#that's more effort than i would have expected

[flofaiiry]

sick day ; michael robinavitch x reader

synopsis: robby coming home sick one day from work and reader who just wants to take care of him but this man is so STUBBORN and hates accepting help.

warnings: established relationship, robby is sick & stubborn, immense amounts of fluff and domestic reader & robby

wc: ~1500

note: thank u to everyone who voted in the poll! the people yearn for robby fluff so that is what they will receive 🤲 this was supposed to be just a teeny tiny blurb but i got a little carried away. anyways!!! someone needs to take care of this man pls.

you knew he wasn't well when he got home from work last night but he insists he's fine and just needs to sleep it off but from the amount of tossing and turning you felt last night you don't think he did a whole lot of that.

you take it upon yourself to call the hospital from his phone to tell them he wouldn't be coming in today. you know he probably wouldn't want you to do that but you also know that this man DESPERATELY needs a day off, especially today, but will never take it upon himself to make that happen. you turn off his alarm in hopes that he'll sleep a little more but what you didn't account for was his internal alarm clock, refined through years of waking up at 6am or earlier.

like clockwork his eyes open right when his alarm would normally be blaring. he winces and turns over to see you already staring at him. "my alarm didn't go off," he says, voice raspy from a mix of sleep and sickness. "i know, i turned it off," you reply simply, hand going to his forehead to feel if he's warm. he is. robby squints & rubs his eyes, "you turned it off? why?"

"because you're sick," you say like it's fact (because it is). "i also called the hospital and told them you wouldn't be coming today, so you should try and get some more sleep." your voice is soft, expecting pushback from this stubborn boyfriend of yours. "baby..." he sighs, rolling onto his back and rubbing his eyes. "i know, i know, i shouldn't have done that, but look at you robby. you're miserable, you're in no condition to take care of anyone else today."

robby is nothing if not headstrong.

"i have to go to work, baby," he sighs and tries to sit up. immediately overcome with muscle aches, he flops back down onto the mattress. "if you can't even get out of bed what makes you think you're going to be able to be on your feet all day, huh?" he doesn't say anything, just sighs, looking back to you, "i can get out of bed, i'm fine just... a little sore."

you raise your eyebrows, not buying any of that for a second, "ok then, stand up." he scoffs, "oh, i can stand up." he says, but doesn't make any effort to. you watch him for a second, then shrug, "then do it." you say again, blank expression on your face.

he takes a deep breath before attempting to get up again, getting a teeny bit further than last time, but eventually collapsing back into bed again. he sighs. "ok. maybe i can't get up." you lean over and kiss his forehead, "i know. go back to sleep, let me take care of you today."

"ok," he breathes, finally accepting defeat, "fine." you smile, pleased that your efforts were coming to fruition. his eyes fall shut again and before you can say anything else, you swear he's already out. you run your hands through his hair once before pressing one more kiss to his abnormally warm forehead.

it isn't until around 11:00am that robby wakes up, the sleep ridding his body of the muscle aches and actually allowing him to get up. you're sitting in the living room, watching the news on low volume when he walks in, hoodie and sweatpants on as he rubs the sleep from his eyes. "god, i needed that." he sighs, making his way over to you on the couch. you smile, having to physically resist the urge to say 'i told you so,' and opt for wordlessly leaning your head onto his shoulder.

"thank you," he says quietly into your hair, after pressing a kiss to the top of your head, "for making me stay home." you smile, "i may not be a doctor, but i know when people need rest. and you my love, need rest." he laughs quietly and drapes his arm over your shoulder, pulling you into him. the faint smell of his cologne on the sweater filling the air around you. "i love you," he says simply, like it's the easiest thing in the world, your smile grows.

"i know, now let me love you."

you place your hand on his cheek and gently pull his face towards yours, pressing your lips together in a soft kiss.

" 'm gonna make you sick," he says when you pull away, but you just shake your head.

"don't care," you kiss him again, this time for a little longer. the high pitched noise of the kettle coming to a boil snaps you both out of it.

"mmm, coffee?" robby hums, only to be met with the shake of your head, "no, i read that it's not good when you're sick, makes you dehydrated because of the caffeine or something." he groans when you stand up, walking over to the kitchen. "that can't be true, coffee makes everything better."

you shrug, "not according to web m.d. it doesn't"

"according to michael robinavitch m.d. it most certainly does." he teases, turning around to watch you move through the kitchen.

you smile. "nice try, but no medical license for you today. i'll be doing the doctoring for now." he raises his eyebrows, amused smirk coming on his face now, "oh really?"

you nod, "yup. and this doctor's prescription is peppermint tea, watching movies, and cuddling with your girlfriend all day." you take a teabag from the box and place it into his usual mug, paint chipped from years of wear and tear.

"hard to argue with that logic," you hear the tiniest bit of rasp in his voice from the germs. "oh and tylenol," you add, looking up from pouring the water, "tylenol would probably help too."

"tylenol would definitely help," he corrects, "do we even have any of that? i thought you finished it last time you were sick."

"we do now, i went out." you reply, walking back over to the couch to hand him the mug now full of steaming hot tea. he accepts the mug from you, mouthing a 'thank you,' before taking a sip. "you went somewhere? god, i must have been out because i did not hear a thing."

you nod, taking a seat on the couch again next to him. "yup. got meds and stuff to make soup."

he raises his eyebrows through a sip, "make soup? no canned stuff?" you shake your head, "only the best for my patients."

the rest of the day is slow. robby ends up napping for a majority of the time. you make him the soup you promised and watch some history documentary netflix recommended.

as the sun falls and the moon comes up, robby's got his head on your lap, your hands are in his hair, the gentlest scratch of your nails lulling him into yet another nap. it's getting late, and you know he's gonna want to go to work tomorrow. if there's anyway that's going to happen he's going to need a good night's sleep.

"i know when i'm the sick one you'd just carry me to bed but... i don't think that's gonna work out well for me if i try." you say, voice quiet as you run your hand along his arm to slowly wake him up.

"just fireman carry me," he teases, "throw me over your shoulder like a bag of potatoes or something."

"if you want to be responsible for all my broken bones, then sure, i'll give it my best shot." you smile down at him before he sits up. rubbing his eyes and mentally preparing to stand up.

"come on, you know you'll be more comfortable in bed." you say, standing up now and pulling gently at his hand.

"yeah, i know," he hums, standing up. once he's fully straight, he snakes an arm around your waist and pulls you into him. your head falls to rest on his chest like it's where it belongs. like it's natural.

"thank you," he whispers into your hair. if there were anyone else in the room, they wouldn't even know he said anything. he presses a kiss to the top of your head, before pulling away to look down at you, "for taking care of me."

you smile, "of course."

"seriously, i know i'm an ass about accepting help. i know i'm stubborn as hell but... thank you for not giving up."

you just smile. not sure what to say. there's no world in which you'd give up on taking care of the man you love who neglects himself all too often.

"let's go to bed," you nod towards the bedroom, "sleep is part of my treatment plan too."

he returns your smile, "lead the way, doctor."

as always send me any feedback / thoughts / ideas / requests u have!!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

[avisofapatite]

I never add directly to a post, but what I want to add would take too long to put in tags.

My immediate reaction reading this was assuming I would have done fabulously, but I decided since Bleak House is easy enough to find, I'd read the 7 paragraphs myself, try and grasp the meaning the best I could, and then return to read the study. I am not an English major, and I haven't performed academic work with literature since high school, so I wanted to see how I would fare. I have never actually read any of Dickens' work, and will admit to not successfully attempting any 19th century literature myself.

The passage did end up being more challenging than I had initially expected - it took a moment for me to adjust to some of the sentence structure Dickens used, and I found myself going over some of the passages a couple times to make sure I grasped everything. Most legal references I understood but some specifically 19thc British touchstones took some research (I understood the court setting, but needed to look up that the Chancery was specifically a property court, and was thrown off at first by Temple Bar thinking this referred to a legal bar before googling that name specifically). I had to find the definitions of about 3 words and came away feeling relatively confident in my comprehension.

Upon reading through the study, however, I was struck with a sudden understanding of how my trying best to read this text now had nothing in common to my approach doing the same in an academic setting. How I actually engaged with texts like this In School had me relating far more to the Approach of the readers having difficulty than I expected.

For instance, as I read the passage on my own, I jumped around a lot and went over passages multiple times, sometimes in fragments. The study required reading of the passage out loud from top to bottom, and I recall a specific moment in my schooling (in Grade 5) where I completely failed to comprehend a passage because of this format. However, I was never tested on my reading of texts in that manner after this age. Someone skilled in reading SHOULD be able to reliably comprehend things as they read them in the order it is presented to them - that in itself contains some part of the meaning! But I've only just realized I've never fostered that focus for challenging texts, relying on my ability to jump around the page, and that my schooling never stopped me from developing this habit.

The section of the study describing a strong reader made it clear to me I did not read that way in school, which has had lasting implications. While I would have preferred reading things properly, I often felt like I didn't have the time to properly read a text and would rely on my own being clever/online summary to fill in the gaps that I required. This feels like a problem coming from many sources - while I was certainly very busy with other work at that time, I also knew I could reliably receive a good grade despite not putting in the full effort, and perhaps this full effort would not have been so taxing if my reading skills had been more thoroughly exercised as I went through school.

I found myself reading the example of strong analysis realizing I failed to reach that particular depth of understanding, such being able to explicitly describe the idea of the crowd on the streets repeating the rhythms of a previous time, for instance, instead of just coming away with the image of the crowd jostling in the mud on that particular day. Worse of all, I realized on my own time, I would have been far more comfortable coming away from the text having put far less effort into its comprehension knowing that I wasn't about to be evaluated.

That specific notion of evaluation, and doing what is needed - and no more - to pass that evaluation I think is where the opportunity is lost for many. It certainly was for me, nevermind my personal tendency to spend more effort on cultivating the appearance of knowledge moreso than actual knowledge. I genuinely wonder whether I would have immediately fallen back on my mindset of trying to game the system with as much speed and little effort as humanly possible, assuming my inate skill would be enough to succeed, if I had been tested by the researchers in their setting instead of having done this little challenge on my own.

As someone in the 27-32 range that considers myself self-evidently literate, this did help me really examine my habits. But it was humbling to discover that if this system so successfully failed to train good habits into me Despite my ability to leap their hurdles, how impossible the challenge might be to those that at any point have had difficulty with reading and comprehension. The big question is how we can change the teaching of literacy to fix this. I'm going to be thinking about this for a while.

i appreciated this study: "They Can't Read Very Well: A Study of the Reading Comprehension Skills Of English Majors At Two Midwestern Universities"

essentially, a pair of professors set out to test their intuitive sense that students at the college level were struggling with complex text. they recruited 85 students, a mix of english majors and english education majors - so, theoretically, people focusing on literature, and people preparing to teach adolescents how to read literature - and had them read-while-summarizing the first seven paragraphs of dickens's bleak house (or as much as they made it through in the 20 minute session). they provided dictionaries and also said students could use their phones to look up whatever they wanted, including any unfamiliar words or references. they found that the majority of the students - 58%, or 49 out of the 85 students - functionally could not understand dickens at all, and only 5% - a mere 4 out of the 85 students - proved themselves proficient readers (leaving the remaining 38%, or 32 students, as what the study authors deemed "competent" students, most of whom could understand about half the literal meaning - pretty low bar for competence - although a few of whom, they note, did much better than the rest in this group if not quite well enough to be considered proficient).

what i really appreciated about this study was its qualitative descriptions of the challenges and reading behaviors of what the authors call "problematic readers" (that bottom 58%), which resonated strongly with my own experiences of students who struggle with reading. here's their blunt big picture overview of these 49 students:

The majority of these subjects could understand very little of Bleak House and did not have effective reading tactics. All had so much trouble comprehending concrete detail in consecutive clauses and phrases that they could not link the meaning of one sentence to the next. Although it was clear that these subjects did try to use various tactics while they read the passage, they were not able to use those tactics successfully. For example, 43 percent of the problematic readers tried to look up words they did not understand, but only five percent were able to look up the meaning of a word and place it back correctly into a sentence. The subjects frequently looked up a word they did not know, realized that they did not understand the sentence the word had come from, and skipped translating the sentence altogether.

the idea that they had so many trouble with every small piece of a text that they could not connect ideas on a sentence by sentence basis is very familiar to me from teaching and tutoring, as was the habit of thought seen in the example of the student who gloms on to the word "whiskers" in a sea of confusion and guesses incorrectly that a cat is present - struggling readers, in my experience, seem to use familiar nouns as stepping stones in a flood of overwhelm, hopping as best they can from one seemingly familiar image to the next. so was this observation, building off the example of a student who misses the fact that dickens is being figurative when he imagines a megalodon stalking the streets of london:

She first guesses that the dinosaur is just “bones” and then is stuck stating that the bones are “waddling, um, all up the hill” because she can see that Dickens has the dinosaur moving. Because she cannot logically tie the ideas together, she just leaves her interpretation as is and goes on to the next sentence. Like this subject, most of the problematic readers were not concerned if their literal translations of Bleak House were not coherent, so obvious logical errors never seemed to affect them. In fact, none of the readers in this category ever questioned their own interpretations of figures of speech, no matter how irrational the results. Worse, their inability to understand figurative language was constant, even though most of the subjects had spent at least two years in literature classes that discussed figures of speech. Some could correctly identify a figure of speech, and even explain its use in a sentence, but correct responses were inconsistent and haphazard. None of the problematic readers showed any evidence that they could read recursively or fix previous errors in comprehension. They would stick to their reading tactics even if they were unhappy with the results.

i have seen this repeatedly, too - actually i was particularly taken with how similar this is to the behavior of struggling readers at much younger ages - and would summarize the hypothesis i have forged over time as: struggling readers do not expect what they read to make sense. my hypothesis for why this is the case is that their reading deficits were not attended to or remediated adequately early enough, and so, in their formative years - the early to mid elementary grades - they spent a lot of time "reading" things that did not make sense to them - in fact they spent much more time doing this than they ever did reading things that did make sense to them - and so they did not internalize a meaningful subjective sense of what it feels like to actually read things.

like, i've said this before, but the year i taught third grade i had multiple students who told me they loved reading and then when i asked them about a book they were reading revealed that they had absolutely no idea what was going on - on a really basic literal level like "didn't know who said which lines of dialogue" and "couldn't identify which things or characters given pronouns referred to" - and were as best as i could tell sort of constructing their own story along the way using these little bits of things they thought they understood. that's what "reading" was, in their heads. and they were, in the curriculum/model that we used at the private school where i taught, receiving basically no support to clarify that that was not what reading was, nor any instruction that would actually help them with what they needed to do to improve (understand sentences) - and i realized over the course of that year that the master's program that had certified me in teaching elementary school had provided me with very little understanding of how to help these kids (with perhaps the sole exception of the class i took on communications disorders, not because these kids had communications disorders but because that was the only class where we ever talked, even briefly, about things like sentence structures that students may need instruction in and practice with to comprehend independently). when it comes to the literal, basic understanding of a text, the model of reading pedagogy i was taught has about 6 million little "tools" that all boil down to telling kids who functionally can't read to try harder to read. this is not productive, in my experience and opinion, for kids whose maximum effort persistently yields confusion. but things are so dysfunctional all the way up and down the ladder that you can be a senior in college majoring in english without anyone but a pair of professors with a strong work ethic noticing that you can't actually read.

couple other notes:

obviously it's a small study but i'm not sure i see a reason to believe these are particularly outlierish results (ACT scores - an imperfect metric but not a meritless one IMO for reading specifically, where the task mostly really is to read a set of texts written for the educated layperson and answer factual questions about them - were a little bit above the national average)

the study was published last year, but the research was conducted january to april 2015. so there's no pandemic influence, no AI issue - these are millennials who now would span roughly ages 28-32 (i guess it's possible one of the four first-year students was one of the very first members of gen z lol). if you're in your late 20s or early 30s, we are talking about people your age, and whatever the culprit is here, it was happening when you were in school.

i think some people might want to blame this on NCLB but i find this unconvincing for a variety of reasons. first of all, NCLB did not pass because everyone in 2001 agreed that education was super hunky-dory; in fact, the sold a story podcast outlines how an explicit goal of NCLB was to train teachers in systematic phonics instruction, because that was not the norm when NCLB was passed, and an unfortunate outcome was that phonics became politicized in ed world. second, anyone who understands anything about reading should need about ten minutes max to spend some time on standardized test prep and recognize that if your goal is truly to maximize scores... then the vast majority of your instructional time should be spent on improving actual reading skills because you actually can't meaningfully game these tests by "practicing main idea questions" (timothy shanahan addresses this briefly near the top of this post). so i find it very difficult to believe that any school that pivoted to multiple choice drill time in an attempt to boost reading scores was teaching reading effectively pre-NCLB, because no set of competent literacy professionals would think that would work even for the goal of raising test scores. third, NCLB mandated yearly testing in grades 3-8 but only one test year in high school; kansas set its reading and math test year in high school as tenth grade. so theoretically these kids all had two years of sweet sweet freedom from NCLB in which their teachers could have done whatever the fuck they wanted to teach these kids to actually read. the fact that they didn't suggests perhaps there were other problems afoot. fourth, and maybe most saliently for this particular study, the sample text was the first seven paragraphs of a novel - in other words, the exact kind of short incomplete text that NCLB allegedly demanded excessive time spent on. i'm not really sure what universe it makes sense in that students who can't read the first seven paragraphs of a novel would have become much better reader if everything else had been the same but they had been making completely wack associations based on nonsense guesses for all 300 pages instead. (if you read the study it's really clear that for problematic readers, things go off the rails immediately, in a way that a good program targeted at teaching mastery of text of 500 words or less would have done something about.)

all but 3 of the students reported A's and B's in their english classes and, again, 69% of them are juniors and seniors, so like... i mean idk kudos to these professors for being like "hold up can these kids actually read?" but clearly something is wack at the college level too [in 2015] if you can make your way through nearly an entire english major without being able to read the first seven paragraphs of a dickens novel. (once again i really do encourage you to look at the qualitative samples in the study, lest you think i am being uncharitable by summarizing understandable misunderstandings or areas of confusion that may resolve themselves with further exposure to the text as "can't read.") not to mention the fact that most students could not what they had learned in previous or current english classes and when asked to name british and american authors and/or works of the nineteenth century, roughly half the sample at each college could name at most one.

the authors of the study are struck by the fact that students who cannot parse the first 3 sentences of bleak house feel very confident about their ability to read the entire novel, and discover that this seeming disconnect is resolved by the fact that these students seem to conceptualize "reading" as "skimming and then reading sparknotes." i think it's really tempting to Kids These Days this phenomenon (although again these are people who in some cases have now been in the workforce for a decade) and categorize it as laziness or a lack of effort, but i think that there is, as i described above, a real and sincere confusion over what "reading" is in which this makes a certain logical sense because it's not like they have some store of actual reading experiences to compare it to. i also think it's pretty obvious looking at just how wildly severed from actual textual comprehension their readings are that these are not - or at least not entirely - students who could just work harder and master the entirety of bleak house all on their own. like i don't think you get from "charles dickens is describing a bunch of dinosaur bones actually walking the streets of london" to comfortably reading nineteenth century literature by just trying harder. i really just don't (and i say that acknowledging i personally have had students who like... were good readers if i was forcing them to work at it constantly... but i have also had students, including ones getting ready to enter college, who were clearly giving me everything they had and what they had was at the present moment insufficient). i think that speaks to a missing skillset that they don't know are missing, because they don't have any other experience of "reading" to compare it to.

just wanna highlight again that although they don't give the breakdown some of these students are not just english majors but english education majors a.k.a. the high school english teachers of tomorrow. some of them may be teaching high school english right now, in case anyone wishes to consider whether "maybe some high school english teachers can't read the first seven paragraphs of bleak house?" should be kept in mind when we discuss present-day educational ills.

[caoimhewrites]

Surprise Surprise

Undying Ground (Pt 4)

moved to @caoimhewritesfics

You and Ghost go to get more materials and find something you weren't expecting.

Tags/CW: zombies, minor weapons mention, post apocalyptic world WC: 1.8k

Pairing: Simon Riley x Reader. Reluctant allies to lovers

Series Masterlist → here

A/N: sorry this took so long :( writers block won't leave me alone. ALSO!! Surprise cameo yayyyyy

It was hot.

So unbelievably hot.

The type of heat that made your stomach hurt and tighten, threatening to spill. It does worse to your feet, the pavement searing hot, making them feel like eggs in a pan.

You had quickly learned that Ghost's idea of "not too far" could not be any more different than yours. You two had been walking down the street for three hours already and you still couldn't even see the town Ghost told you about last night.

Ghost seems unfazed by the unbearable heat. He trudges along in all black, long sleeves, dark jeans, and a thick dark jacket that you assumed he used for when an infected tries to bite.

He had lent you a new knife, saying that yours was "pathetic". You had taken it with a grumbled thank you, concealing your gratefulness. It had been so long since you had anything even close to adequate for defending yourself. It was different. An adjustment. But, it was a step up from the stick you called a knife.

You had counted yourself lucky, not running into many infected while you are out alone. If you had found yourself another horde, you surely would’ve been a goner. Even in the couple weeks on Ghost’s floor you hadn’t heard the sound of their groans. Perhaps they were finally rotting away, purging the earth of their disease.

No.

It couldn’t be that good.

You knew well enough not to get your hopes up about these things. You were stuck with these things for the rest of your life.

"Are we close yet? You said it wasn't that far. This is far," you let out a long petulant sigh, looking over at Ghost.

"You're just lazy," he retorts flatly. "It's just a quarter mile now."

“You better not be lying," you roll your eyes, grumbling with agitation.

He shoots you a glare, fed up with your winging, “whatever. You complain too much.”

Finally after what is certainly farther than a quarter mile, the small town comes into view. It’s small and dilapidated, ivy growing on the walls of the shops. Signs dangle as they rot off of their posts, wind blowing them, making the wood groan.

It’s like the old westerns your grandpa used to have on every night but wrong and distorted. The old charm morphed into something eerie and uncomfortable.

The growl of an infected hits your ears, the drag of its feet moving the loose gravel. The old, tattered Braves cap on its head droops into its eyes, what's left of them at least. Ghost draws his knife and moves forward swiftly. You learned quickly to take them out when they start making noise. The growls attract more and the last thing you need is every infected left in the town coming after you.

Ghost gives you a quick nod, "stay here. You know what to do if there's more."

"I know the deal."

As Ghost deals with the infected you take off to your left. The old pharmacy calling your name. If Ghost is right about the town, there should be plenty of supplies on the shelves to keep you stocked for another year, two if you're lucky.

You struggle to pry open the old doors. Years ago they would have slid open automatically but years of disuse and rust have them sealed shut. Your arms burn with effort as you manage to pull them apart just enough to slip inside. You toss your bag in haphazardly, waiting to see if any infected come crawling out towards you.

After a minute or so of waiting and no infected coming to get you, you step in and sling your bag over your shoulder. Ghost was right. The aisles are almost full. The town must have been hit fast, leaving no one any time to raid for supplies.

You waste no time shoving whatever you can grab into your bag. Bandages, antibiotics, even old bags of chips and beef jerky. You snatch some old sodas from the coolers, blowing off the thick layers of dust that had accumulated on top like a blanket.

"Leave some for the rest of us." Ghost's voice cuts through the silence, sharp and accusatory. "I wouldn't drink that if I were you."

Your hand paused mid air, "and why not?" You ask with a raised brow.

Ghost took a step forward, his boots heavy against the dust covered tile floors, "that shit is five years old. I doubt either of us want you vomiting everywhere."

You grimaced and looked down at the can, "yeah whatever. It's probably fine." You decide you don't care at all. It can't be that bad, can it? It's just been sitting there, not like anything has happened to it.

"Trust me... It's not." Ghost's brown eyes narrow, mask shifting slightly over his face.

You turn your head to look at him with a crooked grin, "is that experience talking or what?"

You've discovered that it's quite fun to tease him. Having no TV or books for five years really does a number on a person. The boredom feels more deadly than a bite from an infected. But, Ghost turned out to be... sensitive. He was terrible at being the butt of the joke, always snapping at you like an offended child. Naturally, you took full advantage of this fact. He never made any move to kick you out for it, no matter how much he hated it.

Ghost exhales sharply, jaw tense, "just shut up and trust me. Don't drink that shit."

"Fine, dad," you chuckle as you roll your eyes at him.

When Ghost turns away you slip the can into your bag. You don't care what he says, you haven't had soda in five years and his bossy attitude wasn't going to stop you from getting what you want. You've been good enough to keep up your end of the deal without complaints. You deserve to treat yourself.

Ghost, silent as always, makes his way through the aisles. He’s far more meticulous than you, pulling out bottles, reading them and leaving behind what he doesn’t want as opposed to your frantic scramble to take whatever you could get your hand on like a grandma set loose in a super sale.

“So… how did you find out about this place?” You ask, voice laced with a quiet curiosity. 

Ghost doesn’t look up as he murmurs his response, “scoped it out a few months ago. Everywhere else is a lost cause.”

“Tell me about it,” you grumble. “Why not take everything now? Any scavenger could come through and wipe out all of this in just a few hours,” you shrug your reply as you keep looking through the heavily stocked but dusty aisles.

“No one’s coming down here. The infected blocked off the main roads. Only thing keeping them from us is the river,” Ghost replies as he slips a few bottles into his pack. 

You let out a small huff, “hmm, lucky us I guess.”

You drift away from his side, drawn like a moth to a flame towards the snacks. Ghost can say whatever he wants about the soda but, you won’t let him shame you about these chips. The barbecue potato chips call your name. A soft clanking distracts you from stuffing bag after bag of chips into your pack. 

Gripping the handle of your knife, you slink towards the sound. 

“Ghost,” you whisper, alerting him to the possible danger. His head whips around and he silently moves to your side, knife at the ready. 

When you first met him, his name seemed stupid, ridiculous even. But, as you’ve stayed with him the more it makes sense. His movements usually go unnoticed by you, the silence and precision of his movements shocking. 

He gives you a small nod, urging you to go first. Your movements are measured as you keep walking forward. An old, rusty door stands in front of the both of you, blocking you off from the sock room. Pulling the handle and silently pushing the door open, you step into the back. The sound echoes again, making Ghost grab your arm.

His touch is surprisingly gentle, large hand wrapping around your wrist. “Slowly,” he whispers, brown eyes staring intensely into yours.

You hated when he did that. It was better when he ignored you or was indifferent towards you. The gentleness and… care made the whole situation harder. Living on some strange man's floor, him being your closest ally after losing Vivienne wasn’t exactly easy. Especially since he didn’t seem to be fond of you. That’s what made moments like this even more confusing. He made it clear a million times that your essentially colleagues at best, just in each other's lives because being gnawed on by an infected was the only worse option.

Rounding the corner, your eyes fall on the source of the sound. Whatever you were expecting wasn’t this. An infected or a group of people who had managed to make their way inside seemed much more within the realm of possibility. But… a dog? You couldn’t remember the last time you had seen a dog.

The german shepherd was buried in an old trash can, gnawing on a hamburger wrapper. It raises its head to get a good look at you and Ghost, a sweet, dopey look on its face. 

“A dog?” You ask in surprise.

Ghost steps up beside you, lowering his knife to his side, “when’s the last time you saw one of those?”

You shake your head, staring at the animal, “I couldn’t tell you even if I wanted to.”

You step forward, hand outstretched non-threateningly. “Come here, boy,” you coo as the dog trots over to you happily, voice soft and coaxing. The shepherd presses his nose against you palm, tail wagging rapidly.

Ghost shifts with unease, “don’t touch it.”

“Calm down. It’s just a dog. It’s not gonna eat you,” you roll your eyes and look over at him, a small smirk forming on your face.

“It could be infected,” he huffs, eyeing the dog like it could explode at any second.

You scoff, “does it look infected to you?”

He lets out a frustrated sigh, crouching down by the dog. Ghost reluctantly reaches down to inspect the collar around the dog's neck. “Riley… hmm,” he lets out a small huff, almost a chuckle.

“What is it?” Intrigue lacing your tone. 

“Nothing. Rings a bell is all.”

You run your hand over the dog's back, feeling the soft fur and slight squish. Wherever this dog has been he’s been eating well. “I’m keeping him.”

Ghost straightens up, glaring at you sharply, “no you’re not. I’m not housing another stray.”

“Rude,” you shoot back, matching his glare. “I am keeping him. There’s nothing in our little agreement that says I can’t.”

He looks down at the dog for a beat, debating what to do. “Fine, but you’re taking care of it. And it better not shit in my house.”

“Can you just enjoy anything?” You ask with a huff. The only thing that seemed less likely than seeing Ghost’s face was witnessing him experience any form of joy. 

“No,” Ghost replies, voice flat.

Taglist: @little-mini-me-world @angeldemon28 @iminlovewithjasontodd @i-like-foxs @dravenskye @lilynotdilly @thatghostlykid @lostintransist @nicolebarnes @vybzwithjaz @night-shadowblood-writes2 @jimihendrixenthusiast76

[therainscene]

Gonna be a bit of a buzzkill here, but: I think what annoys me about Ted's been casually assuming that Mike was dating Will this whole time theories is that they always tend to treat it as a fun outcome.

Like, I get it: Ted's the useless one-dimensional suburban dad who makes bland observations he thinks are insightful quips, and he hasn't had much of a character arc beyond getting dragged along for the ride his more three-dimensional wife is on -- so what is there for him to do, really, other than to delight us with one final, genuinely insightful joke that subverts our expectations but makes perfect sense in hindsight?

But I feel like this would essentially make him one of those "allies" whose egos are more important to them than actually being supportive, and so they make smug jokes about how accepting they are at the expense of their kids' fear of rejection:

"I hate my gay son! Oh, not because he's gay, he's just an asshole." 🤭 "Why are you telling me you're gay? I figured that out years ago. Stop crying and go help your mother with the dishes." 🙄 etc.

It wouldn't be out of character for Ted to do this. I can totally see him doing it! But it's out of character for the show to make light of queer struggles, so I'd expect it to be critical of Ted for doing this.

Often, parents like the ones described above really do mean well, but they just don't know what they're supposed to do other than try to keep treating their kid the same as if they were straight. Lots of parents struggle with that; I'd argue even Joyce does in S3:

Will's clearly experiencing a specifically queer difficulty here -- boys like him aren't allowed to fall in love and he's upset about having to watch straight people openly enjoy things he thinks he'll never have -- and that apparently sails over Joyce's head. She just smiles at her Silly Immature Boy Who Doesn't Get The Appeal Of Sex Yet and drops the topic.

[Edit: To be clear, Joyce knows he's gay and is explicitly showing support for gay love here. She just has a blind spot when it comes to the gay teen experience.]

It's a disappointing change in her approach from the first two seasons, in which she fought her ass off to understand and advocate for his needs, even when communication seemed nigh impossible.

But then, maybe S3 is about granting Will his S2 wish to not be coddled by his mom anymore.

The Jonwill heart-to-heart at the end of S4 is my favourite scene in the whole show, because it's a pitch-perfect demonstration of how to balance closeted queer kids' need for support against their need to handle things on their own terms, all without embarrassing them by showing your hand of Already Knowing.

Maybe you're thinking: didn't Karen do exactly this with Mike all the way back in S1?

[Literally hiding his future beard in his closet during this convo lol 10/10 queer-coding]

Well, no. The point I made in my previous Wheeler analysis still applies: Karen, as of S1, is too prone to trusting dangerous authorities over her own kids -- and so her words ring hollow. She means well, but deep down she's prioritizing her need to feel like a good mother over putting any real effort into figuring out what Mike needs: reassurance that he and his flock of outcast friends will be safe if he's open with her.

The key thing Jonathan gets right is to understand his brother well enough to directly address the underlying fear that's been preventing Will from opening up:

So if Ted's sole contribution to Mike's queer arc ends up being a reveal that he's always known and been too cool to blab to anyone, but also that he did nothing about it other than to smugly wait for Mike to come out...?

...I just think that would feel more tragic than funny.

[sgiandubh]

Love Again? Meh

The pressure surrounding those damned elections is so unbearable, I thought finally watching Love Again on Netflix was a decent deflective idea. And since I can never sleep on a full moon's night, it really sounded like a good plan, too. Though with zero expectations, as I already wrote.

Two hours later, I probably lost a handful of neurones I will never get back again. Rom-coms are supposed to leave you in a bubbly mood, and with a strong belief in things like love trumps all, there are plenty more fish in the sea, goodness always prevails, and so on. This one left me flatter than a bottle of Coca-Cola foolishly left open and with the clear idea those people entirely missed the point.

If Nora Ephron is your gold standard, this might feel definitely subpar. But still, that's not the biggest problem I see with this movie. Love Again is exactly like those hotels rated 'pleasant' on Booking - you're not sure if they are terrible or, like Dorothy Parker used to say, 'terrible with raisins in it', which supposes at least some effort being put into it, one way or the other. The plot is remarkably bland and simply serves as a pretext for the real purpose of this movie, which is to promote Céline Dion's five new (perfectly forgettable) songs. The chemistry between S. and Priyanka Chopra is so laboured, that you'd be forgiven for thinking these two people just met in a train compartment and had a perfunctory chit-chat, never to hear from each other again.

Rom-coms are also supposed to be #silly magic in a bottle, yet there is little to no magic in a script so unbalanced, Mira's overpowering (if understandable) grief constantly threatens to flounder everything else. Where everything else includes the budding romance with Rob Burns (🙄), the music critic with no particular qualities, except a dazzlingly shy smile and Season 1 JAMMF's gimmicks, only in today's clothes and without Balfe. Overall, there is too much righteous kerfuffle and too little hope, in this movie that desperately begs for your sympathy, without ever being able to get it. And I shall mercifully pass on the mildly sexy (?) scene, even if without it we would still be wondering where exactly to place the sunshine, lollipops and roses inflexion point on that particular timeline.

Overall, the only question left without an answer is just how much genuine fun did S and Chopra have, while making this movie, at all. My perhaps biased guess is next to zero, based on the overwhelming impression that what was shown of their BTS rapport felt awkwardly transactional and opportunistic AF. This lack of authenticity buries a movie that feels just like something that had to somehow be shot, then had to somehow be released, then had to somehow make its way to Netflix' digital bosom repository. This movie is so meh, it is impossible to recommend it to anyone, and I have to say I am very sorry about that.

I said it before and I will probably say it again: S deserved better choices and opportunities coming along his way. He still does, but he also needs some urgent soul searching, if he wants to avoid looking like a one trick pony and see his acting prospects dwindle accordingly. Which won't exactly be the end of the world for him, but still an awfully unfair waste. So let's hope he will be able to choose wisely and especially out of his comfort zone which well, tends to dangerously expand, lately. The current Onlies' objectifying folly does not help, because the more it goes, the more it cuts S from a reality that is always ready to bite.

While I shall congenially follow whatever he's up to, I would really like this gifted guy to surprise me with something bold, something different and most of all, something that requires more intellect than muscles.

I know he can do it. But, does he?

[princesscolumbia]

So I'm writing a major sci-fi project that I'm expecting to take several years, if not upward of a decade, to complete. Part 1 takes place in a timeline where fascism has already set itself in place and is managing to dig in so deep that it'll take some very, very extreme measures to pull out the roots. In part 2 I visit a parallel timeline where fascism is getting its hooks into a galactic power and trying to go all "Earthgov in Babylon 5 season 2-4."

In both cases I'm having to dig into the cause of fascism and what causes entire groups of people to willfully step into situations where their own best interest is being actively worked against. What is it about fascism that makes it so appealing to large populations that they look at history and say, "...nah, it won't happen that way this time."

And I'm having to struggle against my own presupposition that humanity is fundamentally always looking out for the best way forward and actually learns from the mistakes that litter the past.

Fascism is so stupid! So much of the implementation of fascism in the early days relies on people being absolutely brick stupid. "I have precisely one way of effecting major change on the nation/world I live in...but I'm le-tired, so I'm not going to vote." "I haven't read a single book since I got out of high school," (said proudly, as though this is somehow an achievement). "History is just a bunch of boring dates about dead people, but by god World War 2 was the greatest moment in all the record of all the world! What do you mean, how did it start? Pearl Harbor, duh!" "What do you mean, we need to protect the rights of trannies and illegals?! They're criminals, they don't deserve rights! What'd'you mean I gotta prove it?! Just look at 'em, you can always tell!"

The worst part is there's no "Evil fascists playbook that we're going to pass down to our children's children," it's just the worst parts of base human nature that are repeated generation after generation. Over and over again throughout history good people have done their damnedest to codify the sorts of behaviors and cultural practices that would stop fascism, but so often the efforts are made with the idea in mind that there is some secret cabal of people that are orchestrating the complete, catastrophic downfall of mankind to prop up only one (1) central ruling body, and if we can just stop those people then that'll stop evil for sure this time!

There's a reason we look at movies like Idiocracy and have this bone-chilling reaction that this is what our future will look like. Even a cyberpunk dystopia would be better than the truth because at least we could commit crime to steal from the wealthy and powerful what should be ours by protected right, such as healthcare or even water. But the truth is so viscerally terrifying because there is no dictatorship that will result in the upward spiral of humanity advancing to the next stage of evolutionary existence. There's no technological leap that will push us to being better than we were that can be enforced by a single hegemony. Fascism and tyranny are fear responses to a world that's bigger than one person can control and understand. Whenever a fascist state rises, its fall begins the moment it stabilizes from the ruins of the nation it replaces. In every case, the fascist country was already in the process of collapsing by the time its neighbors began the process of fighting back and containing it. The Third Reich was going to collapse before a decade was out whether the Allies did anything to stop them or not because the foundation it was built on was white supremacist fairy floss and paranoid wishes. The Soviet Union shattered because an empire founded on misinformation and violent intimidation couldn't scale to the degrees they were attempting. Even the PRC is being eaten from the inside by movements that are inherently more humanitarian and forward thinking.

The drive to be better to your fellow people is simply going to cause any fascist state to topple because 'being a better person' is an internal drive to each individual and 'subsume yourself to the state' is inherently opposed to it. The fascist state cannot abide individual excellence, people are born with the desire to grow and excel beyond their circumstances all the time. Fascism is inherently temporary, inherently self-destructive, and inherently a dead end.

This isn't to say it shouldn't be fought. Fascism is CATASTROPHICALLY destructive! Even a proto-fascist state like present-day (at the time of this writing...please tell me this will be out of date in two year's time!) United States of America is capable of doing massive amounts of irreparable harm in it's infantile flailing as it struggles to get its feet under it. Fascists need to be stopped. They need to be put down so hard the only thing needed for a grave is to fill in the hole from dropping them so hard. They need to have the fear of every god and goddess ever revealed, conceived, or imagined put in them and done so with a massive neon sign that can be read for the rest of human history that will tell fascists loud and clear what WILL happen to them if they ever try that shit again.

But the thing is; the fascists only seem to be working from the same playbook! Pick any evil empire throughout history that matches the definition of a fascist state and you'll see the exact...same...pattern, every single time. And it's not like these people read! They don't sit down and pour through documents looking for all the best ways to oppress a population and destroy the Earth, they just do it because fascism is stupid! If they actually read books and studied history they'd see that what they're doing, how they're behaving, and the way they're thinking is a failing formula. They will NOT be regarded as heroes! They will NOT be the great founders of a continent/world/solar system/galaxy spanning nation! They will be hated and reviled and hunted while they're alive and their deaths will be celebrated in ways that make the people celebrating Scrooge's death in A Christmas Carol's dark future timeline look like the most sentimental of mourning wakes. They will have their names listed with Haman and Caesar and George and Hitler and Pol Pot and Stalin and Regan as "People to find a way to make a pact with the devil to resurrect just so you can kill them again EVEN HARDER!" Their families will be ashamed of them. Their freaking mustache style will become known as "History's Worst Fashion Not" for men. They will be the butt of jokes about how the world could only be better without them in it.

THEY WOULD KNOW THAT THEY ARE ON A DEAD END PATH IF THEY JUST LEARNED FROM HISTORY!

But they don't read. And they don't want you to read. Not because they have this clever plan or ploy to ensure you don't get any ideas, but because just the thought that you might be smarter than them hurts their pwecious widdle fee-fees.

And, honestly? That's just so galling!

Like, we want Hitler to have been some magically charismatic individual who managed to superhumanly hypnotize an entire generation of Germans into becoming mass murderers. We want a generational cabal of secret elders in obscenely wealthy families who rigorously trains their children in the art of oppressing the lower classes. We want Trump to be this unstoppable business mogul with the entire world's wealthiest oligarchs in his pocket, ready to wield unspeakable power to shatter hundreds of years of progress in pursuit of human betterment.

We want these people to be megalomaniacal masterminds because the thought that all this damage and destruction and fear and terror and murder happening because a bunch of paranoid, infantile morons who you suspect would wet their own pants if they thought it'd be the next popular trend and secure them more power is just an insult to you. It's an insult to the people of [insert your country here]. It's an insult to the entire human race. It's an insult to all our daughter species that (universe willing) we'll eventually create to succeed us. To think that a whiny, pathetic, wet rag of a human being should manage to capture enough people's attention that they'll just hand over their rights, liberties, and freedoms in exchange for transparent lies makes anyone with a brain and a conscience recoil in atavistic horror.

What’s really occurring is an attack on the American mind. Ignorance is the handmaiden of tyranny.

[caoimhewritesfics]

Surprise Surprise

Undying Ground (Pt 4)

You and Ghost go to get more materials and find something you weren't expecting.

Tags/CW: zombies, minor weapons mention, post apocalyptic world

WC: 1.8k

Pairing: Simon Riley x Reader. Reluctant allies to lovers

Series Masterlist → here

A/N: sorry this took so long :( writers block won't leave me alone. ALSO!! Surprise cameo yayyyyy

It was hot.

So unbelievably hot.

The type of heat that made your stomach hurt and tighten, threatening to spill. It does worse to your feet, the pavement searing hot, making them feel like eggs in a pan.

You had quickly learned that Ghost's idea of "not too far" could not be any more different than yours. You two had been walking down the street for three hours already and you still couldn't even see the town Ghost told you about last night.

Ghost seems unfazed by the unbearable heat. He trudges along in all black, long sleeves, dark jeans, and a thick dark jacket that you assumed he used for when an infected tries to bite.

He had lent you a new knife, saying that yours was "pathetic". You had taken it with a grumbled thank you, concealing your gratefulness. It had been so long since you had anything even close to adequate for defending yourself. It was different. An adjustment. But, it was a step up from the stick you called a knife.

You had counted yourself lucky, not running into many infected while you are out alone. If you had found yourself another horde, you surely would’ve been a goner. Even in the couple weeks on Ghost’s floor you hadn’t heard the sound of their groans. Perhaps they were finally rotting away, purging the earth of their disease.

No.

It couldn’t be that good.

You knew well enough not to get your hopes up about these things. You were stuck with these things for the rest of your life.

"Are we close yet? You said it wasn't that far. This is far," you let out a long petulant sigh, looking over at Ghost.

"You're just lazy," he retorts flatly. "It's just a quarter mile now."

“You better not be lying," you roll your eyes, grumbling with agitation.

He shoots you a glare, fed up with your winging, “whatever. You complain too much.”

Finally after what is certainly farther than a quarter mile, the small town comes into view. It’s small and dilapidated, ivy growing on the walls of the shops. Signs dangle as they rot off of their posts, wind blowing them, making the wood groan.

It’s like the old westerns your grandpa used to have on every night but wrong and distorted. The old charm morphed into something eerie and uncomfortable.

The growl of an infected hits your ears, the drag of its feet moving the loose gravel. The old, tattered Braves cap on its head droops into its eyes, what's left of them at least. Ghost draws his knife and moves forward swiftly. You learned quickly to take them out when they start making noise. The growls attract more and the last thing you need is every infected left in the town coming after you.

Ghost gives you a quick nod, "stay here. You know what to do if there's more."

"I know the deal."

As Ghost deals with the infected you take off to your left. The old pharmacy calling your name. If Ghost is right about the town, there should be plenty of supplies on the shelves to keep you stocked for another year, two if you're lucky.

You struggle to pry open the old doors. Years ago they would have slid open automatically but years of disuse and rust have them sealed shut. Your arms burn with effort as you manage to pull them apart just enough to slip inside. You toss your bag in haphazardly, waiting to see if any infected come crawling out towards you.

After a minute or so of waiting and no infected coming to get you, you step in and sling your bag over your shoulder. Ghost was right. The aisles are almost full. The town must have been hit fast, leaving no one any time to raid for supplies.

You waste no time shoving whatever you can grab into your bag. Bandages, antibiotics, even old bags of chips and beef jerky. You snatch some old sodas from the coolers, blowing off the thick layers of dust that had accumulated on top like a blanket.

"Leave some for the rest of us." Ghost's voice cuts through the silence, sharp and accusatory. "I wouldn't drink that if I were you."

Your hand paused mid air, "and why not?" You ask with a raised brow.

Ghost took a step forward, his boots heavy against the dust covered tile floors, "that shit is five years old. I doubt either of us want you vomiting everywhere."

You grimaced and looked down at the can, "yeah whatever. It's probably fine." You decide you don't care at all. It can't be that bad, can it? It's just been sitting there, not like anything has happened to it.

"Trust me... It's not." Ghost's brown eyes narrow, mask shifting slightly over his face.

You turn your head to look at him with a crooked grin, "is that experience talking or what?"

You've discovered that it's quite fun to tease him. Having no TV or books for five years really does a number on a person. The boredom feels more deadly than a bite from an infected. But, Ghost turned out to be... sensitive. He was terrible at being the butt of the joke, always snapping at you like an offended child. Naturally, you took full advantage of this fact. He never made any move to kick you out for it, no matter how much he hated it.

Ghost exhales sharply, jaw tense, "just shut up and trust me. Don't drink that shit."

"Fine, dad," you chuckle as you roll your eyes at him.

When Ghost turns away you slip the can into your bag. You don't care what he says, you haven't had soda in five years and his bossy attitude wasn't going to stop you from getting what you want. You've been good enough to keep up your end of the deal without complaints. You deserve to treat yourself.

Ghost, silent as always, makes his way through the aisles. He’s far more meticulous than you, pulling out bottles, reading them and leaving behind what he doesn’t want as opposed to your frantic scramble to take whatever you could get your hand on like a grandma set loose in a super sale.

“So… how did you find out about this place?” You ask, voice laced with a quiet curiosity. 

Ghost doesn’t look up as he murmurs his response, “scoped it out a few months ago. Everywhere else is a lost cause.”

“Tell me about it,” you grumble. “Why not take everything now? Any scavenger could come through and wipe out all of this in just a few hours,” you shrug your reply as you keep looking through the heavily stocked but dusty aisles.

“No one’s coming down here. The infected blocked off the main roads. Only thing keeping them from us is the river,” Ghost replies as he slips a few bottles into his pack. 

You let out a small huff, “hmm, lucky us I guess.”

You drift away from his side, drawn like a moth to a flame towards the snacks. Ghost can say whatever he wants about the soda but, you won’t let him shame you about these chips. The barbecue potato chips call your name. A soft clanking distracts you from stuffing bag after bag of chips into your pack. 

Gripping the handle of your knife, you slink towards the sound. 

“Ghost,” you whisper, alerting him to the possible danger. His head whips around and he silently moves to your side, knife at the ready. 

When you first met him, his name seemed stupid, ridiculous even. But, as you’ve stayed with him the more it makes sense. His movements usually go unnoticed by you, the silence and precision of his movements shocking. 

He gives you a small nod, urging you to go first. Your movements are measured as you keep walking forward. An old, rusty door stands in front of the both of you, blocking you off from the sock room. Pulling the handle and silently pushing the door open, you step into the back. The sound echoes again, making Ghost grab your arm.

His touch is surprisingly gentle, large hand wrapping around your wrist. “Slowly,” he whispers, brown eyes staring intensely into yours.

You hated when he did that. It was better when he ignored you or was indifferent towards you. The gentleness and… care made the whole situation harder. Living on some strange man's floor, him being your closest ally after losing Vivienne wasn’t exactly easy. Especially since he didn’t seem to be fond of you. That’s what made moments like this even more confusing. He made it clear a million times that your essentially colleagues at best, just in each other's lives because being gnawed on by an infected was the only worse option.

Rounding the corner, your eyes fall on the source of the sound. Whatever you were expecting wasn’t this. An infected or a group of people who had managed to make their way inside seemed much more within the realm of possibility. But… a dog? You couldn’t remember the last time you had seen a dog.

The german shepherd was buried in an old trash can, gnawing on a hamburger wrapper. It raises its head to get a good look at you and Ghost, a sweet, dopey look on its face. 

“A dog?” You ask in surprise.

Ghost steps up beside you, lowering his knife to his side, “when’s the last time you saw one of those?”

You shake your head, staring at the animal, “I couldn’t tell you even if I wanted to.”

You step forward, hand outstretched non-threateningly. “Come here, boy,” you coo as the dog trots over to you happily, voice soft and coaxing. The shepherd presses his nose against you palm, tail wagging rapidly.

Ghost shifts with unease, “don’t touch it.”

“Calm down. It’s just a dog. It’s not gonna eat you,” you roll your eyes and look over at him, a small smirk forming on your face.

“It could be infected,” he huffs, eyeing the dog like it could explode at any second.

You scoff, “does it look infected to you?”

He lets out a frustrated sigh, crouching down by the dog. Ghost reluctantly reaches down to inspect the collar around the dog's neck. “Riley… hmm,” he lets out a small huff, almost a chuckle.

“What is it?” Intrigue lacing your tone. 

“Nothing. Rings a bell is all.”

You run your hand over the dog's back, feeling the soft fur and slight squish. Wherever this dog has been he’s been eating well. “I’m keeping him.”

Ghost straightens up, glaring at you sharply, “no you’re not. I’m not housing another stray.”

“Rude,” you shoot back, matching his glare. “I am keeping him. There’s nothing in our little agreement that says I can’t.”

He looks down at the dog for a beat, debating what to do. “Fine, but you’re taking care of it. And it better not shit in my house.”

“Can you just enjoy anything?” You ask with a huff. The only thing that seemed less likely than seeing Ghost’s face was witnessing him experience any form of joy. 

“No,” Ghost replies, voice flat.

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

It's Mother's day in several occasions and I have had friends doing photoshoots or candid pictures and all of them have something in common: an effort, even if it was smaller, even if they didn't have the big studio or the "special" picture.

They all were clean, and hair was washed. The picture she posted looked like the kids were playing on random clothes and she said come here, let's take a picture and you can have your fun.

A Latin mom would have never posted that. Because it's not the best representation of their kids. I know perhaps I am biased, but my biggest issue with her is that she didn't have to post the pictures, but considering she does, she could do her best to represent them in the best way. I am just starring at thar picture and wondering where did the money and alleged attention to detail went.

You're mixing up Meghan's personal brand and her professional brand.

Meghan's personal brand is exactly this: casual, laid-back, easy breezy, barefoot and relaxed. Her hair's thrown up, she probably doesn't have makeup on. It's simple, it's "nothing else matters when I'm with my family."

Meghan's professional brand - As Ever, the podcast, her speaking engagements, the philanthropy, Invictus appearances - is the complete opposite. It's fussy, luxury, business. Her hair's done, her makeup's done, she's completely dressed.

It's completely fine she does this. Most of us are different people "off the clock" than we are at work, and that's what this is. I think what throws a lot of people (especially non-Americans) off about this is that Americans get really casual in our downtime, more than a lot of other cultures and people expect. We do dress up and we do clean up, but it's usually done with specific purpose and intent - to go out for dinner, to go to a friend's party, to go to work, for a night out, for an event. If we're just hanging around the house (or a friend's house) or just running errands around town, in most cases, we're very casual - sweatpants, jeans, t-shirts, pajamas, gym clothes/athleisure, outfits better found at the beach or poolside.

[gingermintpepper]

1, 10, 21 aaaand 23 :v

The fact that everyone sent in an ask asked me for 23 is very funny. I'm choosing to believe that's just because I give off the vibe of someone who's very strict about ships but who has somewhat relaxed with age LMFAO

Anyway ♡

1) the character everyone gets wrong

Apollo.

I'm not going to pretend I have a different answer for this - just Apollo. I can perhaps name three pieces of media where Apollo is written well - not compellingly, but I mean 'well' in terms of adaptation of the greek god figure they are purporting to have gained inspiration from. If he's not written terribly, then he's erased or minimised from the narrative to the point of erasure and it can be incredibly difficult to even find educational projects that remember to make mention of Apollo in a manner that isn't mocking or chastising. (I am looking directly at you Iliad/Odyssey content. I am staring at you with every single one of my eyes.)

The sad truth is that Apollo is a hard god to adapt. And speaking from the experience of someone who's spent a not inconsiderable portion of my life studying, reading about, chasing after and writing about Apollo myself, I mean it with all my heart when I say that I understand that he is an incredibly difficult figure to adapt and write. In general the gods are hard to adapt but there's a reason people usually fall back on the accepted Thing they can all be defined by. Zeus is king, Hera is queen, Ares fights, Artemis hunts, Hermes travels swiftly.

Apollo then presents a really difficult dilemma for people looking to adapt him - what is his Thing? What is his single unifying aspect that allows him to perform all of his other roles? Apollo doesn't have one. He's a musician and a prophet and an archer in equal measure. He's a healer and a slaughterer, a son who is also a father. He's pretty like a woman but he is one of the ideals of masculine beauty, as gentle as he is capable of horrifying acts of wrath.

To adapt Apollo in any meaningful way is to acknowledge the plurality of the ancient world. It is to discard the idea of neat little boxes with cute, concise labels that perfectly describe one's ideas of history and to confront that culture is a shifting, chaotic thing and that the modern, trope based process for writing and cataloguing characters is completely arbitrary and ill-suited for weaving stories of figures older than even the concept of tropes.

This is the reason, I think, that so many writers end up defaulting to the figure of Apollo the lover. And like, truthfully speaking, ON PAPER, the lover is a very good compromise for him. The lover is almost always young and intersects neatly with the bard as music is often a medium of love, it also connects with archery, beauty and gentleness. Similarly, the lover can also be negative - a poisoned beauty whose love stems from selfishness and therefore who cannot truly love without hurting. As far as compromises go - it's not bad.

But it ignores so many other facets and elements that make Apollo Apollo - his intelligence and the fear he inspires, his identity as a brother, father and son, his martial and medical prowess, the trust that comes with the love people have for him, the weight of the responsibilities he carries.

I totally get that it's unreasonable for me to expect people to put this much effort into adapting him - especially since, quite frankly, a lot of people are quite set on him being eternally locked in that position as A Lover - but I do wish people would care. There is a reason Apollo is considered the most Greek of the gods. I wish more people cared to understand why.

10) worst part of fanon

Massively unpopular opinion, but I think the worst part of fanon is the aggressive villainisation of Zephyrus.

Do I think Zephyrus wasn't insane for braining Hyacinthus? No! Definitely hold him accountable for that, my god beat his ass. But do I think that it's a little ridiculous that people treat him like he's an irredeemable asshole who would've been an abusive horrible lover to Hyacinthus and who's a creep and a general menace? YES OH MY GOD

Zephyrus has shit he does outside of Hyacinthus' story - Zephyrus was actually considered the gentlest wind and more importantly, the spring wind. It is Zephyrus who accompanies Persephone as she makes her journey from the edge of the Underworld back to her mother's home, and it was Zephyrus who protected and gently carried Psyche to and from Eros' manor. Zephyrus and Apollo are literally friends!! They BOTH have the same taste in men (clearly) and Zephyrus, like Apollo, is a noted and recorded appreciator of young, beautiful men and usually pays them a bit of extra wind across their cheeks to bring out the colour.

Y'all act like he's a supervillain who planned Hyacinthus' death in a basement with creepy music playing like goddamn, he was a sore loser, he fucked up, Apollo beat his ass and Hyacinthus is revived in the end. Leave him alone, my god.

21) Part of canon you think is overhyped

The Titanomachy.

Not because I think the Titanomachy is uninteresting - on the contrary, I think it is an AGGRESSIVELY interesting set of events - but because I just kind of think so many other things are more interesting.

I also don't think things need to have their own versions of the Titanomachy so much. Like, it's fine I promise, just tell me your story I do not need to be told how the Olympians won the war in the most non-specific way ever over and over again.

23) ship you've unwillingly come around to

Like I alluded to above, I actually do have quite a few of these so we'll do one I went from absolutely hating the idea of to actively shipping so hard I forgot how much I initially disliked it.

Orpheus/Heracles.

HEAR ME OUT RIGHT -- I was like, physically repulsed by the idea initially because what the fuck even, but it was something that kept coming up over and over as I was doing research for my writing and eventually, I ended up caving, writing the two of them interacting with each other during their Argo days and that was it.

But honestly? I can't even be mad cause?? It kind of fucks??? Heracles himself really enjoys music but never had the delicacy it required (he literally murdered his lyre instructor because he was disciplining him) and Heracles loses Hylas on the Argo and grieves him bitterly. Orpheus loved his Eurydice but she died not long after they were married after being bitten by a snake. Both of them make journeys to the Underworld - Heracles to retrieve Cerberus and free Prometheus, Orpheus to retrieve Eurydice - and both of them return from the Underworld to great misfortune. Orpheus swears off women and dies being torn apart limb from limb by the Maenads, Heracles tries to marry and is poisoned horribly, tearing off parts of his own skin and eventually throwing himself onto his funeral pyre to rid himself of the pain.

SO BASICALLY, WHAT I'M SAYING IS, HERACLES/ORPHEUS FWB AND IN THIS INTERACTIVE CHART I WILL --

[fjordfolk]

puppy fever, might be terminal

[tillywunderwing]

Starting a challenge for IEYTD artists: draw prev’s Phoenix! :D

[septimusmoonlight]

You doing ok?

hi

[tibtew]

*clutching head* rodya and meursault would have such a good dynamic actually

I wonder if rodya would initially see meursault's indifference as like. a simpler version of her own feigned carefreeness and as a deliberate attempt to place himself as an outsider... only to realise that No, he really Is just Like That. and then she gets annoyed because it turns out that people who don't care about anything don't seem to be any fun.

(ofc he does actually care about a lot of things, just not necessarily his grander place in the world lol)

idk. nihilism vs absurdism. fun duo 👍 rodya would find meursault's genuine comfort with being a speck of dust in the universe baffling, while he would probably find her desire to assert her own importance pointless, but they could probably bond over little things like their shared desire to live in the present and appreciation of/indulgence in earthly joys. and meursault would probably listen if rodya wants to rant about anything without asking any uncomfortable questions. I think they could appreciate each other's presence.

[uchiha-gaeshi]

Mental health is reaching new lows rn ngl

[the-storm-chaser]

The woman could ignore the pun, giving a small shrug as she spun the blade between her fingers, scoffing at the assumption.

'Raised as one. I don't exactly describe myself as one though.' Her motions stopped, glancing to the side in thought as to how best explain her circumstance.

'There wasn't exactly an orphanage in any of the villages... only temples. I was there for around a decade...longer than I actually knew my family.' The blade shifted once more, as if moving swiftly on from the subject. It was strange to think about it in that perspective, even for her...but he didn't need her life story.

He was just a client.

It wasn't warranted.

'We were expected to pull our weight in maintaining the temple, whether that be cleaning it to providing for it. It was supposed to teach discipline and respect for our surroundings...their words, not mine.'

Another chunk of steak disappeared from the plate, pausing as she munched on it.

'I guess that all tracks in your case. To be taught by cooks...hah, well that's an advantage on the road!'

As she finished the last of the steak, she had to pause at the sentiment, cocking her head with a small smirk.

'Why do you think taverns are so rowdy at night? Good food, good drinks...and a chance to unwind. The troubles of the working day fade for a few short hours before its back to the grind again... but you can learn a lot within them.' She tossed a sprout and caught it in her mouth with ease, appreciating the slight char in comparison to the meat.

While she was a lone wanderer, the Tavern was somewhere she looked forward to visiting... even if folks were a little too riled up sometimes. The stories she would overhear as she planned her journeys ahead were always interesting to hear. It was a chance to remember that they were all people...that she were never truly alone...

The sudden tone shift caught her off-guard, looking at the dragonborn blankly for a few moments before processing what he had said.

'Boots? Wait...' Eyes glanced town, scanning over the leather to then notice major signs of damage. 'The goblins....right.' With a swirl, the tanto was soon housed back in the sheathe, the woman setting her plate to the side before shifting, working to remove the offending garments.

Longer boots were always a little awkward to remove...but alas-

With some effort, she was soon on her feet, offering the mage the damaged boots.

'The offer's appreciated...not sure I would have been able to afford a new pair for a while- '

Akrahan was mid-bite when Sky’s tanto made its appearance, the gleam of cyan catching the firelight. He paused, chewing slowly with an amused raise of his brow. The sight of someone using such a unique blade as a dinner utensil wasn’t exactly common, but somehow… it felt fitting.

He swallowed and gave a low chuckle. “Oh, I believe you, your blade is practically glowing with how clean it is.” The Dragonborn’s head would cock to the side, a thought crossing his mind. “I must say I didn’t take you for a monk, Sky.”

He took another bite of his own steak, savoring the flavors before leaning back with a content sigh, resting his free hand on his knee. “But you really almost burned down a monastery kitchen? Multiple times?” His grin widened, eyes dancing with humor. “The cooks my family hired wouldn’t dare let me touch a flame unsupervised.”

There was an easy warmth in his voice, the usual gravitas softened as the day’s chaos gave way to something more peaceful. The flickering firelight danced along his scales, and the scent of sizzling fat still lingered gently on the breeze. 

A deep sigh escapes past the Dragonborn’s maw as he cranes his head up to look at the night sky. “...I think many of my happiest memories are tied to good food… Not necessarily because of the food, mind you, but because of the people I was with. People seem more open when there's a nourishing meal in front of them.” 

The Dragonborn snaps back, his eyes wide as he remembers a task he forgot. “Oh, Sky, let me take a look at your boots. I can get those fixed while you eat.”

[unproduciblesmackdown]

trying to say things about the bsol finale & how it has these little twists about what you don't necessarily expect for these roles but would you believe it i'm like i can't use my [just saying some shit] ability i'm pressed about wanting it to be more coherent & verbalizing doesn't even really happen if i don't have the [just saying some shit] wind in my sails But trying to say One Thing, how about the little twist like the miracle banana gets being that he himself lives, vs his emotional resolution that he would have died to help the musician, even as the musician is like no bestie you're good, even as the audience may expect & approve of even dying from funny little second banana guy who may even be supposedly taken as Superfluous now that thee man & thee woman have reunited (but it was always queerer than that) like. more resolution to our themes that that very second banana is doing just fine vs that the hero is, more classic iconisiquisms