#sorry for the jadedness

[celestialtarot11]

hey! sorry if this is a stupid question but what placements or aspects of someone’s chart should we be looking at when we meet someone and want to get not only insight on who they are at core behind their image and superficialities or jadedness but also want to strike up intellectually stimulating conversations and get close?

Hi there anon <3 not stupid at all! I would say pay attention to mercury:

Moon—mercury can make someone open to intellectual stimulation. When harshly aspected it can either make them closed minded however, or prone to having deep conversations about trauma. More so relaying their insights.

Check where mercury sits. Mercury 8h, 12h, 11h, and 1h can denote a strong intellectual thinker. Someone who discusses deep topics with others and themselves. Debates, does not accept a simple answer.

Mercury—venus (positively aspected) can also make someone have a sharp but graceful mind. They’re smooth with their words and may take a minute to get to the point. They prefer subtlety in their communication, which is great for banter and jokes! But if you honestly ask them to dive deeper they will.

Aquarius/Capricorn mercury can suggest a deep thinker, but may be closed off at first. They can appear detached but beyond that exterior they think a lot. They think about heavy topics and the impacts of certain elements on society and themselves.

Check their moon sign too. Their moon sign is intuitively all about what they need and crave! If you can talk about what their moon sign likes they’ll surely be up for listening. So a Capricorn mercury with a pisces moon may prefer to talk abstract about a lot of topics. And they may prefer topics about spirituality, politics, the arts, and the psychology behind art. How does art convey psychological states etc. They have a lot of knowledge so staying on topic can be hard.

Gemini Venus, gemini moon, gemini sun are all so smart & intellectually stimulating. They are great for conversations because they also make it fun!

Saturn 3h can make an individual disciplined, smart and educated.

Saturn 9h can make an individual also knowledgeable and capable of deep conversations!

Any hard aspects to mercury can make them narrow minded, especially if making aspects to mars, saturn, aries/leo/cancer. If the mercury is debilitated and harshly aspected there will be a harder time talking to them.

A fire mars does not necessarily mean they are close minded, just strongly opinionated even though they love to hear others! Just pay attention to the aspects itself. The reason why I put cancer there is because it is our emotional body and our most instinctive, so if there is a harsh aspect there with mercury, the native can struggle with opening up and communicating. Leo/Aries can denote a strong ego when harshly aspected and can make a native have a “high horse” type of mindset.

Mercury touching Pluto can make for an impactful strong individual, who has a lot of knowledge, this includes all positive and negative aspects.

Hope this helped anon <3

[munson-blurbs]

@corrodedcoffinfest Day 5: On the Road Again

Word Count: 835/Rating: T/Pairing: Steddie if you squint/CW: slight Eddie x Steve/Tags: Eddie Munson, Gareth, Jeff, Grant, Steve Harrington

Divider credit to @silkholland

In retrospect, Eddie shouldn’t have ignored the clunking noise coming from the van’s engine. Though, in all fairness, he didn’t have the money to go to a mechanic and figure out the source. 

He would have had the money after the gig Corroded Coffin booked for tonight—a show for a club’s grand opening out in Indianapolis—except they’re currently stranded on the side of the interstate. Smoke billows from the front of the van, the scent silently urging Eddie to light up a cigarette. 

Or maybe that’s just the stress. 

“We have forty minutes to get to the club,” he mutters, the cigarette muffling his words. “If we can get to a payphone, we can call Pat and see if she can put us on later—”

“That still doesn’t solve our problem of actually getting there,” Gareth interjects, earning a scowl from Eddie that he easily ignores. “You got Triple-A?”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “You got Triple-A?” He pitches his voice upwards in a nasal, mocking tone. “If I had Triple-A, I’d be hitching a ride in a tow truck right now.”

“So…do we just wait here for someone to pity us and drive us to the club?” Jeff shoves his hands in his pockets, kicking one sneakered foot against the gravel. 

“Gonna need more than just a car to lug all of our shit,” Grant points out. “Like…a truck or something.”

Gareth crosses his arms. “Yeah, great idea. Let’s just hitchhike with a random trucker. That’s never ended poorly for anyone.”

“Don’t worry, pretty boy. I’ll protect—”

“SHUT UP!” Eddie’s anger silences the other three band members. His thumbnail is pinched between his teeth as he paces back and forth. “I can’t think with you idiots dicking around.” 

He runs a ringed hand through his curls. They’re still twenty miles out, but a faded blue sign ahead shows that there’s a truck stop a half-mile away. There’s probably a payphone there. He can call Pat, explain the situation, and ask if any of the other bands would pick them up. 

Before he can relay the plans to the others, a pair of headlights illuminates the road. The car slows to a stop next to the broken-down van. Eddie squints, trying to make out the person sitting in the driver’s seat as they roll down the window. 

“Eddie Munson?” A man’s voice, though puzzled, is familiar. Eddie recognizes the hair first—literally, The Hair. 

Steve Harrington lowers his radio as he takes in the sight before him. “You guys break down or something?”

Eddie’s jadedness makes itself present before his brain can catch up. “Nah, just enjoying a warm summer night on the side of the highway.”

“Dude,” Jeff mumbles, elbowing him in the side. 

Eddie sighs. As much as he despises the former King of Hawkins High, he can’t risk squandering the opportunity for a free ride. “Yeah, man,” he concedes. “We need to get to a payphone and find someone to get us to our gig.”

“I can take you.”

This has to be a joke. The last time Steve Harrington was nice to him was…never. 

“It’s all the way in Indy—”

“I’m headed that way.”

“And we have all our stuff—”

“Trunk’s roomy.”

Grant grasps Eddie’s shoulder. “C’mon. We don’t have another choice.”

He’s right, and Eddie knows it. The Freak’s success lies in the hands of The Hair. He waits for the gotcha moment, half expecting Steve to drive off once they’ve managed to pile the two guitars, bass, and Gareth’s snare into the trunk, but that never happens. 

Grant, Jeff, and Gareth scramble into the backseat, leaving Eddie to sit next to Steve. 

Great. 

They’re nearly at the club when Eddie can’t hold his tongue any longer. “So are you, like, a good dude now?” The words spill out. “Because the Steve I knew in high school would’ve left our sorry asses in the dust.”

Steve laughs, and Eddie finds himself relieved that no offense was taken. “Yeah, I was a jerk. Like, major ego.”

“So what happened?”

Steve pauses before responding. “Let’s just say it was my ass that got left in the dust, and it was one hell of a wake-up call.”

Eddie nods. “Well, we owe you one. Gas money, at least.”

“Nah, it’s cool. We’ll call it even after all of the shit I put you through in high school.”

Eddie thinks for a moment. “Can I buy you a drink at the club? If you were gonna stay, I mean. No pressure or anything.”

“Sure.” Steve smiles. “Figured you’d need me to stick around and give you a lift back anyway.”

“Y-Yeah. I mean, thanks.” Christ, why does kindness suddenly have Eddie unnerved? 

“Think we might be writing more love songs soon,” Eddie hears Gareth whisper to Jeff. He’d reprimand the drummer if it wasn’t for two pesky facts:

One, he doesn’t want to call any more attention to the comment. 

And two, he is, in fact, composing a mental list of words that rhyme with “hair.”

--

[jesncin]

I'm not an immigrant to my country. I'm not part of a marginalized race or religion. But even to me it makes so much sense that Clark isn't immediately going around telling anyone just by knowing how quickly people turn and act so cruel for no reason. How horrible behavior doesn't even need an excuse, just a target. How even without the violence, people can grow... strange in ways I don't want to get into.

Of course Clark approached this Lois as he did. Of course Kal told her, this reporter, his name and origins. Of course she reciprocated. A "normal" Lois might not have even if she had something to do it with, but this one has had so many different experiences growing up big and small. Things that I know people would insist can be easily ignored. The put-downs, the look-overs, the snide remarks... Told she's too smart, too "dumb", too "needy", too "pushy", too "weird", too... too... much. Any Lois is brash and unapologetic. But...

Of course Kal-El and Lois Liando are being so understanding where a more "canon" Kal-El and Lois Lane might struggle. What is canon but stories already told and shaped by other times and points of view? This isn't something you have to alter to fit the demands of a boss or publisher, so you're free to let the characters breathe and truly be themselves as they've been cast here. Different but at the heart still who they are. They're able to see and think instead of acting rashly or use words as daggers. Able to be compassionate as much as possible instead of dramatic. To be kind in a cruel world.

I'm sorry that this went on a while but I've rewritten this so many times over the course of a week and this... is as short and as clear as I'm able to get it. I hope you have a good day.

Hi! Yeah I'm glad that even people outside of the experience can understand how Clark's superhero identity is a marginalized one (especially compared to other heroes). When the concept of "foreign"-ness is brought into the equation, people can be cruel. It's why I personally find takes where "people are mad at Clark for ~lying~ about not disclosing his identity" so distasteful.

There we go!! Yeah you get it!! Lois is still a jaded reporter, it's just that her jadedness now comes from a very specific history and experience. Superman still gives her hope, but now it's because she sees herself in his story. Superman still reaches out to Lois to tell his story, but now it's because he knows Lois would do the story justice as an immigrant writer. I was concerned that people would think Superman sharing his Kryptonian name would be "too soon" to do for the Private Interview event, but I'm glad that readers like you understand why he trusts Lois Liando with it. It's common for people of similar experiences/identities to open up to each other sooner than most- because they know that the other person gets it.

:) A thing I've been saying a lot to people lately is "you don't have to work for DC comics to make DC comics". Canon itself can be pretty nebulous, so why can't fanon (where there are no editors and ideally no gatekeepers) be any different? And just because it's fanon, doesn't mean it can't give you the same (if not more) feelings as canon does. It's probably because I rendered the Private Interview comic to a horrifyingly professional degree (lmao I'm putting that comics Masters degree to use) but I've gotten a weird amount of responses that assume my comic needs to justify itself with canon. When no fanon work owes anybody that. I'm glad readers like you get it, y'know!

Oh my, don't apologize for taking the time to write such kind words (for over a week??!)! I really appreciate it, thank you dearly!

[ghoulphile]

Lemme just say this about Janey’s Dad… I absolutely love it when the reader is doing to pursuing! I’m usually into the whole “coy” thing, when Cooper takes control and initiates the seducing, and the reader is so overwhelmed by the seduction they more or less let things happen to them instead of doing the deed WITH Cooper. But…

It’s so so refreshing to read a fic where the reader takes the initiative and makes Cooper get all flustered, tells him “I know you want it too.” Because my personal headcannon, given from how flirtatious Barb was when they were working together, I got the impression that she was the one to make the first move when they met and her initiative was what turned Cooper ON. Yeah, he’s a tough ex-marine with a lasso and a gun, but that man loves it when he’s all buttered up like a biscuit.

Thank you so so much for reading, I'm so happy you enjoyed it ❤️

I have so many feelings about Cooper: the man had literal heart eyes for his wife, ignored everyone else as soon as he saw her, and his love language is definitely touch so man is handsy inside the bedroom and outside of it.

He also gives me the impression that he's not enjoying it if the other person isn't, and wants an active participant.

Barb and Janey were/are his entire world and after the divorce/separation you can see the jadedness in his eyes/how he interacts with others at the party/etc.

He looks so disheartened and weighed down by the world and I wanted to explore how he'd be with someone younger than him showing an interest on the tail end of his failed marriage.

Also I love your headcanon! I can definitely see that lol.

Tbh he doesn't strike me as the type to like empty lip service and praise just because he's Cooper Howard but rather because that's what people actually think.

Case in point: the afterparty, man's only cared to engage when people mentioned his fave movie... that had his dog in it. He was trying to get through the room as fast as possible otherwise and seemed to dislike the attention.

Sorry rambling 😂

Anywayyy thank you so much again🥰!!

[ruershrimo]

like it’s the old love. | part 1 FINALE: section a | "merry christmas"

masterlist | prev | next

features albedo (literally just him this time lol)

warnings: like in every other chapter the reader is fem!reader, there's a little bit of swearing, lots of cringe, perhaps a bit of angst and this chapter is COMPLTELY TEXT (sorry!!), but it's mostly okay in terms of not having anything that bad (please lmk if there's anything that warrants any warnings, though!)

notes: merry (extremely late) christmas, everyone! I meant to finish this before christmas so I could time it all together, but between writing for the event, travelling overseas and my poor planning, I wasn't able to finish it in time. I'm so sorry if it feels rushed! (this was also probably the chapter that I struggled with the most-- you'll understand once you read it, haha.)

summary: you finally want for things so passionately that you'd run for them instead of holding yourself in place again, and he's what you're running for. now you know for sure that you won't let go.

For the next few days everyone eagerly prepares for Christmas. Every few days Alice takes chunks of time out of her schedule to shop for gifts with Klee, while you and Albedo stay in spending time with each other, watching movies, doing housework or adding more decorations around the house, or spend time outside instead, eating at restaurants or cafes. 

“Do you think there’s anything else we should add?” you ask him with your hands in your pockets, the two of you standing before the front gate. Compared to the densely packed apartments or bleak streets back at home, their house is an idyllic thing, like something from a Christmas movie. Like always there’s snow piling up on the sidewalk and the porch— which was an extremely rare occurrence back at home— and all the other houses on the block are caked with snow like frosting on a cake. The sun has begun to set, and the lines of lights on every picket fence and every door brighten up the street like glowing fairies. You anticipate the glow of the stars from behind the chimney overlooking the roof and the porch, clusters of falling snowflakes flanking each side. 

“Not really,” he replies, “This is alright.” 

“I think we did a pretty good job,” you say, hands rested on your waist in a mix of satisfaction and jadedness, “I don’t think we’ve ever really done everything on our own, so I thought it wouldn’t go as well as other Christmases, but I think I’ll just say that this’ll be one of the best Christmases ever. —Okay, I know that sounded over-confident, but— it’s not over-confidence or anything, it’s a fact!” 

He’s staring at you with mirth in his eyes, and there’s nothing you can do but do the same to him, like there’s forces pulling you together and it’s so simple, you wonder why you hadn’t realised you weren’t in love with him before. 

You really want to be selfish— you’d already done it before, roping him into this arrangement. To demand more time from him, more loving gentleness and tender care in each gaze and hand. But how could you? Even if he loves you too, would he ever say it? If he knew would he ever tell you, and if he’d known why hadn’t he? Was he scared like you? Had you made him wait? 

Could you really risk telling him that, aloud, if it could ruin things like it did before? 

—

On Christmas Eve, he takes you out for a walk on the beach. 

It sounds a little silly, really. In the past it would just be a simple hangout, but now that you were together, it was a date he could take you for. 

The change was so simple, and although nothing really changed on a superficial level— not the jokes, or the conversations, or the giggles or the calm unchangingness of his tone— things still felt different, somehow. (Or maybe it was just you.) You were a couple, now. It was silly that you were still trying to wrap your head around it, even if you were the one who suggested it: the two of you went on dates sometimes yet still continued on with rituals like hot chocolate and winter beach walks that you had before, so now everything's at once different and the same. 

It was confusing, to say the least. As if you were crossing a tiny little bridge from Point A to B, but you weren’t quite there yet, and you were still considering if you should go back to Point A or whether Point B truly was supposed to be the destination for the both of you. 

“Merry Christmas,” you cheer as he stops the car, “Woo!” 

He opens the car door for you. What a gentleman, really— so you’d really been this lucky knowing someone like this for so long, and not realising you’d fallen in love with him? 

Or were you just too scared to? If so, what changed?

“Merry Christmas,” he chuckles. 

The two of you walk side by side as the wind blows through our hair again. You can feel the chill of winter again, tickling your ears and every time you try to face the cold again you’re only hit full-force by its numbingness, sliding your face back into the collar of your fully zipped jacket for a sliver of warmth. When you take your hands out of your pockets for a while, you feel like you’re soaking them in iced water. 

Your hands bump against each other apprehensively with touches so faint you can barely feel them on your numbed skin, but you can tell that, though it may just be an illusion due to humans’ innate body heat and how cold everything feels, his hands feel warm, and it’s as if they get warmer with every light graze against your hand that there is. You’re not looking— if you did, your chest would constrict ever so slightly, yet in the most comfortable way possible. If you had a tail like a dog’s, looking at the proximity of both of your hands would cause it to wag uncontrollably. 

It’s not like how it felt before with everyone else, when you’d constantly be red-faced and you could sense your emotions slipping so painfully yet so easily out of your control like sand from the gaps between your fingers. Being with Albedo isn’t masochistically thrilling like that— it’s comfortable, even if a part of you feels as if you could fall from the gap between Point A and Point B at any moment. Because although it seems scary, there’s something like a harness that secures you in the end and tells you that you’ll be fine, even though you know there’s a high chance you won’t be; even though you know that some few eight letters and your own insecurity can be enough to end things and send you plummeting down into an unforgiving torrent of snow as seventeen or so years of friendship and closeness can only crumble. So as scary as it feels, a part of you wants to hold on to that harness— hold on to him— and survive. 

Then like puzzle pieces your right slips into his, and he doesn’t let go. 

His hand is warm, so unbelievably warm. 

This is the happiest you’ve felt in your entire life. The past few days of your life have been the happiest you’ve ever been no matter how bleak you know things will be once you’ll be back at home in Liyue. 

This is the simplest (though maybe the edgiest as well) way you could put it: every year you’d live feeling like you were a shell of a person watching another’s life through the screen, putting on masks and switching them for others with every door you closed and every day that passed, no matter how many people you’d known from school: if you feared being hurt by envy or your own love for them, they would never come close, or at least not close enough. The only end to it was winter and your holidays spent with Albedo, Alice and Klee. Whenever you stepped into their house, despite how cold everything would feel, you’d feel invigorated, like you were living your own life again. 

“So why the sudden date?” you question, your face warm and the sand devoid of anything besides seashells and prints of the two of your shoes’ soles, “This is probably our first official one.” 

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something.” 

About something good? Or something bad? 

You hope it’s something good. You don’t want this moment to end. 

“...what is it?” 

“I…” he pauses. So he’s nervous, which means it’s either something terribly good or terribly bad. “I wanted to ask if this could be permanent. …or if we could solidify things, I suppose. I mean that we could try to be a couple, an actual couple— like one that isn’t bound by a one-year arrangement. But then again, it’s hard to define this when there was never that much of a difference to how actual couples are like, anyway. 

“I think it’s just that…” he says, voice uncharacteristically abashed, and it takes every bit of strength and control in yourself to dart your eyes to the ground in avoidance, “I think I’ve loved you for quite a while and realised that I should finally say it.” 

At that moment it’s like your heart stops, almost flatlining. And now you’re scared and you don’t know what to do, you want to think but you want to answer, you’re going to regret what you say next but you’ll say it regardless even though you know what you need to say isn’t want you will say, oh god— 

You suppose it’s in your inborn nature to ruin everything, because as he continues to stare intently at you, you open your mouth and say words that were already filled with regret long before they were uttered. 

“… I don’t think I can do that.” 

“…you don’t? I… I understand, I’m sorry. But…—but please just think again, [name], I’ve always wanted to say this. 

“I think I’m going to go back in the car for a while.” 

Damnit. You ruined it. You ruined it all. 

Thank god there wasn’t anyone else there, because you don’t think you’ll be able to handle this without the absolute lack of any other’s presence. 

He heads back to the car on the same path that the two of you came from, and as you watch his quick footsteps and how unrelentingly fast his back— the only thing that’s facing you— fades into a smaller and smaller silhouette, you feel like all you can do is stand there and cry and watch him leave like everyone else. 

Like there’s a phantom force holding you by the legs, never letting you walk, never letting you change this for once. 

In all your years alive, you’d fallen in love with countless people, had your heart broken countless times without them realising, never wanting to take a single step for others because you were scared. Because you didn’t think you could do anything at all. And you hated it. You hated those feelings, hated how you tried all you could only for your efforts to go unnoticed in the faces of people who only truly recognised the best. 

But not now, not again, not when this is the happiest you’ve ever felt; when this makes years of unrequited feelings from others and school years spent with that inexplicable, unmoving loneliness that never left even when you’d befriended those people all worth it. Even if you were blessed with a good background, with a brother who cared despite not understanding you, with parents who were busy but only so that you and your brother could have good futures, this felt like one of the only things that really did make you happy. This felt like a blessing you’d claimed yourself; one that you had to chase after, and maybe that was what made it all worth it. 

So you run after him, leaving sole marks on the sand again, telling your legs to move no matter how much you wanted to fall back, head giddy with all sorts of emotions that screamed for you to just sprint after the one good thing you wanted to keep as the strands of your hair flailed about and you felt the wind howl viciously at you, at your face, everything. 

You know you’re a coward. You know you have a life that sucks. You know you’re too scared of changing it. But you’ll stop; you hope to whatever god who exists that they’ll let you keep this. You hope to yourself that you can have this because now you know even if you’re a coward you’d fight tooth and nail to have it always, to have someone love you the way he does. 

—

When you’re there his tone has changed, slightly less controlled, slightly more helpless and your heart twinges in so much pain when you hear it: 

“I’ve loved you for so long, but you run away from everything you’re scared of,” he says, and the sadness tugging on his tone is almost tangible, but it’s full of conviction and you’re not sure what makes it hurt more: you being forced to hear the truth you denied and refused to believe from the one person you expected not to hear it from, or you being fine with it if he’s the one telling you this? 

“You run away from not being the best, you run away from things that you want because you’re scared of failure and rejection and change. 

“Please, [name]— rejection and failure aren’t as horrible as they sound. You think of the life you have after all of this as death, and you don’t question whether you can have a future you enjoy or not because you’ve hammered into your own head that your only two options are trying things which can only lead to inevitable failure, or sticking to what you think you have to do to survive, no matter how much you hate it you’d rather stick to it out of your own fear.” 

His words hurt and feel comforting at the same time, inundating your senses to no end like sweltering hot chocolate burning your throat and tongue, or like an embrace that chokes you and only makes you want to dissipate into it and cry. You barely even notice your quivering lips and the tears running down your cheeks the same way rain falls when the sky opens up and weeps uninhibitedly. It feels like the pot that’s had water in it for about all of your life has boiled over and overflowed. 

“Please, just say something. I don’t know if I was wrong, but if I were then maybe I never knew you at all, and I’m sorry if that’s the case.” 

You shake your head and scramble for words only to find none for you to say. 

“Please just be selfish. Please, for once, stick to the things you want. Please just hold onto things no matter how scared of them you are.” 

You squint your eyes in pain and even more tears flow down to your chin. 

“...please, do it out of love.” 

Then you snatch your hand away from his and jump to him, your arms wrapped desperately around his head. Even they don’t want him to go while every part of you is pressed flush against him without a second thought and ignoring how there’ll be an ache in your upper arms if you’re ever pulled apart after comes as easy to you as breathing. 

“…no— I’m sorry, Albedo, I’m so so sorry! You’re right, you’re fucking right, I’m just a coward, I—” you ramble, the words pouring out of you like gushing water without a single moment of respite for you to catch your breath— “I wasted all of your time, I played with your feelings even though I knew how you felt but I was selfish all along for that because I never wanted to ask if we could be anything more, I was just— I was too scared of it all so I took advantage of you like that, but—!” 

He holds the back of your head and pulls you nearer to him as if you weren’t ever near enough. 

“Every year, Albedo, every year when I stayed here because I had no one else to spend time with, it was with you! And every year, god, every year, I cried to you and wasted your kindness as I only kept crying about my own problems and never helped take care of yours, I just kept viewing each year as one hell after another, I—” 

In your slight haze you notice how he’s crying, too, ever so quietly, you can barely hear it as his low cries reach your ears. 

“—I love you, Albedo, I love you so much. Sometimes it hurts so much and that makes me scared. And my life sucks so much but even trying to change it makes me scared. So I’m useless, just useless and selfish, I—” you gasp for air. 

“—so be selfish, why don’t you? Don’t worry about me, don’t worry about being a burden,” he almost shouts, then gets softer again, “Because you are, at times. But you’ll never be some stain on my life like the way you view yourself as. I’ll listen to you cry each time— don’t care about me like that, put yourself before me, please,” he pleads, “It’s better for the both of us if you put yourself before me. And try to be “useless” in that sense for once since you never were in the first place, why don’t you—” he says between tears and shaky inhales, “Be selfish and feel what you want to feel, feel what you have to feel. If you need to, use me as what you can lay your back on after everything. It’s horrible but I’ll do it regardless, so just let me help, please, I don’t want to watch you continue to hate yourself and your life like this!” 

And then you cry and cry and cry for what seems like an eternity, as if years and years of feeling like you aren’t living your life, of feeling useless and unnoticed to the people around you, just spill out so simply and turbulently. He just continues crying, crying for you despite how lonely he must feel from his own experiences, from a mother who never cared much for him unless when he was impressive or could keep up with her in all things related to the sciences she loved more than her own son; from the impossibility of him ever being able to be on the same playing field as him in terms of intelligence and curious thinking in the same way the mother who left him did. 

You don’t know how you’d never thought of it before, that small child the same size as you being sent to live with his aunt his whole life when his mother who could have taken care of him merely chose not to due to her work. But then the two of you weren’t so different, no? Yet he was so different, so wonderfully different, an inspiration to you that you envied yet placed on a pedestal more and more through the years. Did it ever make him feel lonely, then? Did he feel as happy as you did for the past few days you were together, partly because both of you rarely mentioned how he was “perfect” and how you weren’t? Did he ever look at you and wonder if he could be like you, the same way you wanted so much to be amazing like he was, did he ever look at you with envy? 

How could he ever envy you, though? He was so good, so blindingly, painfully good. A good son, a good friend, a good person. 

…why are you so good, Albedo? You choke out through tears after a while, “Why do you have to be so good to me? Why, why? Why do you do this to yourself?” 

“I don’t even know,” he replies, softly, his mouth buried into your hair as if he’s using your head to muffle himself, “I’ve been doing it for years and I want to do it forever. I don’t know anyone who can know you like I do and not want to do the same.” 

“I’m so sorry. I love you so much. I’m so, so sorry. I’ll try to be selfish from now on. I’ll try to learn to want to have things for myself again.” Just let me have this. 

You hold him tight and cry into his shoulder. 

Everything’s quiet. The grey exterior of his car seems so serene when illuminated by the stars that twinkle despite the tarry, black colour of the sky, and so is he, his moonlit blonde hair in your peripheral vision, the relaxing slothfulness of his breaths, the droopiness of your eyelids as you rest your chin on his shoulder. Everything’s calm. 

Yeah. You’ll be alright, you think. You’ll be able to have this, to keep this. 

You’ll be just fine if he holds your hand through it. And then maybe you can hold his, too. 

—

“I’m happy,” you whisper on the drive back. It just felt natural to head back home after, anyway. And maybe sleep in the car once it was parked in the driveway instead of coming back inside. Then maybe tomorrow you could go on for real this time, watching movies and making hot chocolate and having conversations at the foot of his bed, and at that moment you think that’ll be all you need to be content for your whole life. 

“Hm?” His head turns to you for a moment before turning back to face the wheel. 

“I’m happy I have this,” you say, “Even if my eyes are going to be swollen on Christmas Day.” 

One of the numbers on his satnav’s digital clock changed. 12:00, it read. 

“At least you’re not alone in that aspect,” he smiles, and you lean your head against his so that it’s touching him ever so slightly. “Merry Christmas, [name].” 

“Merry Christmas,” you say back, “I love you.” You really, really do, and you’ll say it every chance you get to do so now as compensation for all the times you hadn’t said it before. 

“I love you too.” 

You close your eyes and sleep. 

(When he returns to that sleeping neighbourhood, he turns off the engine, but doesn’t leave the car. The next morning, when the sun’s rising and you open your eyes to lines of houses adorned with reds and greens, you hold his hand and snap a picture of his sleeping figure again. You hope he won’t mind when he wakes up.)

end notes: and that's the start of part 1's wrap-up! the next chapter will probably be mostly fluff that'll take place during new years, and that one will probably be really short, too. I hope that that way, we can end this series and this year on a high note! part 2 of litol will be coming out in the first half of next year :).

taglist: @sn1perz , @n3r0-1417, @kika-a, @chalksdreams

(please send in an ask if you’d like to be in the taglist &lt;3!!)

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Expanding on the parental feelings ask (in a non-current events direction):

What do you think about Arthur specifically? He's the quintessential jaded bastard, as you've noted, but he also has those very strong paternal feelings. But he's also constantly quashing them due to aforesaid jadedness. So how does that shake out with his people, in general and throughout time? (Like, he's trying to be a better parent to the weans post-world wars - does that translate at all into more paternal feelings for his people?)

Also, if I can ask for two - what about François? More paternal because his people aren't disappointing (sorry Mattie!), or is he just not that type in general?

So after the war, the world, but especially the west, saw a massive baby boom. It's the first time in human history that the vast majority of children grow up to become adults. Some historians theorize this allowed parents to become very invested in their children and, when paired with the suffering the war generation went through, created a contemporary culture in the anglosphere that was very family-centric. People are just popping out babies left, right, and centre. Cultural shifts affect nations the same way they affect people.

So Arthur, who is rapidly losing hard power and increasingly reliant on soft power, is doubly motivated to act paternally. And that does reflect in his interactions with his people. He's always been relatively good with children as they are small and nonjudgmental and tend to like him, but a large part of that extreme jadedness that has coloured his worldview does dissipate somewhat. He wants those policies about the NHS, housing, public welfare, parks and everything else that increases the quality of life more than he ever has. He wants more education; he might even make a scholarship for Kiwi students together in Zee's name at Oxford when he downsized properties. When he's not a toff, drunk off his ass or otherwise terrifying, his citizens will just hand him their children on a train, tram, or bus like, "hold this for me while I tie my shoe, would you?" And suddenly, Arthur just has his hands full of some cranky toddler named something insanely British. Prunella or something similar. And the kid is now utterly contented in what's supposed to be a complete stranger's hold. But Arthur is the weird mascot of like one-third of an island asking, "Yes, good morning, how do you do? Rather a rude face you're making at me, little one, but it is quite early!" So the child is happy enough.

As for Francis, in nationverse, he's paternal in a very broad way. He wants his women to have babies and his schools and universities full of talented children. He wants to make the best of everything he has at his disposal. The French State was the first in the world with regard to what we would now call pro-fertility reforms. And in the aftermath of two world wars, I can see him taking a much more vested interest in the lives of his individual citizens. He's protective, he will absolutely throw shit to protest alongside them. He enjoys young adults very much, and many French university students have had an unexpected cash windfall if they impressed him. He'll move himself on the train for pregnant women or women with small children. He'll even help a tourist haul their overly large stroller down the steps because Americans never plan for facilities lacking elevators. But I don't see him enjoying time around children very much at all. Francis holds a baby fine and will find them a novelty if they're beautiful or otherwise charming babies. Outgoing, social and mature children catch his eye. Francis can engage them for at least a short while, but he doesn't enjoy and has little tolerance for any who are shy, clingy, picky eaters or otherwise excessively needy. The second a baby starts crying, it's back to its mother or caretaker. He's a fastidious man very attached to aesthetics, who likes to eat good food and drink good wine, has nice things and enjoys peace and quiet. Children are messy and unorganized, they're picky eaters, they can't exactly drink a 1997 Chateau Gilette Creme de Tete, and children break things and cry often.

[thrandilf]

I'm willing to read most shadowpeach fics even if they are pretty ooc (I have a limit of ooc, but it's pretty wide) but fics I can't read are ones where macaque is just now in modern times meeting wukong. Like I'm sorry, but macaque would be a completely different person if he never met wukong. So wildly different that a macaque acting like macaque breaks my suspension of belief, and a macaque acting like he should in that scenario isn't my macaque anymore by any metric (might as well be an OC)

I sat here for a bit wondering how to say that I haven't actually found any Shadowpeach fics I like that I haven't written myself without sounding horridly self absorbed/picky but it's where I'm at

To be clear, I've only been in fandom for a few months and I haven't looked all that hard, I'm sure out of the 8k or so on ao3 there are absolute gems, just haven't found em. I'm open to recs! but I'm in fandom for characterization and specific dynamics which drew me to the characters in the first place, so you've got the biggest lead on me for not being picky/coming off as judgy, anon hahaha

In that circumstance you laid out I'd also wonder who Wukong would even be. He's influenced by his past relationships just as much, even if he isn't as overt about it as Macaque/he's had a wider range of influence since Macaque is more Wukong centered than vice versa, it would still be Different.

Fic of them in early or pre brotherhood would be really interesting! Or in this AU- a Macaque full out reincarnation would be fascinating if LBD hadn't brought him back. Like, that could be interesting, but their history is such a core part, even as obscured as some of it is to us right now, that I'd have a hard time trying to untangle it and make it feel like them. It would still have to be History on Wukong's end for me or too many pieces are gone from the jenga tower yfm

I'm also someone who writes canon compliant or adjacent stuff Most of the time, where I like to extrapolate and kind of take the edges of the picture and expand, like a degree removed from canon/plausible, but not putting people in totally different worlds or altering major canon events. Hell, I don't even make OCs for fics unless my arm is twisted by necessity (my novel length tdp fic has some OCs because I needed more characters for the mains to meet in the world/filling in vacuums left by foreign leaders being killed, said OCs are still as minor as I can make them while being hopefully interesting and serving their purpose)

However, I know that a majority of fandom really loves totally new AUs in other worlds/making OCs (LMK fandom is especially OC heavy which was a surprise to me) and that's its own writing exercise/source of fun, it's just one I've never had a desire to read or write. Canon for me is fun to explore more of canon potential, not to fuel something seemingly unrelated

As I said, I'm picky. I typically don't even read modern AUs for fantasy characters, it just so happens that LMK works so well that I love the futuristic world and get my magic meets technology kicks in canon, otherwise I wouldn't have anything written in remotely modern day within the past few years. LMK got me back into it

So I hear you about characterization/I probably sound like I live a stifled existence but I just thrive by being as close to canon as I can while playing with it, my most fun is different from others on the fan spectrum

And all this isn't to say that I feel like an expert in characterizing Macaque and Wukong- they're tough cases to crack. They're challenging. They both have their facades and levels of jadedness and sincerity. LMK requires flat out studying to really nail anyone I've found, even characters I feel more confident in writing- and that challenge is part of the draw for me too!

[thevampiremarie]

Treehouse ask:

Two quick things!

1. I love how Morpheus is out of touch with humans yet he knows what all the girlies (non-gendered) want: a nice bathroom with all the fixings. Like I'm sorry but if he every took a look at my Pinterest boards and recreated that. I (who is a commitmentphobe) would propose.

2. I am so excited for their wedding!!! Just because I know you're going to add so much detail and symbolism to it!! If they do have one because you know Morpheus is going to go all out to display his beloved to the Dreaming.

Rip I wrote a whole answer and then tumblr deleted it

Thank you for the question anon, and for enjoying the fic ❤️❤️❤️

Throughout the story I have wanted to demonstrate how strong the connection is between Morpheus and Reader. Not just externally where we see them talking and interacting, but also subconsciously. Morpheus is the collective human unconscious, so as he spends more time around this human and falls in love, he is able to access her unconscious and some of her thoughts and reflect them in himself. His in canon jadedness/cynicism very much parallels similar trends in human attitudes, particularly after world wars and multiple financial crises. But the way Reader sees the world and the little things Reader enjoys have a positive effect on him (just as when things are going bad for humanity, he becomes more negative). Even when she’s angry with him, she still sees wonder and goodness in his actions. If Morpheus is a mirror of people, it makes sense to me that he wants to choose to mirror an outlook that values who he personally is, that is full of hope and strength and the potential for change.

I’M SO EXCITED FOR THE WEDDING. Im already planning it. I have a Pinterest board for Reader’s wedding dress and I’m picking songs that thematically support the wedding.

Just as a fun sneak peek: one of the songs that I put on the official treehouse playlist (you can find it here) will be the main theme of the wedding arc.

Aapki Khushi by Jasdeep Singh Degun and Ashnaa is an original song that was composed by Degun for British opera company Opera North’s production of L’Orfeo, an opera about Orpheus and Eurydice by Claudio Monteverdi.

Opera North’s production of L’Orfeo (you can watch them perform Aapki Khushi here) combined Indian and Western influences in their interpretation of this Italian opera (based off Ancient Greek myth). Eurydice and her family were Indian and Orpheus and his family were Western. Everyone sang in Hindu and Italian. Persephone sung in Tamil. The opera had traditional Indian musicians on stage with Western musicians. Orpheus wore a traditional Western suit and Eurydice wore traditional Indian bridal dress with words embroidered around the edge of her veil.

Aapki Khushi was composed to fit into the Italian opera score while supporting the Indian influences Opera North added to their production. The title translates to “your joy is my joy.”

This is something I am hoping to bring to the wedding between Morpheus and Reader - a combination of Western culture and international culture, taking people/cultures/customs that are often excluded from Western fantasy stories and including them, adding more beauty and color than would have existed without them.

(And of course, anything related to Orpheus gets a mention in treehouse. I think that if Morpheus saw this production of this opera, it would make him mournful yet happy with how it celebrates Orpheus.)

(This is another aspect of what I meant when I said that Orpheus’s presence will be felt throughout the story. By picking this song for the wedding arc, I (as the author) felt like I was getting Orpheus’s blessing for his father’s second marriage.)

[thedragonagelesbian]

I’m so sorry but can I also ask what Ranger Cyrus’s relationship with Karlach is like? I’m really obsessed with *in another lifetime we are in love* situations.

Ofc you can ask!!!

At a meta level, i will say... I am really feeling how underdeveloped Karlach's story is on a friendship route. Like it REALLY sucks that her personal quest is two fetch quests, and I got to Last Light immediately after entering the Shadowlands, so like??!!!! Now there's nothing????????? There's such a frenetic and passionate desperation to her romance, the way that her zest for life centers on you is SO hot & intriguing and pulls you into this doomed whirlwind of intimacy that is just. Absent. On the friendship route.

If you're an asshole to Karlach during her recruitment, she takes it in stride, calls you out, and mentions that she knows it'll only be a matter of time before she wins you over. That's still their dynamic so far-- Karlach weathering his jadedness with good cheer, and Cyrus eventually relenting to her insistence that they will one day be friends (altho he's pretty adamant that she not call him 'soldier').

Also Karlach has been biting her nails for weeks waiting for Wyll and Cyrus to stop being stupid about their very obvious feelings for each other, and when she and Wyll are gabbing after the dance date, she squeals SO loud.

By Act 3, I think Cyrus will be out of his shell enough to keep pace with Karlach's intense enthusiasm and big bold emotions, which makes the end of things all the more tragic... i THINK im going to go illithid!Karlach (squid bestie bodyguard/assassin for the latest lords of baldur's gate???) but if i think about the preconditions of karlach's endings too much right now i'm going to be angry for days, so...

On the 'lovers in another life' train of thought... look I've watched exactly two episodes of Good Omens, but I've seen gifsets and I think the vibe is Aziraphale telling Crowley "you're too fast for me" or whatever that line is. They're both falling back in love with life, but the pace at which they're doing that and what they're seeking at the end of that journey (idle domesticity versus endless adventure and travel and exploration and discovery) aren't compatible.

[lansplaining]

25, 7, 3

3. answered!

7. what character did you begin to hate not because of canon but because how how the fandom acts about them? nie huaisang u__u i don't even hate him, but i never see the version of him that i find interesting

25. common fandom complaint that you’re sick of hearing: oh ho ho okay sorry I'm feeling spicy but. maybe this jadedness comes from growing up in the 90s but. the depiction of women in CQL/MDZS sucks. and i feel like we have pretty thoroughly covered that that is the case and i am very bored of everyone just saying it all the time rather than either creating fanworks to mitigate the problem or just like... accepting that yep, that's an element of the text, we can move on now.

[orccock]

between today and yesterday i'd somehow convinced myself in my mind that whatever's happening with queequeg isn't as homoerotic as it actually is. (general jadedness from reading other classic lit i guess.) so glad ishmael took the time to email me and let me know that he and queequeg are snuggling in bed now, and i'm sorry for having ever doubted him and his husband

[pararennial-archived]

"I have to admit to you Roxy, there are moments where I just.. see the back and forth in so many places over so much time that it really makes me wonder .. like. Is there more to being than all this? Is there? I mean.. logically I know there is. I've seen it. Experienced it. But like it gets overwhelming just the sheer patterns you see happening.. and even if the situation changes the similarities are just there enough to really make one exhausted. Maybe I've been exhausted for a very long time." Sorry for the confiding Roxy, it seems like something has been sitting with them for quite some time.

There was a heavy beat of silence that followed thereafter, uncomfortably wedging itself between Atieno and Roxanne. Was Atieno, a high-borne cosmic entity, actually having something akin to an existential crisis?! The notion was just as unfathomable as they are themself, and for once, she had nothing substantial to say right after. What consolation could a mortal offer to essentially the personification of dark matter, a little known and understood thing in this universe.

❝I'll be frank... I don't fucking know.❞ As harsh and crass as the words were, her tone opposed it. There was a gentle, warm pensiveness and sincerity laced within and in between them. ❝I'm no where near the level of immortal jadedness, or even wisdom for that matter... obviously you know that. But...❞

She paused with a hefty sigh, and leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees and blue eyes meeting the void of Atieno's gaze evenly. She only gave herself a beat to say what she was to share next, ❝Why would I know? Maybe there is more, maybe there isn't. There is a reason why we are all here and what we're here for, right? Think that might be enough... but you're never too old for change, Ati.❞

@the27percent

[revelisms]

Copia grows up in the shadow of so much music, so much magic, so much life.

Copia, little blue-eyed ruddy-haired Copia, in shoes too big and coat too baggy and breathing in the cool, damp air of the gardens. Led by a gentle hand, bony hand: cold as death, but loving. Much as it can be, in its jadedness.

"You see these ones, here?" their eldest says, the words rasped and ashen, like he's spent a lifetime drinking down the soil his hands have tilled. "They are beautiful, no?"

Copia stares hard at those white flowers, his little fingers pinched at his palm.

They are beautiful.

Tall and beautiful and strange, like the ghoulish creature looming above him, with eyes pale as moonstone; one who is more a mother than a brother, is a beacon, a beam of light in this dark place he fears ever losing.

"You'll have to try planting some, one day," Primo continues. "Won't get a green thumb otherwise, eh?"

Copia will never get a green thumb. But he'll try.

And he'll be older. Only a little—enough to grow into gangly legs, a nose too big for his sullen face, freckles smattered across his cheeks and hair unruly. Older, but not as old as the hand burning as coals, rough as rock, squeezing slow at his shoulder.

"Not like that," his brother gristles, patient as his nonexistent patience can manage. His fingers flick off him, point sharply at the lane stretched ahead. "Eyes on the road, little rat. Now—easy. Second gear, you remember?"

Copia, white knuckled on the steering wheel, huffs. "Yes, yes, I know—"

Secondo spits a breath through his teeth. "I was driving the old bastard's Ferrari, at your age," he grouses, more to himself. "Alright. Easy, now—you've got it—Hell beneath, the clutch—"

"Sorry, sorry—"

Copia will never be a good driver. Puttering away in his go-kart of a Fiat, dingy and denim blue, that they'll tease him endlessly for. But he'll try.

And Copia will be older, still. Not quite a man, not quite a boy, not quite an Emeritus—not quite anything but a rat listening in on everything, sticking his ear where it never belongs.

(Where has he ever belonged?)

It winds him towards misplaced conversations and snarking gossip, plucked guitar strings and crashing drums—and often, so often, to the old music room on the second floor. The one with the chipped black piano Terzo favors.

Terzo, with his midnight clothes and midnight hair and midnight nails, his hand-poured coffees black as tar, books upon books of stained lyrics and notes. Terzo, hazed with the morning's gloom: paintless and beautiful and bone-tired, always, since his oath-taking.

And Copia envies him. Resents a brother who can swoon men and women and demons alike with nothing more than a crook of his finger. Who needs only to tuck the half-tamed waves of his hair behind his ears and flash a smile to look impeccable.

Whose fingers melt across the keys like a lover. A symphony of emotion that is powerful, hateful, all-encompassing.

He dances between two set of melodies: two songs at war with each other. Eventually, they will become ballads of their own. One, Copia will find the ink-scrawled pages for, years after his brother's soul has been thrown back through the Gate, and claim.

Another triplet of feather-light notes, climbing a dissonant ladder. His voice soft from his chest, haunting in its echoing, deep and light at once.

"I can feel the thunder that's breaking..."

A pause. His nose crinkling. A waterfall, slow-stroked fingers and thumb, repeated like a skipping record.

"With flesh, and blood, and bones, I...mnh...Did no one hear the distant...no, no, no—"

And he'll smack out ripples of classical adagios, crescendos: broken, jazz-chorded flails: snarling in frustration, before slumping. Slowly, sighing, tracing back to those lovely notes. An effortless bleeding of his soul over the keys, over and over and over again.

Copia will never be a good pianist. Saints, never like him. But he'll try.

He'll try—in his unevenly-spaced flowerbeds; in his father's battered, beat-up cruiser; in the white-glossed grand piano he has them drag up on stage, just to pluck out a sea of chords that are only partly his own.

That is home, for him. Where he belongs.

Glittering in those suits, grinning in the sweat of it all, flipping microphones with sightless ease and dancing circles over those checkerboard floors, as though they were meant for only him.

And, in a way, he supposes, they always were.

Metal squeezed in his palm. Armor draped off his shoulders. The paints of the dead claiming him, above all else.

His people. His stage.

His music, his magic, his life.

For all of them, in their own ways, they always were.

copia / stages

[jeanmoreaux]

hi there! idk why but...i'm still in some reader purgatory where i can't...i can't read like i used to. it could often jump into a story almost anytime before but now it's like i have to emotionally and mentally prepare which is wild like why would i need to do that (trust issues)

anyways i'm also at odds with my brother who's home for the holidays. we're both bookworms but he's doing well, the completely opposite of me and also on the opposite spectrum of genre in terms of reading

idk if you've heard of this, but it's an american classic (?) blood meridian by Cormac McCarthy. and ...well i wont tell my bro as much as i can (he hates when i do this) but i ended up googling stuff and it really is fcking brutal. but it's not that, that scares me or puts me off....it's just that everything in the world right now especially is so fcked up already

it's not like i need another piece to consume where i think it might just be the tipping point for me (mentally) and seal my lack of faith in humanity and drown me in it, inside a coffin ⚰️ to be buried and lost underneath the ocean and God knows what else down there

and i love literature. there is always a place for different genres and tastes but i just don't feel now is the time (not a safe time) for me to engage in something i know will only add to my depression and already mildly-innate nihilism and well-trained jadedness of the world

like this was so out of the blue i'm so sorry

don’t apologize for sending an ask! i’m glad you can get this off your chest. i’m so sorry you’re reading isn’t the way you want it to be rn! sometimes you just have to take a break or a step back if it’s not working. or, if you feel like rereading, maybe picking up a comfort read is an option to carry you through this time. immersing yourself in fictional stories can come with an emotional tax, and it’s okay if you can’t deal with that atm.

[brokenramblings]

im sobbing. i only see flashes of black and red and the pain feels too much. im struggling to breathe and sob at the same time, my breaths coming out short because my body cant decide what to do. im paralysed, my muscles tense as i heave and sobs escapes my mouth as the only source of release i can bear.

and in my tear-blocked vision, i see a girl. not the prettiest child ive seen, but a child so hopeful yet so afraid. i see me.

"why are u crying?" she asks, taking a step towards me.

my eyes fill with tears that freely flow again as i take her face in my hands. her eyes tell of the battered soul she carries, exhausted from the fear of being at home and feeling unsafe under the shelter of her imperfect, unhappy parents. i see the scars she wears on her heart, the jadedness of responsibility that comes from being an older sister.

and as she looks up at me, i could tell she couldn't believe i was future her. that i was once so happy and strong and now im crumbling. im crumbing and broken and i dont know if i can be fixed.

"how did i get here, im so sorry" i whisper as my heart swells with shame and anger. where did i go wrong? why is trying my best not enough?

"its okay, is life hard?" she asks.

not "are you weak?" not "did you make a mistake?"

she wonders if the dishes i am handed in life caused my dysfunction.

i laugh, the sarcasm showing before i could stop it.

"life is... not what i thought it would be" i tell her.

"i know, but we have a happy ending right?" she asks, smiling. her mind is filled with our fairytale ending, happy and contented with a healthy and loving family. a supportive group of friends. a husband who loves us like no other.

"i dont know" i almost say. because i really dont. i really do not know if tomorrow comes, i really do not know if joy becomes mine once again.

"yes." i tell her instead, because maybe if i convince her, i can convince myself too.

"promise?" she asks, holding our her pinky with her other fingers clenched in a fist.

i laugh again, as tears fall down my cheeks. its been a while since i saw myself believing in such childlike promises, such small actions that do not mean anything in the grand scheme of things but make us feel we are doing something to solidify what we want to believe in so badly.

i could see the fear and doubt showing in her eyes now. seeing me so jaded and worn out and tired. she knew she was going to have to go through this soon.

"i promise." i tell her, hooking her little pinky and tapping our thumbs together.

because despite my anger and resentment, seeing her filled me with a aggressive urge to protect. to keep her hopes of a happy future alive. to show her that her dreams can become real. our life can have the fairytale ending she holds onto so dearly, when her parents are screaming at each other behind the door.

when she leaves, i tell myself that i am living for her.

[klenda-v]

Actually this touches on something I think about a lot that I’d like to highlight, because a lot of what people are tired of in mainstream western media (VERY broad oversimplification, sorry) right now is it’s jadedness. The sarcastic shield of “if I make fun of this trope in my own movie, it means you can’t laugh at me for having this trope.” It’s the “Well That Just Happened,” the authenticity-killer.

The vast majority of Toku I watch doesn’t have that. 99% of it is shamelessly, authentically itself. It gets the “but I can see the wires!” or “wow that’s a rubber suit” comments, yes, but it’s not (usually) trying to be indistinguishable from reality.

It’s trying to tell a story. And many of those stories are fun, or sharp, or poignant or awe-inspiring or just plain cool.

Without apologies, without undercutting itself, just being.

The frequency in which people on Tumblr making posts saying they want a show that does X or why don't shows do Y anymore. And it's something that Tokusatsu still does is kinda wild

Like I think I get why Toku isn't more popular but damn maybe it should be