between ego and lack of impulse control and just plain hatred. which, as you mentioned, have been some of his innate characteristics WAY further beyond Rabbit Fire. even some of the earliest Daffy shorts where he’s not all there yet. You Ought to Be in Pictures has been often propped up as a very apt example, but even as far back as 1939 in Daffy Duck and the Dinosaur, he paints a self portrait and says “not bad for a guy that never took a lesson in his life!”—the ego is there from day one! this may seem unremarkable, but that sort of self awareness is a genuinely groundbreaking development next to the Daffy cartoons Clampett was making at the same time, where Daffy genuinely seems to be locked in the throes of insanity and isn’t even half cognizant to his actual reality. and even in THOSE cartoons, he has an ego (he’s a general in Scalp Trouble! he’s a DICTATOR in What Price Porky!)

whereas in the Speedy and Daffy cartoons, you have plot lines that explicitly have characters saying “yeah Daffy hates poor people” (“how many times have i told you not to starve on my property” is a real quote from that short) or stories such as Daffy and Speedy are trapped on a deserted island and Daffy refuses to share any of the food with Speedy who barely asks for anything and has done LITERALLY NOTHING? i think Daffy even says something along the lines of “you can’t even speak English well” or something and it’s just like. jesus

BUT, i bring all that up because i think that is often conflated for what people understand Daffy to be. i do think some of Jones’ cartoons are guilty of Daffy becoming a bit one more—Ali-Baba Bunny is a great cartoon, but does feature a much more transparent “MINE MINE MINE” duck. and i again understand the transparency is half of the joke, but many adaptations take that transparency at face value. likewise, i’ve mentioned it many times before, but the Bugs and Daffy cartoons are written explicitly with Daffy in mind. he is the unequivocal star. in some of them, Bugs is just a means to an end, something to act off of and bounce off of. and as Daffy slowly grows more one dimensional over time, Bugs’ own passiveness doesn’t work as well—there isn’t enough given by Daffy to warrant that sidestepping. there needs to be more support. otherwise, Daffy is boiled down to his barest essentials, and those barest essentials are misconstrued and that’s how you end up with cartoons such as The Iceman Ducketh where Daffy IS HUNTING BUGS WITH A GUN! WITH AN ACTUAL INTENT TO KILL!!!!!! which wasn’t even his intent in the hunting trilogy with all his egging on Elmer. guns aren’t as big of a threat in those cartoons—the damage is temporary and comedic. Iceman Ducketh, Daffy is an actual, considerable threat and just seems like a complete misinterpretation of not only what makes the Bugs and Daffy dynamic click, but Daffy as a character.

I APPRECIATE YOUR THOUGHTS VERY MUCH ANON!! i echo the same sentiments. it seems so funny to say this over a cartoon duck who most people remember for funny catchphrases and drawings (as they should, but maybe ties back to what we’re talking about), but he genuinely is such a complex character and one of the most varied, and that i think prompts a lot of nuances to be missed OR misinterpreted. there’s a way to keep his greedy, bitter, egotistical tendencies in line and still have him be likable and charming. His Bitter Half is one of my favorites and a cartoon that i’d wage as one of the funniest Daffy shorts around, and he’s a complete jerk in that one!! the short starts with him acknowledging and saying he’s just marrying a woman for her money!!! who calls a kid “cute like a stomach pump”?? but, likewise, who even THINKS TO SAY “cute like a stomach pump”? that sort of specific little “quirk” is something that is so lacking in his aforementioned appearances of transparency.

HAHA sorry it took me so long to get around to this, but thank you for giving me a chance to blab about the duck some more!

[not-goldy]

The utter relief and appreciation on jimin’s face when hobi/yoongi showed up while he was doing those shows will always get to me🥲 poor baby was literally shaking. I’m so glad hobi was around during face era. Jimin needs a friend like him who would show up to these important moments in his life. Yes the members show their love and support differently but being physically present for a member is how jimin shows his support so obviously when someone does the same for him you could see how appreciative he is. Idk why I’m sending this lol. Anyways I’m sure he would’ve attended if he was free!

Hmmmmmmmm

Points have been made.

This conversation is much nuanced and complex than we are treating it. But let's just keep it simple for now:

We love the way we want to be loved. True- but wouldn't that suppose Jungkook is loving these people the way he wants to be loved too?💀

He is giving less and involving himself less perhaps because he wants less involvement in his life as well????

Recently my gf and I came to the realization that we both have different needs and different understanding of what it means to love and be be loved.

We've been trying to work things out but one thing I uncovered is, a person who's experienced so much control, overprotectiveness and emotional manipulation growing up tends to shy away and view love expressions as smothering attempts to manipulate and control them.

As such, they value independence in relationship, less emotional involvement and freedom to do as they please and to them that would be fulfilling.

While, persons like me who experienced parental neglect and abandonment growing up crave nothing but closeness and perhaps excessive emotional intimacy.

Thus I value communication more than anything, I value emotional closeness, consistency, transparency stability and assurance I won't be abandoned.

We are all aying out our traumas and trying to heal them in ways we've come to understand as love requirements.

To the person who's controlled and overproted all his life love feels like setting them free, allowing them to be their own persons, not telling them what to do with their lives, respecting their space and privacy. They understand this as love because it's all they craved and told themselves one who loves them would do for them.

Others think the opposite- if you love me you won't want to stay so far away, you will be close, you won't neglect me.

We all have different emotional needs. Each of which is valid.

Jimin and Jungkook have unique emotional needs. It doesn't make one an asshole and the other a victim.

Jimin may be construing his acts of showing up for people, being loyal, and expressive as love because sure that's what he might want or need too.

And I know Jungkook loooooves this about him- but I also think it gets too much for him. You can't keep pouring into a cup that's full.

Love is understanding what your partner needs and fulfilling that for them. You don't charge into their lives like a wrecking ball.

And we want good men- Hobi and Jimin do posture as good men.... ideal even.

It would be so easy to ship them if they had the hots for eachother no?

I think Hobi is equally hot 🥵

We sleep on him in this Fandom

Physical support breeds a sense of security and safety .

Unfortunately if that is not your love language it might mean absolutely nothing to you.

Perhaps let's pay more attention to the way Jimin feels loved by Jungkook rather than the ways we think he ought to be loved.

Cos Jimin must be a real masochist to keep Jungkook on a pedestal if that man is nothing but shitty towards him. I mean how damaged is that!

[dballzposting]

If you watch DBZ then you see that like...

We See Ttunks and Goten separately before we see them interact.

TRUNKS: He is a lively kid. He is excited to see Gohan, and thinks very highly of him. He did think that the Saiyaman outfit was cringe however. He trains with his dad. He seems to have fun being himself. He seems happy and confident.

GOTEN: ough god hes sofunny. He is VERY energetic and very loving. Partly due to age and partly due to who his father is, he is pretty thick-skulled. Definitely naive. Not a pushover, holds his own, but he does defer to Gohan's direction, trusting dearly.

GOTEN & TFUNKS INTEEACTING: immediatly we see something change in Trunks. Goten is the same but Trunks changes. I think it's becasue the expectation of the tournament changes him, hes in public, hes wearing a certain face, etc - but when he was informed that he had to fight in the Junior Division, his voice dropped an octave and he says to Goten smth to the effect of "you hear that Goten? What a load of barnicals."

It makes sense given who Trunks's parents are that he knows how to trash talk in a fight. It also makes sense that Goten didn't know what he was hearing when Trunks was spitting shit with that blond-mullet kid.

Trunks isnt even that particularly arrogant, but hes defintiely a kid who is behaving how he thinks he ought to, I.E. doing the best with what has been modeled for him.

Bless his heart - he didnt even know enough to know to go easy on Mr Satan. No one fucking tells this kid anything.

Goten has no tact or finesse. His father is a genius when it comes to battle, though he had his sloppy moments as a youth - but even accounting for that, Goten isnt the prodigy that Goku was. Unlike Goku, Goten has genuine hobbies and interests other than fighting, so he just cant dedicate all of his soul to that.

And he just lacks tact and finesse. It's becasue he's 7 but to be honest he is 100% DEFINITELY EXACTLY LIKE THAT in DBGT as well.

Goten shoots that kamehame-ha and destroys a bit of the building. Meanwhile Trunks has the foresight to Not blow up the audience with his ki blast. He also had the good sense to suggest that they stop using ki blasts. Trunks has received good training. Meanwhile Goten is out here just going for it

Trunks has a set of inner rules that hes following: he has guardrails: he has a sense of order, he understands where he is in a hierarchy, his spirit is being tamed.

His inner rules are things like: keep it cool, dont let them see you sweat, listen to your parents, have discipline and control in battle, stay resilient, stay prideful, WIN HARD, keep it cool, do what you're supposed to do; the rules for the regular folk dont apply to you becasue you're cooler; do well by yourself, earn your keep, earn your pride, be sneaky and dont get caught.

Meanwhile Goten's inner rules are more like: BE POLITE, mind your manners, always stand back up, be fair, listen to what Gohan says, live and let live, be nice to everyone unless they're mean to you, dont hesitate to defend yourself when you feel slighted.

Goten's rules foster more self-direction and intuition, whereas I feel like Trunks's rules get him all shaken up in the long run. They're less in-the-present-reality based.

When Goten walked out into the arena, he was amazed at how many people there were. Every time he won, he was bashful, and gave a bow.

When Trunks entered the tournament grounds, he slung his bag over his shoulder and walked like his father. He kept his arms crossed against all the other contestants, feeling slighted at having been placed in the junior division to begin with.

Trunks really felt that he deserved better than the Junior Division, and he wasnt wrong at all; but the fact that he saw that, felt that way, and acted on it says a lot about the sorts of values that hes growing up with.

I feel like if it was just Goten, he would have accepted that and had fun.

When Trunks gets to be with just Goten, he becomes a lot more spontaneous, eager, and happy. But he changes when the eyes are on him. At the same time, hes used to people, living in the city and being rich and all. I guess that's why he knows how to behave around them. Or maybe hes just shy like his dad.

Goten didnt know how to act in front of all those people, so he just acted like himself..

But also, Trunks isnt perfectly natural around Goten, becasue he does like to be better than him. Becasue he expects it. Becasue he ought to be. Becasue his dad tells him so. Or, rather, implies it.

BUT when Gohan asked Goten how strong Trunks was, Goten sang his praises and said that he won Every Time. But when Vegeta asked Trunks how strong Goten was, Trunks gave a modest answer, and said that they were pretty well-matched, and he explains their discrepancy likely being due to just age.

IDK. These details fascinated me two years ago when I first saw it and I still like it. It's a good show....

[greasegotahold]

Don't think about how Darry's anger comes from how intensely he values Pony's life.

Don't think about how precious Pony is to Darry, and how fragile his life must seem to Darry after the death of their parents.

Don't think about how it's been 8 months since Darry had to really truly bury his dream of one day going to college, how badly he needs Pony to move up, for his brother and for himself.

Don't think about how if Darry had to shift his entire approach to Pony in under 24 hours, and maintain it for 8 months, he might be expecting, without realizing it, that Ponyboy ought to have shifted his entire approach to his own existence because why the fuck can't he see how much it matters to preserve himself?

Don't think about how the first thing Darry sees at the start of the book is Pony, who just turned 14 last month, jumped and bleeding.

Don't think about how Darry knows he could have gone with him. Don't think about how Darry knows their relationship has been so disrupted that of course Pony wouldn't call him.

Don't think about Darry grasping at things Pony "should have" done that he knows deep down would only have worsened the situation.

Don't think about how the narration, being from Pony's POV, glosses over the constant disregard Pony shows for his own safety, be it from adolescent folly or trauma response.

Don't think about how terrifying Pony's self disregard would be for any guardian, but especially a 20 year old brother who's been a guardian for less than a year, and who cannot be there to support him.

Don't think about how fucking late 2:00 am is for a 14 year old to come home, especially when Two Bit's been home after coming from the same place.

Don't think about Darry realizing in an instant how badly he crossed the line with his slap. How he fell back on the comments he was just ranting at Pony for using.

Don't think about Darry being met with police at his door the next day; the likelihood he initially assumed they were there to report another death in his family.

Don't think about Darry losing sleep for weeks waiting for a call from or about Pony. Don't think about Darry still having his roofing job while sleep deprived.

Don't think about Darry finally getting his baby back after said baby ran into a burning building.

Don't think about how Darry seemingly doesn't know about Pony's painkiller tolerance bordering on overdose.

Don't think about Darry being faced with Pony yet again wanting to put himself in danger, but this time Darry is there too. Don't think about how on the one hand that's better bc he can step in; on the other, if Pony's hurt it really is all on him.

Don't think about how the time we really see Pony and Darry at their closest in the story is when Pony is bedbound and semi-dissociative.

Don't think about how in the book Darry only learns what happened That Night after Pony ran out from Randy's testimony as Pony isn't fit to give his account.

Don't think about if Two Bit mentioned the incident of Pony breaking a bottle to threaten some socs

Don't think of Darry going from wanting Pony to carry a weapon to fearing Pony falling into those bad habits.

Don't think about how Darry and Pony are really so very alike in their academics and their athletic proficiency. Don't think about how neither of them acknowledge how Soda must feel left out between their shared "potential".

Don't think about Darry not realizing he needed to shift his relationship with Soda, too, until Soda finally broke.

Don't think about how Darry ran after Soda; don't think about how he didn't initially run after Pony.

Don't think about how running after Soda happened because he didn't run after Pony and look what happened.

Don't think about Darry likely worrying that Pony takes running after Soda as proof Darry loves their middle brother more