#that doesn't shy from ugly truths.

[sciderman]

ok I know it was like a day or two ago but whoever sent in that ask about Bojack has me rewatching it, I'm on season 4 which is my personal favourite, which seasons your favourite? Any specific episode you like?

man! i really, really need to rewatch it to tell you which seasons i liked best, but i remember i kind of really consistently liked it. i even love the first few episodes of the first season, even though i know public consensus says they're not the best - i kind of just, immediately liked the show. i like that maybe the first episodes were a little lighter and goofier so it eased you into the heavier stuff. and that - characters that seemed light and goofy get extra dimensionality and flaws and baggage and damage as the show progresses. i think just - start to finish, it was really strong, and some select episodes were complete masterpieces. complete masterpieces.

i think i especially love the more experimental episodes - i did a reanimate project for the underwater episode, which is just - a delight of visual storytelling. i love when animation forgoes dialogue and completely leans into visuals. just - i love it. i love it. not that the dialogue isn't brilliant in bojack, because it really is. but even when they don't have dialogue, it's still brilliant.

i think the episode that leapt to mind immediately though is – the stupid piece of shit episode. i just - i think about it all the time. i just - i love being in bojack's head, i love the different animation style, i love the frantic, brutal nature of it. there's just this honesty in bojack that i just - i haven't seen anywhere else. when you see mental health being tackled in other media it's so often so - so sensationalised or demonised or simplified into some evil that needs to be overcome, but bojack just - i don't know. it's so honest about the brain. and that it's not - it's not just one guy who's suffering. it's everyone. it's you, it's me. i just. man. i really loved this show and what it did. i think it's something special.

i think i love media where mental health isn't just a problem exclusive to one bad egg, but like, it's normal. we all have that voice.

[imsobadatnicknames2]

Surprised to see that you as a communist (and a lot of other communists too) seem to like disco elysium so much. doesn't the game make fun of communists a lot?

It does! Quite frequently and gleefully, in fact.

My blanket response to this type of question about most pieces of media would be that, in the words of Big Joel, "I am not a politics robot". My enjoyment of a piece of art is almost entirely orthogonal to how much its implicit or explicit worldview aligns with mine. And I think ultimately that's the way you end up having to approach media if you're a communist who plays videogames at all. Or reads fantasy books. Or watches anime. Or... you get the idea.

But in the case of Disco Elysium specifically I think the read that the game depicts communism just as negatively as all the other ideologies it criticizes is a quite shallow one. Ultimately we're being shown this world through a very communist lens. Like yeah the game has a lot of (usually pretty funny) jokes about firing squads and about "communism is about failure" and about pretentious overeducated college communists who do nothing but read theory and then do some leftist infighting about it, it doesn't shy away from the immoral actions of the revolutionary army, it depicts the dockworkers union as extremely shady and corrupt and basically a crime syndicate (although this depiction is way more nuanced if you actually take the time to dig deeper and talk to people about it), and generally doesn't shy away from pointing at the ugly parts of a variety of communist movements past and present. But, under all of that, the game's understanding of issues like class and poverty and crime and colonialism and imperialism and international conflict is ultimately rooted in a very marxist worldview.

I once saw someone say something along the lines of "everyone in this game talks like a communist regardless of political alignment", and while that's obviously an extremely hyperbolic statement, I do think there's a nugget of truth in it, the clearest example being Joyce Messier. Joyce is an ultraliberal, the furthest thing from a communist you're going to find in the DE universe. And yet, when she talks about the world she does so in very marxist terms, like in her famous "Capital has the ability to subsume all critiques into itself" quote. Like. You'd never catch a real libertarian expressing that idea Like That. And a lot of the more serious, in-depth political discussions in the game are similar.

Plus, ultimately... regardless of how much criticism the game piles on it, of all the ideologies it criticizes, communism is the only one which is not depicted as a completely lost cause. The communist vision quest ends on a quite hopeful note, unlike pretty much any other one, and the Union is ultimately shown as having tons of popular support because they're the only ones who have actually gotten shit done to somewhat improve the lives of the people of Martinaise. I have lots of thoughts about the way Evrart Claire and the Dockworkers union are depicted actually, but for the time being I'm just going to say that the read of "unions are corrupt and union leaders are greedy fat cats who only care about their personal gain", while not exactly lacking in textual support, is likewise an extremely shallow one.

[yuri-is-online]

Now I wanna know how Grim ranks the second years. Also I'm in pain from wisdom teeth removal

oh dear I have heard that really hurts, I hope you are ok!

The Great Grim's OFFICIAL Tier List: Take 2 (do not steal)

Riddle- 3/10. Grim likes Riddle a lot, but not in a "hench human should date him" sort of way. If Grim had the ability to understand dating beyond thinking it's cringe he would tell you he is concerned about how Riddle handles conflict and what that would mean for your relationship. He wants you to be with someone who will give you space to relax, and Rampaging Riddle isn't the best at that. Unfortunately, Grim isn't that articulate so he just says he thinks he's too short.

Ruggie- 6.5/10. Ruggie isn't someone Grim hates exactly? Sure you dating someone rich would be nice because then he could get better tuna, but the rich guys on this campus are kind of scary... the real problem with Ruggie is that he expects Grim to do his share of the work. And he isn't shy about how cute he thinks Grim's insistence that he is the one in charge, that stupid laugh will start haunting his dreams. At least the cooking is worth it.

Azul- 7/10. Grim knows he shouldn't trust Azul but he does sort of... look he likes what the sleazy Tako is selling alright? And once that sell starts turning towards a romantic relationship with you he will absolutely be a little shit trying to wing man for him with you. It's sort of pathetic watching how they interact, both of them are convinced they are outsmarting the other but really the only person who is winning here is you.

Jade- I am so happy for your ugly ass boyfriend/10. Grim would be very happy if Jade tripped and fell into a ditch somewhere. Unfortunately Jade is an eel so he would probably just swim out of it right back into your arms and fake cry about it. If he wasn't so scary he'd be a 0.

Floyd- 9/10. Grim and Floyd sort of get along? Or at least I think so, Floyd likes Grim and likes hanging out with him and Yuu. He's the most likely out of the octotrio to actually bribe Grim without some sort of trick or gimmick because he finds it funny to see just how many things the baby seal will eat. He misses a point because Grim doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of being perfect but that's ok, Floyd knows the truth c: (he's delulu)

Kalim- 9.5/10. Grim thinks Kalim is kind of stupid and keeps trying to feed him crackers, so he is a half point away from perfect but! Kalim has no problems spoiling Grim which is good enough for him. Most of the time, if he didn't have money Grim would have so many questions.

Jamil- 20/10. Jamil is cringey but he can cook. I think Grim probably would be happiest in the long run with the more "normal" guys and Jamil would probably end up being his favorite. He gets to eat good food, and while Jamil would still want him to work... work isn't something Jamil wants to govern his entire life so Grimmy would be very happy with Yuu's choice.

Silver- meh/10. I don't think Grim understands the appeal of someone like Silver tbh. If anything I think his blunt kuudere swagger scares the hoes, which includes Grim. Sure, Silver is pretty, but he also says some pretty fucking dumb things that make Grim wonder if he needs to be the smart one. Normally he'd love that but ah. He is starting to feel rather unqualified all of a sudden for some reason, are you sure you like this guy? What standard is he meeting exactly and can you maybe reconsider...

[psychicreadsgirl]

Pick a Painting : All about your next s/o

Pick 1 painting that draws you the most and I will tell you whatever I can pick up on your next s/o. If you are drawn to 2, then take a look at both readings. Remember that this is a general reading so not everything will apply. Take what resonates and leave what doesn't behind.

#1

Very easily depressed. Mental health is always a concern - doesn't mean they're bad people. Just that their mental health is particularly weak. Easily defeated and blue. However, they do feel things very deeply. Very emotional people. Very, very sensitive and intuitive - you won't be able to lie to them. It's like they have this 6th sense or can read your mind. Don't even try to lie to them - you'll just be caught. Not even a white lie please with these people - a lie is considered a really big betrayal to them. Though their mental health is weaker than average, they will be able to take bad news too. They aren't THAT weak.

Probably has a very creative or almost genius-like side. Very lost in their own world/sometimes will just go off and do their own thing. When they are focused on sthing, they will give it their all. The type to like not sleep for 2 days just to finish something --could be a video game, artwork, song, dance, Excel spreadsheet, code, math problem, clothing, etc.

Though intuitive - they can be kind of anti-social and don't really like to be around big crowds or people in general. Quite closed in and guarded. Think bc they can see so much of the truth they get really boggled down with that "negativity" or that "ugly" side of ppl that they don't want to be in contact with many ppl.

They have a lot of wisdom and knowledge - might not be like the typical "nerd" feeling, but they just know a lot about things that interest them. Could be some particular history or about some theory or painting or sciences etc.

They are shy with physical affection or don't like it that much. The mental connection is more important to them than the physical one. They may be asexual or some may struggle with their sexuality or sex in general.

#2

Life of the party. Very popular s/o and well liked by others. They probably have had many dating experiences -- might not mean they are a player. They probably don't like really heavy relationships and people who are too clingy.

They are really fun and adventurous. They are very playful and charming. They can be kinda forgetful too. They're warm and will remind you of the sunshine.

They sometimes can be ignorant of the world/others' feelings so can come off as being shallow or dense. They're either very intelligent academically or they do very poorly in school - sort of 2 extremes here.

They're either quite athletic or quite artistic. Generally they do have a decent physique like somehow muscular even if they don't work out much.

They're pretty laidback and overall chill. They definitely have very interesting stories to tell/share. Overall pretty independent people and somehow can make bajillion friends.

Sometimes they might not be the most reliable out there. They can often forget promises and also aren't the most responsible ppl out there. Likely to be late to meetings and dates. They can sometimes even forget to bring their wallet or keys.

#3

They can be kind of arrogant and self-centered. They are very confident of themselves, sometimes overly confident. They gotta be the one that make decisions in the relationship. They have a strong, commanding presence. They have this leadership aura like people just naturally want to follow them.

Likely to be quite successful in their career or comes from wealth. Can be kinda spoiled in some ways and also out of check with reality. Bad at saving money, a big spender in many ways.

A lot of people admire your s/o. They'll likely be quite good looking or charming - something about them that'll make people want to take a 2nd look at them.

They probably will dress quite well or at least in a polished way. Kinda classy or perhaps very street style. Either way they will have decent fashion and care a lot about their appearances. They will want you to also look presentable too, so no sloppy lazy attire when you go out.

They likely are friends with people of influence - could be famous or powerful or rich or all of the above. You might feel a bit overwhelmed by their connections or their lifestyle if you don't also have a similar background as your s/o.

They'll have some sophisticated flair/air about them. They are strong communicators and are quite persuasive. They know what to say to make your heart flutter. They may be manipulative though - so be careful.

There's probably some secret they are hiding - not sure what exactly but I don't think they want you to find out.

#4

They are very introverted and quiet. Very observant and detail oriented. Some may suffer from OCD or OCD-like tendencies. They can be obsessive over details. They can either be very very clean or be super super messy.

They probably will wear glasses or have prescription lenses somewhere. They may possibly have some tattoos or piercings or at least some prominent scar or birth mark.

They are pretty serious and aren't ones to really joke around. They can be sarcastic though. They may seem kinda gloomy but it doesn't mean they are very pessimistic.

They're probably night owls and hate the mornings. They probably won't like sweet things or will love them a lot - no between.

They can be kinda self-conscious and have a bit of low self-esteem. Could be bc they were bullied in the past or they felt they were really ugly before?? Possibly they were overweight when they were young and then teased a lot or bullied a lot so now they still got that trauma. Could possibly have suffered from some eating disorder too or went through some extreme diets.

Their physical health may not be that good like possible chronic illnesses or have gone through a major surgery/illness. Possible cancer survivor too.

They have a kind heart and probably love animals. They likely have a pet or if they can't have one due to allergies, then they would still like them.

#5

Definitely suffered from some trauma in their childhood or before they date you. This trauma will probably be pretty bad and severe - TW: sexual assault/physical abuse/violence etc. The abuse could have been very bad.

They are either in the healing process when they meet you or they're still deeply suffering from this trauma and won't admit it. Their inner child definitely needs healing.

They likely came from a family that was broken in different ways. Possibly the parents weren't available/died young or the parent(s) were abusive - could be verbal or physical etc. Or perhaps the parents favored the other sibling a lot and ignored your s/o. Siblings were very toxic to your s/o. Whatever happened your s/o did not feel loved by their family and/or they were deeply hurt by their family. They will likely have cut off from their family or will leave them shorlty after dating you.

They have a lot of sad undertones and when you look at them very closely, you know they have a story to tell. They are probably very animated/sociable so you might not even notice at first that they've suffered so much but when you look closer, you will sense that they've gone through a lot. If that's not the case they could be just very cold and a bit of a loner - like they seem strong on the outside but inside they are suffering.

They may not be super good looking but they have this attractiveness to them that draws people to them. They have that sort of mystery to them. However, they probably don't have many friends and stick to themselves.

They are interesting as a person and are self reflective. They have depth to them and can understand people well.

#6

They probably come from a traditional family or a very large family. They might have been in a religious family too or a cult.

They are either very close to their family or have completely cut off from them. There's no in between.

They can feel very lost at times. They aren't very sure of themselves. They have an innocent vibe to them. They also trust people easily, almost too easily. You'd want to protect them or look after them.

They are idealistic and sweet. They are gentle and probably have a sweet/angelic voice. They are friendly and loving.

They can be unrealistic so they will need someone who can ground them. They probably start a lot of projects and never finish them.

They need a lot of reassurance as they can sometimes lack confidence or get nervous easily.

They will probably have a rounder face or rounder features like rounder eyes, lips etc. They may be on the shorter side for height like shorter than average or they may just have a petite build like smaller bone structure. This doesn't necessarily mean they are very skinny - it's just somehow they will feel "Small".

They have a lot of youthful energy. They can sometimes say really dumb things even though they are clever. They're not very street smart. They probably will get lost easily. They also probably love food. They also are probably kinda lazy.

#7

They're probably very athletic or very into health stuff. They can be a fitness nut and they probably enjoy a lot of sports. They might even be some competitive athlete, possibly even an Olympian.

They seem to be able to do a lot of things like not just excel in sports. They might even have a creative side like filming videos or writing stories etc.

They enjoy travelling and love exploring. They love nature and being away from the city.

They're very daring and adventurous. They are very energetic and have loads of energy - almost too much.

They get distracted easily. They possibly suffer from ADHD or just have trouble focusing for long periods of time. They might not be able to sit still so they likely hated going to school (besides doing something more active).

They have strong golden retriever energy. They mean well but sometimes they can be too blunt. They also can sometimes be quite fiery and will definitely stand up for you when needed. They have strong protective energy too.

They also are probably romantic and will surprise you with little things. They will also remember anniversaries etc.

#8

They are very calm and collected. They are determined and responsible. They can be kind of boring sometimes. They stick to a routine and don't like to deviate from it. They are quite stubborn.

They are loyal to you. They are committed in the relationship. They care a lot about you but often have trouble expressing it to you. Sometimes you might feel like they don't love you but it's their actions that prove that they do love you. They notice the little details about you, including all your habits. They love looking after you and could even want to groom you somehow like maybe cut your hair/brush your hair/help you shave etc.

They can nag a lot and are passive aggressive. They can seem like a parent sometimes but they do mean the best for you.

They can have a controlling side. They're really into being efficient so sometimes they might forget that people have feelings.

To a lot of people they are workaholics. They also are quite responsible. If you're disorganized they will help you be more organized.

They're not romantic at all. They are very pragmatic so if you're thinking you're getting a romantic Valentine's Day, no that won't be the case. However they'll probably order your favorite food and help you clean up your place so you aren't tired after school/work/etc. They'd give you an expensive high tech vacuum instead of some necklace bc you really need one to clean up your place.

They can sometimes be a bit petty and yes they do bear grudges for life...

[starry-bi-sky]

I'm in A Mood™ (stressed) so im going back to my roots of melting two character together into one person. So bruce wayne!danny fenton. Danny Fenton who, for eight years, grew up in a beautiful gothic manor with his mom and dad under the name "Bruce Wayne". Playing piano with his mother, running around the manor with his father.

Then when he's eight it's ripped away from him. There's blood on his hands and pearls pooling at his feet, and both his parents are dead in front of him.

And he gets shipped off to distant relatives "the Fentons" shortly after, Alfred close on his heels because someone needs to take care of him, someone that knows him. Bruce goes to the Fentons for the safety of anonymity. Gotham's press wants to sink its teeth into him.

Danny misses his city even if it took everything from him. There are shadows in his eyes and he's pale as a sheet even beside his distant cousins, and they change his name to "Danny Fenton' because nobody should know that their newest child was illustrious orphan Bruce Wayne.

They call him Bruce behind closed doors. Danny prefers it that way, he clings onto the name -- the one his parents gave him -- like a lifeline. He makes friends with Sam and Tucker. Tucker takes one look at the willowy, morbid little boy standing in the corner like a shade, ghosts in his eyes, and drags him out into the sunlight, and takes him over to Sam.

When Danny is twelve, he's still not over it -- and he's a little obsessed with the Fentons' research, with the morbid. He has books upon books on death, murder, detective work. Anything he can get his hands on. And stars. He loves stars.

Alfred owns the apartment next to them and comes over regularly. Danny clings to him.

When Danny is twelve, he's still quiet, meek, a shy little thing prone to being bullied. Freaky little Fenton with the night in his eyes and too-cold skin even before he put one foot in the grave. in a sleepover in his room with Sam and Tucker, he tells them the truth. They're his friends, he trusts them.

"My name is Bruce." he murmurs, voice quiet as the breeze, always quiet. he's staring at his star-covered sheets.

"Like Bruce Wayne?" Tucker asks, a joking tone in his voice.

Danny smiles a little, lamb-like with insecurity. "I am Bruce Wayne." And he takes them down to the lab, disrupting Maddie and Jack, to prove it. Sam tells them of her own wealth then shortly after. They start calling Danny "Bruce" in private too -- its trust. Thats what it is. It's trust.

Sam goes to media functions and comes back with aching feet and complaints on her tongue -- and Danny soaks it up all like a sponge, splayed across a beanbag chair with Tucker in her room. He's not envious of her, he used to go to events with his parents and they kept him safe from the ugly of Gotham's Elite. For the most part. He's had comments made at him, he doesn't miss them.

Alfred returns to the manor semi-regularly, Danny goes with him. he wanders the hallways and helps Alfred clean, the last thing either of them want is for their home to fall into disrepair. He brings Jazz with him next time, then Tucker, then Sam. They all help him clean, and he shows them his room. The one across from his parents', it feels strange.

When Danny dies when he's fourteen, the first adult he tells is Alfred. He and Jazz go over to his house more often than they stay in the Fentonworks building. At least at Alfred's, the food doesn't come to life. Alfred sits at the kitchen table and weeps when Danny tells him, Jazz is upstairs, and its just the two of them.

Danny's ghost form wears pearls around his wrist and the gloves look stained with some kind of black substance. He looks like a child who died in a lab accident, but he also looks like a child who has shadows dripping off his shoulders, curling at his feet, hanging from his eyes.

because amorphous blob batman has my heart always and danny/bruce will not escape it even in death even if that IS the only reason im giving him Mild BatBlob Vibes...so far

when they go to the manor, alfred helps danny make a pile of stones between Martha and Thomas' graves, nobody but the two of them (and sam and tucker) will know what it means. (not even bruce's children later down the line, not for a long, long time)

danny dives into ghost fighting on shaky feet and not half as witty as he once was in one world. he's skittish, skittering between blasts from shadow to shadow and clumsily making his way through each battle. but helping people lights a fire in him. he still has shadows dripping off his feet but there's a purpose in his eyes.

and god help him, he's going to help people.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

Am I the asshole for using very harsh words after trying to defend my sister?

So, me (17F) have a little sister (14F) and we study on the same school. My sister is usually very shy, but a very fun kid to be around when you meet her. She's kind, smart and very funny. She knows how to fight when she has to protect someone (me, our cousins, etc) because she is a very loyal person, but she doesn't know how to even yell when someone fights to her. She gets embarrassed easily and gets nervous, she chooses to ignore.

She's chubby (which it doesn't make her any less beautiful) and she already faced some unfunny jokes from other people before, which made her insecure about her body, but something so serious never happened to her... Until two weeks ago. So, I was hanging around with my friends, going back to my classroom when the school break was over. But one of my sister's little friend came to me and told my sister was crying in the bathroom and didn't wanted to get back to class.

My heart skipped a beat and I ran straight to the bathroom. When I got there, my sister's nerd little friends were all around her trying to talk to her, and she was there: her head hidden in her hands and hipcupping so much she couldn't even talk to me. One of her friends told me there was a girl in her class (let's call her Amanda) that was bullying her for at least a month, but now Amanda got worse: she called my sister an ugly cow in front of the whole class and said my sister's ginger hair looks bad. And Amanda also put chewed gum in her hair. Man, my vision got red. I was out of the bathroom before anyone could stop me and the only thing I heard was my sister telling me to don't go. But it didn't matter. That friend (the one that came to me to tell me about my sister) was following me and told which one of the kids walking to the classroom was Amanda. When I laid my eyes on Amanda, I realized that I've seen her around the school halls before. I know her kind: those young girls that are not even on highschool but try to act older. Using long ass nails and talking loudly about inappropriate things so she can be that girl. I tapped her back, she turned to me and I said "Are you the bitch bothering [my sister's name]?" and... Well, that's when the chaos began.

Basically, all the kids from her class and other classes were watching it all. Amanda was still acting all tough and saying she was just joking, that my sister was too weak to handle the truth and told me to fuck off. I also said some shit to her (I'm not gonna say some words because I think is inappropriate even for tumblr, but the least offensive thing I said was that she needed to grow tf up. And I called her a whore). But there was something that now is a water divider. Amanda is black and has a afro hair, that's always in a Black Power style. and I'm not racist. Never been. I don't even know what happened in this specific moment, but I was so done with her attitude that I think maybe I lost my head a bit? Amanda was trying to play victim saying I was making this a big deal. My sister's friend (that was having my back the whole fight) threw in Amanda's face that she got gum stuck on my sister hair, and Amanda said "yes, and? What she [and proceeded to point at me] gonna do about that, huh? try to stick gum in my hair too?" and I said "I don't need the gum, a comb can do the work already. Can you even pet your head without losing your hand?"

For a moment is like everyone went silent.

And the in the next moment, Amanda was screaming her lungs in the hall, yelling "fuck you". And said "not so fun when somebody makes fun of your hair now, right bitch?". Anyway, the teaches broke up the fight, everyone went back to class (and gladly my sister went back to class with no problem, her friends had her back). Amanda got detention and the principal will have some serious talk with Amanda and her mom (that wasn't any happy about her daughter behaving like a bully). Like I said, that was two weeks ago. Everything went to normal but some people still talk about it. My friends say that I am right, but they're saying I should be more careful next because what I said was racist. I didn't even realised how bad that sounded until now, because when the fight was happening, I could only thinking about different ways I could jump in her throat. My other friend said that he thought it was good that I said that, because, racist or not, now the girl will think twice before hating someone's hair too. My teacher (one of the teachers that broke up the fight) said she was at my side, but that I should be more careful because I I ran the risk of losing my reason.

Now I'm seriously thinking, I'm feelling kind of guilty now. Was I the asshole or not? Saying that was a bad move, even if my intention was just making her taste her own medicine?

[oscconfessions]

people should stop portraying book as some little shy girl who "made some mistakes in the past but is ok now" or whatever because that's so booooring and just barely scraping the surface of her character. she should be allowed to be mean to people and have negative emotions and be wrong sometimes, actually.

canon book in tpot also kinda has this problem where she's just portrayed in the most boring way possible that's not like. ooc but just like the super watered down version of her from bfdia. modern bfdia gets like a pass for this because yeah she's supposed to be portrayed as a pushover on that team. but keeping her that way is so weird because it just goes back on the "development" (using that term VERY lightly because the show is kind of weird about her character during the time) in BFB that literally shows she doesn't want to be a pushover anymore and wants to start actually standing up for herself and her friends (her not joining back with pencil for iance and her calling out taco for abandoning the team).

i think bfb portraying her at a negative extreme is good because it manages to be reasonable within her character (it's not really written WELL but that doesn't mean it's ooc some of you just think of it as ooc because you expect book to be some nice little polite girl all the time even when bfdia has shown her being incredibly petty at times and not, in fact, nice all the time) while still going out and doing something unique w/ her and giving her more glaringly obvious flaws. i wish these flaws were shown more post-bfb because Hey, book can be a better person and not at that extreme negative and still have flaws. that's how you make her actually interesting instead of generic nice all the time character who has no issues #57. tpot really wants to show that she's changing from her past and improving on these flaws without actually /giving/ her the flaws that she's supposed to be improving on so she doesn't get any of the development that the show wants her to get/acts like she's getting.

anyways where was i this was suppsoed to be about fanon book. i like that people acknowledge her nerdiness but i dont think people get how annoying she is about it like she literally said (in front of lollipop) that lollipop was being "so out of character" and she literally has snarky definitions of the other contestants written inside of her that's so fucking obnoxious of her and i love it. and like these are still there in bfb (like her saying black hole sucks as a person because he's a pushover) so like i think it's reasonable to carry this over to tpot. maybe lessen it a bit because y'know she is actively trying to make friends but you can make her a bit of an awkward ass to people because it's funny

basically just...... make her worse. no more "cute awkward girlfail" book that's been done time and time again i want to see her suck and i want to see her be lame in a non-endearing way. tpot 10's "redemption" (FOR LACK OF BETTER TERM I DON'T THINK IT'S A REDEMPTION) scene with her and price tag talking is too happy and wholesome i want to see her have to face the ugly truth of her actions after trying to avoid her past for so long and i want her to have negative feelings towards people from her past even if unjustified and i want her to be selfish and i want her to feel bad about her own feelings (this is all said lovingly) so that when she finally moves on from it there's an actual impact on her character. you can't just treat it like she's "turning over a new leaf" with just not if you're gonna have her be the Usual Book throughout tpot. as i said earlier she doesn't get any character development like how the show says she does because there's nothing to change about her

oops again this was supposed to be about fanon. well i just really hate(?) tpot book and her impact on the way the fandom portrays book. give her back her charcter flaws and problems pretty please stop woobifying her!!! i don't think she was some awful person in bfb (i think she was. somewhat right in bfb but that's not what this is about) but i don't think her actions back then should just be brushed off because "oh that's the past and she's clearly changed!" WE DON'T EVEN GET TO SEE HER CHANGE THAT WOULD'VE BEEN INTERESTING TO SEE HER ARC IS SO SLOPPILY RESOLVED GRHGHRGJHGGHJH sorry folks i really hate #that scene in tpot 10

Also she's a butch lesbian that's not related to any of this but she came to my house personally and told me this

.

[castingspellsanddaisies]

How's sexy time with...Jobe Bellingham? + his general personality + how's he emotionally? + how's he as a partner? | Tarot Reading

DISCLAIMER: Take everything with a grain of salt and have fun!

WOW... The brothers really look alike, huh?

This post has 18+ content, so if you don't want to read it, beat it.

How's sexy time with him?

9 of swords + 9 of cups + queen of cups + king of swords + king of wands reversed + 8 of wands reversed + 4 of swords + judgement + the star

Ladies and gentlemen, this man right here... Knows what he's doing.

What's the word? Munch? Yes, that's it. Jobe loooves to go down on his partner like there's no tomorrow. And he likes to make them scream! The wetter, the loudest the better for him.

He's loud too. I feel like he talks a lot during it and he's very vocal. Hot. He likes to call the shots, so very demanding (''now open your legs for me'', ''louder I wanna hear you'' ''who told you to stop, baby?'' these phrases came into my mind, so... Similar to this).

BUT he may have problems climaxing and making his partner c*m with only penetra*on. Oh, I see... That's why he prefers oral s*x. He liked to finish with his partner suc*ing him off most of times. And vice versa.

He's just... Really good with his mouth. Squ*rting too. And he goes round after round after round...

What's his general personality?

mountain + ship + lily + star | back of the deck: bouquet

the wheel of fortune + page of wands reversed + 3 of swords reversed + 10 of pentacles reversed | back of the deck: 2 of pentacles

Jobe's very hard on himself to always be better than he was yesterday. But he feels like his life's not moving as he would like.

He struggles a lot to have confidence in himself and in his goals, what he does. But here's the thing: Jobe is good at hiding his insecurities from everybody. He's very good at pretending everything is fine. He adapts easy to any situation. He acts like the people around him act.

I see that he has some insecurties concerning ''making his family proud''. Do I have to say it out loud? It's about him having big shoes (Jude's) to fill.

How's he emotionally?

king of wands + the moon reversed + king of pentacles + justice reversed | back of the deck: 5 of cups

Jobe's kind of pessimistic.

he likes to go to the core of every trouble he faces. He's not afraid to dig in and find ugly things about himself and other people. He prefers to know the ugly truth than live with pretty lies.

He's very critical with himself. He must be careful to not be unkind and unfair sometimes to people.

How's he as a partner in romantic relationships?

garden + cross + letter + crossroads | back of the deck: lily

10 of cups reversed + the star reversed + 4 of cups + 8 of pentacles | back of the deck: 5 of swords

He's the thing: Jobe's very reticent about dating, and that's because he feels like there's no one good enough for him. But calm down! What I mean is that Jobe can see how the ''dating scenario'' is nowadays and he doesn't like what he sees (people cheat all the time, they lack commitment, lack of accountability, lack of maturity...).

He's easy to disatisfy when he tries a relationship with someone. And he lacks mtivation to try something serious. It's like he lost faith in good relationships happening for him. And he's very direct about it with people. He doesn't shy away from saying how relationships are not for him - at least not right now. He loses interest quickly.

That's it, folks. I hope you enjoyed the reading! Take care <3

[be-ee]

haha I'm usually too shy for requests but maybe a cute neuvillette fluff??? If that's okay :D

A/N!; Of course! I added a bit more so I do hope you enjoy🫶

“AND I CAN’T HELP, FALLING IN LOVE WITH YOU…”

What makes Genshin men fall for you?

𐙚 Ft: Neuvillette, Thoma, and Scaramouche

𐙚 content: Fluff!

𝜗𝜚 Neuvillette falls for your kindness .

Perhaps it’s the tenacity of it. Never flattering or wavering. He watched you often from his position at the fountain as he read. You would smile from your humble flower stall; even when the snobbiest of Fontains nobles would grimace at you. At the end of the day, as you packed up your stall, you would hand him a small bouquet of silk flowers.

“I couldn’t possibly accept this.” He’d protest each time. Each time you would push it into his chest, insisting. “It would only go to waste anyway. Keep it.” Neuvillette Had come across many people in the Courts of Fontain.

All had their own agendas and ulterior motives. But, goodwill was a rarity. The tenderness in your eyes and the way you treated everyone like they were your equals. That was rare. Like a sudden ocean in the desert, or the blooming of a cactus flower. You were a rarity in Fontain. One he didn’t realize he could not do without..

___________________

𝜗𝜚 Thoma falls for your bravery.

As one of the guards of the Kamisato Clan, bravery is to be expected. Especially from the personal guard of Lady Ayaka. So yes, you were brave in a sense that you were prepared to draw your sword at any given moment.

That's not what Thoma had meant, though. Your bravery extends beyond your strength.The way you were able to make yourself smile at the end of the day when all you wanted to do was scream.The way you could be so kind to others when they don't deserve it. How, no matter the situation, you managed to put others before yourself. Or boldly speak your mind.

“I’m not sure how you do it” Thoma admits, when it’s just the two of you sitting on the veranda. You had been sipping tea with Ayaka earlier, but she left not long after the sun began to set, leaving the two of you alone. You smiled lightly

"I think of all the people that need my help." You replied, eyes sparkling. "It's just something I've always done."

Thoma smiled, looking down at the cup in his hand; a small flutter danced in his chest. That’s just how you were…and he hopes that never changes

______________________

𝜗𝜚 Scaramouche falls for your honesty .

Scaramouche , naturally, craves truth. As a being forged in the light of the Electro Archon, he has seen the truth of this world, the ugliness, the beauty, the love, the hate, all that is beautiful, all that is ugly. But no matter what. He could not find pleasantries in one thing. A being he has come across time and time again, Humans. Lying, traitorous, filth.

However, there's something in your eyes that allows him to believe your words are true. He stupidly believes it when you tell him that you’ll stay. So, he lets you.

Perhaps it’s that particular gleam in your eyes. Or the clearness of your voice; how you seem so sure of yourself. But there is something that tells him that you are telling the truth. That you truly will stay with him forever. So, he foolishly believed your words. He doesn't even think twice about it when you tell him.

[fae-morrigan]

hi…I was thinking about your jay/damian step-brothers au (I hope I got the right blog bc I searched through your blog and didn’t find anything but like I’m so sure it was you), but anyway…any scraps you have about this au that you can share…pleaseee

like their initial reactions and whether or not this is something Damian would flaunt, or anything else you have 🙏

How about a little more than just some scraps? For you, my lovely anon, who asked about the thing I've been circling in my brain for WEEKS?!

Sara and Talia get together when Damian isn't born yet. It starts as just a convenience thing, putting aside their nasty breakup as college students to raise their kids with a more unified/powerful house. And then of course they re-catch their feelings and their marriage becomes For Love.

Jay, who's of course around 6 (and just lost his other mom) thinks Damian is a very ugly baby. He comes around eventually.

Sara and Talia's respective influence on their sons ends up changing a lot about these two in this AU.

For one, Jay, like Damian, is trained from combat from childhood, and ends up taking a specialty in bladed weapons (where Damian is more of a jack of all trades). He ends up also being a lot less shy and even is actively assertive even before the experiments, making him a bit of an oddball in Gamorra (which retains Japan's culture of politeness) but also a bit of a leader. He ends up taking after Talia in terms of her strategic cunning when it comes to people, more than willing to pluck a person out of the crowd if he thinks they have a shared goal.

Meanwhile, with Sara's influence (specifically kicking Ra's to the curb immediately because only son boy allowed and Gamorra MORE than has the resources to tell him to shove it) Damian has a much more... Normal isn't the word, but happy is, childhood. They still have their grand political goals that these two are being raised to help realize, but Gamorra has a huge culture of 'it takes a village' when it comes to kids and so from the start Damian sees himself less as the top of a lateral hierarchy and more a leading part of a grander horizontal convoy.

(I'll elaborate a bit on Ra's in a later post once I pin down Jon & Nika in this au. Stay tuned!)

The fall of Gamorra goes, somehow, even worse. Talia and Sara in this au are not above rigging the election to make sure Bendix, Least Obvious American Plant Ever, doesn't win and take control of all their combined assets, except Bendix decides an election is for suckers and in this au just straight up stages a coup with American backing. Both Talia and Sara get captured: Sara gets taken first, with Talia and Jay getting captured together while ensuring Damian escapes to Bruce.

Damian's first meeting with Bruce in this au is not precipitated by his final birthday victory over Talia- In this AU, they never played that game at all, as Damian had zero interest in ever knowing his father (why dad when perfectly good two moms?). Rather, its precipitated by being the only survivor of his family when imperialism came knocking.

He still becomes Robin, and he still has an arc around learning the true power of violence and Why Killing Is Bad, but its with a different set of challenges: Rather than trying to help Damian unlearn his arrogance and deep-rooted trained violence, Bruce has to help Damian overcome his survivors guilt. Part of Damian's motivation for staying Robin and becoming the strongest is to save his mothers and his brother here.

He hates the other bats even more at first, here. They're not Jay, so why bother? His brother is gone.

Jay's story also goes almost the same but with slight differences- He still finds the revs, and still founds The Truth, and still sets out on a quest to exploit and destroy Bendix, but....

Everyone he exposes in The Truth's pages as helping Bendix's regime? Yeah, he kills them. With a sword.

(Also he's a bit of an arrogant dickhead here because he immediately gets to the revs and decides it is HE who is in charge. Dont worry, they soften him up a bit.)

The plot of this au formally kicks off when Robin (Damian), during the We Are Robin arc (which plays out almost entirely the same) gets wise to a string of mysterious murders that has seemingly migrated from Metropolis to Gotham.

I'm really proud of these designs btw, lol. Jay's especially.

Thanks for asking! I'll have more on this AU soon and will absolutely accept any more questions you guys have.

[j0kers-light]

Hi, Chaos! I have a request - How would J react with Y/N having a condition called 'winking eye syndrome'? It's actually something I have but it's such a rare condition that it's never mentioned. I would love to read your take on it. Thanks in advance! <3

Hello and hi beloved!!! 🖤✨

Fun fact! Anytime I have an ask that’s medical in nature, I run to my mother to get the most accurate information. She loves helping out to answer these so much!

Moving along! Winking eye syndrome? Coming right up! 👩🏽‍💻 I’m sorry I’m answering this ask so late, writers block is powerful. I hope you enjoy beautiful 😘

Definition: Marcus Gunn Jaw winking syndrome (MGJWS) is one of the congenital cranial dysinnervation disorders (CCDD) and these individuals have variable degrees of blepharoptosis in the resting, primary position. It is associated with synkinetic movements of the upper eyelid during masticating movements of the jaw.

credit & credit

MGJ, another rare condition (with hardly any studies/articles) that affects the eyelids literally by 'winking' at inopportune moments.

(From my research) its more of an insecurity or an annoyance than anything since its not life threatening or harmful, (if it exceeds 2mm then it could be).

However the mental health side effects—being self conscious, is serious enough to discuss.

Joker is very perceptive, and especially about his Bunny, so he would definitely notice but not comment.

He takes notice how you don't eat or drink in front of him to avoid him seeing your condition.

You are very particular about how you angle your face or talk in order to not upset your jaw and cause any flare ups even though sometimes the wink can be involuntary.

Joker doesn't like you hiding from him and makes it his mission to help you become more comfortable with yourself.

You might get a cheeky joke every now and then like, "Are ya getting sleepy Bunny?" or “Happy to see me doll?" as he winks right back at you.

Don't panic, Joker is never insulting or mean to you! Its all done in jest.

He does enjoy seeing you fluster and try to shy away but he's quick to spin you around to face him.

You pout and close your eyes, that won't work. Joker is patient and he'll wait however long it takes for you to look at him. Its high time he addressed this.

"Mind tellin' me whyy your hiding those... gorgeous eyes from me sweetheart?"

His alluring voice makes the words pierce your heart even harder yet your lingering insecurities make you hesitate. "They're not gorgeous, J. I hate them."

You bury your face into Joker's chest. He's just saying that because he's your partner. You hate your eyelids for always being stupid and not working properly. It makes taking photos a daunting task. Eye contact is your worst nightmare and it overall makes you ugly.

"You are noT ugly, Y/n."

Wait, did you say that part out loud? Joker tipped your chin up so he could see you more clearly. The deep frown on his face means he's dead serious and you silently begin to panic.

"You think I would liee when I call ya my pretty girl. My Goddess? Mm? Am I a li-ar Y/n?"

His eyes scan your face and force you to mumble a quick, "N-No.."

Joker leaned down to kiss your forehead, both of your eyelids, and then lastly your lips. "No I'm noT, I'm tellin' ya the truth. I don't care if your 'eyelids are stupid'. They belong to my Bunny and my Bunny is perfect. Mhm, wouldn't change a thiiiing." J hugged you close and nuzzled your hair with his cheek.

He hated acting all soft but you needed some sweet reassurance. Your condition made you unique and J loved that about you.

One of these days he would get you to fully embrace your individuality. It would take some time and loads of energy but Joker had more than enough patience to help his Bunny be the best version you could be.

[blurredout10]

Remember To Follow

A Sixty/Reader Story

Tags: angst, amnesia, smut, memory loss, drowning, angstfest y'all stay safe,

Wordcount: 7360

Summary:

Sixty has Amnesia. He wakes with water in his lungs and the panic of an apartment he doesn't recognise. Sixty has Amnesia and he doesn't know you.

But, you vowed to follow him when fitting his wedding band on your special day. Even if he doesn't remember, you'll always follow him. Until...

"I'm done. I can't follow you anymore."

And in the darker weather, thick soot falls from black clouds, a weight that stretches the scales on his chest--the air suffocates him as does the truth.

The Earth pulls at his feet, shying away from where his footprints dusted over; baby leaves, the stir of deeply rooted wildlife tease into a growing distance, his shoes shaking off remnants of the ground once stepped. A distant memory.

It’s truly an inch away, where his ankles flail to meet the grasps of gravity and he fails. The image of the forest floor blurs together—it’s not shrinking, he’s flying—and desperate to find ground to gain root, he’s chasing something that can only brush his fingertips. Even if he savours the taste a little, the contact doesn’t imprint, barely licks his skin but not long enough to register it. He’s losing something, but it’s too far away to recognise it, and some third force urges him to dent it into his chassis as does the scar on his forehead. It's fleeting, tasteless when he forgets again, as if he was clawed hollow, ripped wires and shredded organs.

The ache stills in his shoulders, then churns to his elbows which he tries to knock out into open air. It’s desire and want and it’s everything he can no longer have. His breath delays.

Air puffs and clouds, and then cohere into bubbles that faintly cage his image before floating high. His brows tense and then furrow, wrinkling lines of equal parts confusion and frustration, before he wrenches an arm high to chase his mini image. He passes through cold nothing, his eyes cannot find it and it strikes him that he can’t remember just what he reached for. It’s all take, take, take.

He flies. He floats. The space around him grows dense. Cool air rushes into deep water.

The sea wraps him snugly, perhaps to make up for whomever's arms ghost around his chest - but the latches aren’t comfortable, they're unsafe and work to suffocate ventilation. There's only so long he can sink, so long the reserves in him squeal an exhale before his systems encourage him to break through the surface.

Warnings flesh as blaring red rectangles; he ignores it. He's waiting for something. A reason? An answer, to why an ugly, icky tumour clenches his palms shut, why he can't get rid of the feeling as much as he tries to stretch it away. The water swishes when he turns to his hand, expecting some creature to claw from beneath his skin, blame it for why his mind blurs when he thinks.

The sea is quiet; it dulls stimulation. Gives him some veiled excuse for ‘time’. It's why he enjoys it.

His chest tightens. His systems caution him further, overheating. It's an abysmal discomfort, but strangely cathartic. Wheezes muffle into the water but he hears it no less, feels how biocomponents sear in a mockery of pain. It's too loud, it hurts in the part of him he misses.

He blares crimson. His chest burns. The surface serves as his bright light, deep rushing currents and beeping warnings a choir for his funeral, and the sea will be his grave.

A boat passes. A canoe. Chatter muffles but he can make out two distinct voices. One hauntingly similar to his own and the other… he... can't quite... who...? No, he’s sure he doesn’t recognise it. No face to that sound. No lips to that mouth.

The sea edges him to the surface for him, bubbles that lift him with tiny limbs, pushing past surface tension until he floats. He’s hollow, it only makes sense how the sea lays beneath him.

Why does his body feel different? Why is there a one-way mirror fitted between somatic and internal, between instinct and thought?

Why does he feel longing ?

The surface tickles his lips, velvet soft, it reminds him of... his mind halts. Chest pulling in a cooler touch, he still feels a strain around his ribcage, a lie and truth meddled into a fluid mass. He chases the flash of... something tries to fill it in his lungs when he breathes in deep. His fingertips brush his lower lip and they feel prickly, new. No lips to that kiss. The warnings recede but his vision clouds still.

Something touches his hand. Stings, rather, like rope burn. Sears into his framework like his hand drove through a shredder. A thread weaves and gains purchase tight around his fingers, projections into cobwebs, but this time, it holds.

It's a fishing line, though it doesn't seem to have a handler, nor a place of origin. The line tangles and pulls taut around his hand. Crunches his plastic like day-old snow. It doesn't snap. It doesn't escape him.

And Sixty remembers.

There is no coming of sunshine, no beam pushes through that doubling storm, no spread of saturated colour when every memory muddies into one. It circulates and spirals him with a force harsh enough to stretch his skin thin and puncture vessels—tears him like a damp paper towel, watch it loosen and break away in wet chunks. It's impenetrable to light, for it absorbs it until light is no more.

Outlines form in dark space, meshing golden edges into one another as they layer per memory—like his mind spins on an axis, catching the clutter of reconstructions into something sensical. Sounds are out of sync, mouths of faces—he cannot name them—speak words he hears seconds later. Pressure finds stubborn fingers against his temple where he’s gripping tighter, as if to keep a fractured mind in one piece. It helps momentarily, but it’s an illusion of strength.

It hurts. It really does. Like the layers of him are spliced an inch apart, like his eyes could fall right out of their sockets, like his limbs could spring apart without reason.

He's lost in the nothingness of himself, forced in the corner to be pelted with memory upon memory until it bruises his skin for good - and for once, hoping it'll last. Choppy flashes of yellow that resemble some unnamed figure, wrap their fingers around his artificial brain, squeezing until he cries in paralysed anguish. He contorts in pain, it rubs harshly against his throat but carries no sound.

It makes him want to scream.

But his grip on the fishing line tightens.

The blood that rips from his fingers and the water coalesce, blurring the borders between the shades of blue. If the water exists as his illness, maybe his pain is fated to be forgotten.

And oh, how he burns. His blood is acidic and thaws the plastic that pumps it, cursing the rest of his body to a poisoned end. The screws in him rust to a hair's width. Sixty's the pieces of him that fragment in his memory.

Broken. Aimless. Nuts and bolts in a sack of simulated flesh.

The water latches on his ankle and pulls him far harder than he can hold on.

“No!-” Static twists his voice in a stray note, duly muffled by the water, a nodule in his throat he can’t cough out or swallow down. That desperation fills his lungs alongside the water, an unwelcome weight, but it jogs some corner of impulses in his android brain.

Struggle slips into gargles within the lake, locked in pockets of air, unmoving to keep his struggle unheard. Panic nestles in his joints as he is dragged faster, his kicks are clammy and desperate but useless from the unforgiving fingers of kelp. Seaweed shackles curl around his ankle tighter, pulling him closer to the ocean floor. His fingers fumble with little progress.

Colour evades the deeper he falls, remnants of the moonlight serving as a fleeting solace, a light at the end of the tunnel that Sixty is maliciously rejected. It's ironic, how the near-black expanse he's pulled into reminds him of something. The ghost of feathered lashes, The pressure on his chest punishes. Something audibly cracks in him.

Sixty takes to mouth something, his lips shaping a vow, a plea to the prison bars, and a familiar voice echoes on the tips of his hair.

“To never forget,” blurred lines of fading memories lose definition. Unravels in the wind, thread that's fallen loose from its clipboard, gathering dust with little memory of where it’s from or where it goes. Seaweed pulls him undeniably fast.

His hands fall immobile, hopeless, unsure. Defeated.

That feeling in his chest remains. That memory of sheer fear still knocks his bones, still tickles an itch without scratching it. But the panic, the bruises on his body fade inexplicably, where the vow curls around his tongue... what was it again? Why were his fingers slashed due to force that only could've been his own? Sixty's desperation tremors in his hands but his reason is long gone.

Thud.

Sixty hits the sea floor. Sixty becomes a shell of a man.

There is no panic, no fear. Memories have been abandoned, lost at sea. A hard reset makes Sixty's eyes look inexplicably hollow.

His arm solos above him but the night silently watches through the water. Down here, Sixty knows that nothing exists besides the vegetation that binds him low.

-.—.-

Daybreak bleeds between his curtains that fan the dull walls of his bedroom a better gold. The sun peeks at him boldly, this time without clouded company and its promise of a fleeting shelter. There was no escape.

It's like the sun has found him now, searched in a land untouched until he made the mistake of half-drawing his curtains to watch the moon last night.

Ambient rumbling of motors whine from the open window, birds scurry and sing in flight like little leaves caught in the wind; a solemn sense of consonance merges the bustle outside to an optimistic backdrop. It fills the space with warm adoration.

Ha! I knew I'd find you! The sunlight mocks with a childish cackle. A painful eyeshot of a blinding day makes him flinch. Sixty muffles a groan into his cotton pillow, rumpled bedsheets that felt a little too like…seaweed?

Sixty scrambles to his knees.

The day is anew, but the android feels cuffed to an undefined torment of the past, a crushing weight of the entire ocean converging to a singular point above his pump regulator. It restrains him so, like a timid hand pulling at his sleeve to return to bed and stay a little longer. He can’t quite decide whether it’s the ghostly touch of supple fingers or binding kelp pulling at his wrists.

What is he even thinking about? Sixty scoffs at his break in hysteria. He must be losing it. What the hell was going on anyway?

Sixty clasps his fingers around his other forearm unprompted, his thumb pushing into the autonomous ripple of the synthetic epidermis to the white shell of his android anatomy. He drags his palms proximally to his elbow.

He’s in a white t-shirt, crumpled akin to the bedding as if it were taken from the bedsheets themselves. Sixty pulls a fistful of his top; the wrinkles stretch and converge to sharper lines. His shorts are long and loose. Sixty pats his body crudely to feel if he was really half the person he felt.

The android runs a shallow scan of the space around him. An apartment? Decor looks to be thrown about without rhyme or reason, the hard floor littered with crumpled clothes and springing plants on cramped shelves. Bright yellow post-its look to be placed at random; one juts out near the pots with black scrawl that barely passes for eligible writing:

"Water every Tuesday. "

It’s a Tuesday.

Sixty pulls in air with a mechanical wheeze, though the space in his chest shrinks as it grows. A pathogen lives at the base of his lungs, one that gnaws at his inner workings with cannibalistic curiosity, digging its fangs to feed and multiply as a means to raise its young. Sixty can feel it moving inside him, but he’s limited to scratching helplessly at his diagnostics, nails scraping bits of white off his plastic thorax.

What the hell is going on?

Sixty keels over. His midriff spasms into a painful flurry of staggered breaths.

Was he not dead?

-

Sixty tries to recall, but all that meets him are razor edges of battered pictures. The pieces belong to an uncertain figure, one without eyes or lips, a memory true if he was to see it one more time. It’s a bitter reality, with no one to show him what he’s missing, no one to kiss away the infectious sting of doubt lining his vessels. He’s alone in feeling it clot and occlude sanity’s door with a final blow.

The more he attempts to recollect the pieces, the deeper the memory cuts. Sixty stops trying.

Time has passed, years , if he was being specific. The seasons have swept on shore and pulled far into the sea, tidal in that it changes before Sixty found a moment to appreciate it. Though mostly indifferent, Sixty can’t help but grow curious of his kind and their place in busy streets.

Does he stand alongside them? It took no detective to see he had established himself, so was this life really his own?

What was going on?

Sixty searches for the one who shares the likings of his identity. One who he scoffed at with the barrel of a gun back at the Cyberlife Tower. Perhaps, as with deviancy, he has the answers.

There he sits with company, laughter on his lips, dressed in a tan, woolly overcoat that drapes largely off his shoulders and brushes the pavement. It’s far too big, neither functional, for his standard build, and despite the odd calamity of ‘whatever the fuck was happening’ to Sixty, Connor looks as though he belongs. All temple LED and android awkwardness, he pieced effortlessly into the background.

Sixty isn't quite sure why the fact surprises him, that much he figured in the earlier turmoil of the time skip; from the moment of his fatal deviation and the current day, everyone moved on.

Sixty feels the same.

His hands dig deeper into his hoodie, fingers crumpling the post-it that served to tie the frayed ends of his questions. A stark yellow with a near-dysfunctional sticky back from sticking it on the wall again and again.

“You have amnesia. This is your house.”

The scene fans out in tones of autumn kisses and raining leaves, where the sun relishes the sky in a longing embrace before parting for a lengthy slumber. A rotten taste finds the base of Sixty's tongue; it's ironic, as the sun, Sixty knows this miracle is ephemeral.

His predecessor is fortunate, but what does Sixty know about the turning days, because for him, yesterday existed and nothing more. His mission . The gunshot . The spark of fear between the fired bullet and Sixty's definite demise.

For Connor, however, time was a plentiful gift, wrapped in a pretty pink bow with a note of gratitude.

That timid bounce of perfectly parted hair looks fresh with product, a snug knitted pullover dressing him in near-black blues and oranges, and fingers warm around a cafés coffee mug. Sixty fixes on the pointless thrumming below the blue patterns on the rim of white ceramic.

There's a gold band on his finger; something brief twists in the cogs of Sixty's chest though he struggles to point just where its core lies.

"Connor," the successor hesitates, an awkward distance to count as conversation but close enough to catch the surprise in the predecessor’s eyes. It lapses for a moment, mirror images locked onto the other before Connor softens to a knowing look.

Passing a glance to his partner, a soft nod that spoke terribly loud for a quiet autumn afternoon, Sixty can't help feeling the distance within himself grow. The confusion he woke with grips the wheel with unprecedented curiosity.

"Do sit," Connor gestures an easy hand to the empty chair next to him, "we have to catch up."

-

His name is Sixty, formally. Sixty , he tests the sound of it but it doesn't quite strike the way he expects it to. It misses something, an edge, or a lilt that matched the serenity of rippled water. Sixty , or perhaps it's his voice that can't quite string it the way it's supposed to.

Hood raised and hands deep in pockets, Sixty idly walks without a destination in mind.

The sun is too bright, albeit setting, and he scoffs for a quicker nightfall; just as he wishes to settle the intensity of his new life and bask in the dullness of ignorance again. Perhaps, it was better if he did not know this was the life shackled to him.

Remnants of the falling sun cough out the last of its light into the coming night, like the speckles of streetlights blurring in a distance, impressionable but not dominant. It's how Sixty feels about the world around him, the breeze against his skin, the mindless chatter of passing crowds. Reality cuts through him like streaks of rainwater on a car window, and he's following it down with every will for it to stop while he catches his breath. The yellow parts of the sky are far too bright.

He can't quite shake it off, the nagging truth of his sunken sense of identity and an apartment full of sticky notes.

Sixty passes a bookstore. He catches his reflection in a golden light and stops. Amnesia.

He’s angry. Was he fated to await the moment he forgets again if only to relive the shock of waking up in a strange bed in a strange apartment that’s supposedly his own?

Chocolate stares back at him. His hair is tousled, and his clothes swallow him whole. He’s unrecognisable. Sixty sees beyond the glass window.

People meddle in happy heaps, whether stamped with a temple ring light or not, all warping in their perception of the world around. Fingers edge out to take a book in hand, read the contents, engross in the feel, blinking with the living condition to experience until they cannot experience anymore.

His feet move autonomously. People brush past unceremoniously as he walks in. The bookstore is packed. His hand pulls at a book between colourful stacks, unprompted.

It’s busy. The air is thick with age-old literature and wafts of perfume from the collective. Sixty focuses on the embellished lettering of the cover and swipes a thumb to let it print in his mind in an attempt to remember it.

The title sticks to his lips far better than his own name.

‘Remember To Love.’

He’s never held a book before. He’s not done much of anything before. Not that he can remember it anyway. A dry laugh huffs out of his chest; the title delivers an ugly stab of irony between artificial ribs but stings as though the pain was lowly human.

Chatter fades. The door jingles frequently as crowds work to replace those who left. Was this the consequence of being conscious? To live on such a plane off-kilter from faces around, coded with a curse to bear it alone?

What was the point?

"You know , if you open it, they'll be even more to read. "

Sixty startles, which itself encourages another considering his exclusive knickknacks would've noticed anything and everything in his surroundings. Maybe he isn’t all the same.

The first thing his optics fall to is that smile and its easy curves. The cracks in your lower lips are a novel sight, akin to the veins of autumn leaves.

A human has spoken to him. A human . In friendly conversation. The shock on his face must be nothing short of picturesque. Doubled at how long he figures he’s been standing awkwardly, staring at a book’s cover.

Your head tilts, patient in his stunned silence with a glazing edge in your pupils. A gentle curiosity locks his way, slack bait hanging off of a fishing line. It doesn’t pull him closer to you but doesn’t let him fall too far behind. Sixty fails to formulate a response.

"That book is pretty boring actually," you exasperate with a dismissing flick of your wrist, "too much drama, not enough action, if you know what I mean."

What?

(Not even preconstructed responses can save him.)

In a stolen moment, your brows hitch in sync with your chest but are swiftly replaced by the exaggerated smile of a guiding angel, or that of a child’s favourite mentor. Warmth that favours a mother to a lost kitten in broken alleyways.

"You look like it's your first day on Earth," you chuckle lightly.

This feels like too much.

You say your name. It pokes at the base of his heart. You wait expectantly for his reciprocal.

"Sixty." He says. It sounds foreign still.

You smile brighter, like the sun that woke him with a giddy 'I've found you'. Something is fizzling in your eyes. Android curiosity scans it again and again.

You cock your head to the world outside, "want me to give you a tour, Sixty?"

You say his name. He follows you like it’s the easiest thing he’s done today.

The sea meets him once more.

-.--.-

“Your name is Sixty. You have amnesia.”

The lettering is imperfect, surely it cannot be his own.

A scoff splutters akin to a wet gargle, as if the sea floor that chained his corpse liquified his innards into coarse crackles. The whites of his eyes are inexplicably growing just as his resolve shrinks.

Is this a fucking joke?

The furniture feels the brunt of his anger.

Whatever the hell was happening had to be some sick ploy, a malicious scheme to punish Sixty's nihilistic pre-deviant operations. A bladed jab for every objective he itched to pursue. Kick him whilst he's down.

Connor must be behind this. He has to be. For that crumpled edge in the corner of his eyes that seeped in the reflection of red temple rings, it must be that android's petty, subordinate revenge for Sixty using his Lieutenant as bait.

The apartment must pose as a means to mock his sorry state, to brandish his failures in the solid confines of solitary punishment. That wretched copy and his all-emotive facial plate ; Sixty digs his heels as if it were twisting on that Connor's neck, itching for the leeway of the first crunch and those staggering, desperate breaths that would follow.

Amnesia? Sixty remembers well how his chassis burned with a brittle shake. Sixty remembers the looming spark in the back of his head urging him to pull the trigger. Dealing with that sorry sack of alcoholism for a police lieutenant was enough of a pain...

Sixty falters.

The memories play the same though he feels another character is in play. Disembodied, yet latching on his back with wet tendrils like it wished to become an extension of him. Sixty cannot wield it like a limb, but it voices the contortions of his pump regulator just as well.

You disappoint me, pathetic fool. It sears, speaking for him when he's coded a mouth sewn shut.

Sixty slowly dips his head, letting his eyes catch on the palms of his hands.

Something's off. He's missing something. Even with the added ghoul that makes all his mistakes and fills the cracks with reason... he's carved hollow.

What the hell is going on?

Weeks pass and tides pull him back in.

-.--.-

“You have amnesia. Your name is Sixty.”

He slams his fists in fearful proximity to his pump regulator, straining stridor amidst harsh coughs as if his insides scurried to escape him. There is no water in his lungs.

The seaweed remains cuffed as he seeks answers. What's happening to me? Someone sits just over an arm's length across a desk from him, eyes peering over meticulous glasses as if they'd cost him a component to afford. White coat in faux medical aid and a personal office that did its best to sell Sixty of the man's competency. A professional, albeit human, but one who has the answers he's looking for.

However, when the man falls in conversation, Sixty drifts in the dull expanse of clouded memories. His mind pulls from the foreground. The former technician bobs his chin repeatedly that doesn't quite look like talking; Sixty can neither hear nor recognise the shape of those words.

The android's fingers tighten on the armrests, digging into the peeling vinyl and its spongy abscess. In its opening, creatures with spindly legs crawl up the back of his hand, biting through synthetic skin to the burrows of Sixty's flesh. The android is unable to draw air into his chest.

They crawl with needle-like legs. Sixty can't move. The mounds under his skin crawl faster. Sixty's voice has no weight.

Subject to the horned teeth that staple his plastic makeup with spotting blue blood, Sixty is paralysed. His eyes grow. They crawl up his neck.

He wants to scream. It's all too much.

"Would you like some help?" A faint voice offers behind him whilst he stands idly in a grocery store. The shelves stock unforgivingly in blinding variations of colourful foods, neither that would settle for appetising nor their exploited prices. Why the hell is he looking at food he can't eat?

Sixty regains his breath but his feet don't move. Snacks stretch in favour of a distraction. He finally turns to the voice that jolted him back; the eyes that meet him are the closest he's felt to his feet on the ground.

"Are you curious about our snacks? I've got recommendations if you're interested." You play a small smile, but the lift in your brows and the glaze in your eyes never settle.

It's strange. You're a face amongst many though he feels like the centre of yours. You look as if you've rushed to catch up to him.

" Su-" he croaks and then clears his throat, "sure."

And the water takes him again.

-.--.-

A crumpled paper ball of a tennis ball-yellow is stuffed in Sixty's jacket. He squeezes it tightly until faint marks indent on synthetic skin.

He's out of breath, but he can't find you.

Audio muffles by the overlay of memories, merry tinkles of your laughter, the shape of your voice snug in the space that felt hollow. Sixty runs through the streets in search of it again.

The line pulls taut. All he can think about is finding you. The water calls him back but he surfs the crowds instead.

You must be here. Sixty is in search of your head in the many. His phone has run dry, posing his feared reflection with all the desperation to seek. It's all going wrong. He just needs to find you.

The line loosens, tides rush to his ankles but Sixty pushes on. There must be some way. Someone you're with. Someone who knows you. But the existence around you splits into shaky pieces, uncertain and incomprehensible. He can't let that line go, not when it's finally in his grasp.

It's a losing battle.

-.--.-

"You have amnesia."

Why does he feel so exhausted?

The days spur on. The note. The chase. The staggering step in when he remembers your outline. Warmth leaves him every time his head falls in his hands, bound to the curse of reliving what cannot and will never be his.

Fate is a cruel feat. Sixty stands by the shore and waits for the tides to rise.

"Sixty. You have amnesia. I love you."

As he wakes up from a thrashing slumber, he notes the absence of kelp on his wrists. The memories spring up like hollow balls in a body of water.

He remembers everything; nothing tops the crushing guilt of having you wait so long.

The note. The pulsations under his fingers when he rests a hand over his heart. The hitch in his breath when the smell of your skin revisits his senses.

Water fills his lungs anyway.

"Your name is Sixty. This is where you live. You have amnesia."

The note. The chase. The reality.

The fate of the sea floor.

"This is your house. You have amnesia."

How can he accept the path fate carves for him?

"Your name is Sixty. You have amnesia."

How long is he supposed to do this?

"This is your apartment, Sixty. You have amnesia."

Sixty digs through the balls of yellow paper in his waste bin.

"You have amnesia."

They're all notes.

-.--.-

"You have amnesia. Your name is Sixty. This is your home."

There's a knock at his door.

In the tattered assortment of piling memories, never really starting or finishing anywhere as if they were pieces ripped out from the middle, Sixty exhales and opens the front door.

"Hey," you speak as such too, like the middle of a memory, wet lines down your cheeks with questions of why and when . Your voice is small, enough that he could roll it in his palm like one of those balled pieces of paper in his trash can.

Instinct makes him step back to let you in, but not enough to speak to the stranger of his new life. Your lower lashes clump wetly, the tips of leaves edging the stream of rainfall. You tighten your jaw.

There’s a mass that sloshes in his vessels the longer he looks at you, though he’s not sure what to call it. It’s weighted, mobile in the way it keeps knocking the wind out of him like a soccer punch to a little boy. Your eyes are wide and Sixty knows what to call that strain in your expression; it's hope.

Speak, his subconscious commands, bobbing his jaw open without knowing what to say. Your tears glisten freshly yet hold firm. Willing the world to halt so Sixty could take all the time in the universe to finally say something.

Do I know you? But something urges him to not ask. Seeing the wild nest of your hair and swollen eyes drives all his impulses to the ground except for one; muscle memory lifts his hand closer to you in what could feel like the most natural thing he's done in the past few weeks he's awoken.

But he falters halfway.

Sixty isn't quite sure why he let you in the first place, let alone why he entertained the thick glass between the two of you like he was breaking the walls of deviancy all over again. There is nothing of the sort in your scanned details to enrapture him, nothing to stop him from asking you to leave his apartment. You must be one of those people who existed in the lost parts of him, waiting expectantly for him to return.

It's been twenty-six days since he woke with no recollection of who he was or why he was here. Twenty-six days, though according to Connor, this charade had dragged beyond dozens of times over three years. Twenty-six days of his neighbours conversing like they intended to invite him to their weddings, twenty-six days of loitering faces, gazing at him pitifully.

'What a shame, isn't it? It's no way to live.'

Sixty died every time he forgot. The version they long to keep has slipped into the high tides for its ocean grave. Ironic, that he is misunderstood as some copy of an android that shares his liking. How bad must it be for Sixty to actually appreciate Connor's lack of prodding, despite still carrying that coiled resentment pre-deviancy?

You stand in his living room, hair thrashed, clothes dishevelled, cheeks warm due to friction with the knocking scent of alcohol. You're searching for a piece of him that doesn't exist. Even if your very presence calms the unstable writhing of his components, his mind has been made up.

A light sound escapes you, sounding like the huff of a cry, until it croaks again into a chortle. It's pained; Sixty can measure it in amplitudes, and your laughter rings on for a few more before a heavy sigh.

You're laughing? The smile you flesh out doesn't quite reach your eyes, except you look a taste manic with those damp and dilated pupils. It's wildly unexpected, and Sixty pulls up short; it throws a wrench right into his thoughts.

"You know ," you begin and Sixty snaps to the brittle notes of your voice. It's better than your laughing, "despite you being an android, I somehow feel like the one who's immortal."

You chuckle a little more, tilting your head back. It shakes your shoulders and takes you wholly.

"I really want to hate you," you don't look at him, "I really do. I want to more than anything. A right old sock to your face."

You glance at him before fixing to the plants on the tiny shelves. Sixty's silence stretches on.

"I didn't come here to fight. Or to get you to remember. I'm surprised you let me actually. Lucky day for me, huh?"

The android's pump regulator stutters. He feels as though he is not there.

Tension disperses from your joints as if they had lost against gravity and slumped in major defeat. The sag is paired with a staggered sigh. "I've been honouring our vows, Sixty. I really have. Even if you..." you sound raw, static, "even if you can't- aren't able to. I've been trying for so long. "

Vows? Vows. That's why you're here. You were married to that version of him lost at sea, not him, not him . The memories you search for have been driven ashore, photographs paled by the kicking currents of the ocean. Those memories have been worn out, faded. Sixty feels the loss like it's his own.

Tears fall irregularly and Sixty watches you cry with a churning in his chest... it's not quite guilt, nor the tickle of envy, but a combination of both. He knows if he asked you to jump, you would leap with all your might, but it doesn't belong to him. It's the same tickle of envy he felt when Connor's memories became his own.

Your love does not belong to him. It is not his. Perhaps, that is why the grief doubles in around his pump regulator.

"I'm tired, Sixty ."

It's not his. You're not his. The pain sears harder than before.

"I'm done. I can't follow you anymore."

It burns. The wires he'd tangled to fasten his resolve loosen unapologetically. He doesn't know why it hurts. Why is he mourning ? Why does grief bite his breath away in mock gentle kisses? It's alternative to the sour kick of the sea floor, doesn't quite slosh in his mouth in salt and muck as he expects. Instead, it solders his metal tubes into a spoiled clump, an acrid impression he can't swallow down or wash out.

The android feels hot despite being cold to the touch. In the few weeks of his new life, Sixty has never longed for the bits missing this hard before.

Twenty-six days. Your tears trickle but the pinch in your brows settles. You're the first to let him go. God it fucking burns. Why does it feel as if you'd packaged all of your hurt and gave it to him? The layers of glass between you two shake.

He can't breathe.

The glass cracks one by one. A hand clutches his chest; it's his own. Another plane of glass shatters. Your outline grows sharper.

Is this what he went through every time he remembered? This oppressive weight subject to twisting his joints all the wrong ways, pushing his eyes far back until they were lost in his own head. He feels like he's going insane.

Water crackles in his lungs.

No! Wait! Not when he's this close.

He steps to the few layers of glass you stand behind, a distance only he could see beyond the broken memories he'd cast at sea. Sixty's fist pulls back and lands solid and true.

Another plane gives way.

He punches again, mimicking how he first broke through the cage of his android walls. It burns too much. If this is his way forward, if he has to step up where you step back... he lands another blow.

Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

It's almost see-through. The fishing line tightens around his fist with a definite hit. Crack! You're here. He sees you. Every note you left behind before kissing his forehead, thinking he was long resting. Every smile you chased him with despite rejected the reciprocation. In each of his fragments, for every time he forgot again, you followed close behind as the fellow pedestrian with a shared umbrella; the one who poked at him in a bookstore, the one who took him to the midst of Detroit river with a valentine's gift, fitting a silver band with the memory of your vows.

You're here. Sixty keels over. You're not following anymore. Sixty strangles a cry.

Warm arms slot him into the bubble of comfort only you can instil, kneeling in front of him to pull him tight. You're letting him go.

Please. He's only just... Not now.

You're not following him anymore.

"I love you, Sixty." Resonant for his chest so hollow, the vibrations of your voice linger like he was brandishing it into his steel skeleton.

You're not following anymore.

Sixty doesn't recognise the cries he lets out, the coughs he splutters to desperately rid any traces of ocean floor. He doesn't sound like himself. It's animalistic.

"I love you so much." You whisper between his breaths. God, he loves you too. Even if he forgot, his body remembered, at home in your love.

He loves you hopelessly, and he knows that means he must let you leave. For if he cannot fulfil his vows, you can't carry both halves in his shadow all by yourself. It's inevitably wasting you away. A pitiful curse, written as stars, to exist in the same sky but only catch the tail end of each other's light.

It truly hits, the tragedy of those balled-up notes, how they pile beyond measure with traces of foreign teardrops. Sixty clutches to you as if he were to break apart if he didn't. He feels pathetic. Small. Rotten in his biocomponents. He's a shell of a man, though he is full of the memory of you.

"I'm sorry," you speak into his neck. Sixty his head to encode the colour of your eyes. His thumb finds the edge of your lips, a supple and soft shape that would no longer smile at him whenever he looked over his shoulder. The android takes a moment amidst his breakdown to look at you if it's the last thing he'd do. The stray hairs around your eyebrows. Your cheeks, damp and tinted rouge. Your skin, smooth but textured, perfectly human.

Sixty finds that your features make up for his flaws.

I really love you. I love you too much.

Your lips meet naturally. Complete.

It's salty; whether from the looming threat of amnesia or the combined tears of the truth spilt, Sixty laps lavishly with his desperate tongue. To consume you through and through because it's in his hands now, to find you and take you back when he can, and lift that drawn-out burden off your shoulders. He can love you this way, even in times he doesn't spare you a second glance, doesn't recognise you in the crowd of many. Sixty kisses with the promise of finding you again, his vow, for when he doesn't forget, he will follow.

The android carries you with a heavy heart, slotting your bodies in the effortless flow of nature. He relishes in the gentle flex of your back under his palm when he lowers you into bed, lips never leaving yours.

He shuffles your clothes slowly, savoringly. Water riles up his throat. Sixty breaks away from you for the first time, taking to pressing tender kisses from the tips of your fingers, on the ring you still wear, up the soft expanse of your forearm.

The sound of impending tidal waves sing distantly.

"Let me carry the vows," he says low, broken like he hadn't spoken in weeks, "even if I forget..."

Tears fall off the tips of your eyes.

"...I'll follow."

" Sixty ."

You pull him to meet your lips again, tonguing in the language that speaks best. Your palm on his chest feels the racing beats that you saw in his eyes. You can also feel him spluttering too, but he makes no reaction to it.

Clothes strip at a languid pace. The urgency is heavy in the air but neither of you intends to rush things.

Forehead resting on yours, Sixty coats two of his fingers with saliva and dips between your legs, sharing the breaths you spill to take as his own. Your thighs flex at the newfound stretch, taut around his waist. He curls just where you like it.

The breathy notes you moan, the pinch in your brows, Sixty records them deep like an embellishment. A printed image of you on the surface of his artificial brain. He'll chase and chase just to see you like this again.

If only to make up for how long you've spent following him, Sixty can't begin the imagine the hurt that would've festered over the years. To catch your lover's eyes and have them look away confusingly, unaffected, where you itched for the moment the lightbulb struck and he loved you again. Fate was cruel, for the gift of sending such a person like you to him, and stringing the both of you out like parallel lines, only meeting when one breaks through the rules of their reality.

Lips mark the line of your jaw with traces of his tongue; your pleasure is perfected like it were the easiest thing for him to elicit. Your whines ring higher and faster and all Sixty can do is watch.

"Come for me," he rasps in the small space, transfixed on the fine contortions of your pleasure-drunk face. The android dips to kiss hard yet chaste, "I'll always make you come for me."

The night is lasting. Even though the sun has set, you've still found him beyond the horizon and splashed him anew. Your leg is pinned to his chest, foot over his shoulder whilst he paces himself to the glorious cacophony of your reactions. He's not quite worked you up like this before, in any of the passionate, urgent bed-rutting he's previously taken to, because despite the looming reality of his amnesia, he feels like he has all the time in the world.

Long, full thrusts to repeatedly remind you of his presence, even if fleeting, will always return. Sixty juts particularly hard and your nails scratch his abdomen with a pornographic wail. It drives him wild.

Sixty drives you to the brink again, selfishly pulling orgasm after orgasm for the solemn depths of his mind. He needed to take everything he could. The bed creaks loudly, meshed in the lewd sounds of his hips snapping against yours. Sixty squeezes your hand until the ring on your finger makes an indent on his plastic shell.

You plead for the sweet release over and over again. Until your eyes roll back, driven to the recesses of your mind with a pathetic range of vocabulary, not that Sixty would want it any other way.

The ocean calls him back, lapping at his knees. Sixty kisses you again and again and again until he feels numb.

' To never forget ', Sixty tucks his head against your neck, grunting loud into your ear whilst he fucks you until the early hours.

' And to always follow ,' you pant together, his hands cradling your face, and the words are left unspoken.

They ring loud anyway.

I'll find you.

-.--.-

The day praises Sixty's bedroom with a flurry of golden light. The birds chirp young and free, reminiscent of little children in a playground. Sixty wakes with salt in his mouth.

A note dangles from the wall above, Sixty twists his neck back to read the perfect letters.

"I have amnesia. I'm married. I will find her."

[rottenpumpkin13]

Does Sephiroth know that he's attractive? Angeal and Genesis too

Sephiroth: He never considered himself as anything but ordinary as a child—and that's a huge stretch. He still continues to loathe his more abnormal features such as his eyes, height and hair. The realization that he was different (positively) came later on when he blossomed into an attractive young man. He noticed the looks that lingered too long, the giggles and whispers when he passed, and the magazine articles praising his beauty. The pride was a silly, fleeting thing. Afterwards his feelings toward his appearance went back to being lukewarm. He doesn't care about it.

Genesis: Oh, he knows. And he not shy about making sure everyone else know too. Genesis knows what his most striking features are and dresses to enhance them—for example, he favors the color red both because it brings out the color of his hair and because he knows that dressing in it naturally guides the eye to him before Sephiroth. However, he does have his qualms about his appearance. Lots of them. And the ugly truth is that no matter how attractive he is, he'll never be happy with himself because he's not Sephiroth.

Angeal: "I'm not very attractive and I don't care for that stuff" was his reply when asked this question IRL. Sephiroth and Genesis' knee-jerk reactions were to immediately look at each other.

"Where did that come from?" Genesis would ask later when they were alone, a question followed by Sephiroth's "I have no idea."

Neither of them know that the more Angeal denies caring for vanity, the more he begins to question himself.

"I don't care..." He mutters, watching Midgar's major magazines name Sephiroth as their ideal male for yet another year, watching Genesis sign a modeling contract, watching admirers throw themselves at his friends' feet. "I don't care. I'm a SOLDIER. It doesn't matter what I look like and I do not care."

"...Right?

[cheesebearger]

veilguard's writing is rather piss poor tbh. like the story itself and how npcs talk is all very unpolished. there are, however, plenty of scenes one on one with companions that are more polished in terms of dialogue. so it's really a mixed bag - i think they prioritized cut scene writing and editing, and deprioritized polishing companion banter, idle dialogue, etc.

the cameos from past characters have also not served much of a purpose - they're as hollow as seeing stan lee's holographic dead corpse being puppeteered across the screen in a marvel movie. morrigan felt like yassified morrigan. that is not my wife. my wife morrigan would never be at peace with mythal in her head sharing her body, it would cause her to be deranged with fear and anger and desperate to become free. dorian does not seem to mention his amatus (meatball, my inquisitor) at all. meatball im so fucking sorry (he also looks so gd ugly in this game. they killed my boy. my beautiful meatballed boy). isabella is. there.

overall, the plot (which i think is poorly written, structured, and paced) feels more like it's dragon age 5. like it feels like we missed dragon age 4. that we skipped it, and started the game at dragon age 5. we're missing all the "chasing Solas" stuff, picking up right at the end of the chase in minrathous. in a moment that feels, very much, like it is from the climax rather than the beginning of a story.

and the most important thing: what is the purpose of varric? why is varric there. not just, in the story. i mean, why is his death kept a secret until further in the game? what purpose does varric being a ghost/hallucination have in the story, other than a way to pull one over on the player? when it would have been significantly stronger, in every way, to have that starting moment in the game be varric's dead body. no more varric, no more varric story cut-ins. instead, we have his death handled in a very weak way, where instead of allowing the full power of his loss to affect the audience, to influence their engagement with the game and to add conflict to their relationship with solas, they have the reveal of his death artificially delayed. it's just hollow and weak. it disrespects varric by not allowing him to die, and not allowing that death to mean anything.

in terms of a dragon age story, this is the weakest that's been released. I personally rank the games as: Dragon Age 2 (very strong 3-act tragic structure set in a highly oppressive and conflict-dense location rife with possible ways to engage with and influence those conflicts); Origins (great cast of characters - though I wish there was more interesting conflict between them like in 2 - and a strong story that doesn't shy away from the difficult politics of the world and lore); Inquisition (i declare this the most Liberal Game Ever - you become the clandestine leader of an ostensibly religious organization and the game wants you to think that's Very Good, because if one Good Person has all the power, they can Do Good (: ); and then Veilguard (what is this pacing and structure. why do i have a major story decision wherein an entire city is lost before i even have a full roster of companions. what is this writing "the elven gods have returned" "ah yes this makes sense to me a dalish elf and i have no problem accepting this as truth")

[kobitoshiningneedle]

Sister Iris of Hazakura Temple: the Ultimate Defendant of Phoenix Wright

(this is a writeup I've submitted in AA subreddit, so if you recognize the text, this isn't a Matrix lag. Yes, I have a strong opinion about Iris and I want to speak about it more!!)

Starting with the obvious, any Ace Attorney game has a strong and multilayered story and good replayability because of that. It's a very interesting endeavor to just find missed details, to rethink and reconsider some moments in the game after knowing the full story. After completing the game and reaching the major resolution of the plot and mystery, one may look back to find a pleiad of more obscure details that support main plot threads and enrich them. One of the most interesting details of TT's plot is the final defendant and the way she was presented in the game. I believe Iris embodies a lot of thematic weight, and she and the story around her propose a very meaningful challenge - both for Phoenix and for the player

Firstly, the circumstances around Iris are intentionally subversive. After 2-4 we learned that not every single defendant is innocent, so of course we become suspicious when the mysterious girl finds herself at the defendant seat - only for us to be proven that Iris is actually is unlike her sister at all and is a good person (but not completely innocent, to be fair, but about that later). So it's a subversion of an already subversive case, which paints Iris and Bridge as a whole in the very interesting light, tying all three finales of the trilogy together

Perhaps the main theme of the trilogy (and the franchise at large) is trust in the clients and, on the bigger scope, to your friends and close people. Phoenix-Iris relationship embodies that theme, and, again, can be considered a culmination, a resolution of that theme after the three games. It's evident that after the disastrous trial in Memories Phoenix still couldn't let his "Dollie" go. There still was a part of him that believed the girl he spent months with was a genuine person, and when he, at last, learns the truth, he literally says: "You've been the person I thought you are". Reassuring words for Iris herself, they pretty much conclude the "trust theme" and reveal that, again, Phoenix was right to trust the person. Of course, it's really interesting to see a hero being mistaken and growing from that, but it's not any less cathartic to realize that he did a right thing, regardless of the obstacles

Now onto Iris herself. She's an interesting specimen within AA universe on her own, and, despite common opinion, she steps beyond just being a nice-girl-who-is-not-her-murderous-sister. The crux of her character is finding strength, again, her own "two to stand", figuratively speaking, outside of her twisted familial loyalty. Yes, Iris IS guilty by association with Dahlia morally-speaking, as she didn't try to tell the police about Dahlia's atrocities. In some ways Iris is meant to mirror Godot - both of them made mistakes trying to take matters into their own hands thinking they were doing the right thing (Godot with his masterplan in 3-5; Iris with her idea to replace Dahlia and retrieve her necklace and postponing this until Dahlia strikes again). But while Godot's ultimate downfall was caused by being boastfully overly-confident in his capability to protect people, Iris' calamity, again, stems from her inability to speak for herself - she didn't even manage to tell her real name to the person she liked or simply steal the necklace from him

I think it's important to understand that Iris has her flaws - not some cutesy quirks like being shy or anything, rather, more ugly flaws that can affect other people and make her own life worse. Characters aren't meamt to be perfect people all the time, and being framed as "good" in a story doesn't exclude them from being objectively the reason for some atrocious events. I would even argue that a good story should never shy away from such decisions. Iris *is* nice and well-intended unlike Dahlia (who, on the contrary, despite wanting to bring harm was in some way the reason Mia and Phoenix have met which kickstarts the bittersweet emotional journey for Nick in the trilogy), but things she did weren't always good or had benign consequences. Besides, someone being so self-deprecating that it harms not only one"self", but others too is a fascinating and sorely realistic juxtaposition by itself

Nevertheless, after Edgeworth asks her to not deceive Phoenix anymore, she finally decides to tell him (in the front of the whole court, no less - kinda unusual place for a meek girl to confess) the truth about her sister and herself, tells her feelings - and after Phoenix reassured her that she was worth Phoenix's trust after all, maybe that instigates her growth as a person (note that it doesn't necessarily mean that she and Nick should be brought back together, it's more about their past relationship and what they both can learn from that now, after there's no more secrets). The theme of truth is always intertwined with the theme of trust and its importance in our lives. Just like in any other Ace Attorney case, only the reveal of her truth is able to free Iris from the shackles of her disastrous family.

It would be fair to say that Iris was cast aside by the case - after all, the Bridge had a lot going on in it, so you has to look closely to see something about her. There are a few details I personally find endearing about her. When she is in the detention center speaking with Edgeworth, presenting various profiles to her (like Larry's or Maya's) makes her respond in a very positive manner, like "This is a hardworking person", or "This is a very reliable woman". Funnily, Edgeworth remarks that Iris isn't a good judge of people after that, and that may be so - on the other hand, however, it indicates that Iris just generally tries to see good in people. Even about Dahlia, she says first and foremost that she was "strong and never complained about anything" - she understands her twin sister the most. Cumulatively, it all points at the fact that, despite spending the majority of her life in seclusion, she may be perceptive to some degree (the other example, when there's a wrong choice in her Psyche-Locks segment, she suspects that Edgeworth may have a deep secret inside on his own). In many ways she shares these traits with her younger half-sister Pearl, who is a sheltered, but unusually perceptive child herself

There are a few other interesting tidbits about Iris, but these are more like my overthinking. Iris, despite being raised far away from the city, is actually capable of being well-adjusted to modern society, she's relatively well-versed with technology, she managed to go to the university in place of Dahlia. The other interesting moment is the fact that she and Phoenix did have some sort of affinity in fact, because their relationship lasted for eight months without seeming issues (aside from the obvious not-telling-him-my-real-name problem), and, from my experience and observations, even if it's not that log of a period, it happens when two people have similar fundamental worldview and mindset. So Iris, at least to some degree, has something in common with Phoenix - maybe it's her positivity regarding people in general?

Anyway, I believe Iris is worth at least some attention from the fanbase - and not only as one of the possible love interests for Phoenix, but as a character who, as many other people in the Fey family, had a lot of odds stacked against her throughout her life, but in the end having a silver lining and the chance to finally be happy and honest with herself

[crisiscutie]

Can you please do a yandere sephiroth with a shy and innocent reader basically the reader doesn't know about sephiroth being a yandere

Interesting prompt. Not my typical style since Yandere Sephiroth's actions are so overt, his darling will be hard-pressed to stay ignorant of his dark truths. Her innocence will be shattered by him. Also, he's gonna make his cute darling come out of her shy shell. If she's too shy to voice her needs, what other ways can he reward her? Heh.

Content Warnings: Gaslighting, Emotional Manipulation.

You would find yourself talking more around Sephiroth than you ever did around others; it was like a weight had been lifted off your chest.

The fact that you were able to form such an intimate bond with him is astounding.

Sephiroth always knows where you are, and while it may be a bit odd, you understand why he needs to do it; he just wants to keep you safe from the dangers of the world.

You wished that your few friends wouldn't suddenly vanish. Their disappearances always left behind an eerie void in your heart. What is going on?

You were desperate to know where they had gone; you even tried to go looking for some of them, yet Sephiroth cautioned you against it.

Sephiroth's aura was so calming to you that all negative feelings were quickly forgotten. He's always there to pick up the pieces and offer you comfort.

As you and Sephiroth became closer, you felt more confident in your words and actions.

Sephiroth always wanted you to be more confident and show the fiery passion hidden within you.

You became more wary of humanity. The ugliness of their nature and their weak ways has made you desire to change the planet for the greater good, just how Sephiroth wants you to think.

He savored the sway he had over you. He saw his darling blossoming into the idealized representation he had of them.

You weren't aware of the maliciousness lurking in his heart whenever he spoke of his plans for you.

You just thought it was him planning things to make you happy. He always did strive for the best.

Your entire existence became dominated by Sephiroth. Your thoughts, your heartache, your decisions… All for him. You're his precious darling who can't live without him.