#this joke will be funny to less than 1% of my followers but I run this blog for my own entertainment

[tearlessrain]

I made a halter AQH

his name is Zippos Heza Texas Diamond Jesus-Saves Dunit

sadly the sliders don't allow you to get too wonky this is the max muscle/width and minimum hoof size you can give them

[welcometothejianghu]

Welcome to another round of W2 Tells You What You Should See, where W2 (me) tries to sell you (you) on something you should be watching. Today's choice: 成化十四年/The Sleuth of the Ming Dynasty

(The) Sleuth of (the) Ming Dynasty (it's hard to get an agreement on how many definite articles should go where) is a beautiful, high-budget 2020 drama about a weenie genius detective, his long-suffering and deeply traumatized sugar daddy, and the eunuch with the most difficult job in the Great Ming: keeping these two dumbasses from getting their fool selves imperially executed.

Depending on how you like it, it's either an OT3 or an OTP with an intense, underage third wheel, and either way, it's delightful. I wouldn't call it a comedy, but it has very many funny elements that keep the drama fun and engaging. The first half is full of shorter mysteries that are clever and thoughtfully plotted, and the second half goes in on the longer mystery that ties them all together.

I've already done my quick guide to the early-episode characters, if you want a taste of just how many people are running around and how wonderful they all are. But in case you want to know a little bit more before you commit yourself to a 48-episode series, here's five reasons I think you should watch it!

1. The whole thing smacks of gender

Yeah, this was originally going to be selling point #2, but I know what the people want.

This is not a show about gender. But boy it is a show that has a lot to say about gender, and not just by way of critiquing premodern Chinese gender roles (though it does do that!). Many of the cis characters are either a) somewhat gender nonconforming, b) canny enough to weaponize binary gender expectations, or c) both. Sui Zhou's entire third-act storyline is about how expectations of masculinity exacerbate PTSD in veterans. Three different AFAB characters either dress or live as men. The part where one of the male characters goes undercover in drag is played for laughs, but the joke isn't 'ha ha, a boy in a dress,' it's 'ha ha, this particular boy in a particular dress, and also he's terrible at it.'

And that's even before we get to the eunuchs.

There are several professionally dickless, permanently unmanned characters running around. One-third of the OT3 canonically had his external genitalia nonconsensually removed when he was five years old, and because of this, he has been given unimaginable authority. He's basically the second most powerful man in the entire empire, and he only gets that way by being unquestionably, ostentatiously, and genuinely submissive to the first most powerful man.

I have seen other Chinese media where eunuchs are treated like sinister clowns, good only to be the bad guys and the butts of jokes. Sleuth's main eunuchs are real and complex characters, and because of this, the show gets to explore what it is to live in this weird third-gender category of incredible power and powerlessness.

Now, don't go into this expecting woke gender treatises. Wang Zhi's never going to sit down and go, "You know, my friend and fellow eunuch Ding Rong, because of my lack of a penis, I understand my relationship to masculinity differently than other men do." But the show understands that even if he doesn't say it, it's true. And that makes a lot of the characters and their relationships just so much more interesting.

2. Uncle Jackie Money

Sleuth was the was the fourth c-drama I dove into, following the Untamed, Word of Honor, and Guardian -- or, Some Money BL, Less Money BL, and No Money BL. So imagine my absolute wall-eyed shock to find this was All The Money BL, courtesy of its executive producer, Jackie Chan (seen here with some of his handsome boys):

Sleuth looks good. The costumes are amazing. The sets are stunning. The cinematography is beautiful. Everything is so detailed, and while I can't speak to the absolute historical accuracy of all those details (see point 3), they're still gorgeous. In fact, you know what? I'm going to shut up and show you some of the promotional images.

(For actual screenshots, I'm just going to point you at @rongzhi's tsomd photoset tag, as they have done a tremendous service to the fan community -- though do beware of spoilers.)

Uncle Jackie's influence doesn't end with the money, though. Even though things get a bit goofy and wirework-y near the end, most of the drama's fights are shows of real martial arts skill. You can see his fingerprints on a lot of the choreography -- I'm thinking particularly of the time Tang Fan tries (and fails!) to stab Sui Zhou three times, which is pure Jackie Chan high-speed dexterity.

Add this one to the category of shows your Average American Television Enjoyer Who Can Handle Subtitles would like. In fact, I have shown the first episode to my normie father-in-law, who was impressed. Show it to your dad! See if he picks up on the gay!

3. I am from ... HISTORY!

The Chinese title translates to "The 14th Year of Chenghua," which works out to the year 1478. There are some clear anachronisms, but they tend to be played for comedy, so it's hard to hold that against them. On the whole, though, the show is trying real hard to evoke a very specific moment, and I feel it does so beautifully.

This does, however, mean that several of the characters are real people. I don't even have a good sense of how many of them are based on historical figures, that's how many. Hilariously, Wang Zhi's tag on AO3 used to read "Wang Zhi (?-1487 CE)."

Moreover, these are characters I've seen pop up in other media, played very differently! In particular, Noble Consort (up there in blue) tends to be written as an uncomplicated villain elsewhere, whereas Sleuth gives her a chance to add some goodness to her badness, until, damn, you can't but root for the bitch. (It also downplays the cradle-robbing, which, honestly, is for the best.)

You may have guessed from the eunuch section earlier, but it bears repeating: Wang Zhi is straight-up the best character in the show. He's smart as hell, and he has to be, because the second he's stupid, he's dead. I actually consider it helpful to know ahead of time that he's never going to do a heel turn -- I feel like on my first watchthrough, I was holding my breath for the first two-thirds of the show, waiting for his sudden but inevitable betrayal. It does not come. Wang Zhi is one of the heroes.

He's also, like, evil. He orders people flogged, tortured, and executed. The very first thing you see him doing is sinister as hell. And the show clearly doesn't think this is good, but it also doesn't judge him for it. He's a traumatized seventeen-year-old who has not had a normal moment of his entire life. He's working thanklessly for a boss who could kill him on a whim -- and he's doing it because he literally, physically was made for his job. He's mildly freaking out because he has no emotional grounding to help him understand that these weirdos want to be his friends.

Was the real Wang Zhi like this? That's beside the point. The point is, you get to see how someone in that position could wind up as the war-crimes-committing platonic ideal of a little meow meow.

4. oh my god the food

Warning: This show will make you hungry.

Again, beware of spoilers, but @peppersandcreamsicle and @qinzai have put together an entire cook-along Google Doc so you don't just have to drool -- you can do something about it! Or you can just read it and learn about Chinese cuisine, which is a little more my speed.

But it's not just about how good the food looks. Food is a vital emotional part of the series. People bond over it. They make and share it as a sign of love and care. It indicates status, ethnicity, interest, personality. The show's message about the healing power of cooking for the people you love will bring you to tears.

And yes, Sui Zhou is the main one doing the cooking, so get ready to drool over both the dishes and the handsome man preparing them.

Oh, and as though that weren't enough, Fu Meng Po can actually cook in real life. He's so dreamy. Absolute unreal handsome man with a devastatingly sexy voice. (I know my opinion might be different if I could hear his Taiwanese accent, but I can't so it's not!)

5. An Unsunk Ship

So like I said, my intros to c-drama couples had been WangXian, WenZhou, and WeiLan. That meant I'd basically come to terms with the idea that you can't have a main couple in a BL-but-not-really drama without splitting them up at least a little in the end, for no-homo plausible deniability reasons.

Tang Fan and Sui Zhou are still definitvely, unequivocally together when the story ends, as the iconic pentultimate scene of the series confirms with beauty and simplicity. I refuse to give any more details than that, but that ship's afloat.

(These shirtless pictures aren't from the end, but I wanted to include them, and I didn't have a better place to do it. ...Also, you know, ships and water? Yeah?)

And I think their winding up together reflects Sleuth's entire attitude. Tang Fan is made of sunshine, and the series loves him for it. There is tragedy aplenty in this show, but there's no misery. It is ultimately a hopeful show that believes in the power of second chances, if you're willing to take them. Time and again, the moral of the story is that you are only ever as good as the people who have your back -- but you have to be willing to let them have your back. Let people help you. Let people cook for you. Let people give you a reason to keep living. And then keep living.

Also, Sui Zhou gets two good kabedons off on that little twink, which means they're legally married now. I don't make the rules.

Bonus: Banger opening theme

This is one you will watch all 48 times.

Bonus #2: The Halo Video

This is the video that made me go, huh, these Sleuth boys seem like other boys I've enjoyed! Perhaps I shall enjoy them as well! And then I did. So if that might be convincing to you too, well, have at it. Even if it isn't, it's a fascinating three-minute study of shared those-boys-are-in-love visual language across these shows.

Fair warning that it contains shots from right up to the end, so if you'd rather go in completely blank, give this one a pass until later. (Excuse me while I now go watch it for the 10000th time.)

Have I convinced you to watch it yet?

It originally ran on iQiyi, though Viki's got it as well, and Viki's is free if you're willing to put up with some ads about it.

...I just noticed iQiyi's description of the series reads, "When the two handsome leading actors Darren Wang and Fu Meng-Po work together, what will happen? A lovely prefectural judge and an arrogant embroiered [sic] uniform guard join hands to crack unusual cases! Are you going to choose a new idol?" And you know what? Yes. The details are a little off, but that is the correct spirit. Thank you, thirsty blurb.

[soapsilly]

Everyday a little less Part 5 - Vikings Imagine

Pairings: Hvitserk x reader, Ubbe x reader

Summary: (Y/N) is Kattegat’s healer and Hvitserk’s girlfriend but after Hvitserk decides to side with Ivar and fight against Ubbe, she questions herself if she can still stay with him.

Requests are closed

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 -  Masterlist

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The priest turned out to be more resilient than (Y/N) would’ve thought. It was by far no painless procedure but little by little he gained strength and soon she could confidently say, “He’ll heal”.

However, Lagertha’s warriors didn’t take kindly to those news. A christian - a priest even - who fought and slaughtered alongside Ivar, did not only get to live but would possibly make a full recovery whilst their brothers died by his hands. Even many days later, the camp was still filled with the screams of the vikings, whose wounds had not healed. The infection had spread to the bone and at that point there wasn’t much more that (Y/N) could do. It was either amputation or death. 

The healer understood the resentment - she really did - but she couldn’t bare to see them kick the priest’s walking aid from under his feet when he was trying to make his way through camp. She automatically closed her eyes to avoid seeing him hit the ground but the ‘thump’ followed by the cheering of the men and women surrounding her was enough for her to paint a mental picture. Of course it pained her to see any person struggling and in pain, she was a healer after all, but she’d be lying of she said that the situation did not remind her of Ivar’s feeble attempts to walk, using the walking aids that he had made specifically for him. Many times she heard people make fun of the youngest of Ragnar Lothbrok’s sons and many times she defended him and eventhough they were on different sides of a war, her heart still ached for him.

The priest, however, did not yield. They kicked him down but he still crawled over to his aid and used it to hoist himself up again. As another one was about to kick it away yet another time, (Y/N) stopped him, “Enough!”

The vikings turned to look at her but before anybody had the chance to protest she continued, “Lagertha, your Queen, made me save this man. She made me save him and she made me do my best and heal him. And eventhough I don’t know the reason for this, I’m sure she has one...”

In other words, the priest was off limits. What no one knew though, was, that not even Lagertha herself knew why she wanted the priest alive but at the moment it didn’t matter because merely the fact that she spared his life then saved him from torment now.

*******************************************************************************************

(Y/N) didn’t sit at the table with the others when they received the news that the Franks have arrived in the north. She stood leaned against one of the pillars of the tent. This way she could listen in on the conversation without running the risk of having to participate in it. But what she gathered from it filled her with anxiety. 

Whilst she had seen many places and people, she had only ever heard of the Franks. 

“Tell me about them”, (Y/N) asked Hvitserk. The both of them were laying together on the beach, watching the sky. The both of them would sometimes lie there the whole day, first watching the clouds and later at night the stars, while they would talk for hours on end. (Y/N) usually rambled on and on about her travels and all the plants and flowers she had seen there, Hvitserk enjoyed listening to her stories about foreign lands and people but didn’t understand a word about the healing properties of certain tinctures and balms. He didn’t mind at all though - in fact he enjoyed each and every word that left her mouth. But it wasn’t only the young woman that talked, every now and again Hvitserk would interrupt her to throw in some funny anecdotes and stupid jokes. (Y/N) would always act annoyed but secretly she liked when he did this. She tried her hardest to not let it show but her giggles would always give her away. She enjoyed when he talked about the fights and pranks that him and his brothers were up to. She really loved every single one of them but Hvitserk was special to her. 

“Well, I was still young. Father took Ubbe and me with him. I remember how excited we were. Growing up we heard all the stories about how Ragnar Lothbrok led the raid against the Saxons and how easy it was. We were expecting the same ease but it wasn’t so”, Hvitserk furrowed his brows.

When they left the table Ubbe walked up to (Y/N).

“What do you think?”, he asked her. She wouldn’t tell her opinion without being asked about it, but he trusted her assesment. Ubbe looked at her, unable to read her expression. He wondered if Hvitserk had been able to.

(Y/N) only shook her head. Ubbe didn’t know if she disagreed with the plan or if she was trying to signal him that her thoughts were as lost as he was. Before he could ask, she interrupted him.

“Tell me about them” 

Ubbe was quiet for a second. He was sure Hvitserk told her all about everything already. But this time the healer wasn’t interested in their culture and people but rather if they stood a chance.

“They outnumber us. Our best chance is Björn convincing Uncle Rollo to talk Ivar out of this war”

(Y/N) nodded but it was more to herself, as if to confirm what she had already thought. 

“It seems we’ll do battle again soon”, (Y/N) concluded. She didn’t believe anybody - not even the Allfather himself - could ever convince Ivar to change his ways.

“Either of us could die. It is almost certain that one of us will”, Ubbe stated, almost no emotion in his voice. (Y/N) knew that he wasn’t only talking about himself, but about Björn, Torvi, Lagertha and Halfdan -  maybe even Hvitserk and Ivar, too.

The younger woman wanted to disagree with him, wanted to tell him that everything would be okay but realized that Ubbe was right. Instead she simply hugged the taller man. Almost immediately she could feel his arms around her. And so they stood there in silence for a few moments and when they finally let go, they didn’t feel as bad anymore.

*******************************************************************************************

In Kattegat Margrethe saw visions of Ubbe and visions of (Y/N) and visions of the both of them together. 

“I shouldn't have married her”, she heard Ubbe say to the woman sitting across from him in his tent. “I wish it was you who carried my child” 

(Y/N) obviously enjoyed hearing that, as she crawled over to the man and started kissing him passionately. Margrethe wasn’t surprised in the slightest though. Since Hvitserk betrayed them, (Y/N) was circling around her husband like a crow that would wait for hurt animals to finally die. She weaseled her way into their lives, into Lagertha’s inner circle... However, much to her displeasure Ubbe fell for her tricks. He wouldn’t do anything while they were still in Kattegat together but since they left for war, Margrethe did not have any influence over her husband anymore. She knew that the healer had cast a spell on him, brew some kind of love potion... and now she could see the two of them have sex in Ubbe’s tent.

“Margrethe!”, a child’s voice ripped the woman out of her thoughts. She couldn’t stand caring for those children anymore. She accepted the responsibility as long as she knew there’d be a payoff but now that Ubbe left her for (Y/N) there wasn’t any reason to act like their thrall anymore. She got her freedom and wouldn’t ever go back to how things were.

“Mommy?”, the younger of the two children asked her. Margrethe knew deep down that it wasn’t the childrens fault but she couldn’t help but to still give a cruel answer anyways.

“How stupid you are. What do you think your mother is doing now? Perhaps she is getting ready to fight. Or maybe she's dead. Maybe she has already died in battle. My advice to you is to forget about your mother. Don't think of her.     Don't imagine she's ever coming back. Except as a ghost”

*****************************************************************************************

Rollo wasn’t there. He never even came. And so they had no other choice but to fight like Ubbe predicted. Once again they all gathered around Lagertha’s big wooden table to consult about the next steps. Like usual (Y/N) listened to everything everybody said, but never made any suggestions herself. It wasn’t like her to mingle with war matters. All the talk about legacys and conservation of territories made her sick. Lagertha wanted to send a considerable number of fighters back to Kattegat to defend the city if they were to lose the war, Björn advised against it - they would need every single man and maiden out on the battlefield if they were even to stand a chance. 

But then Halfdan spoke up,”The gods have already decided the outcome of this battle”

(Y/N) wasn’t originally from Norway. She was a traveller, didn’t really have any roots. Often times, she couldn’t really relate to the faith the boys had in their gods. She now lived there so long that she took over their speech patterns and she even sometimes caught herself sending a impromptu prayer towards the gods during difficult times but when things really started to become grave she never understood their faith. But now she really wanted to believe the words Halfdan just spoke, because it was the only comfort she could find in this cruel situation.

*******************************************************************************************

“What are you thinking of?”, Ivar asked his brother. Both of them were busy with the last preparations for the war.

“I’m thinking I think many things, Ivar”, Hvitserk didn’t look up from his arm cuffs.

“I always fear that thought may fail to wing his way home. But my fear for  memory is greater. What do you fear most, dear brother? The loss of thought or memory?”

“My thoughts and memories seem to be the same. Every time I think, I always remember the day I jumped out of Ubbe's ship”, Hvitserk felt a pang of melancholy. Was it because of his brother or because of his lover? It was true that he missed (Y/N) and it was true that he still loved her, but he did what he had to do and she should have followed him. 

“But you didn't jump. The gods pushed you”, Ivar teased his brother.

“I wasn't pushed. I decided to do it”

Ivar laughed, “And I think, you still regret it”

Hvitserk became serious, “I have no regrets. Except”, he let out a little chuckle, “I don't have any children”. He was still young but the thought of having children with anybody except (Y/N) had honestly never crossed his mind.

“But then again, Ivar, you and me are in the same boat, huh?”, he continued in an attempt to lighten the mood.

But Ivar wasn’t having it. the younger brother went on to describe how he’ll have children and how those children will go on to populate the earth.

Hvitserk, who still didn’t understand how serious his brother was, let out a laugh,”Yeah, sure”

In the blink of an eye Ivar pulled out his knife holding it dangerously close to Hvitserk’s throat. Only after several warning from his older brother did he lower the weapon again.

“I'm anxious about the battle. I am sorry”, he said calmly.

“You're sorry?”

“I am sorry you jumped ship. It was a mistake. I know you have regretted it ever since. And isn't that true, huh, poor Hvitserk?”, Ivar sounded hateful.

“Maybe sometimes”

“Maybe sometimes. I thought that perhaps you jumped ship because you loved me. But of course you didn't. How could you ever love me?”

And there the feeling was again, Ivar made him his dog once again.

“I am sorry you jumped ship. It was a mistake. I know you've regretted it ever since. It was a mistake” Ivar’s words kept on echoing in Hvitserk’s head. What he didn’t yet know was, how much Ivar planned to make his words reality.

*******************************************************************************************

The battle was bloody. There were screams everywhere. Screams from attacking vikings aswell as from wounded and dying warriors. Ubbe had slain many men already and there was still no end in sight. Even though they really were outnumbered, it didn’t mean that they didn’t try until the bitter end. 

And all of a sudden brother stood before brother. For just a second Ubbe and Hvitserk just stood there - and then with a loud yell Ubbe swung his sword...

but stopped right where Hvitserk’s neck met his shoulder. Who could’ve known that Hvitserk would find himself in the same situation twice within the same day? And yet again he didn’t even flinch. Ubbe tried again but couldn’t do it. Hvitserk asked himself if Ivar would have the same reservations if they were on different sides? By the time he finished his thought two fighting vikings had seperated the eye contact he and Ubbe held and his older brother turned his back to him and left him standing.

*******************************************************************************************

He couldn’t do it. It was his little brother. He knew sometimes death was inevitable but he couldn’t just kill Hvitserk like Ivar killed Sigurd. Would Harald hesitate to kill Halfdan? Surely Björn wouldn’t hesitate to kill either of them if they stood before him on a battlefield but if Ubbe killed Hvitserk he not only couldn’t forgive himself, he would also have to bring (Y/N) the news that the one who killed her lover wasn’t just any other viking or Frank but rather his own brother. Could she forgive him? He was sure she would accept it but would she ever look at him the same? 

Ubbe was torn from his thoughts when he saw a small group of Ivar’s warriors running up the hill towards their campsite. It was like Ivar to start an ambush - a cheap and dirty trick. 

*******************************************************************************************

“Ivar! What are you doing sending warriors in Lagertha’s camp?”, Hvitserk, too, had seen the group of vikings running away from the battlefield and towards the enemy camp. He knew Harald would never oder such a thing, so as fast as his legs would carry him he made his way over to where Ivar was mounted on his chariot.

“They will not be expecting this, brother! They’re losing anyways. And once that happens where will they go?”, Ivar’s voice carried a smile.

“There are wounded people there. (Y/N) is there!”, Hvitserk tried to reason with Ivar even though it was no use. He already sent out the men. 

“So what, Hvitserk? So what? She left us! She chose Ubbe!”

Hvitserk looked at his younger brother in disbelief. Was this really about her all along? If anything she left him and him only. She was never Ivar’s to begin with but Hvitserk began to understand. She was his healer. His and only his. And in another life Ivar probably thought that she could’ve loved him in a way that his brothers never would but now he felt as if she chose Ubbe over them.

“She didn’t”, Hvitserk’s statement was final and with that, he went and ran after the group of vikings that were sent out to kill what was left of Lagertha’s camp.

“You’ll see, brother, you’ll see!”, Ivar yelled after Hvitserk but his older brother.

*******************************************************************************************

Once Hvitserk arrived in Lagertha’s camp he could hear screaming immediately. The few shield maidens that Lagertha kept there to guard the camp were still battling against Ivar’s assassins. And even a few of the wounded fought to the best of their abilities. Bodies littered the floor. A few of Ivars men but mostly Lagerthas vikings.

Hvitserk heard a scream that pulled him out of his stupor - (Y/N)! He made his way through the camp. Slaying men on his way there. Once towards the middle of camp near a tent he could see her. There wasn’t much time to think. She was fighting with a dagger that she probably only had with her for cutting bandages or twine, but he was glad he had shown her how to defend herself if she had to. Still he didn’t waste any time and reached them no second too late. As the bigger man was just about to kick the woman down, Hvitserk thrusted his sword through the assassin’s chest, watching him collapse infront of their feet.

“Hvitserk” hearing his name out of her mouth sounded like the sweetest melody he has ever heard. She was out of breath, panting in fact, but other than that she seemed to be just fine. He took her form in. She looked tired but still so familiar. He had truly never stopped loving her and now that she was just within an arm’s reach all he had to do was - 

“(Y/N)!”, Ubbe yelled her name.

As the healer heard the older Lothbrok’s voice a smile lit up her face and she ran towards him, throwing herself into his arms. When Hvitserk saw how tight she clung to Ubbe he couldn’t help but wonder if Ivar was right all along.

“Are you okay? I saw Ivar’s men heading to camp... I came as fast as I could-”

“Well, seems like you weren’t fast enough”, Hvitserk interjected.

Both Ubbe and (Y/N) looked at him. Hvitserk couldn’t quite read the look that laid in (Y/N)’s eyes. Was it uncertainty? Was it fear? He didn’t have the time to figure it out. The sounds of horns filled the air signaling that the battle has ended and that Lagertha and Björn have lost.

“Quick, we need to leave. The others will be here soon”, Ubbe already turned to leave assuming (Y/N) just follow him. 

“Wait”, Hvitserk was determined to not just stand and watch as history repeated itself again,”what do you mean leave? You lost. Do you really think she’ll be safe with you?”

Ubbe let out a bitter laugh,”Ivar just sent assassins to try and kill her. Do you really think she’ll be safe with you?”

“I’ll protect her!”, Hvitserk was starting to get angy. Who did Ubbe think he was? (Y/N) was his. Ubbe had Margrethe to worry about, “Besides Ivar wouldn’t touch her once she came back to us - I’d make sure of that”

“You’d make sure of that? Ivar is unpredictable. No one is safe around him”

“(Y/N), please”, Hvitserk was now adressing his lover directly. He knew that he could protect her and he knew that she knew that aswell. So he held his hand out for her to take, “Come on, let’s go. We don’t have much time left”

Hvitserk was right, the noise grew louder and louder with every second they just stood there. (Y/N) looked at him and for a moment they were at the beach again, laughing about his silly jokes and listening to her travel stories - but only for a moment.

“Hvitserk... I’m - I’m so sorry...”, hearing that was answer enough. Slowly he let his outstretched hand sink and watched the love of his life turn his back. Ubbe put his hand between her shoulders and guided her away - away from the stranded Hvitserk. (Y/N) turned around one last time but by then her former lover had already hurriedly taken off.

The healer felt empty but she knew she made the right decision. Not only morally but also for her safety. Even though she had once loved Hvitserk, she knew that she would be safer with Ubbe. But there was also something else. She grew so fond of the comfort of his company, she feared what it would feel like to miss him, but she would never admit that. Not to herself, not to Hvitserk and especially not to Ubbe...

RollTag List: @sarcastichater @buckysjuicyplums @littlebirdgot @blacpiink​

[local-redhead-bookworm]

One of the few solid critiques I’ve seen of Helluva Boss and Hazbin Hotel is that the shows pick and choose which moral failings to depict as bad or as just funny.

Essay-length rant under the cut, also Hellaverse-typical TWs for abuse, SA, and general lack of morals

Disclaimers:

I’m not hating on these shows. I love both of these shows, but I’m an English major so I think it’s important for me to be able to analyze what exactly I think is not working. I’m interested in a discussion, but if all you’re here to do is spew hate with no good-faith criticisms, I will block you.

These shows do not need to teach morals. These pieces of media are both intended for adult audiences, and adults should be able to understand that a depiction does not equal support. My criticism is that this moral inconsistency is sometimes to the overall tone’s detriment.

These two shows are both set in hell. Following the usual rules of hell, you wind up there regardless of what you did, so all sins should be considered equal in that regard. Of course, we as people tend to think of some sins as less forgivable than others—namely abuse, SA, and murder. I’m making broad generalizations here, but please roll with me.

The biggest problem with Hellaverse writing is that the writers aren’t consistent on what is considered morally bad in the show. These shows both center around complex, deeply flawed people, and I find that really enjoyable from a storytelling perspective because I love nuanced, flawed characters.

There are a few notable instances where this moral ambiguity works in the storytelling’s favor. Stella screaming and throwing things at Stolas (Loo Loo Land) is something the audience is primed to see as a joke, but it is used to set up the later reveal that she is in fact highly abusive (The Circus) and attempted to have him killed (Harvest Moon, Western Energy). Stolas being casually condescending to Moxxie and Millie (Loo Loo Land) and his imp servants (Seeing Stars, Full Moon) is not heavily remarked upon, but it is later used to set up his classism being a point of contention between him and Blitzø.

However, the protagonists often exhibit similar behaviors to the villains and this isn’t treated as morally wrong, or sometimes an incident is treated as minor. This problem is most glaring in cases of sexual harassment or SA. Blitzø’s repeated stalking of Moxxie and Millie, including watching them have sex without their knowledge or consent, is treated as a joke. Moxxie being kissed by the incubi and succubi (Spring Broken) is treated as a joke. Likewise Sir Pentious being dragged into the sex room in Welcome to Heaven is also treated as a joke, in spite of the episode’s b-plot being Angel Dust confronting Valentino, who is primarily shown to be bad through his sexual abuse of Angel Dust. Angel Dust harasses Husk at the bar from episodes 1-4, and while this is connected to Angel’s porn star persona and I do seem to recall it stopping after “Loser, Baby”, it’s still not treated as a problem, just as Angel Dust being Angel Dust. Other incidents of note are the running so-called joke of Loona fat-shaming Moxxie not being a problem, whereas when Mammon fat-shames Fizzarolli it is used to signify Mammon as a bad person.

I would also like to highlight the nature of Blitzø’s and Stolas’ full moon deal. In my opinion it is a running problem of dubious consent and poor kink negotiation. Let’s cover this in chronological order for sake of ease. In The Circus, Stolas starts out describing a sexual fantasy of Blitzø, his former childhood friend and first love, sneaking into his house to “ravish” Stolas. However, when Blitzø reciprocates and feeds into the fantasy, Stolas becomes hesitant. I believe this is intended to read as him being flustered, but he is extremely hesitant until Blitzø bites him. Stolas later forges the Full Moon deal with Blitzø while Blitzø is, to keep things to the point, under duress (Murder Family). Neither of these circumstances show both parties giving full consent. Hence, dub-con. Furthermore, as per The Circus and “we don’t do words, we do sex” (Apology Tour), Stolas and Blitzø have a strong precedent for poorly negotiated BDSM and lack of proper kink safety. However, the show’s inconsistency with how it handles sexual harassment and power imbalances weakens the impact of the Full Moon deal’s transactional nature on the relationship.

I greatly enjoy Helluva Boss and Hazbin Hotel, as I enjoy flawed and complex characters. I do not expect the show to address every issue raised here with the care that should be used in real life, as this is a fictional story set in hell. However, the writers’ inconsistency, particularly when it comes to depicting power imbalances and sexual harassment/SA, leads to a muddled tone which confuses the audience to a point where it is not beneficial to telling the story.

Because I’m a nerd but can’t be bothered to format 100%, here’s my works cited:

Danny Motta. “I Was WRONG About Blitz | Blitz Vs Stolas Debate.” YouTube.

Sarcastic Chorus. “STOLAS DID EVERYTHING WRONG - Stolitz Analysis.” YouTube.

Vivziepop’s Helluva Boss playlist. YouTube.

[orions-tears]

Close to the Sun - Aesop Sharp [Final Part]

Pairing: Aesop Sharp x Fem!Reader

A/N: I'm so sorry yall. My cat was horribly ill, school was really tough, and it was one thing after another. I'm back now I promise. Also my cat is okay he's healthy again. Thank you for being patient. Let me know what you wanna see :)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4 linked here :)

One Week Earlier...

He sighs and looks back at you. "Your potion works, (Y/N). It cures the uncurable. Be happy."

You shake your head. "I don't understand. You've brewed it? You drank it already?"

He frowns and walks over to the chair in front of the fireplace, sitting down. He still has the limp...

"No...No you said it worked." You walk over, staring down at him. "If it worked, why does your injury still bother you."

He rubs his hand over his eyebrows, sighing. "You would have died without it..."

You shake your head, pacing in front of the fireplace. "No...no...no you were supposed to take it, Aesop. You. Not me. Why?"

He stands and holds your arms, halting you. "(Y/N), I would live the rest of my days incapacitated if it meant you were safe. You are so much more important than me."

You stare at him, tears beginning to run down you face. "No..."

He nods, smiling softly at you. "Yes...Don't feel regret for what I did. It saved you and that isn't something I can regret." He hugs your tightly, stroking your hair. You lean your face into his shoulder, sobbing, You were supposed to heal him. You failed...

He pulls away and looks down at you. "Don't think you've failed me. You may have flown to close to the sun, but I will always catch you."

You stare up at him, feeling the tears run down your face. He gently wipes them away and you sniff, rubbing your eyes. You move to stand up, not wanting him to keep seeing you in this vulnerable state and move to your knees. You wobble and land back down, a darkness framing your vision. Aesop quickly reaches out to you, kneeling over you.

"(Y/N)? What's wrong? Are you still in pain?"

Your head suddenly feels hot and you turn to look up at him, seeing the floor come toward you instead.

Present...

"The soil should envelope the root like a warm, dirty blanket," hums the voice in the distance.

You walk into the greenhouse, head still foggy from the past week. You make your way down the stairs and enter the classroom, watching your friend from atop the stairs. She looks up and grins at you, releasing the class. You walk over and she runs up to you, hugging you tightly.

"I'm so glad to see you up and about, flower," she sighs, happily.

You laugh lightly, hugging her back and nod. "I am feeling better. More or less."

Mirabel pulls away and smiles, sadly. She walks toward the stairs, waving you to follow. You obey and you both walk together toward the potions classroom.

"We've been so worried about you. Especially Aesop."

You snort out a laugh and nudge her. "Funny."

She turns to you, stopping in the hallway just before the classroom. She furrows her brows, looking up at you. "What's funny?"

You stare at her, smiling, and shake your head. This has to be a joke. After all, you were simply ill, nothing for Aesop to worry about. You continue to walk to the classroom. Mirabel hesitates, but follows anyway. You poke your head into the classroom and see Aesop sitting at his desk. You grin and turn to Mirabel, holding a finger up and sneaking in. You hide behind the stations as you make your way toward him and pull your wand out, casting a basic spell into the corner of the room. He looks up and sighs, walking toward the corner.

"Weasley, stop whatever it is you're doing," he calls. You grin and quietly move to his desk, sitting in the chair and crossing your legs. You hear him groan and he walks back to his desk, freezing in place when he sees you. 

"Salut toi," you hum to him, resting your hands on your knees.

He frowns and walks over to you. The smile drops from your face and you stand from the chair, smoothing your coat. "Sorry..."

He grips your shoulders, looking you up and down. "How are you feeling? Are you alright? When I asked after you, you were always the same."

You tilt your head. "I'm okay. Why are you so worried?"

He sighs, dropping his hands to his sides. "I thought maybe the potion hadn't..." He shakes his head. "You look healthy enough again."

"Potion?"

He stares at your for a moment, confused. He turns to the sound of shuffling, seeing Mirabel walk in.

"I don't think she remembers..." she murmurs.

He turns back to you, frowning again. "The potion...the dragon's blood...you don't remember...?"

You gasp and grab onto his wrists. "You got some?! Did it work?!"

"Well...yes, (Y/N)...it worked..."

You frown at him, looking down at his leg. "You limped over here though..."

He nods. "I used it on you."

You feel yourself go numb and he guides you back into the chair. He couldn't have used it on you. He wouldn't have. He shouldn't have. Mirabel walks over and kneels down next to you, stroking your arm as Aesop recounts the story. You feel your head spinning as you slowly remember what happened. The poachers, the dragon, Aesop and Mirabel discussing the potion, Aesop holding your as your realized your failure. The blood drains from your face and you feel tears rolling down your cheeks again. If you couldn't kill one dragon how could you possibly kill a different one? Aesop stands, pulling you to your feet and wraps you in a tight hug.

"I told you before and I will tell you forevermore. You need not feel like a failure. You created something no one else could. You are the witch that can heal all wounds. You are the one who proved to me that my heart may not be completely broken."

One week later...

You doubt he'll show up but you have hope. You invited him to have tea with you at Hogsmede the other day and he'd promised you he would come. You smile as you imagine Aesop Sharp having tea, laughing, really just smiling is the wild part. You pace back and forth in front of the tree in the courtyard, worried you just look like an idiot. Suddenly you hear footsteps sneaking up behind you. You turn around and see Aesop crouching before he quickly stands.

"Ah...uh...hello, (Y/N)," he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck.

You giggle and tilt your head at him. Were you trying to scare me, Aesop?"

He shrugs and turns to the tea shop. "I thought I'd attempt to do what you attempted. It seems I was the only one startled on both occasions." 

You smile and wrap your arm in his. He looks down and then to you, staring for a moment, as if watching you. You smile at him and he turns his attention back to the shop, attempting to hide a smile. You grab his hand with your free hand and tug him toward the shop. He sits you down at a table outside and heads inside to order, soon coming out with two cups of tea. He sets one down in front of you.

"Three sugars with cream, correct?"

You stare at him, eyes wide. "How...How did you know that?" You lean in, squinting at him. "Have you read my mind, Aesop."

He chuckles. "I wouldn't tell you if I had." He leans back, taking a sip of his tea. "I didn't, however. Professor Garlick informed me of your preferences."

"Ah, so you cheated," you reply as you both sip on your tea.

He snorts and covers his face, setting his cup down and turning away to wipe the excess tea from his face. "I did not. I simply gained information from an outside source."

You laugh as he turns back to you. "Would you allow that on a test? Sounds like cheating to me."

He laughs and shakes his head. "Should I simply ask you directly, then, for all my necessary information?"

You nod and he takes a sip of tea, once again leaning back into the chair. "Alright then...allow me to ask you some questions."

You nod again, watching him.

"What are your favourite flowers? What was your best class when you attended Hogwarts? And...what really is your job?"

You grin and look around the courtyard, thinking. "Well...my favourite flower would have to be...Twinflowers."

He taps the table three times and nods. You notice but say nothing, thinking about the next question.

"My favourite class would have to be...Potions, ironically, but I was never very good at it. I'm not sure that's surprising to anyone," you say, causing him to laugh. "My best subject, really, was Artihmancy."

He taps the table three times again and nods. "Interesting. I've never known many students to take that class. You are quite smart, though, so I am unsurprised to hear of your success."

You laugh and shrug. "I work as a hit witch."

He leans in, suddenly much more interested. "Is that so?" he replies, tapping on table three more times.

You nod and smile. I'd been wondering why you seemed so familiar. I had seen you at the ministry. We never worked together, unfortunately." You sigh, wistfully. "I always wonder what if would have been like to see you working."

He chuckles and shakes his head. "Don't remember much about that version of myself."

"That's okay. This version of you is my favourite."

He smiles and grabs your hand, rolling his thumb over it. "Any version of you is my favourite."

You giggle and shake your head. "Cheesy, Aesop."

He laughs and pulls his chair toward you, leaning in. "Only if it pleases you."

You feel your face burn and smile. "It does."

He leans in more, pressing his lips to yours. You reach up with your free hand, caressing his face and kiss him back. Soon he leans away and smiles. 

"I ask you one thing."

You nod looking up to him.

"Take care of your wax wings. Daedalus lost his son. I cannot lose you."

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[esta-elavaris]

Flufftober Day 5: X+ 1 ~ Brynjolf/F!Dragonborn [6,164 words]

Three times Brynjolf wondered just who Kirsi was, and one time he found out.

It's 2023 and I'm writing all these words about Brynjolf from Skyrim. Unreal. I can't even explain the word count. It started as a quick flufftober fill and spiralled into this monster. Filled with a hefty dose of humour at how absurd the Dragonborn's travelling companions must find it when they have fifty thousand different careers and excel at them all.

My Flufftober '23 masterpost can be found here 💜✨

It was Brynjolf’s business to be able to take the measure of someone – quickly. It was no good risking being caught with his hand in some poor bugger’s pocket if that bugger was, well, poor. Not that he was ever caught, not since he was a lad, but it was the principle of the thing. The potential risk had to be outweighed by the potential reward, that was just good business, and he was a good businessman.

But Kirsi? It was a funny thing that the more he saw of her, the less it seemed he knew. She’d strolled into Riften with a bow and blade both far finer than the worn fur armour she sported, which could have meant two things. Either she could afford to heed her armour less because by the time the enemy saw her, it was too late – or the bow and blade were stolen, and the armour reflected the truth of her finances. The truth turned out to be both. Which, as far as recruitment was concerned, was perfect. Maybe the signs had been there since day one that she’d end up running their little outfit.

Unfortunately – infuriatingly – that was the last time Brynjolf had managed to successfully gauge much of anything about the Nord lass who infiltrated his thoughts more and more with each passing month. From then on, the only sure thing about her was that she could, and would, produce results. Flitting in and out of the Ragged Flagon with ill-gotten goods in her hands, a smile on her face, and…blood in her hair. Usually.

The first time, Brynjolf commented upon it, asking vaguely if she recalled their rule regarding bloodshed. She’d blinked at him, followed his gaze, and responded with an ‘oh – no, that’s unrelated, don’t worry’ before making a joke about how it blended in with the colour very nicely anyway. And that had been that. Skyrim was a demanding place in which to live, and those who’d never had blood in their hair seldom lasted long, so it wasn’t a major cause for concern.

No, Brynjolf’s cause for concern came months later – long after Kirsi had been made master of the guild, no less. They saw less of her for a while, but that was her way. That was the way with plenty here, even. Folk always turned up eventually, with a story to tell and something to sell to Tonilia, more often than not. This absence stretched on a little longer, yes, but it hadn’t even occurred to Brynjolf to really worry until she did turn up again. And she seemed in no mood for storytelling.

The Ragged Flagon went gradually silent as she walked in. Brynjolf, his usually keen senses off-duty, noticed the silence before he noticed her, turning to see what everybody else was staring at and then stilling. Kirsi strode in, steadfastly avoiding the eyes of any who looked in her direction. She wore her Nightingale armour, but it was not so form-fitting as it once had been, bunching and baggy here and there suggesting a sudden and unhealthy amount of thinning that a jagged sharpness at her jaw and cheekbones confirmed. Her auburn hair had once been bound back into a complicated series of braids, but it had long since rebelled against it, most of it curling in whisps around her face, and she was sporting a new and very angry looking scar on said face.

It ran from her right temple all the way down to her chin, framing the side of her features in a sort of jagged crescent moon.

“Kirsi…” Brynjolf said, stunned.

“I can’t discuss business right now,” she said flatly, her voice hoarse.

He hadn’t intended to discuss business…but he supposed he deserved it. He’d been avoiding her before she left, and it seemed she’d noticed. Unsurprisingly. Brynjolf fell silent, watching as she turned her head in the direction of Galathil who sad in her usual place, lifting a hand absentmindedly to the scar that they all stared at. Ultimately, she appeared to think better of it. Instead, she dropped a weighty bag of gold down onto the bar, loaded her arms up with bottles of mead, and headed for the cistern without another word.

“What was that?” Vex was the one to break the silence.

“I dunno,” Delvin responded grimly. “But she didn’t even look like that when Mercer…”

There was little need for him to elaborate on that. Brynjolf’s lips set into a thin line, then he counted to twenty, and finally he followed.

Kirsi was at her bed when he entered the cistern, not bothering to hunker behind the screen as she changed – not unusual, few of them here bothered with modesty. And the looks she was drawing were more to do with shock and dismay than anything that might be considered leering. Already she was halfway out of her Nightingale armour, and Brynjolf could see that there was little of her from the neck down that was not badly, badly bruised. Or burned. Or littered with gashes that looked one wrong twist away from reopening.

Whatever healing she’d undergone, be it from potions of magic, it appeared she’d prioritised them to heal her face. That, or they’d all been much worse beforehand. It was hard to gauge the state of her armour thanks to the colour, but he suspected if he took a real look, he’d find it stained badly with blood.

"Wouldn’t you be more comfortable at Honeyside?” he asked – if only to stop himself standing and staring like a fool any longer.

“Am I not welcome here?”

“You know that’s not what I meant, lass.”

At her home in the city – which she would’ve had to bypass to get here, no less – her bed was bigger, and she had a housecarl who could help her. Not that those here wouldn’t, but she didn’t seem to be in the mood for their company. It would be less stifling for her, he suspected, accepting help from one whose sworn duty was to offer it.

“Nobody can find me here,” she said finally.

After several deep breaths. Brynjolf couldn’t quite figure whether they were against whatever pain she was feeling, or just an attempt to find the patience for a conversation. She was wound tight, it was plain as day as she kicked her armour under the bed now that she was stripped down to her smalls, before she pulled a shirt over her head. There seemed to be little intention of finding breeches to go with it.

“…Are people looking for you, lass?”

People who had done this? There was a dangerous, angry streak in Brynjolf that hoped they’d come here looking. They’d regret it sorely.

“No,” she shook her head. “Just don’t want to be found.”

She paused, then, pinching the bridge of her nose and sighing. “There’s just…there’s always something else. Can’t be dealing with it now.”

Brynjolf stilled, lost for words. Then he asked quietly.

“Do you need anything, lass?”

“Just sleep,” she said quietly.

What in the name of Talos had she gotten into? Where was it that she disappeared to so frequently? Who was she?

Kirsi slept for three days – stirring here and there to sit up and down a bottle of mead, or to turn over in a slow and beleaguered fashion that left nobody in any doubt as to how sorely she felt her injuries – but otherwise, she was out cold. The same conversation was had over and over in that time.

She needs a healer.

She is a healer.

I don’t think she has the strength to heal herself more.

Could someone carry her up above to get her help?

I don’t think she’d allow it.

Could we bring someone down here to look her over? Someone that won’t blab?

I don’t think she’d allow that, either.

Ultimately, Thrynn looked her over…with all of his limited healing knowledge, gleaned here and there from his days of patching himself up amidst bouts of banditry. Kirsi didn’t seem to notice it much. The unease in Brynjolf’s stomach gnawed deeper.

She’s more exhausted than injured, he ultimately concluded.

It didn’t cheer them much. Then, on the fifth day, she rose. The signal was given by Vipir, who strolled through the Flagon whistling a jaunty little tune, and Brynjolf was moving swiftly thereafter. Ignoring the looks that followed him. He entered the cistern expecting to find her sitting up, or maybe at the little cavern that they designated as a kitchen. Instead she was up, she was dressed, and the contents of her pack were strewn across her bed as she methodically took inventory for the trip ahead. Wherever that would be.

Brynjolf felt alarm streak through him – very much not liking the prospect of her barrelling off into the unknown after worrying them all sick for the better part of a week.

“What happened to your dagger, lass?” he asked rather than voicing any of that.

Ever since she’d commissioned it from Balimund, he’d never seen her parted from it.

“Lost it,” she muttered sourly.

“Where?”

She could have that thing wrenched out of her hand and flung into the Sea of Ghosts and she’d go diving in after it.

“Sovngarde,” she grunted.

Not in the mood for serious conversation, then.

“When are you heading out?”

“Why? Are you coming with me?”

Brynjolf made a very quick, very impulsive decision then.

“If I’m invited.”

Stilling, she turned her head and stared at him for a few long moments.

“You’re being serious?” she asked, tone unreadable.

“Things here can keep for a while,” he shrugged. “I trust the others to stop the place from burning down in my absence.”

And it was far, far better than torturing himself wondering what she was up to and how she was doing, should she leave alone.

“And you wouldn’t just rather speak another time?”

Brynjolf forced a strained laugh. “I deserve that.”

Kirsi tilted her head as if in agreement. Then, finally, she sighed.

“Don’t wear your Guild armour. Don’t pack light, either. I don’t know how long I’ll be this time,” she said, watching as he nodded along. “And Brynjolf? You have to listen to me while we’re out there. If I say no…extra-curricular activities in a certain hold, I mean it.”

“We did well enough together at Irkngthand, didn’t we?”

She considered his words for a long moment, with eyes that he knew had sussed out many a foe, and then finally she nodded.

“Fine. We leave after midday.”

“We leave,” he countered, “once you’ve eaten something.”

That earned another sigh, but it was followed by another nod, and Brynjolf took it as a good sign that she listened to him.

Stepping out into the world again felt like a gradual lightening for Kirsi. Even with the worried looks Brynjolf kept pretending he very much was not sending in her direction. They stopped at Honeyside just long enough for her to switch out weapons, stock up on potions, and for Iona to fix her new travelling companion with a withering glare, and then they were out of Riften.

She didn’t know why she’d agreed to let him come along. Well, she did know, she just wasn’t a massive fan of said reasoning. This was the first time he hadn’t given her the brush-off in months, and even in her exhaustion and the numbness that had overtaken her since defeating Alduin, she didn’t want to squander whatever chance there might’ve been for things to go back to normal between them.

…and she was at least present enough to know that weeks spend wandering and camping on her own would do little to help her mental state, at present. Maybe she could’ve hired someone to watch her back and provide civil conversation, but she also didn’t want to shoulder the responsibility of that. Brynjolf had asked to come along, and so his hide was therefore his own concern.

Being out and moving felt good, though, and with every stray breeze that caught her hair and every birdsong that met her ears, she felt more like her old self. Maybe she just needed to be reminded that it was all still here. When they set up camp for the night, she was even laughing when Bryn went out of his way to try and make her do so…although she knew just how dour she must’ve been since her return when she saw how surprised he was to get any sort of response at all.

“I’m not asking that you tell me now, lass,” he hedged when dinner was eaten and there was little to do but doze by the fire ‘til morning came. “But I have to know…are you going to tell me what happened?”

“Probably not,” she admitted quietly.

And he accepted it readily enough. Or hid well, if he did not. Well, save for one comment, spoken incredibly lightly.

“I dread to think what’s so salacious and sinister that even I can’t be told about it.”

She snorted quietly, staring at the stars above. “It’s not salacious. Nor sinister. It’s just…a lot.”

Keeping her countless lives separate was something she always endeavoured to do, all while being painfully aware that bits and pieces were bound to crash in on one another at some point. This wasn’t like keeping a spouse and a lover secret from one another, it was bigger and more all-encompassing than that. She toed the line between doing what she could to keep those boundaries in place, while staying detached enough that she wouldn’t fall to pieces should the lines in the sand be erased by a crashing wave.

It was just…neater. The guild had to stay secret for obvious reasons – she could only imagine what Vilkas or Ulfric would think if they saw her slipping into the Ragged Flagon and making all sorts of underhanded deals with her friends down there. She could even kid herself that it was easier for the guild if they didn’t know about any of the rest of it. That maybe they’d balk if they realised their Guild Master was the Dragonborn, or Ulfric’s best soldier, Thane of too many holds to count, or even Archmage of Winterhold’s college. All those titles didn’t particularly lend themselves to secrecy.

But that wasn’t why she kept it from Brynjolf. She didn’t want to be the Dragonborn, nor Stormblade, nor the Harbinger, or whatever else she was known as across this land, when Brynjolf spoke to her. When he deigned to speak to her, these days.

Which was why it was a risk bringing him with her.

But she was a thief, was she not? She was good at sneaking.

It took the better part of three weeks for them to get to Whiterun – with Kirsi gradually healing herself with magic and potions both as they travelled. By the end of the first week she was smiling freely again, and by the end of the second she was cracking her own jokes to go along with his. Brynjolf didn’t press the matter of what had gotten her into such a state, and she didn’t make any more allusions to his steadfast avoidance of her prior to it, so he did what he could to avoid looking that gift-horse in the mouth.

When Whiterun loomed before them, jutting up above the rest of the landscape, she issued those aforementioned orders that he’d promised to follow back in Riften. No stealing, no conning, no shenanigans. If I have to start bullshitting, go along with it. He’d shrugged and agreed, too pleased at her swift change in spirits to start arguments now.

And the time for that bullshitting came alarmingly quickly, for they hadn’t yet yet cleared the Honningbrew Meadery when a group of warriors came walking from the other direction, spotted her, and immediately approached.

“Shit,” she breathed.

Brynjolf’s hand had been straying towards his sword when one called out.

“Kirsi! You’re back!”

They were two men and a woman, the first to greet her being the bigger of the two men. Twins, Brynjolf quickly realised, despite their difference in stature – both sporting long dark hair, and dark war paint around their eyes. The woman, another redhead, watched he and Kirsi curiously as the men stepped forth to shake her hand and then pull her into a one armed hug that mostly consisted of a thump on the back.

“Farkas,” she greeted with a tired smile, then repeating the gesture with the other two. “Vilkas. Aela.”

“We didn’t know when you were coming back. After that business with the dragon at Dragonsreach…” Aela greeted.

“Well, I’m back now,” she interrupted quickly.

“With a sellsword, too. Can’t fight your own battles these days?” Vilkas asked, his eyes lingering on Brynjolf.

Brynjolf returned the scrutiny with a lazy smile. It didn’t endear him to the man…but he hadn’t particularly intended it to.

“Not a sellsword – a friend,” she said. “This is Brynjolf. Brynjolf, these are the Companions.”

“Companions to who?” Brynjolf greeted wryly.

“Ysgramor,” Vilkas sneered.

“Oh. You must be older than you look, then.”

“We’re only here for the night. For a comfortable place to sleep and a good meal,” Kirsi interrupted – shooting a look in his direction that was too amused to hold any real bite to it.

“You’ll find both in Jorrvaskr,” Farkas said. “You and your friend. Come. It’s been too long.”

If any other than Brynjolf noted her reluctance, they did not show it.

They arrived to the Companions’ long-hall just in time for dinner – which was swiftly followed by drinking and merry-making thereafter. Brynjolf was accustomed to fudging the details as far as his identity was concerned; not often introducing himself with ‘good morning, I’m a high-ranking member of Skyrim’s biggest criminal enterprise, Dark Brotherhood notwithstanding’, and so he was able to do so here without blinking.

Well, there was one moment that gave him cause to blink. Harbinger. He had heard of the Companions, of course, he wasn’t a fool. His question by the gates had mainly been to rankle the dark-haired man who clearly loathed his presence and whatever his association might’ve been with  Kirsi. Any doubt Brynjolf had as to that loathing was gone when he saw how the man’s eyes followed her about the hall throughout the night. And more-so when Brynjolf dragged her up for a dance, bringing yet another smile to her face…and a matching one to his own.

The glare gained yet more frost to it when Ria asked Kirsi about her new scar, and she lifted a hand self-consciously to it, muttering something about a dragon. Brynjolf took it to be a joke – it was what people used as an explanation for every minor cut and scrape since the beasts returned to Skyrim, but the Companions murmured appreciatively.

“I’m sure it’ll fade, with time,” the Imperial offered reassuringly.

“It suits you,” Brynjolf said simply, returning Kirsi’s gaze boldly when she eyed him in surprise – as if trying to figure out whether he was teasing or not.

When the hour grew so late that it was technically early, Kirsi finally drummed her hands against the long table at which they’d feasted, announcing loudly.

“It’s time we headed to Breezehome – I’ll come by in the morning before I leave.”

“Why not stay here? Tilma readied your quarters while we’ve all been up here. Your friend can bed down with the whelps,” Vilkas commented.

Njada made a noise of displeasure somewhere down the table. The suggestion put her in an uncomfortable position - Brynjolf could see that easily enough. Refuse, and it would be a rejection of the people whom her role here was to offer guidance. Accept, and a lesser man might be insulted in Brynjolf’s shoes. But Kirsi considered it, sighed, and then spoke.

“The Harbinger’s quarters are big enough to share, Bryn. Come on – Tilma will have a bath waiting, too.”

Brynjolf grinned as he watched Vilkas’ regret at saying a word wash over his face.

The rooms below Jorrvaskr were cooler than the hall above, not so warmed by bodies and smoke and revelry, but a bath did indeed wait there for them in the bedchamber next door to the sitting room, steam rising steadily from it.

“Ladies first,” Brynjolf shrugged.

Weeks on the road together had shed them of whatever modesty might have remained, and Kirsi shrugged and began to strip off.

“Multiple rooms, eh lass?” he commented, taking stock of the fineness of the room.

“They’ll always feel like Kodlak’s rooms to me,” she commented quietly. “My predecessor.”

“Even so, it’s funny to think what bed you chose to fall into when you needed that rest when this waited for you here.”

“Don’t act like you don’t remember what I said at the time.”

“Mm. Still, there’s a lad up there that would’ve waited on you hand and foot while you recovered.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” he snorted, but then a furious motion caught his eye even as he studiously trained his gaze straight ahead.

Kirsi was in the bath, the water steadily turning murky after weeks of travel – which made it a little easier for him to keep his eyes stuck on her face, despite the flush that crept up from his neck towards his cheeks. She motioned once across her neck as if to say ‘stop’, and then pointed to her ear, and then the door.

Brynjolf almost laughed. In what world would they be overheard all the way down here? But there was no room for argument in her gaze and he slumped back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling, one question on his mind.

Who are you, Kirsi?

Despite Kirsi’s fears, Brynjolf finding out about her identity – one of them, at least – did not instate the sort of distance she’d feared it might. Oh, a fair amount of good natured ribbing came her way, but with Brynjolf that was always a decidedly good thing, and so she left Whiterun in a better mood than she’d arrived…and in a mood that was unrecognisable to the one she’d departed Riften in.

Rescuing townsfolk from bandits holding them hostage? You’re joking. What are the guards doing? Resting?

You make saving lives sound like a bad thing.

It might be, depending on what it pays. How much?

What?

How much each time? What’s the going rate for a saved life?

…It doesn’t matter. It pays in more than gold. Goodwill. Contacts. Reputation.

By the Nine, it’s a pittance, isn’t it? How much Kirsi? I’ll just keep irritating you until you tell me.

…A hundred gold each time.

When he stopped laughing – which felt like hours later – he pointed out he could make ten times that depending on the job he took. Her pointing out that she could also raid whatever lairs the jobs sent her into did little to help.

Don’t tell me half the goods you fence to Tonilia are gotten honestly, lass. It’ll break my heart.

And it was too difficult to act annoyed by him when she was laughing along.

From Whiterun they turned north to Windhelm. Kirsi withdrew her rule against larceny for all of an hour so that Brynjolf could liberate a farmhouse of a couple of bottles of wine – more for the thrill than anything else, and because free wine tasted better. That night when they made camp, they mulled it over a fire and huddled together far more closely than the barely-encroaching chill necessitated. By the time they were a few tankards deep, she felt giddy and foggy and overall like herself again, matters of fate and destiny and death and Sovngarde, and what a Dragonborn was worth once they’d achieved their purpose, fading behind Brynjolf’s jokes and the way he kept smiling at her and looking at her.

The night was pressing on when she found herself pressed against him beneath a blanket, their backs against a tree, her head on his shoulder as she was pulled further and further towards sleep.

“Lass?” he murmured lowly. “Kirsi?”

She didn’t respond – the original intention being to not respond right away, needing to blink herself into wakefulness before she could wrap her lips around syllables, much less words. But after a moment of silence, he relaxed and pulled her closer.

“I won’t give you the brush off again,” he murmured.

They were words that should have been basic decency, but they had the sound of a vow. As well as that not intended for conscious ears. So she pretended to be asleep, and soon she was no longer pretending.

It took another two weeks for them to reach Windhelm, not helped by their unhurried pace that defied the cold snapping at their heels. Kirsi, aptly named after the frost, seemed to enjoy it if anything. And Brynjolf? Brynjolf…endured it. With a smile. Primarily because he was happy. Happier than he’d been in a while…and more content than he’d admit in this strange and unexpected little routine they’d slipped into together by now.

He was happy as they slipped into Windhelm in the early hours of the morning, when he watched Kirsi pay a little brown-haired lass a hundred times what the entire stock of flowers she peddled were worth, when he found out that had been Kirsi’s main reason for wanting to come here in the first place (for it had been a while since she’d last given the wee girl a stupid amount of gold, and she was worried the last lost may have run out by now), and he was happy when they slipped into Hjerim – her stupidly big Windhelm home – and began to cobble together a hot meal.

Most of all, he was wrapped up in the atmosphere that had fast begun to overtake them. The one that had him enforcing that distance all that time ago, that stupid distance, convincing himself that his own worries were valid concerns about business and the running of the guild and not just cowardice over not wanting to face how he’d feel if it went tits up. That worry was still there, and it would gnaw at his insides like a pack of skeevers if he let it, but it was overpowered by how much he could get used to this. The little smiles. The looks. The complete lack of personal space between them as they went about their little routines.

That happiness was put on pause when a knock interrupted their dinner preparations.

Cursing beneath her breath, much as she had when they’d been spotted by the Companions, she cleaned her hands free of flour from the bread she’d been making and strode for the door. Brynjolf followed, a dagger in hand behind his back, a force of habit.

“Jorleif,” she greeted tiredly. “What is it?”

“Still not one for pleasantries, I see,” Jorleif replied. “High King Ulfric invites you to sup with him tonight – he was pleased to hear you were back in Windhelm.”

“I brought a guest with me.”

“Bring the guest, please!” Jorleif responded happily enough. “Galmar will be there, too. A real reunion, through and through.”

“When?”

“As soon as you can get to the Palace of the Kings, I expect.”

“…Wait here.”

Turning away from the door, she almost walked straight into Brynjolf – and then breathed a soft laugh at the weapon in his hand. Taking up the bread dough in its bowl from the kitchen table, she strode back to Jorleif and thrust the bowl into his hands.

“Here. Have the cooks bake this, I don’t want it going to waste. Move quickly, or else the cold will ruin it."

Whether it was a ploy to be rid of the messenger quickly, a way to amuse herself, or she was truly very excited about that particular loaf of bread, it had the intended effect – the man was quickly gone, and she turned a look filled with trepidation in Brynjolf’s direction.

“How would you like to have supper with the High King of Skyrim?”

Had he not overheard the exchange, he’d never have believed her.

Rather than rush to her wardrobe to change into finery, she settled for brushing the flour from her armour (and her hair) and then leading the way out of the door. It was a short walk to the palace – and Brynjolf’s disbelief did surface when he saw how Ulfric Stormcloak greeted Kirsi. With a warm greeting, and a hug.

“When did you arrive, Stormblade?” he asked, paying Brynjolf all the attention High Kings likely usually paid people who didn’t immediately interest them.

“This morning, my King,” she bowed at the neck and was forcibly straightened, Ulfric having none of it.

“This morning? I should set the guards on you for being here so long without coming here. And who’s this?”

He had not yet looked at Brynjolf, but it was plain he had not escaped his notice.

“Brynjolf. A friend – and a travelling companion. Bryn, this is Ulfric Stormcloak, and his housecarl Galmar Stone-fist.”

This is Ulfric. Like he was a friend from the tavern and little more. Was he supposed to bow? Brynjolf did not bow – not to anybody. He didn’t much want to start here. So instead, he cleared his throat and looked between the two of them.

“I wasn’t aware you rubbed shoulders with royalty, Kirsi. I imagine how you met must be quite the tale.”

Galmar breathed a harsh laugh. “She’s not told you? By Talos, if I’d survived Helgen all within a hundred leagues of me would know the tale at all times.”

Helgen? Brynjolf stared in disbelief. The look remained on his face throughout dinner, and he was in less of a mood for teasing than he had been in Whiterun.

Do you remember Korvanjud, girl? When you snuck up onto the walkway and rained fire down on those Imperial bastards from above?

Ulfric had cut in there. I remember it. I still owe you that drink, don’t I?

You fought in the war? Brynjolf had asked, unable to help himself.

She’s not told you that either, lad? By Talos, I don’t know how Ulfric would’ve won the damn thing as swiftly as he did without the Dr-

Galmar. Kirsi had cut in, fixing the man with a hard stare.

…Without the driving force that Stormblade here proved to be. Ulfric had covered for his housecarl – and Brynjolf didn’t buy it for a second.

They returned to Hjerim that night in silence.

“Brynjolf, sooner or later you’ll have to say something to me.”

After dinner, they’d retired back to her home wordlessly, and Kirsi didn’t try to break the silence until they were out of the city gates early the next morning. Brynjolf suspected she was worried that High King of hers would issue an invitation for breakfast, too, if they didn’t make themselves scarce.

“The Companions were one thing. Harbinger, do-gooder, whatever. I figured you need easy money to supplement your finances, a cover for all of the ill-gotten gold you make with us. Whatever. Soldiering? Not my business either – the civil war never interested me, and maybe it’s a good thing that your mighty High King’s victory stopped Maven from being directly in charge of the Rift. It’s even a relief to know your not being scared of her has reasonable roots that go beyond plain old foolishness. Maybe even who you are – whoever that is – provides you with useful contacts, I don’t know. But that’s the point. I don’t know. And the more I see, the less I know.”

“Bryn…”

“Are you a highborn lass, then? Is that it? Because you’ve done too much for us for me to call that a conflict of interest, you know?”

“Not at all. I’m as common as the muck beneath our boots.”

“Most peasants don’t sup with High Kings.”

“A twist of fate, little more.”

“One you don’t trust me enough to explain.”

“It’s not like that.”

“What is it like?”

Sighing, she shook her head and looked out across the snow landscape, visibly searching for the words.

“Most folk like me in the context they know me in. You insist Vilkas is in love with me, and maybe he is, but only in the context he knows me in. He could barely square himself with my throwing a fireball at a draugr – some nonsense about it not being an honourable way or fight, I don’t know what the- anyway, if he does love me, he loves Kirsi, the Harbinger of the Companions and Thane of Whiterun. The one who disappears and returns having cleared out a cave of bandits, or rescued a citizen, or beat the shit out of someone who threatened a villager. That’s not me. You know that better than anybody. If he saw the rest of it? He’d go from being attracted to me, to wanting to take up arms against me very damn quickly. I can’t even resent him for it, either. He believes what I’ve led him to believe.”

It was clear she wasn’t done when she paused, and so Brynjolf waited in silence for her to continue.

“Ulfric…he’s less rigid, perhaps. Not that he’s in love with me. If he was ever going to pursue anything like that, it would be because of what I am and not who I am.

“I’m sure he has enough soldiers to take his pick from, lass.”

“It’s not that I was referring to,” she muttered sourly. “So long as I’m subtle about whatever else I get up to, I’m sure he doesn’t care. But is that better or worse than Vilkas’ outlook? I don’t…I can’t have that happen again. Not with you.”

“You think I’d go running because you give gold to orphans and run an outfit of block-headed warriors?”

“I don’t run then. And they’re not block-headed,” she said softly. “And it’s more than that.”

“How much more, Kirsi?”

“Much more. An entire world-load of complications. And you’ve shut me out before for less.”

Brynjolf faltered. “Kirsi…lass…”

They were interrupted by the screech of a dragon, and then a blast of fire.

The battle was a hard-won one. She’d fought worse dragons, after all – the worst dragon – but she was certain the ones that were left were growing fiercer, as if in some desperate bid to cling onto the foothold they’d previously dug out for themselves in this land.

They hadn’t been far from Kynesgrove, and so they’d been joined by miners and guards as they battled the beast, but that threatened to be more of a help than a hindrance – making sure none were in the line of fire as she shot spells and bellowed Shouts at the dragon until finally she could make the killing blow, driving her blade through its eye.

She turned to Brynjolf then, looking at him almost mournfully as she fought to regain her breath, well-accustomed by now to the feeling of the dragon’s soul whipping about her body and finally sinking in. It felt like she was being held before a bonfire, the heat just shy of actually burning. Brynjolf stared, his face splattered with dragon blood, his eyes wide.

“I’m the Dragonborn,” Kirsi breathed.

Like the skeever wasn’t already out of the bag. How long had she refused to use Shouts around him? Even in their pursuit of Mercer through Falmer-infested caves. All for nothing. Brynjolf continued to stare – a time during which she did her best to predict what he would do. Mostly, her money was on an awkwardly mumbled “I’m heading back to Riften, I’ll see you next time you complete a job”.

Instead, though, he threw down his blade and strode towards her, few paying them much mind at all as they trailed back towards whatever they’d been doing when the dragon descended. Now it was Kirsi’s turn to stare…right up until he was within arm’s length of her, when he grabbed her by the arm and yanked her towards him, pulling her into a kiss that filled her with fire more than the souls of a hundred dragons ever could.

When he pulled back, he stayed close, one rough fingertip trailing across the scar at the side of her face. Kirsi was fast deciding she wasn’t going to have the face sculptor get rid of it, after all.

“No more secrets, lass?”

“No more secrets,” she confirmed softly, eyes flickering down to his lips and then up to his eyes again. “Although…”

Her hands had come to rest at his chest and she felt him stiffen, dreading what she was going to say next.

“I’m also the Archmage at the College of Winterhold,” she said. “I thought we might go there next.”

Brynjolf breathed a laugh, his forehead pressing against hers. “I can live with that.”

Links: AO3 -- FF.net -- flufftober masterpost -- dividers by cafekitsune

[irlcats-bracket]

bracket 1 FINAL BATTLE

RUSTY versus PRISSY

RUSTY

Rusty used to be a stray and then he had An Accident and now he has three legs (he had been living at a vet's office for a month when submitter adopted him). But he's doing great! Submitter taught him how to climb stairs and built him some steps out of cardboard boxes so he can get on their bed whenever he wants. They think he could be anywhere from 6 to 12 years old, it's hard to say ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. To their pleasant surprise, he does not mind wearing a harness at all, which is good because he still loves the outdoors. He often gets his ear turned inside out while bathing and weirdly prefers dry food over wet.

PROPAGANDA

breaking: semi-feral baby learns to cuddle, becomes addicted to laying on my face

and here he is chillin on the patio with me!

vote for rusty #1 best at sticking out leg

when i first got Rusty he could not go up stairs... but he could go down, so he would get stuck at the bottom of them and meow for help. Of course he also hated being picked up and carried up the stairs.

but now he just goes ZOOP up the stairs doing audible damage to my carpet the whole way, which is so valid of him because i hate carpet on stairs

and something that is not quite propaganda for rusty but important words from rusty's human nontheless

For this semifinal I am going to do a different kind of propaganda.

Next time you are looking to adopt a pet, please consider getting an older animal or one with special needs, if you are able, or even just a shy, timid one. The reason my vet friend came to me about Rusty was because cats like him are usually overlooked in shelters. It wasn't just his injury--behaviorally, it was like he didn't know how to be a pet. For about three months he spent 95% of his time sitting in one spot, doing nothing, mostly indifferent to human attention. And now, after less than two years, he is super active and follows me to bed every night for cuddles. There are so many pets like Rusty who just need somebody to give them a chance, and give them time. If you can be that person, it is the most amazing thing to see what they bloom into!

Thank you for reading my spiel, now here is a picture of Rusty sleeping in the cat equivalent of a T-pose for some reason:

PRISSY

If she's quiet she's either sleeping or somewhere she shouldn't be. Or Both. Openly favors submitter, tolerates others. Very autistic cat: anxious of bad noises, very picky eater, kneads with her right paw out for no reason, must walk a circle around the room before going somewhere, has Specific eating spots for mealtime, etc. She probably knows more English than she lets on. Disobeys authority when she's bored or hungry. Loves the outdoors but she needs her pretty pink harness or she'll run; her favorite activity is playing with grasshoppers. She's a little brat but you can't help but love her when she squeaks at you.

PROPAGANDA

As you can see, she likes tight spaces (it's the 'tism -u-). She has access to larger, roomier sleeping spaces, but she always gravitates to places where I can't understand how she could possibly be comfortable. That round thing in the top right pic? She sleeps on top of that for the night even though a whole leg falls over the side. We've debated getting her a bigger one, but I don't think she'd like it.

She is also a lover of people food; we tried not to get her used to it, but somewhere along the way she broke down our walls. Whenever I snack on cheese puffs on the couch, she's always gotta get up in my face to try to get some of that delicious cheese dust, going so far as to stick her big face in the bag right in front of me while I'm holding it. And if you've got salmon, she will go nuts. I think salmon is her favorite food with cheese as a close second. ...but she'll also beg for chicken nugget.

[Image description: a photo of OP sitting at the dining table over a plate of chicken strips and ketchup, OP on one side of the chair and holding a piece of bitten chicken and Prissy sitting on the other side of the chair with one paw on the table eyeing the bitten chicken strip. OP's face has been painted over with a black spot.]

As for speaking English, I've caught her saying Hello and Mama clear as day, and is working on pronouncing Outside and Water (I mean it, just from her tones and "syllables" of her meows, it's like she's trying to speak).

Sorry for the spam, but she really is that photogenic. And also sorry for the stuff on my bed, but my legs were injured at the time and needed extra support. While they were injured, I also spent a lot of time on the couch, where Prissy frequently sat by my side and especially on my lap. Now that I'm better and not sitting there anymore, she now claims that specific corner of the couch as her own; she's even stolen that spot from me when I get up to do something really quick.

I've also trained her to hop on my lap when she wants to eat, instead of jumping on the table, but at the end of the day she still does what she wants lol. She's always been by my side, from the first day she got here at 3 mos. old and took a nap on my lap right in the hallway.

[primeministerofantarctica]

A3! reading club: act one (chapter 1-6)

(cw: talking about parental neglect and abuse, orientalism, one mention of suicide)

Hey, ten out of twelve isn't bad, all things considered! This very well could have gone down in October. Also, since it's February (March if you wanna be generous), does that mean everyone in Harugumi's slightly younger than their Year One ages now? Ack, timelines are confusing.

Izumi casually talking about how Yukio neglected her and following it up with "well, it was probably because he loved this theater so much!" is. Oh, girl. No wonder she snapped when Sakyo suggested he'd abandoned Mankai, because if he hadn't loved it, then why did she have to go through with that?

I'm not versed enough in Japanese particles but I recognize "daijoubu" and Tsuzuru watching this trainwreck unfold and saying something along the lines of "are you guys, like, okay?" is extremely funny.

Then we get to Sakuya and Masumi's family situations, which. From a meta perspective, it makes sense to want to give your minor protagonists the freedom that having parents limits. That's why the trope of "young protagonist in kid's spec fic media is conveniently an orphan" is so common. (was? I think it's becoming less common now.) The problem lies in the lack of willingness to follow through with the emotional conflict it creates, or resolve said conflict in a satisfying manner. Sure, I'm assuming they weren't starved or physically abused, but being treated like a burden when you're a child is still fucking traumatizing! Basically I think Izumi Sakuya and Masumi should start a union. And I'm glad later chapters go the reasonably more toned-down route of "my parents have a reasonable amount of trust in me to make these kinds of decisions".

Also, can we talk about Sakuya and Masumi, because they're one of my favorite brotps here. The way Sakuya appoints himself as Masumi's surrogate big brother? He's so eager to potentially share a room with him ;-;. (personally I hc that Ms. Sakuma was expecting another child before the accident or whatever killed them, so Sakuya's been a big brother without a younger sibling all this time </3)

Wow, that doesn't sound like a metaphor for anything! You're right, Izumi, why would you go the easy route of taking something prepackaged and guaranteed when a bunch of wildly different spices can create a delicious meal if you know how to utilize them right?

Am I grasping at straws here. Probably.

The little ka-ching sound effect is adorable.

Tsuzuru, I'd think "antagonist" should be near the top of the list...also, there's plenty of plays that have been pulled off with two or three actors. Just put on "night, Mother" or something. (Joking. Don't look up night, Mother if you're sensitive to themes of suicide.)

"Tsuzuru, you picked this troupe because it had a dorm, right? ...Then maybe our best bet is to focus on more people in your shoes."

"People in my shoes? In other words...."

"The homeless?"

I CAN'T ASJHGSKSDSK

he's literally doing the 😔 face i'm on the floor.

HE'S HERE! Funny how Izumi's right about Citron not being a regular tourist right off the bat. He may not be from another troupe, but he's definitely "in character" right now.

Also, oof. Citron's my second fave in Harugumi after Sakuya, but it's glaringly obvious how much of his character is rooted in orientalism. Sure, maybe it's an act, but why is he talking about how "shameful" showing skin is when his top is (conveniently for us) THAT low-cut.

On another note, I know people have pointed out his distaste for pig's feet as evidence for headcanoning him as Muslim, but I haven't seen anyone point out how he calls Veludo Way a "mecca" of theatre. Like yeah, mecca can just mean hub, but...why didn't they just say hub? Words Have Connotations. I'm not saying this coding is good or bad, it's just a neutral observation.

AND HERE'S THIS BASTARD (affectionate)

Oh, Kasumi! (insert pointing reaction pic bc I've run out of photo space.) It's Kasumi, guys! :D

[funnuraba]

Follow-up to this post: while Frances Donaldson suggests in her biography that Wodehouse's first love was Ella King-Hall, a widow sixteen years older than him who later married his friend, and King-Hall's family offered the belief that he was "half in love with her" (see A Life in Letters), other biographers haven't found that theory so convincing. Sophie Ratcliffe was the first to be granted access to a private letter revealing a woman who was likely his first proposal: Alice Dovey, an actress who politely turned him down. They stayed in touch into old age, and Wodehouse wrote to her daughter on the occasion of her death, saying that all his heroines had been based on Dovey to some degree. The letter is described here:

Typed letter signed ("P.G. Wodehouse"), to Anne Garland, paying tribute to her mother on hearing of her death: "I had of course seen the announcement in Variety, and I need not tell you what a shock it was. Naturally I knew that your mother must be in her 80's – I am 87 myself – but I had always pictured her as just the same as when I first knew her" and proceeding to open his heart: "Our friendship started when she was in The Pink Lady in 1911. My first play was coming on with Douglas Fairbanks as the star, and I rushed to ask her if she would play the heroine, but of course she was tied up with the Pink Lady. It went to London at the end of its Broadway run, and I saw a lot of her over there. (I wonder if you have the photograph that used to hang outside the theatre). I shall never forget how wonderful she was with her charm and her sense of comedy and that beautiful voice. All the heroines in my books are more or less drawn from her"; however he expresses gratitude that she did not suffer at the end ("...It would have been too terrible if someone as sweet as she was had to suffer..."), and in a postscript jokes that in one of her last letters to him she "was kidding me for being a great-great-grandfather", adding: "I always admired your father [Jack Hazard] so much. So did Guy Bolton. He was our favourite comedian. He had that wonderful gist of making a line funny just by speaking it as it was written, without gagging", 1 page, engraved heading, small folio, Remsenburg, New York 11960, 12 February 1969

The general consensus is that the story In Alcala is Wodehouse's way of memorializing his feelings for her. It's also notable as the single most frankly sexual story PGW ever wrote, to the point that I have to say: though the timing seems to match up, I'm not sure I believe this is entirely Dovey? Peggy is clearly, explicitly a kept woman, and near the climax of the story, the hero nearly goes to her apartment to sleep with her. He's such an obvious Wodehouse stand-in, save for the fact that he's engaged to a well-off girl, that I can't believe Peggy is intended to represent a single specific woman. The story is sympathetic to her, but to write this in the early 1900s, about a real woman with a reputation to ruin, would be very loaded. Was it really entirely Alice Dovey, one-to-one?

In any case, when I read about Dovey, my next thought was, "So she's Dolly Henderson, right?" Because Gally's lost love Dolly Henderson is one of the only remaining vestiges of sentiment long after Wodehouse scoured it from his writing. Turns out.... no, Norman Murphy feels that Dolly matches much more closely with another woman: Daisy Wood, the youngest sister of Marie Lloyd (!), whom Wodehouse asked to dinner once in 1909. In my opinion, Dolly may be a composite, because there's some real feeling behind a passage one of the later books where Gally reflects that she was better off without him, and it doesn't seem Wood played much of a role in Wodehouse's life beyond those dinner plans.

Then there was the widow, Lillian Anderson, and the chorus girl he cheated on Ethel with--my goodness, a lot going on.

[new-employeeamillion]

Phineas and Ferb is coming back, here’s what I’m expecting.

When I woke up to this news, I had to drop everything I was doing to comment on it. My favourite childhood cartoon, Phineas and Ferb, heading back into production for one or more seasons is something that always seemed possible. Dan and Swampy had been hinting at it…basically as soon as the show ended, now that I think about it. And they spent a lot of their second show, Milo Murphy’s Law, planting clues that they weren’t done with the characters yet. Unfortunately, I never followed Milo that religiously, so I can’t comment on if it worked or not. And their third show, Hamster and Gretel, has been an improvement but still feels a bit niche. It’s clear their team’s style hasn’t changed much since 2012, it’s dependable but not innovative. However, that’s always been the case with PnF. It wasn’t a game changer for animation, just a really, really funny and polished show, and that’s great.

But now it’s back, and I’m a little worried. There’s a few things I really want them to do, and others I don’t, and I think they’re going to do both. Season 4 was a very special and event-oriented run, and that was great for a final season…but where do you go from there? Do you make more specials for Season 5 and 6? Less? Reel it in a bit and do more standard episodes again? There were a couple standard episodes in Season 4 that ended up feeling unremarkable, so I wouldn’t want the new run to carry that feeling over. Going back to Season 1’s mix of plenty of normal episodes, plus 5 or 6 longer adventures, would be the best way to go around it, I think.

Still on the topic of Season 4, it brought a few status quo changes that I can see them bringing up for the revival. Things like Doof having been an OWCA agent, Stacy knowing about Perry’s secret identity, confirming Phineas and Isabella won’t hook up until they go to college. Some have more potential than others, but others might be ignored or upstaged by new developments. It depends on how much they want to bend to the whim of the formulas, because those’ll probably be further tested.

In terms of which characters should be given more emphasis, I really want them to use Phineas more, explore what makes him so resourceful and optimistic. The crew are well aware that he could come off as a blank slate, so if they’re coming back, I hope they’re going to put some thought into fleshing out their title character. Another character I want to see them do more with is Jeremy, if just to see if they can give him a quirk. He was always sort of the everyman compared to Candace, who soaked up 99% of the energy in their shared scenes. Giving him more time to hang out with his band members could be cool too.

As for jokes, I expect their sense of humour to say the same- character based humour, subverting expectations, comedic song numbers and a few references here or there. Just because I’m expecting the sort of humour they’re doing doesn’t mean I’m tired of it. It would be more worrying if they did jokes uncharacteristic of the show. The one thing I bet they’re going to do that I’m concerned about is include more memes. That alien flossing in Candace Against the Universe might be a harbinger of “well, they referenced that”. It’s not like they’ve never been in touch with the internet, the 10th episode was about Phineas and Ferb making viral videos after all, but I don’t want them to bring memes and modern references into it if they’re gonna feel shallow.

That’s another thing, how will time flow this go around? Will it be set in the same summer as the original 4 seasons, or a year later? Could we possibly finally see what the rest of the year looks like, with the kids in school? That in particular is unlikely, but there has to be some debate internally over whether these new episodes will be set after The Last Day of Summer. Probably not, since Candace Against the Universe was confirmed not to be, but who knows. Will the timeline float though? The show started in the 2000s, and did its best to keep the technology timeless, only adding smartphones in Season 4. But will technology and culture change for Season 5? Is there a chance they’ll go back to flip phones and bulky TVs? The first 2 episodes are 16 this year, edging into the nostalgia cycle window, so I wouldn’t be surprised if they played into that nostalgia in some way. Maybe have a joke where Candace wonders why she still has her old flip phone laying around. “It’s older than me!”

These are just the questions and concerns at the top of my head, but I’m fairly optimistic that the show will still be good. There have been shorter breaks with rockier comebacks in animated shows. All it can take is 2 years sometimes. Now try 8! If it ends up being a tier or two lower than the original run, I won’t be shocked, but I will be happy that Disney still care about these characters at all. They’re currently the best at handling new IPs too, so I’m not even worried they could be relying on this show for the sake of nostalgia. It’s always going to be a new and popular show to kids, and long may this continue.

[hexalianrebel-blackfeathers]

The Maize (Ch. 4)

1 || 2 || 3 || 4 || 5 || 6

“Yakov, if we just need to go west, we can just cut through the corn.” Turlough said as he watched Yakov frantically look between different pathways before he dragged them down one.

“No.” Yakov said sharply, his grip tightening on Turlough’s arm. “Something is wrong. Is worse than before. This magic; I don’t understand it. Paths, safer. Less magic.”

Bel was clinging onto Turlough’s other arm, keeping as close as possible with their backpacks pressing into each other. “I-I don’t want to go back in there either. It got really dark; I could barely see the sky; being in there made my skin feel…bad.”

Turlough looked between them warily, shifting closer to Yakov. “Okay, look, this is stressing you out. Let me lead.”

“Are you not stressed?!” Yakov snapped, stopping abruptly to glare up at him. “We are likely in danger!”

“I-I didn’t say that! I just—you’re panicking; you’re all over the place. Take a few minutes with Bel for me. Just chill out.”

Yakov growled, clenching his fists before throwing his hands up. “This is not time for chilling out! This isn’t time for joking! Don’t you understand?!”

“Don’t fight…” Bel’s voice came breathlessly, hands flailing slightly when Turlough pulled his arm away. “W-We can’t stop h—!” His voice was cut by a loud squeak before he punched Turlough’s shoulder. “Seriously, man, now?!”

“What? What happened?”

“Keep your stupid tickle magic away from me; I told you it’s not funny!”

“No shouting.” Yakov interjected.

“I didn’t do anything!” Turlough insisted as he turned and raised his hands innocently. “I’m not doing anything!”

Bel stared at him, mostly watching his hands. He moved his own hand to the side of his neck. “But I…Something touched—”

The wind rushed suddenly through the corn field, and as the stalks settled back into place, one of their leaves brushed purposefully against Bel’s neck, following enough to trace his ear as he leaned away from it. Before any of them could question it, Bel was shouting as he was yanked to the ground. Yakov and Turlough grabbed onto his arms and bag, keeping him from being dragged into the corn and trying to pull him back.

“What the hell is going on?!” Turlough shouted.

“S-Something has my leg!” Bel cried out, flailing to grab Turlough’s arm as giggles slipped into his voice.

With Bel’s hands on his arm, Turlough loosened his grip just enough to snap his fingers. A pair of gloves materialized around them, taking hold of Bel’s jacket and giving the boys enough leverage to get him back onto the path. As his trapped leg was brought into the light, they found a root coiled tightly around Bel’s leg, some kind of glow rushing through its veins. Turlough moved to grab it, only to have another root burst from the ground and wrap around his wrist. As the same glow filled the new root, Turlough felt his skin tingling underneath it.

“Okay, I get it…” He growled softly. “You want to play like that?” He wrenched his arm up, sinking his teeth into the root and ripping away from it. The boys flinched as a sort of shriek filled the air around them, and both roots suddenly lost their glow.

Turlough spat a metallic taste out of his mouth as he shook the limp root piece off of his arm. “Right, okay; we’re getting out of here. Bel, where’s your knife?” As he and his gloves searched Bel’s side pockets, he realized both boys were staring at him.

“Turlough…” Bel murmured, hesitantly reaching for his face.

“Wh…?” He touched his chin, finding some liquid running from his mouth. His fingers came back stained with a black fluid, and he tried to keep his face neutral as he looked back at them. “I-I’m fine. We need to get you out first.” A glove returned to his side with a folded pocketknife. “Yakov, get over here.”

Yakov didn’t respond. He stood stock still, eyes locked in the shadows.

“Come on; seriously—!”

“Shh.” Yakov hissed. He moved one hand, breaking his compass off of its clip to shove it into one of Turlough’s gloves as he stepped slowly. “Take…”

They wanted to question him—wanted to say anything—but before they could, footsteps suddenly rustled loudly through the corn, and Yakov lunged to block the swing of a massive scythe with his hands. His sneakers dug deep into the dirt as he fought to push back against the handle.

“Run, go!” He called as best as he could, yelping as he was yanked toward their attacker’s body before they attempted to throw him off. Their grapple sent them stumbling into the path, and the light revealed a towering figure clad in familiar overalls and wielding an eight-foot scythe with a glowing orange blade.

“Dammit, dammit!” Turlough hissed, yanking the knife through the root on Bel’s leg and scrambling to his feet as he pulled the other boy up.

“W-Wait, no—!” Bel cried out, and the gloves grabbed his bag while Turlough heaved him up into his arms and started to run. “Yakov!”

Yakov blinked tears out of his eyes, continuing to try wrestling the handle out of the scarecrow’s hands. He attempted a slash of his claws as they lifted him up again, his eyes going wide when he found their flesh hard as a familiar scent filled his nose. They’d suddenly paused when Yakov’s claws made contact, and their “head” turned to him ominously. Right before his eyes, a bright orange glow carved deep lines into the flesh of the pumpkin until those lines resembled a sort of face: hollow, with no distinct emotion. Yakov felt a shift—as if a breath was being drawn—and the lines of the scarecrow’s face became holes spewing a burst of flame into Yakov’s eyes.

Yakov yowled and recoiled before he could realize he hadn’t actually been hurt. The flame was bright; his eyes stung; but he wasn’t burned. It was hardly as warm as just feeling the sun.

But it was more than enough. Yakov flailed and stumbled as the scythe was yanked out of his hands. He felt the sole of a boot shoving him backwards into the dirt, and his eyesight had returned just enough for him to watch the scythe come down on him.

He expected searing pain; thought his lungs would be burning for how hard he’d be screaming. Except…there was nothing. Just him. For a moment, he found himself thinking. He regretted thinking death would be paradise, especially in front of Bel. He regretted snapping at Turlough, also in front of Bel, funny enough. He regretted that he couldn’t fight that thing off, but some part of him said to be proud that he’d jumped in to protect them at all. It's the little things, supposedly. Although, he regretted most that he wouldn’t see them happy. He wouldn’t see them ever again.

--

…Opening his eyes might help a little. He wasn’t sure how long he was lying there before he realized they were even closed.

What he found was a bright orange sky; no clouds, no sun he could see; just orange. He was surrounded on all sides by tall corn stalks, except for a single gap leading to a dirt path that he just barely saw when he tipped his head. It was silent. Completely and utterly. There was no magic here, no sound. Yakov’s head had never been so clear.

He didn’t like it.

His body was here with him, so he started to move it. There was dirt under his hands as they pushed him to sit up, and getting to his feet was easier than he thought it should be. He didn’t…feel like himself. It was like he was floating somehow; like his weight was shifting more or less than necessary. He looked down at his hands; his fingers curled into his palms tightly. His claws left no marks. He hadn’t even felt them. Only then did he notice his clothes. His arms were covered by the soft-looking sleeves of a thick flannel shirt underneath a set of overalls, and his feet were covered with brand new boots.

He pried at the fabric in confusion, unable to find any textures that should be there.

But suddenly, a sound. A scream that pierced deep into his heart. Before he thought to stop himself, he stumbled into a sprint down the lone path, chasing a feeling that fell between hope and terror.

[lividria]

10 followers woohoo

i now have 10 followers that aren't whatever cheezbot is and my punching bag from discord, and i still find it funny i've interacted more with this one person who will just appear on my metroid posts sometimes usually to argue about lore and someone who i somehow see a new post from every time i check tumblr more than like all of my followers combined, whoops

i guess this is as good a time as any to talk about like my recurring post topics and give an update on all of those with where they're all that, i genuinely don't know if anyone cares about them but i'm going to pretend they do because it makes me feel nice, if you care about any of the following and want to provoke me into talking about them more send me an ask that'll probably do it

i know that in the grand scheme of things this number is meaningless but it means something to me okay let me have this

i'm working on Something Pretty Big for vivlore right now which is why i haven't been posting about it more i promise i'll get to it, it's just... there's a lot to cover which is a daunting task and i'm already trying to cover it all again with my S.P.B. i just mentioned which is a higher priority than tumblr posts

i'm more or less out of ideas for metroid posts besides following up on the metroid menace saga and posts about some joke ideas i've had for intentionally shitty sequel concepts, and it will probably stay this way until prime 4 or a prime 2 remaster drops or i go back and finish super/replay dread or prime 1, i feel kinda bad because i know metroid is why i got most of my followers but yea

i genuinely forgot to follow up on my big pikmin posts about Pikmin: Global Survey and the Sparkly Wraith theory, I still have so much more to say about GS and so much to say about my theories for what the apocalypse in the Pikmin world was (assuming it wasn't the Sparkly Wraith lol), I just haven't really felt like it since I think I'm out of my Pikmin hyperfixation for real now, but I plan on replaying 3DX & 4 soon and the creator of pikmin echo is seemingly back from a several month absence so that may reignite my interest enough to get the engine running on my shit

i have tons of story ideas, tons of game ideas, i just haven't really been in the mood to write them out yet but i promise i've got some really good shit, though don't expect me to follow them up with actually writing/making them, if i'm going to manifest an idea i have it'll be vivlore first, so to the hypothetical person who wanted me to write Alien Exorcist for real i'm sorry but you're out of luck write it yourself

i have a lot more Funny Stories i can tell, i just have to feel like it, or i'll just have to experience more, given that i'm still working through the new games i got for my birthday a month ago so those probably aren't going anywhere

there are a couple other one-offs i meant to make a recurring thing, like Midnight Deranged Thoughts and out of context discord screenshots of my friends and i, that i just didn't, i just need to feel like making follow-ups lol

and there's other stuff i plan on making a series, like talking about my dreams i have for example, i just need to figure stuff out for those and also be in the mood, like i'll have to re-type my notes from my dreams to fit my tumblr post style which will be a pain for the longer ones but the longer ones are the interesting ones i'd be talking about, and that kind of specific problem applies to a lot of my future post series ideas

so uh, yeah, that's all i think, i know that all of the posts i actually put effort into are the least popular ones i do but it's nice to get that stuff off my chest and into the void, i just like writing even if it's not writing writing, and maybe one day someone will find and appreciate my posts idk

tl:dr More Shit Soon I Promise Lol

[benefits1986]

Revisiting Old Pages, Visiting New Pages

I thought I'd be able to sleep early tonight, but, here's to saying hello again to the stories waiting and wanting to unfold so badly.

In line with my long leave that officially started today, I'm revisiting a good number of things. I was about to doze off because today has been a really long one; however, I curiously opened the script for film class back in Diliman. I actually know the top-line but, I've placed in the back burner for quite some time. I was surprised to see 56 pages, off the bat. The scroll was deep and this time around, it does not feel intrusive anymore. I was actually laughing out loud in real life as I read this content piece. Damn. So much time has passed, yet a good number of things remained the same, only this time around, it's more graphic.

I joked about giving Vivamax a try, but, I don't think this will make it there unless I redo 50% of it. Meron namang mga scenes na medyo alam na this, but, I won't redo it. Sabi nga ni Ricky Lee, 'yung una mong tapos na script, draft lang 'yan. Sulatin mo lang siya and allow the katas of people you collaborate with to let their katas collide and connive with yours. Sinabi niya ito when he recounted Himala with no less than Ishma as in Ishmael Bernal hey days nila.

Since this is my first script, upon GMG-ing, a full length film has approximately 90 to 180 pages depending on the hours you'd like your theoretical viewers to waste. Damn. I chanced upon this in film class, but, syempre, kahit listening ako, parang kinalimutan ko na 'to habang sinusulat ko 'yung script. Funny how I remember the pain that Pages caused me. Hassle gumamit ng template na 'to pero, sige, tinawid natin noon at itutuloy natin ang pagtatawid sa wakas, ngayon, maiba naman.

In fairness naman, since mas confident na ako ngayon kesa sa mga really bad self-judgements ko noon, may laban pa rin 'tong tina-try kong ipaglaban. 'Di siya pabebe masyado. 'Di siya perfect. 'Di siya optimal mala A World of Married, pero I am allowing myself to let my ink bleed out until I run out of words to say. Before, I find this script triggering to the point that I would try to stop myself from typing away. Now, I can laugh at myself na with feelings. LOL. I'm finally able to find bits of glimmers as I revisit these old pages.

I think and feel and know that this had to wait in the back burner because sharing this first ever script to the world then felt like a shit show, an apology, an atonement. More than what's inside these old pages are my heartbreaks. These heartbreaks that threw me in spirals about why the hell I wasted so much time in being in marketing then jumping to digital marketing. Hala siya o. Here we go! I hated marketing so much to the point that I tried my best to love it to the core. I felt that following mother dragon's dreams for me would enable me to stomach each waking hour I spent not going after my ultimate dream --to write, write, write. Edit. Edit. Edit. Finish. Repeat. It even came to a point where I purposefully aced all marketing fundamentals to see if grades would make me feel alive. With every A or A- I get, I felt more and more disjointed with my true path. Mom commended me a whole lot as she mocked me. Akala ko ba ayaw mo ng marketing? Talaga ha? Me: E nag Dean's List nga ako ng 1 sem sa nursing, ma 'di ba? Ayoko rin nun. Grades are but numbers. Andyan na 'yan e, so eto na rin ako, 'di ba? Happy ka na naman? This is her version of me as a suwail na anak. LOL.

At this point in time, let me refocus my prime lens and even my kit lens and bazooka lens, too. Shemay. I will allow myself to go here now. Shemay talaga. Ugh.

During my meet up IRL with Ricky Lee and friends in his humble home for the first time ever, I can sense mother dragon's lurking in the corner. This time around, I think we're aligned, finally. Or baka delulu lang ako as a mommy's girl. How so? Eto na. 'Di ako prepared for this early morning's pasavogue ng feelings pero, need ko na 'tong i-name, i-define.

One of the things that stood out in the group was that creative writing is a muscle that people train a lot. I didn't expect to hear stories that reek of things like: I love what I do as a writer, however, it pays the bills, somehow. The group has a roster of award-winning people who I'm yet to get to know, but, I feel like while I'm a saling kitkit, we all have our own luggages and excess baggage, too.

I am so amazed at how unfiltered stories flew that night. Para akong nasa retreat ng mga writers na fighting the pivot of the new media aka, wait for it, digital media. We were asked to introduce ourselves and shemay, odd ball na naman ako. I said somewhat like: Hello, first time ko po dito. Hindi po ako taga-dito as a Southie, but consumerist pong paglikha ang daily grind ko sa app and website po namin. Pero, Sir Ricky, I try na bitbitin ang bubog, ang silya at ang kahon sa munting paraang alam ko. 'Di siya about lang consumerism pero more of tiny stories in tiny screens and paano ba matatawid ito sa audience namin. Gets ba? LOL.

Another thing that stood out not only from this meet up, but even back in film class is that writing is nothing without a pitch that has a decent batting average. DAMN. I've seen stories unfold and madalas, nasasabi na 'di enough ang writer ka sa mundong ito. Dapat alam mo kung paano mo ipi-pitch at panghahawakan ang laban para mabuo ang kwento mo. Alam mo rin dapat how to negotiate kasi 'yung sulat mo na 'yan, hindi na iyo 'yan 'pag binayaran na man hours mo diyan. Dapat mong tanggapin or gumapang ka sa lusak lalo na 'pag walang rating or 'di vibe ng mga collaborators mo 'yung final files mo.

Film in the light of old and new media are bound by... tenennnnn, marketing. HUY. LUH. Ang aga-aga na naman, ma. Oo na kasi. Ikaw na naman. This is what I've been trying to run away from... mother dragon made me go through the fire and through the test of time to prep me for the real fuckin' ball game. HAHAHAHAHAHA. Ang hassle talaga neto, pero okay lang naman sa akin matalo sa debate kahit sa kabilang ibayo at kabilang buhay pa.

On the way home, I felt she was with me in the car, too. As I looked in the EDSA traffic somewhere in Evangelista paakyat ng flyover pa-Par area, I had to snap a video to immortalize her unspoken words and my response to it. It said something like: Marahil, ang mga lansangan ay mga libingan ng mga kwentong 'di nagtagpo, 'di pa nagtatagpo at 'di na muling magtatagpo pa.

I want to write more but, the silence, the pause, the slow motion in my seat that time was too preciously piercing my core. Let me push these story line a bit more. Marahil, kaya paulit-ulit tayong dumaraan sa mga lansangan ay dahil kahit alam nating ang mga libingang ito ay nakakasira ng bait at ng kaibutra'y,

Mga lansangan din ito ng bagong simula, ng bagong kwento, ng bagong pasilyong patungo sa kung ano mang gusto nating maabot at matagpuan.

Ang mga langsangang nagsilbing libingan ay libangan ng mga kaluluwa at mga katawang lupang naghahanap ng kanlungan.

Marahil, magtatagpong muli ang bago, ang luma, ang mga nawala, at mga nagsisimula't nagpapatuloy sa kanilang paglalakbay.

Marahil, dito muling magiging isa kahit ilang saglit man lang ang mga pangarap na maaring naghihintay na matupad at makamit sa pangalawa o pangatlong pagkakataong 'di inasahan o tinayaan nino man.

I will end it here, for now. I think I'm finally on my way to finding peace from within.

I've been thinking about 2023 YE and 2024 YO. And you know what? FUCK IT. FUCK IT HARD. I'm giving Manila life, RTO life, BGC life and my current Manila house 3 more years. LUH. Hahaha. I'd be 40 by then. I'd most likely get my full grey hair na walang halong daya ng hair color na well-planned. Batulao will be my weekend or kinda weekday home, my sanctuary, my Plan B, just in case. No more ALS or UPDi LS dreams, also. Periodtzzz. Done. Deal. Fuck off. LOL. Syempre, intense pag-type ko nung last paragraph kasi ugh. I planned my uprooting era in Manila na talaga. As in. Pero, nadale yata tayo ng Holy Spirit or kung ano mang espirtwal na lakas meron sa universe.

As I was with planted in Pandora, Ricky Lee and friends edition, I am more than grateful, humbled and whacked so badly on the head, heart and spirit. My current spot is where I needed to be, and I guess, where I actually choose to be in. Digital content and marketing + pitching come as one. And what's more curious is the gap that I can hopefully fill: Digital Story/Content Optimization in the light of curation. SHEMAY. Pahiya na naman ako sa nanay kong dragon na, tigre pa nito.

Actually, I know this for a long time, but this morning, wala na e. Eto na tayo sa exciting at death-defying part. Habang nagshe-share 'yung group, gusto ko na lang talaga sabihin na, puwede ko po kayong help i-optimize, pitch and market mga sure na sure akong awesome and workable pieces n'yo. Subukan lang po natin, together. Kahit free po 'yung unang sabak natin, game.

Syempre, ayoko muna to go there. LOL. Tatapos muna ako ng at least isang script, dadaan sa kumunoy, sa lusak, sa purgatoryo, because I want to earn this stripe the right way, the long way, without the highway.

Actually, I feel so light-headed aotm. Lagay ko na rin dito kasi 'di madali at medyo nakarami tayo ng ganaps today hanggang gabi. I also am in the spot in Manila tiny house where mom's bed was placed. As in where her head is when she lied down to sleep or to pass time. NKKLK. But this time around, mother dragon, aligned na us. Thank you for pushing me too hard to the point of no return and full surrender. Ikaw na magaling. Hahahaha. CHOZ.

I'm missing you a little extra today just because I could have hugged you more IRL noon. I could have made more lambing kahit RBF ka saka sungit mo ng malala. LOL. I could have said ILY like the 90's out loud kahit alam ko, wala ka namang matinong reply. I could have told you that I am gonna be not okay when you pass on. I could have told you how much I love you, but I'd have to let you go with grace and grit.

While I can no longer see you and tell you this face to face, may this time around be a chance for me to allow myself to say these to people who matter to me and who make me feel I actually matter kahit baliw levels ko 10000000, takas levels ko 10000000, too. It's definitely gonna a really, really bloody fight, but for the greater good, may I choose more wisely. May I choose to pray and slay, too. 'Yung totoo na. 'Yung wala ng biro. 'Yung seryoso na. Abangan.

[thoselettersto]

The Set-Up

I couldn't take another rejection, so I decided to close myself off - it was easier than having my hopes crushed. I was finally getting to a better place, letting go of all the men that came before you - they were all in my head anyway.

So how did we get to you?

The chances of meeting someone new were slim, and I knew that. I didn't want to go out, didn't want to try. Part of me thought maybe I would change my mind once I had my life a little more together, but another part of me had gotten used to being on my own.

For the longest time, my friends and I had this running joke that the perfect man did exist. His name was Benjamin Owens, and he could do no wrong. We constantly referred to him by his full name because that's just the kind of guy he was. Whenever a man was a little bit creepy? "Benjamin Owens would never do that." When we met another man named Benjamin and he didn't treat us right, he got the "The Benjamin that I knew would never" treatment.

Benjamin Owens was a fictional characterization of the man we once knew. He was based on the very few things we remembered about him but mostly on how he made us feel because it's true - it's so easy to forget the words but the feelings last so much longer. Ben was funny, but more importantly, he was SO nice and a safe presence to be around - he was our favorite person to be around for the short time we had together.

One summer, a few years ago, I made the only bold move I had in my arsenal: I added a couple of men I hadn't spoken to in forever on social media in hopes of rekindling something.

Of those men, I had a more recent and more delusional crush on a man, Jayson, that was so wrong for me. Jayson liked a picture or two but never really interacted much with my profile before he ultimately deleted his account; I was scared he blocked me for whatever reason, but we had sleuthed out that his profile had fully gone kaput.

Ben was the other man, and like Jayson, he also barely interacted with my content. In the first few days, he was the first person to view my stories, and he liked a few things, but that quickly fizzled out, and suddenly, we were back to square one.

I was still very aware that he could see what I was sharing, but I stopped trying to view my content through his eyes… until a few days ago. Because I am more of a lurker and less of a poster, I was even less likely to post pictures of myself. Somehow, with a sudden surge of confidence, I shared an image within a story grid specifically chosen for him. Did I actually think he'd see it? No, but it was a good picture regardless, and considering how out of place it felt for me, I thought it was pretty funny.

I've been on a fitness journey recently, and to make healthier choices for my body, I changed my workout time and went to bed before midnight for the first time in months. I felt a little more refreshed than usual as I rolled over to turn off my alarm - shutting off the gentle sounds of Niall Horan singing "Flicker." I went back to sleep until my last alarm sounded a half hour later - cue Jon Bellion's "Good Things Fall Apart." My eyes were half open as I shut the alarm off and unlocked my phone. A quick banner appeared with a social media notification. What had I just read? I wasn't sure if I was actually awake or dreaming this, so I double-checked, and sure enough, I received the most surprising notification.

Ben had seen all my stories, including from a secondary account he doesn't follow, and responded to the picture I had on my main account - at 1 in the morning. Let that sink in for just a minute. He replied to the story at 1 in the morning.  I would later learn that he may have been in a different time zone for that, but the point still stands.

In a panic, I message one of my closest friends who knows all too well about the Benjamin Owens of it all. We were both in a panic, but I eventually responded, and that's where the story really began.

[sign-seeker]

I wound up unintentionally reading his Extraordinaries trilogy very recently, I have thoughts.

The opening book, The Extraordinaries, was the strongest, and made me kind of interested in reading his other work. Whilst the prose was uninspired in that traditional YA "we must be direct to the point of being allergic to similie and metaphor" way, it was tightly plotted and had surprisingly rich characterisation, which managed to be exaggerated with feeling stupid: the main character is a cringe-worthy moron, but somehow feels like an actual teenage human-disaster instead of a caricature (with the exception of one scene, the "haunted house" conversation breaks all credulity). The plot twists are obviously foreshadowed to the reader without it being unbelievable that the self-absorbed main character couldn't see them coming, and everything has a very "cohesive" feel: it reads like a book that someone put a lot of thought and effort into.

The following books, Flash Fire & Heat Wave, fell flat, and made me wonder very much if the first book was a fluke. Partly this is because they devoted more time to superhero action, because the main character went from being the gay teen boy Lois Lane/Mary Jane Watson of the first book, and went on to become a superhero himself, and Klune cannot, and I say this kindly, write action scene in an engaging way. This means there's less time per book for inter-personal drama and emotional batshittery, which is where the first book shone, but there are other issues as well.

The last 2 books lose their tightly plotted feel, with events feeling like they come more out of left field, and people making decisions that feel like they need to happen for the plot rather than because the character would do it. Furthermore, whilst book 1 features our protagonist and his supporting cast getting fucking pissed at each other and losing their rags, the 2nd & 3rd lean heavily into the idea that YA heroes have to all be perfectly nice to each other: there are scenes that are set up pointedly to be about misunderstandings and allegations of infidelity, where the joke is "no why would I ever think that who even FEELS jealousy", which as a one off could have been funny but as part of the sudden switch to a Nicely Nicely vibe feel cloying.

This vibe runs into the world building: Klune has this deal he's spoken about regarding the need for "positive Queer stories" without LGBT people drowning in society's various phobias. In the first book, the effect of this is that the main character seemingly never encounters a homophobe in his life, and that's fine: if the book isn't about that, it doesn't need to go there. But the latter 2 books take it so far in the other direction that it's bizarre: the citizenry of Nova City are so profoundly LGBT-friendly that it shatters all immersion. Members of braying mobs will pause to correct each other on their language in the heat of the moment and be thanked for it. Even when homophobia is the logical course for the plot to take it won't indulge in it: a right wing demagogue attempts to stir up a hate campaign against a superhero who is publicly believed to be a grown man, and not once makes any snide reference to the fact that he was caught on camera very publicly snogging a teenage boy. My god, dealing with the fallout of that from Fox fucking News could be the plot of a whole book in itself, but nope, not a peep.

The final issue is that Klune's stance is that real-world politics are more important on the page than cohesive characterisation. In the first book, our main character is the son of a police officer, and he has some potent feelings about them: he thinks his dad is the bee's knees, he has very implicit trust in the police force, and crucially he continues to trust in the force despite having clear evidence in his life that if he didn't have cop-family blinkers on would make a person very concerned: his dad literally got busted down from detective to beat cop for smacking a suspect around, with the chief of police personally going to bat for him to keep his job despite this. The main character justifies this as his dad having temporarily lost his shit after the death of his wife, and that's an interesting character point! He needs to believe his dad is shit-hot and the cops are good, because his dad is all he has left and he needs to believe that the rest of the force are heroes who will help keep his dad safe from the violent crime that killed his mother! That's interesting! So it's frustrating when that all gets swept away!

Our main character has a black friend, and near the start of book 2, her father tells cop-dad "hey man I don't trust you because cops are racist and you smacked a dude around". And cop-dad is like "I know I'm so sorry about racism and that time I smacked a dude around". And pretty much instantly the main character's internal worldview 180s, to one where the police can't be trusted (except for his dad, despite actually having committed police brutality). There's no argument, there's no whining, there's no wanting to cling to the comfort of the old beliefs: in the interest of authorial political perfection, his friend's dad says "hey have you considered one of the pillars of your ideology is ass-backwards" and the transformation is instant.

And I feel I need to make this clear: there is no racism apparent in the story. At no point do the police do anything racist for the main character to witness and have his old beliefs challenged or his new beliefs codified. No police or anyone else is racist to his friend, or his friend's dad, or their Puerto Rican superhero ally. The only textual misconduct by the police is his father's assault on a suspect, and the intervention of the chief of police to afterwards keep cop-dad on the force. And those two are considered the good guys by the narrative. At the end of book 2, they quit the force and open a detective agency together, and continue to act as upstanding allies to our heroes! It's. It's bizarre. It feels like posturing. It feels like the author suddenly felt the need to say "actually I hate the cops" without addressing what that means for the reality of the characters.

And this is doubly frustrating because this is super-hero media! There are so many questions you can dig into about the moral right of superheroes to dispense justice without recourse to group authority and what makes them different to the police, especially in a political climate where it is becoming increasingly obvious that the police are not beholden to the communities they are supposed to serve and protect! If the black community of Nova City don't trust uniformed and identifiable police officers with guns to not abuse their power, what are their feelings about these white boys in masks with actual super-powers, and what effect does this have on the way the heroes interact with the citizenry? There is meat on these bones that is going uneaten!

It feels so out of place because it's tonally opposed to the approach to the homophobia issue. He doesn't want the book to be about homophobia, so there's no homophobia, and that's fine. But he suddenly decides he needs to address police racism, and makes a reaction to police racism notable within the plot, but isn't willing to actually address police racism as an event within the story, or address what the wrong-doing on the part of cop-dad and police chief mean for them as characters. If you're not willing to do that, why bother?

Okay I might not have "read" his stuff in the classical sense, but I have a sixth sense for these things.

[free-for-all-fics]

Stupid, silly Namor or Attuma fic ideas. Don’t think too hard about these they’re just funny little ideas. Pls tag me if you write or get inspired by any of these. Like always, there are no rules:

1. The reader is labeled as the village idiot because she likes to sing with her head underwater to "sing to the mermaids". The village ridicules her for it. One day, she is swept out in a riptide, and no one is willing to come to her aid—no one from the village, that is.

2. Reader is full of bad puns and dad jokes, much to the chagrin of Namor/Attuma. "Why are seagulls called seagulls?"

“Stop now.”

“Because if they flew over bays, they'd be bagels! Oh hey, What did one wave say to the other?"

“I swear, if you make one more ocean related pun, I will murder you on this island and tell everyone you died in a shipwreck."

"...well, someone's salty."

3. You put a message in a bottle and set it out to sea in the hopes it’ll reach Namor/Attuma so you can be pen pals. “Oh my god I love you but you’re so stupid.” They say because you have no idea that’s not how mail works.

4. You’re in love with Namor/Attuma, but you’re also obsessed with monsters and cryptids so you keep asking them questions like “Is the Kraken real?? What about 6 headed hydras? Have you seen Nessie?? Are they friendly? Darling tell meeeeeee”

5. Reader does that stupid prank thing where she pretends to do a magic trick with an egg and a bottle of water. She’s like “Ok now look inside” and squeezes the bottle, spraying water in Attuma/Namor’s face and runs away cackling.

6. You introduce Namor/Attuma to a wonderful human invention - Water beds. They are less than amused. Reader, consider your sexy time privileges revoked😑

7. Attuma/Namor trying to teach reader combat and how to fight like a Talokanil but reader keeps making it sexy and Namor/Attuma is like “Ok maybe we should stop. You’re not even listening to me or learning anything properly!” And reader is like “Oh I’m learning all the right techniques perfectly. 😏😘”

8. Those videos from EVNautilus of the people in a submarine coming across a dumbo octopus and a googly eyed stubby squid but instead it’s scientist reader being shown Talokan by Attuma or Namor and fawning over the sea creatures because they’re just little guys. Sweet underwater babies. And reader being like “it’s just a baby can I adopt it pls” 🥺 and Namor or Attuma being like “pay attention. Remember why we’re here.”

9. “Your child brings home a raccoon, mistaking it for a cat and begs to keep it” trope but instead it’s Namor/Attuma and their child has brought home an anglerfish or some other hideous abomination of the sea. It’s surprisingly docile and follows the child around like a pet anyway so can we keep it??? Please father 🥺

10. Namor and Jeff the Land Shark crossover. That’s it. That’s the post. Reader wants to adopt Jeff as their child. He’s just a baby 🥺

11. Peter Pan “They were just having a bit of fun, weren’t you, girls?”

“We were only trying to drown her” Mermaid Lagoon AU

12. “General, I’ve brought the cartographer into the war meeting today. I believe you owe her an apology for ruining all her maps when you stab them to dramatically mark a location.” (What if the “cartographer” is actually Attuma’s small daughter or sister drawing doodles of maps and playing pretend/mirroring what her dad or brother does because she wants to help and it’s all in jest hehe)

13. 2 days ago you went to an animal shelter and adopted the most adorable cat. What you don’t know is, he’s the reincarnation of an Aztec god. Your food offerings are unacceptable and that ugly small box that feels like it’s made from scratchy carpet will not do. No. He’ll be sleeping in your bed with you. Don’t try to lock him out; he’ll just scream and sing the songs of his people until you let him back in. (Or maybe through a magic mishap Namor has been accidentally transformed into a cat. Yeah Namor as a cat AU. I told you these ideas were silly.)

14. “Would you still love me if I was a worm” meme With Namor or Attuma but instead it’s “Would you still love me if I was a sea cucumber” or something ocean related

15. Namor or Attuma are taking their daughter trick or treating this year and ask what she wants to be for Halloween. A superhero, a mermaid, a princess? No. She wants to be a horseshoe crab. Possible Modern AU.

16. Reader goes to the beach often and befriends the seagulls/pelicans. So they start to bring her gifts like shells, rocks, etc. Except one day they bring you a golden bracelet, beaded necklace, or jade earrings (your choice of which). It’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. A few days later, Namor shows up at the beach, looking very annoyed as he asks for his necklace/bracelet/or earrings back.

17. You and Namor or Attuma meet on the beach in your special spot. You don’t get to be with him often considering he’s kept away by his responsibilities and loyalty to Talokan, and you’re human. It’s usually your only chance to have time where you can just quietly love each other. Except a stupid fucking seagull or pelican has been following you to both the beach and your home; squawking incessantly, wreaking havoc and basically cockblocking you. Untitled Goose Game AU but it’s a seagull/pelican.