#this is the most profound effect he has ever had on my life

[rainybraindays]

Sometimes the ocd wins guys

[pascaloverx]

STARVE

Summary: You lost your husband some time ago while he served as a gladiator for Emperors Geta and Caracalla. General Acacius saved you from becoming an object of pleasure for the emperors. Since then, he has taken you as his mistress. In your free time, you became a disciple of Ravi, the healer, dedicating yourself to tending to wounded gladiators. All seemed to be in perfect harmony until Hanno, a gladiator driven by a thirst for vengeance, crossed your path.

Author's Note: And the gods said: Starve will be a multi-chapter fanfiction (I hope readers will follow it all the way through). Without further ado, the characters belong to Ridley Scott's Gladiator II universe, though there will be significant deviations from the film. Historical accuracy regarding life in the Roman Empire may not always be strictly observed, so I hope you can overlook that. Yes, this story revolves around a love triangle, but I will strive to satisfy everyone. This fanfiction will include adult content, violence, and potentially coarse language. Enjoy!

two four

THREE

Something ominous looms on the horizon. For days, you have been meticulously avoiding both Acacius and Hanno—a strategy that, while effective thus far, has been anything but easy. The rumors reaching you suggest that Hanno has been pestering Ravi incessantly, demanding your presence once more. Ravi, clearly exasperated, has taken to openly complaining about being forced to mediate between your "amorous entanglements," as he puts it, since your self-imposed distance began.

You had thought your withdrawal would carry no real consequences, yet this morning proved otherwise. A messenger from the emperors arrived at your doorstep, summoning you to attend the games at the Colosseum. Apparently, Emperor Geta himself wishes to extend his gratitude for your exemplary work in tending to the gladiators—his and his brother's greatest source of entertainment.

"If you wish, I could say you are unwell," Ravi murmurs as the two of you make your way toward the Colosseum.

"I cannot risk displeasing the emperors while my standing with Acacius remains fragile," you reply, touched by Ravi's unwavering support.

"You should consider mending things with one of the men in your life, for your own sake," Ravi suggests, his tone serious, ever the wise counselor.

"Hanno remains tethered to the memory of his late wife, while General Acacius refuses to release me from our former arrangement. It seems there is no simple resolution," you respond, your voice carrying the weight of your predicament, as the imposing silhouette of the Colosseum looms ever closer.

"It would be far simpler if you weren’t so stubborn. General Acacius may no longer be the ideal choice, but you and Hanno share more in common than you’re willing to admit," Ravi says with an irritating air of wisdom.

"It would be far simpler if you ceased your obstinance. General Acacius may no longer seem ideal, yet you and Hanno share far more in common than you are willing to acknowledge," Ravi remarked, his tone laden with that infuriating wisdom he so often wielded. However, the truth stands—your union with your late husband was forged more upon the bonds of friendship than the fires of passion. Before his commitment to you, he was entangled in an affair with Emperor Caracalla. That, above all, is the most profound distinction between yourself and Hanno. You grieve the loss of a cherished companion who became your husband by circumstance, whereas Hanno mourns his wife, who was, perhaps, the great love of his life.

"I shall take your counsel into consideration, my old friend, yet I beg of you to help me survive at least this day," you say, casting an apprehensive glance toward Ravi. He halts before you, placing a gentle kiss upon your forehead.

"Years ago, I vowed to your husband that I would care for you, and I shall not falter now. May the Gods watch over us," Ravi murmurs solemnly, his voice a quiet prayer as the two of you resume your path toward the arena, where the gladiators are already assembling for the commencement of the games.

Your gaze instinctively searches for Hanno, betraying a desire you would rather not acknowledge. His eyes, almost alight amidst the throng of gladiators, lock onto yours, his expression that of a man consumed by fury. You and Ravi did not take the same path as the gladiators, so it would not be prudent for you to approach him. Yet, from afar, you watch him with a quiet intensity. The courage you lack to bridge the distance is overshadowed by the boldness he possesses to close it himself.

"I shall give you a moment," Ravi murmurs, stepping aside as if sensing the gravity of the encounter. "Do not forget—Hanno may not leave the arena alive today. Be mindful to show kindness, for this could be your last exchange with him." Before you can fully process Ravi's warning, Hanno reaches you with surprising swiftness, all but sweeping you away with his commanding presence.

Hanno swiftly seized your waist with firm hands, nearly lifting you off the ground, and guided you to a secluded corner. His fury was unmistakable, reflected in the dominant grip he maintained on your waist, his hold firm enough to suggest he had no intention of letting you escape. "Have you lost your senses?" you demanded as he pressed you back against one of the great columns of the coliseum.

"I could not allow you to slip away from me again," Hanno replied, his voice low but resolute, his eyes scanning your surroundings with the precision of a predator ensuring no one dared approach.

"Our separation was necessary," you say with some difficulty, the closeness of Hanno's body to yours a maddening temptation that clouds your thoughts.

"Your master forbade you from interacting with me, and you simply obeyed, didn’t you?" Hanno says in a low, furious tone. His anger is not just visible but palpable, almost suffocating.

You seize his face with your hand, your nails pressing dangerously close to his neck. "Say once more that Acacius is my master, and I shall tear your throat out," you threaten, your voice laced with an inexplicable fury. Yet, Hanno seems to relish this, for he steps even closer, his lips curling into a wicked smile.

"I missed you, healer," Hanno replies, his eyes holding an unusual tenderness just moments before he claims your lips in a tumultuous kiss. It is as though he is consuming you, devouring you with his kiss, seeking to capture you entirely while his hands map your body with desperate reverence.

If the two of you were caught, it would mean your undoing, the end of both your lives. Yet, some part of you whispers that it would be worth it. In truth, if death awaited you for this, a kiss alone would not suffice. Each second his tongue dances with yours stirs a longing so deep it borders on madness. You yearn for him to take you, right here and now, for the feel of him within you seems the only desire worthy of risking everything. "Do not die today, gladiator," you murmur against his lips as they part, allowing you both to catch your breath.

"It will not be I who dies today, healer," Hanno says, his voice steady, before capturing your lips once more, this time with tenderness rather than desire. His grip on you tightens, as though he wishes to sink his hands into your very being, to keep your body close to his for all eternity.

"I only hope you can forgive me for what I am about to do," he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. Before you can respond, one of the gladiators calls his name, and he steps away. An unease settles in your chest, fear creeping in as you wonder what he might be planning. Yet, the weight of your obligations presses against your thoughts—you must make your way to the emperors without delay.

"For what reason is the healer present here?" Lucilla, seated beside Acacius, questions sharply as you approach the section where they, the emperors, and other guests await the spectacle.

"The healer is my guest, Lucilla," Emperor Geta interjects swiftly, extending his hand toward you in expectation. Dutifully, you step forward and kiss it. Moments later, Emperor Caracalla mimics his brother’s gesture, and you lean in to kiss his hand as well.

As you rise, your gaze catches the familiar figure of Dondus, the small monkey, bounding toward you with recognition in his bright eyes. Memories of the time you were compelled to remain near the emperors, so Caracalla could indulge his desires with your late husband, flood back unbidden. "He still remembers you," Caracalla exclaims, his voice carrying an unusual note of delight as he grasps your hand.

"It is an honor to be here," you reply evenly, though the weight of his touch stirs emotions you work hard to suppress. Behind your composed words lingers the haunting memory of the cold efficiency with which Caracalla and his brother had ordered your husband's death—right here in this very arena.

"We have been separated by the misfortunes imposed upon us by the Gods, but I believe a new chapter is now opening for us, as your skills as a healer have not gone unnoticed. Hands as talented as yours deserve to care for the well-being of emperors, my dear," Geta declares, his gaze lingering on you with a fervent intensity that borders on desire. You struggle to mask the fear swirling within you, wondering what fate the Gods have in store for you next.

The weight of his words settles heavily on your chest, but before you can gather your thoughts, General Acacius rises abruptly and moves toward the two of you. Your hand lightly grazes the fabric of his attire, halting his approach. "Is there a matter of concern, General?" Emperor Caracalla inquires, his tone laced with an air of amusement, as his fingers idly stroke Dondus, who appears entirely at ease in his presence.

"There is no matter of concern, Emperor Caracalla," General Acacius responds, his hand firmly clasping yours against his chest beneath the folds of his vestment, his piercing gaze directed at the two emperors with the weight of an unspoken warning.

“Our most illustrious general appears perturbed that we extended an invitation to his mistress to grace these games in our company without first seeking his counsel,” Emperor Geta declares with an air of calculated provocation, his words laden with mockery. The faintest smirk curls his lips, as if relishing the tension he seeks to sow.

"Ah, brother, such concerns would trouble him only if he were entangled with her. Yet rumors abound that they no longer seek solace in each other's embrace and that she is no longer charged with tending to the wounds of our noble General," Emperor Caracalla remarks, his words clearly meant to provoke. However, his statement seems to have unsettled Lucilla, who shifts restlessly in her seat.

"Brother, remember that we ought not lend credence to idle gossip," Emperor Geta interjects, rising with an air of authority. "If our esteemed General Acacius insists that we disregard his lover, let him convince us that their bond remains intact. Otherwise, let him return to his rightful place beside his wife, and allow my brother and me the honor of tending to the fair healer." As Geta’s words echo, Acacius turns his gaze toward you, his eyes locking with yours in a silent exchange. Without hesitation, he pulls your face toward his, as though intending to kiss you before the eyes of all assembled.

"Do not sacrifice your marriage for me," you murmur, your voice trembling as the weight of the moment threatens to bring tears to your eyes. The inevitability of what you feared is now unfolding before you—Acacius can no longer shield you.

"You are worthy of such a sacrifice, mea domina," General Acacius murmurs near your ear, his hand gently caressing your face. His touch carries a tenderness that momentarily threatens to weaken your resolve. Yet, you grasp his hands, steadying yourself, and move them away from your face, refusing to yield to the moment. There is a depth to your bond with Acacius, a connection forged in unspoken understanding, but you cannot bring yourself to jeopardize him.

"Perhaps it would be wiser to let the healer decide where she wishes to remain," you say, your voice steady, masking the longing within you to leave this place with Acacius. Turning toward Emperor Geta, who now sits observing the exchange with keen interest alongside his brother, Caracalla. Without hesitation, Geta seizes the opportunity, pulling you onto his lap with a self-assured ease that leaves no doubt of his authority.

Your gaze meets that of General Acacius, whose displeasure grows ever more evident. His clenched fists and the tension in his posture betray the storm brewing within him. "I believe the games are about to begin, dear General Acacius," Emperor Geta states with a sly smile, his hand firmly resting on your waist to solidify his claim. "It would be most appropriate for you to take your seat and enjoy the spectacle." His words carry a subtle provocation, a challenge cloaked in politeness.

Acacius lingers, his body taut with restraint as though weighing the consequences of striking an emperor in defense of his pride. Just as the tension threatens to boil over, Macrinus approaches, his demeanor lively and oblivious to the undercurrents. "Ah, are we all ready to witness the might of my beast? My gladiator returns to the arena today!" Macrinus exclaims, his excitement cutting through the charged atmosphere like a blade.

Acacius hesitates, his head tilting as though he is torn, unwilling to move from your side while you remain seated on Emperor Geta’s lap. Yet, Lucilla intervenes, her steps measured as she approaches her husband. She takes his hand with a quiet resolve, guiding him back to her side. A flicker of disappointment stirs within you, faint but undeniable. What else could you have expected? Acacius has always belonged to her, to duty, to the empire. He has never truly been yours.

The tension lingers only a moment longer before the spectacle claims everyone’s attention. The gates to the coliseum creak open, and the gladiators march into the arena. Yet something is amiss. Their faces are obscured, smeared with what appears to be blood, masking their identities. For those with inattentive eyes, it becomes nearly impossible to distinguish one from another. But not for you. No, Hanno’s eyes—those piercing, tempestuous eyes—are burned into your memory like the sharp point of a blade embedded deep into flesh. Even amid the chaos, they find you, unyielding and unforgettable.

"Macrinus, what are the gladiators scheming?" Emperor Caracalla asks, his words slurred as he drinks from his goblet, already appearing too inebriated to speak coherently.

"My esteemed Emperor Caracalla, I have no knowledge of their schemes, but I trust it is all in service of your entertainment," Macrinus responds, his gaze fixed intently on the gladiators below. He observes them with a sharpness that contrasts Caracalla's indifference, his expression unreadable.

Your eyes instinctively seek out General Acacius, silently willing him to understand that something is amiss. He meets your gaze, his brow furrowed as though catching the silent warning you convey.

"You seem unsettled, healer," Emperor Geta murmurs into your ear, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. "I am not accustomed to watching gladiators face one another, Emperor," you reply, steadying your voice. "I am more familiar with mending their wounds when they survive." The truth, however, weighs heavier on your mind—Hanno is planning something, and whatever it is, it may cost Acacius his life. A fate you cannot allow.

"Do not fret," Geta coos, lifting your chin with a deliberate gentleness that feels almost mocking. His eyes search yours, a predator relishing his control. "Guards, increase vigilance near the gladiators!" he commands suddenly, his voice sharp and resonant, slicing through the murmurs of the spectators.

"Emperor, it may not be wise to leave yourself so unguarded," General Acacius interjects, his tone firm yet controlled as he observes the guards dispersing to obey Geta's orders.

"And what greater protection could Rome offer than you, General?" Geta retorts with a smug smile, his grip on you tightening slightly, as though to assert his dominance. The tension is palpable, yet it is quickly eclipsed by the spectacle unfolding in the arena. The gates groan open once more, and three lions emerge, their emaciated forms a testament to their hunger. Their roars echo across the coliseum, a feral sound that sets the crowd alight with excitement. The gladiators ready themselves, their movements deliberate, each one measured and precise.

Your heart tightens as Hanno shouts to the other gladiators, "Remember our plan! Our enemy lies far beyond the arena!" Surely, he is plotting something, yet his precision in leading the gladiators against the lions is extraordinary. It is as if Hanno is channeling his spirit animal, his movements instinctive and deliberate.

Blood is everywhere—some gladiators brutally slaughtered by the lions. Two of the beasts have already been defeated when a revolt begins, chaos erupting as the third lion aids the gladiators in breaking through the arena gates. Suddenly, the tension in the air thickens. Panic spreads as the guards scramble to escort the emperors away from the scene.

Caught in the fray, you find yourself swept along with Emperors Geta and Caracalla, fate conspiring against you. In the madness, you lose sight of Acacius amidst the swarm of guards and gladiators. The tumult escalates into full-blown chaos until a voice pierces through the din, crying out, "Protect the Emperor!"

Before you can react, you feel the sharp pain of a blade slicing through your skin—or perhaps plunging into it. You cannot tell. Dazed, you glance down to see your blood staining your garments, and when you lift your gaze, you meet the eyes of your assailant. Hanno's eyes. You are certain.

The attack meant for Emperor Geta has struck you instead, delivered by the very man who has awakened feelings you dare not name. Tears well in your eyes as you feel your strength waning, your consciousness slipping into darkness.

[palmeryyz]

January, culturally, environmentally and sometimes politically can be the cruelest month. I was reminded of this on the 15th day of 2025 when David Lynch, the creator of some of the most remarkable, strange and breathtaking cinema, passed away at the age of 78.

His passing was just five days after the anniversary of the death of another man who fell to Earth, David Bowie - who left us nine years ago.

The sadness from the passing of these two great people has been compounded by the frigid temperatures experienced lately (January 15-21 is historically the coldest week of winter) and positively numbing events happening in the United States.

My posts about Bowie's death anniversary prompted a friend to lend me a book entitled Andrew Potter on Decline - Stagnation, Nostalgia and Why Every Year is the Worst One Ever.

My friend lent me the book because it whimsically ties the beginning of this decline to Bowie's death in 2016. Through chapters on Progress, Stagnation, Politics, Reason and the Pandemic, Potter convincingly connects the dots showing the degrading effects of populism, isolationism, totalitarianism and other toxic isms.

The book was published in 2021, before Trump's second term and the exponential rise of artificial intelligence, but its message is just as profound.

The loss of David Lynch in 2025 just days before Trump's second inauguration left me feeling doubly lost.

Not only had Lynch pulled me into the sometimes strange and wonderful world of cinema with films like Blue Velvet and Wild at Heart, which I had enjoyed immensely in their early days at the New Yorker repetory theatre in London, Ontario. But he also helped through a difficult read when I saw Dune, and was lulled back into Frank Herbert's science fiction masterpiece.

Like Bowie's music (and film work for that matter), Lynch's films were a treasure to me. On a grander scale, after reading Potter's book, I worried that Lynch's passing is marking an even steeper decline for the future.

But I was buoyed by a clip of an interview with musician/spoken word artist Henry Rollins that speaks to this challenging time.

"This is not a time to be dismayed. This is punk rock time. This is what Joe Strummer trained you for. It is now time to go. You're a good person, that means more now than ever," Rollins said. "You can be thunderous in your own life and being cool to the eight people around you. And it rubs off...goodness is viral."

[blessie-isbackintown]

As part of my New Year’s resolutions, I have chosen to stop living so disgustingly. Before I explain what this means to me, I need everyone to understand that this is for my good and I am not judging others.

Here’s what I mean.

I am so tired of hiding my faith to try and fit in. 

I am so tired of reading disgusting crap. 

I am so tired of putting everyone and everything before God. 

I am so tired of cussing because “that’s what everyone else does”. 

I am so tired of fearing that I’m going to get yelled at if I express my beliefs. 

I am so tired of pretending that this is who I am. 

I am not someone who cusses. I am not someone who reads porn on paper. I am not someone who hides their faith. I am not someone who changes themself in order to have friends.

If I met any of you in real life and we had a discussion about something where we have differing beliefs then I will tell you that I don’t agree and I will tell you what I believe. 

If I met any of you in real life and you came to me for a listening ear and advice I would most definitely be there for whatever you needed but my advice and support is deeply rooted in the Bible. (To those who I have lent a listening ear to and given advice, know this. Most likely, the advice I’ve given you is the Bible. I’ve never quoted scripture for fear of rejection) 

If I met any of you in real life you could swear up and down that I’d be the last person to set foot in tumblr. Purely based on the life I live and the beliefs I hold. 

In real life I really, really act so much differently than I do online. Behavior wise. Everything I’ve said has been true but the way I say it is not. Every time I’ve cussed, it’s because I went back through my message and added some cuss words for effect. Yea sometimes it was needed but I don’t do that in real life. 

Everyone I’ve met here and everyone in the PSF are truly amazing human beings. People who I would love to meet irl. People who have such kind hearts. People who have been nothing but amazing to me. They are people who have explained the LGBT Community so well that I really do understand and have no hate for anyone within that community. And I mean everything I say here. Before my time on tumblr, I had quite a prejudiced attitude towards this community and a year later, I understand it. Sure I don’t actively support it but these people have shown me that my past prejudice was so wrong. Even though I don’t support the community due to my beliefs, I have such a profound respect and love for everyone I have a relationship with here. And I want to thank everyone I’ve ever interacted with here. 

I want to end this message with this. I am no longer going to hide my faith. I will share my opinions even if it costs me some friends. God will take precedence over my life and I plan to worship and walk this life with Him. This is not something I expect anyone to understand. This is something I want to tell the world because it truly matters to me. 

I want to thank my friends who have always been nice to me no matter what. @shakespeare-official-account @theoretical-ink @nanochittle @connecfork @thesmallestclown @wet-leaf @darthpastry @gibberish-anon-from-gell(sadly deleted and I don’t know if he has tumblr anymore.) @kirolime @undeniably-chevron @realsafari (even though I left on quite a bad note) and many more I can’t remember the handles of.

[tomatoluvr69]

It’s so funny to be lazily ambiguous with gender and sexuality in real life because most people are like oh that’s a butch lesbian. Because I am lazy. And because I only clear things up with vetted friends and literally do not care about pronouns and names and have had different names/pronouns in different circles etc. and they see my men’s attire and the fact that I haven’t binded (bound?) in years and my short hair has long grown out. And then they tell on themselves and their own lazy heuristics when I talk about liking a man that it either a) takes them visibly aback and they have to stumble over themselves to pretend they’re not shocked or b) straight up think I’m joking and continue to believe I’m a butch lesbian. And the craziest thing is other queer people like somehow often worse about this despite this sort of idea that they have of themselves that they don’t assume anyone’s gender/sexuality and that they don’t tie ideas of androgyny to a flat chest and that they do believe that pretty extreme gender fluidity can and does exist and that everyone’s experience with gender is unique. And then there’s all sorts of shit where if I don’t feel like explaining/justifying the fact that I feel my concept of identity and self shift at such a glacial pace that it’s not worth establishing a conventional nonbinary or transgender identity (that conforms to the accepted experience, timeline, and desired considerations) in public, beyond my trusted friends who are chill about deviant experiences within the queer norm, I’m just one of them theyfabs claiming to be queer for clout. Ugh anyways it’s crazy to be one of the few people on the planet who needs to occasionally come out as what may appear at the outset as straight. I’m literally not a lesbian and no one ever ever stops to think I might not be. But I’ve had so many profound experiences with women and within that sort of community that I do feel such a strong affinity there, and in an ideal world would love to be something like a he/him lesbian. But I’m not a lesbian. Because I like men!! Despite only ever having been with women!!! And it also is so funny to me that were I to enter into a relationship with a man I would be considered completely and entirely cishet despite my extensive experiences within the gay community and specifically the lesbian community. Who would accept me with open arms if I’d ended up permanently with one of the women I’ve been with!! But I remain steadfast in my convictions that I do not need to explain myself to anyone. And truly I do not care in the least what people assume about me, I’m a very private person for whom open identity is not important and I’m literally way too chill to care. But it’s just continuously funny to have to come out as not a lesbian. How many dozens of times have I had to be like “actually I am not a homosexual”. Literally the opposite experience of most LGBTeeeees I’ve just got that deeply intensely masculine swag for real that the effect lasts even when my hair gets down to like shoulder length. And it’s like, even though I am perceived as female, albeit a queer one, I have had literally every single one of the stereotypical experiences of the ‘knew I was transgender from early childhood’ archetype and that’s just supposed to be completely invalid because I decided not to medically transition due to the spans of time I have where my identity shifts and I know I’m not qualified to pick one of the three acceptable genders for the rest of my life? And I understand the broader community’s frustration with certain aspects of hegemony re: people whose identities are snidely referred to as “theyfabs” and bisexual women in LTRs with men HOWEVER im just so tiredddddddddddd of the condescension, and lazy heuristics I notice in queer people’s treatment of me and assumptions about me. Anyways thanks 2 the gay people in my phone for letting me be amorphous and being so so chill about it. I mean it probably helps that you can’t see my genuinely gargantuan and unbindable breasts from my posts. But christ man it’s just exhausting lol

[ask-hound]

hello.

my name is classified information, but i will answer to hound. i was told to create this blog by an… associate, so i suppose i’m here now. i was informed basic information should be included in this post; I cannot provide much, but here is what i can say.

i am 19 years old.

my pronouns are they or it.

i am a mixed russian and middle-eastern jew, in terms of ethnicity; i speak english, hebrew and russian.

please don’t ask me about what i remember. i really don’t. i swear.

// ooc and a (very long) detailed bio for hound below cut //

the roleplayer:

howdy! my name is also Hound, actually, but my pronouns are he/they/it. hound (the character) is an oc of mine specifically for roleplaying, though their appearance and personality are derived somewhat from my oc Kelev. their background information and more details about her/hound’s backstory can be found on my main blog, @yell-hound, under the #oc: kelev tag! (as a note: I’m only fluent in English, so if I ever include Hebrew or Russian in my posts, it’s google translated and will probably not be accurate lol)

on this blog, i’ll mostly be roleplaying hound as a call of duty: black ops cold war or call of duty: black ops 6 insert character, but i might expand to other fandoms I’m in later on. there might also be posts here of me roleplaying some of my other ocs (Kelev, or characters from her story, including J, Halcyon, Laika, or Samael), but mostly it’ll be good, clean (read: whumpy and incredibly sad) hound “fun.”

the character:

[excerpt from classified file “details of asset codenamed ‘hound’”]

“hound [name redacted] is an approximately nineteen-year-old individual of Jewish and Russian descent. its hair is black and curly, but already graying in the front; it used to wear it long, before the management team decided it was more easily maintained in a shorter cut. hound has considerable scarring on its body. much of the right side of its face and body is covered in burn scars originating from an explosion, which have healed a darker color than its medium-toned skin. other scars include a vertical scar passing through its blind right eye, a horizontal scar over the bridge of its nose, and a scar on the left of its upper lip.

hound was one of [organization redacted]’s earlier successes. it has no memory of its past outside of unconscious instincts and occasional reports of minor hallucinations or odd dreams, and is for the most part complacent and receptive of orders. as expected, hound has displayed a profound inability to function in what most would refer to as “everyday life,” remaining largely dependent on handlers outside of combat or mission scenarios. on the rare occasions it has become violent or refused orders, it was in a state of confusion and could be coaxed or forced back into a more docile state (see addendum file: incidents involving asset “hound”). despite hound’s overall dysfunctionality, it has proven to be an effective and useful asset overall.

[end file summary]

hound’s bocw canon below:

as of recently, hound has been placed with the team currently operating out of the primary Berlin safehouse. while team member A. Mason expressed concerns about its wellbeing and R. Adler and H. Park had complaints about how dependent hound is in comparison to their other asset (see folder “asset codenamed bell”), hound has proven to be a functional team member and entered a mutually beneficial friendship with “bell.”

we hope to see this assignment improve the efficacy of the team and this asset.

[raviollies]

OC QUESTION MEME

For the sake of not clogging anyone's dashes

4. Do they have a happy place? Somewhere they go to in their heads when they need to relax?

Not really! Blythe really isn't the daydreaming or meditative type, she often just prefers to apply herself physically to busy herself if she feels stressed out, very rarely is she lost in fantasy

10. What is their favourite memory from their childhood?

Blythe's childhood...is not something she remembers in great detail. It bordered on boring, uneventful, few events stood out as exceptional. She was someone extremely under-stimulated, someone that always BORED, wanting more. A lot of her life pre-campaign would be a blur she does not care for.

24. Do they prefer cold weather or warm weather?

Warm! As time goes on, she does show a preference for clothes that let her move, to cast and adventure, so she does not like cold and CETAINLY NOT a fan of Krezk. Most of all she prefers temperate weather like that of Vallaki.

33. What moment of their life made them feel most loved?

:)

28. Are they ticklish ?

Isn't everyone?

37. If they had the chance, would they prefer to travel to the past or the future?

Past. 100% past...to be more knowledgeable, to not walk into the trap of a deal with Theta, or negotiate something better. It wasn't even the deal itself that she harbors hate for, it is the way it was given to her --- through DECEIT. It was thrust upon her without knowledge of what she was agreeing to, of what she was sighing up for.

Blythe in of itself doesn't harbor hate for the Fae, or for BEING a Fae. It's the fact that Theta had not TOLD her what she will become...that she will be bound to her, as Hag and Hexblood. She wishes to be free of the chain, or not have the chain on her in the first place.

17. How good are they at choosing gifts for others?

PRETTY GOOD I WOULD SAY NJFDGF, I am going off my DMs word as our party tends to lean more towards NPC relationships than inter-party ones.

Despite being someone at their core...selfish, she is very perceptive in terms of others emotion and mental status. So far she has given only a couple of gifts;

Ireena - her crystal necklace

Rahadin - Lunarbells

When Ireena expressed an interest in attempting to cast magic, she was woefully without a conduit of doing so...being a martial ---- no focus on hand. So for their lesson, Blythe had given her her necklace, an amethyst that usually hangs around her neck. With the tools in hand, she spent several hours with her honing her very first touch of magic, Prestigitation. With practice, Ireena was able to light up the room, not just with her magic but her smile too.

Ireena keeps it around her neck, underneath her scarf ever since

When Blythe and Rahadin had a moment alone, after a lengthy discussion on...dusk elves and the Three Fanes, Rahadin offered to show Blythe an abandoned dusk elven shrine to the titular goddesses. It was a small outcrop of dilapidated ruins of a building with flowers, thought to be dead. They turned out to be Fae flowers, coming to life and glowing with the slightest touch of magic. Since it appeared to have a profound effect on him, as a token of good will, she taught him a simple cantrip so he could light the flowers himself.

40. Is there anyone or anything that immediately instills fear in them ?

Theta. (and Strahd a little.)

1. How easy is it to make them angry? Do they show their anger or hide it ?

It is quite hard to make Blythe TRULY angry, though specific buttons do get her riled up pretty easily (Such as implying she's 'simple' or questioning her intelligence). She does not show her anger, having been always someone that holds her emotions incredibly close to her heart.

8. Have they ever broken any bones? If yes, how?

Nope.

16. What is something about them that people would not expect just by looking at them?

That despite the air she gives off ... She's someone quite young and inexperienced. She is the product of women having to grow up too fast, of girls feeling like they need to be adults before they're ready. She puts on a confident front of an unruffled, unafraid and always in control woman; someone that is always several steps ahead...but inside she's still...a fairly lost young woman who needs a support system. Who dreams of love, of adventure and glamorous dresses.

19. How would a stranger they just met describe them?

I asked my DM for this! In their words, she is intense, confident, haunting in a way --- that when she walks in, the entire room has eyes on her. Perhaps haughty, but she has a charisma that pulls people towards her. A mysterious femme fatale if you will. A true witch.

3. Do they have any pet peeves?

Gross and unhygienic behaviour!!! She hates when people behave without "manners" such as chewing with their mouth open etc. She despises people in general behaving unbecoming or not without manners to the point some would consider her haughty.

15. What is their dream house like?

She does not have a dream house actually --- in fact...post Barovia, presuming she leaves in one piece, she would actually adventure! She doesn't WANT a house, she wants to constantly be on the road, to see new things, to explore new places, to find new knowledge.

It's meant to tie into the nature of whimsical, carefree Fae. It's the fact that they live everyday as though it is their last despite the eternity that awaits them. She is the same, she has endless time ahead of her, yet still feels as though there is not enough time.

31. Are they a messy eater or a neat eater?

EXTREMELY NEAT EATER. She doesn't a lot either way due to the fact that smoking does kill your appetite, but when she does she always does it very neatly, slowly, almost gracefully. She also tends to be a picky eater and only go For Bougie Shit.

2. Do they believe in soulmates?

She does! She actually is deeply romantic inside despite her very pragmatic and guarded exterior. She reads romance novels, dreams of fairy tale romance, fantasizes about being swept off her feet. She's a tender maiden at heart!

5. At what stage of their life were they the happiest?

Probably right now IRONICALLY LOL.

9. Do they have any memories/experiences they'd rather forget?

Theta. Just Theta in general.

21. Do they have any physical insecurities?

HER EARS. She thinks her hexblood forked ears are unsightly and hides them with illusion magic to appear elven. She feels extremely self conscious over how they stand out and immediately other her from everyone else...even if mostly everyone thinks they're cute.

27. Have they ever witnessed someone die?

Izek Stranzi was actually the first person she has ever seen die in front of her, he was a couple feet away when he got SHANKED causing her to get drenched in blood. That being said...He was a stranger. She wasn't particularly heart broken about it, nor was she overly traumatized. If anything that's probably a much bigger red flag --- that she didn't really CARE. She didn't feel guilt, she didn't feel sadness, she didn't feel anything besides the fact that she completed a job.

Similar thing with the Burgomaster of Vallaki, Vargas. Having been a prime participant in his assassination by letting the killer in, disposing of the body and evidence...the party, particularly Ireena were confronted by how cold and calculated she was through out the whole ordeal. Hauntingly, it reminded Ireena of Rahadin's ruthlessness.

36. If they could ask anyone one question and get the absolute truth, who and what would they ask?

This is tough--- but I think...how they see her. Or who they see. She is someone that struggles with her place in society, driven by the need to be mysterious, unique and useful. She feels as though she is the sum of her skills rather than a person, so at the end of the day... She would want reassurance that isn't the case.

Or confirmation of how cruel this world is.

11. Do they have a "type" they're usually attached to?

Not physically! Someone she can endlessly try to figure out -- a puzzle to keep her attention. She above all needs someone COMPLICATED, impossible to solve; someone she can endlessly try to figure out and not come close to a solution. A book with no ending, a song with no epithet, a painting forever in progress. In some ways, she dreams of an endless chase.

In terms of the opposite of her type, she hates stupid people.

[norman891]

Dreamtime - One Shot fic

This picture had such a profound effect on me that I actually had a deam about it. My dream actually ended before I could reach out to him, so I finished the dream on paper, as it were. This also is one answer the question posed by #captjameshookthoughts in a post earlier today.

                                                Dreamtime

I’m standing in a dark room in my bedclothes, but somehow, I know it’s not my bedroom. It’s too dark; there’s no faint ambient light from my alarm clock or the nightlight in the bathroom. In fact, it’s almost pitch black. The door isn’t even where it’s supposed to be, it’s right in front of me.  I reach out and run my palms across the smooth, well-oiled door and find an iron bolt in the locked position.  The door is warm to the touch, but the floor is cold on my bare feet. And I can smell the ocean, cigar smoke, and alcohol, and something like linseed oil but not quite the same.

I keep blinking my eyes trying to get them to adjust to the blackness and turn to look around the dark room. That’s when I see him, only because of the thin shaft of moonlight that’s shining in through a window.  One thin sliver of light in a sea of blackness that envelops me and the man straddling a chair with his arms folded across the back. I instantly fight to control my breathing and the volume of my breaths to keep them inaudible. I know this man – even from the back, in this poor light, I know him.

He's been drinking heavily; the smell of rum permeates the air. And I can see a partially consumed glass of alcohol in his hand, but he’s not drinking it. His head is down on his arms and he’s crying silently; I can’t hear a sound, but I can see his shoulders heaving. 

I take a few tentative steps towards him, the lavish, lush rugs on the floor feel much better to my bare feet than the bare plank flooring. Now I can see the vicious steel claw that he wears on his right arm, the moonlight makes it gleam.  My heart breaks for him.�� He’s so sad, so lost, so alone. I know this feeling, though not as cruelly as he does, but I am familiar with these feelings.  I have my demons that crawl out when I’m alone with my thoughts, and in the wee hours when I’m trying to sleep or worse, into my dreams giving me the kind of nightmares that make you wake up screaming and crying.

I want so badly to reach out and tell him he’s going to be alright. I want to tell him that I’ve loved him since I was a wee boy of five years old.  That I’ve never found him scary, threatening, repulsive, evil, disgusting, and a dozen other euphemisms for ‘bad’.  I would dearly love to put my arms around his shoulders and hug him, a good long, affirming hug but I don’t think he knows I’m here. At least, he’s given no indication, and he might strike out in anger or shock with the hook.

I know he’s a proud man and the last thing he wants is for anyone to see him so dejected and defeated, so vulnerable. But I also know I can’t just stand here and watch him suffer in silence; my heart won’t let me.  I take a few more tentative steps closer, and a board creaks under my weight – I freeze, thinking I’ve announced my presence prematurely, but evidently creaky boards are part of his everyday life because the noise doesn’t faze him.

I steel myself to try and deflect or maybe halt the deadly right arm that is sure to attack any intruder, but I also realize I’m not the strong young man I was in my 20’s or 30’s. I’ve gotten old and somewhat crippled.  I can’t even run anymore if my life depended on it, damn that doctor. I have been told though, that I am the most determined man many people have met, and my heart has not weakened under the catastrophes of life, nor has it lost its capacity for love. I reach out ever so slowly to gently lay my left hand on his right shoulder as I softly speak his name.

“Captain Hook, sir?” 

He almost jumps out of his skin, leaping to his feet and dropping his drink. He staggers a little bit, probably from the alcohol and being startled. An angry snarl is on his lips and the claw is held high ready to strike, little red spots dot the center of his entrancing blue eyes. Everything inside me tells me to run, but I hold my ground trying to keep a calm expression, my hands up at shoulder height.

“How did you get in here?!” the captain demands. “Who are you?!” glaring at the strange, bearded man in his quarters.

“Please sir,” I start, “Don’t kill me. I’m not here to do any mischief….”  He swings the claw at me, and I jump backwards. He misses my throat by fractions of an inch. Good Lord, he is so much taller than me. He must be six foot four at least.

“Don’t presume to give me orders! And how the Hell did you get in my cabin?!” I can tell he’s fighting the urge to eviscerate me on the spot and I’ve no idea why I’m still alive.  It is at this point I begin to wonder if I’m having a really strange dream… except I never know that I’m having a dream when I do.  But I definitely felt the leather harness that holds the barbarous hook and base to his right arm when I touched him. Never dreamed anything like that before.

“I thought I was having a dream,” I say as he attacks again, only this time I manage to grab his right forearm and hang on to it. Odd, I think, my voice doesn’t sound quite right to my ears. It sounds younger than the 59 years I’ve walked the Earth. 

“And why would you dream about me?” he growls, fighting to free himself from a grip I haven’t possessed in almost 30 years. “Having a nightmare, were we?” He reaches for my throat and begins to try and choke me with his left hand, inadvertently tugging the beard hairs on my neck.

“No sir,” I grunt. “I was actually hoping nothing would wake me from dreaming.” I’m trying to lean back and away from his hand while still maintaining my grip on his right arm.

“Rubbish!” he snorts derisively. “Why did Pan send you?! What are you here to do to me?!”

“Pan?!” I snap back, surprised at the vitriol in my voice. “That little bastard?! I’d kill him on sight if I ever saw him!” I snarl between gritted teeth.

“Balderdash!” He manages to snatch his right arm free but does not make another attempt to kill me – not yet at least. “No one hates Pan except me.”

“You’re wrong, sir.” I reply, adopting a more relaxed stance, my hands back up as more of a sign that I’m not armed and have no intentions of fighting. “I’ve hated that mosterous, evil little prick ever since my mother read me the story when I was five. You have no idea how many times I played at killing him and that damned crocodile.” He releases my throat, eyebrows raised.

He snorted again, convinced I’m lying.  “No little children love me,” he paused, a fleeting look of heartbreak gracing his handsome features. “No one loves me.” Though he had quickly wiped his face on his left shirt sleeve, his face is flushed more from his weeping than from anger. He knows I can see it and it gnaws at his pride.  “Get out, now!” He thundered. His right arm drops to about his rib cage as the all too familiar feeling of impending defeat washes over him.

“I don’t know how!” I reply, frustrated. “I don’t know how I even got here in the first place. And your door is locked from the inside!”

Hook looked over his shoulder suspiciously; indeed, the door was still bolted and as he looked around his state room, no windows were open either.  Confusion enters his mind.  “Who...?” he began. “How...?” He has finally noticed my left forearm and the tattoo on the inside of it. His eyes go wide with shock and disbelief.  “Where did you get that?!” he stares at my arm. There, in full color, is a hook. No, not just any hook but his hook and base, permanently etched onto my skin.

“I had that done about 10 years ago,” I reply, feeling a little less frightened. I hold my arm out for him to have a better look. I feel his fingers close tightly around my left wrist as he jerks my forearm towards him.  He looks at the claw at the end of his right arm, then at the tattoo several times.

“It’s… mine,” he finally stammers in complete disbelief. “Who did this? One of Pan’s….”

“No!” I interrupt. “I had it done in Charleston while I was vacationing at the beach. That little asshole has nothing to do with my tattoo!”

He slowly releases my wrist, still staring at the tattoo.  “But why would you want this…” he gestures with his hook, “as a tattoo?  It’s repulsive.  It disgusts me.”

I begin, feeling a knot trying to form in my throat, my stomach suddenly feels like a bottomless pit. “Sir, I have loved you for fifty-four years. Captain Hook, I love you so much I have, at times, feared it was sinful to love another person that much. Sir, I have carried you in my heart all these years, and I wanted something to let the whole world know where my allegiance lies.”  He likes it when I call him “sir”; I can see it in his ever so blue eyes, eyes I want to drown in.

He just stares at me, unblinking, his eyes evidently used to the darkness of his unlit cabin. I tell myself he’s probably wondering about my flannel lounge pants and V-neck t-shirt. I’m sure he’s never seen any attire like mine. He’s also still wondering whether or not to just gut me on the spot. I’m sure of it. Why should he trust this old man in his room, who somehow got in through a locked door.

“You’re lying,” he says finally, his words laced with scorn fueled by all his previous experiences. “I am loathsome. I have done unspeakable things.  I am horrid to look at. I am so detestable, so vile, so hideous that I can barely stand to look at my own reflection so how can anyone look at me without revulsion?”

I feel myself smile gently, my posture relaxes further, and, lowering my hands slowly I take a small step towards my childhood…my lifelong hero. I am inundated by love and empathy.

“You’re none of those things in my eyes. I’ve never felt anything but love towards you, sir. Well, and sorrow for what that hateful beast Pan did to you.”

“I will not tolerate your pity!” He says acerbically.

“It’s not pity.” I insist. “Sorrow is different from pity. Sorrow and grief are born from love. Pity is reserved for the stray dog that’s been so mistreated it doesn’t trust humans enough to even let you get close to it so it can’t be helped or fed or anything.” I heave a sigh. “And I do love you, so very much.” I realize that I’ve inadvertently just compared him to a stray dog and pray he doesn’t pick up on it. “I – love - you!”

“You what?” he stammered, shocked.  “But how?”

“I don’t know. I guess I was an enlightened child.” I grin for a moment but it’s a fleeting moment of satisfaction because Hook starts shaking his head.

“No,” he says flatly. “No, this cannot be. You must be lying to save yourself. NO ONE loves me. Do not try deceit with me… whoever you are. I am alone and unloved, and always will be.”

“I’m not lying, and you are not unloved!” I almost yell at him, a little angry for being called a liar. “I can’t help it if Pan has lied to you and…” I pause. Had Wendy and her brothers already visited Neverland?  “And any of the stupid children Pan has brought here. It’s not my fault they’re all blind as bats and gullible to Pan’s lies. I loved you from the first time my Mom read the story to me.”

“Story?” Hook queried, puzzled. “What story?”

“Um,” I begin, thinking how to put it delicately. He’s been hurt enough as it is, no need to heap more humiliation upon his heart. “Well, one of the children Pan brings here, she decides to leave and go back to her parents…”

“The storyteller!” he exclaimed. “I remember her. The Wendy.”

“Well, after she grows up, she and her husband write a book about her trip and adventures here.” 

“I thought she was different,” Hook says wistfully. “I thought… but no. No children…” he stopped short and looked back into the eyes of the strange man in his cabin. They were not critical of him. They did not hold him in contempt. There was no hate in them.  If eyes were truly the window to one’s soul, then this man had laid his bare for Hook to see.

“Before tonight I have never met anyone who claimed to love me, or even cared for me. Maybe Smee but….” His expression fell back to one of utter dejection and grief and he staggered back to the chair to sit before his knees buckled.

This time I follow him, again laying a hand on his right shoulder as I squat to look him square in the eyes. “I love you. I have always loved you. I will always love you, so long as I draw breath into my lungs. And I’m not the only one. Peter has lied to you, because there are plenty of children who love Hook, and even more like me who never stopped or forgot you.”

He tried to look away but could not, even though he desperately wanted to. He could feel his eyes burning as they had earlier this evening before he started drinking. A single tear crept down his cheek, and he was consumed by shame and humiliation and closed his eyes. “Please go away,” he said hoarsely. Wasn’t it enough to be constantly harassed and humiliated by that flying demon child? Now he was confused and bewildered by the appearance of this strange man in his cabin and even more so by his words and tattoo.

Was he the one that was dreaming? Surely, he’d had enough to drink to be in an alcohol induced haze. Would he awaken in the morning to realize this was all a callous dream? He looked back up at the man. “What is your name?” he sighed glumly.

“It’s Edward, but Ed works too.”

“Edward?” Hook echoed. “Edward…” he said again, thoughtfully. The face that beheld him was still smiling, eyes twinkling with utter joy at being in his presence. “I know that name,” he says, “though I don’t remember… but Neverland makes one forget.”

“I have something I’d like to give you if I may, sir,” I ask, proudly raising my broken body to all of my five-foot, six inches height. “I’ve been keeping it safe for you for 54 years.”

“That’s an awfully long time, in some places.  What is it?” Hook asked suspiciously, but curiously.

“If you don’t mind, sir...” I quickly straddle Hook’s legs and plop down onto his lap, simultaneously wrapping both arms tightly around the man. I lay my head on Hook’s left shoulder, waiting to be torn asunder by the claw but I will not pull away. I will not hurt this poor, shattered soul further. If I die, I die happy.

Hook raised his eyebrows and stiffened briefly, then slowly relaxed. He found himself the recipient of the first affection, the first real hug he could remember receiving since his own childhood with Aunt Emily, ever so long ago. His first instinct was to shove the man away; centuries of rejection were hard to surmount.  The fellow began to speak softly but with so much conviction: “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.” Over and over until Hook could hear nothing else in his mind but those sincere pledges.

Then he felt it; a warm, peaceful sensation emanating from Edward and seeping into his own body, into his very soul. His arms slowly found their way around Edward, careful to keep the point of his claw turned away from the man and returned the hug.

I try to swallow the knot in my throat away; I don’t want to bawl in front of him, but I can feel my eyes leaking tears anyway.

Hook gazed down upon the head and took note of the silver that far outnumbered the darker hairs. For a fleeting moment he thought he saw a small boy asleep on his lap, but after blinking several times in disbelief he plainly saw the older gentleman who had called him ‘sir’ out of respect. Who left no doubt in Hook’s mind that he was, indeed, loved, by at least one soul. It eased some of his pain. It made his existence in this living Hell a little more bearable.

Hook stayed in the intoxicating embrace even after Edward became hoarse and ran out of ‘I love yous’ or just succumbed to exhaustion and fell asleep with his head on Hook’s breast. Without purposely meaning to, he let his chin rest atop Edward’s head, heaving his own purging sigh. His eyelids fluttered and Hook gave in to the emotionally draining exhaustion – and in all probability the effect of the large amount of rum he had consumed earlier, and fell into a peaceful, dreamless sleep. 

He was alone again in his cabin when he awoke as grey dawn began to light up the sky, once again confused and perplexed. His guest was gone with no evidence he’d ever been there, and Hook’s cabin door was still bolted from the inside. As much as he hated to admit it, he missed his odd, bearded visitor. He slid the bolt open for when Mr. Smee would come with his tea and breakfast. He looked forward to it; for once he actually had a good appetite this morning and no hangover.

While he waited, he sat again in the chair with his arms folded across the back and pondered what had happened the previous night. He again felt very alone and lost, but he also felt the corners of his mouth flick upwards briefly as he heard a voice in his mind like a metronome: “I love you. I love you. I love you…” 

He found wispy, silvery hair, not very long, on the sleeve of his shirt. No, it indeed had not been a dream. Strange by all accounts, but as real as he was himself. Hook would spend many hours pondering exactly how his visitor had reached Neverland and if he would ever return. But he was left with one comforting thought; that no matter what else Pan took from him the imp could not change the fact that at least one soul loved him unconditionally.

I awaken with a start to the rumble of thunder and rain pounding on the roof of my house. Lightning flashes again and my heart breaks: I am no longer with him. I want to go back! I sit up on the side of my bed and weep bitterly until I have to go the bathroom to blow my nose, clear my sinuses, and wash my face. The very idea of an almost 60-year-old man crying like a child over a stupid dream…

I turn the bathroom light on to get my washcloth and dampen it with cold water. I look at myself in the mirror, eyes bloodshot and swollen from weeping and choking on my own snot… and then I see it. A single strand of long black hair, curly, on the right shoulder of my white undershirt. No one in this house has hair that long. It must be his. It has to be his! It wasn’t a mere dream after all.  I take the hair and carefully deposit it in an envelope, then tuck it away in my bedside stand. And though I already miss him dreadfully and wonder if I will ever cross into his world again, at least I have made sure that Captain Hook knows he is neither alone nor unloved.

[snaggletoothedbastard]

I'm talking about Tintin again. This time I'm writing an essay. You have been warned.

Yesterday it was my birthday and I rewatched The Black Island. To be clear: I have not read the book. For some reason that is one of the only two Tintin books my dad doesn't have, so I haven't read it. All mentions of The Black Island henceforth are referring to the episode from the animated series.

The Black Island is an interesting episode, and I have interesting feelings about it, which I only truly acknowledged yesterday. Maybe being a year older has brought me unexpected wisdom or maybe I just didn't notice my feelings until more than ten years after the first time I watched the episode. I don't know. Anyway, this is essentially just going to be my attempt at articulating these feelings. You could call this essay an exercise in pointlessness but I like writing so I'm doing it anyway.

The Black Island is actually the first episode I ever watched, and it was my introduction to Tintin as a concept. I'm going to give you a little bit of backstory here. I was about six years old, and I was at a friend's house. We were playing in her mum's room. There was a TV in there with a DVD player, and my friend suggested we watch Tintin. I had no idea what that was, but it sounded intriguing so I agreed to watch it. My friend put the DVD in the player, chose an episode and pressed play. Immediately I was faced with this image.

There he is. The man himself. The weird thing is, I recognised him. This character was familiar to me before I even knew who he was. And that is because of another friend, whom I'd known for my entire life. He and his wife were friends with my parents, and my younger sibling and I were friends with their two daughters. We'd been to the family's house countless times, and every time we went there I would look around at the pictures on their walls, the figures on their shelves and the magnets on their fridge, because I kept seeing these fascinating people. Two identical men with bowler hats and moustaches. A large blonde woman in a pink dress. And a chap with a round face, black dots for eyes and ginger hair that defied gravity by sticking straight up. I'd seen this peculiar character in this family's house for years but it wasn't until I was six and watching TV with my friend in her mum's bedroom that I finally learned his name: Tintin.

The episode we watched was, of course, The Black Island. It was my first proper introduction to the series that absolutely beguiled me from the age of six to around ten, and then was, for some reason, almost forgotten about until I rediscovered it a month ago. And this episode seems to have had a rather profound effect on me that I don't think any of the other episodes have. It isn't my favourite, it doesn't have the best quality, the animation is sometimes funny-looking and the dialogue is awkward and the accents are atrocious, but there is something special about it.

The main thing I get from watching this episode is an intense feeling of nostalgia. The Tintin series was a huge part of my childhood. My family and I watched the cartoon religiously until I probably could have recited the entirety of The Seven Crystal Balls word for word. In my young undiagnosed autistic mind, I thought the way the characters spoke would be the perfect thing to emulate when I was masking. New lens: I am now an actor, and the voice acting in the series is, for the most part, aggressively mediocre. But I tried so hard to copy it when I was a child that it's now ingrained in my head and when I need to mask, I automatically fall back on this weird overacted cartoon-character persona without even thinking about it. I associate Tintin with Sufjan Stevens, because I heard so much of his music while my interest in the cartoon was at its peak. To me, the two are intrinsically linked, and I sometimes forget that this isn't a universal experience, and that there probably aren't that many other people who instinctively think of Tintin in America when they listen to the song Chicago.

I also get nostalgia for the circumstances in which I first saw the episode. The friend who introduced me to the series was also a huge part of my childhood, as was the house in which we watched the episode. That particular friendship had a rough ending, and I feel both happy and sad when I think back on it. The Tintin series actually affected the way we interacted with each other, particularly in the games we played at school. We both liked playing pretend games where we would invent elaborate adventures and act them out in the playground together. Many of these adventures were inspired by the ones we saw on TV or read about, including Tintin.

The Black Island is a reminder of things that fundamentally changed me and made me the person I am now. But it also affects me in smaller ways.

The story of The Black Island is, like every other story in the series, unique. It has Tintin investigating a plane crash in the England, and the mystery eventually takes him up to a sullen Scottish seaside town and an ominous island. I think part of what makes this story feel so strangely close to me is its location. It's close in a physical sense because I'm from England and I've lived here my whole life. The landscapes look a lot like the countryside I used to live in and still see every day when I take the bus to school.

I've never been to Scotland but the Scotland scenes are still familiar. I can link these images to specific places I've been to.

Boscastle in Cornwall.

Corfe Castle in Dorset.

That nightmarish staircase in King Alfred's tower, Somerset.

There are also smaller, more specific details, like that dog that chases Snowy, which I can easily relate to several childhood experiences. I don't know why I got chased by dogs so often but it's hardly surprising that I was scared shitless of them until the age of sixteen.

Or the soundtrack in some of the Scotland scenes, which reminds me of the whimsical folktronica-style music my dad makes with his friend.

These are very specific experiences that I don't think are likely to be exactly the same as anyone else's. The things I associate with this story and the feelings it gives me are completely different to what someone else might get from it. And I think that's really nice. It's like I've got something that's just for me. And of course you could say this about anything, because everyone's lives are different, but The Black Island is, for some reason, the thing that I get this feeling from more than anything else.

The episode has a sense of quiet mystery to it. It starts with Tintin enjoying a walk with Snowy in the middle of nowhere, then bluntly stating that a plane is in trouble. I wouldn't say it's any less exciting than the rest of the stories, but it feels more matter-of-fact. The mystery is there but the answers are revealed in simple statements. I don't know if it's just because it's set in the UK and the weather over here is always dull, but many of the scenes take place under a cloudy sky, and the scenes in Scotland especially seem darker, which I actually like. Of course the episode has its share of chase scenes and slapstick comedy, but the overall tone of the story feels gentler somehow than a lot of the others. It feels more like something that could actually happen, at least to me. And that's how I felt about it when I was six. I watched it for the first time and thought, "I wish I could have an adventure like that." When I went on to watch the rest of the series I had similar thoughts about the other episodes, but The Black Island remained the only one that I could relate to. Maybe that's because it's set closer to home. Maybe it's because I recognise the locations even though I've never been to any of them. Maybe it's because it reminds me of the child I used to be, talking like a cartoon character and pretending my best friend or my sibling and I were on some wild adventure. Maybe it's because it was the beginning of an unforgettable chapter in my life, without which I would have ended up a different person. It's probably all of these things put together. These things are what makes The Adventures of Tintin: The Black Island feel like home to me.

[mapsofnonexistentplaces]

question for you... top cc divorces?

GOD where do i begin. i think there’s more like divorce than actual maintained relationships throughout the whole thing LOL might as well run through all of them

the fucking. one that’s ruled my mind and heart for the past few months nonstop has been isel and olzhas specifically because their whole dynamic revolves around how much these two care about each other even in spite of like. the loose conceit of a breakup haunting them. they both have this thing about, despite mutually deciding on separation, making exceptions for one another in terms of aiding and even being outright affectionate with one another… they’re still being very tightknit whilst also refusing to let other people pry into these ‘transgressive’ acts that contradict the broadcasted external image of their relationship. they’ve got a very private kind of love between them and their whole divorce is basically just a charade built off a misunderstanding but it’s still this constraining force that just. guilts the both of them out of genuineness. it’s fucked up. it’s my favorite thing in the world. i’m glad everyone else just finds the whole ordeal gormless and i’m glad people like freya and dalisay exist to make fun of these guys for being soooo unbearably facetious

beatrix and marjolaine are also complicated…. with them it’s less a thing of them like. tugging at my heartstrings and more just being like the most twisted fascinating puzzle of codependency LOL. like the two of them met each other whilst they were very young and they were both kind of just like. superficially enthralled with one another. very artistically pretentious pair of wayward fiction writer/famous opera singer which like. slowly lost its spark over the years and like two decades later they’re basically both just tugging on one another. utterly refusing to break things off despite then both obviously only being captivated by the past veneer of their old young love. with beatrix in particular it’s fun because he’s got like. this whole complex about seeming well-put together and accomplished and classy and whatever and he’s basically holding onto marjolaine as a status symbol like “hah look at me i’m an accomplished woman who is MARRIED” and he basically views outright divorce as like. admitting to making a mistake in choosing to marry marjolaine. and him admitting to a mistake would basically like kill him so eh. in the dull relationship he must stay. like something i adore about the whole situation is that beatrix basically DID divorce him and quickly walked back on that for aforementioned prideful reasons which is like. yeah. he’s a bit of a disaster it’s fine. similarly i’m fond of the way marjolaine latches on to beatrix for a similar reason of like. “i already started this marriage and ever since my life’s gone down the drain (especially socially) so i need to keep this flame alive if nothing else” whilst also. only really being half-hearted in her interest of beatrix as an individual. they’re both just very devoted to. not really one another. but the period of time that their inversion represents.

cas and lanuola are like a complete nightmare to explain i’ll do it separately if anyone wants it but like MANNNN they’ve got a mixture of things that kick my ass which is like. a) born arose from very heavy performance-based careers and both never really had profound connections with other people nor managed to really effectively evade the public eye. got to do the latter on the train quite plainly and also got attached to one another quite quickly due to shared experiences. they’re both each other’s “first person to really understand me”. b) they both died trying to protect each other it’s all in vain and it fucked!!!! they turn into weird abstract ghosts and you think it’d be fine BUT c) divorce happens due to a convoluted domino fall of events basically boiling down to “cas is extremely bent on revenge for her early death and exerts it on someone completely unrelated by sending them vague scary visions meant to warn the living of the person who killed her and lanuola finds this completely uncouth and breaks things off for moral purposes. however cas is also conflicted about her actions and is incapable of admitting it. lanuola also misses cas but maintains his morality steadfastly. ahhhhhhhh!” to harken to an old sketch made by my good friend stanley:

there’s like some smaller divorces that don’t quite matter that much. like faris and volkan. latter of whom is literally an absolute speck of dust of a character he literally just exists to be faris’ ex boyfriend who barely even comes up. this dude’s job is to simply get a divorce. it’s not even that dramatic they just cut things off because faris wants to leave for the scary train that’s rumoured to probably just kill people once they get on there and it’s like. amicable enough. faris hardly ever gives him much thought afterward LOL

mazin’s divorce also like vaguely matters but it’s another more metaphorical thing. dude literally just disappears without a word to his wife because he’s just THAT ravenous to leave for the train and sabotage it from within. only ever brings her up to get pity from other people and was never really that attentive to her or anything. he sure is a really lovely guy

the brief rendezvous between olzhas and faris is also funny to me just because these guys have been like. good friends for years and like the first thing olzhas does upon breaking up with isel is go AW SHIT i feel useless and bad on my own are there any other beautiful bears on this train that i can tie myself to. and so e kind of just jumps into a relationship with eir old bestie only for faris to like. no more than a week later. go “yeah i do care for you and i want to see you get better but also i am Not isel and using me as a rebound is bad both for you AND me” and olzhas is kind of just like. “Shit yeah. sorry. let’s go break chairs over each others heads.” and they do. they’re still friends and this whole incident basically means nothing to either of them nowadays but it humors me. the woes of the gay italian man….

[delicatuscii-wasbella102]

Transcript from the above video, Very interesting and educational, The part I have highlighted is SO right, and a great explanation.  Another part talks about when slavery ended and that those who were held captive were freed and how they found things very hard to adjust, which made me think of countries in the world today who have over thrown dictatorial governments and struggle in a democracy after, they have been so  institutionalized, that difference is a massive deal, yet we sit there and say, “They should be happy etc.” but they are starting from the beginning, everything they have ever known has changed beyond belief and it must be very scary. wb102 ‘John Henry Faulks Epiphany’ Transcribed by Outdoorvizions   ·“...But John Henry Faulk May have experienced the most profound effect. He was a graduate student when he interviewed the former slaves including the two women you hear in this broadcasts. Himself interviewed just before he died in 1979, Faulk was going on about about how he believed in giving Blacks the right to go to school, giving them the right to vote, giving them the right to go into anything they qualify for and then he said he experienced an epiphany.” . ~Interview of John Henry Faulk “I was sittin down on this old wagon tunnel with this ol’ black man and I was telling him what a different kind of white man I was. I remember him looking at me very sadly and kind of sweetly and condescending saying ‘you know you still got the disease honey. I know you think you’re cured but you’re not cured. You can’t give me the right to be a human being. I’m born with that right. Now you can keep me from havin that if you got all the policemen and all the jobs on your side, you can deprive me of it but you can’t give it to me cause I was born with it just like you was.’ . My God it had a profound effect on me. I was furious him but the more I reflect on it the more profoundly the effect. I realized this was where it really was.” ~ Excerpt from a 1999 ABC Nitghtline news story: Found Voices The Slaves Life Told by those who lived it Narrated by Ted Koppel  

[triptychgrip]

Yuuri and Tohru: Main characters who don't fully grasp their profound ability to be forces of change/inspiration

This isn't the first (and won't be the last) time that I draw connections between my two favorite anime, but upon my recent rewatch of the 2019 Fruits Basket reboot, I was once again struck by a major similarity between Katsuki Yuuri of Yuri!!! on Ice, and Honda Tohru of Fruits Basket.

While we don't see Tohru struggle with anxiety in the same manner that Yuuri does -- though, we do see her grow anxious/overwhelmed several times in the manga and the anime -- Tohru, like Yuuri definitely suffers from self-esteem and self perception issues. While it might be easy to pass off her repeated underminement of how special she is as mere humility, there are several instances in which we see that she truly does not realize her effect upon those around her, and can't quite grasp the positive light in which other people see her.

In this way, she reminds me a lot of Yuuri: the top Men's Singles figure skater in Japan, yet someone who often refers to himself as a "a-dime-a-dozen". In his first ever Grand Prix Final, Yuuri comes in last place, but, at least from his internal monologue, we never hear him acknowledge what an amazing accomplishment it was to even make it to such a selective competition in the first place (for those unaware, only 6 skaters are eligible to compete in the December Grand Prix Final: the culmination of a series of fall skating events known as the Grand Prix series).

Yuuri is a textbook unreliable narrator, and in the first few episodes of Yuri!!! on Ice, there are many times when we get a glimpse into how he perceives himself during his career slump. When Yuri Plisetsky arrives in Hasetsu, we get the sense that Yuuri believes a vast "chasm" in skill exists between himself and his younger peer, which is why it always makes me emotional when I think of the beachside "Viktor Nikiforov is dead!" encounter between Yuri and Viktor.

After Yuri stalks off like the dramatic (and lovable) little gremlin we all know him to be, Viktor's internal monologue notes how much of an impact Yuuri has had not only on him, but on Yuri, too. He notes that Yuri wouldn't be so motivated to "fight" (i.e. compete at his best during his Senior debut season) without Yuuri's drive. And he's already noted how much "life and love" Yuuri has brought to his own life. In this moment, we see so clearly that Viktor is able to perceive Yuuri as the hugely profound (and inspirational) force of change that he really is.

While there are many moments from Fruits Basket that I think illustrate a similar kind of parallel -- one where someone other than Tohru is able to "read" her in the way she deserves -- the moment that most readily comes to mind is the one from Season 2, specifically, the episode in which Tohru and the Sohmas are at the beach during their summer getaway to stay at the Sohma vacation house, and about to set off the (huge) collection of fireworks that Momiji bought.

Yuki makes the comment that before Tohru, the Sohmas didn't really get together to spend time "like this", and we see a shot of them all clustered together, laughing and enjoying one another's company.

Think about how ironic Yuki's statement is, though: in a family united by the zodiac "curse", and one where its members are all supposed to be spending time at an "eternal banquet" -- only looking to one another in the insular fashion that Akito demands -- Yuki notes that until Tohru, they really didn't spend time together. In more ways than one, she is a profound force of change, causing the Sohmas to break free of the isolation that the zodiac curse emprisons them in.

And, of course, given her nature, she isn't even able to see how much of an influence she has until later. I love this parallel arc for both Yuuri and Tohru, where by the end of canon, they are able to grasp (maybe not fully, but at least more than before) how deep an impact they have on those around them, thus forming a clearer (and more affirming) picture of themselves as the sources of inspiration they really are. It's an idea I'm really excited to explore in my YOI x Fruits Basket crossover!

[animeboye]

Remembering Akira Toriyama

On March 1st, 2024, legendary mangaka Akira Toriyama passed away due to acute subdural hematoma. He was just sixty-eight years old. His most famous creation, Dragon Ball, has had a profound effect on the anime and manga industry as a whole. Without it, we wouldn't have had series such as Yu Yu Hakusho, Naruto, One Piece, or many others. On top of how inspirational as a series Dragon Ball has been, it's shaped the childhoods of many kids all over the world, me being one such kid.

Toriyama is one of the few famous deaths that has actually brought me to tears, the only others being Satoshi Kon and Satoru Iwata. Losing Toriyama, for me, was such a sudden and devastating revelation and if I had never gotten into Dragon Ball Z when I was a kid, I don't know if I ever would have become an artist or writer. While I have had many inspirations for becoming an artist/writer, such as Yoshihiro Togashi, creator of Yu Yu Hakusho and Hunter X Hunter, Masashi Kishimoto, creator of Naruto, and Eiichiro Oda, creator of One Piece, it was Toriyama and Dragon Ball which really helped to show me the path I wanted my life to go on. While writing Dragon's World, I've gotten comments from readers who've told me that there were moments where they were reminded of Dragon Ball and with Dragon Ball being one of, if not my biggest inspiration for becoming both a writer and an artist, those comments, to me, are not just some of my favorites that I've ever received, I find them to be some of the highest praise I've gotten.

Alongside Dragon Ball, Toriyama's other works such as Sand Land, which has both a game and an anime series coming out, and Dr. Slump show just how funny and imaginative Toriyama was. His paneling was always so clean and any action scenes were always easy to read and his characters, while not always the deepest, were always full of life and made the series they starred in so much fun to read.

Like many other kids who grew up on DBZ, I also tried on so many occasions to do a Kamehameha or go Super Saiyan. I remember when I saw the episode where Gohan was teaching Videl how to fly and she was focusing her energy into her palms, I tried to do the same, thinking it would help me to fly, too. When a new VHS (yes, we are going back that far) and later, DVD of DBZ would be released, I would beg my grandma or my mom to buy it for me. The same way true for when new Dragon Ball Z action figures would come out. I had to have them all, and I think I actually did have most of them. Then, at fifteen, I sold them because I thought, "I'm going into high school. I need to be a big boy and big boys don't have toys". Heh. Funny how well that thought process aged. Especially since now, I'm trying to find those same figures from my childhood so I can buy them again.

I would often recreate the fights and adventures Goku and his friends went on with these figures I bought, and sometimes, I would make up my own stories. One that I can always immediately recall was Goku and the gang fighting a group that used a seal similar to The Seal of Orichalcos from Yu-Gi-Oh! (also, RIP to Takahashi-senpai) and just like the Seal of Orichalcos, whoever lost that fight would lose their soul, too. Granted, the stories I came up with back then weren't good (I mean, they came from the mind of a little kid, so please be a bit gentle on me), but when you're an Elementary schooler/early middle schooler, they feel like something incredible. It's like you're getting to contribute to this world you've come to know and love and yet, you're the only one who truly knows about said contribution. In a way, it's a really special feeling.

Call me a weeb if you want for saying this, but to me, Toriyama wasn't just another creator. He wasn't just another storyteller. He was my sensei. He was my biggest inspiration and the person who got me to realize where I wanted my life to go. That I wanted to be a writer and an artist. That I had stories I wanted to share with others. Toriyama was someone I always wanted to meet and, I guess now I'll have to wait until I get to Other World myself to get that chance.

Thank you for everything, Akira Toriyama. Thank you for showing me who I was meant to be. Thank you for Dragon Ball and for allowing it to be such a staple of my childhood. I'll be hoping your family is doing well and are remaining strong in these times. May you rest in peace.

[scarletlotus182]

Okay I said I was gonna post my new Gundam Rankings and since finishing a bunch of stuff I felt like a numbered list wouldn't do the series justice so instead here's a tierlist:

S Tier -Zeta Gundam -Turn A Gundam -Gundam 00 -Gundam 00: A Wakening of the Trailbrazer

A Tier -Gundam Unicorn -Witch from Mercury -Char's Counterattack -Gundam Thunderbolt

B+ Tier -ZZ Gundam

B Tier -Mobile Suit Gundam 0079 -08th MS Team

C Tier -Narrative Gundam

D Tier -Stardust Memory

I was thinking of writing explanations for each placement here but the more I thought about it the more I realized the explanations would get longer the lower I got because it'd just be me complaining about stuff.

So if anyone wants a more detailed explanation then send an ask and I'll go off. Instead, I'd like to say one thing I enjoyed about each series be it a scene, MS Design, song, or whatever. So here goes:

Zeta Gundam- This one just has a lot of favorites for me. Favorite mobile suit, favorite protagonist, favorite unhinged white women

Turn A- This series has, imo, the best episode in the entire franchise with Midnight Sun.

Gundam 00- This might be a hot take? But easily my favorite mobile suit designs on average for the whole series.

A Wakening of the Trailblazer- Two for One babyyy, Setsuna fucking rules so much and not only is he another favorite character of mine now but he might be one of the Gundam Protagonists to resonate with me the most

Unicorn- I've said it before on another post but that scene where Banagher uses the NT-D system to hold the tether on cargo ship and help it escape Earth's atmosphere is one my favorite scenes ever. I think that scene really represents everything that UC Gundam stands for with placing their hope on the next generation.

Witch from Mercury- This series got me into Gundam!!! It's far from perfect but I feel like it's had a very profound effect on my life in the past year. It's also responsible for just making me insane about this series and gunpla in general

Char's Counterattack- The ending to this movie felt like the perfect ending to the original Tomino Trilogy. The Axis Shock was the perfect way to end Amuro and Char's story and I wouldn't have it any other way

Gundam Thunderbolt- Literally some of the most insane visuals and soundtrack I think I've seen in an anime. Also, uh, Bianca Carlyle

ZZ Gundam- We got so many iconic and cunty looks from Haman in this one. Also, Haman, literally the best character in the series.

Mobile Suit Gundam '79- The place where it all start babyyyyy, it's so fucking iconic and influential. Don't let me placing in this B Tier confuse you or give the impression I think it's bad. Original Gundam is amazing and anyone who's seriously getting into the franchise should come around to watch this one, be it the series or the compilation movies.

08th MS Team- I think this one has one of my favorite endings for a gundam tv series. Both the Ep 11 ending and the entirety of Ep 12 as an epilogue. It was fitting, uplifting, and had the right amount of mystique and weird newtype shit going on for a UC series.

Narrative Gundam- The chase scene between Jona and the Phenex is one of the sickest action scenes ever. It's so fucking intense and you can feel Jona's body and MS being crushed under the g forces trying to keep up with the Phenex.

Stardust Memory- As much as I bitch about '83, I do think the animation is *very* good. Something about 90s animation really just hits different.

[firetreeclans]

Moon 5 - Leaf-fall

-Cinderstar is having a lovely time discussing clan news with Blair -Blair happily swaps prey with Spidershade -Blair tries to bring up Plumtail’s behavior to them and it turns into a fight someone else has to break up

The crisp leaf-fall winds pleasantly ruffled Blair's fur as she lie in a sandy hollow in the camp, soaking up the warmth of the sun. Since her claw wound was healing so well, Blair was allowed to leave the medicine den to wander the camp. He was listening to Cinderstar and Spidershade discuss Clan news while pulling the feathers out of a small bird, graciously given to him by the medicine cat.

A ginger molly approached behind Spidershade slowly, her foot dragging behind her. It was Plumtail, Blair remembered the name very clearly having yowled it in support with FogClan during her ceremony. She didn't seem particularly happy, but she never did.

"Oh, back to take care of your own Clan, I see." Plumtail huffed, noticing Blair laid out beside her. "Oh, nevermind! Just outsiders as usual. Hope he likes the prey we caught."

"Well, it's polite to feed your guests. And your elders."

"You're not my elder." Plumtail growled. "You leech. You shouldn't even be here. You don't know what we went through to live here or the Code we live--"

"Oh, hush." Spidershade sighed, flicking her tail in annoyance, and cutting her off. "Don't mind her Blair, I've been low on poppyseeds.. well, you would know that as well."

"Mm, well that's fine." Cinderstar meowed. Plumtail visibly startled, apparently not noticing him behind the other two cats.

"I'm sure Plumtail will help you collect more when her paw is healed. Right?" Cinderstar meowed coolly, peering at Plumtail between Blair's ears.

"R-Right." the young cat pinned her ears back in embarrassment and hobbled off.

Cinderstar looked just as embarrassed as soon as his warrior was out of his sight, pinning his own ears back. "I'm terribly sorry for her, I don't know what to say!" he grumbled, licking the back of Blair's head apologetically. "I'm so shocked, I don't know why she'd say something like that."

Blair watched Plumtail settle over on the other side of the camp, meowing about something she couldn't hear to her clanmates. She smiled a little bit to herself, watching the conversation from afar. It felt strange to see cats hanging out and socializing with each other willingly. Being a loner for most of his life, Blair never really had other cats to talk to whenever he wanted or needed it. It was a nice thing to see, and she never realized how much she wanted it before.

"I think I know why," Blair mewed, "It's hard to trust other cats out here. Sometimes you can't, which was why I was a loner for so long. Clans like these are rare. You have a precious thing here, and precious things are fragile... I think Plumtail is concerned about me being here, and Spidershade's trips to SnagClan."

Cinderstar nodded slowly, swishing his tail. He seemed to really be absorbing what Blair was saying, and she could watch as her words sank in. It was kind of funny, Blair didn't really think he was saying anything particularly profound, but it seemed to have an effect on Cinderstar. He was silent for a while before he finally spoke again.

"Blair, when you met with Bleakpaw in your dreams, did he ever tell you what his role in the clan was?"

[hotdrinks]

Honestly, at the start of the book I was very invested in Truant and the way Zampanò's work seemed to have a tangible effect on his life. But later on his footnotes mostly devolved into lengthy gratuitously detailed sexcapades, not to mention him having, let's just say, not the greatest views on women. All of this capped off with one of the most baffling, but oddly fitting, ends to his story that left me not knowing how to feel about him.

However, the middle of the book itself, the one that focuses on the fictional cult (as in cult around a movie) surrounding the Navidson Record and, ofcourse, the exploration tapes dwarf any lackluster writing in the footnotes. The Navidson Record has to be one of the most if not the most profound and innovative peice of horror media I have ever encountered. I envy anyone who gets to read it for the first time. It's a huge book, but I wish I had set a stricter time frame for myself when I first read it because it's a visceral experience that can lose its punch if dragged on for over a year.

WAUGH!! Okay anon I hope you're still there. I waited to read this message until I finished the book just to keep my perceptions of everything as uninfluenced as possible.

First of all, the way women are written in HoL is something I definitely struggled with the most. Trying to parse through Watsonian/Doylist interpretations. Sort of wondering for a while if maybe Danielewski just doesn't (or at least didn't at the time) write women very well (still not sure where I stand with this one but Karen's chapter did definitely help me feel a little bit better about it).

And yeah Truant's sexcapades put me off for a minute but once it became clear that they were just his way of trying to bury his grief and what was happening to him they annoyed me less. And while it frustrates me that women are often used as plot devices in this way (without being given their own agency or depth) I do think this part of his story was necessary to his character development and narratively relevant (I was worried for a second that it wasn't lol) and personally it endeared me to him once he moved past it.

I also think his poor view of women is condemned in the text. Or at least it's something he outgrows. Like how he convinced himself he was so in love with "Thumper" without ever knowing her name, and when he finally asked it was too late. He was just looking for something easy to save him, missing out on connections because he was seeing everyone as a life raft and not a full person. The parental trauma of it all. (This is where my thoughts about women in HoL start spiraling fhdjs)

Overall I stayed really liking him the whole time, even though I didn't expect to! I just found him really sympathetic. The pekingese footnote had its intended effect on me I think lol. Also I like a sorta purple style of writing sometimes, so I didn't personally find his footnotes lackluster, but I can understand how they could grate on others. There are just certain lines in those notes that I think I'll remember forever, just because I think they were written so beautifully.

Also!!! "Visceral" is the perfect word to describe the Navidson record!!!! The format making you experience the House alongside everyone is soooo effective. It really does just instill grief in you while you read it, there were parts that made me cry and cry like a little baby boy in my own home. I was like shouting and talking to the characters while I was reading. And the ending was perfectly bittersweet to me. It's so good and so special I'm really happy I read it, I definitely want to read it again eventually.