#the whole entire universe really

[dr3amfyr-e]

brat. - j.v. ( w. 4.5k )

꒰ in which the boy you see every summer enrolls in the same university as you. ꒱ — modern!jacaerys velayron x reader

୨ ⎯ i cannot stress enough, football means ⚽️ not 🏈. childhood-friends-to-lovers, but you have to get through my 2000 word psychoanalysis and backstory first. light angst. mention of the death of a parent. lots and lots of talk about the velaryon-targaryen-hightower family dynamic. light make out action. reader's family is implied to be wealthy enough to have a summer home. almost everyone lives au. set in the uk, not westeros. omitted daemon rhaenyra marriage because there’s no way to to make it even semi-normal. realizing now i omitted daemon entirely erm sorry. pushing the laenor agenda bc he’s my favorite character. this is abhorently long. extreme overuse of the em-dash. uhh the perspective is wonky in a few places. part two. ⎯ ୧

i had to write this twice. i'm offering this to you with shaking hands, like a peasent child begging for coins. i may write a part two because i have more to say, but i don't want to figure it out rn.

On the cold January morning that Jacaerys Velaryon-Targaryen was born, the media went into a frenzy. 

The Targaryens were old money, their fortune rooted a century back in good investments. Historically adept at finding their way into things, the empire had a string to pull in every industry. From art and law to technology and shipping, if business prospects looked good there would be a Targaryen investment.

And then there were the dogs — regal greyhounds, with long, thin bodies and sleek coats. The Targaryens bred them as far back as bloodline records went. The pups were never for sale; sometimes they were used as show dogs, and successful show dogs they were, but more often they were pets. It was a status symbol, to nonchalantly own such a coveted creature. 

The Targaryens were idolized in the public eye. They were all stunning, with sharp features and silver hair, and each member of the family seemed to possess a Midas touch. But, where Valyrian blood ran hot, so did the press. It was no surprise when magazines started to turn a profit from silver heads plastered across their glossy covers. It was the price that came with God-like aristocracy.

From editorials to gossip columns, people devoured the insider life of the untouchables. When Aemma Targaryen died, there was a four-page spread in nearly every magazine; complete with pictures and quotes. Business papers filled with opinion pieces about Rhaenyra’s inheritance claim to her family’s empire; magazines exploded with the announcement of her engagement to Laenor Velaryon, and subsequently Viserys’ marriage to Alicent Hightower, the daughter of his lawyer. 

When Jacaerys was born, reporters lined up outside of the hospital doors. There were cameras and microphones and crew trucks, and Rhaenyra hated it. It wasn’t the way she wished to welcome her child into the world — swarmed by people who didn’t know nor care for him.

Laenor had always been good at navigating the attention, and Rhaenyra was constantly grateful. So, when he pulled his gaze from the babe and steeled himself to deal with the onslaught of reporters outside, tears pricked at her eyes. Appreciation, exhaustion, adoration? She couldn’t be sure. 

Looking down at her son, she thought, he’s perfect. He had a smattering of dark hair, and he was quiet but not concerningly so. Wispy lashes fell upon his cherub cheeks, and when he eventually blinked up at her his eyes were dark. He looked nothing like her — she didn’t care. 

She refused to talk to anyone outside of her family, and had the curtains in her private room drawn. To expose her son, her heart, to the prying eyes of the bored masses with nary a care for his well-being was a nightmare. She wouldn’t have him exploited. 

At the time of Jacaerys’ birth, she and Laenor had been married for a little over a year. Laenor’s father, Corlys, managed the bulk of the import and export for Viserys’ company. Corlys was a good man, he hadn’t dreamed of marrying his son off. But Laenor and Rhaenyra were both in the same impossible situation: the wiles of youth mixed with the ever critical public. 

They had both fallen into scandalous relationships, both preyed on by paparazzi. If they married one another, it would save face for both of their families. Plus — both being the eldest and heir, this would clear the expectation of a dignified marriage. They agreed to leave each other to whatever youthful fun they wanted to have, as long as everything was discreet. 

Both the Velaryons and the Targaryens kept a summer home in Dragonstone, a private community in coastal Wales. It was the perfect place for Rhaenyra and Laenor to begin their life — far from her father, close to his parents, and out of the line of sight for any nosy journalist. 

The public eye had looked to other things by the time Lucerys was born, two years later. Again, Laenor dealt with the small gathering of reporters with the utmost grace, and Rhaenyra submitted a written statement. 

Alicent divorced Viserys that same year. 

As she watched her boys grow up, full of energy and life, Rhaenyra thought, there was no one better to parent with than her best friend — a title Laenor had rightfully earned. They hadn’t had much choice in knowing each other, and they certainly would never have chosen to be married, but he made a bearable roommate. They had things in common; they liked the same music, and the same men. They drank the same wine and frequented the same restaurants. And, they both loved their boys. 

As Jace and Luke grew up, they found the best company in each other — the school in Dragonstone was so small, though, that there were very few other options. They both played on the school’s small football team, and Jace took piano lessons while Luke learned to fence. Where Jace was driven by emotion, Luke was level-headed; where Luke was cautiously quiet, Jace spoke his mind. It was an ideal childhood, the Welsh coast was an idyllic backdrop to grow up upon, with the sea in their backyard. 

They were ten and eight when Joffrey was born, both excited for their new brother. Their mother brought him home, bundled in a soft red blanket. The boys sat on the couch beside Rhaenys and stared at him for upwards of an hour. 

Hardly a week had passed when Harwin Strong died. He was a family friend, a frequent presence in their home and life — Jace and Luke had been upset by this, of course. 

In time they came to understand the situation fully. Jacaerys first, fitting the pieces together with the evidence he found in the mirror. Neither Rhaenyra nor Laenor had dark hair, like he and his brothers. 

His matriline was uncontestable though, as he grew into himself. He possessed the same nose, jaw, brow, and high cheekbones that Rhaenyra wore. The comparisons between the two became more frequent as he grew older, and he found himself to be quite proud to look like her. 

Her attitude lived in him as well, the temperament she had been so notorious for as a girl festered in her eldest son. She had once been christened ‘The Princess of Dragonstone’ after flipping off a reporter at their summer home. Jacearys earned it for himself when he was fifteen, after loudly berating a reporter. He had been defending Luke, but no one seemed to care when they deigned him ‘The Prince of Dragonstone’. He took it with grace, claiming that he couldn’t help but be his mother’s child.

It instilled a sense of public propriety he strove to uphold. 

Rhaenyra remarried the same year — to Alicent Hightower — and moved her children from Wales to London. It took a while to adjust to the new life — Jace liked his new school, but he detested his step-brothers. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t come around to the idea of living with Aemond and Aegon, who took so much pleasure in making he and his brothers miserable. 

After the first month, Jacaerys fell in brilliantly. He performed well in school, quickly being enrolled in the advanced literature and history courses. He got on well with his peers, and made a number of friends. He joined the football team and spent his Sunday afternoons learning piano concertos. 

Living in London made him a more publicly prominent figure in his family's legacy. He knew how to play his role as heir; he carried himself perfectly — confident and charming and elegant. He didn’t particularly like being in the public eye, but there was a certain sense of satisfaction when he did something to receive positive public attention. 

King’s Landing, much like where he had grown up, was a community reserved for the upper echelon. Situated in Northwest London, and surrounded by wrought iron gates, it was regal and dignified. The house had high, vaulted ceilings, large stained glass windows, and more than enough bedrooms. It rained more, Jacaerys noticed in the first month. When it had rained in Dragonstone he would watch the droplets bounce off the sea, where it lapped at the sandy bay. Here the rain splattered unceremoniously upon the pavement. 

For as wonderful as life in London had turned out, Jacaerys found himself longing for what was left behind in Dragonstone. Laenor lived there still, and while he called often and visited as much as he could, it wasn’t the same. Jace’s childhood bedroom remained, along with all of the memories in the house he grew up in. And his friends. There was an assortment of people he only saw between late May and early September; the children of the other seasonal residents. The number had dwindled in years past, with fewer of them returning for break — favouring more interesting places, like Ibiza or Rome, as they got older. 

Far too few of his childhood friends he kept in contact with, especially after the move to London. You were the exception. 

He was grateful, on days when it stormed in London, to receive a silly text or too-long voice note. It made things feel less dull — you had a way of doing that. 

He took to reading theory around the time he turned seventeen. It’s queer theory, at the suggestion of his cousin Baela, who lent him his first Judith Butler book. He finished it that weekend. 

His aunt Laena and her two daughters lived in London, and Jace found a close comrade in Baela. She played competitive tennis and listened to riot grrrl, she was much cooler than him and he knew it. Her bedroom held two massive bookshelves, and she let him pillage her collection for De Bouvier and Didion and Gay. Hours were spent lying across the floor in Laena’s house, studying, or reading, or talking. He enjoyed Baela’s company more than any of his school friends, favouring anything with her over anything with the boys from his football team. 

His youngest sister, Visenya, turned one around the same time. Baela, staying with Jacaerys while he babysat one night, inducted him into the eldest daughter club. 

“You’re so keen on driving your siblings around, and taking care of them. Plus, aren’t you your mother’s closest confidant?” She asked. 

True, Jace supposed. He was the oldest of Rhaenyra’s children, and the most responsible of his brothers and step-siblings. His mums both worked full time, they were busy but as involved as possible. Jace just did the menial things. He made Joffrey breakfast, picked Luke up after school, and watched Visenya when necessary. He didn’t mind.

Baela argued that he should mind. 

He had been a sensitive child, more so than his brothers, but it made him incredibly emotionally adept as he aged. So many boys his age prided themselves on stoicism, but that was never something Jace felt connected to. He always felt things too deeply to bottle them up — it accounted for the occasional temper that flared up when he was upset, but also how empathetic and kind he was. 

Jacearys was set to graduate with honours in the first week of May. It was three months before when college acceptance letters began to appear in the mail. He had applied to a number of places, and been accepted everywhere. The University of the Vale was where his hopes hinged though. 

Just after Valentine's Day, it showed up. The envelope was wide and stuffed full, and sealed with a wax stamp. His acceptance letter was on the very top of the stack of papers — the thick paper heavy in his hands, as he admired the blue printed border and silver flocking. 

Rhaenrya sorted through the informational packets while Jace reread the letter. Part of him couldn’t believe it was real.

He sends you a picture of the letter, and you respond in kind with one of an identical nature. 

You hadn’t planned to go to the same university, but it certainly was a happy coincidence. 

After graduation, he was beyond excited for the reprieve that Dragonstone granted. The promise of early morning hikes, and evenings spent on the beach — the once empty house, full of life and bustling with bodies. 

You were the first thing Jacaerys thought to look for when he set his bags down in the summer home. 

It was late May, and you were guaranteed to be out of school. I’ll text after I unpack, he thought, pulling clothes and books from his suitcase. 

His room in Dragonstone had once been his childhood bedroom. The walls were a warm tone of white, and the small bed was still covered with his blue and white checkered duvet. Piano scales and pictures of his brothers and friends adorn the walls. There was a soccer trophy on the back edge of his desk, something he had won when he was eleven. It was stuffy from nine months of stagnance, but familiar all the same. 

He pushed the curtains back from the window to let sunlight filter into the dusty room, gazing down at the beach, when he spotted your figure. He was quick to rush downstairs, out the backdoor, and across the stone path that leads from the patio to the beach. He greets you with a call of your name and a tight hug, sunglasses perched atop his head and linen shirt half buttoned. 

It had been a year since he’d last seen you. You had kept in touch during the school year; Jace favoured Snapchat and FaceTime, delighted with the pleasure of seeing the mundane things you were up to. There was a nearly constant text thread, and voice memos passed back and forth. But, it all paled in comparison to physical company. 

He abandoned his housekeeping duties, keen to sit on the beach and talk. And you did so for hours, about everything and nothing. He tells you about his last year of school and listens as you do the same. When the sun dipped past the treeline, he leaned back on his elbows, watching the water crest on the sand. He felt more at ease than he had in a while, enraptured by the ease of your presence. The conversation flowed, there were no awkward lulls and no pressure to talk about something dignified. It was comforting to be so close to someone who didn’t see much of his life in London — you knew the best version of him. 

Your friendship had always felt like that, from a young age. On days that smelled of sunscreen and sea salt in his mind, you would meet in the mornings and depart past dark and then do it again the next day, never tiring of each other. Your parents knew his, so you had always been welcome in his home — invited or not. You had shared a bed during sleepovers, drunk from the same cup, and fallen asleep on the couch during movie nights countless times. Quick glances and imperceptible expressions were a language you communicated in, reading each other without words. In your presence, Jace was the most comfortable.

The summer slipped away as it always did, taking long nights and leaving memories of sand and sunshine. The days were ambled away in the water, on rocky hiking paths, or in the meadow that sat a mile away from all of the homes. 

Jace had started The Hobbit before school ended — most days he found himself sprawled out in the park or on the beach, reading. He had also taken to running with his dog, Vermax, in the mornings. He relied on the serotonin boost to start the day, and with no football to play a jog was a decent alternative. 

When the summer drew to a close, the typical melancholy that befell the return to the real world wasn’t present in Jace’s mind. He presumed it had everything to do with the fact that he would see you every day now

You have one college class together — a nine a.m. medieval literature discussion. 

Clinging to familiarity in the new environment, he glued himself to your side for the first week of classes. He memorized the way to your dorm, meeting you outside every morning to walk together to your first lessons. The meandering conversation was a good start to the day, and he silently relished in your tired eyes and quiet voice, not yet used to the early schedule. 

On Friday he all but begged you to come back to his dorm after the discussion; it was your only class that day so you had given in. You hadn’t seen his living quarters yet, and he wanted to spend time with you, worried for when your schedules would fill up and you would lose room for each other. 

The discussion had been mind-numbing. You reviewed the same syllabus as the lecture, and went over the same rules and policies as every other class. With the thirty-five minutes remaining, the teaching assistant made everyone watch an incredibly monotone video about the history of medieval England. 

Jace linked his arm into yours in the hallway after class, pulling you to the doors. The cool morning air was refreshing, waking you up more as you walked across campus. His dorm building was new and modern, seventeen floors with grey siding and big windows. It was private housing, clearly expensive. 

He had a single room with an adjoining bathroom and a small common space. The walls were typical dorm white, with laminate wood flooring. Joffrey’s school photo is hung on one wall, the frame clearly decorated by the child with glitter and string. Scattered across the other walls were photographs in thin silver frames, a large world map, a clock, and a cross-stitch of a rainbow stag beetle.

Sitting on the couch, you observed the unframed photos that lay across the coffee table, inspecting a leggy grey dog as you plucked it from the pile, “Who is this?”

Jace leaned into your side, gazing at the photo, “My mum’s dog, Syrax,” He reached over you to tap the picture, “Syrax is my dog’s mum.��� 

He slipped his hand into yours as you walked with him to his second class of the day.

In the third week of school, Jace asks you to attend a mixer for a pre-law society with him. He doesn't know anyone, and doesn't want to be alone at the party. You meet at his dorm at a quarter-to-six so you can walk to the event together. 

The dress-code is emi-formal, and when he opens the door to you his hair is slicked back with water and he smells like his cologne — musk, sandalwood, and amber. 

“Are your clothes pressed?” You ask, grinning at his freshly ironed slacks and the three buttons undone on his shirt. 

He rolls his eyes, locking the door behind him as he escorts you down the hallway. The walls of the elevator in his dorm are mirrored, and you laugh at him when you catch him taking pictures of himself. He makes you take one with him, and sets it as his lock screen. 

The mixer was in the dean of law’s massive house, buzzing with young people in smart outfits. Jace abandons you about fifteen minutes in, spotting a group of poli sci majors from his social psychology class. 

From his childhood spent between galas and his mother’s business meetings, Jace was good at navigating these situations. He was charming, leveling the professors with charismatic smiles and confident posture. He was good at holding an intelligent conversation, discussing theory and strategy. 

You were on the patio, watching the stars, when he found you an hour later.

His arms brushed yours as he leaned against the railing, “Sorry for leaving you,” His voice was quiet, and he stared at your profile, watching the way the moonlight illuminated your skin. 

You wave his apology off and make him buy you coffee in recompense on the way home. 

You’re stood talking together on the quadrangle a few weeks later, a cup of hot chocolate warming your mitten-less hands, when you realise just how cold it’s gotten. It's just too cold for the thin jacket that you try to sink further into, hiding from the wind that bites at your delicate skin.

Jace watches you shiver, observing your lack of appropriate attire. 

“Are you cold?” He asks, reaching out to run his hands up and down your arms, half to warm you, half to gauge how thick your jacket is. Not very. 

You nod, “I didn’t check the weather this morning.” 

He sighs with exaggerated exasperation and slides his arms around you, careful of the paper cup you held. Of course, he’s worn the right coat, and you feel the downy material of his hood against your cheek as he rubs your back to generate some warmth. You smell the cologne on his collar and the expensive shampoo he uses; he grumbled something about taking better care of yourself. 

Then, one particularly cold Friday morning he has forgotten his coat. Dressed in a hoodie, he mirrors your excuse from the week prior, smiling sheepishly — face flushed from the chilly air, dark curls blowing around his head like a halo. You take pity on him, slipping your scarf off. You loop it around his neck, tucking the ends down into the collar of his sweater, and leave him with a fond peck on the cheek; his skin is cold. 

He's appreciative, though the scarf does little against the cold wind cutting through his sweater. Still, he doesn't give the scarf back. 

With the cold, comes midterms. You’re the first person Jace asks to study. 

Your dorm room is closer to the central part of campus, and thus a shorter walk in the bitter cold. Jace brushes snow out of his hair as you unlock your door, ushering him inside. It's small. Two twin-sized beds, one on each wall, with nary enough room for two bodies between them; a desk is crammed into the small space between your bed and the window. You let him take the desk, spreading your books and notes out across your bed.

Your dorm is old, and the room has very little ventilation. Despite the frigidity outside, the room is stuffy and almost hot with both of your bodies inside. An hour into studying Jace shrugs off his heavy, knit sweater and pushes his glasses up into his hair. 

“What are you working on?” You ask, leaning forward. You’re bored, working on the same power point you started yesterday. You want to talk to him, though he doesn’t seem keen on the idea

He doesn’t look up from typing as he speaks, “Analysing The Art of War.” 

You shut your laptop, bent on distracting him, “The book?” 

He nods but doesn’t give a verbal response. 

“Who's that by?” You ask, fighting to suppress a grin

This time he does look up, glaring at you over his glasses, “Sun Tzu.” 

His tone is short, but it's amusing to annoy him so you grin, suppressing a giggle, “Sounds very interesting.” 

“What do you want?” He asks after a beat, still holding your gaze. 

You shrug, “Nothing. I’m bored,” 

The next time you study is even less productive, school work discarded on his floor in a matter of minutes. 

“We can’t be trusted to work together,” He tells you, watching as you calculate his astrological chart, geometry homework forgotten. 

You attend your first college party together in November. When you arrive at his dorm, he’s dressed much more casually than normal. 

You reach out to tug at the thin silver chain peeking out from his shirt collar, “This is fun,” You tease, giggling, “Aiming to impress tonight?”

He rolls his eyes in mock-offence, turning you around by the shoulders to shove you out of the doorframe. 

The lights in the house are dim, and they strobe slowly through different colours. It’s too dark and too bright all at once. The music is almost unbearably loud and people are packed in like sardines, it’s all incredibly overstimulating. 

When he senses your unease, Jace takes your hand, pulling you tight against your side to lead you through the throng of bodies. He’s looking for someone, but you’re unsure who, and he canvases the whole space before giving up on finding them.

The backyard of the house is quieter, but the ground still vibrates from the bass of the music. People are scattered about, smoking cigarettes and sipping from bottles of cheap beer. 

You both learn what Jell-O shots are, and make out in the bathroom back at his dorm. It’s not the first time you’d kissed each other, trying it a few times in your adolescence just to see what it was like. But this is different, tipsy and sloppy, as you giggle into his mouth. 

It's forgotten in the morning, when you wake up in his bed still dressed in your going-out clothes, head pounding.

But then it happens again, the week before finals.

You had stayed at the library far too late studying, leaving the pair of you to walk back to his dorm in the dark. It's positively frigid, cold December air whipping snow into your face. 

There are still snowflakes in your hair as you shed the thick coat you’re wearing, pulling off your gloves and hat. 

There's a bottle of wine in Jace’s freezer, left by Aegon the weekend before. It's expensive and rich and red, and Aegon would likely skin you if he found out you were drinking it — but, that's part of the fun. There's a baking show on the small television, and you’re curled into Jace’s side to steal some of the warmth from his body.

When the program lulls he brings his hand to your hair, combing through the tangled strands. You pay it little mind, leaning into his touch as you watch a contestant on-screen whip macaron batter. His fingers slide down to your jaw, turning your head so your eyes meet his. He’s studying your face, cheeks flushed from the wine or the cold. 

The attention is odd, and you giggle nervously under his gaze. His hands come to cradle your jaw as he leans towards you, nose brushing yours. The air is charged with an unusual tension, his mouth a breath away from yours. 

When he kisses you, he’s slow and gentle, his whole body angled into yours. Everything feels warm, a welcome contrast to the weather outside, and you chalk it up to the glasses of wine coursing through your bloodstream. 

It's pleasant, different from times past; this certainly doesn’t feel like an innocent, experimental kiss. It's heated, tinged with passion. He uses the placement of his hand to ease your jaw open, tongue sliding slowly into your mouth. 

There's a vibe, something you hadn’t felt before with him. It's communicated through the gentle touch of his hands, and how his breath hitches when you kiss him back with the same sort of force. 

The moment is broken by the announcement of a winner on the television. His hands slide down, resting on your shoulders, pulling your frame into his. 

You don’t talk about it afterwards. 

[tackykachowch]

How it feels to not like timebomb after s2

[non-plutonian-druid]

[ID: Several drawings of Five from the Umbrella Academy being hugged and/or being shown other forms of physical affection, from each of his siblings (plus Lila). They include: Klaus draping himself over Five's head while Five claws at him and scowls. Allison wrapping Five in a tender hug. Luther carrying Five like a football while Five glares but has giving up on fighting. Diego lifting Five up in a hug while Five looks surprised. Five leaning on Viktor, napping, while Viktor reads a book. Lila scrolling her phone with her legs draped across Five, both of them lying on the floor. End ID.]

I have largely restrained myself from giving Five hugs because he does not hug. But now!!! It's fair game and I'm here to make it everyone else's problem

[beannary]

*technodromes your donnie*

silly little screenshot redraw i did because thinking about the technodrome and donnie is my most favorite thing in the entire world

screenshot reference under the cut

[thetwilightroadtonightfall]

“Sing, let your heart soar! Sing forever!

Sad and so happy! Feelings flow over

Now our world is full of all kinds of colors

Closing my eyes, I still can see the stars…”

Overmorrow -FIN-

[start from the beginning]

[link for better image quality]

[link to fun supplementary info for the fic]

[buy me a ko-fi 🍓]

[soliusss]

what the fuck is up with Reyna. who tf is she. how did she become this crazy crime overlord. who was she when she was a child. is she single- [gunshot]

(Seriously tho this ur excuse to tell me absolutely anything you want about her bc I am Obsessed)

childhood lore is secret right now (I cooked really hard with it tho believe me I want to share but I'm storing it for the future) but she grew up on a farm in a village in the American Midwest. (the main story takes place in an alternate timeline where the world's structure is similar but slightly different to reality) How she got the international criminal empire is uhhhhh scratches head not sure the mechanisms of how exactly she did that for now but she was very very motivated about scouring the world for evil and forbidden information. crime empire is simply the most efficient way of going about her plans. The short explanation of her motives is that she wants to starve gods.

[thecrimsonjaguar]

i think when it comes to the F+C finale it's important to see where the writers were coming from. And it's easy to do that, the lesson/moral they gave simon is fairly clear: Simon needs to appreciate his life because Betty sacrificed so much to get him here. alright, cool, that's good on paper.

I do Also think that the execution was poor.

up until this point, the crown has represented/could be viewed as many things. Alzheimer's, substance abuse, and anything else people have called it. In this series, a newer interpretation has arose: Suicide. And I'm certain the writers were aware of this. Depression and suicidal ideation are such strong themes in this series that they can't NOT be purposeful.

So their attempt at teaching Simon to appreciate Betty's sacrifice can ALSO be read as: Simon, the suicidal, on the verge of a relapse-man, gets put into a body of a child, (and that is very powerful imagery that does not help, actually) and is told nearly expressly that he fucked up in his relationship with the love of his life. He is told he should have sacrificed more for betty. And he says to himself: "Maybe i wouldn't have even found the crown". Basically it's simon pinning the blame on himself for his 1000 year curse on his mistakes with Betty. Which of course can be read as Simon's self loathing but the show does nothing to refute his statement, which i also have issue with. Simon putting on the crown was stated to be a Mistake. it was an accident. No matter what, the crown cursing him Was Not His Fault. Ever. It's not Betty's fault, it's not Simon's, it. was. a. Mistake.

regardless on if they should or should not have introduced these new flaws into simon's character, having simon learn his mistakes like This feels. icky. to me.

[waterme-stories]

Valentine Vuong is a transfemme they/them enby, I am not accepting criticism at this time 😇

[no1ryomafan]

i was thinking about besides devo getting a anime the most controversial getter anime they could make is a remake of Armageddon cause despite the fact it could absolutely fix the issues the show has it be one of those things that wouldn’t be necessary and people would be sick of more arma content.

But then I thought about “okay but then they could make Kei actually trans if they had the fucking balls” and I know this would NEVER happen but that would make people seethe more then arms being remade and I found that so funny. (And yes this is very much related to my last post)

[lord-squiggletits]

This might be bc of my personal reading of exRDI/OP bc I'm pretty sure the authorial intent was to just write Optimus as having some fall from grace/borderline tyrannical edge but like

I really kinda wish the story had been written as more of a political intrigue, almost GOT-esque thing (sorry for the cliche) where like, instead of Optimus being written as the narrative's scapegoat to be condemned both by the characters in universe and the meta narrative, he was just written as...morally gray? With more of a focus on "this is a shitty situation where no decision is good" rather than having Optimus just be some sort of white guilt stand-in of how oh, he's a Prime so that means the most important part of his legacy is how Cybertronians are awful and he's no better than the other ones etc.

Like Barber doesn't write Optimus as EVIL or in a way where he's unilaterally condemned as a person who did more harm than good, it's just imo the vibes of the story is more of a dark political/war story where no person is clean and there's no solution to the war that doesn't involve moral compromise. Instead Optimus is forced to make these moral compromises but then everyone else in the story loses their absolute shit and immediately starts calling him a tyrant or a fascist or something.

Like idk, it was partially an issue of the set-up. Because for one, it was really hard to take it seriously when the humans went "omg he's annexing Earth the Autobots were literally the colonizers all along!" (I think the dialogue was written almost exactly like that too sjdjsidn, so bad dialogue was also another issue) yet were perfectly fine working with the Decepticons led by 1. Soundwave who personally helped execute the attempted invasion of Earth and 2. Galvatron who constantly talks about wanting to kill these puny organics. I feel like I would've been able to take humanity's fears of being colonized again more seriously if like, they hadn't literally teamed up with The Colonizer Faction just bc Soundwave promised they were good guys again. So really it's just execution + plot holes + bad dialogue.

And another thing about the annexing of Earth specifically that I wish got talked about more (mostly by the fandom more than in universe) is that like. Basically the reason Optimus did that was because the neo-Decepticons were planning to invade Earth again, but since he's not actually a formal political leader any more he has no power to actually force a war to stop them/request military back up. But also, Starscream didn't give a shit about Earth and neither did the Council of Worlds, so appealing to the government for help defending humanity wouldn't work either. So Optimus annexing Earth was an absolute clusterfuck yes, but in a way it was also kind of a shrewd political move to force Cybertron to dedicate a spot in the government for humans and thus grant humans a say on Cybertronian politics.

What I mean is that in a story/with an author like that of GOT, where the setting is grimmer and every character is morally ambiguous, I feel like Optimus would've had way more room to be an interesting and compelling character. Bc then instead of the story immediately screaming "ALL HAIL OPTIMUS DID YOU KNOW OP ANNEXING EARTH TO THE COUNCIL IS BASICALLY THE SAME AS MEGATRON ATTEMPTING TO GENOCIDE EARTH," Optimus could have been played around with more as a political figure making the shitty decisions in an effort to stop another genocide. Instead of just unilaterally condemning Optimus and immediately comparing him to fucking Megatron of all people, there could've been more focus on the politics of it with maybe some sort of theme of how "being a leader in war is an inherently unethical position where every decision you make will lead to death/conflict/hate."

Like idk I just think it would've been more interesting if the narrative spent less time going "zomg Optimus is totally a tyrant now" and instead went all in on exploring the political conflicts and how far politicians (Optimus now being one, since he's declaring wars and forcefully acting as an ambassador that no one asked for) can go on manipulation and forcing people's hands for the sake of an ultimately good cause. I mean, Windblade was doing shit like covering up for Chromia who killed people in a bombing, making backdoor deals with Starscream, and conspiring with Optimus to bypass Starscream/overthrow him as Cybertron's ruler somehow. The difference of course is that Windblade and exRID were written by two different authors with genre/thematic differences, but as a reader it is really disappointing to see two different political narratives where "a hero turned politician turning to morally gray/unethical methods to outmaneuver a deadly opponent" is treated as clever and heroic for one character, but tyrannical and worthy of ostracization of another character.

Like for God's sake this narrative where Optimus gets lambasted at every turn sometimes by people who work with/are literal tyrants/terrorists themselves is so fucking exhausting. I'd rather read a story that focused more on the idea of, well what Optimus did was unethical but on a political level it was actually advantageous in several ways. Then you could write a story that really dives into a view of like, idk... Does power inherently corrupt or is it just situations like war that allow leaders to seize power and become tyrannical? Are politics an inherently dirty field where the only way to beat your competition (and secure a decent future for the nation) is to become underhanded and manipulative yourself? Is it okay to bypass or work against rightfully elected officials when those officials are turning a blind eye to things like war and invasions and historic racism?

ExRID did somewhat touch on these themes to be fair, but I feel like in Optimus' case they were either poorly executed or just thrown away in favor of having every other character talk shit about him and how he's the worst person ever. Bc like goddammit, I do think Optimus' polarizing and sometimes bad decisions as a character DO make him skirt on the edge of tyranny and shouldn't be downplayed, but on the other hand, I feel like no one (fandom or in-universe) ever tangles with the OTHER side of the story, which is just... Would it have been unethical for Optimus to NOT have done anything? Cybertronians literally put a colony on Earth, injected Earth with alien technology and sleeper agents, used Earth as an incubating ground for dangerous elements like Ore-13, invaded Earth and killed 1 billion people-- after all the shit Cybertron did to Earth, is it not fair (even morally obligated) for Cybertronians to clean up their shit and help Earth defend itself against a crisis that Cybertronians caused? And if Cybertron's government/the individuals within are racist enough that they don't care about Earth, don't see it as their problem, and don't even see human life as meaningful since they don't live that wrong anyways... is it not, in a way, a good thing for Optimus to have overstepped his authority and forced diplomatic relationships between the two planets? So that humans had an actual political channel to go "fuck you, we're in your Council so you'd better ally with us" and so that Cybertron would be forced to go "welp can't write off these humans as Not Our Problem, guess we have to help them." Doesn't forcing Earth to be part of the Council in a way legitimize Optimus' fight to help Earth, since without a formal political office he's just a rogue general fighting an unauthorized war, but with the government involved, defending Earth now becomes a politically sanctioned act?

Like idk. I guess exRID and OP did get into some of this stuff, but as a whole it felt like the story underutilized its political elements and got bogged down in shit like pointless crossovers, and constantly pausing the narrative to have Side Character #2847 talk about how Optimus is a fascist, and having Optimus go on white guilt-esque monologues about how maybe all Cybertronians should die and are unworthy/unable to ever have a peaceful society because their society colonized other planets.

Just so much wasted potential honestly. ExRID/OP as written felt like it was going way too hard into "omg Cybertronians bad and Optimus is actually a tyrant" instead of just writing a complex story and letting readers come to their own conclusions. And also lambasting Optimus for doing things that other characters did (or characters who did even worse things), but letting those characters exist in peace while Optimus has to just be some allegory for colonialism that has to be torn down at every turn because that's Deep and Intellectual.

I just like the kinds of stories about politics that play around with the ethics of it all, like, "this politician is a shitty person but their policies actually prevented some sort of disaster from happening" or "this person did something illegal and defied the law but they did it because no one else was doing anything" or even "everyone hates this person for forcing them into a political deal they didn't want to be involved in, but the fact that they were all forced to become allies actually allowed them to cooperate and save themselves in a way they wouldn't have been able to alone" (which is pretty much literally how the annexing of Earth ended up going).

Like man I don't want to sit here being lectured/having my favorite character be lectured about how much tyranny is bad. I want my favorite character to do shitty things and then go "whoa that was shitty...but also kind of smart...but also caused a lot of problems...but also solved some other problems that could've turned awful if he hadn't forcefully resolved them."

[likealittleheartbeat]

You won’t understand LoK until you can learn to appreciate an aesthetic of disappointment

[marsixm]

well that was….. A Movie

[wormy-worm]

ok u know what maybe if the world isn't ready for sunrazer post that means that the world IS ready for Amoveous siblings post. This is Milo and Enho and theyre my DARLINGS and i love them SO MUCH. i have. SOOOOOOOO many thoughts abt them but after the previous post massacre i do not really feel like typing all of that xoxo love <3

[tigergendermoved2tigergender]

Remembering the toxic hellscape that was 2015-2019ish SU fandom and just how much hate the show got is really insane when you rewatch the show after it's been a while. Like the show is good what the hell were any of these people talking about

[icewindandboringhorror]

Apparently I can meet my goal of roughly 400,000 words in 6 months if I just somehow write at least 2,200 words a day ghbjh... Almost 2,500 today... huzzah...

[pasdetrois]

on the bachelor and resurrection

Thinking about how the concept of resurrection is touched upon in Daniil’s routes, and how the Marble Nest makes something of a mockery of it, casting him into the role of both resurrectionist and the resurrected. The man with an affinity for the living trapped in a cycle of communing with the dead..

+ the reminders that neither remaining nor returning shall constitute anything akin to a victory for him—just a trick mirror and, if you'll forgive the pun, a dead end

(p.s. the original marble nest line is a bit clearer in this connection, where the word for Sunday can also mean resurrection)