#paranoid reading

[victoriadallonfan]

I know I’m like half a year late to recommend it, but The Sin Squad just put out a great video on how difficult it can be to find actual dog whistles and problematic material in fiction versus paranoid reading (aka gearing yourself up to find a reading to such things where they might not be intended)

I recommend it for everyone to at least give it a few minutes if your time because it’s some solid work and high quality analysis!

[burningvelvet]

on cancel culture, tumblr, lit crit shit, paranoid reading, and some observations on blogging about byron & the shelleys —

every day someone comments on one of my posts about old dead writers with the most insufferable and reactionary takes disguised under a veil of liberalism. go read eve sedgwick's essay on paranoid reading & reparative reading, and learn how to enjoy things!!! why are you trying to cancel people who died 200 years ago? stop!!!

9/10 times they've never read the writer in question, they just hear that these writers were problematic and without using their own critical thinking skills, and having done zero research, they readily condemn them. no real appreciation for literature, no real appreciation for history or culture. and if they do have these, or if they have done research, it's entirely biased, already marked with judgement (aka exemplary paranoid reading).

i think it's very interesting that percy shelley and lord byron were getting cancelled in their own time period left and right, and now they still face cancellation attempts for some of the same reasons, only now more often at the hands of self-described progressives who feel they do so for the "right reasons."

a major problem in discourse (both in and outside of academia) is that most people do not understand the difference between "criticism" in the academic sense (which is synonymous with "discussion," "analysis," "engagement") and "criticism" in the colloquial sense (synonymous with "condemnation" or "harsh judgement" or even sometimes "attacking").

so when we start talking about literary criticism, some misinformed people automatically seek to cancel every dead writer, burn every book, and disregard all of history, even the progressive bits, because they simply don't care, and think that they are being "critical" and that this is a good thing, when they are using the wrong definition of the term to begin with. if i taught a class on literature the first thing i would do is make the distinction between these two definitions.

a lot of people approach dead writers or old writing in bad faith (paranoid reading). they automatically denounce The Olds for being problematic, and then proceed to believe they are morally superior for their own lack of depth.

percy shelley is one of the most progressive and forward-thinking figures of his generation and it's honestly a miracle that we still have access to some of his works which were literally burned in his own lifetime, but that his friends and most importantly his best friend, his wife mary shelley, carefully preserved during his life and long after his death even in the face of social ruin and censure, because they recognized his immense merit and they desperately loved him and his work. this is a beautiful thing!!!

this isn't the narrative a lot of people prefer, though. a lot of people would have mary shelley, instead of being the publisher and defender of his works as she was, be forced into the role which she herself openly derided, of being percy's unwilling bride, victim, who merely tolerated him, who was herself either repressed or oppressed by him. nor is nuance allowed in this narrative.

this narrative is based on a reactionary stance disguised as progressive. that all women writers are mere victims to the men around them. nevermind the fact that mary shelley's husband was one of her biggest encouragers (as well as her trusted proofreader and editor; and all this also goes for her father godwin, but to a lesser extent, as one could more easily make the argument that godwin did emotionally neglect mary).

paint all male writers as abusive control freaks, and all female writers associated with them as their weak-willed puppets, all based on their biological sex and a surface-level analysis of their biographies. these people are arguably just as bad as the sexist pseudo-scholars who have claimed that percy actually penned the entirety of frankenstein and used mary as his puppeteered pseudonym. as if mary never sought agency of her own and never possessed a modicum of it!

for a fair analysis on percy and mary's connection, i highly recommend Anna Mercer's "The Collaborative Literary Relationship of Percy Bysshe Shelley and Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley" and her interview by Mathelinda Nabugodi for a TLDR version.

i find it interesting that my posts about percy shelley's personal life are not only much more popular than my similar posts about byron (probably due to percy's surname; the mary/frankenstein connection) -- but also that i see way more criticism against percy than against byron.

i think this is partly due to their portrayals in the ahistorical 2018 mary shelley biopic film (see: graham henderson's blog posts on this topic) wherein byron was somehow portrayed as less of an asshole than shelley (which i never would have thought possible had i not seen it). & maybe it has to do with interest in & misconceptions about mary in general. but this is surprising because in many regards, percy really is much more likeable and progressive than byron.

i once had a person hating on byron and trying to argue with me entirely under a post about percy shelley which had nothing to do with byron. whenever i try to critically engage with this sort of backlash on my posts, it is utterly pointless. none of them are interested in or respectful of the opinions of others, nor are they receptive to facts or nuance or engaging with any material in any mature or serious way.

it's especially difficult that they mostly comment on my more popular joking posts/memes, bc that sets up a false pretense for me or my blog to be taken unseriously, when i do take academic figures & topics seriously. my blog is a place for me to unwind and joke about literature, yes, but it's not like i'm just mindlessly joking about writers i've never studied. a lot of people assume that i'm genuinely ridiculing writers when i playfully make fun of them, so they take it as an invitation to do the same, when that's not my case at all.

— back to the percy/byron comparison: in the history of my blog posts, i've seen probably 30+ percy haters and maybe 5 byron haters. as i said, this is honestly bewildering. there are way more justifiable reasons for hating byron than there are for hating shelley.

if we're speaking solely in terms of political, creative, & ideological stances between the two, (and there are hundreds of books/essays comparing their lives/works/philosophies,) i agree and disagree with both of them on various topics. they're both extremely complex writers/thinkers/figures and very different people, despite having been friends.

but if i'm comparing them biographically speaking, if i had to let one of them babysit my children, i would choose percy 10/10 times. if i had to live with one of them, i would choose percy most of the time, although either of them would be tough as a roommate for different reasons.

but overall, percy was a bit more decent biographically speaking, though that doesn't make him a superior writer (percy himself wrote numerous times that he felt byron was creatively superior to him, but morally inferior). and i think most people who've researched the two would agree that percy is the more moral poet by most standards.

for these and many other reasons, it seems apparent to me that the majority of people who hate percy are often parroting the rhetoric of others & not actually thinking for themselves -- which mary endlessly wrote that she despised, as she devoted so much of her time and energy to defending her husband's moral character from critics, so it's especially disappointing that most of the anti-percy sentiment comes from mary shelley fans, who don't even realize how much effort she put into publishing his work and transcribing it as his pre- and posthumous amanuensis.

[hinamie]

"I'll show you every day that choosing to live was worth it"

some of my favourite scenes from @hijinks-n-lowjinks' fic things i would miss from the other side . this fic tore my heart out fr but like in a good way and i wanted to pay it homage the only way i know how <3

[thatfantasylovingdork]

This is a really interesting article that reminds me a lot of the cancel culture and purity culture I see sometimes online.

[lurukifennecfox]

Gotham was welcoming of Amity Parkers.

not as loving as with her own but she was way more patient with the people of her friend that any other outsiders.

so the people of Amity those Liminal and aware of her tried to pay her kindness back, to a reasonable degree of course but they could help and she let them stay so they did.

Paulina took it upon herself to make a nice place in the fashion district, she sold some charms to help with the curses as much as she could.

Sam being Sam opened a surprisingly Ivy Approved community garden and was very hard to convince not to join the Eco-terrorist but they managed to, thankfully.

the Fentons designed filters to help the 'Parkers but it was good for the city too if too little to do much.

Val hadn't moved here (yet) but she visited often enough and each visit volunteered somewhere.

Gotham grown to adore them almost as their own, she even hid them from the bats for a while to let them settle (and maybe help her more before her Knight inevitably got paranoid)

Gotham laughed when her King stumbled into her Red Knight, you could hear it in subtle ways the sounds of the night flowed just a little too much like a giggle.

Hood did deserve more good things she's proud of herself!

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Danny was...unnerved, which is unusual considering his upbringing as the child of mad scientists obsessed with the undead.

It had been a few weeks since he had moved into Wayne manor after a conflict between batman and his parents, which led to his home and his friends and family being blown up in a lab malfunction. Most of Amity Park was destroyed in the blasts, including Vlad and his mansion.

Usually Danny would be more suspicious of super rich dudes, but the sorrow in Bruce Wayne's eyes as he pleaded to let Danny take him in was genuine and well, Danny didn't exactly have anywhere else to go. Plus, Bruce looked weirdly guilty when danny told him none of this was his fault, which was weird. Jazz was in college and always looked exhausted on video calls, so he didn't want to bother her there.

The part that bothered him most wasn't that there was anything dangerous or bad happening, but rather the opposite.

Danny was used to dodging his home security system when it randomly targeted him. He was used to ghosts popping up out of nowhere to suckerpunch him. He was used to danger.

And now that there was none, he was jumping at shadows.

Things got better when he met Psaro. He was in the process of being either mugged or kidnapped, he wasn't sure, when this angry goth teen with silver hair and ruby eyes literally came in swinging a steel chair. After the beat down and subsequent rescue, Danny offered to buy them some food. Psaro tried to reject the offer until his stomach suddenly growled, making him blush, and Danny dragged the older goth teen to a restaurant.

They've been best friends since. Psaro later introduced him to his friends Rose and Toilen, explaining that they weren't from this world and that Rose was an elf and Toilen was a Teran from a planet called Terrestria. Danny assumed that Psaro was an elf like Rose due to them both having long pointed ears and mostly focused on Toilen thanks to the "other planet" bit.

Meanwhile, the bats have been keeping an eye out on Danny (aka stalking him) and his new, obviously magical friends.

[kiwifie]

I want to eat with you again forever.

[silverskye13]

"I feel crazy," Helsknight said.

Tanguish blinked, the sound of Helsknight's voice pulling him awake when he was just on the teetering edge of sleep. His thoughts had started taking on the fluid, picture-like quality of half-dreams, all over-bright and surreal. The inside of the kitchen, the overhead lights, but in primary colors and tilting shapes. He hadn't even realized he was so close to sleep until Helsknight was speaking. Then Tanguish's eyes were open, and the world was decidedly more mundane.

Tanguish shifted, humming tunelessly, a filler for thoughts he was having trouble forming. At length he asked, "Crazy?"

Helsknight sighed. Tanguish heard it as a deep, hollow huff of air pressed against his ear, lungs filling. Helsknight had collapsed onto the couch, arms around the arm rest, head pillowed over the side. It had been a long day, and he had been tired, and Tanguish had collapsed on top of him, a forming habit. The cold of Tanguish's ice soothed Helsknight's feverish skin, soothed him restful, and Tanguish found the sound of the knight's heartbeat and the hand that occasionally stroked his hair twin comforts.

"Today I was fine," Helsknight said, blinking up at the ceiling. "I was strong, fit, and healthy. My hands didn't shake. My breaths were easy. My thoughts were mine. It was a good day."

Helsknight didn't frown exactly. His eyes were closed, and the scars on his face were pale traces that made the sharp plane of his cheekbone more obvious, and turned his eyebrow into odd segments. Those scars pulled together slightly as his eyebrows drew closer, a line creasing between them. Not a frown exactly, but something that wandered the same avenues of expression.

"It's like last week never happened."

Helsknight opened his eyes and blinked at the ceiling. He repeated, "I feel crazy."

"Life is good days and bad days," Tanguish said gently, treading his way carefully into the conversation. He rested his chin in the center of Helsknight's chest and gave another tuneless hum, something that rattled in his throat almost like a purr. He hoped it was soothing. "I'm glad you're feeling better."

"It feels shameful," Helsknight said, that furrow in his brow deepening, taking on the contours of a proper scowl. "Like I made a big deal out of nothing."

"You believed it was bad enough at the time," Tanguish offered, a reuse of the knight's own words, his oaths about lying. I believed it was true at the time, so no tenet was broken; no sin committed. "I could tell you were hurting."

"I was hurting," Helsknight agreed and sighed again, his eyes closing. "But I should have handled it better."

"Would you begrudge someone their fears over a broken arm, just because in a few months it's healed?"

"It hasn't been a few months. It's been days."

"Time heals needs differently?"

"Tanguish."

"I don't see any logic in these thoughts, Helsknight," Tanguish said gently, letting out another tuneless purr. "Chasing them, I mean. You were hurting, and it knocked you off your feet. You're better now, so today, you were back on them. And it was a good day."

"It was a good day," Helsknight agreed quietly.

"Enjoy it while you have it," Tanguish whispered. He waited patiently for Helsknight to respond, and when he didn't, added a very quiet, "Please?"

Helsknight sighed again. His hand moved to comb through Tanguish's hair with sword-calloused fingers. The touch was warm and gentle, and heavy with weariness.

"I worry about the next bad day," Helsknight said. "It will come again."

"Worry about it when it gets here."

"If I'm not ready and it knocks me off my feet again, what then?"

"Life isn't a siege, knight," Tanguish reminded him. "You don't survive it behind walls and moats."

"But I wouldn't wound anyone else."

"You didn't wound me. You didn't wound anyone." Tanguish tilted his head slightly. "You maybe wounded your own pride?"

The crease between Helsknight's eyes turned into a frown, with wrinkled nose and curled lip, baring half a flash of white teeth.

"It shouldn't hurt your pride to have bad days," Tanguish purred. "It only means you're human like the rest of us."

"I wish I wasn't, sometimes."

"Is it so terrible that I'm human?"

"No."

"And Martyn and EB?"

"Tanguish."

"Join us on the ground," Tanguish told him light-heartedly. "That pedestal looks uncomfortable."

Helsknight passed his hand through Tanguish's hair again, teasing its way through a tangle. Together, they lay on the couch and matched their breathing. The house was quiet and still, and Tanguish was warm and safe. He felt himself teetering again, eyes drooping. A feeling like tilting, and edge to fall over, a world of comfortable dreams opening up over the side. He knew if he opened his eyes again, the feeling would vanish, as would the strange colors and shapes of half-dreams. Ghosts and mists that slipped from remembered thought the moment they were no longer felt, so soft and surreal, they might not exist at all. In the morning, he might not even remember how they felt, only that they passed him over, a vague impression of memory.

"I will try," Helsknight said.

And they slept.

[the-magpie-archives]

People will really say "Jonathan Sims is a good guy!" or "Jonathan Sims is a bad person!" as if a prominent message of his character arc wasn't that no matter who you are, what you do, or how you behave your actions can cause harm or good without intention, and baselessly assigning morals to people who aren't deliberately causing harm is pointless because our view of them is more about how they affect us than how they actually are.

For better or worse, everyone is just a person. We're all both not at fault and entirely to blame.

[passionpeachy]

Wait did you really meet a hot butch on tumblr who likes you back??? We need to know there is hope for the rest of us lmao

here's the crazy thing: they actually reached out to me through dms first because they really liked my art and thought I was cute because of my selfies and usually I'd never give my discord to someone I wasn't extremely familiar with, but they gave me such sweet sincere vibes and I was extremely attracted to their tattoos so I just took a chance and.....yeah. they're genuinely so heart-achingly sweet to me, they comfort me through my nightmares and call me "Azulito" . I'm trying to not get too swept up since we've known eachother for such a short time, but it feels like I'm in a fairytale tbh

[bread-wizards]

I think that Orym actually does doubt Imogen, but this isn't a thing that is unique to Imogen. Orym doubts all of them to an extent, because paranoia is something he struggles with (and this is continuously reinforced by the story).

It's not a 'good' thing that he should never get over, nor is it an immoral character flaw that proves he actually hates Imogen. However it's also not something I think he can get over as long as the threat of having to possibly fight his friends exists.

"I have all the faith in the world in you guys, all of you. And I have also spent time thinking how to neutralize each of you."

[thirdeyeblue]

“Nine would have treated Martha better than Ten did”

I need to talk about this argument that never seems to stop circulating.

Note: Not a venomous/anti post. There’s more than enough of that across fandom spaces as is, and this is supposed to be a place for ✨sweet, blissful escapism✨

When making this argument, people seem to envision a scenario in which Nine never met Rose.

While I can appreciate a good hypothetical, recognizing Rose's significance to the Doctor (Nine and Ten) is essential to understanding why things with Martha played out the way they did in the first place.

In the third series, the Doctor is grieving. This grief is deliberately threaded into nearly every script, whether spoken aloud or not (and these are just a few examples):

He's burning in Rose’s wake the entire time Martha travels with him, which is why it’s so frequently called upon: It’s 100% deliberate in framing his grief. He grieved as Nine too, of course— having been fresh on the heels of the Time War — but then he met Rose, which changed everything.

Back then, he was still a rude, traumatized pain in the ass, but we watch Rose soften more of those jagged edges with every episode as they grow closer; as he lets his guard down and forms a deep connection with her.

He falls in love (against his better judgment) and it's game over.

And yes: provided S1E1 had been titled 'Martha', one can realistically assume things might have unfolded similarly to how they did with Rose. However, it wouldn’t have been that way just because the Doctor was Nine and “Nine was different” — it would be because he wasn’t already in love with someone else. The same can't be said for the start of S3.

Think of it like this: if Rose AND Martha had been in that cellar — if Nine had taken both of them along with him in S1 — we’d eventually be looking at the most melodramatic love triangle ever, what with him living in close quarters with two brilliant, gorgeous, compassionate young women... But Doctor Who is plenty “soap opera” as is with just one woman in the TARDIS.

(I certainly wouldn’t object to reading that fic, though)

Now, regarding the unrequited elephant in the room…

His inability to be romantic with Martha isn’t because he thinks her lesser, nor is it for lack of compatibility. It isn't because Rose is any better than her. It certainly isn’t just because he’s Ten.

It’s really only for one reason, which can't be denied — and now I’m a broken record:

He is still in love with Rose.

(cut from a tenrosedaily gif)

Nine is Ten, and Ten is only such a mess in S3 because he’s just lost the love of his life. Martha merely got caught in the crosshairs of a volatile Time Lord in mourning, and yes — it sucks. Absolutely.

But it also feels dismissive to chalk Ten and Martha’s relationship up to little more than some sort of mindless dance of pining, jealousy, and toxicity.

Ten trusted Martha with his life over and over again — and hers, with him. He constantly praised her brilliance, happily carting her around time and space with no intention of letting her go. In the BBC’s extended universe of novels/comics/cartoons/etc, there’s so much depth to their relationship: love and trust and trauma and sacrifice. They had their own special bond as mates, their own complexities — so it’s a bummer that it's forever overshadowed by the other things.

I’m not denying that there was a lot of stuff that sucked/was for sure toxic about Ten's S3 behavior, but so many of the things I've seen him catching flak for can be directly attributed to being A Clueless Fucking Alien Idiot (not a trait that’s unique to Ten) — as well as his flat-out obliviousness to Martha’s feelings.

So yes, I agree: if Rose never existed, he would have treated Martha differently as Nine. He also would have treated her differently as Ten. Certainly.

But Rose did exist, and when discussing canon, it matters.

“He tells me that he absolutely, 100% loves Rose... He tells me how my daughter; my wonderful, beautiful, clever little girl saved him from himself before… And he says that’s all because of me! I made her into the Rose Tyler that saved him.”

-Jackie Tyler, Flight Into Hull!

Martha got the short end of the stick in S3. She came round at the wrong place and time, but that doesn't mean it was all bad. It doesn't mean the Doctor didn’t adore her. It certainly doesn't mean the time they spent together was wasted or worthless. They were brilliant!

Sure, he could be a twat, but let it be known that he was a twat with Rose as well, both as Nine and Ten. I’m sure Tentoo can be plenty infuriating, too. So while I'll defend Ten (and Tentoo) into the ground forever and ever and ever, I'll concede that he's fucked up.

The Doctor is a certified Pain In The Ass. It’s one of the things I love so much about this character — dynamics.

But never forget that Martha was goddamn tough as nails and overcame every bit of it. She moved on with her life, and the Doctor moved on with his. One can only pray that, when they inevitably drag her back onto the show (which feels inevitable if I'm honest), we see at once that she's been living her best life for all these years.

[fleetn-crab85]

In honor of towel day, I happily present The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy as textposts part eleven!

Some of these formatted strangely so click for better quality!

Previous Installments: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11

[neverpathia]

okay guys

so this is for a kinda art trade with @everestgale as i've said before i think

but like

i actually have no idea how well i did on this piece tbh. not one of my best works. but whatever, it's here now. yay.

-- -- -- -- --

He was there. And he was also there. And he was there, and there, and there.

Too many incarnations, scattered across too many lifetimes. Littered with too many wrong choices, wasted chances, horrible consequences, painful deaths. Too much pain, too many scars, borne by himself as well as everyone else. Physical. Emotional. Everywhere—

"Hero?" He was shaken out of his stupor by the voice of a companion. The Paranoid. Yes, the Hero was in the infirmary right now. Okay. Right.

Hero looked up from where he sat on the windowsill and blinked.

The afternoon sun-rays fell about him, surrounding Hero with daylight. His sword lay against the wall, propped on the floor beside him. Across from his seat, Paranoid was hunched over a cluttered workbench, tinkering with herbs and concoctions.

She turned abruptly as she shot Hero a concerned glance. "You spaced out for a second."

"Uh..." Hero clutched at the curtain. "Nope. Carry on with whatever you were doing."

Paranoid shook her head and muttered something that sounded an awful lot like "Idiot."

"What?" Hero tried to look as innocent as he could muster.

Paranoid went back to her work, but she only partially turned her attention away from Hero. "You're not convincing me."

"You're only being...paranoid." He offered her an awkward grin.

Paranoid rolled her eyes as she poured some sort of mixture into an uncorked vial. "Fine, I'll trust you. Only a little. For now."

I'll trust you. And from Paranoid, of all people. Hero wanted to laugh.

Hero leaned back against the glass panes. They were warm, almost scalding. He observed Paranoid as she worked, her slender frame bent over the desk in concentration. The apothecary's gloved hands moved to and fro, passing between her crammed shelves and teetering beakers, calculated and frantic. Shaky. Unstable.

She had become like that because of Hero. Of what he had failed to prevent. And then the memories came again: a flickering figure, a porcelain mask, gloved hands and unblinking eyes. That was one of them, only one of the many...

His fault. Another fault. And another mistake, another, another. It could've been averted every single time. But it wasn't. It all swirled around him, amidst him, each sight and step and sound a new reminder. Nails and heels. Claws and fangs. He was only a false Hero, one who tried to save everything but only doomed and doomed and—

"Breathe. You need to breathe."

Memory faded. Presence returned. Paranoid had left her workbench and now crouched some distance from Hero, leaning as a doctor would by a patient's bedside, yet just a bit too far from reach.

"What..." Hero shook his head, somewhat dazed. He noticed a bit of shattered glass on the floor, with what used to be its contents spilling across the table.

Shit.

"Uh." Hero gestured to the mess. "Someone should go clean that-"

"You were hyperventilating." Paranoid's gaze darted back and forth, as if she couldn't decide if eye contact would be okay. She stared with wide, nervous eyes. Her stance was tense.

Hero shifted on the windowsill, sheepish. "Sorry about that."

"You-" Paranoid fidgeted hard with the hem of her own tattered cloak, twisting and squeezing. "Don't apologise. That can't be okay. You're thinking of something. First you were spaced out, and lost in your head, and then after a while you zoned out again."

Hero sighed. "Nothing's wrong. It's just...been a long day."

"And I'm not buying that. Something's wrong, alright."

Hero looked away. "We don't need to talk about it, at least not right now."

Paranoid paused. She clawed feverishly at the cloak before instantly, abruptly, letting go.

And she gave a sudden laugh, nervous and pained. "Hahaha. That's what I say. That- that's what I always say. Don't think about it. Not now, not ever. Just don't. Just don't."

Then her smile faded. "But then it doesn't go away. It comes back and it just stays there. Nagging. Insistent. Worse. So don't give me that shit, Hero, and just tell me."

Hero hesitated. "I don't know about that." He really didn't want to think about it, and he definitely didn't want to bother Paranoid any longer.

Paranoid rolled her eyes. "You do realise that not telling me is just going to make me worry about you more, right?"

Hero was silent for another moment. How stupid of him. To have this breakdown here, in the same room as a friend, as if Paranoid would simply have allowed herself to ignore it. To be led along the same train of thought as ever.

Paranoid sighed. "I could say that I care about you, but that's just going to make it worse, isn't it?"

Hero tried for a smile. "No, it wouldn't."

Paranoid buried her face in her hands. "Oh, for fuck's sake..."

Hero considered for a moment. They were close, after all. How much would Paranoid mind if he confided?

Actually, he didn't want to know.

Paranoid began to fidget again. "Okay. Let's look at this another way. Let's say I'm the one panicking—fuck, I'm always the one panicking—and you were watching it happen. Wouldn't you ask me to tell you what I'm feeling? Wouldn't you try to comfort me?"

Hero avoided looking at her. "I don't know," he admitted. "It's different. I'm supposed to be the one who's okay."

Paranoid facepalmed. "I- ...Fine. Let's just say I care for you. I really do."

Hero didn't meet her eyes. "I know."

"You probably feel like a burden right now. I promise you're not! Really. Doesn't it hurt? Isn't it hard, keeping all that to yourself, locking it all up? Tell someone. Tell me. It would help."

Hero did not respond.

"And I wish I did know, even if you don't. Just...please tell me. If you can."

Silence at first. Then, finally, Hero spoke. "I'm just so tired."

Paranoid didn't interrupt. She only tilted her head ever so slightly as she let him go on; as she simply listened.

"It's like I'm a liar. A fraud." It came slow at first. The words were forced out. But as soon as Hero had said them, it was like something had burst, and it just needed to be released.

"A hero. That's what you all call me. That's supposed to be my name, who I am." Hero looked down at his hands, at all the faint yet present scars criss-crossing across them. "But what kind of hero am I if I can't save anyone? You know the past. I was there with the Decider, with all of you, every single time. And I could have said something. I could have taken control. I could have...done anything."

Tears began to well up at the corners of Hero's eyes. He looked up, desperate to prevent them from flowing down. "Look at everyone. Look at you. You and Broken and Hunted and Cheated and even Contrarian. You're all so hurt. And if I had just done the right things, you wouldn't even be like this. But I didn't. I...let you become like this.

"And I said things. I turned the Princess into this, into that, into everything at once. It never stopped, never stops now. It's there all the time. Too many memories. I don't want it anymore. I just want to forget. I just want to forget."

He couldn't stop the tears from coming. They broke away. They rolled down. They fell onto his legs. Onto the windowsill. Onto the ground. Little splatters, unguarded, unrestrained; like everything he had never done.

Paranoid's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. And she nodded. And she didn't look away, but she didn't look ahead either; she simply stared in his general direction without staring at him.

She was listening. He was relieved. He was concerned. He was too fatigued to care.

"Can you tell me I'm okay?" Hero asked. "It's...going to be fine, right?"

"No." Paranoid kept her voice soft. "This isn't something logical. I can tell you a million things you did right but it still wouldn't be enough."

Hero gave a weak smile. "Just tell me anyway. It might help, I don't know."

She barely hesitated before speaking. "You've been here since the start. You know all of us, and you're the only one who can comfort us most of the time. And even before all this, you...You were always the voice of reason. The most normal, or at least you forced yourself to be. That's admirable. I don't know how you did it."

Hero tried to feel better. The words did ease him a little. But Paranoid was right, it wasn't enough. He was just doing his duty. It was his obligation. And he had still done too little of it.

Paranoid wrapped her arms around herself, rocking back and forth, back and forth. Still anxious as ever. "I love you for it. But that doesn't mean jack shit. I could list a hundred rights, and one wrong would still be so much worse."

Hero attempted to force a smile again. "I can deal with it. I can—"

"Are you so sure you can?" Paranoid rose as she stepped forward, closing the distance. "Or are you just lying to yourself?"

He stopped. The memories came again. It did hurt. It hurt too much.

"Maybe." Hero slumped. "Can you get something for it, like medicine or anything? You always have something for everything."

Paranoid laughed bitterly. "I wish. Maybe for the short-term, yes. Something to dull it for a while. But you can't avoid it forever."

The resignation in her face told Hero everything. Of course he couldn't just escape. She would know.

She shot him a glance as she walked over to another corner of the room. "I'll get a couple of pills for you. Maybe some tea as we speak."

Hero stayed where he was. He tried to wipe the tears from his cheeks, a bit embarrassed. "Alright."

He scooted along the window and tried to hide into the curtains as Paranoid retrieved something from a drawer. She turned and caught a glimpse of whatever he was doing, the curtains barely covering his bulky frame. She frowned.

"Hero?" Paranoid seemed rather disappointed. "What the fuck are you doing?"

He grinned bashfully, more genuine this time. "Uh, nothing."

"Idiot." This one was clear enough.

He actually laughed a little. "Hey, just carry on."

And she did, pouring something into a cup as she muttered and mumbled to herself. Hero contemplated. At least this was nice. The sun filtering in behind him, the organized clutter of the infirmary, and the company of a friend. Even if the friend was a little strange.

She returned with a cup and saucer in one hand, clutching a small pouch with a few pills inside in the other. "These are for later, six o'clock sharp."

He took the pouch from her. "What's in here?"

"A bit of my own medication diluted with something else." She sat on the floor beside him, setting the cup down on the windowsill next to his thigh.

Hero gaped. "Seriously?"

"Remember to tell me if you experience any side effects—"

"No. Hold on." He stared blankly at Paranoid, her demeanour unsteady and frazzled. "You're medicated?"

"So I've worked with medicines for as long as I can remember, and I wouldn't have enough sense to do something about myself. That makes a lot of sense, Hero."

"What the- This is after mental treatment?"

Paranoid shrank back, comically offended. "Does it still seem that bad?!"

Hero laughed again as he stuffed the pills in his pocket. "Still pretty bad."

Paranoid smiled. "Hey, as if you're not bad either. It does help, trust me on this."

And then the moment was over.

"How much does it work?" Hero asked. The turmoil threatened at him again. Coiling and churning and crossing the edges of his brain. Knocking against his temples. About to rupture against it all.

"It should be enough for now, but—"

"Please," Hero whispered at first, unaware as he did, but his voice rose steadily as he spoke, louder and louder. "Can it all just stop? I want it to stop. The expectations, the guilt. Make it stop. Please make it stop! Please, I can't do this anymore!"

Paranoid averted her eyes.

"I...want it to stop too. Hahaha." Her laugh was desperate, and yearning, and pleading. "But it won't."

Hero heaved a long sigh. There was more silence.

Paranoid extended a hand, and he took it. And for one moment, they remained like that.

Sitting still.

Holding hands.

"So..." Hero broke the silence. "Just like that?"

Paranoid gave his hand a squeeze. "All we can do is live, I guess. Or try to live."

"At least you're here."

"...Yeah." She looked up, finally meeting his eyes. "At least...at least we're not alone."

And there was hope.

[xx-psych0-rabbit-xx]

fermi paradox - it is the nature of intelligent life to destroy others.

(textless under cut)

[demigodofhoolemere]

Trying to find nice stuff for Wish but everywhere you go people are being painfully wrong in their interpretations of the movie