#self-claimed dance machine

[pmpmyread]

Perfect Matcha

Nanami Kento x f!reader, fluff.

It first happened on a relatively quiet late spring afternoon, a mere few weeks after you’d started your teaching role at Tokyo Jujutsu High.

Following a long morning spent leading arduous combat training sessions, you saw no better way to reward yourself than with your go-to midday beverage, comprising a freshly made cup of matcha green tea, a treat that you were in the middle of preparing, when the fellow sorcerer you’d only distantly known as Nanami-san at the time joined you in the school break room.

He greeted you with a polite nod, which you returned, all the while catching the way his gaze appeared to linger on the bowl in which you were whisking the powdered tea with your bamboo whisk. Out of your peripheral vision, you watched him reach for the coffee pot that sat on the counter between you. His fingers hovered over the handle as he appeared to hesitate for a brief moment before pulling away and grabbing a tea bag from a cupboard above instead.

As he stood next to you, waiting for the electric kettle he’d just set to boil, you could feel Nanami’s intent gaze on you. The whisking process that usually came to you as second nature suddenly turned into a task that rendered you slightly self-conscious, and you even sounded out the zig-zag pattern of movement in your head to maintain your focus. 

Following what you were convinced was the longest time that kettle ever took to boil, Nanami added the water to the English breakfast tea bag he had placed into his cup and walked out without uttering a word.

That was… interesting, you thought.

A few similar encounters occurred over the next few weeks, distinct scenarios that always rhymed, an unspoken dance that incorporated two fundamental elements: you carefully preparing your tea and Nanami subtly observing you as you did.

Just maybe not subtly enough.

One day, as you endeavored to prepare what you hoped would be the drink to shake you out of the midday slump you simply could not afford, it was you who you who found Nanami in the break room.

“Good afternoon,” he addressed you first, in a tone had gradually grown more cordial since your first encounter.

Even through his nearly opaque glasses, you could sense his eyes fixed on the small tray carrying your usual tea-making arsenal as you set it on the counter.

As you carefully unloaded your box of powdered tea, along with your whisk, ceramic cup, and matcha scoop, you felt slightly relieved to have found him already pouring himself a cup of coffee — unlike the last time around, you would be spared from having to prepare your tea under Nanami’s Kento’s scrutiny.

That is, until he suddenly poured out the contents of his cup into the sink after a single sip.

You watched incredulously as he rinsed his cup and reached for the kettle.

“Would you like me to add enough water for you too?” he asked suddenly, in an even tone that contrasted what appeared to be his annoyed countenance.

“Oh uh, yes, please. Thanks,” you replied, still taken a bit off-guard.

You carefully scooped out a spoonful of matcha under what you could only assume to be Nanami’s watchful eye, and by the time you gave him a sidelong glance, his attention had returned to the kettle.

Your words spilled out anyway.

“Did someone leave the coffee on to burn again?”

Nanami raised an inquisitive brow. You pointed towards his now empty cup.

“You spilled it out so forcefully, I figured it was burnt or something?”

“Ah, that’s…” He trailed off, clutching his cup. “No, I simply changed my mind,” he replied, appearing to want to add something.

“I hear this machine is notorious for not tasting the best by this time of day. Though I’ve never tested this claim myself, as I’m more of a tea drinker.”

“I’ve noticed that,” he said, as he locked eyes with yours for the briefest of moments. You quickly picked up your chasen and engaged yourself in rapid tapping movements, pretending to break up clumps you knew were no longer there.

“Actually, I’m weaning off coffee,” he added. “I’ve never been big on it, anyway.”

“Is that so? What made you pick this poison in the first place?”

“It’s an old habit I picked up in a past life, an unsustainable fix for unreasonably long nights…” He paused. “And perhaps a misguided aspiration for conformity.”

It was the most you’d ever heard Nanami Kento speak thus far, and you were stunned at the candor he’d displayed in such a few words.

Maybe it was this openness that pushed you to display your own.

“Hojicha or dandelion tea are good tea options to try if you’re looking to curb the need for caffeine. Those may unfortunately be too sophisticated for our humble break room, though. Having seen what they do have available here, your closest option would be the breakfast blend, which I see you’ve already been drinking,” you said as you gestured toward the tea bag he was holding.

He nodded, and you continued.

“Barring those… matcha is always a fantastic alternative to coffee. It holds many similar benefits, without the drawbacks.”

“That’s good to know.” The kettle came to a halt, and he handed it to you.

“It’s been a while since I’ve made one of my own,” he said as he watched you pour in a small amount of water before handing it back to him. “It’s pretty simple once you get the hang of it.” You began whisking, kicking off an impromptu demonstration Nanami never explicitly asked for, taking his seemingly undivided attention as a signal to continue. He listened as you explained every step, offering tips on how to keep things relatively low maintenance for an office kitchen environment, in contrast with the slightly longer process you took at home. He watched as you enacted the dance of whisking the mixture of matcha and hot water until it started forming small frothy bubbles, cadenced zig-zag motions punctuated by the occasional circular swirl to collect any remnants lingering on the edges. “This is where one could add some warm milk to make it a latte, but if I were to guess, I’d say that’s not you.” “When I do take my coffee, it’s usually black.” “I’ve noticed that.” you mirrored his words from earlier, and something about the way he shifted slightly under your lingering glance further emboldened you. “Care to do the honors?” you asked as you grabbed onto the kettle, just under where Nanami’s hand still held on to its handle, gently bringing it towards your cup, causing your fingers to brush ever so slightly. “You can add the water in increments.” He stepped closer and joined your dance, intermittently adding equal amounts of water as you kept whisking away. When the cup was nearly full and the tea ready, you held up the cup towards him to hand it to him. “Oh, I can’t take this,” Nanami said. “Sure you can! I have plenty of time left on my break. I’ll just prepare another for myself.” Noticing his hesitation, you quipped, “You can just owe me and make me one next time, now that I know you could pull it off.” “Then consider me in your debt,” he said as he finally took your cup and brought it up to his lips, just too late to hide the slight smile that tugged at their corners.

You spent several breaks making tea together and discussing various quality grades and complementary flavors. At some point, you’d gifted him a small kit of his own, which he kept in his office and began using daily. You’d even pulled Nanami Kento into the unexplored waters of matcha lattes, a feat you’d once thought to be impossible, and through trial and error, you discovered the exact ratio of almond milk and honey that formed the winning combination to conquer his otherwise recalcitrant taste buds. And Nanami easily conquered your heart.

On the morning following the first night you’d stayed over at his apartment, you found, much to your surprise, an arsenal of teas and teaware that would rival that of the most passionate aficionado.

Upon asking him about it, Nanami initially only copped to having recently invested in the craft. A half-truth, you thought to yourself. Only later that evening, as you found yourself whisking two cups of tea using what were his now unmistakably superior tools, did you decide to gently confront him. “Alright, be honest with me, Kento.” You waited until he looked up and met your gaze, his attention now piqued before continuing. “I did not put you on to matcha, did I?” He returned his attention to cutting the remainder of the fruits he was preparing, appearing to take a moment to think before finally responding. “I don’t believe I’ve ever said you did.” “That wasn’t the question, and you know it. Judging by the damn near professional barista setup you’ve got going here, I suspect that you were a bit more advanced than you’d initially let on.” Your eyes followed Nanami as he turned away, carefully carrying the charcuterie board he’d just assembled to his dinner table.   “I may have dabbled before, but it had been almost a decade since I had made a proper matcha tea, so please believe me when I say that I truly could use the refresher. Besides, I did have a caffeine dependency, which I wouldn’t have curbed if it weren’t for you, my love.” He returned to your side, bringing a piece of strawberry to your mouth, which you opened, perhaps accepting his offering a bit too quickly. A droplet of juice slid right below your lower lip and Nanami was quick to bring his thumb to wipe it off for you, lingering there just a bit longer than needed. You tried to remain impervious to his obvious attempt at diverting from the issue at hand, returning your attention to the teas you were preparing. “Sweet words and gestures won’t lessen such damning confessions. So, I’m just your accountability partner, then?” “I’d say you’re a little more than that now,” he teased. You failed to conceal your true feelings for the second time that night, as you slid one teacup towards him. “You do realize I have no reason to make these for you anymore, right?” you said, quickly grabbing yours and heading towards the dinner table to hide your heated face. “You’re clearly the expert between the two of us, so it really should be the other way around.” He joined you at the table, sitting beside you. “Yours always taste better.” “I doubt that. I could never match your precision, Mr. 7:3 sorcerer. And a simple web search would have exposed you to better, more professional demonstrations in a matter of seconds.” “I wanted to learn it your way.” “What?” “Your method intrigued me, and so did you,” he said, dipping a cube of bread into the whipped feta and closing his eyes as he savored it. Nanami’s words were uttered so simply, so casually, and without fanfare, they were laden with a deep sentiment and meaning divulged both in the words that were unsaid and in the sincerity of the few that were. It was not a grandiose declaration, but to you, it felt every bit like one. “And how’s the learning experience going so far?” you asked, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between you. Nanami opened his eyes, locking them with yours. “You tell me.” 

[grapejuicestyless]

So Long, London

Harry Styles x fem!reader

Summery: Years and years of love and affection couldn’t amount to the floods of tears that flooded the once prosperous city you danced through.

From a young age I’ve always wondered what death feels like. Those who have experienced it aren’t here to tell us their stories. Would it hurt, could I feel it clenching my heart in its dark grasp or would I sigh in my sleep and let the darkness take me with no sense of slipping away.

As I walk down the old roads I used to dance on, I understand the concept of it better now that my heals hit the concrete like bullet shells falling to the floor. The vibrant red brick seemed duller nowadays, moss covering the once new white concrete holding all these places I often visited together.

To me, death wasn’t the last breath of air in my lungs escaping, it wasn’t the melodic beeping of the machines beside me in a hospital room, but something that drowned me from the inside out.

His smell is stuck to all my clothes, his smile carved into the back of my phone case from the polaroids of us I kept for keepsakes for years. I can still hear his voice, it’s all around me in the people passing by on the street, the same accent fresh in my mind, his last words knives in my heart.

He swore that he loved me, but where were the clues? I died at the alter waiting for the proof. His green eyes flashing with mischief as he lied to my heart to keep me close, his bluest days tainting my mind, my endless sympathy forcing me to stay even with the gun stuck against the back of my head.

I don’t remember the end, only the feeling of my spine splitting under the weight of his body as I pulled him in closer each time he slipped out of reach. Only the fading of his smile as I gave up trying to make him laugh after so many failed attempts. The heart was dead, I stopped CPR after all, there was no use. Our love was long dead, lying buried with our faltering spirits. He killed me when he killed our relationship, two graves dug with one gun.

He swore that he loved me, and his face looked just like the man who said it to me and meant it, so I believed him as he led me down the street with his hands in his pockets.

For so long, I loved london. My clothes out of place, made for the states and carried across to my home where he laid in the dimming light of our sunroom. For so long, I held him and guided his heart to mine, I let him take parts of me I’ll never be able to rebuild. And I’m angry that I gave him all that youth for free, but I’m just mad as hell because I loved this place.

And he claims I abandoned the ship, he writes it in the songs on his albums and sends the troops to my front door, breaking down the home I just rebuilt but they’ll never know how I was going down with it, my white knuckle dying grip holding onto his quiet resentment.

But truly how much sad did he think I had left in me to give? How much tragedy? Just how low did he believe I could before I would self-implode, waiting for his grays and blacks to turn back into the vibrancy I fell so deeply in love with.

And as I walk these streets, his scent fading from my clothes, I can feel the color coming back to my face, and I feel bad for anyone who stops me on the streets and asks me to grab a coffee, because the hole in my heart is black and it’s pulling in anything in it’s path, it’s destructive and dangerous and it acts a lot like him.

He’ll find someone, my stitches will come undone and my heart will die as I lay silently on the empty floor of the apartment I never thought I would see again.

I have to leave, I know it even in this post-death mist. I am a ghost walking down these once euphoric streets we walked hand in hand across. I can’t let myself rot like he did, I won’t let myself get left behind like he intended.

And I’m just mad as hell because I once loved this place.

But for now, it’s so long, london.

[thosewickedlovelies]

it's where I belong

Summary: Rancher Boy!Javier Peña’s queer awakening

Tags: bisexual Javier Peña (although his identity is not explicitly stated); the bartender ships it; javier peña x OMC

Words: 1,937

Note: Title (and general inspo for this installment) is taken from the song Pink Pony Club by Chappell Roan. You don't have to read the rest of Rancher Boys for this to make sense, but you should bc it's great 😌 Happy pride :)

Masterlist

Once, Javier Peña walked into a bar in June.

It wasn’t that kind of bar. Or at least, he hadn’t thought it was. But looking around, he noticed a lot of people who seemed…sparkly, somehow. And affectionate. And there, on the back wall by the pool tables, hung a large, rainbow-striped flag, fluttering over the bricks.

“Can I get you anything?” A bartender appeared in his line of sight.

Javier tore his gaze from the flag.

“Whiskey, on the rocks.”

The bartender adjusted her cutoff flannel while the card machine booted up. It was tied beneath her chest, and the edges of a tattoo snaked along her ribs, the finer details blending into skin darker than Javi’s.

As Javi took out his card, he started, “Is this a…a bar for…”

Lord only knew what he thought he was trying to say. Thankfully, the bartender took pity on him. “A gay bar?”

“…Yeah.”

“Not explicitly. ‘We’re friendly to all’,” the woman quoted pointedly. She pushed a coaster toward him with that very declaration stamped beneath a depiction of a familiar sign. Friendly’s, read the green neon loops- the same as the ones above the door he’d entered through.

Ah.

“We just like to make sure everyone knows.” Her head tilted. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” Javier said.

After a beat, the bartender relaxed. “There’s not usually this much rainbow stuff in here. But we always go big for pride month.”

“Pride month?” Belatedly, Javi recalled the rainbow logos and merchandise that he’d noticed appearing over the past few days. Because it was…June? “Oh.”

The bartender had stepped back to dry some clean glasses. Now she smiled slightly, turning to face him. “You new in town?”

From a booth near the pool table, several voices rose in chorus with a soulful pop song playing from the speakers. Five sets of masculine shoulders swayed; they exhibited not a shred of self-consciousness. The bartender sent them a fond look.

“Temporarily. I’m here for a few weeks on business, with my pa.” Javi sipped his whiskey, the burn a warm, familiar comfort.

“Workin’ hard, then,” she deadpanned.

Before Javier could reply, her face softened, all her attention diverted to a second woman that had appeared beside him, leaning over the bar. Her black sequined top let out a spill of cleavage that Javi quickly averted his gaze from.

“Hola, mi amor,” the second woman cooed.

“Hola, nena.” The bartender set down her work and met the woman over the bar top with a lingering kiss.

“Puedo tomar una bebida? Tengo mucho sed,” the woman purred. Can I have a drink? I’m so thirsty. But it wasn’t any of the bottles behind the bar that claimed her attention. Her eyes danced up and down the bartender’s body, gleaming.  

She angled Javi a sharp, appraising glance. Javi met her gaze, then deliberately looked away, sipping his drink. Satisfied, she sat back on her stool.

The bartender, after extracting another kiss from the woman, brought her a glass of something clear and full of ice, and Javier listened to them talk. About their days, about their friend’s new cat, about what to have for dinner tomorrow. They sounded like every other couple Javier had ever known. They could have been Steve and Connie, if Steve and Connie knew anyone who would adopt a hairless cat or complained about gringos clogging up their favorite taco place.

Two of the men in the booth embraced when the song they’d been singing ended. One of their friends threw a fry at them, dramatically lamenting his own singlehood. Javi looked down and swirled the ice cube remaining in his glass, feeling simultaneously alone and strangely reluctant to leave.

The bartender reappeared in front of him. “Another whiskey?”

Clearing his throat, Javier straightened. “No, I shouldn’t. Thank you.” He made to stand and don his sunglasses

“Come back anytime. A lot of nice people come in this time of year.”

Javi gave a nod to her and then to her partner. The woman smiled in return, and Javier left the rainbow flags rippling behind him.

—

Twice, Javier Peña walked into a bar in June.

It wasn’t that kind of bar, but you wouldn’t know it looking around. The place was full of bubbly, happy people of every appearance on the gender spectrum, and some off the spectrum besides. Rainbow was too limited of a word to describe the variety of colors on flags.

All the same, it felt…relaxed. Homey. Pool balls cracked from a trio of tables. Too-big groups squashed into booths, giggling over knocked elbows and pressed-together thighs. Dancing broke out sporadically, the odd couple swaying alone or groups unable to resist the combination of the music playing and the contents of their glasses.

“Oye, whiskey boy!” The bartender Javi had met before popped up behind the counter in front of him. “Nice to see you again. The same on the rocks?”

Tonight she could have been mistaken for a college bartender, in a t-shirt snipped and tied to within an inch of its life. Glitter streaked her long black braids. Javier couldn’t help but wonder if her more feminine partner had had a hand in either statement. Tonight the bartender’s eyes were wide and bright, as if absorbing the energy in the bar and reflecting it back.

“Just a beer, thanks.”

Javi found a stool near the end of the bar, bottle in hand. He didn’t really have a plan of any kind. He could, technically, take someone back to his hotel room, but he didn’t relish the thought of his [pops] potentially seeing them leave tomorrow morning. He wasn’t in the market to make friends. His usual play was to nurse a few drinks while people-watching alone, but somehow that felt…wrong, here.

Or maybe it was Javier who was wrong. This place sure felt like a gay bar tonight, and he didn’t really have a place in one of those. Everyone else seemed to have friends and lovers and grins on their faces. What was he doing here, besides bringing the mood down with his brooding?

“You’re looking at that bottle like it’s about to break your heart.”

Javier looked up (and up, and up) at a man with desert-blond hair sticking out from under a Texas A&M ballcap. He was good-looking, Javi supposed, and dressed pretty normally if you didn’t count the sinfully tight fit of his shirt. He might have been one of few people in the bar besides Javi himself who didn’t have rhinestones somewhere on their person. Fine lines were just visible at the corners of his eyes, so it might have been his rangy build- or maybe the openness of his smile- that made him look young.

All of Javi's dependable wittiness seemed to have fled. His mouth quirked by muscle memory. “Nah, beer’s about the only thing that hasn’t broken my heart,” Javi tried.

The younger man laughed. “Can I get you another one, then?”

And so Javi allowed himself to be drawn into conversation with the man. Jason, his name was. The bartender gave him a friendly nod as she deposited their drinks- he must have been a regular here. It was nice, talking to someone- about himself, about Jason, about nothing at all. This kind of…companionship, however brief it would end up being, was something Javier hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

He relaxed into it. Into the comfortable, friendly atmosphere of the bar. Javi wasn’t blind. He saw the admiration in the younger (for he was indeed slightly younger) man’s eyes, heard the comments that tiptoed just this side of flirtatious. He didn’t discourage it. Why would he? It felt like it’d been a damn long time since Javier had been so enjoyed.

And he found himself enjoying Jason in return. There was a warmth, an awareness prickling in Javi’s chest that he recognized. It spread the longer they sat and talked, sparked in his fingers, the ends of his hair. It felt like…something loosening in him. Some knot unraveling that he hadn’t ever acknowledged was there.

As the night wound down, though- as their knees bumped and their laughter came warmer- Javier felt the knot drawing tighter again. He came to a decision. Quickly, gruffly, he confessed: he’d never done this before. He hadn’t set out find someone like this, didn’t want Jason to feel used- but Javi did want him. Had he mentioned that part?

As Javi half-stood from his stool, breathing hard, mouth dry, Jason’s look of surprise melted into something else. He placed his hand on Javi’s knee. Jason’s warm smile set fire to Javier, and the knot in his chest turned to ash and flaked away.  

—

There was more than one knot to his fears, Javier would discover. There was a whole web, intricately tangled and connected to subjects he would have never imagined. Some of the knots he picked at thoroughly, taking the time to smooth every kink (ahem) in their connecting cords. Some, he would realize, during the course of his research, were actually stupid, and these he excised without a second thought. Others, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to undo completely.

But that was for future-Javi to worry about. Present-Javi was tangled in much more pleasant things, like bedsheets and Jason’s unexpectedly strong arms. They spent many long, long nights together over the next few weeks. A few mornings, too, making Chucho raise his eyebrows upon seeing his son dash back through the hotel to shower, shirt buttoned askew and sweat still gleaming on his neck. 

It was a dizzying fling. But Jason was a good teacher, and Javi had never been one to shy from a challenge. By the end he’d have Jason flush-faced and gasping, making jokes like “my best student” and “Remind me to bring you a gold star next time”.

Javi didn’t remind him, of course, and Jason didn’t bring any gold stars.

He brought something else.

“I got you a present,” he said, and Javi did a double take.

“What?”

“I mean, it’s just a little thing, they sell them everywhere during pride month, and I just thought…” Jason shrugged, fidgeting bashfully, and held out his hand.

In it sat a small pin in the shape of a waving flag. Its rainbow stripes were unmistakable. Javi stared at it, his throat constricting. Slowly, he took it from Jason’s palm, the metal cool against his fingertips.

“You got me a pride pin.”

“You don’t have to wear it, or put it anywhere visible, obviously. I just thought…to remember me by. To remember yourself by.” Jason looked up from under his lashes then. Whatever else Javier took from their time together, Jason wanted him to remember the significant conversations they’d had.

Emotion swelled unexpectedly in Javier’s chest. He reached out, wrapped his fingers in Jason’s hair, and tugged him closer. Jason accepted his kiss with a sigh of pleasure, and they spent the next several minutes memorizing each other’s taste, the feel of their bodies pressed together, warm and firm.

Finally they parted, lips swollen, breath mingling. “Thank you,” Javier said, voice rough. “I’ll remember.”

He didn’t wear the pin. But he put it in his pocket, and it gave him a little jolt every time the edges poked him.

–

Their paths didn't cross again. But Javi takes the rainbow pin with him everywhere he travels, and on a ranch in Tennessee, he takes it out and studies it. He thinks of a man, and a woman, and another flag striped in red, blue, and black.

Thanks for reading :) ♥️♥️

Dividers by strangergraphics

[scribe-of-hael]

Overlord HCS list

Headcanons i have for OL but for my au and just in general 🤷‍♂️ this breaks Canon, much like OL breaks skulls.

Overlord loved fashion as much as he likes fighting

Yes he is not afraid to get down and dirty with the inner of his enemy but he takes good care of himself and his frame

He is conflicted on wanting to keep battle scars and also wanting a nice smooth finish

He is a theatrical bitch, a show man, everything he does he does as if he has an audience like he did in the pits , a cheering as your doom is sealed

He is Queer af, has no labels, has no preference besides ppl who are brave enough to even take him on

That being said he's is nothing if not a gentleman to lovers , he's a murderous killing machine not a low life monster

He can be as affectionate as he is violent, it is truly a night and day between his intimidating factor and being dotting the next

His love lanauge is gift giving and physical touch, though words of affirmation can be a substitution (he is so incredibly needy for attention)

He only ever ignore physical boundaries of people he doesn't like mostly strangers. He enjoys making people uncomfortable/squirm in his presence knowing there isn't much anyone can do to stop him. He will stare, grin, mock and even proposely be rude or bump into people. Are you going to fight a skyscraper of a bot? I wouldn't.

He can play a Cybertronian equivalent of an electric guitar (had one custom made for himself)

He can also Sing VERY VERY well (his Voice claim I have for him is Tim Curry and man has RANGE)

If Overlord says he doesn't feel like torturing some poor bot's sparks SOMTHING IS VERY WRONG (a depressed Overlord is not a good working one)

In my au he does have a kinda messed up past in a sense. You can kinda see why he is the way he is and why he joined the Decepticons. (Thanks senate)

However, he fully admits "yes I could have been a shiny goodie bot and be the better person.But - what's the fun in that?" He doesn't let his backstory define him. He chose this path and he dances on it with delight.

in his Humanformer , he does natural have grey in his hair and even grow facial hair. But somtimes he get self conscience about wanting to look young. So he simply dyes it out and shaves. He even throws pink and GLITTER into his hair because he likes it.

He alos likes pastels alot , because he is a barbie girl in a barbie world

Goes by primarily He/Him, but doesn't care what pronouns you use. You can get a look delight if you use she/her ~ its not often but she likes it.

See he knows he's pretty but he'd much rather hear OTHER ppl say it

[kemetic-dreams]

House is a music genre characterized by a repetitive four-on-the-floor beat and a typical tempo of 120 beats per minute as a re-emergence of 1970's disco. It was created by DJs and music producers from Chicago's underground club culture and evolved slowly in the early/mid 1980s, and as DJs began altering disco songs to give them a more mechanical beat. By early 1988, House became mainstream and supplanted the typical 80s music beat

House was created and pioneered by DJs and producers in Chicago such as Frankie Knuckles, Ron Hardy, Jesse Saunders, Chip E., Joe Smooth, Steve "Silk" Hurley, Farley "Jackmaster" Funk, Marshall Jefferson, Phuture, and others. House music initially expanded internationally, to London, then to other American cities, such as New York City, and ultimately a worldwide phenomenon.

In its most typical form, the genre is characterized by repetitive 4/4rhythms including bass drums, off-beat hi-hats, snare drums, claps, and/or snaps at a tempo of between 120 and 130 beats per minute (bpm); synthesizerriffs; deep basslines; and often, but not necessarily, sung, spoken or sampled vocals. In house, the bass drum is usually sounded on beats one, two, three, and four, and the snare drum, claps, or other higher-pitched percussion on beats two and four. The drum beats in house music are almost always provided by an electronic drum machine, often a Roland TR-808, TR-909, or a TR-707. Claps, shakers, snare drum, or hi-hat sounds are used to add syncopation. One of the signature rhythm riffs, especially in early Chicago house, is built on the clave pattern. Congas and bongos may be added for an African sound, or metallic percussion for a Latin feel

One book from 2009 states the name "house music" originated from a Chicago club called the Warehouse that was open from 1977 to 1982. Clubbers to the Warehouse were primarily African, gay men, who came to dance to music played by the club's resident DJ, Frankie Knuckles, who fans refer to as the "godfather of house". Frankie began the trend of splicing together different records when he found that the records he had were not long enough to satisfy his audience of dancers. After the Warehouse closed in 1983, eventually the crowds went to Knuckles' new club, The Power House, later to be called The Power Plant, and the club was renamed, yet again, into Music Box with Ron Hardy as the resident DJ. The 1986 documentary, "House Music in Chicago", by filmmaker, Phil Ranstrom, captured opening night at The Power House, and stands as the only film or video to capture a young Frankie Knuckles in this early era, right after his departure from The Warehouse. 

In the Channel 4 documentary Pump Up the Volume, Knuckles remarks that the first time he heard the term "house music" was upon seeing "we play house music" on a sign in the window of a bar on Chicago's South Side. One of the people in the car joked, "you know that's the kind of music you play down at the Warehouse!" In self-published statements, South-Side Chicago DJ Leonard "Remix" Rroy claimed he put such a sign in a tavern window because it was where he played music that one might find in one's home; in his case, it referred to his mother's soul and disco records, which he worked into his sets

[enixamyram]

I have tried really hard to ignore anti nonsense. I just wanna focus on the good and positive side of this fandom and just enjoy the series in general. But it's also hard bottling up thoughts when I'm used to ranting for the sake of getting my thoughts and feelings out and moving then on.

So I'm gonna put a couple reactions to Anti-Related Hazbin things under the read more just to get them out! Because my god, some of these are bullshit!

Chaggie - I've seen so much bullshit citicizm for this ship. People claiming they're boring or bland or badly written and I have yet to see a legit reason why other than that they don't have any typical relationship drama (which, for the record, I personally am so relieved about) or because they're not being overly affectionate every five minutes of screen time. And you know, this especially drives me crazy because they have some of the sweetest little gestures, whether it be holding hands, hugging, swinging each other round or even just the constant damn heart eyes they have when looking at each other in the background! They're so damn precious and if you can't see that, you don't know what a legit established relationship is supposed to be past the honeymoon phase.

Charlie - People once again have claimed she's badly written. I don't know why people seem to hate happy kind hearted females so much but I have seen this exact complaint about many characters who are similar to her. None of which are actually badly written. They're just not the new stereotype "bad asses" that seems to be the only acceptable way to write a female character lately. Which is ironic since a lot of the so called "bad ass" female characters I have seen are often so one dimensional. Yet we have Charlie, a kind hearted but also sometimes naive girl who is doing her best while also learning with the rest of her friends and ya'll are gonna try and claim she's not amazing? The more I rewatch the show, the more I wanna reschedule my favorite character list because there's not a second I don't adore having her on my screen.

Niffty - This one really makes me want to slam my head against the wall. I have seen so many people complain and claim she acts like a child. Bare in mind, I've just watched episode 3 - you know, the one where Niffty is fully ready to throw herself into the BDSM that Angel takes them to. The only thing close to evidence that I have seen for her acting like a child is the episode where she gets drunk except she's still not acting like a child there, she's acting like a drunk! When some people are drunk they're silly and dumb and very "child-like". Otherwise, the only reason I think people call her a child is because she's is literally small like one. Yet, if you actually look at anything past her basic physical appearance, she's a crazy murder machine and I don't know many children I can also give that title to.

Angel - This is so old and everyone else has said this all so much better than me but I just really want to repeat: Just because it's not YOUR representation doesn't mean it's BAD representation. Just because you dealt with your sexual assault in a certain way does not mean everyone deals with it that way and it sure as hell doesn't give you a right to dismiss others. I have seen so many people say they identify with Angel's character and his hypersexuality, so it is so annoyingly arrogant to see people trying to shut them down entirely because Angel's character isn't portraying their personal reactions. It's just so amazingly self-centered to be saying that if you can't personally relate to it exactly, then it shouldn't exist at all. Seriously, grow the fuck up.

Loser Baby/Poison - Again, this has been said so many times before by other people but I'm gonna add/repeat. Some people take these songs and videos so damn literally. I saw someone claim Angel was happy during his dance with Valentino in Poison which apparently made the whole character a contradiction? Completely ignoring the parts where he's clearly miserable or the part where he's clearly putting on a fake smile or even the part where he all out says he dissociates to get through. And then you have Loser Baby where people are outraged that Husk call Angel a loser and is apparently trying to compare their situations? I mean, he's obviously not saying they're situations are the same if you think about it for more than two seconds. Like, are you seriously this literal? If I said the message went over your head, would ya'll look up?

[tallerthantale]

What Does Aziraphale Actually Believe Part 10: Returning to Heaven

If you are currently avoiding Good Omens content right now because of the allegations against Neil Gaimen, (which I personally find both credible and damning) consider jumping to the end note rather than skipping this post.

This is a series of my takes on what Aziraphale believes through the timeline of the show. It is all my personal interpretation, and I am happy to hear others. You don’t need to read them all in order, but know that I am coming from a perspective on Aziraphale’s machinations that can be difficult for people without a psychology background to follow without the first two as a primer. The quick version is that Aziraphale has a set of beliefs that exist in some form or another within his mind. However, at any given moment, only some of them exist ‘with awareness.’ The context of the moment will determine what lives on the surface and what stays buried outside of Aziraphale's experience of consciousness, whatever arrangement best prevents a threat to Aziraphale’s sense of self and makes whatever he is inclined to do feel right.

Season Two Begins

Aziraphale is still not really acting like someone who rebelled against heaven. He's imagining himself as having a polite dispute with his colleagues, they just don’t send him on missions anymore and don't want his reports. As far as he sees it, the library is still an embassy (independent), and he is still a representative of God (independent). He is trying to maintain a semblance of the habits and routines he had when he was avowed by heaven, the familiarity is comforting, but there are limits to how much of it he can recreate. Some of what he’s missing he gets from Crowley, giving him reports instead. 

The sword of Damocles dropped, and Aziraphale remains ethereal. In many ways both he and Crowley are free to give up their tendencies to live double lives, but old habits die hard. During the lockdown, Aziraphale doesn’t want Crowley moving in, it doesn’t feel right yet. Crowley still feels a theoretical obligation to perform acts of demonic influence, even though he doesn’t actually want to. They have over 6000 years of earthly lived experience pushing themselves to go through the motions, and 4 years of something like freedom. They spent almost three times the time raising the wrong antichrist to write rude words on a description of a dinosaur. 

Aziraphale has the tools he needs to create a belief that he and Crowley can carve out a life together, but he is still sorting out the details. We start to see it in ‘our car’ and the implied ‘our shop.’ The ‘our car’ was presumptuous, and Aziraphale does take Crowley’s willingness to cave for granted in ways that are concerning, but there are some points of context that add depth to it. 1) Crowley actively enjoys complaining about things he isn't really bothered by and they both know it. 2) Bentley is sentient, and clearly considers Aziraphale a co-parent. 3) Aziraphale claiming Bentley as a joint asset seems to have prevented demons from entering uninvited.

I do think The Ball was Aziraphale's version of a confession, hoping they would dance, and talk things through as they danced. It’s not the best plan, because there are a ton of built up conversations they need to have with each other that are going to be hard to do with a room full of people as a backdrop. Even so, it could have been starting point for those conversations. He really is trying to make something happen, and he’s going at the preparations full steam while Crowley is still in ‘it’s not like that’ mode. I read Crowley's confusion as him personally being veeery asexual, and assuming all along that Aziraphale was the same. IMO, he was completely oblivious to possibility that Aziraphale could be comparatively allo, though there are many open interpretations.

The big jumps forward with Aziraphale’s understanding of his relationship to Crowley, the universe, humanity, and the world do not erase his older beliefs. They add to his options. As we get to the end of Season 2, he’s got a lot of options. As I went into at the start of this rambling mess, in a way Aziraphale still believes everything he has ever believed, no matter how self contradictory that gets. Some things are just deeper in storage than others. That said, I think we can talk about what his recently active beliefs are through the modern events of Season 2. In my opinion, this is where things stand in the mind of Aziraphale:

Angels are aligned with good in the abstract, demons with evil in the abstract, and they imperatively should act in accordance with that, even if often they descriptively don’t. 

This follows metaphysical (ethereal / occult ) categories, not professional roles, and therefore still applies to both Aziraphale and Crowley.

Crowley would be better off free of the obligation to be up to no good, and no longer being professionally a demon hasn’t done the trick.

God felled Crowley as a deliberate injustice in service of a bigger picture plan.

God plays games, but in the service of a greater good, and heaven ought to be aligned with Her purpose. Heaven is currently failing in that obligation.

Aziraphale still thinks he can intuit God’s will and is mostly aligned with it. 

Heaven is being run by angels that are out of line with God’s will, but they retain their angelic nature because they are too ignorant to be responsible for their failings.

He was able to successfully convince Gabriel and Beelzebub to cancel the war.

The institution of heaven is powerful enough to crush them both if diplomacy fails.

The bookshop and car are mutually owned by him and Crowley. Their earthly existence is for them both to share, and they mutually committed to defending it.

Aziraphale and Crowley’s life on earth is unprotected under heaven’s current leadership.

Aziraphale and Crowley are the only celestials with actual knowledge of good and evil.

Having that knowledge incurs a heavy moral responsibility to choose good.

Crowley chooses good more reliably than Aziraphale does.

All of these play into the Final Fifteen.

Angelic Status

I believe for most of their time on earth, Aziraphale has stopped just short of pursuing a proper courtship with Crowley because of their professional and existential positions on ‘opposite sides.’ By the end of the botched executions, the professional role wasn’t an excuse anymore, but in the lockdown special he still wouldn’t let Crowley move in. The existential ‘sides’ still mattered. By the Start of modern Season 2, I think he finally let that go. He was finally ready to fully not care that Crowley was a demon. That doesn’t mean they were actually on the same page about it conceptually though.

Aziraphale has pretty consistently struggled to understand Crowley’s demonic status the way Crowley would see it. While to Crowley it is his assumed identity, and his former angel self is like a deadname, (or my favorite term for it, his ‘cis-sona’) Aziraphale understands Crowley to be suffering unjustly under the temporary state of being currently classified as a demon. Yes, there are many ways this is enormously dismissive of Crowley and insensitive to Crowley. But that isn’t all that it is. Aziraphale doesn’t think the fall was right, and he never did. Sure, that's like, a baseline expectation for having compassion for Crowley, but the implications for how Aziraphale sees things are huge. 

There are a few options for how Aziraphale can process this opinion that he can roll through. I think sometimes he blames himself. Sometimes he just avoids thinking about it. Sometimes he thinks Crowley will just spontaneously go back to being an angel again, like it was a clerical error. Most of the time though, I think it’s about God playing games putting together the Ineffable Plan. Aziraphale has been no stranger to God allowing injustices, he considers the greater good, the end game. 

If God is playing a game unfairly casting Crowley out, perhaps it’s to prove a point by bringing him back. Aziraphale thinks Crowley is the better of the two of them, and he knows he hasn’t fallen. Heaven sentenced him to death, and it didn’t stop him from being an angel. And yet Crowely, his better half, is a demon. Crowley has parallels to Jesus that are probably not lost on Aziraphale. Crowley coming back as an angel and being put in authority over nearly every other angel in existence the way Aziraphale imagines it would be a vindication of Crowley as the ultimate martyr, and a fuck you to all the angels who looked down on him. See end note.

The issue remains that it isn’t the framing Crowley would give himself, and it is alarming that Aziraphale fails to be aware of that. Aziraphale has spent 6000 years in a sort of solipsism, where his intuition is what he looks through for understanding everything in the world. Sometimes he understands that other people will see things differently, and sometimes that slips. Divining his sense of self through intuition has benefit as a tool to free him from heaven’s brainwashing, but it also carries a risk of arrogant superiority and blind spots. Aziraphale still isn’t fully at peace when it comes to accepting that Crowley’s demonic status is an avowed identity, not a transient trial. And as I said in post 3, when you try to run on intuition in an area where you aren’t at peace with yourself, that will fuck your shit up harder than a sideways pineapple. 

The Final Fifteen: Return of the Mindfuckery

Aziraphale enters the conversation with The Metatron believing he wants to stay on earth, and that the leadership of heaven is not aligned with God's ineffable will. When The Metatron offers Aziraphale the position of supreme archangel, his belief that God is good and heaven ought to be aligned with God's will gets pulled to the surface, along with his conviction that he can intuit God's will, and confidence in his ability to make a difference, already inflated from setting in motion Ineffable Bureaucracy. That on its own isn’t enough. Aziraphale doesn’t want to leave his life on earth with Crowley behind, he has just started to be at peace building a life in Shades of Grey.

When The Metatron offers angelic status, it gives Aziraphale the option to believe The Metatron is endorsing Crowley as a vindicated martyr. It lets Aziraphale believe that the Metatron is on team Ineffable, and Aziraphale really will be given enough actual power to genuinely reform heaven. But it isn’t the only option it gives Aziraphale. There is a fork, and not just in the road. 

When The Metatron offers to sanction his relationship with Crowley, he goes out of his way to bring attention to how unsanctioned it used to be, how long it was like that, and how serious it still is. By bringing up Crowley and Aziraphale’s full history, The Metatron is reminding him of all the thousands of years of fear of discovery and instability. They could have been executed for it, they nearly were, they could order executions again, and they might work this time. He didn’t need to point out how long running their collaboration was, and he didn’t need to refer to it as a de facto partnership either. Offering to let Aziraphale take Crowley with him could have just been about the fact that they are clearly working together now. The way The Metatron highlighted their history provoked Aziraphale’s fear. 

Aziraphale may refuse to believe The Metatron really speaks for God, but he is afraid enough of him to get mindfucked about it given an attractive enough looking alternative. It is particularly telling of the level of mindfuckery at play that The Metatron describes Aziraphale as someone who is honest, and doesn’t just tell people what they want to hear, and Aziraphale accepts that. It would have taken work for Aziraphale to keep that red flag out of his awareness.

Where Aziraphale has resisted the mindfuckery of danger from The Institution of Heaven before, the alternative has been horrifying. Lie to thwart the archangels, or allow the murder of children. Defy The Institution, or participate in the destruction of the universe. He had no way forward that preserved his sense of self, and he took the least horrible of the options he had. Going back to heaven may not look like an ideal option, he doesn’t really want to leave the bookshop, but as the Metatron initially presents it, it's not conflicting with Aziraphale’s sense of self. Framed as an opportunity to reform heaven into his own ideal, it would conflict with Aziraphale’s sense of self to turn the offer down. 

Aziraphale sees this as an opportunity to make the universe right. I don’t think he believes it will be simple, easy, or guaranteed to work, I think he feels obligated to do everything he can to try. If there is even a chance, no matter how small, he has to try. He remembers Crowley being happy as an angel, but not that it was God that took the smile away. He remembers Crowley looking for ways to avoid his evil missions and be kind under hell's nose, but not that God tasked hell's minions with doing evil in the first place. He remembers that Crowley often chooses to do good, but not that to Crowley, the choices he was making were choosing to oppose the system, not aligning with God. Aziraphale has been able to think of Crowley as aligned with God’s Ineffable will. He has been thinking it more and more into the modern era. He concluded long ago that God would forgive Crowley. 

He forgot to consider that it is Crowley who would need to forgive God.

The Final Fifteen: Schrodinger's Threat

The Metatron has appeared before Aziraphale wearing dark colors, offering an oatmilk late, talking about experiencing the earthly world. This sets him apart from the other angels, it is a signal that he has also eaten the metaphorical apple, he is not naive to good and evil the way the other celestials are. Aziraphale's only points of reference for worldly celestials are himself and Crowley. He associates the knowledge and mixed black and white with the pursuit of nuanced ethics. He has no frame of reference for an entity that fully understands the nuances of ethics but chooses to impose dogmatic authoritarianism anyway.

The part of Aziraphale’s mind that lives outside of conscious awareness gets to decide between two realities. 1) The Metatron cannot be trusted, he is threatening him, plotting to destroy Crowley, nowhere is safe, there are no good options, Crowley won’t play along, ect… or, 2) The Metatron is actually aligned with God’s ineffable will just like he and Crowley are, and he and Crowley can fix heaven together and live happily and safely ever after. If your priority is picking the reality that is most palatable, that isn’t a hard choice. 

Remember, it isn’t a conscious choice. Aziraphale is not arguing in an internal monologue with himself that he is better off deciding to believe the naive thing, the parts of Aziraphale's mind that are outside of his awareness are preventing his conscious mind from seeing anything other than the naive thing. Every reason he has to not trust The Metatron didn’t load into his conscious awareness and instead fucked off to the Bermuda Triangle. The evidence The Metatron cannot be trusted wasn’t rejected or discounted, it functionally does not exist. Every reason he had to know Crowley would never go along with the plan did the same thing. 

Even his own memories of his own time in heaven fucked off. When Aziraphale said it would be “like the old times, only even nicer,” a lot of us had an initial reaction along the lines of, maybe it was nice for you, but not for Crowley. The thing is, that's backwards. The Star Queen was having a blast making the universe while Aziraphale was skittish and terrified. The good old times weren’t ever real for Aziraphale, they were what he had to imagine into existence to cope with existence. Aziraphale wants to put himself in a miserable position of responsibility that he will hate, in order to remake heaven into a place Crowley can be happy again.

Much of the theorizing I have seen around Aziraphale's behavior in the Final Fifteen assumes a dichotomy. As most people see it, the story must be one of two things, either Aziraphale sincerely believes The Metatron's offer, and sincerely wants Crowley to come back to heaven with him and be angels together doing good, and sincerely thought Crowley would go for it and be happy about it, OR he was so scared shitless by The Metatron that everything he is doing and saying is put on for their safety.

The horrifying truth of how our minds work is that there is no dichotomy. 

Aziraphale sincerely believed in the plan, sincerely believed Crowley would happily go for it, and sincerely remembered being in heaven as nice, BECAUSE he was scared shitless by The Metatron and had to buy into it for their safety. He had to genuinely believe those things to feel safe, so he did. I don't think The Metatron made any explicit threats or coercions. He didn't need to. Aziraphale's existential terror did all the work on its own, and it did the work without leaving a trail for Aziraphale’s conscious mind to see.

The Final Fifteen: An Uninformed Decision

Aziraphale had not been told about the plans for Armageddon 2.0, or why Gabriel lost his memory, or that he was risking getting stashed in a heavenly closet after being mind wiped for refusing to go along with The Institution. I have been frustrated with Crowley for not bringing this up. While my frustration with both of their poor communication skills continues, I noticed that Crowley probably thinks that he did bring it up.

In the bandstand argument, Crowley twice tries to make sarcastic logical incisions to get through to Aziraphale. “You should kill him yourself then, holierly.” “ Unforgivable, that's what I am.” He is saying these things to deconstruct what Aziraphale said before, not as face value statements. Aziraphale ignores the argument inside them both, treating them as face value non sequiturs and offering his own. 

In the Final Fifteen Crowley makes another sarcastic logical incision by saying “when heaven ends all life on earth, it will be just as dead as if hell had ended it.” Aziraphale picked a hell of a day to stop taking Crowley’s sarcastic incisions at face value, because as much as this is a sarcastic logical incision still, it is actually also face value this time. Crowley is telling Aziraphale that heaven is planning on ending all life on earth. Like, NOW. And given the way Aziraphale has interpreted him in the recent past, Crowley would reasonably expect him to follow along with that. 

Aziraphale thinks if he is in charge, he can put in place the plan he expressed in S1E4, celestials keep the earth running so humans can keep having free will. Aziraphale is not happy about it when The Metatron mentions the second coming. But he still doesn’t know that he is queuing himself up for the same fate as Gabriel, since Crowley skipped that point in his understandable frantic distress. I really do think it would have made a big difference in how the scene went down if it had come up.

In this series I have described Aziraphale's choice as a mistake, but I want to clarify what I think the mistake was, because it wasn't deciding to go back, not really. The mistake was how he brought the situation to Crowley.

Had Aziraphale refused to go, both of them could have been rapidly removed from existence. There is a very compelling case to be made that returning to heaven and trying to dismantle the system from the inside while playing along on the surface is their best option. The end of the universe ends everywhere, they are attached to the earth, and even with the combo miracles Aziraphale wouldn't have it in him to wage full on war against heaven with a diplomatic offer on the table. It's possible Crowley could have been moved by that argument, or it could have prompted Crowley into sharing about the memory wipes.

Realistically the situation was probably moving too fast to put a real strategy in place, and I don't think Crowley would take the elevator up either way, but the most hurtful part of the conversation is how long Aziraphale goes still presenting a return to heaven as unambiguously positive news, seemingly oblivious to how Crowley would take it, and how Crowley does take it standing in front of him. As strong an argument as there is for them to suffer the hardship in order to strategically dismantle the system from inside as the least bad option of what's available, Aziraphale does not make that argument. Crowley can't strategize with the version of Aziraphale who thinks The Metatron is on his side. I still fault Crowley for leaving the conversation when he did, as much as I understand why he felt he needed to.

I’m not going to go through the whole argument line by line, but I’m going to do a brief review of my impressions of Aziraphale’s more ambiguous statements. 

“You can be my second in command” They’re authorising me to be in charge, I will raise you as high as I can on paper, no one will be controlling you. 

“Nothing lasts forever” I’m willing to let go of my attachment to this bookshop if it will secure us a safe future together.

“I don’t think you understand what I’m offering you” We can fully restructure the institution of heaven to be what we want it to be, for us and for the world we took responsibility for. You can have creative control over the reformation. We can be safe and together like we have wanted for 6000 years.

“Then there’s nothing more to say.” I respect your decision not to come with me. 

“I forgive you” for leaving me with the responsibility to fix heaven on my own. (But it was almost ‘I love you.’)

The Final Fifteen: The Aftermath

After Crowley leaves, what Aziraphale can load into his mind shifts again. He can see his fear, and that The Metatron is the source of it. All the reasons he has to not trust The Metatron come back, as do all the reasons why Crowley would obviously say no. The cascade of expressions Aziraphale runs through between Crowley leaving and the Metatron arriving are us witnessing the beliefs, opinions, judgements, and memories that are present in Aziraphale’s experience of consciousness being reformed into a different set. 

When the Metatron comes back, Aziraphale is functionally a different person, and this one doesn’t want to go. He tries very hard to soft no The Metatron. He really, really tries. It is the hardest part of the ending for me to watch by far. I don't think any instance of him was ever really ok with a version of events where he went back on his own. But I also think he fully expects to be smote on the spot if he actually says no, with Crowley smote soon after, and I don't think he is wrong.

For all the heartbreak of the ending, there are some optimistic points from across the span of my character study I want to highlight that I think are often overlooked. 

Aziraphale ideologically split himself off from The Institution of Heaven before Crowley got involved. 

He had a sense something wasn’t right even while the Star Queen was naive. 

He found his own way to form opinions for himself in the midst of an all powerful, rigid, oppressive system. 

He has played Crowley’s role performing political subterfuge temptation missions from hell who knows how many times. 

His perception that Crowley might want to be an angel again, while willfully ignorant and galling, didn’t come from nowhere. 

His tolerance and forgiveness of the other angels comes from infantilizing them, not respecting them. 

He was noticeably upset when The Metatron mentioned the Second Coming. 

Just as Aziraphale’s increasing stack of things he can believe doesn’t undo the imprint of his years of indoctrinated beliefs, The Metatron manipulating him into a disastrous mistake doesn’t undo the growth he has had, the tools he has developed, or the perspective he has gained. The last smile just as he steps into the lift is not sincere, and his stare inside at the end is a declaration of a kind of soft power war. We remember "but rescuing me makes him so happy," but the full line when Nina asks "Why don't you make your own plans?" starts with "Oh, I am."

Part 10/10

End note:

Due to a series of unfortunate events (or two), there was a considerable delay between the bulk of my "What does Aziraphale Actually Believe" series and the last instalment. While I initially felt very negatively about that, it also presented a particular opportunity, as I found myself reviewing the final draft details of The Metatron's manipulation tactics and how they messed with Aziraphale's mind at the same time as I was following the allegations against Neil Gaimen.

As things currently stand I find the allegations against Neil Gaimen very credible and very damning. Information is still coming out, but the odds of something being reviled that would change the gist of my opinion are very unlikely. I don't consider that to be cause to stop engaging with the fandom and analyzing the story. A lot of people who take that position frame it as separating the art from the artist. That is not the framing I use.

Typically I try to keep considerable distance between myself and anything that looks like psychoanalysing public figures. This because of a psychology ethics rule that I take on a broad interpretation of. The gist of it is to not form professional opinions about the psychology of specific people based on their public statements / works. Because what follows is skirting the edges of the spirit of those rules, I want to emphasise that it is my personal opinion, and I am coming at it more from literary analysis than any kind of Sherlockian attempt at deductive reasoning about the workings of a particular person's mind.

The narrative arc of Aziraphale's religious trauma, the way it plays out, the way his opinions bend and reform, the way he gaslights himself in the presence of The Metatron, the way The Metatron wields his power imbalance with a friendly disposition, the way the threats that are never framed as a threat mess with Aziraphale's mind, the way he convinces himself to be happy about what he is being forced into, the way his mind flips back and fourth based on the pressures of the people around him, the particular ways he is vulnerable to being subtly manipulated into appearing complicit in his own exploitation, the detail in how that plays out, these things were all written very well.

Or I should say, they were written very accurately.

The motivation I had to write the "What does Aziraphale Actually Believe" series was that a lot of the ways those features of exploitation were accurately depicted weren't picked up on by the general audience. Because they rang so true to life to me, but were not followed by so many, I sought to explain my understanding of Aziraphale's behaviour to people who weren't sure what to make of it. These mechanisms are often very counter intuitive, not understanding them is pretty normal, and the Final 15 stood out to me as having been written with a very unusually high level of understanding of how exploitative power dynamics operate in real life.

Which is to say…

If the author of Aziraphale's Season 2 narrative arc came to me, and told me that he just didn't realize how power disparities impact people, that he was trying his best and he just didn't understand, I would tell him to go fuck himself with a rake. I can get behind wanting more to be investigated, wanting more information to be corroborated, wanting to see the actual screenshots and emails. I have respect for people who still want more documentation. What I want to push back against is arguments from people who believe the conduct happened, but either think that it wasn't a big deal, that Gaimen could not have been expected to know better, or that he made an unfortunate mistake. Someone that oblivious would not have been able to write the story of Season 2. Someone getting called out for their abuse of power absolutely would claim they didn't know any better as an excuse, it's the most obvious excuse to make.

People who abuse power knowingly are often still able to create a pocket fantasy universe, conjuring sections of time during which they can believe their own lies. They can sit better with themselves and their own actions that way. That isn't the same as not knowing better, it is the most willful of all willful ignorance, and it can flip on and off like a switch. I haven't read Sandman, but the people who have may be able to say if it seems like the work was written by a person who understands that people can create their own pocket realities to live in, and jump into and out of.

One of the common things expressed by those coming forward is that they want people to know that they are absolutely confident Gaimen understood what he was doing. There was a moment in the "Am I Broken" podcast where the survivor made that point, and the host either didn't process what they were being told or dismissed it at the speed of light, pivoting to hoping this would be a learning opportunity for other clumsy people in power who are probably making the same mistakes. It was a very frustrating moment.

I understand it is confusing that the people who engage in serial predatory behavior can rationalize themselves into their fantasy narrative of events while simultaneously engaging in an intentional strategy. But it is what people do. Getting to believe they aren't doing the very thing they planed to do is part of the strategy, and part of how they are able to gaslight people so effectively. The answer to "do serial predators believe they are innocent or do they do it as a honed deliberate tactic?" is yes. Knowing that is key to spotting these patterns in real life.

[unuskvloo]

-/ batim oc /-

Name: Bonnie “Bella” Clarke

Age: Thirty-Four

Pronouns: She/Her

Gender(optional): Trans Female

Species: Formerly Human. Now transformed into an Ink Humanoid

Job/Role in the studio: Voice Actress for “Bella”

Likes: Watching artists draw and the animation process, Jazz/Swing Music, Socializing with others, The “Boris the Wolf” character, Poetry, Reading Thriller Novels, Tap-Dancing

Dislikes: Mistakes of any kind (heavily judges her self-worth and integrity), Flaws and Failure, Messy Food, Closed/Narrow Areas, Sammy Lawrence, Susie Campbell, Sitting Within the Quiet

Relationships: TBA (Open for any kind of connections/relationships)

Backstory: (More or less a very simplified version)

- To perform as an antagonist, artists eventually created concepts and the final product of their most mischievous character: Batty Bella. The one to cause most antics that are meant to tempt the demon to continue his devilish activities. A contrast to Alice Angel; one that is there to “throw a wrench into his schemes”. The little devil on one shoulder as the angel stands on another.

- Bonnie was assigned the role after being hired through a friend of the company. Despite the major risks that came for being “different”, through tons of back-and-forths, Bonnie secured the role once she “fit the description”. While there weren’t the best intentions made in mind when assigning her Batty Bella. Nonetheless, she was ecstatic to be able to voice act within a toon that would be watched by many.

- However, in one moment- she could recall her vocal chords straining and vibrating to hit certain high notes of a particular song. And in the next, she would feel something impale her stomach. There are numerous blotches within her memories, unable to recall the moment before or during the ink machine debacle. But, nonetheless, the ink machine recreated the woman into something that felt more comfortable than her own skin. Even if her new form is not ideal for outsiders.

Extra Info:

- Voice Claim is Belle Baker (Song - If I Had a Talking Picture of You (1929)

- Feels as though the character was made for her in some instances when reading the synopsis of Batty Bella. Bonnie always had interest in ballerinas and other hobbies/activities considered feminine.

- Always feels at least suspicious or wary of other angels due to a part of her sensing (or assuming) one of them stabbed her.

- Ring and pinky fingers are melted together.

[wraithdance]

The TF 141 Compatibility Love Report

For: @dwarvenagenda

Disclaimer:

This is based on my personal opinion and interpretation of you and the character.  the user makes no claims to be a real doctor or any medical professional. Please don't sue me! I got shook down by some girl scouts, they took my money and broke my knee caps. I have nothing but my illusions of grandeur left :(

The Doc says your TF 141 Perfect Match is…

Simon 'Ghost' Riley!

Romance: Unsurprisingly this was a no brainer for me! Romance with you and this scary murder muffin would be like two worlds colliding and merging into something so fundamentally right it blinds the rest of us peons. Simon is often misunderstood and labelled as a 'big bad'. As a partner you would be able to give him the space to put down his armor and be his unmasked self (doubly important because I do personally believe he is on the autistic spectrum.) The same would be said for you, given his protection of his family and his loyalty to his team, I don't think Simon would shy away from supporting you through even the hardest times. Mutual understanding and acceptance is the core of why I believe this is your perfect match.

Simon has weathered the torrential storms life has given him, he's not leaving you behind once he's got that collar on him and babes the leash you'd hold is but another string of fate. I specifically use dog analogies in reference for Simon because as humans a lot of us like to believe we are absolved of our primal natures with the emphasis on moral rightness.

Simon is someone who seems to embrace his more 'primitive' traits to be effective and cut through to the hard truths over politeness. To me, that means when Simon has his teeth in someone soft with gentle hands, he's in for life. In this dynamic physical connection would take precedence (with a bit of an awkward phase inevitably) and shared inside jokes would be the glue to a successful relationship. Romance with him is lazy days in bed at your rustic cabin or farm, taste testing recipes while music plays in the kitchen, playing footsie while checking in on your stardew valley crops.

Sex:  Please know that shit would be so good you'd need 800 years to write love sonnets about it. Sex with Simon would be the definition of dichotomy. Rough and primal, all teeth and tight grip, demands for acknowledgment of your life long (and beyond) connection. But also sensual and slow, wet lashes and heady kisses, sweetness that usurps the taste of candy. Either way he's taking care of you the whole time and he'll put you first. Def into freaky shit if you are! Get him comfortable with not having control and you can hogtie that man up and ride him like your life depends on it, if you so choose.

Possible points of Contention:

Trouble with communicating needs

may be insensitive about certain niceties

heavy handed with the petting (good luck to you and your pets lol)

Your Poly Pairing (haha) is…

GhostGaz- Pure bliss. Do I even need to tell you the vibes? In this poly pairing you would 100% be the ward to Simon's knight. Gaz would act as the charming diplomat and first point of contact for potential threats. But when shit hits the fan? These men work like perfectly oiled machines to get you all to the other-side. that goes for the way they'd flow in a relationship with you. Always pivoting around each other in an intricate dance to ensure the continued happiness of your lil love bubble. Besides who wouldn't want to wake up to the literal epitome of sour and sweet?

[liminalwings]

Working with Dragons: On 'Draconic Codes of Honor'

   In my early days of searching the internet for dragon magic resources, a lot of the same information got yoinked and passed around from website to website. This was the days of Geocities and Angelfire, when literally anyone could build a website and almost nobody liked to cite where they got their information. So you would have pages copied verbatim from D.J. Conway’s (singular) book on dragon magic (now there’s three), with personal UPG or other cool and mystical-sounding embellishments sprinkled here and there. 

   One of these often passed-around tidbits would be a “Draconic Code of Honor”, a 15 or 20 bullet-point list of ethics to follow that some sources brazenly added that “all true dragon magicians follow”. This at least did not stem from Conway’s writings, but originated online at about the same time as Dancing With Dragons’ original publishing in 1994; specifically, from J’Karrah Ebondragon’s “Clan of the Dragon” website. Formerly “Kerowyn J’Karrah SilverDrake”, J’Karrah has been a long-time active member in both Pagan and Dragonkin internet circles, as well as being a dragon artist. Her website, “Clan of the Dragon” (CotD for short) can be searched as far as 2001 on the Wayback Machine, with much of her content being stated to date back as far as 1994. Her dragon magic information is probably the second most-reposted after Conway’s work, including being directly plagiarized in some smaller self-published books in more recent years.  

   Her ‘draconic code of honor’ she even says was based on older traditional sources and codes that were being used in pagan spaces at the time, and according to information gathered by another longtime dragon magic practitioner and Dragonkin, Tysharina, the code was mostly created for use of J’Karrah’s small group of fellow practitioners for their particular ‘Draconic Tradition’; it was never intended to cover all draconic paths, especially with there being so few publicly at the time of its creation. It has been passed around and revised by numerous people and groups, with one version claiming that “dragons will not work with a practitioner that ignores [the code]”. Given that this code was created for one specific group and was never intended as a universal rule for working with dragons (and in fact the original version does not have this ‘dragons won’t work with you’ caveat), this can be misleading and off-putting for those looking to work with dragons with no prior experience or knowledge, and is in fact not shared by all draconic paths. 

   Some folks from around that same timeframe might also have been inspired by the DragonHeart movie from 1996, as the character Draco emphasized Bowen to follow ‘the Old Code’, which, in this case, refers to the Code of Chivalry. This may likely have led to a connection for some between dragons and some sort of code of honor, which has since infiltrated most information you see on dragon magic and working with dragons. 

   Since these two large influences on modern dragon magic, it has become almost standard for dragon magic resources to include some sort of code to be followed. Some of these are vastly different from the CotD’s code, original to their authors, and have been created to best suit their specific tradition. 

   In short, while you might find agreement and feel moved to follow such a code (which is perfectly fine, I’m not trying to dissuade anyone), do note that following such a code is not a necessity for working with dragons, is not universal to all dragons, and was created for specific traditions; dragon magic in general does not require moral guidelines in order to begin working with it. Anecdotally, the dragons I work with have never demanded or even discussed an ethical code with me, but I also give them the same basic respect I would give other people, which tends to be all you really need. 

__

https://web.archive.org/web/20091024212649/http://geocities.com/jkarrah/Honor.html - J’Karrah’s Clan of the Dragon 'Code of Honor' page via Wayback Machine

https://aminoapps.com/c/worldofmagic278/page/blog/the-clan-of-the-dragons-code-of-honor/odp5_Drsduq1NE3eX0x464DRNNb1odEjmW - Tysharina’s article on the CotD’s Code including information gathered from her personal correspondences with J’Karrah, and references to other draconic groups’ codes. (I would love to simply reblog her writing if she had posted it on tumblr, but alas, Tysha tends to go poof every few years, thus why I write this instead with due credit and linkage)

[yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy]

Excerpt - Convalesce

Young Jinx flees to the safety of Silco’s arms in search of refuge from the cacophony in her head. He obliges. As always. And a small game is played.

.

.

Confirming she possesses no further inclination to retreat, Silco reaches around her to retrieve his cigar, flicking off a generous nub of ash built on the tip. He holds it off to the side as he considers it, mindful of the curling smoke. Silco tilts his head to briefly touch his temple to hers, a silent affirmation.

He holds the next puff of smoke in his mouth until his lungs scream for relief. A hand returns to her back, fingers compelled to draw inane patterns while he resumes watching dust dance in the pale green light.

For some, fear is a sapling to be plucked, grasped and uprooted, giving way with a clod of dirt and a strained tug.

But her fear is not a weed, no. That much is painfully obvious. It is a shadow stitched to heart, a dark mimicry echoing her past mistakes and whispering her shortcomings in her ear, a cacophony silent to all but her. He cannot silence these voices, but he tries to speak over them, drown them out with sense, and for the most part he is at least partially successful. And on the rare occasions when he isn't..

He flicks some ash from his cigar.

The less said about those sleepless nights, the better.

Warm breath wrapped in a giggle settles against his neck, bringing Silco back to the present. ‘Si~ilco, what're you doing, algebra on my back? That's boring.’

The unmarred corner of his lips lifts into a faint smile she cannot see, then parts a sliver's worth to allow the smoke to languidly trickle out from the cavern of his mouth in a thick ribbon-like stream.

Her back transforms into a typewriter in his mind's eye. His fingers switch to skittering and pattering up and down the small expanse with the deftness of a secretary as he taps out a coded message. J-I-N-X-J-I-N-X-J-I-N-X. She giggles again, and the rest of the smoke gusts out from his toothy half-smirk like steam from a grate as he joins her with an amused huff. Such a wonderful sound. He wishes he could bottle it up and distill it into a tonic for occasions like this.

Do you remember the taste of your happiness, child? Drink, and recall.

If only it were that simple. "Or it could very well be nonsense."

Warmth is returning to the youth in his arms, spring swiftly bleeding into summer to leave dreary memories of winter behind. The wires are sparking, filling the air with the scent of sunshine and wax crayons.

She pulls back to grin at him, wiggling like a worm on a hook, or an overly-excited retriever. 'Write something else! Oh, oh, draw something and I'll guess!"

He hums in faux consideration. When she is distraught, her sense of self requires some time to return to form, her whimsical proclivities swinging ungainly between two stark poles, pitifully infantile or soberingly mature for her present age. A broken slot machine with its wheels ever-spinning. He is well aware of the strangeness, but he has never turned away anyone for being odd.

Dustin is oft times unintelligible in his speech, harboring brain damage from inhaling sump fumes in his formative years, yet when given a microphone can sing with the clarity of a lake lark.

Ran has no memory of their life before the age of fourteen--their genesis was upon that of a stained mattress within a rotting room, laces to their breeches untied and their hand trembling around the handle of a shiv sunken into the throat of a naked, disheveled woman looming above them like a gaunt spider—āyí. Auntie.

The Last Drop's bartender Thieram sometimes comes into work as Chella, the heavy-lashed dame with a spine of steel and nails to match; 'she' claims to be a soul residing within Thieram, a psychic fragment formed in childhood of whose existence he still remains starkly unaware.

Zaun as it stood now served as the dumping ground for Piltover's slag and refuse, a rubbish bin into which all things unsightly and ill-reputed were cast off.

Genius often wears the mask of madness, and this child was a prodigy tenfold.

So he honors these innocent, childish requests. Anything to keep her afloat.

He draws a waverider, which she guesses incorrectly as an alligator, then a gecko. 'Wrong genus.'

She groans dramatically. He can practically feel her eyes rolling in her head. Sapphire marbles. 'As if I know what that means!'

'You should,' he teases.

But he hums again, and draws a circle, the basic shape of a Poro. Funny little things, embodying empathy and cat-like curiosity. Thick white or yellowish fur, two curved goat horns, and a comically large panting tongue. Generally as big as an ottoman, though he's heard they can grow to dwarf even men. Their kind are as scarce as sunlight in Zaun given their sensitivity to suffering and conceit. They are fixtures in children's story books as heroes down here in the Lanes just as they are Topside, though a cunning and shrewdness has been allotted to their natures by his fellow Zaunites to afford them more..practicality and believability for the little ones. It did no one any good to fill their heads with naive notions of pure goodness and altruism as unshakeable forces found in nature. The world was not fated to be soft to those born on this side of the Gate.

There is a static-y pause, a taut coil of anticipation. She is waiting for more. He remains still, and when she eventually pulls back, he stifles a chuckle at how her brow furrows and her nose scrunches as if suddenly blinded by floodlight. 'That's it? That's just a circle!’

‘That is the animal's shape.’ He says from behind his cigar. The flaring of her nostrils makes him raise a challenging brow, though he maintains an unaffected air. ‘Anything more than that and it would be too easy. I know you're clever enough to figure it out without a hint.'

It is like a switch is flipped. The mirth buzzing within her stalls, stilts as her head lolls, a secondhand doll with a broken neck socket joint. Her expression darkens, her mouth twisting tight and bunching up like a ruined seam as she glares out from under a contorted shelf formed across her brow. Her eyes, still unchanged from the same brilliant blue that cloud of magic that blew his dockside shimmer operations sky-high, are no longer illuminated by sunlight glittering atop ocean surf. Instead they are mute, flat as cold stone. Unmerciful as kerosene flame.

Silco watches this quiet anger seep to the surface in equal parts caution and patience. He will never tell her that she is disallowed from feeling as she does, to the degree that she does. However, emotions were energy, and among his scores of lessons was how to best economically harness and direct that energy. The hungry black flame that shaped her ire could be better suited to tinkering or testing her projects than gouging out chunks of her flesh, or his. And energy disconnected from a proper set of conduits and outlets was inevitably fated to combust in a multitude of messy ways, perishing the host.

Needless waste.

The seconds tick by.

Poke.

The tip of her small finger darts out to stab his lapel, a spiteful peck with enough force behind it for the point of contact to well with transient ache.

Silco’s aloft eyebrow is joined by its painted brother to form a banner of quiet challenge. But as expected, this gesture only further deepens the creases of her mulish pout, reminding him of those pitiful inbred lapdogs adored by Piltovian ladies.

In her grousing, she fails to consider, or forgets, the presence of his hand hovering over her back. Another lesson to impart. Maintaining one's awareness of the world around them even whilst simmering in their own recalcitrance.

With a bored look, he pokes her in the back. Hard. Right between the vertebrae.

Jinx jolts forward, more so in surprise than propulsion, and makes a show of twisting and turning to dart her attention between his face and his hand, her sullenness now resembling that of a runt resentful of its target status by local bullies.

Her fingers curl into fists, fury building..

But she has not yet raked her nails down his cheek nor grabbed him by the ears to scream in his face, or made a lunge for his hair..

And suddenly, the clouds break. She gives him a thousand watt gap-toothed grin and begins to assail him with a series of rapid pokes upon his chest, little pecks with her pointer fingers that he can feel through his waistcoat. She pairs it with small sounds that simulate punching--'pow pow pow pow pow pow!'

It takes all of his self-control not to displace his cigar. His teeth sink into the filter as his lips pull back in a grin wide enough that he feels the familiar sharp numb-ache of his scarred cheek muscles pull and tug to accommodate. Pain she is able to make him relish as a gift.

'Come on, come on,' she chides, 'you gotta give me more than that, ‘wise 't's too hard! Powpowpowpowpowpow!!'

"Fine." She pauses in her assault, expectant. Bright, bright, bright with held breath.

He pokes two dots to serve as eyes, and grins even wider around his cigar when her anticipation crumples into another one of her frustrated groans.

'Is it a pet rock?'

'A what?'

'A pet rock. You know,' she drawls, bobbling her head as if it was obvious, 'a rock you have as a pet?'

Silco turns this absurd explanation in his head, and comes up blank. 'I still do not understand, but no.'

'Well if you don't get it, then it's a freebie! Point for me!'

'Mm. And how is it your point?'

She wiggles in his lap, pride threatening to spill out of her like unfiltered sunlight. Endearingly volatile and pure. 'I know something you don't know!' She sing-songs, lifting a finger from his vest to wave it back and forth in a tiny circling dance.

'That is not the game we're playing.'

'It is always being played.' She rebuts.

.

.

.

Deeply, madly, truly appreciate any comments. I have a whole lot more but the pieces are stuck in between very unsatisfactory paragraphs.

[dovebuffy92]

Florence + The Machine: Connections Between Older And Newer Songs

Florence Welch’s music has always been a raw, emotional exploration of her personal battles. Over the years, her songs often seem to reflect her evolving understanding of herself, as if in conversation across albums. Here are some meaningful connections between Florence + The Machine’s older and newer songs:

“Hurricane Drunk” (2009) & “Ship to Wreck” (2015) "Hurricane Drunk" from Lungs is a whirlwind of chaos. The song captures Florence’s descent into alcohol-fueled self-destruction. It’s a reflection of someone still lost in addiction who is unafraid to spiral and lacks the clarity to step back. Fast forward to How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful with “Ship to Wreck." We see a more introspective Florence, who is now sober. She is reflecting on those turbulent nights. In this song, she acknowledges the damage done but still wrestles with the patterns she can’t seem to break. Both songs are about her struggle with addiction, but “Ship to Wreck” carries the weight of hindsight. The song reflects Florence's inner battle that comes with recovery.

“Breaking Down” (2011) & “Free” (2022) "Breaking Down" from Ceremonials dives into Florence’s lifelong battle with anxiety. The song paints a vivid picture of her childhood fears creeping into adulthood. The song reflects the helplessness and entrapment of feeling overwhelmed by your mind. A decade later, “Free” from Dance Fever picks up that thread but from a place of acceptance and resilience. Florence still faces panic attacks, but this time, there’s hope. “Free” isn’t about escaping anxiety but finding liberation through understanding and strength. While “Breaking Down” captures being stuck in the anxiety, “Free” is about navigating through it with more clarity.

“Cosmic Love” (2009) & “Heaven Is Here” (2022) In "Cosmic Love" from Lungs, Florence is overwhelmed by love. She feels lost in its intensity and grandeur. It’s youthful, romantic, and almost disorienting. Fast forward to “Heaven Is Here” from Dance Fever. We hear a more mature Florence, still seeking transcendence but on her own terms. This time, love and passion aren’t something to drown in—they are forces to claim and harness. There’s a primal, almost battle-like energy in “Heaven Is Here." The song transforms the dreaminess of “Cosmic Love” into something fierce and self-empowering.

“South London Forever” (2018) & “King” (2022) "South London Forever" from High as Hope is a nostalgic ode to Florence’s youth. She celebrates the freedom and recklessness of growing up in her hometown while grappling with whether she wants to settle down and start a family. The song reflects her inner conflict. Part of Florence yearns for stability and children, while another part recognizes that her life as an artist might not fit neatly into traditional expectations. Fast forward to “King” from Dance Fever. Florence fully confronts these feelings. She declares her identity as both an artist and a woman. Florence questions the societal pressures on women to choose between career and family. Does she want to give up the freedom of touring to become a mother? Can she even imagine that life for herself? “King” doesn’t provide answers but embraces the complexity of balancing personal ambition and potential motherhood.

“Seven Devils” (2011) & “Choreomania” (2022) In “Seven Devils” from Ceremonials, Florence channels dark, apocalyptic energy. The song is steeped in eerie, gothic imagery. It is full of haunting confessions and the overwhelming sense of being possessed by one’s own demons. A decade later, in Dance Fever, “Choreomania” picks up this energy but transforms it into something more frenetic and alive. Inspired by the medieval dancing plague, “Choreomania” taps into that same intensity, but now the darkness is something Florence dances through rather than succumbing to. Both songs wrestle with chaos. While “Seven Devils” seems haunted and doomed, “Choreomania” channels the feverish intensity into motion, survival, and rebellion.

“No Light, No Light” (2011) & “Dream Girl Evil” (2022) "No Light, No Light" from Ceremonials is an epic confrontation. The song explores guilt, longing, and the desire for redemption. Florence wants to be seen and forgiven, even though she knows her flaws are out in the open. In “Dream Girl Evil” from Dance Fever, she plays with the expectations placed on women—specifically, the idea of being both angelic and monstrous. Florence now embraces her darker side, pushing back against the notion that women must be “pure” or “good” to be worthy of love and acceptance. Both songs tackle ideas of guilt and imperfection. While “No Light, No Light” seeks absolution, “Dream Girl Evil” defiantly revels in owning her complexity.

“What Kind of Man” (2015) & “My Love” (2022) "What Kind of Man" from How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful is a blistering, raw exploration of toxic relationships. The song showcases Florence’s rage and heartbreak. The song deals with the pain of betrayal and emotional manipulation, with Florence questioning the actions of a partner who pushes her to the edge. In “My Love” from Dance Fever, Florence confronts the emptiness left by disconnection, but this time, it’s more about the personal struggle to fill that void with creativity. Both songs explore disillusionment, but “What Kind of Man” is about external conflict. “My Love” deals more with the internal turmoil of finding purpose and meaning when love—or creativity—feels absent.

Over the years, these songs have created an ongoing dialogue between Florence’s younger self and her current self. Each track builds on love, addiction, anxiety, and the conflict between personal and artistic identity. These songs show us how Florence Welch continues to grow and evolve as an artist and a woman.

[elemit]

A Gift, A Curse

A story in which we discover just how damned an ascended vampire can be, and just how far you will go to save the spawn you loved.

Read in full on AO3

dead dove/not beta read

fic warnings: Abuse, Angst, Biting, Blood and Gore, Blood Drinking, Bondage, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Food Restriction, Hate Sex, Horror, Mental Coercion, Mind Control, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sexual Coercion, Torture, Total Power Exchange, Trauma, Vampire Bites

Chapter 12: Resolve

Things do seem to get better for you, in a way. Day by day your hunger becomes easier to - not control, exactly, but at least manage. After all, resisting dark urges is hardly a new experience for you. As your appetites become less all-consuming, you try to look back on the surreal and shifting memories you have made since your cravings began.

You realise that almost two moons have passed since Astarion turned you, and you have no idea as to the state of the world around you. Every moment has been spent in a kind of waking dream. You resolve to use your newfound clarity of mind to find out as much as you can about the time that you have missed, and to connect once more with the companions who had been your daily guides until that strange day of victory. But you still feel as though your mental state is unsteady, and the reclamation of your sense of self is unsure, so you decide to take your investigations slowly. You start small, wandering the house with sharp eyes and ears whenever Astarion has reason to leave.

You pretend that it doesn’t hurt to watch him have the front doors flung open so he can stroll out into the sunshine without you. As you cower away from the light outside, you remind yourself that he is going about business that will improve both of your lives.

You so want it to be true. You so hate to doubt him.

You find yourself searching for proof anyway.

———

The first thing you notice as you prowl the shadowy corridors of your home is that almost all of the servants - your servants - are thralls.

You had no reason, no need, no desire to speak to any of them in your previous state, but now that you try it, you see that they have the dull speech and dead eyes of beings entirely incapable of independent thought. They can carry out basic commands and answer simple questions easily enough, but any queries of significant depth, or any inquiry into anything personal, is met with a glassy stare of incomprehension.

To your surprise, it is Astarion who becomes your best source of information. He seems to enjoy telling you of his machinations in the city. 

“I won’t give you too many details, darling, I don’t want to confuse that pretty little head of yours,” he says, before describing his plans to you in broad strokes. He has already bought himself re-entry to the Barrister’s Guild, and has taken his seat in the Parliament of Peers that runs the city. Each one of you - every so-called Hero of Baldur’s Gate - was given a seat in honour of your contributions to the city, apparently. Your eyes widen at this newly discovered capacity of yours. Astarion sees your face and lets out a high laugh.

“Oh, no, darling, you don’t have a seat,” he explains, his voice dancing with mirth at your foolishness. “Naturally there is only one seat per family. You gave up your claim to a seat when you married me. Oh, you sweet thing, sometimes I forget how simple you can be these days.”

Your eye twitches, and you blink away the disappointment. Silly, you tell yourself, to be disappointed at the loss of something you never had. How would it work, anyway, sitting on a council, when you can’t even exist in the sunlight? When your hunger is still so precariously controlled? You’re a fool. You’re a fool. So you pull a fool’s smile onto your face and listen intently to your wise husband.

He explains that the law and order of the Gate was in shambles after the defeat of the Elder Brain. Gortash had disassembled the old City Watch, and in turn, you had disassembled his Steel Watch. The Flaming Fist was in disarray, and although they had clung to just enough semblance of control to muddle through in those first few days after the battle, it was clear that the city needed additional forces to dispense justice.

Who better to lead this New Watch than a Hero of Baldur’s Gate? Who better to administer the judicial control of the city than a man already practiced in the city’s laws, who had so recently shown his dedication to the city in such an unquestionable way?

You smile and nod at his shrewdness. Although, a voice in your head dares to say, his path to power does seem awfully similar to that of a certain follower of Bane. You wonder if you dare voice this thought to Astarion.

Eventually, you do. Quietly, meekly, of course, so as not to cause his anger to flare, so as not to hurt his pride.

“Our plans are not the same at all, my love,” he says with a patronising smile on his full lips. “Gortash was a fool. He believed that the only way the populace would hand power over to him was if he controlled enough of them with the tadpoles. He didn’t understand the world. I can see the way things truly are. People do not need to be controlled to hand over power. They do it willingly. They thank me for it. They are no more than cattle and they long to be led. They willingly hand over the tools of their subjugation because they know, deep down, that this is the way that things should be.”

[moonfromearth]

College Sim Dump!!

Will I ever be on time for a follower milestone? Not likely. 😅

Anyway, as a celebration for 150 followers here are eight cc free sims all enrolled in university! Each sim has been enrolled in a degree program, had two skills set to level three, signed up for organizations, as well as gotten scholarships!

Should you use them feel free to do as you want with them but I've provided some information on each one below the cut 😉😉

And finally a huge thank you to everyone who's followed me! I've had such a great time interacting with the simblr community and it means so much any time someone interacts with a post of mine so... Thank you!! 🤩🤩🤩

~ download (google drive) ~

A little about the sims...

Cassidy Whitmore (she/her) - Music Lover, Outgoing, Mean - Unapologetic, loud, and the mastermind behind The Whitmores, her and her brother's duo. A bit much to handle sometimes but a brilliant songwriter without much of a care for actually doing her homework, after all why write essays and answer multiple choice questions about songwriting when you can actually be writing songs?

Quinn Whitmore (he/him) - Music Lover, Paranoid, Good - Cassidy's younger brother. He looks up to his sister and has followed her lead thus far in life. His passion, though, lies more in the instrumental side of making music, and he's responsible for mixing songs that he and Cassidy work on together under the name The Whitmores. Good natured and friendly but overly anxious and tends to overthink too much. Actually does his homework, unlike his sister.

Whitley Miller (she/her) - Geek, Bro, Slob - The ace of Britechester's ESports team, Whitley's entire life revolves around gaming, modding games, and, well, more games. She's already completed several small video games as well as dozens popular mods for various games. Though some could say she's a little.. Unorganized, but who has the time to clean their room anyway?

Kai Māhoe (he/him) - Adventurous, Active, Squeamish - Britechester's all star soccer player, Kai is an athlete through and through. Outside of soccer he also snowboards and rock climbs, having gained himself several sponsors while still being in college. He's hoping to study abroad for a year and go to Mt Komorebi in order to reach the summit of the famed mountain for which the area is named.

Zoe Cho (she/her) - Art Lover, High Maintenance, Vegetarian - An artist who holds her opinion in the highest regard. Dreams of becoming an art critic but only after having her work featured within every famed San Myshuno gallery's walls. I imagine she wears contacts but unfortunately that's not a thing in the game so... Her natural eye color is brown. Member of the Britechester Art Society.

Blake Nora (he/him) - Perfectionist, Bookworm, Loves the Outdoors - You might recognize Blake if you've seen my last sim dump. His cousin, Jennifer, and him are pretty much identical. Blake was created by accident while I was trying to figure out Jennifer's look and personality. Anyway, Blake's a devoted student but rather than go on daring adventures like his cousin he'd prefer a good book and a small garden. He's a member of The Debate Guild solely to put it on his resumed, as he hates confrontation and arguing... So basically everything about The Debate Guild.

Averie Stewart (she/her) - Dance Machine, Hot Headed, Noncommittal - A dancer and cheerleader pursuing a career in theater, hoping to one day travel the world performing, never settling anywhere. Loves to have fun and hang out with friends but don't get on her bad side. Fun fact: Her look was inspired a lot by K-pop group dance practice videos. Member of the Foxbury Spirit Squad.

Gus Richards (they/them) - Self-Absorbed, Genius, Glutton - A medium with psychic abilities and an ego that's waaay too big. They're going to revolutionize paranormal research (so they claim). Probably watched Ghostbusters one too many times as a kid. On Foxbury's robotics team.

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

I was tagged by the delightful @miraakulous-cloud-district to share different lines from my fanfic, I Didn't Know You Were Keeping Count. I'm long-winded, so you get paragraphs instead! Isn't that fun?

Warning for, well, Bishop.

A line from your fic that makes you laugh

An exchange between Leara and Bishop in Chapter IV: Lark, continued, because Leara slays. I didn't realize how good some of my dialogue is until I read this passage.

“What’s the thread and needle for?” Bishop asked as Leara began to count out the correct number of septims. “Are you going to darn my socks?”

“Darn them yourself,” Leara sneered as she packed her purchases into her bag. “This is in case someone rips you a new one and I have to stuff your guts back inside you and sew you together.”

Behind the counter, the clerk snorted. Bishop scowled at her, and the girl’s ears turned red. He faced Leara, who made no effort to hide the amusement on her pale golden face. “Laugh now, sweetness, but we’ll see whose getting stuffed later.”

“No one, if you miss another rabbit and we have to go hungry again,” she wagged her fingers at him, dancing around his innuendo. “Now, quit scaring the shop girl.”

A line from your fic that makes you sad

In Chapter III: Hawk, Leara is recognized as the Dragonborn, and yet she struggles to believe she's worthy of it. This self-doubt follows her through subsequent chapters. This is when I really start to explore how Leara feels about being Dragonborn.

Her soul felt heavy, too. After laying the ghost of General Talos’ sword brother to rest, a melancholy pain filled her that was completely apart from the heartache borne from Sky Haven Temple and Delphine’s jaded words. The younger Blade didn’t acknowledge her as a Knight-Sister and had little faith in Leara’s ability to walk the destined path of the Dragonborn. With the fate of the world on her shoulders, Leara doubted her own abilities too. No one knew more than a Blade what being Dragonborn meant. Their order spent centuries guarding the Dragonborn Emperors and over a hundred years after the death of Martin Septim watching for the next Dragonborn. No, Leara knew what being Dragonborn meant and how utterly she fell short.

After all, how could a traitor to the Blades ever fulfill the role of the one the Blades were sworn to protect above all others?

A line from your fic you're proud of

That time in Chapter VI that Leara used rune magic to destroy a dwarven centurion is *chef's kiss* 💕 Literally an idea that I'm crazy about! I wrote it at like, five am, because early morning writing is the actual best!

Oil stained her bare forefinger as she traced runes across the chest plate of the fallen machine. Under the distant glow of the dwarven lights, the black stood dark and deep against the dull golden finish of the automaton’s armor.

Then Leara led Karnwyr across the dais to the shadows cast by the surrounding towers. Once there, she threw a rock back at the fallen automaton.

It clattered loud and clear against the bronze haul. Its living twin turned from its search near the stair to investigate. Leara held her breath as it thundered toward her trap. And then it was standing over the broken machine, blindly searching.

Flames pooled across her palm, kissing her skin. Leara hurled the spell.

At the swish of flying fire, the automaton turned its helmet. In that instant, the flames connected with the oily runes crisscrossing the broken machine.

Blinding white. A loud boom! resounded throughout the cavern. Her eyes squeezed shut, Leara covered Karnwyr’s face with her cloak as a wave of intense heat rolled toward them. In defense, she held an icy ward around them, depending on the old Cyrodilic dome style to shield them on all sides. She spared only half a thought to Bishop as the inferno died down in the melted ruins of the two Dwemer machines. If he was as smart as he claimed to be, he’d have found a good hiding place.

A line for your fic you think could have been better

In Chapter VII: Sparrow, after Leara's fight with Alduin, Arngeir relays what Paarthurnax had to say about the battle. I don't know. Reading over the other lines of dialogue I write and my descriptions, this paragraph feels really weak.

He patted her hand again, gently. Still, the frostbitten skin tingled and pinched beneath the layers of linen wrap. “We can discuss that when you are well again. For now, you must rest. As Paarthurnax told it, you bathed in Alduin’s blood and formed for yourself a shell of ice before flying through the air.”

Leara sank back into her pillows, eyes shut. “Yeah, that, that sounds right.”

A line from your fic that makes you want to punch a character

Honestly, the first time Bishop hurts Leara. Not that far in Chapter I: Rat. It's not the worst that he does her, but this is the moment Leara should've noped out . . . and didn't. Kinda sets the tone for a lot of Bishop's behavior throughout the fic.

The golden smile on Leara’s face wavered once they were clear of the gate and its guards. It slipped away entirely when Bishop dragged her into an alley and thrust her against a wall. Wooden planks dug awkwardly into the backplate of her silver armor, but she remained still. She inhaled, the beginnings of Unrelenting Force stirring into a gale in her mouth when his hand pressed into her windpipe.

No.

“Don’t you ever do that again!” he hissed, looming over her face. “Do you not understand what corrupt guards like that do to beautiful women like you? They’ll use you once and then expect favors any time you come through town!”

“Get – off – me . . .”

“Stupid woman,” Bishop growled. Nonetheless, he backed off her.

Leara gasped, her knees threatening to buckle as she took in air. “I can’t believe you’d just let them hustle you liked that!” he growled.

Leara coughed. By Akatosh. “Hustle me? They didn’t hustle me! I bribed them to keep them from turning you into a pincushion!”

“Oh, was that what that was?” Bishop lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “Next time, sweetness, let me handle the guards.” With that, he turned and walked away toward the other end of the alleyway. Without missing a beat, he called back over his shoulder, “Next time you want to play rough, try and give a man a warning, all right? I want an equal share of the fun, after all.”

A line from your fic that makes you go 'aww'

In Chapter III: Hawk, Leara despairs of ever learning Dragonrend and receives some good old fashioned Dragon Dad Comfort™. It's one of the cutest images that has ever sprumg from my mind! ✨

Sagging back against the Word Wall, Leara felt as if the entire mountain threatened to fall and bury her in its rubble, throwing her so deep she’d never be able to claw her way back into the light. Divines help her, was every lead going to become a dead end? “I thought,” she began, her voice betraying her exhaustion. “I thought you knew every Shout. You’re a dragon!” She squeezed her eyes closed.

Warm air puffed into her face. Leara cracked open an eye to see Paarhturnax’s head craned down at her level, upside down. His intact horn was just inches from the snow as he looked her in the eye. Leara blinked back tears she didn’t know had formed, rubbing at her face with the soft padding of her gloves.

“Dreh ni krosein, Dovahkiin. Do not weep,” he said, puffing another breath of air against her face. She blinked at him, the tears prickled at the corners of her eyes banished by the gentle gust.

A line from your fic that's full of symbolism

In Chapter II: Raven, Leara learns what Delphine really thinks of the Greybeards, and reflects. Sometimes I wish Leara could turn to Delphine and tell her to shut up and let the grown-ups talk, but alas. Character assessment can be symbolic, non?

Leara stared at her as if she’d suddenly grown horns and started ramming her head into the wall like a dumb goat. Is that what she thought of the Greybeards’ philosophy? A responsibility to use power wisely and respect the natural balance of the world was reduced to petty isolationism and fear. She could almost see the little Breton, head too small for the Blade’s helmet she wore like a crown, begging the Grandmaster to deploy her to Summerset. Heedless of the danger and finesse involved in such a mission. The woman in front of her had grown into the skin of one used to hiding, but still lacked the insight and tact necessary to find a path back into the sun. Distrust made Delphine bitter, and Leara pitied her.

A line from your fic that contains an Easter egg

I have lots of little references and Easter eggs in this fic. Some from Star Wars, an obvious Taylor Swift song reference, the Wizard of Oz, even! But this is one of my very favorites. From Chapter VII: Sparrow, because dragons and mountains remind me of The Hobbit, and The Hobbit is my favorite book. Like, ever.

Thunder rumbled and with it, the smoke hazing the world thickened, pressing down from the sky like a choking wave. The three turned. Leara could not. But she heard the coming just the same. A noise like a hurricane coming out of the east. The pines on the mountain creaked and cracked on the hot, dry wind. It was the World-Eater. Alduin was coming.

A line from your fic that's shocking

That time in Chapter VI: Salmon that Bishop did not, in fact, die like Leara thought he did. How discourteous of him. At the time, I was going for total shock and surprise value even though I was sure everyone knew Bishop couldn't die. Yet.

With careful, trembling hands, Leara extracted the Elder Scroll. Holding it to her chest, she breathed a sigh of relief. Then began to laugh. And then she began to sob. She’d done it! She actually found the Elder Scroll!

“Tears, darling? And to think, I’d thought you left me behind.”

Leara’s arms grew rigid around the Elder Scroll. Slowly, oh so slowly she turned around.

Standing with his back against the wall where the upper and lower ramps met beside the oculory, was Bishop. A little worse for wear, with a hole in the dark leather of his armor just below his right shoulder and a black bruise along the left side of his face, was Bishop.

At Leara’s open-mouthed shock, he smirked. Pushing off the wall, he sauntered toward her, a swagger in his step. “Did you miss me?” he said, coming to a halt in front of her.

A line from your fic you want to talk about more

In Chapter V: Moth, Leara sees the Arcanaeum for the first time and unleashes a bit of her inner nerd. I was inspired by a couple of different College of Winterhold overhaul mods, the names of which I can't recall. But like, I love love love the scenes that take place in the Arcanaeum!

The Arcanaeum was massive. The library took up two floors within the tower, the second accessible by two spiral staircases corkscrewing upward from the ends of the stone partitions cradling the center of the room. There were books everywhere, far more than the library of Cloud Ruler Temple held in the years before the Great War; many of the bookcases were locked, doors paned with enchanted malachite that promised nasty repercussions to anyone foolish enough to try getting in without the proper wards. Leara could smell the guardian runes like Wormwood and Bergamot, tempting and poisonous. Other bookcases were open, lined with neat rows of ancient leather tomes, bound in secrets and protective magics. The sheer amount of knowledge and magicka pulsing through the air brought the library to life. Leara knew she could spend a lifetime in the Arcanaeum, and even the centuries of a mongrel Altmer wouldn’t be enough to learn everything hidden in this place!

“Wow, you haven’t looked that taken with something since I – woah!”

A laugh burst from Leara as Bishop flailed backward, only just avoiding a collision course with a flock of books. They ruffled their pages at him, like a bird would its tailfeathers, before springing off, flying to the bookcases lining the second level.

“That wasn’t funny,” Bishop grunted, brushing off his dark leathers.

“Whatever you say.” Leara met Karnwyr’s gaze, and she shared an amused grin with the wolf.

Small tables were scattered around the perimeter of the room, each studded with haphazard stacks of books and lit by bright candles of white gold mage fire. The center of the library was dominated by a long table, settled under a trailing chandelier sparkling with the same mage fire held by the candles; studded on the chandelier, the lights illuminated the room with the vividity of a constellation. Then Leara gasped. It was a constellation! The Mage’s form reflected by the chandelier, bestowing the knowledge of the arcane on its students!

I don't know who to tag for this, hm, @blossom-adventures @oblivions-dawn @singleteapot @crysdrawsthings @elder-dragon-reposes and anyone else who wants to fill it!

[leam1983]

Vulnerability

A friend referred me to Moon's video essay on Taxi Driver, but Moon is one of those YouTubers who's trying especially hard to make Right-leaning intellectualism palatable.

As you can imagine, it's about as digestible as a plate of fresh arugula seasoned with concrete chunks.

Taxi Driver is something of a record of the woes of the Post-Vietnam Man, in essence. Travis Bickle is a taxi driver, and like all cab drivers in fiction, is depicted as being chronically dissatisfied and aching for a chance to matter to someone. He spends the movie forging connections, swallowing defeats and battling with his obvious PTSD, and ultimately breaks down into a Fascist's idea of a rebel, having come to the conclusion that strength is claimed - forcefully, if need be - and that Society is inherently weak.

The comments went about as you'd expect. Some drew parallels between Bickle and Incels, others claimed that Bickle emerged in a position of strength and that the world, generally speaking, had gone soft. Scroll down a tad and you find people who dance around absurd goalposts, all but suggesting that they'll only find their true masculine selves the moment Society collapses and that they're allowed to go back to pointing guns at people for a living.

This isn't the first time that I've heard that men are not "given" purpose in modern Society, not the first time I've bumped into media that depicts men as functionallly meaningless (e.g. Barbie), and especially not the first time I've seen people whinge and moan while generally missing the point about Life.

Another fun movie about self-actualization is Terminator 2: Judgment Day. In it, a machine learns why humans cry, a boy realizes that he isn't tethered to pre-forged chains of perceived destiny and a woman learns to find hope in a seemingly hopeless world. There's one leading axiom in the Terminator franchise, one which Cameron and Mostow and most of the other directors to have worked on it tend to squander.

There is no fate but what we make for ourselves.

Apply this to Masculinity as a concept, then. Can you, as an individual, determine the fate of Men as a gestalt? Of course not. Castlevania's Dracula is wrong about men; most of them aren't a miserable pile of secrets - most of them are secrets revealing themselves with time and application.

If you feel directionless in life, gender be damned - pick up a book. Pick up a hobby. Talk to people. Go back to class. Life gives us a baker's dozen different means to find ourselves, and nobody's going to honestly give you a meaning for your own life or a sense of purpose on a silver platter. Those that claim to be able to do so are boldfaced liars, grifters and conmen.

Bickle chooses his lot in life, at the end of the movie. You could argue, then, that he chooses poorly - which none of us are shielded against. Men are not weak, women are not expected to adhere to meekness or submission. Instead, Meaning is something that is sought after, if proper steps are taken. Meaning never finds you. You find it.