#took the less overt option

[phyrexian-mama]

Playing Baldur's Gate 3, get Halsin

Me: "He's hot and seems fun, but idk. We'll have to see-"

Halsin, after a long pause looking at Tav: "Apologies. I often find myself distracted appreciating the beauty of nature's creations"

Me:

[tapejob]

hockeyblr linguistics - a preliminary analysis

hey all! as some of you know, i sent out a hockeyblr lingo survey a few days/weeks/something ago. as of today i finally have the free time to tackle it. big thanks to everyone who took the time to fill out the survey, and without further ado: a kind of hasty, barely technical, preliminary analyses of hockeyblr lingo!

this dataset features around 21 main questions, with a sample size of around 673 respondents. partial responses were also combined in the final dataset because i got tired of waiting. obligatory disclaimer on response bias due to the nature of an online survey, etc etc.

i'm dividing this analysis mainly question-by-question, but also organized somewhat by themes/section. while we're mainly covering vocab + pronunciations, there's also sections looking at connotations/sentiment associated with words, and hockeyblr behavior patterns. it is very late at night, please bear with me if i get anything wrong.

section i: vocab + pronounciation demographics

Q1: vocabulary associated with the hat trick*

*as anon and multiple respondents have mentioned, this specific question contains a typo that may have affected data collection. the original question posed was 'what do you call three goals in a period?', which caused some confusion. though i think this data is enough to get the gist of it, this is something to keep in mind. i spent some time cleaning the 'other' responses and incorporating any '3 goals in a GAME is a hatty' responses into the other points, but i apologize for the confusion, haha

'hatty' as a casual reference seems to dominate the preferences. the other two spellings of hat trick seem to be less popular, but still present in the sample. in addition, 2 respondents brought up using 'HT' and/or 'H-T' as shorthand.

it is curious to note: in 'other' responses, at least 12 separate people brought up that they would use 'hatty' and 'hat trick' interchangeably (while only 1 person brought up they would use 'hatty' and 'hattrick', and no one mentioned 'hatty' and 'hat-trick' as pairs).

Q2: What is the title of the player that guards the team's net?

'goalie' seems heavily favored, while 'goaltender' and 'tendie' come after. given that these three terms are most likely to be derived from each other (goalie from goal, tendie from tender), it's understandable: goaltender is the official position name in ice hockey. yet it's curious how 'goalie' is so much more preferred, compared to say the hatty vs hat trick.

i bring this up anecdotally because i remember talking with a friend of mine not in hockey (but into other sports), and she laughed a bit incredulously when i said 'goaltender', like i was making a joke. 'what a weird name, tender, haha,' she'd said, and i got. extremely confused for a moment because i had been so used to it being common vocab.

Q3: What is the term you use to reference who calls the game?

as also mentioned in the other section, there are a lot of people on the ice with a lot of different titles (ref vs linesmen) - how much of this data captures the people who care and specify (mentioned in the others responses) vs those who just call everyone ref (also mentioned in the others responses)? something to consider in the future. in addition, 'zebra' surprised me as a somewhat common term, given that i rarely see it used on my dash.

a big oversight on my part was forgetting to put 'refs' as an option - that's why the 'other' chunk seems so large here. below is an expansion on the 'other' responses:

Q4: How do you pronounce the term for the period played following a tie at the end of the 3rd period?

this question sort of combines pronunciation and vocab in one. once again, shorthand seems to be favored (specifically the 'OT (oh-tee)' pronunciation, though there were still respondents for the other pronunciation). interestingly, more fun terms were also reflected among a decent couple people in the 'other' section, shown below in the figure.

shoutout, also, to the respondent who called an instance of overtime 'instant victory'.

Q5: How do you pronounce the term that references when your team gets to play with an extra man on the ice due to a penalty from the other team?

interestingly, this is one of the questions where the shorthand wasn't favored (powerplay over pp). also, as @bisexualingmaliciously brought up: terms like man advantage, commonly favored during announcing, aren't as widely favored, while pee-pee (wouldn't be caught dead on air if they can help it) is considerably larger of a chunk. shoutout, also, to the respondent who pronounces pp as 'puh'.

in other responses, 'poplay' was also brought up as a term. another respondent made a specific distinction that powerplay was used for speaking, but PP for typing - this gap might be something to consider in the future.

Q6: How do you pronounce the term that references when a player gets a goal into a net that a goaltender has been pulled from?

'empty netter' as a term falls into a somewhat shorthand purgatory (with the full term as empty net goal, and true shorthand as ENG). it's similar vibe i assume as calling hat trick -> hatty -> HT. also, unlike PP and OT, ENG pronunciation is slightly more varied (not by a lot, but a little).

within 'other', 5 respondents also cited 'empty net' as their term. obviously this might not be favored due to the confusion (empty net as the event of not having the goalie in the net, vs empty net as the goal on that specific empty net). yet in the sentence 'crosby got the ___', why do the majority of us prefer empty netter over empty net (which, i do recall instances of announcers using as well)? does the 'er' ending roll off the tongue better? expansion on other response data below:

another note: a respondent made a specific distinction that empty netter was for speaking, while ENG is for typing.

Q7: "The other team is coming to our __"

i do think it's interesting that the sort of stadium/localization for the playing field is built off the materials surrounding the sport. 'turf' and 'field' are pretty widely used for field sports, and we have a similar reflection when put into the context of hockey: arena, rink, ice.

'other' distributions also reflect sentiments on 'house/home' -- rather than home turf, our home ice -- or calling out the specific territories. however, there were also a couple responses stating that they would never phrase or say anything along these lines.

Q8: How do you describe a situation where one team is playing 5 players on the ice, and the other team is playing 3 players?

There's a huge preference for '5-on-3' rather than '5v3' as a term. However, something interesting to note: from the 'other' responses, there was one respondent who used '3-on-5', and one who uses '2 man advantage' and '2 adder' interchangeably.

Q9: How do you describe a situation where both teams have 5 players on the ice?

Here, though the number-on-number format is still a large chunk, 'even strength' gains a closer ground (despite '2 man advantage' not having a similar effect on the previous set, even if both terms seem to be contextually linked). in the 'other' responses, there was one respondent who simply cut the term into simply 'even', and also 2 respondents who called this 'normal'/'a normal situation'.

Q10: vocabulary associated with dick trick

*this specific question contains a typo that may have affected data collection. the original question posed was 'what do you call four goals in a period?', which caused some confusion. i went through the same data cleaning procedures, but given this is a 'lesser known' sort of term, it's harder to guarantee that confusion is accurate or reflective.

The majority seemed to have 'dick trick' down - an interesting term, considering that it's not technically an official hockey term, but was popularized from thornton's quote and definitely isn't said on-air.

'other' responses vary: there is a great amount who expressed confusion over the term or called it simply '4 goals' (may be influenced by the question wording, as mentioned). others seemed aware of the reference ('joe thornton special'), or had a different term ('gettysburg hat trick', 'poker', spin on the word hatty).

Q11: What do you call the area that players sit in during their penalty?

more variation in this response - it seems roughly equally divided between 'the box', 'penalty box', and 'sin bin'. within 'other' responses, the sentiment surrounding the box revolved around either playful/childish terms, or those that involve connotations of punishment or crime.

some respondents also remarked that their language around the ox will change based on the situation: for example, 'Time out or prison depending on severity' and 'juvie (if it’s a rookie) crimes corral'.

Q12: What do you call a player whose role is often aggressive and expected to fight in defense of their teammates?

'enforcer' and 'goon' seem to be the heavily favored terms -- however, commentary from 'other' respondents also mentioned that a few believe the terms to be dated, corresponding to historical roles that no longer have a place in the game.

a few responses also called this role 'rat' adjacent, 'bad/big boy', or a similar term referring to the size of the player ('the tank', 'the muscle').

Q13: What do you call a player whose role is primarily situated on defense?

'd-man' as a shorthand holds a large portion of responses (once again, a similar middle ground shorthand format). however, of the 'other' responses, there was a group who also referred to this position as 'defender' and 'defense', as well as one respondent who specified a 'dman' without the hyphen from the multiple choice.

Q14: What do you call a player who often seeks to agitate opponents and draw penalties?

'pest' and 'rat' seem to be the big terms here, with very little surprise. there is however, a plethora of other nicknames available in the 'other' responses

the sentiment towards this player role also seems much friendlier in comparison to other role questions (multiple references to positive endearments, nicknames, or players).

Q15: Which of these terms do you (commonly) use?

this particular question was multiple-response for a reason - i want to take a deeper dive on these associations later. for now, it's interesting to note that specific shot terms, often finisher acts (e.g. 'slapshot', 'one-timer') are somewhat more used than those involved with skills (e.g. 'toe drag').

section ii: connotations/sentiment association

Q16: Oldest age of a baby ___ ?

here are some violin plots on that specific question (which i loved). though this stat has somewhat been alluded to in literature before (the so-called primes/development curves of each position), it's nice to see it in numbers.

a 'baby goaltender' can essentially be older than that of the other 'baby' positions (however, with greater spread - indicating that there was potentially a range of responses in terms of goaltender age). an old baby prospect is the youngest of them all, with the smallest spread.

Q17: Your "national broadcast" refers to:

evidently, regionally based associations come into play here. within the 'other' distribution, there is a range of responses, from those who have never heard/used the term 'national broadcast' before, those not in the US/Canada, to those who define it as anything outside of their local broadcast (no association with any particular brand). there is also a healthy amount of illegal stream usage.

Q18: What do you call it?

this question was deliberately a bit vague, relying on respondents to know the context through the answer choices. even so, 'narrative' won out overwhelmingly. how did this term come about, and why do we all specifically associate so much with it -- choosing it over other terms such as sports magic or story?

on the flip side, 'other' spouted multiple responses who were unfamiliar with the term. so how did that 77.56% suddenly and undeniably understand the term and its connotations? what part of the hockeyblr bubble has assimilated this particular figure of speech for us?

Q19: What does the above term mean to you?

this question was a free response, aiming to look at the sentiments and connotations associated with the term, and received around 342 responses. responses varied from snippets of poetry, objective definitions, confusion from those who aren't familiar with the term, and also a few associations with rpf.

i did a sentiment analysis on the dataset per response, and graphed the positive, negative, and neutral sentiments on a 3d scatterplot.

though a majority of responses featured generally positive-neutral sentiments, there was variation and the addition of negative sentiments in the set as well. looking at a violin plot of the compounded sentiment (combining the positive, neutral, and negative)

though the majority falls neutral in sentiment, and an average skews towards positive, narrative sentiment continues to vary.

in addition, topic modeling was done on the dataset, split into both negative and positive topic models. 10 topics were each generated from the lda models. from the positive topic model, the following topics were generated (terms, with their corresponding weights)

'0.033*"dreams" + 0.033*"perseverance" + 0.033*"strength" + 0.033*"maths" + ' '0.033*"hopes" + 0.033*"finesse" + 0.033*"feats" + 0.033*"essence" + ' '0.033*"peoples" + 0.022*"interactions"'

'0.054*"fun" + 0.053*"used" + 0.051*"happen" + 0.034*"talent" + ' '0.033*"family" + 0.026*"numerology" + 0.026*"moments" + 0.026*"improbable" ' '+ 0.026*"golden" + 0.026*"sids"

'0.167*"story" + 0.054*"win" + 0.048*"season" + 0.040*"team" + ' '0.025*"beyond" + 0.022*"g" + 0.019*"adds" + 0.019*"case" + 0.016*"underdog" ' '+ 0.016*"neatly"'

'0.099*"hockey" + 0.081*"way" + 0.056*"magic" + 0.052*"it" + ' '0.046*"definitely" + 0.040*"fan" + 0.037*"terms" + 0.026*"thing" + ' '0.025*"much" + 0.023*"special"

'0.067*"cup" + 0.059*"team" + 0.039*"whats" + 0.034*"uplifting" + ' '0.034*"bonding" + 0.027*"us" + 0.026*"dynamics" + 0.024*"theme" + ' '0.016*"intricate" + 0.015*"overarching"

'0.059*"storyline" + 0.058*"player" + 0.056*"lore" + 0.048*"career" + ' '0.047*"emotional" + 0.034*"satisfying" + 0.032*"team" + 0.026*"goal" + ' '0.024*"beloved" + 0.023*"important"

'0.100*"tale" + 0.055*"one" + 0.050*"thats" + 0.043*"on" + 0.039*"sport" + ' '0.036*"reason" + 0.024*"cant" + 0.024*"supreme" + 0.024*"pornography" + ' '0.024*"define"

'0.056*"luck" + 0.040*"friendships" + 0.036*"the" + 0.034*"put" + ' '0.025*"words" + 0.025*"stoned" + 0.025*"research" + 0.025*"figure" + ' '0.025*"ur" + 0.025*"playoffs"

'0.059*"current" + 0.037*"trying" + 0.033*"theyre" + 0.030*"creates" + ' '0.030*"cohesive" + 0.030*"life" + 0.029*"guy" + 0.021*"urban" + 0.021*"ppl" ' '+ 0.021*"gay"

'0.047*"pekka" + 0.023*"kisses" + 0.023*"nashville" + 0.023*"must" + ' '0.023*"mika" + 0.023*"juuse" + 0.023*"letang" + 0.023*"hugs" + 0.023*"kane" ' '+ 0.023*"chis"

read through them. i think i cried when i did. it's like.... that's the narrative, huh.

section iii: hockeyblr behavior patterns

Q20: How would you tag a post about Mitch Marner?

this question aimed to look at how users tagged players -- though i tried to pick a player that could be looked on mostly ambivalently, i obviously failed badly. for that i apologize.

though the #[first name] [last name] format that most player tags use seem to be the most common, there are an evidently varied amount of responses regarding the player in question. people either hate mitch or love him, 'other' responses included responses from 'i would not post about him/i have his tag blocked' to variations of 'minch/affectionate nicknames', to a response who didn't know who he was.

other tagging styles mentioned included specific player tags for only players on user's followed teams, or exceptions for specific players. also used was the #p:[name] format for players.

Q21: How would you tag a post about the Toronto Maple Leafs?

as opposed to the full name variation for player marner, 'leafs' as the shorthand name wins out over 'toronto maple leafs' as the full team name.

however, this is also dependent on cultural context - the leafs have always been referred to as the leafs. does this tagging etiquette extend to teams such as columbus (would you tag it cbj, jackets, etc)?

conclusions/future considerations: i hate writing this part in real academic papers so i get the choice to half-ass it on my fake no effort one. hockeyblr is fascinating, and you know - why do we tend to say the things we do? there were a few questions i posed in this dataset that would be interesting to pursue if i or anyone else had the time or the time (good god). and considering how unique we are as a niche, how does hockeyblr compare to a different dataset with similar questions? something to consider.

anyway, i hope you guys learned something from this huge post. if you read through all that, you're the greatest. thanks again for reading, hope you enjoyed this not-at-all-academic study.

[gorbalsvampire]

Have you picked up and read the recent WoD 5th edition books, like blood strained love? How is this edition stacking up as they slowly add more splats? Are there any future releases you're interested in? Are there more things you'd like to see from WoD 5e that they don't have right now? Personally I feel like the concept of the loresheets was fun and interesting, but the application has been really uneven and disappointing. I'd want more clan specific sheets for some of the clans that haven't gotten as much love (like I believe there is only 1 Lasombra specific loresheet and nothing for the Tzimisce?) I'd also love to see more By Night books, especially examining places outside of the USA

I've been picking up most of the Renegade books, yes! I like V5, despite its rough start, and Renegade have chosen a middle path between the density of OPP and the aesthetic of the old ParaWW team. They're very game focused books, which I appreciate, not being an enthusiast of "lore for lore's sake" (even typing the word makes my stomach turn over).

It's nice to have a turn away from splatbooks and into transformative supplements. IF you want a dark romantic story, THEN add Blood Stained Love. IF you want overt sectarian conflict in an action thriller, THEN add Gehenna War. It's more useful as an approach than piling more into the core.

I do think they're less substantial than they could be. Blood Stained Love didn't do enough groundwork on establishing the legitimacy of romance stories and, as a result, a lot of the groggier players I know dismissed it as "not for a serious chronicle." Blood Sigils felt like a breathless gush, a glut of new powers with a context sort of folded around it. I know @friends-of-beetlejuice is way more into Alchemy than I am and found a lot of the new background on that very brain chewy, and I took more of an interest when the koldun bug got to me. They feel like what they are: optional extras for people who want more or one specific thing, not must haves to complete the One True "Canon" World of Darkness (there it goes again, bad tum! bad!)

I'm quite interested in Gehenna War, that's a chance to revisit the 1990s vibe. I'm not as interested in Crimson Gutter for myself, but I think it's exactly what the game needs right now: premade, metaplot light material to get new players and STs up and running.

As for future releases, someone badly needs to give the Tzimisce the same treatment the Hecata got: collate the ideas, work them over, rationalise the concept and build some out into Loresheets. Vicissitude is too long and fussy as a power, it needs tearing down and a lighter touch taking. A European City By Night book with a long Tzimisce chapter or two would be perfect as a vehicle for that. I'd rather see Onyx Path do it – I've ragged on Dawkins as a developer, but this is the kind of thing he was born to do, and the substance-over-style approach is what's needed here.

Generally I don't rate the By Nights – too many of them are metaplot vectors that don't care to make space for play – but the slower, colder, older, conflicts of the settled and less gun-happy European Kindred need a showcase, and another Chicago-tier book would do it.

[fantasyinvader]

So, if I had to boil down my thoughts on Three Houses/Hopes it would look like this:

I do appreciate that the game has served as a learning experience for me regarding Buddhist beliefs and symbolism. I’ve always had a love of mythology, so reading about the stories that go with these symbols was fun for me. However, I do feel that the game leans to hard on the symbolism to get some things across to the audience, like how we all took Claude’s core issue to be his lack of knowledge when it was his own hatred towards the Church of Seiros that was holding him back, while at the same time uses other compatible symbolism like some of the Christian or tarot stuff. Just a lot of symbolism in lieu of telling a more direct story. Likewise when the translation changes some of those elements it upsets the reading. Like how Safflower was changed to Crimson Flower with the Edge of Dawn linking the flower to a rose, as roses and safflowers hold different meanings. I feel like if the game had toned down the symbolism and was more overt in it’s storytelling, than a lot of changes would have been harder to justify.

Tying into the first point, it’s also annoying how the game dances around the truth. Let me put it like this, there are singular lines of dialogue that are supposed to inform us about the setting or characters. Yet since they’re optional and easily missable, characters will act like they aren’t common knowledge. It makes the characters and the world feel less cohesive, like they don’t actually live in that world. I want characters to be informed by their setting and backstories, not feel disconnected from them.

That said, I do appreciate how the game doesn’t hold your hand on this stuff rather than beat you over the head with it, but there’s already a lot of exposition in the game. I feel like there had to have been a way to do this more organically.

The characters really grew on me as I looked deeper and deeper into them and their relationship with the story and setting. As I’ve said a couple of times now, the Black Eagle class are my favorites because they symbolize the moral decline of the Empire and the fact they become villains after White Clouds if not recruited away from Edelgard makes me feel that they need me more than anyone. I do like how Ingrid and Felix’s endings are weaker outside of Azure Moon, Ingrid not being able to follow her dreams and Felix’s grief pushing him into seeking more conflict despite Byleth’s influence. And the Deer are a lovable bunch of misfits. Claude is my favorite lord, though admittedly his writing is pretty messy possibly due to his role being changed in development.

The fact is, I keep buying Cipher cards for Houses characters. While I would like Cipher cards for Engage, the fact that I mostly go for Houses followed by the Elibe lords of my youth ultimately shows my connection to these characters. I have a complete set of the Eagles (with the Wolves on their way) in their academy uniforms, thinking of finishing off the Deer next followed by the Lions if they’re still available. I just really like the character designs in this game, definitely up there with Echoes (my favorite game design-wise).

I like Byleth’s intended arc but I wish there was more ways to show their character. Just because a character is a silent protagonist doesn’t mean they can’t be characterized properly. Shez I just feel bad for, because they’re not meant to overshadow Byleth and therefore even on their best behavior they can’t lead the Eagles, Dimitri or Claude down their more heroic paths. Guess it would highlight a key difference between the two, while Shez isn’t emotionless they just see themselves as a mercenary and just go along with their leaders. Byleth, meanwhile, secretly dislikes the merc life and the teaching gig is their ticket out which in turn gives them growth. But the fact that Shez is nothing more than a failure hero/ine in their own game, that sucks. At least give us an option to recruit Shez in Houses as a bonus or something.

I’ve said before I do feel Edelgard is pretty well done. The fact that she’s a villain means that we aren’t supposed to simply see her as eye-candy, and we’re meant to pay attention to what she’s saying and what she’s actually doing. She can make you think you’re the good guy if you’re not paying attention to the world, and while the effects could have been more pronounced she is a toxic influence on those around her. Hell, considering the links between what we see of the Empire in Hopes to what is said to happen post-Flower, it’s clear she doesn’t get character development even with Byleth (instead, causing Byleth’s regression). She’s a damn good villain, and helps supply a feminist message about treating women as people.

As for the stories, due to the symbolism Silver Snow felt the most fulfilling to me because so much of the game was built around it. Moon followed that due to how it feels the least reliant on the symbolism. The fact that we’ve been wrong about Claude’s core issue shows an issue with Wind getting it’s point across, while Flower suffered in the translation.

The game’s runtime feels excessive and the idea that we were only ever expected to play one route is a joke. Each route takes as long as some RPGs to finish, and the monastery is a big issue because of this. While time is always going forward, too much is spent faffing about and if you skip exploration you can miss some vital details to actually understanding some things.

Gameplay-wise, it works well enough. Load times are a pain in the ass, I don’t like how I have to assign skills after learning them and wish that when I learned a skill a popup would give me the opportunity to equip it. I hate how the weapons triangle needs to be recreated through assigning skills. I love the battalions though and hope that makes a comeback in future installments. The game overall leans a bit much on the easy side, and the gameplay is a definite step down from Fates.

I don’t like the model of character growth. I’m a firm believer that characters should be expressed through their classes, both main and alts. The fact I can put anyone into any class, even if they aren’t suited for it, takes that away. Don’t get me started on each character having their own personal spell list either, because while I would appreciate this otherwise it only serves to punish players for making certain units into magical classes especially when I can give most classes any weapon. That and it just feels wrong that I, the teacher, get to decide how these guys end up being trained and can ignore the students desires. I should be helping them become who they want to be, not what I want them to be. Also prefer characters leveling up every 100 exp like in other games, rather than Houses being more like regular RPGs.

I would have definitely preferred if we had the more visual novel-like cutscenes and supports over using the 3d models for those, especially when they talk about items that the game does not have models for.

If I think about any sort of conclusion to this, I like the stories and characters but it was a case of me investing into fully grasping it that did it. I wouldn’t still be talking about them otherwise, as the more I learn about they symbolism the more things felt like they clicked. I generally feel bad that the intended messages got messed up by the translation and further obscured by fanon. But that just props up gameplay that should have been refined more, as in many ways it suffers from poor optimization and excess. That is always going to be a roadblock to me going back and replaying it.

[confessedlyfannish]

@jedipirateking I actually had Bruce asking the same question and took it out since it didn't work in the flow of conversation. But Clockwork considered a fair amount of options (timelines) and ultimately it comes back down to what I was able to have him partially answer which is a) he has the political power/sway as Bruce Wayne AND Batman to help dismantle a government organization both overtly and quietly and b) has the funds and again political power to fight for custody as well should the government again try that route to be involved (Or Masters, or Luthor...). In my head as one of the head figures of the Justice League he would sort of be taking responsibility as being Danny's "sponsor", so to speak. And I wouldn't want Superman or Wonderwoman being the sponsor on behalf of the Justice League for reasons I'll get into.

You could make the case as well for Oliver Queen money & political power wise, but I will say, despite Clockwork's last line (and perhaps because of it? wink wink) he does think he can successfully have Batman be an okay, mostly hands off parental figure. I also think Bruce Wayne's fingers in politics is mostly under the radar, I think Ollie's is more overt? That's in my recollection of DC, but based on your last line I am concerned you're going to jump down my throat with specific references from comics.

The lines I took out was that Clockwork wouldn't want him to be with Superman, because Danny doesn't need lessons on how to be a good hero or person because he already is that. And he doesn't need lessons on control either. He needs the combination of overt and subtle protection that Batman and Bruce Wayne can provide. And if, in addition, Danny gets to see a darker side of the world, and have a less idealized outlook on life than he would with blue long johns, well, Clockwork is still a manipulative time god at his core.

I know Wonder Woman has the alter ego of Diana Prince but I still consider her a full time superhero. She also has a protege, but she doesn't have a child/children. She's not a parental figure. I also hint at it but she knows of Clockwork, and that would muddy the waters of any relationship she would have with Danny.

Is it also possible Red Hood, Tim, Damian, and Bruce all have ties to the supernatural that would be worth exploiting to keep Danny safe? Maybe.

As for having Bruce be an investigator, you're right, but Bruce has shown to be someone who disregards the modus operandi when it comes to children. And now that he knows there's one out there either actively or on the brink of being tortured? Which, the god in question revealed to be true just by virtue of how hard he was dodging admitting it?

Personally, I've also always found Batman to be pragmatic about where he stands in the power spectrum. He makes instruments to be stronger in light of what he's faced with, but he recognizes what he can and can't stand up to, that's part of what makes him smart. He's not the guy to keep getting up like maybe this time i'll hit him hard enough!! :D, he's the guy to say duck down you idiot, let's regroup. Right now, a god that has shown he's super duper powerful is threatening him (and heavily implied, everyone he loves) if he doesn't go rescue a tortured child right this second. Batman takes five seconds to think about it, realizes he's cool with a) rescuing a tortured child and b) rescuing a tortured child that means his family doesn't get tortured too, and c) can figure everything else out post rescuing tortured child. and let's not forget d) if this was all some sort of trap to take him out, again, god who STOPS TIME could've taken him out.

Also, don't love the generalization of "this fandom not knowing any other DC heroes again", gotta say.

That's my spiel.

Writing Prompt #12

Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.

Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.

Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.

While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.

These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".

There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—

"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.

But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.

He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.

"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.

"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.

"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.

He doesn't look away from the man.

"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."

"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.

The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.

The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"

Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."

"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."

He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.

"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.

"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.

"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."

"Him."

"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."

"Why me?"

"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."

This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.

"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"

"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."

"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."

"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."

"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."

"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.

"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.

"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."

"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."

"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."

Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.

Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.

"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."

The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.

"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."

"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"

There is a pause.

"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."

"Resolve what?"

"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."

"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."

Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."

The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."

"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."

"They will have already muzzled him."

Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.

"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."

"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"

[sueske]

Im gonna ask for some grace in this question because im autistic and I can barely understand social stuff from my culture, none the less Japan's culture. So basically, all the not-het stuff Kishi did is not common in other Shounen? If so, has he ever commented on why he did what he did?

I guess the only two options are he really did this intentionally in the only way he could. I'm not sure how homophobic Japan is, but I assume being overt would've made Naruto a failure of a manga/anime. So he had to be subtle.

Or maybe he is genuinely not a socially aware guy?

Am I understanding the situation here?

Regardless, he must be aware of the loud conversation around SNS. Has he ever acknowledged it at all?

well I’m not Japanese so I can’t really speak on behalf of their culture/fandom, all I can do is give my two cents from an outsider’s perspective, but what I can say from my 20 years of watching/reading anime/manga is that no one does it like sns, especially not in shonen. If I were to list all the reasons this reply would be thousands of words long so I'll redirect you here.

No one’s ever explicitly asked Kishimoto as far as interviews are concerned whether sns are actually gay or not, but the topic of their bond has been discussed. Kishimoto said that he finds their relationship hard to put into words, that he’s not sure if he explained it properly, that sns might look insane to some people, and that people who grew up lonely wrote to him saying how much they identified with the characters (paraphrasing here). The fact that even Kishimoto finds it hard to define their bond using the usual labels is very telling. So we have to read in between the lines cuz the answer lies in the words left unsaid. The words he probably can’t say.

Japan is home to a homophobic society, as is most of the rest of the world, and the fact of the matter is naruto is a shonen manga. How can teenage boys self insert into the main protagonist if he’s overtly gay after all? Kishimoto still wrote a love story though and while it was never explicitly stated in the normal way, ‘I love you!’, it was explicit in all the other ways that truly matter.

Kishimoto 100% wrote sns gay intentionally - reasonings specifically in this ask here. As for whether he’s socially unaware... I’m not sure what you fully mean by this question. As in, he can only write a gay story if he’s socially unaware? That he's socially unaware, so that’s why he just wrote a gay story for the fun of it? Kishimoto is very socially aware, which is why he took such great care in crafting his work in the first place. Also take a look at some of the works that inspired him previously. 

As for whether he acknowledged the speculation around sns, well. If you were a mangaka of one of the most popular series in the world wouldn’t you be curious as to what people were saying about it? So he had to know. He 100% knew what he was doing when writing his work, so I’m sure he also became curious if people actually picked up on it. Not to mention the editors/higher-ups would have brought to his attention certain things the fandom were saying. SJ’s mission is to make money, so giving the people what they want is a sure-fire way to do that, which means listening to what they want (and what they don’t want) and relaying that information to Kishimoto. And, well. That’s how Boruto happened.

[babyybitchhh]

Garp x Reader 18+

Rating: Explicit/R-18+

Words: 1,000

Warnings: power imbalance, superior/subordinate, nonconsensual oral sex (male receiving), (big) age difference, (actual) grandpa fucking

A/N: This is the product of me thinking, hey ... I wonder if I can write a proper ficlet of 1,000 words - no more, no less. Imagine my surprise when I did just that. Please enjoy!

♥♥♥♥

“Get over here. Now.”

Your eyes widen, cheeks burning hot as you watch vice admiral Garp beckon you closer with a terse wag of his finger. But when you don’t immediately rush to answer the summons, when you don’t trip over yourself in haste to follow orders, his ire only grows. You weren’t often prone to bouts of insubordination. He knew that. Everyone on board knew that. You were, however, one of the most stubborn recruits on the ship and he was not above putting his hands on you just so could drag you where he wanted you to be.

Jaw clenching tight, he takes a deliberately slow breath. “You’re not going to like how this ends if I have to make you comply.”

Affront flashes through your eyes for but a split second before morphing into sullen, almost petulant resignation. He thinks it suits you, this childish pout to match the cherubic quality of your face (still so young) and it is with a great deal of satisfaction that he watches you trudge across the room of your own volition. Garp isn’t usually one for power trips or tyrannical rule over his men - or women, in your case - but he did like to run a tight operation. Particularly when it came to rookies like you.

The ringing silence inside his office hangs heavy for an uncomfortably long beat while he critically stares you down. It’s only when you start to quake and nervously fold in on yourself, shoulders bunching up towards your ears - only then does he let loose the puff of air filling his lungs.

“Well? What have you got to say about that little stunt in the mess hall? I’m waiting.”

A mute shake of your head is, disappointingly, the only forthcoming response you offer him.

You really should know better by now. He’s certain you know better, in fact, and he allows his displeasure at your failure in protocol to color his voice red hot and booming when he pulls it straight up from the depths of his broad, barrel chest. “I asked you a question, recruit! Answer me when I’m speaking to you!”

The bellowing roar seems to reverb off the walls, making you flinch and understandably so. You were tiny compared to him, not quite eye level with his waist, and you couldn’t boast even a quarter of the overt physical strength he possessed. Garp could all too easily snap you in half without so much as breaking a sweat while he did it so it was no wonder that you were intimidated. But this disquiet was something he’d have to break you of, sooner or later, and he feels a brief spark of pride when you straighten your posture for him.

“Apologies, sir. It wasn’t my intention to disrespect you.”

He huffs, sounding much like an incensed bull. “That’s better. Now. The incident in the mess hall, if you would.”

To his enervated chagrin, though, you still hesitate. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t say.”

The humorless bark that erupts from him has you shifting your weight almost imperceptibly from one foot to the other. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand what was going on here. Hazing and strong-arming the smaller, weaker recruits was an unfortunate truth of each new class he took on but your failure to obey orders was a much bigger problem. It was admirable that you wanted to deal with this yourself rather than seek help from a superior officer but he simply couldn’t let it slide.

Thoughtfully, Garp considers his short list of disciplinary options. Quickly decides none of the sanctioned, navy regulated methods were appropriate for someone like you, someone of your stature, and he sedately reaches for the front of his slacks instead.

Your comically flabbergasted reaction at the sound of his zipper descending probably would have made him chuckle under better circumstances. But this was no laughing matter and he levels you with a stern scowl as he fists his soft cock through the slit in his pants, holding it out for you with one massive hand.

“It’s not that you can’t,” he tells you thinly. “It’s that you won’t. But since you want to play this game then why don’t I help you put that mouth to good use, hm?”

You look up at him, eyes round and glassy - doe like in the most charming sense. Lips that look petal soft dutifully open for him and he purposely chooses to overlook the fact that you were already halfway through the motion of shaking your head in protest. His unoccupied hand quickly snakes around the back of your neck and clamps down, none too gently guiding you forward until you were just bent at the waist with a plushy cheek pressed tight against his groin.

The startled, wounded animal sound that puffs out of you has his cock stirring to life with a subdued twitch.

“S - sir?” You warble in shocked disbelief.

“Quiet. You’ve already forfeited your right to speak.”

He can feel you swallowing hard under his calloused palm, a valiant attempt to choke down your trepidation, but you don’t try to fight it when he roughly directs your mouth where it rightfully belongs. Delicate hands hesitantly brace against the fronts of his thighs as Garp forces soft, spongy flesh past lips and teeth to settle on a hot, squirming tongue. You noise around the intrusion, jolting at the taste of him. Volleying back with his own grunt of satisfaction, he tips his head back and lets his fingers fall from the base of his shaft.

You were a good girl. Or, rather, you would be.

He vowed to make sure of that even as he meanly pushes down on the back of your neck and grinds your nose into the majority gray-white thatch of hair framing his cock. You whimper and whine when it starts to grow in your mouth but he doesn’t let up, demanding obedience.

You would learn in due time.

[mego42]

Meggggg I was just musing on something and decided to send an ask because I LOVE ASKING YOU ALL YOUR OPINIONS.

Ok so I always see people mention that rio was crying In the club ™️ because he thought Beth and nick slept together. I get lost as to why people make this assumption though. At the start of the episode nick is asking rio for advice on a very clear problem: how to get Beth to agree to run for city council. Rio gives his smug hair-pulling advice as the solution to the problem. Beth agrees to run at end of episode and nick sends rio the bottle complete with “for pulling her hair” note. (Because he thinks Rio pulling her hair via strip strip coercion meant that Beth was won over by nick’s romancing tactic in comparison?? Because he thinks Rio’s hair pulling tactic convinced Beth to run? I’ve never totally known).

This bottle is clearly celebrating Beth deciding to run for council? It was the hurdle nick was facing at start of episode, and the one he’s jumped by the end. I’m so confused why people think rio thinks it means nick and Beth slept together?!???? What am I missing?? What do you think??

My hot take was that rio knew it meant Beth had agreed to run and while Rio had been all talk up to that point about being FINE SO FINE about nick using Beth for his plans, when the event itself actualized, he realizes he’s very NOT ok with nick using Beth or working with Beth or getting close to Beth or spending time with Beth, especially in light of the fact that nick has been kinda overt about his intention to also hit on Beth as part of the above. (The very next rio and Beth scene is the next episode when Rio can barely contain his “so WHY do you want this, what’s in it for you” question.) cue rio in his feels crying in the club and the true turning point for Rio in his decision to take nick down.

This was meant to be two sentences. Oops.

hahahahahaha NO OOPS I LOVE IT!!!!!!

personally, i think i'm in line with you? i never thought rio took the bottle as notice that beth and nick slept together as much as confirmation from nick that she was running aka nick had his hooks in her now (or so he thinks). my take was rio's angst came from seeing where that path could lead, and it's almost more worrisome than just beth and nick potentially sleeping together for someone who's in big fat stupid love with beth like rio is.

more so than money, rio knows beth's horny af for power, control, and respect. his ability to give her all of the above is a huge part of what attracted her to him in the first place and all three of those are things nick/city council are able to give her with a crucial difference of not coming equipped with all of the bloody baggage and bitter history beth and rio have accumulated between them.

i always thought he's crying in the club bc he's looking at that bottle and seeing a future where beth's able to get everything rio's been able to give her from nick and she cuts rio out/leaves him/chooses nick. why wouldn't she? as far as rio knows, beth has no idea he's playing her and again, he and beth have all that baggage making nick look like a much less complicated option on paper. additionally, it's compounded by the fact that nick's got a history of taking what rio has/loves, so (i think) he's afraid that if presented with that opportunity, nick's gonna go for it/her just to mess with rio.

which brings me back around to what i ultimately loved so much about the love triangle (beyond the sheer delight i took from watching rio lose his ding dang mind and spiral his way into proposing): the way the contrast between rio and nick highlighted beth's feelings.

if money, power, control, and respect were all beth was after, she could've made her life a hell of a lot less complicated and turned on rio after he gave her what she needed to get nick out of the way. she had all the cards, she had the line on the secret service, and she decided to protect rio (and if there was any doubt, the show made sure to explicitly underline it with that beat between nick and dave where dave said rio had something nick didn't and then they cut straight to beth)

AND THEN, just in case anyone was like well yeah but she was all pissed off about nick lying to her blah blah blah, the show went for the compare/contrast again and set up (what seems to beth like it might be) a betrayal from rio with mick and the gun, and beth chose to protect him again!!!!! and then they made it explicit again with her and ruby and annie where beth flat out tells them sure rio might have had me shot but it was a flesh wound so basically he loves me and i'm not saying i love him too but i am saying i'm giving up all of our plans and a stress-free life with a clean slate in favor of criming with him until death do us part bc actually i am kind of saying i love him too

at the end of the day, beth wants rio, not just the money/power/control/respect. it's personal for her too, and she chose rio and the twisted, complicated mess between them bc she's just as in it with him as he is with her thank you and good night.

[comicgeekery]

Ok, this took me a few days to finish but I had a lot of fun with it!

<b>It’s Not a Sonic Butt-Plug</b>

“It’s perfectly normal, you know,” Aziraphale said far too brightly. “Just a little game, nothing indicative of me growing bored or less fond of you.”

“I know.” Still, Crowley eyed his husband warily. “Humans have been doing sexy role-plays since clothes became non-optional. ‘Oh, look at me, I’ve got a crown made of twigs! I sure hope no handsome blokes with authority issues come bugger me in the bushes!’ I just...don’t understand where this…<i>specific</i> fantasy comes from.”

Aziraphale huffed. “<i>Well</i>, if you’d listened to me and done a bit of <i>research</i>…”

“The show’s been on for 60 years! I’m not sitting through 60 years worth of a madman in a box fighting bins with plungers on!”

Aziraphale stuck his nose in the air, but didn’t comment further. Crowley frowned. That was too easy. <i>Had</i> he actually just won the argument? Or was his angel just barely holding back a smirk right now?

“In any case,” Aziraphale continued, “I thought the show might not appeal, so I’ve already prepared all the materials you should need.”

And he handed Crowley a small pile of things: a brown pinstripe suit, a few pages of notes, and a grey stick with a light on the end. He wondered if maybe the stick would benefit from a flared base. Then he picked up the notes.

“Right. So, I’m a doctor.”

“<i>The</i> Doctor.”

“Sure. Mysterious doctor without a proper name, who’s also a time-traveler and also an alien.” Crowley paused and raised a lecherous eyebrow. “Any special alien anatomy I should add on?”

He’d meant it as a joke to fluster Aziraphale. But instead Aziraphale was quiet for far too long, staring at Crowley’s chest with thoughtful intensity. “...No,” he finally said. “I think I’d prefer the usual there.”

Crowley smiled uncertainly and went back to the notes. What sort of bizarre alien nipples had he just dodged? He’d thought this was a family show!

“Alright, so you’ve got a few phrases ready for me. Let’s see.” Crowley frowned. “Allonsy?”

Aziraphale brightened. “Yes, but with a bit more verve, my dear!”

“Allonsy.”

“No, be excited! And with a bit more French to it!”

“<i>Allonsy</i>.”

“Ah...maybe try…”

“ALLONSY!”

Aziraphale winced and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let’s….Let’s just move on, my dear.”

Crowley grumbled. Maybe he <i>should</i> be jealous of this Doctor. He snapped his fingers to change into the pinstripe suit. The fabric felt cheap, but then so did most things compared to what Crowley usually wore. The fit wasn’t bad. Glancing in the mirror, he could tell it was a decent look for him. He held up the little light-up stick and struck a casual pose.

“Ok, I agree to the cheap suit, but I am <i>not</i> on board with whatever not-so-angelic ideas you have with shiny little lightsaber, you hear me?”

He looked away from the mirror and immediately dropped the ‘lightsaber’ in shock. Aziraphale was staring at him with the most overt, laser-focused lust Crowley had ever seen. Suddenly it seemed like a good thing that the suit was cheap. Clearly it was about to torn off him. With angelic teeth.

Crowley gulped.

“Why don’t you finish the script, darling?” Aziraphale said, managing to sound utterly filthy.

Crowley quickly picked up the page again. “Ah… ‘In all my adventures in space and time, I’ve never met someone as clever and beautiful as you.’ Wow, okay. Not going for humble here, are you? ‘Won’t you join me as my companion, but in a low-stakes way where we won’t have to save the world every week?’”

Immediately Aziraphale gasped as though he was actually surprised. “Why, Doctor! I don’t know what to say! How could I <i>possibly</i> leave behind the Earth I love so dearly?”

“Uh…” Maybe the bigger issue with sexy role-play was that Crowley wasn’t very good at improv. “I’m pretty sure my police box thing is bigger than it looks. We could get a nice bed in there and…”

“If <i>only</i> there was something really <i>special</i> you could offer me. A temptation I couldn’t <i>possibly</i> resist.” Aziraphale was looking at him pointedly now, while unbuttoning his waistcoat like an utter tart. It took Crowley a moment to collect himself and look back at the notes.

“‘Well, I know it isn’t much, but I did pull some strings with the Vashta Nerada.’ Whatever that is. ‘You’re welcome to use their planet-sized library whenever you want.’”

Crowley frowned. “Wait, how—NGK!”

Aziraphale crashed into him and the question was soon happily, vigorously forgotten.

The suit did not survive the experience.

Hi lovely people long time no see! Don't worry, in a month or so I will be back feeding you art more often but until then, I finished 1 out of 2 prizes I promised for the winners of my DTIYS challenge 💜 winner asked for Aziraphale making Crowley cosplay the 10th doctor!

More art 🖌️| Tip Jar 🫙

[hysteriium]

𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑩𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑩𝒍𝒖𝒆;

(𝐆𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞)

(𝐀/𝐧 ): This is the first I’ve posted in ages!!! I can’t recall how long it’s been, life has truly been hectic but I’m getting back on the saddle!!! We’re starting with my boi! I hope you enjoy it as much as I had fun writing this! I’ve been experimenting with the way he talks so it’s not as overt as I’ve previously written! I feel like the intonations may break the flow a bit so I’ve tried to make it more cohesive! Lmk what you guys think! Also shout out to my amazing partner @lilliryth​ they’re the light of my life and helped me edit this!! They’re such an amazing person and I would not be where I am today without them. 

( 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ): Wedding. That is all. It’s not what you think. 

( 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ): DK! Joker x Reader. 

( 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ): 7,600+ k words!

( 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ): Angst (very little), swearing, violence. 

The first time you’d asked, he simply stared in disbelief. 

“Come again?” The bright red hues of confusion painted his husky voice. 

The question had been wreaking havoc in your thoughts for the past month, unsure of how to slip out from ambiguity onto the sureness of the tongue. Such a bold yet silly little request was sure to be large and repugnant to the man hovering above you. While the darkness of his eyes was accentuated by his stygian greasepaint, hints of cocoa peeked through, prompting shy flutters of anxiety in your abdomen.  

You can do this.

Your tongue slid across the arid cracks of your lips, wetting them. You cleared your throat, “I need a date to a wed–” 

That was all you could get out before he blinked a few times and strode off.

The second time, albeit similar in difficulty, thankfully didn’t result in him running. 

You tiptoed into his makeshift office with an air of mischief, his room sombre except for the lamp that spotlighted his desk. Hunched over blueprints which you suspected were his next big scheme, his eyes never drifted from the intricacies on the paper. 

“Boo!” You shouted, catching his hips with an unbreakable hold when you closed the distance. While his body tensed, he couldn’t control the breath of amusement that left his nose.

“I can see you really tried there.” 

You knew he followed your stare when his long fingers worked to roll the sheet. They were fast – so fast the pinched ends stuck out in layered rings that almost resembled winding mountainous trails. He couldn’t have curious eyes ogling his extra top secret will-have-to-kill-you-if-you-found-out criminal plans, now could he? 

“What?” you started, while your hands fell and your footsteps whispered away from him. You felt the creases of your mouth wobble, ready to smile at any moment, and so you bit the inside of your tongue. “Don’t you trust me?” 

“No,” he smirked, petting your head. 

Curse his height. 

“Now, uh, what is it, doll?” 

You let your smile leap free, “I need to ask a super dooper big fav–”

“I’m not going.” 

“But whyyyyyy? My parents are harassing me! They think their daughter’s going to grow old and grey and be alone forever.”

“Gee, I can’t imagine why.” 

You shot him a look, one that only fuelled his amusement.

“J, I can’t just not show up.” 

You watched his figure rise slightly as he drew and released a breath. 

“I don’t like wed–” his tongue stuck out like he’d tasted something bad before he cleared his throat “–dings, they’re full of false hope, drunks and...” he shuddered, “romance. You see, they’ll end up killing each other in a few years. I can picture it now: dearly beloved wife kills cheating husband. Oh how could this have ever happened?” 

He scoffed.

“You’re so dramatic. I promise it would only be for a few hours.”

“And pumpkin, how exactly are you gonna sneak me into a… place like that when I look like this,” he said, hands motioning to his face – mostly his scars. 

It broke your heart. You could've sworn you heard it splinter, the downturn of your brows impossible to hold back. If only words were enough to convey complex feelings, to convey the pile of bricks nestled in your chest, to convey the desperate crave to comfort and rebut, the need to protect – even from himself. You had yet to find a way, and so you were stuck behind the thick lock and chain of language with no key in sight; restricted and bound to tools you never thought were enough, but could only hope were enough.   

“Hey,” you whispered, reaching up to cup his face. In his eyes you saw the emotions flicker, almost as tangible as they were transparent – anger, fear, shock. Stood still and stiff, you nodded softly, giving him a smile of equal warmth. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”  

He squinted before hesitantly giving in, shifting so his cheek rested against your palm. He had to lower himself a little more to do so. 

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with how you look. They’re beautiful, and I’ll keep saying so until there’s no breath left in my lungs.”

You held him ever so gently while he flitted his eyes shut. Your heart galloped then, its swell too big for your body and for a moment, brief as the breeze, the chaos he prided himself in was absent; for a moment there was peace.

“If you weren’t The Joker, I’d say go as is. Though, I have a plan!” 

“Oh, do you now?” He said, shaking his head and returning to work. It was clear he was rapidly reaching his patience threshold.

Damn it.

“They have food!” You trailed off unsurely, as if it was a question – pinning your last hope on appealing to his raccoon inclinations.

It didn’t work.

The third, well… 

You had just about given up and accepted the fact that it wasn’t his scene, that him meeting your parents would never be an option – a reality you had started to think of as a good thing the more you thought about it. 

And so, the third day had been your acceptance. Self-care. Instead of chasing after an ideal, your hands were clutching a book, almost too hard, as the part you had been anticipating since very early had reached its finale. With your legs curled underneath you and practically asleep, your eyes flicked furiously from word to word– 

That is until a looming figure shadowed the page completely, concealing all light from the lamp next to you. 

Annoyance creased your features as you looked up at the clownish culprit. Your eyes met and a staring contest ensued, the intensity of his eyes beckoning a response until he, uncharacteristically, broke first. 

“Will this make you, uh, happy?” 

All traces of irritation were washed away by bewilderment, “sorry?” 

“My being with you.” 

“You mean to the wedding?” You asked, wide-eyed. If you hadn’t been as shocked as you were, you would have snorted at his continuous inability to say the word ‘wedding’. 

He shifted on his feet, eyes darting away for a second before he licked his lips. “Yeah.” 

“Is this a joke?”

“I’m not that cruel.”

You paused to hum obnoxiously, your finger tapping your chin to challenge the notion.

“Never mind,” he waved his hand in the air and was about to walk off before you grabbed his hand and sprung off your seat. You felt him try to wiggle out of your grasp with a grunt, but it was too late. “Thank you!” You shouted. 

You missed the way his surprise melted into a genuine curl of his lips, twitching; the muscles unused. Instead, you were too busy stuffed in his vest, with your arms swathed around him. You both stayed there for a while basking in the warmth of each other, as his hands, which you guessed were hanging awkwardly in the air and unsure of what to do, encircled your waist.

Third time’s the charm. 

Shaking fingers twirled sapphire silk, gliding over your cinched waist before finally moving up to the delicate exposed flesh of your neck. You glanced over the spaghetti straps that curved comfortably over your shoulder, and the simple silver circle necklace that laid between them, its chilled presence clashing with the heat of your skin.  

Knock knock knock!

“Just a minute!” You said, jumping at the sudden rude intrusion. 

“Not even funeral parlors take this long,” you heard J say from the other side, the distinctive departure of footsteps following promptly. They seemed faster than usual.

You puffed air at his complaint after calming your racing heart. Then you scrambled to finish up the final touches of makeup, at last winding the nude colored ribbons of your heels around your calves. Your head felt light, and your shoes only worsened the sudden gelatinous state your legs took on. Never before had you dressed up in such a way, not for years and much less in front of someone you dearly cherished. The line between fashionable and laughable was blurred and never truly had been exercised. Waving away the fuel your anxious thoughts provided, you decided to try and move. Your heels wobbled trying to avoid the flowing material pooled by your ankles, and you’d just managed to slip one foot out through the thigh-high slit. No matter how much you sighed, the pressure remained, weighing like an anvil. And so, with nothing much to lose, you made your way to the door; the dampness of your fingers leaving its foggy signature upon the knob.

This was it.

You breathed in one last time before opening the door.

“Okay, I’m re–” 

You exhaled sharply, feeling the earlier intake of air leave you – taking with it the remaining wind in your lungs. You couldn’t control the twinkle of your eyes, nor the flip of your stomach as you gazed upon him.

His form was angled against the wall and his arms were crossed – that was, until he dragged his eyes over to you. His limbs then dropped to their sides and he quickly, almost stumbling over his shoes, righted his position. The bob of his Adam's apple was clear while both of you stood meters from each other with widened eyes. You knew he had the ability to pull off a suit, but the royal blue he donned was stunning. The stark colour complemented his blond locks, while his foulard tie with its blends of pinks, purples, and its navy base matched his socks. 

It seemed you were both in the same boat, consumed by swells of giddiness and the need to fidget. The fingers that were dressed in dark brown leather gloves drummed against his thigh, while one of his cedar suede shoes tapped furiously against the floor.

“What.” He finally stated, rather than questioning. 

You dropped the necklace your fingers had started circling. 

“Nothing! You just look… really nice,” you uttered earnestly, unable to contain the sweet smile that broke through awe. 

“Yeah, yeah. Uh… you too,” he said, the last part coming out less steady. 

He avoided eye contact when you trotted over to him, fiddling with his cufflinks, though his tending to them immediately vanished when you began to accentuate the swish of your hips. 

All fidgeting stopped.

You were sure he was expecting something else, rather than the delicate cupping of his cheek once you reached him, soft lips meeting with roughened skin as you kissed his scars. You took your time with each one, whispering affection, before claiming his mouth. He growled against you, and you could feel him tighten his hold. 

The tip of his tongue traced the stain of lipstick, a wordless demand for entry which left you weak. Almost parting your lips to allow the gentle slide of his tongue, he suddenly reared back with a smirk. 

“Peach,” he cooed. 

You were going to have to reapply later. 

With a small smile you extended your arm to the couch, and knowing time was beginning to pass, he complied. As he advanced, you peeked at the orange lining in his blazer. The hue was similar to his purple coat, though slightly lighter. You smiled to yourself, the small detail so characteristically him. 

“Alright. Let’s get this over with,” he sighed, bracing himself. 

Already a step ahead, you had brought out the makeup needed just prior to getting dressed. Sitting on one of the nearby surfaces, you picked up a small translucent bag with little red hearts on it – a fact he’d snickered to himself at when he first saw it – and walked over to him. 

“As you wish, grumpy,” you simpered, “now hold still!” 

True to his new title, you heard him mutter something unintelligible under his breath. The tap-tap-tap of his foot against the floor was most of the noise for a good while, and although distracting, the fidgeting of his hands was less noisy. You knew more than anyone he needed to squirm around, some movement at the very least, and so you endured. You deduced that he’d not been this close to someone in so very long, let alone allow them to do his makeup. That task, intimate and personal within itself, was not something others could be trusted with. 

“Time to hide these little guys,” you murmured, focused as the beauty blender sat between your fingers and dabbed on concealer. “Not that they need hiding. I’ll miss them.”

“Really?” He chimed in, eyes shut while you did your work. 

“Yeah, they’re a part of you and I’d never want you to hide or be ashamed of who you are.” 

“Hmm,” he trailed off. 

Occasionally his mouth quirked, his tongue darting out to lick his scars; an involuntary movement. You were patient, and even if he wasn’t overt about his guilt of messing up your progress, you reassured him lightly with a kiss on the head, sometimes playing with the dirty blond waves that lacked any sign of green. 

The day before he’d washed out the colour in preparation for the big day, groaning until he caught sight of himself in the mirror; contemplative. Ethereal and almost delicate he seemed. How precious it was to witness such cracks in the fortress, where the basking rays of sun illuminated what once was – and still is, only shrouded by shrubbery and thorns, so overgrown and disordered that they had forgotten to take care of even themselves. Forgotten how.  

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he groaned as you finished blending the concealer on both cheeks. Grabbing the foundation you had colour matched, you dabbed a bit on your hand before applying that too.

“Honestly, me neither,” you replied, feeling no need to sugarcoat the shock from your tone. You knew he appreciated the truth. “But I’m glad you are! You’re doing so well!” 

He squirmed a little at the compliment but settled seconds later. Soon after finishing the blending, you reared back and observed your labour. Although it wasn’t perfect, and if you looked hard enough you could still see the intricate crevices in his skin, it passed. 

“All done!” 

As soon as you spoke, J pushed off his palms. He was halfway off the chair when you stopped him.

“Wait! I have to walk you through something.” 

At this, his eyebrows quirked up. You knew you had his attention. 

“Conditions!” You announced.

“Ah. Now there are conditions.” 

“Yes! I don’t want you to throw a tantrum and blow up the whole reception.” 

“My my, aren’t you a little fire stopper.” 

“Promise me.”

He flicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. With one hand on his chest and the other raised just next to his head, he bowed a little. “I swear.”

You wrinkled your nose, “I swear there will be no funny business, and I’ll be on my best behaviour – oh and no crossing your toes either!”

“You know me so well,” he sighed, admitting defeat, “Fine. I swear there’ll be no funny business and I’ll be on…” he cleared his throat and brought a closed fist to his mouth, “my best behaviour.” Then he shone his impishly wide grin, one that only intensified the pit of doubt in your stomach. 

It would have to do, though.  

“Okay,” you whispered. 

He stood up now, towering over you. 

“Okay,” he mimicked, dropping his hands at the base of your hips. 

The last few days had been full of surprises, his agreement to attend trumping all. However, his overt display of affection was a close second. Never before had he been so forthcoming and so comfortable with physical contact. 

As his hands laid there, unmoving and making their home in your curves, you inched closer to him; a specific craving only his warmth could ease. Though, those very same hands around you tightened when you tried to step forward, holding you in place. Curiously, you looked up at him, brows furrowed. 

“What are you–” 

It seemed he couldn’t help himself. The evil laughter he’d been trying to restrain bubbled from his throat and bounced off the walls. The eagerness to ask what he was doing quickly died – hard – when you could no longer feel the ground beneath your feet. It instead morphed into protests and occasional bouts of laughter as your arms dangled along his back, your pelvis against his shoulder. One gloved hand rested crudely just below the curve of your ass, occasionally squeezing your upper thigh and holding you in place, while his other arm hung unobstructed. 

“We–” he clicked his tongue, “–wouldn’t want to be late now, would we?” He finished, purring. 

The location was a couple hours outside of Gotham on the coastline in an area you’d practically never heard of. If it wasn’t for J’s gift for navigation, and his frustration when you kept leading him down wrong turns, you would have been hours late instead of just missing the ceremony. The last straw had been assuring him the early exit was your turn off despite his gut instinct, despite the countless times he asked ‘are you sure?’ and despite his sneaking glances – something he stopped doing when he almost crashed into the car next to you, too focused on craning his neck. All of this combined had resulted in the brutal demise of your map reading days. 

Stopping where he could after taking the wrong exit he held out a gloved hand, a wordless demand for the navigator. Before long, you were back on the freeway, thankfully heading the right way. The directory rested in his lap as he balanced the seemingly breezy tasks of reading and driving. 

Clearly safety was his middle name.

Once the two of you arrived at the venue, the first thing you both noticed was the heat. Warm and uncomfortable, the seabreeze made this bearable. The next notable feature was the rambunctious clamour of the crowd; music, laughter and shouting. 

After worming your way out of the van, comically wedged between two much smaller cars, you headed towards the reception, stopping short from the asphalt-sand border. J stared at it as if it had foiled his genius villainous plots, as if it was the cause of all his misfortunes, as if it was responsible for the brutal murder of his first pet. Then, he made a face – a mixture between a scowl and disgust. 

He sniffed, “it smells like...” he paused to grimace, “high society.” 

The ghastly look was then directed ahead to each moving – breathing – organism he could see. There was no doubt in your mind the crowd had already made it on his hit list.

“For once I miss the stink of Gotham.” 

“Well at least it’s at the beach!” You exclaimed, not recalling the last time you’d been. Trying to think that far back made your brain hurt, the tingle of overworked cogs and Brain Fog a lethal combination that coerced your forfeit in seconds. At the very least you were happy to be making new memories, hopefully some you’d be able to remember in the future; memories you prayed were not, later too, guarded by the merciless Brain Fog and his ravenous desire to generate headaches.  

“I hate the beach,” J delivered flatly, hatred distilled rolling off his person in waves.  

“Oh, you hate everything!” You pouted, brushing off his pessimism. 

“It’s hard not to.” 

“Well…” You stopped to think, wracking your brain to prove him wrong, “what about me?”

That had to get him. 

“You especially,” he grinned, eyes twinkling with a mischief that spoke nothing other than ‘you walked right into that one, sweetheart.’ 

You were unable to help the sigh that sailed past your hued lips, “well, come on sunshine. You can’t stare daggers at them all day.”

“I can try,” he spat sourly. 

You rolled your eyes and dragged him along but immediately dropped the act when you quickly realised it hauled unwanted eyes, like metal to magnets. Yet, J followed even though you were certain he saw the cursed asphalt-sand barrier as the very gates of hell themselves. In fact, he seemed a little bit too eager to start his anathematised exploration of the 9 circles as when you looked back, expecting to see his long limbs hanging in defeated protest, you were met with, well, nothing.

One moment he was there, the next he was gone seemingly stalking off into the unknown, hiding among the sea of people. It wasn’t like he was easy to lose either, his height and his aura of absolute discomfort is what set him apart from the rest. He protruded like a broken bone – so why couldn’t you find him?

“Damn it, J!” You harshly whispered to yourself, unknowingly stamping your foot until the insidious specks of sand tumbled their way into your shoe, under your feet and between your toes. Easily conquering your layer of protection, their coarse presence made you want to grind your teeth. 

Maybe this was a mistake.

Before you could go off and search for the lost irritating puppy, you heard shouts. At first they seemed like ordinary yells, distinctive deviations from the crowd which happened to catch your attention at the right moment. Though, the more time passed and you wandered around like a newborn giraffe looking for its mother, you realised this was not the case. Most telling was the way those vague cries morphed into the familiar syllables of your name. And then finally in view, the supposed sweet comfort of childhood embodied neared; their worn features staring into your own, different from all those years ago. 

You fought the urge to run. 

“Hey honey!” Your dad beamed.

Two pairs of smothering arms made their way toward you, enveloping. With your fingers clutching separate materials, each as scratchy and glacial as each other, your head started to spin and you felt yourself holding your breath. 

“Hey mum, hey dad, it’s nice to see you two again,” you said, feeling the slow ache from clenching your jaw starting to set in. You quickly swapped this expression for a small smile when they released you.

“How’ve you been?” Your dad inquired, the shimmer in his eyes a sight you couldn’t help but double take at. You noticed there was no glass in his hand. 

“Don’t bombard her dear,” your mum rolled her eyes, “where’s this date you were telling me about?” 

She lingered on the word with an emotion you couldn’t quite discern while her adjudicating eyes swept over your outfit. Her eyebrows then lifted, scrunching her nose with it. “Not bad.”

Her scanning forced you to shrink into yourself, the automatic motion of your palms relentless in their pursuit of wrinkles, a fact you did not pick up on until your mother cleared her throat at your unprompted staring contest.  

“My question dear, it’s rude to ignore your mother,” her thin brows creased and the folds just above them rested along her forehead in a similar fashion.  

You scrambled for an acceptable answer, the question just as ambiguous to yourself.

“He’s… um… getting us drinks! I was actually just about to go check up on–” 

“Well if a man can’t even fetch you a drink he’s hardly useful,” she scoffed, turning to her husband to whisper, “can’t imagine what this prince charming looks like.” 

Anger, lava-like and boiling, rose up in your throat. The pressure seemed unbearable as you tried to keep your mouth closed – tried not to defend the one you loved with your entire being. How dare she judge someone she had yet to even meet? She had yet to see the beauty that radiated in and out. 

It had only been minutes and you’d already been zapped of your energy for the day.

“I think I should go check on him now.” “Yes, of course. Come back to me when you have something to show,” your mother smiled. You watched her lips stretch, her wine lipstick as pigmented as the red coating your vision. 

Her hand clutched the necklace around her chest. Her fingers traced the glistening diamond which hung overtly, screaming it’s pricelessness to all passersby as she went to go have another sip of her champagne. At the corner of your eye you noticed movement, a pair of worn hands clutching suit pants. Hard. You turned automatically and when you met his eyes your dad shot you a strained smile. It almost looked like an apology. 

Your stomach turned. 

You tried your best to conceal the stomping as you promptly departed, promising yourself to at least wait until you were out of their view and blending in with the crowd. Once you merged with the patches, you quickly discovered that navigating your way out of it was going to be just as hard as trying to find J. Left and right amalgamated, looking the same no matter how many times you tried to compare differences and so did everyone’s outfits. You could have sworn you’d seen the same red dress three times, though you also could have sworn you went all different directions to the last; the truth was you were no more knowing than a sailor stranded at sea lacking a compass, the same indistinguishable shapelessness stretching out for miles and miles with no end in sight.  

Then, a miracle – a clearing of people which shrieked hope and a long portable table with flowing white lace harbouring all kinds of food. Amongst the good news, a blotch of royal blue caught your eye and a flash of blond. Focusing your view on the table and its few inhabitants, one of which was the blue wearing stranger, you quickly realised your missing date was fixed and firm in place at the snack area. No sooner than this revelation processed you dashed over, the anger returning once the relief had run its fleeting course. As you stormed your way over to him he failed to look up, too preoccupied with the food he was collecting. Lacking in subtlety, you grabbed his arm. 

“Jesus there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

J, who had been waiting to stuff his face with what you identified as another cupcake, mouth ringed with strawberry frosting, crumbs and sprinkles, dropped it in surprise and turned to you with widened eyes. They shrunk as soon as they showed an inkling of surprise and instead shifted to speckled guilt. 

“Cupcake,” he managed to mumble with a full mouth.

Your fiery frustration was immediately put out by how cute he was, and you felt a surge of guilt yourself. It wasn’t fair to be taking out your personal frustrations on him. 

After closing your eyes and taking a breath, you reset. 

“They think I’m lying about you.”

He swallowed.

“You wanna leave? I, uh, know I want to,” he said much louder than the whisper you wish he’d used.

Such a comment warranted an elbow jab into his waist as you smiled ear to ear and sickly sweet at the passing guest who had clearly heard J. The middle aged woman with short brunette hair, white pom-pom earrings and beady eyes shot you two a blazing look before rutting her nose into the air. The reek of pretension wafted off her. Now you could see what J was saying earlier. 

Pee-yew. 

Everyone here sucked. 

“I’m gonna kill her later,” he murmured, squinting after her. 

“J, you promised to be good!”

Even if she was a grandiloquent old bitch who deserved it.

His ominous response was to pour himself some punch, the clown-in-disguise bringing the plastic up to his lips. As the cup masked most of his face, the only thing visible was his deadly gaze which bounced from congregation to congregation.

“How much longer.” Again, it wasn’t phrased as a question, more a statement. 

“The bride and groom haven’t even danced yet.” 

He scrunched his nose, though dropped the subject. At least verbally.

“You’re so crabby. You do know that you’re drawing even more attention to yourself this way?” 

“Hmmph.”

It was silent for a few minutes before, without warning, he grabbed your hand. The hesitant and jagged strokes of his thumb followed and even though they belonged to a novice, the delicacy was still there.

The message was clear: 

I’m new to this. 

Your lips upturned, the gentle quirk hidden by transient hair flowing along the salty breeze. His touch was warm and paradoxically amiable; his presence a shelter cutting the chilly current that had picked up around noon. Stained lips, of which you had forgotten about until the sticky residue imprinted boldly on his glove, aimed to ease his buzzing mind. Expecting a grumble for the lipstick mark, what you got in return was the soft gaze of dark brown eyes – a sign of taming raging waters. He didn’t seem to mind, in fact the window into his soul for once could be identified as just that – a window; crystal, without the dirtied stains of camouflage and trepidation. 

Something had changed. 

Before you could get another word in, it was announced the bride and groom were going to have their first dance. The crowd gathered around the newly wedded couple as the music suddenly switched. The speakers were loud as they played a waltz, the couple’s limbs intertwined and swaying to its dramatic pace. They twirled and swayed with the grace of swans tiptoeing and beguiling the creeping ocean on the golden sands. Even though you knew virtually nothing about them, and were convinced that in fact this whole invite was your mother’s scheme to pry, the sight was a beautiful one to behold. The epitome of love – reciprocal trust and utter surrender; it had you wondering where you’d gone wrong previously, and if such a thing was as formulaic as it seemed to be, or if they were freefalling into the abyss as much as everyone else was; blindfolded, but nonetheless with each other. Welded in each other’s hearts.

How long had you projected your yearning at the couple and vicariously lived through their magical moment? You couldn’t say, though it was only the sudden grip on your shoulder that had managed to break your fixed admiration. It was firm, but nowhere near the realm of rough, and it even contained a fraction of gentleness, an action that wordlessly said ‘are you okay?’

At the sudden presence, you looked over your shoulder to find J, his guarded eyes holding a knowledge which only deepened the crawling feeling of embarrassment. Blood rushed to your cheeks. As you rounded your gaze back to the couple, you quickly saw the crowd was beginning to join them, all dancing at their own pace as the music continued its intimate lull. J’s hand slid down your arm while you watched and returned to hold your hand. Content and about to lean into him, your sudden love struck daze pounced away when he started to walk, dragging you along with him. 

“Hey– what are you doing?”

No response. 

“Let me go!” You said, your tone coming out a lot angrier than you’d expected. You guessed this alerted him because even though you were mere meters away from the rest of the crowd he stopped to explain. 

“I saw the way you were looking at them. You know, cupcake, you’re not hard to read,” he drawled.

You pursed your lips, looking away for a moment. 

“So what? What are you doing?” 

“What does it – ah – look like?” 

He’d seemingly taken your lack of response as a positive and continued forward. He grinned once he had you in position and placed his palm on the small of your back, his thumb rubbing gentle circles. He then maneuvered his other hand to grab yours and stretched it forward. From his first few steps you knew immediately it was the Viennese Waltz. The fast tempoed dance was one you weren't all too familiar with, but you’d learned its slower English counterpart.

“I didn’t know you could dance,” you gasped, trying your best to conceal your astonishment. You didn’t want to seem rude, though he just didn’t seem like the person interested in such a thing. Nor have the time. You were certainly finding yourself more curious about the origin of such a talent, and all the other potential abilities that were sneakily tucked away. 

“Well aren’t I just full of surprises.”

He dipped you slightly in time with the halt of the orchestra. He held you there for a moment before the tune resumed its boisterous charm, climbing steadily to its crescendo. 

“Here’s to another,” he said, his smile widening. If you didn’t know him so well you would have believed the expression to be completely innocent and honeyed. Standing there intertwined with his limbs you knew that devilish gleam was anything but. 

And, seconds later, this suspicion proved right. 

Suddenly he lifted you, twirling you around in such a way that made you feel like you were the bride. You’d only seen such a thing in Disney movies and cheesy rom coms – to be cherished, to be loved and cared for in such a delicate way was a fantasy; a taste of nostalgia and a serenade to the hopeless romantic within.

“J, put me down! Put me down!” You felt yourself swallow when his hands tightly gripped your hips. For a moment the irritation you’d experienced all day from a full face of makeup and wandering had all been worth it. 

His laughs slipped out, too; a direct contrast from his often irked facade, a musically heart-warming phenomenon which no instrument could emulate. The whole time you kept your eyes on each other and never once did they deter, focused on drinking in the beauty of each other. The cheers from the crowd you’d gathered fell upon both your deaf ears, transfixed by each other’s magic in your own closed off bubbles. 

As you continued to dance, the act itself felt like flying. The crowd separated when you neared – that is, until everything stopped. Sharp and prompt. 

Neither of you had much regard for the abrupt bump when it happened, there were people everywhere and mistakes occurred. It was no big deal. At least that’s what you told yourself until such a collision was followed by a violent shriek and a splash. 

Loud gasps replaced the background noise of applause.  

In a few frightening seconds your brain made the connection – linking who you’d just seen in the same area minutes before, inches from the ocean. 

“Oops,” you squeaked, too scared to turn around. However, despite your better judgement you did just that. 

The groom stood in shock, evidently unable to come to terms with the sight he was seeing. One moment his new wife was safe within his arms, dancing as if it was only two of them in the universe, the next she was below him, swimming with seaweed. Then, his form began to tremble, a telltale sign that what was to come was nowhere near the realms of good. 

He turned around with searing red eyes, a wrinkled nose and bared teeth. The eyes of the bull met the petrified, and his stubby, squared and well-manicured finger pointed directly at you. 

“You fucking bitch!” He roared.

You jumped, feeling yourself cling to J. His arm wrapped around you reassuringly and although you trusted him with your life, being confronted by a raging groom was still nonetheless intimidating. The groom who apparently cared more about telling you off than helping his wife, who was still floundering in the crashing waves, began his march over to you. 

“Do you know who I am?” He continued, and you wondered if he was still aware there was a crowd around. J almost instantly stood in front of you and had to hunch further to scowl at your aggressor.

“What was that?” J grabbed the man in front of him and slipped the blade hidden in his sleeve between the groom’s lips, angling it against the crease of his mouth. 

“Hmm? Why not try your luck, princess. Say it again.” 

The groom froze, the flicker of fear evident even on your end, though he kept up his brutish facade. 

“You’re both going to be 6 feet under when my dad’s through with you.” 

“Aww… run along to daddy so he can fix all your problems,” you could hear the pout in your boyfriend’s voice, comfortable and in your eyes even elated, to spit out the toxins he’d been gathering from just being here all day.

“So you do know who I am–” “The second most spoiled kid of Gotham’s underbelly.” 

“And yet, you’re still holding the knife.” 

“Of course the first would be your brother though, hmm?” J continued, completely ignoring the man's statement.

The groom gritted his teeth. 

“I bet it stings to not be the favourite. To not even have him here on your big day.”

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” The groom spat, bullseyeing J’s shoe. You saw red pooling at the corner of the man’s mouth, the mere act of expectorating on your boyfriend’s shoe more urgent than self-preservation. 

Yeesh. 

“Now that’s not very hygienic,” J growled, wrinkling his nose. His grip on the knife tightened and in one quick motion, the groom was screaming. 

While you couldn’t see the infliction from where you were positioned, the blood dripping onto the sand was clear as crystal. The screams of those around you were piercing, their horror and disgust forcing you to cling tighter to your boyfriend.

“J, please! That’s enough, it’s okay!” You pulled on his blazer. Feeling the hundreds of widened eyes staring holes into your being was no longer a concern. What mattered most was him. Getting out of here. 

With a quick glance to his right, J met you, then looked back at the groom. 

He smacked his lips. 

“Seems you are lucky,” he purred, the shimmer in his eye reflecting nothing of the warmth he concealed so carefully – nothing of the warmth of when your eyes met. Instead, it was serrated and reflected jeopardy. He possessed the force of a hurricane. A gravity; the way in which he commanded the direction of things and uprooted the fortitude of the righteous, the sure, a mothernatured finesse. 

He looked back at you again before shifting his hold on the man, fisting his wrinkled and bloodied shirt, then barked, “why don’t you go join your blushing bride?” 

With the element of surprise, J raised his knee and shot it between the man’s legs, the man falling down almost as fast as the foreign presence made an impact. You could have sworn someone at the corner of your eye jolted, most likely fearing the worst while others let out shrieks. Fear of the unknown, the seduction of one’s imagination and its ability to fill in blanks was the most manipulatable aspect of consciousness. Rather than bleeding out and rocking lifeless against the cradling waves like so many had thought, the groom sat there, soaking in the shame of defeat and crimson. He hollered while his new wife crawled to his side. 

“Tell your precious father I said ‘hi.’”

All eyes now turned to you both as you speedily departed, J dragging you along once more. The colony of sand in your shoe that had begun its formation hours ago was well in its breeding season now, the leathery insole most likely buried along with the newly wed’s marriage. Before you fully exited the cooperative crowd, forever to forget the merging faces of horror, two familiar ones caught your eye. 

Hah!

“Some date, huh?” You smiled, staring at your mother straight on. The way her face twisted up in a myriad of emotions – surprise, disgust, embarrassment – was something you’d never forget. You were sure you destroyed her little snobbish social circle by the mere association. Pride swelled in your chest, a childish victory that didn’t seem so childish when you later reflected on your relationship with her. 

When the two of you escaped back to the van successfully, there was a moment of contemplation. 

“I – heh – think that went well!” J laughed to himself, rounding his body to face you, “you think your parents like me?” 

“I think I should be asking the same to myself,” you said.  

“Cheer up buttercup, at least your parents know you’re not dying alone anymore.”

“To be honest, after that shitshow they’d probably prefer it,” a sigh left your lips and you began to bite them, unconscious of the small action until the taste of metal blew up your taste buds.

“Eh. Who needs parents, anyway?” 

You began to fiddle with your hands, suddenly finding them incredibly interesting. From the lack of interruptions you concluded he knew you were miles away, trapped in the wilderness of your own thoughts.  

“So I’m guessing you only came because you found out whose wedding it was.”

It took a lot to break the silence, and the air suddenly shifted to a heaviness. You weren’t sure you were the only one tensing. 

J clicked his tongue but didn’t answer. 

“It’s okay… I think I’ve had my fill of weddings for a while, anyway. And parents. And honestly, maybe people,” you answered for him, despite the swirl of hurt brewing in your gut. 

He breathed out his amusement. The lack of transience had you swallowing, frantic to keep the growing weight on your chest from expanding – from consuming your entire being with emptiness. You didn’t know how long you had until the stampede made its mark, the thunderous thuds of terror already echoing in the distance. 

Those were only thoughts you could entertain alone, sunken in the decaying paradise of your bed. 

Silence prevailed again.

Dazed and lost of direction, you remained fixated on the lines of your palms. 

“The husband had a temper. You know, I thought they were so lovely at first.”

“That’s what they want you to believe. Their little golden castles sparkle in the sun and it’s only until the rain pours that you can see them for what they really are. Wet cardboard. Looks can be deceiving.” 

“They certainly can be,” you looked up at him, smiling softly. 

Even with the friction, you slowly reached up to cup his face. This time on his end, there was no fear or hesitation. Instead, just an unspoken mutual trust between two wandering souls. You looked down at his lips while your thumbs stroked the hidden lines of his scars. The gentle caresses wore down the makeup until finally they were visible again. 

The marks of a survivor – beautiful and bold.

“Wait,” he said, the word simple and yet so labyrinthine. He reared back and looked at his hands while your own moved to rest on your knees. Curled into fists, his slowly unclamped like a blooming flower. What they revealed had your heart thumping, dancing its rhythm in your throat. You felt your eyes widen and the sadness immediately leave you, as if all its colour had been drained from you. You felt like a 1930’s cartoon, so shaken to the core that all you could see was greyscale. 

“It wasn’t the only reason,” he whispered, the commanding presence absent.  

He cleared his throat and finally looked up at you, “in fact, these were my only reason.” 

“You son of a bitch,” you bit your tongue in awe at the binding pieces of metal in his hands. They twinkled in the holiday rays, beckoning, unuttering whispers of fabrication. Was the weight of those dual bands as heavy as his heart? As heavy as the solemn expression as he processed your jabbing words?

“I-I know it’s not much but–” he stuttered, and was promptly interjected. 

“Oh! No, no, no! I didn’t mean–” 

You both smiled. Yours wide and brazen, his small and seraphic. 

“My J. Always starting fights, always getting what he wants,” you took the ring from his finger and darted to your left hand, slipping it on its rightful throne, “how can I resist?”  

You kissed him mellowed and full of saccharine and he sighed, his reciprocation just as tender despite the usual dash of coarseness. 

“Mine,” he murmured, resting his forehead against yours. He fluttered his eyes shut and his breathing began to steady. 

“Mine,” you whispered. 

In all that was and all that ever could be, never would you have believed such a moment possible. Magical and idiosyncratic, you wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. Nothing big and extravagant in front of many eyes. Just the two of you, inside what you now considered the best moment of your life. What many described as a lock and chain, a prison for the rest of one’s life, you would describe as the only thing you had ever wanted. As much as before, everything felt complete. 

Supernal.

You don’t know how long you stayed like that, breathing in unison, basking in each other. All you knew was that it was all too soon when you hit the road again, starting the long journey back to Gotham. After a lot of the same scenery – trees, cars, rocks, more cars and occasional bodies of water – your eyes had become leaden. Resting became impossible to oppose and before long your eyes gave into its stinging demand. 

Somewhere within the haze of half-consciousness, a mysterious material was draped over you. It was silken on the inside, your arms softly grazing it occasionally, and linen on the outside, your chin brushing over it when passing uneven roads. Subtle ripples of cologne drifted from the fabric as you finally fell prey to sleep’s siren song. 

“Sleep well, sweetpea,” lulled a sweet voice. 

[aboveallarescuer]

While it’s great that the fandom makes comparisons between the Ned/Cersei and Cat/Jaime confrontations, I wish that the Dany/MMD confrontation was also included in this conversation. I do think that there are some intentional similarities between them (even if not as overt as the ones between N/C and C/J), which can be pointed out while still acknowledging that MMD is a more sympathetic character than the Lannisters in this comparison.

Dany and Ned both tried to help MMD and Cersei to no avail, partly because they remained loyal to the men (Drogo and Robert) responsible for these women’s sufferings*; both of their interactions address these issues. Dany, Ned and Cat all confront the people who murdered/attempted to murder their children. MMD confesses that she killed Rhaego, while Cersei and Jaime confess that they were involved in the attempt on Bran’s life. Dany, Ned and Cat all decide what to do with the people who killed/attempted to kill their children based on other children - Ned asks Cersei to leave King’s Landing because he’s worried about her children’s safety once he tells Robert their true parentage; Cat frees Jaime to exchange him for her remaining children; Dany burns MMD to birth her dragon children**. Dany’s and Cat’s*** interactions are related to key deaths in the book series - Cat releasing Jaime indirectly led to the Red Wedding because Tywin no longer had to be concerned about Jaime being killed in retaliation after the massacre was carried out; Dany’s exchange with MMD leads to Dany’s realization that Drogo won’t ever be the same as he once was (1, 2) and to her decision to mercy-kill him. All these deaths are crucial to the protagonists’ developments. Catelyn and Robb (along with Ned) had to die so that the Starklings could develop, grow and become the heroes that we need for the war against the Others; Dany’s losses during AGOT serve the same function - Viserys had to die so that Dany could become the claimant to the Iron Throne, Drogo had to die so that Dany could become Aegon the Conqueror with teats and Rhaego (along with Rhaegar’s son) had to die so that Dany could become AA/PTWP/SWMTW.

IMO, it especially makes sense to compare these three interactions because I tend to believe that Ned, Catelyn and Dany, the three major parents of AGOT, are also the main POVs of the book. Ned and Cat took the spotlight away from their children for a while because they were deliberately set up as Decoy Protagonists. That doesn’t happen with Dany because her parents and older brother/main role model were already dead before the book series began. It makes sense, then, that she is the only one who starts AGOT as an equal to Ned and Cat in terms of importance; in spite of her age, she’s already a wife and a mother. But unlike Ned and Cat, she also gets to be one of the protagonists of ASOIAF as a whole. This emphasizes how Dany has a special place in the narrative; by the end of AGOT, she’s the only protagonist who’s already both mother and queen in her own right (and who already subverts the Good Princess, Evil Queen dichotomy) despite also being a young girl, so she gets to be the main representative of her house in a way that none of the individual Starklings can.

*There are some key differences here, though: Dany had much less agency than Ned because she was a 14-year-old slave without any other option but to stay by Drogo’s side as long as he lived. Meanwhile, 36-year-old Ned was Lord of Winterfell and the Hand’s King. He had more power and agency to denounce Robert’s regime, but still chose to remain loyal to him even after Robert refused to punish Rhaenys’s and Aegon’s murderers, even after he found out that Cersei was a victim of domestic violence perpetrated by Robert, even after he found out that Robert slept with a girl “so young Ned had not dared to ask her age”, etc. Those things don’t make Ned a bad person, but they show that he’s a product of his time and place, something that antis don’t acknowledge in Dany’s case. And Dany learned her lesson with what happened to MMD: she freed all her slaves at the end of AGOT and would later start a revolution to abolish slavery once she was no longer under Drogo's control.

**To be sure, Dany’s decision is morally grey, but 1) any noble would execute their child’s murderer (Catelyn herself thinks she would have killed Jaime if it wasn't for Sansa and Arya), 2) child murder is framed in this series as a heinous crime (which we see with Jaime and Bran, Sandor and Mycah, Oberyn asking for justice for Elia’s children, Theon and the miller’s boys, Stannis's dilemma regarding Edric Storm, Dany’s dilemma regarding the child hostages, etc) and 3) if Dany hadn’t hatched her dragon eggs, she wouldn’t have gained the respect of Drogo’s remaining khalasar and would have been more vulnerable in case someone had attempted to drag her to live in Vaes Dothrak among the dosh khaleen.

***I didn’t include Ned and Cersei’s interaction here because it didn’t lead to any demise. Cersei was already plotting to kill Robert and grab the throne for Joffrey and Littlefinger’s betrayal of Ned had nothing to do with it.

[perlukafarinn]

Sweeter Than Roses

happy holidays @galaxystiel​ from your @destielsecretsanta2020​ secret santa! sorry this is late but since i didn’t know i would have to pinch hit until a couple of days after posting date, this was the quickest turn-around i could manage. i hope you like it!

Dean loved the holiday season. Of course he did, he made about a quarter of his annual income in December. People liked to eat baked goods on Christmas, go figure.

But he hated the holiday season, too. Every single day was busy, every hour was rush hour. Sometimes he didn’t get the last orders done until an hour after closing. He had seasonal hires, of course, but in the three years since he opened Rolling Scones, he’d always ended up underestimated how much extra help he needed.

Thankfully, things quieted as soon as Christmas was over. The last week of the year, while still busy, was a calm oasis compared to what came before. This meant that for the first time all month, Dean wasn’t busy with twelve other customers when Cas dropped by.

Cas had been coming to Rolling Scones twice a week, like clockwork, ever since he took over the flower shop next door a few months ago. Dean had been sad to see Mildred, the previous owner, go but he’d been prepared to welcome his new neighbor. He’d even set aside a complimentary piece of pie for him, because who didn’t like pie?

The first time Cas had come by, Dean had been so dazed that he almost forgot not to charge him for the pie. Dean hadn’t even thought he had a type when it came to men but here Cas had been to prove him wrong, handsome and charming and weird in the exact right way to come across as endearing rather than awkward. 

He always came about half an hour before the lunch rush, ordering a cup of coffee and a new type of pastry every time. Then he hung around while he ate, talking with Dean if he wasn’t with another customer. 

And yeah, maybe Dean treasured those quiet moments with Cas, learning about flowers and their symbolic meaning and explaining to him how to make the perfectly flaky pie crust. Maybe he looked forward to the days Cas would come by the rest of the week. Maybe he’d added a few items to his menu since Cas started frequenting, just to give him the incentive to keep coming. 

It was called being a good business owner. 

This past month, Cas had come by for his coffee and pastry and taken them to go. He’d been busy, too, so stopping wouldn’t have been an option even if the bakery hadn’t been crowded and Dean hadn’t been on the phone with some asshole who absolutely needed sixty-four macarons in eight different flavors for a holiday party that same evening. 

Today, though, was just a slightly-busier-than-average Monday. For both of them, judging by the foot traffic outside that Dean could see from his spot behind the counter. 

Cas even arrived a little bit earlier than usual, carrying a huge bouquet of red roses.

Dean watched him, amused as Cas navigated his way past the chairs and tables, head just barely poking up past the flowers in his arms.

“What’s this?” he asked as Cas finally arrived at the counter. 

Cas placed the flowers down, giving Dean an abashed smile. “Cancelled order. A young man was intending to propose on Christmas Day but apparently, his girlfriend had different plans.”

“Yikes, poor guy.”

“Yes,” Cas said. “But I felt the bouquet should be enjoyed by someone, so I thought of you.”

Dean grinned. “You’re not planning on proposing, are you? ‘Cause I like you but I don’t think we’re there just yet.”

“For the bakery,” Cas clarified, cheeks growing pink. “I - uh, I thought they might look nice in your window.”

“Relax, I’m kidding.” Dean picked up the bouquet. It was heavier than it looked and up close, the smell of them was almost overwhelming in its sweetness. “Thanks, Cas. I don’t gotta feed them, right?”

“Only water.” 

Dean looked around for some free space for the flowers then, failing to find one, put them back down on the counter. “So, what’ll it be today?”

Cas placed his order - a cup of coffee and a festive peppermint eclair Dean only offered around the holidays - and stood at the counter as he ate, talking with Dean in between customers. As soon as he left, Krissy walked up to Dean and smacked his shoulder.

"He gave you flowers?” 

Dean rubbed the spot she hit - kid was getting stronger by the day. Maybe he should stop making her knead the bread. “Yeah?”

“And you didn’t take the hint and ask him out?” she asked.

“They weren’t for me, they were for the shop. It wasn’t a hint.”

Krissy crossed her arms, raising her eyebrows in disbelief.

“Was it?” Dean asked faintly.

“I know they say your mind starts to go as you grow older but, wow.”

“I’m not that old,” Dean protested. “You’re… young.”

“Nice one, boss.”

“Shut up.” Dean scratched the back of his neck, observing the roses still sitting on the counter. “You’re not messing with me? You really think that was a hint?”

“He gave you red roses. Dude couldn’t have been more obvious if he walked up to you and shoved his tongue down your throat.”

Dean shoved at her. Krissy danced out of reach, sticking her tongue out at him.

"Go man the register," he told her. "You've got customers waiting."

She rolled her eyes but did as told. Dean picked up the bouquet, getting it out of her way, and went to the back to find something to use as a vase. As he looked, he thought about what Krissy had said.

Had Cas meant that gift to be romantic? There were times when they talked that Dean thought his feelings might not be unrequited but then, he usually dismissed it as wishful thinking. Cas had never asked him out. He usually responded to Dean's more overt flirting with a confused but polite smile. That had to mean he wasn't interested and was just too nice to say so, right?

But then again, red roses. Those were objectively the most romantic flower, even Dean knew that. Sure, Cas had said they were for the bakery, but he'd also said I thought of you. He could've thrown them out or donated them or done whatever he did with flowers he couldn't sell. But no, he'd brought them to Dean, because he'd thought of him.

And Dean had gone and screwed it up by making a bad joke. 

He needed to make it up to him. Just asking him out wouldn’t be enough and it wasn’t like he could give Cas flowers back. But, Dean considered, an idea forming in his mind, he could give him something else.

 It took a couple of tries. Dean’s first attempt ended with a soggy middle. His second in burnt edges on the carefully crafted apple/rose petals. His third was perfect, the apples sliced not too thick and not too thin, curling up beautifully in the oven as they dried while still retaining their vibrant red color.

He stared down at his creation, cooling on the counter in his bakery’s kitchen. It was an apple pie and a rose bouquet rolled into one, the apple slices serving as petals arranged on top, sweet and tart just the way Cas liked best. 

Cas wasn’t due for another visit until tomorrow but Dean was too nervous to wait. Both Krissy and Kevin were working today and the lunch rush wouldn’t start just yet, he had the time to drop by next door and deliver his gift. And possibly ask Cas out, put his heart on the line for what might just be a simple misunderstanding of intentions.

No big. A couple of minutes, in and out.

He put the pie on a plate, covering it with cloth for the short trip over to Cas' shop. Krissy dryly wished him good luck on his way out, to which he responded with a raised middle finger.

("Good luck? He's just delivering pie."

"Oh, Kevin.")

Dean had only been inside the flower shop a couple of times since Cas took over. A lot had changed since Mildred left, most noticeable of all a window in the ceiling that let in the pale morning light, shining directly down on the counter where Cas was working alongside a dark-haired woman. He smiled as he spotted Dean at the door, turning to the woman to say something before leaving her alone with the customers and making his way over.

"Hello, Dean." God, had he always looked this beautiful? "What brings you here?"

Dean opened his mouth, then realized that he had no idea what he was going to say. Wordlessly, he shoved the pie at Cas' chest. Cas looked confused but accepted, pulling the cloth away.

"Oh, this is lovely!" Cas looked back up at Dean. "You made this for me?"

Dean shrugged, his ears growing warm. "Just- since you brought me those roses yesterday. Thought I'd bring you something nice in return."

"Thank you, Dean, but there was no need. It wasn't any trouble for me, I had the roses by chance and no one else to give them to."

Dean's stomach sank. So it hadn't been romantic after all. Krissy had been way off and Dean had been desperate enough to believe her.

“It’s, uh, no big.” Dean cleared his throat. He needed to get out of here, quick. “I was gonna test out this technique anyway, so I figured I might as well try it on someone. Anyway, I gotta go back. Busy time, you know how it is.”

Cas nodded. “Thank you again for the pie.”

“No problem.”

 Krissy had the good sense not to say anything when Dean returned less than two minutes after he left. She must have explained to Kevin what was going on because for the rest of the day, the two of them were model employees, quiet and helpful - in other words, nothing like their usual selves.

Dean sent them home early, figuring he’d use the time it would take him to close up by himself to stew in his disappointment and get it out of his system before he got home. He hadn’t lost anything, after all. He and Cas hadn’t broken up. It was just a stupid crush, a passing infatuation, and Cas would still be his friend once he got over it.

He’d be fine.

He’d almost managed to convince himself he believed that whole crock of shit when someone knocked on the door. Dean looked up, ready to tell them off when the bakery was so clearly closed, but stopped short when he saw Cas standing outside, giving him a small wave.

Dean was tempted to pretend he hadn't seen him, or to wave him off under the pretense of needing to close up quickly. 

He'd need to talk to Cas again sooner or later, though. He closed the register, walking up to the door and swinging it open. A cool breeze greeted him. Dean now noticed snowflakes lazily drifting from the sky, covering the ground in soft, powdery snow.

Dean stood aside but Cas remained in the doorway, looking nervous.

"I think I may have misunderstood you earlier," he said. "After you left, Meg told me that the pie was- that it might be a romantic gesture?"

Dean stared at him, his face on fire. Great, so Cas had been completely clueless and this Meg chick had to go and rat him out? And now he was here to, what, make sure Dean knew nothing was going to happen?

"Was it?" Cas prompted after a long silence.

Dean looked away. "Does it matter? Look, I promise I'm not gonna make things awkward if that's what you're worried about. Nothing has to change, I'll get over-"

"There was no proposal," Cas blurted. "I just wanted to give you flowers."

Dean blinked. "You-?"

"I intended to be honest with you but when the moment came, I lost my nerve." Cas smiled sheepishly. "So I made up a story about a botched proposal. The truth is I like you and I've wanted to ask you out for a while."

Dean laughed. He couldn't help it, this situation was beyond ridiculous. 

"I wasn't testing out any new techniques," he admitted. "I just wanted to give you pie."

Cas' smile widened and if he'd been beautiful before it was nothing compared to now, beaming and pink-cheeked, eyes sparkling in the artificial glow of the streetlights. Dean wanted to kiss him so bad and for once, he had no excuse to hold back.

Cas must have been thinking the same thing because they met in the middle, noses bumping in their excitement, before Cas cupped Dean’s cheek and tilted his head, bringing their lips together. It was a sweet kiss and Dean smiled as he could taste the apples and cinnamon on Cas’ lips. 

Dean’s heart was pounding as they parted, stomach fluttering with what felt suspiciously like butterflies. 

“I know offering pastries to a baker might be as useless as offering flowers to a florist,” Cas said, “but I have some pie left over if you’d-”

Dean cut him off with a quick kiss. “Baker or no, I never turn down pie.”

But even with the promise of pie Dean was in no hurry to move and neither, it seemed, was Cas, because they lingered in the doorway, trading kisses until their noses had gone cold and Cas’ dark hair was dusted with melting snowflakes. 

[masquerade-reimagined]

This is really long and I don’t recommend you actually read it.

Hey! Pixelberry! C’mere. I got something to talk to you about.

No, it’s not about how it’s completely incomprehensible for the Foreign Affairs MC to not know who Blaine is as soon as they first see them. But it is about FA! So pull up a chair because this totally non-professional writer is gonna sit you down and talk to you about how awful the flirting is in this book. Specifically, during this scene:

Let me establish the process I took to make this completely unnecessary post. I went through all of the flirting options for all three LIs in this book and sorted them into one of the three following categories (with quantity out of 30 -- the current total number of flirt options through the first six chapters).

Okay/Good: Nothing offensive and even mostly makes sense for MC to say/do. (21/30)

Iffy/Pushing It: Not downright terrible but possibly somewhat awkward, inappropriate, or nonsensical if you really think about the situation. (6/30)

WTF: Way over the line or completely inappropriate to the relationship and/or situation. (3/30)

Overall, not too bad, really. Most of the flirting options are fine. They make sense, they aren’t overly aggressive (unless it’s a Blaine scene and then Blaine is more receptive to that sort of thing, so it’s fine).

The Iffy/Pushing It category is split evenly across all three LIs at two each. They’re all entirely contextual and aren’t necessarily bad. They can just tilt toward being a little on the awkward side when you think about the context of the situation, and the relationship between MC and the LI.

WTF is all Tatum, and two of the three are from chapter six (the third is the leaning in for a kiss in chapter two for the reasons I’m going to elaborate on in a moment). You probably already know which two I’m talking about.

Now. The first one, "I'm glad we can be here together as adults," isn’t necessarily bad on its own. It’s that CRINGE AS HELL follow-up. THIS cringe as hell follow-up:

What the crap is this?!

What part of this kind of flirting is appropriate for this relationship? Don’t get me wrong, I am all for the overt, intense flirting options. Especially when it makes some stoic hunk of a man stammer and blush. Yes. YES. Sign me the eff up, please.

But these are childhood friends, former BFFs, who (as far as we’re aware at this point) were not romantically involved. They also have neither seen one another in some indeterminant number of years nor stayed in close contact. They’ve drifted apart -- considerably. Even if MC stuck around for the poker game in chapter 4, they’re still not really close. Even if there’s an attraction between them and had been one before Tatum shipped out, there’s no precedent for this kind of behavior.

So why the hell is MC insinuating that they’ve both had sexual partners and coquettishly dragging their fingers up his arm. How does that make sense for these two? Why would an overly forward MC applying a ton of pressure on a man who is already somewhat uncomfortable in his role because he’s struggling with balancing who MC used to be to him and who they are now be a good example of flirting?

Seriously. Tell me. I need to understand what the hell is going on here. Because it only gets worse with that awful “as long as you’re not vanilla in bed” nonsense. These would’ve been more appropriate farther down the line in their rekindled relationship. Maybe after there’s been more romantic development. When Tatum has more consistently reciprocated. Because it’s not well timed, it’s even more awkward and shiver-inducing. I’m not sure that vanilla sex one would’ve ever been good, even if it gives me hope for a kinky af Tatum scene in the future (I will pay good 💎💎💎💎💎 for that).

(This sort of awkward, forced affection is also why leaning in for a kiss in chapter 2 is super cringe. Tatum can barely look at MC and they’ve only been reunited for a couple days. Don’t try to kiss the dude for the first time, okay?)

What makes these two terrible offerings even more obviously terrible is that the next two in this scene are almost perfect.

Now wait. Here me out. I’m going to explain.

“I’ve been a bit lost without you” is an example of what all of the flirting should be like between Tatum and MC, at least for now. It’s a nostalgic sort of flirting option. It appeals to their shared memories of their friendship and how much they meant to one another. The “here together as adults” one could have gone this route and, rather than being something that would make me unbelievably uncomfortable if someone said that to me in real life, it could have been a moment for MC to talk about how it’s a time for them to get to know one another and the people they’ve become. Without their parental overlords looming in the shadowy near-distance.

But we already know you didn’t take that route, so... way to waste an opportunity there, PB. We’ll just add it to the pile of other missed opportunities, shall we?

Anyway. Tatum’s response to “lost without you” is also good, if not a little spoiled by his intense gaze and hitching breath. It shows that he cares about MC in a way that goes beyond the whole bodyguard/VIP thing they have going on now. It’s a lovely exchange that speaks to the hope of being able to pursue something more with someone who has already played a significant role in their lives.

And I also argue that MC wiping the ice cream from Tatum’s lips is a strong flirting moment because MC doesn’t make a big deal out of it. They don’t lick it off of their fingers while awkwardly maintaining eye contact or sit there with their mouth millimeters from his or, y’know, lick it off him. They do their thing, maybe drag it out a little bit but not an aggressive amount, then sit back, and leave Tatum going 😳. It’s a great example of one of the more forward, assertive flirting options that doesn’t take things too far.

Unlike the first two options.

IN SUM: Less of the first two kind of things. The flirting options that are just wholly inappropriate for the characters, the relationship, and the setting, and make you feel disgusting when you choose them. More of the thoughtfully considered options and reactions that correctly demonstrate the growing (or already established) connections between the two people involved.

Please. Thank you. Bye.

[docholligay]

Chinese Food in The American West

One of the things I frequently come across as a student of the American West* is that people get most of their information from movies and TV and then act like they know things. Wyatt Earp was not a Lawful Good champion who always did his level best even when it was hard to know. (You want Seth Bullock or Bass Reeves). Racism was far more complicated than white vs not white (I’ve talked about this EXTENSIVELY in Strange Empire, so I’m not going to bore you here**). 

And they didn’t just eat steak. In fact, they rarely ate steak. 

Steak as cowboy food isn’t INACCURATE, but it is MODERN. From about the early 1900s on, you had less and less drives and more and more ranchers who were staying put, with less and less hands needed, and so food was grabbed less “on the go.” Cows could be slaughtered and used to feed the family, allowing for more opportunities for things like steak, yes, but also things like chili, a play on sauerbraten, southern-style biscuits. The cattle drives were a real blend of culture and race, and a lot of what we have left as “Western food” owes a great deal to that. 

And if we leave the cattle drives and head into the towns of the American West, as we will today, we find things like oysters, pies, and various things like that. Far more well-heeled than the general expectation. 

I mean, here’s the menu from the Occidental Saloon circa the late 1880s:

Soups

Chicken Giblet and Consumme, with Egg

Fish

Columbia River Salmon, au Beurre Noir

Relieves

Filet a Boeuf, a la Financier

Leg of Lamb, Sauce, Oysters

Cold Meats

Loin of Beef, Loin of Ham, Loin of Pork, Westphalia Ham, Corned Beef, Imported Lunches

Boiled Meats

Leg of Mutton, Ribs of Beef, Corned Beef and Cabbage, Russian River Bacon

Entrees

Pinons a Poulett, aux Champignons

Cream Fricasse of Chicken, Asparagus Points

Lapine Domestique, a la Matire d'Hote

Casserole d'Ritz aux Oeufs, a la Chinoise

Ducks of Mutton, Braze, with Chipoluta Ragout

California Fresh Peach, a la Conde

Roasts

Loin of Beef, Loin of Mutton, Leg of Pork

Apple Sauce, Suckling Pig, with Jelly, Chicken Stuffed Veal

Pastry

Peach, Apple, Plum, and Custard Pies

English Plum Pudding, Hard Sauce, Lemon Flavor

This dinner will be served for 50 cents.

-I got this from the book “Saloons of the Old West” by Erdoes

But none of that is precisely why I’m here, I just can’t stop myself from talking about this, why I’m here is that one of the things I say that often surprises people, is that Chinese food was incredibly common for the, well, common man to eat. There’s very much a conception that we as a non-Chinese American  people did not start eating Chinese food until the 40s and 50s, and its truer that it took longer to catch on in the American East than the West simply as a matter of proximity and choice. 

Not MORE choice but LESS. Part of what made the West so unique, historically, is that the lack of choice and the basic scarcity caused people to work with and patronize people that their general prejudices would have kept them from using back east, because they had CHOICES. But out in the west, less so. There were few choices for a quick, cheap meal on the go. That dinner I just posted above is a lavish affair, and a great deal at approximately $20.00 in today’s money. (Which does not allow for the fact that cost of supplies has gone up and this dinner would most likely be offered for no less than 70 or so today.) 

People desperately wanted something that was cheap and quick, and the other options in the American West were few, far between, and not intensely pleasing. No one had really come up with the sandwich shop as of yet, and in any case, fresh meats and cheeses would have been too difficult for the low-cost supplier. 

ENTER THE CHINESE POPULATION.

If you have read my Strange Empire blogs, I hope you know that Chinese people were a huge presence in the American West, mostly working for the railroad and various mines, but also doing things like laundry, work that was extremely hard but took little in the way of English speaking. They existed in Chinatowns, for a combination of cultural and legal factors, but it’s a misconception that non-Chinese*** people never went to Chinatown. 

People are not new, and it was not unusual for non-Chinese people to use the laundries, tailoring, and other services of Chinatowns while suppressing the rights of Chinese people int he same breath. There were always individual Chinese people any given non-Chinese person liked and did business with. 

In time, they discovered the inherent wisdom of the noodle bowl. 

I don’t mean to suggest that all these early restaurants served was noodle bowls, but that was where it all started. Remember, Italian food had little prominence in America at the this time, as Italian immigration didn’t really get into full swing until the 1870s in America. While there are noodle traditions half of everywhere, and there is nothing new under the sun, what we today would consider a stir-fry bowl was wildly new to most of the non-Chinese folks in the West. That it could be offered up so cheaply, was so filling, and so delicious (more on this later) was a wild revelation. Everyone from simple cowboys (which, fun fact! Was a slur back then!) to mayors were swinging by Chinatowns to try the dishes. 

By the 1920s, chop suey, a fully Chinese American invention derived from the words for “various leftovers” was a hugely popular American food among all sorts. 

Doc, you may ask, was it just that these folks coming through to get medicines or laundry were SO adventurous? Not at all! Chinese restaurants back then actually, in a very short amount of time, realized that their non-Chinese townsfolk were an excellent way to make money as well, and began to adapt and change dishes to better fit the Western palate, leading what we call American Chinese Food today, which is a legitimate foodway I will defend to my death. Unfortunately, none of these menus survive today--the only ones we have are from places in San Francisco, places that were much more posh, and not the subject of this essay. 

There is a scene in Tombstone where Wyatt and his brothers are eating Chinese food, and it’s one of the things people often ask me about, assuming it’s anachronistic. Actually, it isn’t at all--the anachronism is that there’s broccoli in those noodle bowls, which had not yet hit our shores by the time of the OK Corral. Chinese food was a huge hit, Chinese restaurants were doing extremely well, and some Chinese restaurants were even beginning to attempt to print menus in English, with sit down areas, instead of serving simple fare from food carts. 

As the food from these “chow chow houses” grew in popularity, as we can infer from the advertisements of their competitors promising free potatoes with every meal, and other such niceties to entice, there was, as ever there must be, blowback. Anti-Chinese sentiment grew to a fever pitch, and with this came overt pressure for ‘Good Americans” to patronize ‘American restaurants’. The social pressure is actually where we get some of that old racist jargon about Chinese people serving dogs and cats, which people often think was spread by competitors to degrade the Chinese restaurants, which isn’t UNTRUE, but was just as often said sheepishly by someone who couldn’t stop themselves from going and grabbing a noodle bowl or even the American dishes they offered, such as roast chicken or pork chop sandwiches. 

(I won’t comment with anything but an eyeroll on the bullshit of people saying they’re ~allergic to MSG~ okay I’ll believe you when you stop eating processed food, meat, aged cheese) 

It actually kept this type of reputation as being slightly scandalous well into the early 1900s, as being something you ate after the bar, something to be had in the shadows, but it was all for naught, because Chinese food became an important part of American identity. But for all that, no one ever pictures the Lone Ranger chowing down (the American phrase ‘chow’ for food actually comes from these ‘chow chow houses’) on some chop suey, but there’s every reason to believe he would have. American Chinese food is just as American as the Germanically-influenced hamburger. 

(There’s a whole subtopic to go down about Jewish and Chinese communities and Kosher Chinese Food, two marginalized and othered communities coming together, but that’s a WHOLE other topic) 

(Also someone please buy me Chinese food. This shit always makes me so hungry.) 

*The American West is a specific time period, as far as the study of history goes. It covers the period between the end of the Civil War and the New Century, generally, and is, obviously, concerned with the western half of the country. It doesn’t cover stuff like Lewis and Clark (that’s Expansion) or even the Civil War itself, though you cannot possibly hope to study the American West in any level of seriousness without understanding the Civil War. Anyway! I know a lot about America between 1865 and 1900, and am just knowledgeable enough to be dangerous on everything else. Most History nerds are highly specified like this. We’re not as much help to your trivia team as you think.****

**I actually have had little chance to talk about ~European-style xenophobia~ as it played out in the west, because Strange Empire takes a more modern pass at it. But there was a hierarchy of “whiteness” as well, as still largely exists in Europe, land of intentionally clean ethnostates. 

***I use the term “non-Chinese” instead of white because believe it or not, non-white people were not magically free of racism against Chinese people. It was horrific and BASICALLY every non-Chinese person was guilty of it to some level, a wild-ass level of hatred that led to Chinese folks not being able to PURCHASE PROPERTY BY LAW in ENTIRE STATES. Being Chinese or Native in this place and time was your Worst Bet. 

****I actually was on a competitive trivia team, you DO want me.

[destielshippingnews]

Edvard's Supernatural Rewatch & Review: 1x04 Phantom Traveler

In this week’s analysis, I’ll be discussing the unfortunate introduction of Abrahamic mythology, the lamentable gender politics of Dean in his nightwear, and magic languages.

Supernatural’s fourth offering, 1x04 Phantom Traveler, (not a misspelling, 'traveller' is spelt like that in America) is a solid episode. It’s not fantastic, and Supernatural certainly has better to offer, but it’s still an entertaining watch which introduces demons into the Supernatural universe and continues developing Dean and Sam’s characters, making them more distinct.

It is also the first episode Robert Singer directed for Supernatural. I didn’t see much to particularly comment on in the direction for this episode (my two years of Media Studies were not wasted on me at all), but one interesting choice, however, is the tracking shot of Dean’s sleeping form straight after the title card. EscapingPurgatory podcast had a shrewd postulation: the intended audience was heterosexual educated men between the ages of roughly 15 and 39, but a lot of them would be watching with their girlfriends and wives etc, and Dean is the brother who’s available at the moment.

Returning to the plot of the show, the script does itself a major disservice as early as the cold open. This episode was broadcast in America four years after 9/11 (almost four and a half in Britain) and was right in the middle of the decades-long and still ongoing war on drugs. The atmosphere surrounding airfare has changed fundamentally. The air hostess clearly saw the man’s black eyes and was affected by it, and should have alerted somebody on the plane to her worries, because she would have thought he was on drugs of some variety at the very least, and possibly smuggling drugs on the plane. However, for the purposes of the plot she does not act on her misgivings, but simply gasps and goes about her day.

This raises the question of why the demon revealed its presence like that. Demons are usually incredibly stupid on Supernatural, but this level of dumb is difficult for me to believe. The air hostess could have very easily had the man thrown off the aeroplane, and then its plan would be scuppered. The most likely reason was to show the audience that the man was possessed, but the audience was going to find that out in about a minute’s time anyway, so why reveal it there? It breaks the fourth wall in a bad way.

Whilst on the aeroplane and the demon’s plan, the episode never makes the demon’s motivations explicit. Sure, Sam claims that demons like death and destruction for their own sake, but this doesn’t fit well with how demons behave later in the show. They are, forsooth, as thick as poo, but they usually have higher ups telling them what to do. Was the demon’s repeated downing of aeroplanes part of a higher up’s plan?

Before I go on, it’s worthwhile mentioning that this episode is the first one to introduce the idea of an actual Abrahamic Hell in the Supernatural universe. It’s not the only genre show of its kind to have included something like this, with Charmed having the Underworld where the Source of All Evil resided, and Buffy having various Hell dimensions, but those two examples weren’t Hell as depicted in the Bible.

Joss Whedon specifically avoided the idea of a Hell and employed dimensions ruled by demons and demon gods rather than Archangel Lucifer. Charmed used the Underworld as an equivalent of Hell, but it was not a place of punishment for human souls. While Charmed is definitely my least favourite fantasy/horror/sci-fi genre show (Prue notwithstanding), I appreciated that it took a step away from Abrahamic mythology. Buffy/Angel were even better, having their own mythology that had precious little to do with Middle Eastern religions and more to do with Dunsany, Lovecraft or sometimes even Tolkien.

Kripke, however, took the lazy route with Abrahamic, specifically Christian, mythology, a choice which I believe was to the show’s detriment. It’s supposed to be a show about American folklore and urban legends, but that stuff eventually gets thrown under the bus. Forget Native Americans, screw the Americanised versions of Scandiwegian lore, screw the Old West and the Gold Rush and all the tales revolving around America’s history. And Canada? Pfft. What even is Canada? And don’t even think about Mexico. Let’s just have yet more desert myths from 2-3000 years ago.

My distaste aside, this universe has a Hell (and a Heaven), and demons are made by torturing humans until all humanity is gone from them, or by letting the humans off the torture rack if they agree to become the torturers.

Knowing this, two possibilities come to mind. One is that this demon is repeating its own human death for some reason, and another is that it kills people and drags their souls to Hell to make more demons.

Repeating its own death is entirely speculative, but this episode mixes up demons with traits later associated with ghosts and death echoes. Never again is an EMF reader used to detect demonic activity, and unless I’ve forgotten a certain example, demons aren’t shown to act as specifically as this again.

The second option, that of dragging souls to Hell, doesn’t seem likely as it’s made clear that demon deals or trades are required in order for Hell to get its claws on human souls, at least in usual circumstances. There’s nothing saying that demons can’t just decide to drag certain souls to Hell, and there is an implication at the end of this episode that this might actually be the case, but it’s a stretch. If this were the case, however, it would give the demon a real motive and make the episode less of a stand-alone bit of fun with overt X-Files vibes.

Sticking with Hell events on the aeroplane for now, let’s skip to the end and the exorcism. Whilst trying to exorcise the demon, it tells Sam that Jessica is burning in Hell. Dean tries to reassure Sam by saying that demons read minds and that it was trying to get to him, but demons can only know the minds of people they possess. This then leaves three options: the demon was lying and Jess is in Heaven, it was telling the truth and Jess is in Hell, or the demon was just trying to get to Sam, but unbeknownst to him Jess actually was in Hell.

Technically speaking, Jess shouldn’t be in Hell. She didn’t make a deal (that we know of) and it’s established later in the show that most people go to Heaven anyway. But Kevin didn’t, neither did Eileen or Bobby. Mary did, even though she made a deal with Azazel, and she died under the same circumstances as Jess. As Jess is never mentioned as being in Hell by another demon in the show, and as Dean, Sam and Cas eventually visit Hell and find nothing of her there, we can assume Jessica went to Heaven.

The exorcism in this episode is strange compared to exorcisms in the rest of the show. The Doyle (external to the text) explanation is clearly that the writers didn’t know exactly how they wanted things to work yet, but the Watson (within the text) explanation could be that they used a different exorcism ritual. Later in the show, there is no intermediate stage between being expelled from the host body and being banished to Hell: they just go directly down. This version, though, forces the demon to manifest and thereby makes it much stronger and more dangerous. I personally think the version in this episode makes the demons more of a threat because it’s harder to exorcise them, but I can see why it became streamlined later in the show.

The fact the demon possessed the aeroplane, however, raises the question of why it didn’t do so in the first place. Maybe it’s more fun to possess a human first.

Speaking of the ritual, Jared tells us on the commentary that he had to have a Latin teacher from a local university instruct him in Ecclesiastical Latin because he learnt Classical Latin at school. As a language person, I’m left wondering why. It’s the same language, just pronounced differently. Does the spell need to be pronounced in a certain way in order to work? If so, would the Ancient Romans have been completely incapable of expelling demons with their own language? Would they have had to rely on Greek, Etruscan, Gaulish or Sumerian for the rituals? It’s just completely unnecessary, especially as we later see Rowena casting spells in Scottish Gaelic, Irish witches casting spells in Irish, Celtic ‛demons’ performing rituals in Gaulish…

At least the university teacher got a little bit of extra money, I suppose.

Sticking with the aeroplane a little bit longer, Dean’s fear of flying is a welcome expansion to his character, though it was clearly included with the intent of making fun of him. It could easily have been played as such, but Jensen’s comments on the commentary indicate he saw it as an opportunity to provide more depth to Dean, as his connection with Lucas through their shared childhood trauma did in 1x03 Dead in the Water. In these two episodes, Jensen begins taking Dean away from the writers and making him his own: he was supposed to be the sidekick, but Jensen said nope.

In making Dean afraid of flying, but having him so insistent upon flying in spite of it, The Show perhaps did itself a bit of a disservice in its mission of making Sam The Hero and Dean The Sidekick. Dean was terrified, but flew anyway. That is bravery, and it’s what the audience wants to see in a hero.

Sam, however, does not miss an opportunity to make me dislike him (you knew this was coming at some point, don’t look surprised). Not only is he incredibly unappreciative and derisive of Dean’s talents, such as making his own EMF from an old Walkman, but he was also derisive of Dean’s fear of flying.

Sorry, let me reword that. Derisive of Dean for being scared of flying. It’s perfectly rational to be afraid of being in a giant metal bird suspended miles above the ground, but Dean agreed to it anyway in order to save people. And Sam treats him like a child because he’s scared of take-off and turbulence. Dean’s fear is a rational one, something that a person who hasn’t been sheltered from reality would have. Sam’s greatest fear, however, is…

Clowns.

I get it, they’re brothers, and siblings are supposed to rib on each other like this (the siblings I still talk to aren’t like this with me or each other, so I find it difficult to relate to Dean and Sam’s relationship) but it makes Sam come across as an utter cunny-hole. If somebody is clearly terrified of something and on the edge of a panic attack, you don’t sneer and mock, and then demand he calm down. Sure, Dean needed to calm down and Sam was the only one who could do it, but talking to him like a child just reveals how little Sam knows of taking care of other people. He’s the pampered younger brother, and it really shows.

He also shows a lack of judgement when roughly putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder while he was distracted. Dean’s essentially a war child (and suffers C-PTSD) and you just shouldn’t do things like this to somebody like that. That’s how you trigger panic attacks or flashbacks. Ask a veteran, I’m sure s/he’ll agree.

Aside from that, the middle-aged man on the aeroplane winked at Dean – winked – when Dean was walking down the aisle with his EMF reader. A man winking at a man has sexual overtones nowadays, and has done for a long time. How many men wink at a built guy standing over them like that unless they’re sure they won’t be punched in the face? Dean had his EMF reader out at that moment, but he was simultaneously on somebody else’s radar. Something about Dean set sexual bells ringing in cameo middle-aged man’s head. Regarding Sam, there’s two important moments for him in this episode (Jess aside): when he discovers John talked about and praised him in his absence, and when he exorcises the demon. It’s made clear in a few episodes’ time that Sam never felt like he fit in with his family, and that he believed John was disappointed in him. Exactly how he came to this conclusion is uncertain, since John doted on Sam and afforded him liberties he never would have allowed Dean, but it’s clear their relationship is difficult. Going away to university was Sam’s attempt to run away from the dysfunctional family he felt an outsider in and to escape John (and Dean): that he apparently didn’t speak to either John or Dean during his time there says a lot.

He finds out, however, that John praised him, undermining somewhat Sam’s belief that John regarded him as a disappointment. Episode 1x05 Bloody Mary provides another moment of character growth for Sam that subtly changes the way he perceives himself, but all in due course.

Praise from parents is important for children, and it really shouldn’t be hard for parents to tell their children they’re proud of them, even if they don’t say it in as many words. In spite of his difficult relationship with John, Sam gets that by proxy in this episode (whilst Dean’s happily checking out all the men in the hangar) and it changes the way he sees himself and John, even if only slightly.

The other moment – discussed above – is his exorcism of the demon. I don’t mince my words about disliking Sam, but even I can see he had potential. He’s the weird kid who wanted a normal life, but because of cursed blood had that hope denied him. Series 4 shows us the beginning of what Sam could have turned into when his blood magic arc truly kicks off, and it could have been a riveting plotline if written and handled well. Think for example of Willow in Buffy and the journey she went on with her magic powers: there was real darkness in there, and a gargantuan struggle to overcome it and become stronger.

This exorcism reminds me of Willow’s first steps at witchcraft in 2x22 when she casts the spell to restore a certain character’s soul and we see the potential for true strength as she performs the spell with ease. This exorcism of Sam’s should have been something similar, and his demonic powers should not have been completely removed and forgotten about in 8x23. He could have been Supernatural’s answer to Willow, and the Dark!Sam arc in series 3-7 could have been the first in his descent into darkness and his fight back out to take control of his own powers and become the opposite of what Azazel wanted him to be.

But – and not for the last time – three words come to mind. Such potential, Supernatural.

You might remember I mentioned the tracking shot of Dean (and neglected to mention the revealing shot of his thighs and underwear). Paula R. Stiles’ suggestion that the fact the writers and director for this episode were men doesn’t cheapen it is one I don’t understand. Jensen is in my 100% objective and unbiased opinion one of the finest men alive, but exploiting that in order to draw in an audience does cheapen the show.

To be fair, Supernatural is hardly high culture and commercial television is about revenue, but things like that break the illusion of artistic integrity, just like not making Dean explicitly bisexual does because that’d scare away too much of the audience. If having scantily-clad women in a show or film is there for the male gaze and drawing in money, then so too are Dean’s thighs and buttocks, similarly cheapening the show. If the male gaze objectifies women, stripping them of their power and subjecting them to male desires, then the female gaze objectifies and strips men of any power they might have and subjects them to female desires.

If it’s bad for the gander, it should also be bad for the goose.

Neither do I think it matters one bit that the writer and director are men, or am I supposed to believe a woman has never encouraged or coerced another woman to flash a bit of boob in order to get men to empty their pockets? Claiming that presenting a person as an object of possible sexual attraction turns him into an ‛object’ is strange, and that claim’s only ever made when women are being presented for men’s enjoyment.

But let’s stick to Supernatural because I have work in the morning. To be honest, I never notice if a woman on screen is being subjected to a ‛male’ gaze because I have no sexual or romantic interest in women whatsoever: if a woman is supposed to be portrayed as appealing to men’s eyes, it’ll usually go straight over my head because it just doesn’t register as having anything to do with sex. Interesting, however, is that this begins the trend of treating Dean in certain ways that women are usually treated, or associating him with ‛feminine’ traits.

Some people go overboard with for example Dean’s association with and likeness to Mary, his taking on the parental (maternal?) role in Sam’s upbringing, his knack with children etc, and use it as evidence to suggest that any traditionally masculine behaviour – or masculine behaviour at all – from Dean is a performance to keep up an act so that he can hide how feminine he really is.

My take on this is quite different than the condescending viewpoint that a man behaving like a man is performing and pretending. Dean’s ‛feminine’ traits are not his ‛true’ self in opposition to his feigned masculine behaviour. There is absolutely no contradiction between Dean exhibiting ‛feminine’ traits such as being good with children, cooking, or trying his hardest to fill the role Mary would have filled, and being a masculine man who identifies very strongly with being male.

I do think it’s fascinating, though, and the complexity and depth of Dean as a male character is one of the reasons he is one of my favourite characters. We rarely get to see men who are very manly and also incredibly loving, loyal and paternal and who exhibit a normal range of human behaviours and interests, including ‛masculine’ and ‛feminine’. That’s what normal men are like, something television and film seem to have forgotten.

Regarding Dean in bed, note that he is a stomach sleeper (sleeping on your stomach keeps your tummy safe), and this is consistent throughout all fifteen years of the show. However, this early in the show he takes his trousers, outer shirts and shoes off, in contrast to sleeping fully dressed as he begins doing sometime rather soon. He’s alert and cautious this early in the show, but not yet quite so worn down that he can’t be bothered to get ready for bed.

Note also that both brothers have sleeping problems here. Dean knew Sam was still up at 3am, meaning Dean likely slept for less than three hours, having been woken up by Sam at 5:45.

The end of the episode presents the brothers with something to be hopeful about. John has a new mobile phone number, the first evidence they’ve had so far that he is very probably still alive. It’s not much to go on, and John does not answer Dean and Sam’s call, but it’s something the boys can latch on to and keep them searching for John. Whether or not they should be searching for John is another question altogether, though, but at least it got the plot going in 1x01.,

Phantom Traveler is a strong but flawed episode which builds on last week’s expansion of Dean’s character and role, as well as introducing demons and Hell into the lore. The cut scene where Dean has to remove all his concealed weapons before going into the airport really should have been kept in because it says a lot about his character, as does his sleeping with a blade under his pillow, but other than that, I’m happy to leave this episode now on a positive note.

[shadowmayura]

I didn’t think I’d be doing this, but it’s gotten to the point where some things have to be said.

Someone from my past has been making vagueposts about me lately and I can’t allow it to go unaddressed any longer. They are disingenuous and at times downright false, and they imply a certain type of relationship that simply did not exist.

If at this point you don’t know exactly who and what I’m talking about, please scroll by. I’m not going to be mentioning her by name and I’m not here to drag additional people into this big mess. This is solely to address any misconceptions for those who have already seen this person’s posts and are left confused by the strange phrasing and missing information.

(TW: harassment, emotional abuse, stalking, vomit)

This person and I met online in the spring of last year. Soon after, she confessed to me that she had a crush on me. I wasn’t interested for a variety of reasons (distance, not knowing her very well, and a lack of attraction on my end) and I gently let her down but suggested that we could still be friends. At no point did I promise a romantic relationship with this person.

We got to know each other better as friends. For a while, it was genuinely fun. I did not harbor any romantic feelings but I did enjoy being her friend. But in the summer, we began to spend more time together, and that’s where it started to go wrong. In reality, it was gradual, but it felt very sudden because the realization that things had changed came all at once. Her flirting had become a lot more aggressive and she was implying to other people that there was something between us. Playful teasing had turned to something far more demanding, and we were talking to each other nonstop, up to 10 hours per day every single day. When I realized how drastically our interactions had changed, I tried to pull back. I became very uncomfortable with how much couple-like behavior had emerged on her side when I did not want to be in that kind of relationship.

My decision was met with a lot of resistance. She was upset at me that I wanted to cut back on the amount of one-on-one time spent together, and she also was upset when I took a week-long break from Discord as a whole. We had our first argument over this. I thought we reached an understanding, but at the end of the conversion, she expressed her need for significant quality time between us, leaving me feeling like I hadn’t been heard at all. It’s worth noting that I hadn’t cut her out entirely at this point. We were still talking almost every day, but we weren’t on voice chat for hours on end any longer. I just wanted interactions that were closer to a normal friendship rather than a romantic relationship that I had never consented to.

It got worse leading into fall. The flirting continued and escalated. She drew “friendship portraits” of the two of us with strong romantic undertones. As she continued to push, I drew back. She didn’t like this. I was met with passive aggression when I tried to set boundaries and put a comfortable distance between us.

September is where it reached a head. On September 17th, she coerced me into a video chat that essentially served as an intervention for my choice. I had a bad feeling going into it, but she insisted that we video chat rather than text chat. I reluctantly agreed under her false pretense that it would be a conversation solely about fandom matters, but within 5 minutes, she was crying on video. I became very uncomfortable and I continued to look at a document on my computer so she could compose herself. She calmed down, but as soon as I claimed to be done looking at it, she turned the crying on again.

For about an hour, I was berated. She was crying and yelling, not allowing me to get a word in edgewise. She was, once again, very upset with me that I had been pulling away from her. I desperately wanted to leave the call, but I knew that there’d be hell to pay later if I did. I forced myself to sit through the whole thing. When she was done, I was shaking. She expected me to speak but I was unable to form words for several minutes and I was additionally berated for not saying anything, even though I had already been cut off many times. When I was able to pull myself out of the state I was in, I told her that our interactions had become far too romantically-focused for my comfort and that I didn’t want her to flirt with me anymore. I then ended the conversation as quickly as I could.

I vomited several times after we hung up and was shaking for hours. I couldn’t sleep that night. A few days later, I lost clumps of hair. It is stress-induced alopecia areata that I’m still receiving treatment for. I don’t say any of this to garner sympathy, but I want to emphasize that this was not a conversation that I look back on fondly. It was traumatic. This unfortunately is relevant later.

At this point, it is safe to say that I did not want to associate with this person any longer, but this was not an option for me. There were fandom commitments that tethered us together, and I knew I’d have to weather out the storm. If I didn’t, I would tear friend groups apart, drop commitments that I cared a lot about, and potentially ruin both of our reputations in the community.

I tried to maintain some distance without angering her significantly, but it was all downhill from here. She continued to disrespect my boundaries and push me romantically. Flirting occurred less commonly in private chats since I would shut it down, but in public spaces, she continued to flirt with me, and I felt pressured to allow it in order to avoid awkwardness in group settings.

Her romantic interest turned into obsession. She became fixated on my Tumblr posts and Discord statuses, accusing me of referencing her when this was seldom the case. Jealousy arose about my friendships with other people. She didn’t trust me to make my own decisions with my friendships and disrespected my decisions when I made them. There was also a huge increase in emotional manipulation and guiltbaiting. Whenever calm and rational criticism of her behavior was given to her, she would exaggerate and call herself a terrible person so that the criticism would be dropped in favor of coddling and comforting her. It was impossible to bring up serious issues without her playing the victim.

She also became increasingly hard to deal with in a team environment. I often felt as if I was being disciplined for not loving her in return. My ideas were constantly nitpicked and shot down. I was condescended to. I began to feel unwelcome in group spaces because of these behaviors. I felt like she was pushing me out of public spaces in hopes that I would flee to private ones, though I tried to avoid that as much as possible.

In November, a flip switched. The romantic harassment almost entirely vanished and all her interactions with me became unkind. In some ways, it was refreshing because the worst of the stalking subsided, but the hostile environment was not easy to deal with. I retreated from fandom in order to avoid it as much as possible.

Finally in December, my fandom commitments finally ended, giving me the ability to end my friendship with her. Right before this, she spoke negatively of me in some public ways. One of these actions I cannot name here because it would reveal her identity, but it spoke ill of a community that I oversee.

The worst, however, was a fanfic that she published several days before I cut her off. She projected her and I onto the main couple of the fic. I was cast as Gabriel and she was cast as Nathalie. The further I read, the more sickened I became as the references became more overt.

Near the end of the fic, Gabriel and Nathalie have a huge argument. I was shocked to find exact quotes from our September 17th video chat in the dialogue of the fic. They were large sections of our conversation. At the end of their argument, Gabriel admitted all wrong and they make amends. As a couple.

I felt ill reading this. I still feel ill thinking about it. I hate that one of the most traumatic conversations in my life still exists on the internet for anyone to read, twisted into a scene that is meant to be read as good and romantic. I am reminded of all the harassment that I endured and I hate that that is a feeling I now associate with one of my favorite ships. There are other creators involved as well whose work has now been tainted by these real-world associations that had no business being in a fanfic.

After this, I cut her out of my life entirely. I was considering less drastic options, but this was the last straw that I knew we could not come back from. I removed her from several of my social circles and blocked her on all social media.

Before I blocked her, I sent a letter explaining in explicit detail why I would be cutting her out of my life. Despite this, she has recently claimed that she was never given a reason.

And that’s where we are now. My life has been more peaceful since December and I have begun to come out of my shell. For a couple of months she left the situation alone and that was fine with me. I was happy to peacefully coexist as long as I wasn’t having to interact directly.

However, my friends began calling my attention to recent posts on her blog that implied I had destroyed her mental health. Some of them have since been deleted. While I was willing to let the first one slide, these posts have increased in frequency while pushing an increasingly false narrative. I don’t enjoy the implications that I did something horrible to her by not consenting to a relationship.

I’m sure she will disagree with my take on things, and that’s fine. If she disagrees with my reasons with cutting her off, that is her prerogative, but I cannot allow her to claim that I didn’t give any reasoning when she did receive it through multiple channels of communication.

And I hope I haven’t gone a step too far in revealing that this person was in love with me. I debated not including it, but I’ve realized it’s an unavoidable issue that is central to the entire situation. At the root of it, I was romantically pursued and harassed. I cannot defend my reasons for cutting her off without disclosing the base motivation for the majority of her actions.

So that’s my story. I’d ask those who read this to please refrain from engaging in any harassment. This post has not been made with the intention to hurt her, as can be evidenced from months of me holding my tongue. I really did try to let her preserve her dignity, but I was left with no other options after being smeared multiple times. My purpose here is transparency.

I genuinely do wish her well, for both our sakes. I really hope that this will finally end her obsession and allow her to move on. But whatever happens, I refuse to be a doormat any longer in this situation.