#good for him he's got a REALLY good aesthetic figured out and frankly i need to steal it but godDAMN

[difeisheng]

what are you as a man wearing shirts cut this low for

#im sure there's more in my gallery but these are the ones i bothered to find. god help me #this is also not counting the amount of photos where he's wearing shirts ridiculously unbuttoned #good for him he's got a REALLY good aesthetic figured out and frankly i need to steal it but godDAMN #anyways i swear this man is cutting his necklines lower on purpose #ok i need to sleep #mysterious lotus casebook cast #xiao shunyao #ashton originals

[pepplemint]

I really wanted to know your take on people saying Knives’ violates Vash’s boundaries Post July incident and Pre July when Vash was confronted with his plant powers for the first time. Doesn’t Vash’s internalised speciesism play a major role in this and how he constantly denies his plant side in an attempt to be more “human”, to fit more into human society? I’d love your thoughts on this

Sorry for a waay late response, I needed to sit on this for a while.

First, yeah he does violate Vash's boundaries. Boundaries are based on emotions. You can have boundaries that are at odds with what is good for you, like refusing medicine or help or like, even a person of particular nationality talking to you could be crossing your boundaries. Which isn't to say that's a good analogy for Vash, but, yanno. Even if it is 100% speciesism it's still a violation of boundaries, all violence are. But on to me overthinking it -

I think you have a point. But I'm me so I'm gonna need a whole deconstruction to go through why as usual.

HUMAN VS. PLANT

I never really got the impression Vash ever tried to be human (correct me if I'm wrong). People assume he is human if they see him and there's no reason most of the time to say he isn't, because frankly, most people would think he's crazy if he's claimed to be a plant. Like a random modern dude calling himself a living nuclear reactor or something. You know at least somewhat what that looks like, and this dude ain't it.

Even if it's easy to forget due to the almost apocalyptic setting, the story takes place far into the future. There's a lot of technology that we would straight up call magic if we saw it. There is people like Midvalley or Legato or Elendira who frankly either one of them could wipe out a town on their own without touching a single person, or the Eye of Michael that got medicines that can treat any fatal wound in seconds. Being human in this world isn't really what we think of when we call something human.

WHAT IS INSTINCTUAL POWER AND WHAT IS NEW POWER TO VASH?

To figure that out, at first we must say what it ISN'T. So I guess what we got to go off of is Tesla. The files mention rapid regeneration (healing). This seems in line with Vash too, who doesn't have any visible scarring before Knives leaves him, despite us having a flashback-panel of him getting shot. Brad hints while talking to Wolfwood that Vash is letting the scars stay on his body, as a way to take responsibility and not forget. The same should be true for his missing arm - he should be able to recreate it, so it must be a choice not to. So a point to you for the whole tries not to be a plant-thing. But there's also the panels of Knives when he and Vash separate. He has a blade-like protrusion on his arm, that can extend. This means that they are both aware even back then that they can mold their bodies somewhat to their own will, and that's also an innate plant power. And yet -

Vash is mystified by the power that Knives shows him. The thing him and Conrad checks on is Vash's gate, so that seems to be what Vash doesn't know about, which means that when Knives brought out the blade or any of the other situations, it wasn't really the same as using their gate. Could Vash also form knife-arms all along but chose guns for the aesthetic? We know. Nothing!!!! 😭 About how much they knew about their powers or used them or what they did for all those years (a human lifetime) before splitting. And we know little to nothing about what their gate does either, more than store huge power!

What we only see them do after accessing the gate is create negative space (not scientific term, don't come for me). It's apparently not quite a black hole according to Nightow, but something similar that "we haven't discovered" (it's made up in other words). Also when they're unable to control the gates power, their body morphs out of control with wings and shit.

But that can't be the only thing - there's a feeling connected to opening the gate, something like a power surge, a "feeling of freedom". So could it just literally be a power storage? The ability suddenly to use your already existing powers in ways that you thought you couldn't because it took too much energy? Knives says it can be hard to control, but he sure does NOT expect Vash to go ka-boom like he does! We don't know for sure what he thought would happen. Something less destructive for sure, but more than that, nothing. Frankly? I don't think Nightow really put that much thought into it. (Possibly to drive me personally insane.)

Either way....

WHAT THE HELL EVEN HAPPENS IN JULY?

This is what we objectively know happens:

- Vash finds Knives in July with intentions to "take care" of him. Knives greets him and Vash threatens him, which Knives responds to by cutting Vash's arm (and leg, I suppose?)

- Vash follows Knives down a set of stairs. We can't say if he's doing it on his own or if he's being forced.

- Vash is put on a medical table so Bill Conrad/Knives can take readings on his gate. This is probably not something he consented to, considering he's strapped down and also asleep. Conrad and Legato leaves town between this part and the next.

- Vash and Knives talks about the "power" (more on that) that has been opened up to Vash. We don't know how much time has passed, but it's fair to say at least a day or even a few. Interesting to note is that he's been given back his gun.

- Vash has trouble controlling the power so Knives tells him to resonate with him so he can help. When Knives also start questioning him about his scars, he goes into defensive mode and aims his gun at his face - Knives still forces him to resonate (by touching his face, this is also how it happens between Vash and the plant on the train), which, honestly, pretty gutsy considering he did shoot him the last time they saw eachother. Vash keeps fighting Knives though, and Knives pushes Vash back onto the floor, which leads to Vash aiming the angel arm at Knives chest and shooting.

WHERE DOES VASH SUPPRESSING SHIT COME INTO THIS?

What did Knives actually try to do? By his own accounts as seen through Vash's perspective, he was trying to help Vash control the power overflow by resonating, at least before everything goes to shit. The gate is already active. The physical force seems to be more of a response to Vash's aggression.

What was supposed to happen? Probably? NOTHING! The gate was supposed to be open, but by controlling it, you would be no different than normal.

Did Knives succeed? In the sense that Vash opened his gate, yes, in the sense that he had any control or whatever he thought would happen happened, definitely not.

What was Vash trying to do? Hard to say honestly. The gate is already open and he's struggling to keep it under control/closing it, but he doesn't trust Knives to help, which means he's fighting him every step of the way. Vash makes it very clear throughout all the scenes he intends to harm his brother though, so it's not exactly surprising it ends the way it does.

Because we can't say for sure what was meant to happen, we also can't say for sure how much of what happened was due to Vash losing control of his powers because he tried to repress them. Although personally, I think it was more he just didn't want anything to do with Knives and didn't understand just how strong this power was when he aimed it like a weapon. (As I adore the analysis of the eyes, I wanna point out that the last we see is that Vash's left eye (the "peace" one) goes blank.) If Vash didn't feel very comfortable in his plant-ness before, this sure didn't help lmfao

WHAT ABOUT THE FIFTH MOON INCIDENT?

Honestly it's hard to put too much real analytical thought into this one because it's very clear Nightow just hadn't developed the story or the character enough at this point in time. Knives is a whole other character, and what he does here makes zero sense no matter how you twist and turn it. He wakes up after seven years of healing from what happened at July, just to somehow immediately trigger Vash into doing the exact same thing AGAIN with only the genius idea to switch sides so he's not right in front of the gun this time. He is still, predictably, shot in the legs and goes screaming and flying.

Considering the deleted page with Legato though, he probably was meant to give off the vibe somewhat of a manic predatory queer. Unfortunately.

As for Vash, he is there to kill his brother. It's probably that intent that makes it as easy as it is to push him over the edge and blow up (again). I mean it's my personal headcanon that the gate is working on (repressed/overwhelming) feelings and the release is a release of those feelings, which means his rage turns into a gun while other times the effects are different (like Knives erasing people out of existence or Vash after Wolfwood's death). But we don't actually have any canon explaination for how it works.

So yes, it is a violation of boundaries, but more than that, it's fucking stupid and suicidal and I'm gonna just pretend he was high as fuck on pain meds or something because the scene makes that little sense from a character perspective. At least Vash gets his memories back and we see his power and he gets less blood thirsty after realising he was the one that blew up July, yay character development (straight into depression)

INTERNALISED SPECISISM

Vash does have this idea that they (the plants) "deserve" to suffer because they caused this situation and left humanity with no choice but to rely on them. And he got a point in that they did, although it's definitely not the entire truth.

The whole scars-thing is a good example of that. But reading between the lines, there are powers that Vash should have that we never see him use, or at least not unless he's desperate (such as the body morphing). He chose a human way of fighting that requires him to work crazy much to be good at it, rather than use the powers that should be second nature to him. As such he never really learns what the extent of those powers are.

I wouldn't say Knives had any cruel or even bad intentions in July, but Vash didn't want to learn what he was set on teaching. There's a massive disconnect between them at this time. Knives thinks he knows what's best because he sees their plantness as their way of protecting themselves, while Vash sees it as what makes them different and guilty. I'm not to say if either one is right or wrong.

But I do think you're right in that most people read these scenes not seeing objectively what is happening, but through Vash's perspective and feelings. Which you're meant to do! But while it is a violation of boundaries, it's also as you say - these boundaries might stand because Vash sees his own nature, or at least anything connected to Knives, as bad. Knives isn't trying to blow up July when it happens, it's Vash who tries to blow up Knives. It wouldn't have happened (probably) if Knives had listened and not assumed his perspective was correct, nor would it if Vash had.

#trigun #vash the stampede #millions knives #trigun maximum #trigun spoilers #long post #trigun meta

[gingerbreadmonsters]

ALL MINE

or: it’s easy to have a good time, if you don’t mind getting a little messy - all it takes is meringue, cream, and strawberries.

the long-awaited finale of LOVE HEART! gn!reader, domestic fluff to smut, absolutely and without exception minors dni. this is… a lot more explicit than i thought it was going to be - i really didn’t think i had this in me, but what @ejunkiet wants, @ejunkiet gets! i hope this does the hot boi summer aesthetic justice :) sweetheart’s a brit because i say so - it’s not necessary for the plot, but quite frankly i think it’s a crime that eton mess and trifle don’t exist in america, and this is my only way of promoting them, so there you go. @solclaw is the source of all knowledge, and i am making trifle in their honour - rowan darling there is always an extra bowl for you! 

sweetheart is gender neutral, and their anatomy is not described. milo’s skin is stated to be of an appropriate colour to show love bites, but no specific colour is mentioned and the reader’s skin is not described at all. milo being an excellent sous chef for just over 3600 words.

this fic contains explicit content, and is 18+ only. minors please do not interact with this one i am BEGGING you. thank you.

“sweetheart, you’ve, uh… you’ve got a little somethin’ just there…”

“here?”

“a little higher, to the left - no, no, your left - let me just-”

he licks his thumb and strokes it over your cheek, wiping away the stickiness as your lips pull into a very familiar smirk. christ, he knows that look, knows what it means when you run your tongue over your teeth, eyebrow cocked and head tilted to the right - it usually means that whatever you’re about to say probably isn’t fit for polite company.

“it’s not fair - how come i always get it all over my face?”

damn that mouth of yours - even when he knows it’s coming, you still get him blushing up a storm. “not my fault you’re such a messy eater, sweetheart. maybe i oughta have you wearin’ an apron next time.”

you smack lightly him in the arm with the wooden spoon, laughing at his mock-outraged expression as you go back to your cake batter. “go and get me one then, lover boy. it’s weird to hear you telling me to put on clothes, though.”

he… yeah, he doesn’t really have a comeback to that.

the two of you have been in the kitchen all morning, putting together the desserts for david’s birthday party this afternoon. it’s pretty fucking warm today, early summer and all, so you’ve got all the windows open and the fan going full blast to try and balance out the heat from the oven. both of you are sweating from the humidity, so he’s can’t really be surprised you’d forgone the apron for a little while.

david always insists that he doesn’t want anything for his birthday, but the rest of the pack - as happens every year, and’ll probably happen until the end of time - has other ideas. about a month ago, his mate had sent him off on some errand or other and got straight on a video call with you, sam, and ash’s mate to get something together.

(he still can’t figure out how the four of you seem to read each other’s minds, ‘cause the lot of you can be fucking terrifying when you’re on a mission. if he’s honest, he’s still not recovered from that goddamn prank with the door, and he knows that ash has lived in permanent fear of sam’s overhand serve ever since his mate had made the dubiously-successful suggestion of late-night tennis. it’s got to be something to do with this secretive “mates’ group chat” he’s heard legends of…)

(it gets a little more complicated when you’ve got to get the actual wolves involved, but david’s mate is a force to be reckoned with when it comes to organising shit. jesus, it’s like they’re the alpha, sometimes, and you’ve told him that you’ve met superiors at DUMP that are less intimidating. it’s no bad thing - that’s what you need when you’re dealing with a crack team like the one right here.)

(well, maybe less of a crack team, and more of a team on crack, but that’s what you get for trying to get him and ash to actually stop bickering and decide on a playlist or whatever.)

in any case, the pair of you have been put in charge of desserts for today - well, nobody was going to have ash go anywhere near anything that needed to be edible, and sam had declined politely, saying something about how “unless david’s developed a taste for O negative, i might not be too much help in the caterin’ department”. fair enough.

it doesn’t help that basically the whole pack is coming, and wolves aren’t exactly known for their, uh, delicate eating habits. you’re going to need a lot of food, and as if that wasn’t enough, you’re going to have to impress david fucking shaw. looks like the fridge is going to be working overtime in this weather, huh?

you’d taken it as a challenge, which meant that yesterday evening had been dedicated to all of the shit that needed to set overnight: tiramisu, cheesecake, chocolate tart, caramel shortbread… he doesn’t know how the hell you managed to balance it all in the fridge, but he’s not touching it, not a chance.

(it’s got to the point where he had to ask you to grab him another can of soda off the shelf because he wasn’t looking to accidentally knock something over - you’d thought it was funny, but he’d been dead serious! that new flavour you bought - the ones in the pink cans? - is really good, especially in this heat, but it’s not worth a dessert catastrophe, alright?)

(he’s especially not going near the trifle on the middle shelf - it looks pretty freaking impressive, what with all the layers and shit, but he doesn’t need you mad at him for swiping one of the raspberries off the top.)

(he remembers you making it last time, when his ma’d come over for lunch at the weekend, and you’d damn near kicked his shit in for accidentally trying to put the custard in before the cream. let’s just say he’d got the message loud and clear - he doesn’t get in the way when you make trifle any more.)

this morning’s endeavours have got you two dashing about trying to get the last few desserts finished, in a flurry of buttercream and baking powder. neither of you could remember whether david likes chocolate or vanilla more, and his mate’s not picking up, so you’d just made both - the victoria sponge is cooling on the rack over by the microwave, and the chocolate cake’s just come out of the oven.

fuck, it’s hot in here today.

the morning is almost unbearably humid, sun beating down outside between a few, sparse clouds. looks like you’re both going to need a shower before you go, as if there wasn’t enough to do. his shirt’s unbuttoned, sleeves pushed up to the elbows and collar hanging open, and he’d be tempted to take it off entirely if he didn’t know that when he does that, you almost always end up late.

you’ve got all of the ingredients for cream puffs (at least, he thinks that’s what they’ll be? you’d rattled off some fancy name, and he’d just kind of nodded and gone back to his strawberry mousse) laid out on the counter, while he slices up some kiwi for the fruit salad.

he’s not bad at cooking, by any means, but you’re the pro when it comes to desserts - he’s really just your sous chef today, and the system seems to be working pretty well.

(hey, it’s not like he minds you bossing him around a bit. he certainly hasn’t been complaining about the view today, seeing as the warm weather’s got you wearing a little less than normal.. and christ, when you do that thing where you grab him by the hips to move him out of the way? you know exactly what that does to him, you little minx.)

speaking of b- wait, what the hell are you- “sweetheart, what on earth…?”

you appear to be bashing the ever-loving shit out of the meringues he’d bought from the store yesterday with a rolling pin, and a plume of powdered sugar drifts up out of the bowl to get blown apart by the fan as you look up at him.

“eton mess,” you say, as if that explains everything. “can you pass me the strawberries?”

you’ve eaten what? he takes a big gulp of soda and watches as you tip the strawberries into the massive bowl, followed by an equally-enormous helping of whipped cream, and start mixing it all together. is that all you’re going to do? oh, wait, you’re adding a few handfuls of blueberries and… yeah, you’re just carrying it over to the fridge.

“it’s really nice, actually. sweetened cream, fruit, and smashed-up meringue. plus, it’s meant to look like a trainwreck because it literally has mess in the name, so david can’t complain.”

actually, that’s a pretty good idea. he drops the empty can into the trash, already missing the coolness of the metal on his warm skin, and reaches for another kiwi. “well then, i’ll guess have to try some when we get there, won’t i?”

you stop just in front of him on your path to the fridge, holding the bowl in one arm, and catch his wrist with the other.

“...sweetheart?”

“we have to be there at 1, right?”

what’s that look on your face? yeah, that’s what the text from ash’s mate had said. “well, the party actually starts at 2, but we gotta give the others a hand setting up, first. why?”

“did you want to try some now?”

he’s not quite sure what you mean, and your fond little huff tells him that he’s probably making that dumb expression that you keep telling him is cute, but he thinks is plain embarrassing.

“the eton mess, genius. want some?”

well, it can’t hurt, can it? not if you’re offering, surely. plus, you’d just said it was supposed to look all jumbled up, so nobody’ll miss a little bit of cream off the top. he reaches behind him to grab a teaspoon when-

“mmmm, it’s really sweet.”

his jaw drops. he swallows heavily, very glad that he hadn’t had a mouthful of soda, watching as you finish licking the cream off your fingers and hum contentedly. there’s a tiny smudge of powdered sugar just by the corner of your lip.

“baby, you gotta…”

the thought tapers off into nothing as you dip your finger back into the bowl and swipe it through the cream, looking up from your hand to meet his gaze. “don’t worry, honey. i already washed my hands.”

your other hand deposits the dessert on the kitchen table behind you, and comes to slide around his waist, under his shirt, as you move closer. idly, he feels your fingers playing with the back of his waistband. his own hands, still sticky with kiwi juice, hover just over your hips.

“go on. try some.”

no need to tell him twice. he leans down and licks your finger into his mouth.

mmmm, you were right, it is good. the sweet cream tastes like vanilla and strawberries, and the crunchy pieces of meringue melt slowly in his mouth. he swirls his tongue around the tip of your finger, eyes closed, lapping up the drops of strawberry juice in the creases and spirals of your fingerprint.

your other hand is digging insistently into his back now, fingernails pressing into the muscle there as his teeth graze across your skin, biting gently at the pad of your fingertip before releasing it from his mouth with an exaggerated pop.

“...how was it?” you’re both breathless, not an inch of space between you as he slowly licks his lips.

“i’m not too sure, sweetheart,” as he spins you both around so you’re leaning up against the counter, “i might need another taste to make sure.”

your answering grin only lasts a split second before he’s kissing you, all tongue and teeth and powdered sugar. sticky hands come up to cup your jaw as you greedily reciprocate, hastily untying the knot of your apron behind you.

everything is hot, the fiery heat of your lips against his as he growls softly into your mouth, and he briefly thinks that he probably ought to put the bowl behind you in the fridge before you get too distracted.

the thought is quickly forgotten when he feels you start to play with the tab of his zipper - he tips his head back and gasps as you press burning kisses down his throat, nipping at his adam’s apple.

“baby, baby - aghhh…”

you smile against his skin, cheek resting on his shoulder. “too much?”

“no, nonono, it’s good, ‘s really, really, oh, sweethea- fuckfuckfuckplease-!”

his brain goes delightfully blank as your fingers dip inside the elastic of his boxers and close around his cock. the pressure is just enough to have him groaning, hips twitching forwards into your hand, slow strokes just the way you know he likes.

head spinning, he pulls hazily at the hem of your shirt, too drunk on your touch to hear your laughter (he can’t quite tell if you’re calling him “needy” or “pretty”, and it really could be either), too desperate to worry about the careless way he’s practically tearing your clothes off you.

whatever it was, he’ll buy you a new one.

now that he thinks about it, with what little brainpower he can summon, this is probably why you asked him what time the party started.

“let - hahhh - sweetheart, let me touch you too,” he’s burying himself in your neck frantically, pushing his face against the sweet spot under your jaw, “wanna touch, want you feelin’ good, let m- shit, right there- sweetheart!”

you nod, regretfully withdrawing your hand as he hoists you up to sit on an empty part of the counter, between a stack of cookbooks and the side of the fridge. as soon as you’re settled, he wastes no time in pulling your face back down for another kiss while you shimmy out of the rest of your clothes.

you dangle your shirt just at the edge of his vision, showing off the unfortunate rip in the side seam that couldn’t possibly have been his fault, but you’re quickly placated by his teeth skimming over your now-bare collarbone.

he’s fairly sure you forget about it entirely when he makes good on his promises - one arm hooks around your shoulder and up to the far side of your head to nestle your face down into his neck, and the other runs over your chest and down your stomach until he finds what he’s looking for.

“nnnng, milo- ah!” your stifled keening goes straight to his head as you rock into his hand, voice breaking as he works you harder. he always knows how to make you sloppy, slick snaps of his wrist just where you’re most sensitive. “more, more, need it, yesyesyes-”

he shushes you softly, kissing the top of your head while he makes you see stars. “that’s it, sweetheart, mate, my mate, so good, so so good, that’s my baby…”

your hands scrabble to push his shirt off his shoulders, but it doesn’t quite work with his arm up by your head as he keeps you upright, cheek now against his chest. instead, you settle for reaching back down to stroke him faster this time, feeling more than hearing the growl that shudders through him as you tease the tip.

he feels the pleased thrumming of your mate bond, right in his chest where you’re pressed against him, and curses lowly as you kiss just over where the magic settles. goddamn, does it feel good when you’re both all blissed out like this - heady pleasure ricochets across the bond, building and building inside, misting in his mind until he’s not sure where he ends and you begin.

both of you are shaking now, sticky with sweat and eyes screwed shut as you prop each other up. he knows he’s getting close, faster than usual, but he doesn’t want to stop so soon, especially not when you - fucking hell, when you twist your hand like tha- haaah…

“sweetheart - sweetheart, please, can i…?”

he doesn’t even get the whole question out, although that’s probably for the best seeing as he’s not sure his love-drunk brain can manage full sentences right now. you’re already wrapping your legs around his waist and urging him closer to you, one hand on his shoulder and the other spreading yourself open for him.

“yeah, yeah, please, milo i need you, love you, love you so much…” he can tell that you’re having as much trouble as he is with words, but even so your voice is equal parts lust and love as you lean in to sweetly kiss his nose. fuck, you’re hot, and he can’t help but smile softly at the adoration on your face when he presses his forehead to yours, reaching up to gently smooth his thumb over your cheek.

the world goes blurry for a second as he pushes into you - you’re so warm, so slick and tight, aching for him to fill you, hold you, please you. the mate bond in his chest is white-hot and happy, sparking with joy as you tug him closer. he sets a decent pace, a little faster than normal, savouring the way you stutter and whine with pleasure into his skin.

“feels - mmf! - you, you, i-” the stack of cookbooks by your hip totters as you hastily push it aside, limbs clumsy and breath hitching.

“i, yeah, i know, ‘s good, so fucking perfect, sweetheart-!”

he grinds his cock deeper and deeper, laying you back on the counter and pressing his weight down over your body. the change in angle lets him nudge up against that sweet spot that has you gasping for air, back arching up into him and hot, needy tears threatening to spill over.

he feels the sudden burst of ecstasy as it rushes through you and overflows into your bond, and he moans, long and broken, into your neck. your hand slips between your bodies, lower and lower, so he tilts his hips just a little to give you the room you need to - shit, he loves watching you make yourself feel good, and the way you tighten and tense around him is almost, almost too much.

every instinct tells him to mark you, his mate, and he feels his teeth start to ache as you rock up into him.

he licks over your pulse, feels it pounding under his tongue, and wordlessly urges you to do the same. your free arm loops around him and your fingers tangle into his hair as you seek out the fading hickeys on his neck, a satisfied hum swelling in your chest as new ones blossom in the wake of your mouth.

his teeth dig into your shoulder when you leave a particularly dark love bite just above his collarbone, and he can tell that neither of you are going to last much longer.

“milo, milo- nnnng, so much, can’t… please!”

giddy with pleasure, he threads his arm under your waist to press right back into that sweet spot inside you, the heat of you too much to bear. “yeah, s’okay, sweetheart, s’okay, let go - baby, fuck, mine, my mate, all m- haahh-!”

his core sings with yours, desire and love and bliss washing over the bond and sloshing around in his chest. somehow, his lips find yours, and for a second - no, an hour - no, forever, he and you are paradise.

slowly, the world begins to filter back in, and he watches fondly as you grab the side of the fridge to pull yourself upright.

“how- how long do we have?” your voice is soft and a little hoarser than before.

he blinks up at the clock over by the doorway. “it’s… nearly half past eleven?”

your eyes meet, and you sigh once before pushing him back a step and letting him help you down off the counter. he’s sure that he probably looks totally fucked out right now, hair a mess and eyes still a little dreamy, but he helps you into the bathroom and leaves you to shower.

(he’d much prefer to shower with you, but he knows exactly how that’s going to end, and neither of you need david’s mate yelling at you for turning up late. he’ll be damned if ash and his mate beat you there again.)

walking back into the kitchen, he picks up the remains of both of your clothes and heads towards the bedroom to put them in the laundry hamper, remembering halfway through that he needs to put your bowl of meringue-cream-whatever in the fridge. and finish cutting the fruit. and melt the chocolate, and turn the cake out of the pan, and-

the sound of running water in the bathroom stops. he’ll do it in a minute.

-

surprisingly, you do actually make it to david’s house mostly on time, although unfortunately not before ash catches you two running in from the car. he smiles wickedly as he opens his mouth, presumably to say something about the very obvious hickeys all over milo’s throat, but you cut him off before he can even manage a wolf whistle.

“milo, baby, did you bring the tennis rackets, or is sam going to?”

ash immediately flinches, life apparently flashing before his eyes, and ducks back into the house - presumably to beg his mate not to make him play against sam again. you snicker, leaning into his side, and god, does he love you.

(he did not bring the rackets, thank goodness. david would probably commit a murder if he thought they were going to try and fuck up his yard with tennis.)

(again.)

“you’re somethin’ else, you know that, sweetheart?”

“yeah,” you reply, “and you like it.”

well, he can’t say no to that. the pair of you wave david’s mate over to help you carry the desserts inside, and he’s suddenly overcome with a rush of affection as you heft the stack of cake tins in your arms.

just before you cross the doorway, he stops you.

“hold on a second, baby. i think you’ve, got a little somethin’ just there…”

“hmmm? where?”

he kisses the side of your cheek sweetly, “all gone now, sweetheart. just a little leftover cake mixture, is all.”

your face splits into a devilish grin as you realise what he’s doing, and in the early afternoon sun it makes you look like a goddamn angel.

“not my fault i’m such a messy eater.”

PART 4 - always read the label

masterlist

this is an original work by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute

#redacted asmr #milo x sweetheart #redacted milo #redacted sweetheart #redacted smut #redacted fluff #milo x reader #redacted asmr smut #redacted asmr fluff #ginger after dark #ginger writes #gingerbreadmonsters

[olderthannetfic]

i've never understood what people meant about tattoos looking awful, what's wrong with jk's? is it the design or like the, execution I guess? all I know about 'good' tattoos is from that one post from years ago that explained good tattoos shouldn't look say unsaturated or have colors spilling out of the lines of whatever, and I figured jk's tattoos don't seem to do any of that so they they must not be bad...?

I don't have much of an opinion on jk's sleeve, from the little i've seen i just think it's cool he has it I guess? but tons of people seem to hate it and idgi? and I want to get it less for jk and more bc I want to get tattoos one day too lol

--

There are several ways to evaluate tattoos.

Technical skill at the physical act of tattooing: Are the lines that are supposed to be straight actually straight? Are colors where they should be? Do solid areas look solid? Many bad tattoos fail here, but I don't think that's why people hate JK's.

Long-term feasibility: Was this tattoo designed by someone who understands what will look like absolute shit in 2 years. JK's are fine here, but all those ultra thin loopy line tattoos BTS fans get of album covers are going to look like garbage as the ink spreads. Things with straight lines are even worse. Some body parts are more likely to sag and deform a very precise tattoo too.

Fine arts design skill: Is the overall composition pleasing and balanced? If lines nearly intersect in one place but not another, is that intended to draw the eye or create tension, or is it an error? Do the elements come together to create one coherent artwork consisting of body and tattoos, or is the body a storage space for random shit that does not go together? This is similar to how we tell if a composition of a photo or painting is good.

Frankly, JK's sleeve looks like a hodgepodge shoved together without good layout skills. I'd need clearer photos of it to really nitpick, but even if there are thematic connections, it doesn't seem well designed visually.

And finally, BAD TASTE: Some tattoos are executed fine, but the choice of subject matter is offensive, stupid, or just plain ugly.

JK's hand tattoos look like he drew on his hand with a sharpie. What the fuck kind of junior high bullshit is that? Ugggggggly!

--

For myself, I chose to get a tattoo of a wayang kulit puppet I got as a child. I found a tattoo artist who's also a fine artist and had him do a creative interpretation of the shadow because I wanted a tattoo in black ink only, and I wanted any age-related fuzziness to work with the design instead of against it. I chose a Mexican guy who does a lot of Aztec and Mayan-inspired art because while the specific art traditions are different, there are some commonalities.

Like with commissioning fan art or any other art, pick someone who already works in a style close to what you want.

I chose a size and position I thought made an overall nice composition on my body, wrapping around my left shoulder, and when I get a second one, it will be on my right hip to make my overall body look like one artwork.

There are styles of tattoo I find very beautiful and ones I don't like, just on an aesthetic, artistic level, same as I don't like every painter or cartoonist. Some things I find pretty I still wouldn't get though.

I've been fascinated with irezumi since I was a teen, but the level of color would clash with too many of my outfits, so I would probably not get a tattoo like this myself.

But overall, I do love how beautiful these are as artworks (even aside from being tattoos) and how they turn the entire body into one canvas.

I only like fairly large tattoos, say covering the entire upper arm with one design, and I hate small flash (prefab) designs. I would never get something on me that came out of an artist's back catalogue, and since I'm making a body-level artwork, I want it to be something of a size that shows in the context of looking at my whole body. If it's going on my body permanently, then it will be designed by some combination of me and my artist to my unique specifications.

[gust-jar-simulator]

Okay. So. It is time. I've had cookies and alcohol and therefore the real crack AU idea has been unlocked.

I've been obsessed with the idea of a Witchblade AU for LOZ, and particularly in the context of Linked Universe for maximum embarrassment for all involved parties. So! In order to get across the idea, I need to define what I mean by Witchblade for the audience.

The Witchblade is a sentient weapon in the eponymous comics that takes the term "bikini chainmail" to a ridiculous extreme. I don't care what the worldbuilding says, the Witchblade exists to rip its wielder's clothes off under the pretense of stabbing things. It takes the form of living armor that actually covers very little, though it can expand to cover more under extreme circumstances. It can also grow stabby bits like claws or even actual swords and spears. When it's not being used, it takes the form of a bracelet.

So I present to you: What if the Master Sword functioned like the Witchblade?

In the context of the LU boys, we have:

Sky- Full Witchblade treatment. I'm sorry. It explains way too much about Ghirahim and absolutely nothing about Fi. His version comes with metal wings that function like shields until he figures out what fighting for his life actually entails. He also learns a bit of ballet dancing from asking the sword to puppet him a few times, which helps.

Four- Mercifully, he never dealt with her. He's got a perfectly good enchanted sword and he is both judging the Master Sword and intensely intrigued by the concept of living metal. Not enough to try picking her up though.

Time- The sword is rated at minimum T for Teen for good reason. She gives a respectful nod to his Kokiri origins by changing the avian elements of her previous armor design to curling vines and leaves. He's less embarrassed about this than he should be, but everyone around him is mortified enough to make up for it. The Kokiri might wear clothes but they don't exactly have the Hylian concept of nudity either. Once he properly grows up and is socialized Hylian he definitely thinks the Master Sword is fucked up though.

Legend- He's got so many fucking questions. Who thought this was a good idea, and fuck them actually. Thankfully, he also acquires magic armor that's good enough to not be instantly shredded by the Master Sword, so she just incorporates it instead with some elegant gold accents courtesy of Legend's own smithing. She grows on him, especially once he realizes how the Master Sword and enchanted gear can play together, but they have a rocky beginning. In his personal opinion his version of the Master Sword is the prettiest.

Hyrule- Never wielded the Master Sword and frankly is not sure he wants to. He's got a Shield spell to cover... everything she doesn't, true. But his world is kill or be killed, and he may not have a concept of shame, but he's very concerned about being stabbed and the Master Sword can generously be described as stabby lingerie. The others reassure him that she's very effective but really he's fine with his Magic Sword and leather.

Twilight- I'm very sorry but Midna definitely isn't. Twi might have the kind of werewolf powers where he can keep his clothes, but it's infinitely funnier to give him the double tap of werewolf powers AND a clothes destroying sword. She also generously accommodates his need to get used to wolf attacks by augmenting his body with claws and a bladed tail in human form every time he calls on her. Midna's thriving. Twilight is a little cold, actually, and wishes he could wear a towel or something. He'd rather perish than admit to being the Hero because the rumors got back home and his family is fully aware the Hero runs around with his buns out in combat. It's giving the kids bad ideas. He's suffering.

Wild- Literally living his best life. In Wild's opinion you need a decent amount of time naked in the woods to be healthy. He likes shiny, he likes aesthetic over practicality, and the Master Sword seems determined to accent his scars like a threat and a warning to whatever gave him those in the first place. She'll also give him cool exoskeleton stilt things for jumping up cliffs and trees, and claws for climbing. What's not to love? ...okay, the burning pain of drawing her and also the fact that she powers down and disintegrates off of him sometimes, but hey. It's not a wardrobe malfunction. It's a wardrobe opportunity.

Wind- He's the one who essentially held HER at gunpoint, not the other way around. Wind genuinely took the Master Sword by surprise and she didn't know how to handle him. Wind's not her master but he needs her and didn't take no for an answer, and she wasn't entirely sure how to handle the needs of a pirate anyway. The compromise: he got a gauntlet. A really cool stabby gauntlet. The only time she so much as ripped his shirt was during the fight with Ganondorf, where she gave him TWO gauntlets and some extra armor, plus foot claws for stability. He thought the legends of the Hero riding out to battle naked were thus extremely exaggerated.

Warriors- I am VERY sorry. Cia definitely isn't. However, the Master Sword responds to genuine emotional distress, and I think Cia's... everything constitutes enough of a threat that the Master Sword actually gave Warriors something approaching full plate. Weirdly organic and beautiful plate armor, but even so. By the end of the War of Ages he was very used to walking around in nothing but a layer of living steel. It was safer than anything else, anyway. If it helps, nobody remembers the early days when he and the Master Sword were figuring things out, since he wished it all away with the Triforce.

I hope you enjoy this look into what could be. Maybe I'll write something for this, I don't know. It's just been stuck in my head and I can't stop laughing.

#my writing #for my own safety I'm not tagging this but still

[maxwell-grant]

You have done an (excelent) post on how to reinvent Batman as a Pulp Hero. Do you think you could do one to Superman as well? Or do you think it is impossible to do this with the progenitor of the Super Hero genre without transforming him in a totaly diferent character?

Well, you saying it as impossible only makes it seem ever more tempting of a challenge, but yes, it is a bit harder. I'm gonna link my Batman post here as a reference point.

Partially because Batman's a franchise I've thought extensively about for a long time in regards to what I like about it or how I'd like to approach if given the opportunity, which is not something I can really say for Superman until more recently the Big Blue to start orbiting my brain. I don't have years worth of redesigns or fan concepts saved on my galleries and files to comb through to pick and choose here, and my experience with Superman as a character is considerably different, in some aspects more deeply personal, and not really something I'd like to go into in this blog, at least not now.

Part of the reason why it's harder is also because Batman and Superman have very different relationships with their pulp inspirations. Batman was, ostensibly, a pulp character adapted to comics, a dime-a-dozen Shadow knock-off who picked up and played up diverging traits from other characters and gradually ran with them to gradually forge a unique identity. Superman right from the start was rooted in a much stronger conceptual underpinning: the Sci-Fi Superman and Alien Menace who, instead of being a tragic monster or a tyrannical villain, becomes a costumed adventurer and social crusader. Even the name Super-Man was taken from an early story of Siegel and Shuster about a telepathic villain who ends the story lamenting that he should have used his powers for the good of mankind instead of selfishness. I hesitate to call what Siegel and Shuster were doing “subversive” because that term's picked up a real negative connotation, and it's not like Siegel and Shuster were out to upend their influences (they were pulp aficionados themselves), but rather putting a more positive, new spin on them.

Which is why it also becomes a bit harder to do what I did with Batman and align Superman with some of his pulp-esque inspirations, like John Carter, Flash Gordon or Hugo Danner, without just making it "Superman but he's John Carter", "Superman but it's Flash Gordon", and "Iron Munro / Superman but everything sucks" respectively. It's harder to create a character that wouldn't feel reduntant and derivative at best, and actively contradictory to Superman at worst.

I guess if I had to come up with a "Pulp Hero Superman" take I liked, well first of all I'd have to take steps to distance it from the likes of Tom Strong or Al Ewing's Doc Thunder, those two are as good as it gets in regards to Pulp Supermen. I stipulated for Batman a "No Guns, No Murder, No Service" policy partially to distance my takes on Batman from all the "Pulp Batmen" that just add guns and murder and take Batman back to the barest of basics. Likewise, I'm adding a "No Depowered Science Hero" rule here, which means it's a take that's likely going to veer off a lot more into fantasy and probably enough tampering with Clark's character that it does risk becoming a different character.

Frankly I don't think I'm gonna succeed at doing these without just making it a new character entirely, because with Batman you can get away with just upending the character's aesthetic and setting and even origin and still keep it recognizably Bruce Wayne (in fact Batman does that all the time), which isn't really the case with Superman, who needs those to remain recognizably Superman as he goes through internal changes and character shifts. I guess what I'm gonna do here is more taking the building blocks of Superman/Clark Kent and see a couple new ways I can rearrange them to create a Pulp Superman

Perhaps something we can do is to scale back or recontextualize the "superhero" parts without diminishing Superman's role as a superpowered fantasy character.

One way we can start is by picking on that connection between Superman and the sci-fi supermen/alien monsters of pulps I mentioned earlier and play it up further, to create a Superman who's deeply, deeply alien in a way that no mild-mannered disguise or colorful outfit can really disguise, something so dramatically powerful and alien, that instead you could get tales about the kinds of ensuing changes and ripple effects this has on the world upon the The Super-Man's arrival. And for that I'm gonna have to quote @davidmann95's concept for Joshua Viers' absolutely stunning Superman redesign on the left side of the image above

The red, the goldish-orange and white, the alienness, the angelic, sculpted feeling, the halo, that innocently curious expression: it’s genuinely beautiful. Superman as a redeeming science-angel from beyond our understanding, as much past the uncanny valley of limited human comprehension as a Lovecraftian monster but tuned to the opposite key - you could spend an endless procession of human lifetimes trying and failing to understand this being, but all you’ll ever know for sure is that it is beyond you, and it knows you, and it loves you.

Superdoomsday from Earth 45, healed and transformed into the savior it was originally envisioned as? Some descendant of his, or a future of the man himself? An alien who picked up on a broadcast of Superman from Earth, and so inspired reshaped itself in his image to spread his ‘gospel’ to the stars?

Alternatively, to come back to Earth a little, many, many pulp characters and series were built off the antics and personalities of real people, celebrities getting their own magazines or serials or fictionalized takes on them, so perhaps one way to make a "pulp" take on Superman would be to emphasize a bit more of Superman's real-world roots, trends that inspired his creation directly or indirectly at the time. The Jewish strongman Sigmund Breibart and Shuster's interest in fitness culture, Harold Lloyd's comic persona, the rising "strongman" film genre in the early 20th century, actors Clark Gable and Kent Taylor that supposedly named his secret identity, Clark Kent being a socially-awkward journalist based of Siegel's own school experiences.

Maybe one start to an authentic Pulp Superman, who would still be Superman, would be to just ask the question "What if Superman was a real person and/or a celebrity, and they started making pulp magazines and serials dedicated to him? What would those look like?". You wouldn't even have to restrict it to just a story set in the 1930s, in fact you could even play around with the rise of new mediums over the decades.

This third one is a little closer to some plans I have for my own take on a Superman character, not necessarily what I would do with Superman proper but one of my ideas for a Superman analogue. Superman's a character I'll always associate strongly with childhood and childhood fantasy, and to tap into that I would emphasize the other end of the fiction that influenced Siegel and Shuster: comic strips, in their case specifically Little Nemo and Popeye.

In my case I would bring additional influences from some of the comic strips I personally grew up reading like Monica's Gang and Calvin and Hobbes, and I already talked a bit about Captain Fray in terms of how he’s a Superman character despite being a villain. I guess you could call this one "What if Superman was a public domain comic strip character, stripped of the importance of being the founding figure of a super popular genre or extended universe, and also was kind of ugly?".

He's not "Sloth from the Goonies" ugly, I swear I didn't actually have Sloth in mind when typing out this idea, I've never watched that film nor did I know until now that he actually spends the film in a Superman shirt. That's not really what I'm going for. Visually I was thinking of modeling my take on Superman heavily after Hugo from Street Fighter and his inspiration Andre the Giant, to really emphasize the “circus strongman / freak wrestler” aspect of Superman’s inspiration, particularly in regards to how Hugo’s SFIII version strikes a really great balance in making Hugo ugly and both comedic and fearsome in battle, as well as lovable and even a little dopey (without being outright stupid, like his IV self) in his victory animations and endings.

He's still Superman, he still goes on fantastical adventures to help people, he's still a deeply loving and compassionate soul whose face beams with joy and affection and who's got wonderful eyes and a great smile. It's just that this smile has a couple of mismatched stick-out teeth or some missing ones, and he's got a crooked smile some people take as smug or malicious, he’s got a strongman’s gut instead of a bodybuilder’s abs, his nose is a little busted (maybe he’s had too many crash landings), and his hair is a little wild or greasy, and he doesn't exactly have very good people skills because of how others usually react to him and, y'know, he doesn't get the kind of publicity Superman would get despite doing ostensibly the same things. He’s not deformed, he’s incredibly intelligent and capable, but in comparison to how superheroes are usually allowed to look, he might as well be Bizarro in the public eye.

It becomes a running gag that people tend to assume some nearby fireman or cop was the one who rescued the hundred orphans out of a burning building single-handedly, meanwhile he's getting accosted off-panel by police officers who think he set the building on fire, or think they can bully this weird man dressed funny. He goes to rescue old people in peril and occasionally they yell at him that they don't have any money. He doesn't get asked to lead superhero meetings or teams even though many in the community advocate for just how much he does for the world, he gets censored out of tv broadcasts or group shots (even his face is sometimes pixelated when they do show him), people invite him on talk shows and don't really let him talk or assume they got the wrong guy. He goes to rescue a woman dangling off a building, and then he gets attacked by like three different superhero teams who assume he must have kidnapped the poor damsel. He was the first superhero, he is the strongest of them all still, but he never really gets credit for it, it nor does he even want to. None of this at all stops him or deters him, except for some occasionally funny reactions.

This never really changes for him, he doesn't really earn people's approval nor does he have to, instead the stories, outside of the gags and adventures you’d expect from a comic strip, veer more towards others learning to be less judgmental and him learning ways to better approach people. He isn't any lesser than Superman just because he doesn't look like most people would want him to look and he doesn't have to look like Superman. Really I think we could use more superheroes that don’t look all so uniformly pretty.

Again, probably not a take that would work for Clark proper, but it’s one way I would take a shot at doing Superman with my own

I have other stuff in the works for this character but I'd like to keep them to better work on them for now, but yeah, these are three of my shots at developing a Pulp Superman.

Alternatively here's a fourth idea that's more pulp than all of these: Join up Nicholas Cage with Panos Cosmatos again, or whatever weird indie director he decides to pair up with next, and let them do whatever the hell they want with Superman. Give us Mandy Superman. Superman vs The Color Out of Space. Superman vs Five Nights at Freddy's. Superman’s quest to find THE LAST PIG OF KRYPTON. Anything goes.

#replies tag #dc comics #superman #clark kent #superheroes #comic books #nicholas cage

[piratewithvigor]

My first thought in regard to every band that gets played on my radio station

ACDC: Every dad’s favourite band

Adams, Bryan: Every mom’s favourite singer until Michael Buble came along

Aerosmith: haha they thought Vince Neil was a lady

Alice Cooper: he’s a Game Of Thrones fanboy and I have proof

Alice In Chains: my sister doesn’t like them because she decided AC were Alice Cooper’s initials ONLY

Allman Brothers Band: good music for dropping acid to

Allman, Gregg: That’s too many Gs for one name

Animals: House Of The Rising Sun, or who even cares

Argent: Sometimes Hold Your Head Up is really catchy

Asia: Tuesdays

Autograph: one of the members went on to be a pharmacist

Bachman-Turner Overdrive: There are just so many pop culture jokes about Taking Care Of Business that whatever I say won’t be as funny

Bad Company: with their song; Bad Company, off their album; Bad Company

Benatar, Pat: Always getting her confused with Patti Smith

Black Crowes: I like them for Lickin, but it doesn’t seem to exist outside of one shoddy video on youtube and my old CD

Blackfoot: this band name feels kind of racy

Black Sabbath: Dio was not better or worse than Ozzy; just different

Blondie: I like Call Me, but Blondie confuses me stylistically

Blue Oyster Cult: MORE COWBELL

Bon Jovi: Hello, childhood trauma, I missed you

Boston: ONE GUY. ONE GUY DID IT ALL AND NO ONE KNOWS

Bowie, David: Don’t let your children watch The Man Who Fell To Earth, or David Bowie’s will end up being the third penis they see in life

Browne, Jackson: Another musician ruined by Supernatural

Buffalo Springfield: Jack Nicholson was at the riot they sing about

Burdon, Eric: no ideas, brain empty

Bush: ditto

Candlebox: ditto once more. Who are these people?

Cars: This band feels so gay and so straight at the same time, I can only assume they’re the poster children of bisexual panic

Cheap Trick: I played Dream Police on Guitar Hero so fucking much because it was the only song anyone who played with me could keep up with

Chicago: Chicago 30 exists, but they do not have 30 albums. Fucking riddle me that

Clapton, Eric: 6 discs in one Greatest Hits is too many. That’s called “re releasing your discography”

Cochrane, Tom: For some reason, everyone thinks Rascal Flats did it better

Cocker, Joe: Belushi did it right

Collective Soul: who?

Collins, Phil: If his biggest hits were done by MCR, they would be emo anthems, but because he’s 5′6″ and from the 80s, they’re not

Cream: *Vietnam flashbacks on the hippie side*

CCR: *Vietnam flashbacks on the war side*

CSNY: David Crosby; meh

Deep Purple: THEY’RE SO MUCH MORE THAN SMOKE ON THE WATER

Def Leppard: the only music for when you’re a heartbroken bitch but also a sexy one

Derek And The Dominos: Clapton and ‘Layla’ broke up

Derringer, Rick: Tom Petty if he was from the midwest

Dio: You thought it was an anime reference, but it was me, Dio

Dire Straits: You can tell how bigoted a radio station is based on how much of Money For Nothing they censor

Doobie Brothers: I have yet to smoke weed, but I listen to the Doobies, and I think that’s pretty close

Dylan, Bob: I take back everything I said about him in my youth

Eagles: Hotel California isn’t their best song, but the memes that come from it are second to none

Edgar Winter Group: @the--blackdahlia

Electric Light Orchestra: Actually an orchestra and sound a fuckton like George Harrison

ELO: I really hesitate to ask what happens with the 7 virgins and a mule

Essex, David: no prominent memories of him

Fabulous Thunderbirds: cannot spell

Faces: Who on earth thought that was a good album name?

Faith No More: I got nothing

Fixx: One Thing Leads To Another is a damn bop

Fleetwood Mac: I ain’t straight, but I’m simply not enough of a witch to enjoy them to full potential

Fogerty, John: He got sued cause he sounded like himself

Foghat: Slow Ride slowly becoming less coherent feels like a drug trip

Foo Fighters: He was just excited to buy a grill

Ford, Lita: deserved better

Foreigner: dramatically overplayed

Frampton, Peter: a masterful user of the talk box

Free: dramatically underplayed

Gabriel, Peter: leaving Genesis changed him a lot

Genesis: if someone likes Genesis, clarify the era, because yes, it does matter

Georgia Satellites: sing like you have a cactus in your ass

Golden Earring: Twilight Zone slaps, but it doesn’t slap as hard as this station thinks it does

Grand Funk Railroad: Funk

Grateful Dead: I like their aesthetic more than their music

Great White: there are so many fucking shark jokes

Greenbaum, Norman: makes me think of Subway for some reason

Green Day: the first of the emo revolution

Greg Kihn Band: RocKihnRoll is literally the most clever album name I’ve ever seen

Guns N Roses: They have more than three good songs, but radio stations never recognize that

Hagar, Sammy: I’m still trying to figure out where he lived to take 16 hours to get to LA driving 55 and how fucking fast was he driving beforehand?

Harrison, George: He went from religious to rock, and if he had continued rocking, he would have gotten too cool 

Head East: I respect people who use breakfast foods as album names

Heart: Magic Man and Barracuda are played at least once every goddamn day. They’re not even the best songs!

Hendrix, Jimi: I have both a cousin and a sibling named after Hendrix references

Henley, Don: Dirty Laundry gives me too much inspiration

Hollies: Somehow sound like they’re both from the 60s and the 80s at the same time

Idol, Billy: he’s doing well for himself

INXS: Terminator vibes

Iris, Donnie: knockoff Roy Orbison

James Gang: too many funks

Jane’s Addiction: if TMNT had a grunge band representative

Jefferson Airplane: *assorted cheers*

Jefferson Starship: *assorted boos*

Jethro Tull: The only band to make you feel not cool enough to play the flute

Jett, Joan: icon

J. Geils Band: I requested them on the radio once and it got played

Joel, Billy: he really did just air everybody’s business like that

John Cafferty And The Beaver Brown Band: literally wtf is that name

John, Elton: yarn Elton sits in my basement, unstaring. Please someone take him from me

Joplin, Janis: Queen

Journey: Stop overplaying Don’t Stop Believing. It takes away from the rest of the repetoire

Judas Priest: literally started the gay leather aesthetic

Kansas: another fucking band Supernatural stole

Kenny Wayne Shepherd: the man confuses me to the point where he isn’t in the right place alphabetically

Kiss: Mick Mars and I will simply have to disagree on the subject

Kravitz, Lenny: runaway vibes

Led Zeppelin: Fucking fight me if you don’t think they’re the most talented band (maybe not the most talented individually, but collectively, no one comes close)

Lennon, John: My least favourite Beatle for reasons

Live: I got nothin

Living Colour: slap a decent amount

Loverboy: do you not get TURNT the fuck up to the big Loverboy hits? Who hurt you??

Lynyrd Skynyrd: Sweet Home Alabama is a Neil Young diss track

Marshall Tucker Band: no opinion

Manfred Mann’s Earth Band: VERY STRONG OPINIONS THAT THEY AREN’T GOOD

McCartney, Paul/Wings: Power couple

Meatloaf: I have nothing but respect for a man who willingly named himself Meatloaf

Mellencamp, John: voted cutest lesbian of 1987

Metallica: I liked their appearance on Jimmy Fallon

Midnight Oil: I get them confused for Talking Heads a lot

Modern English: who?

Molly Hatchet: Hollies vibes, but also Georgia Satellites vibes

Money, Eddie: DAN AVIDAN, IF YOU SEE THIS, COVER TAKE ME HOME TONIGHT

Motley Crue: Stan Mick Mars and John Corabi. They’re the only ones who deserve it

Mott The Hoople: no one loves them except for David Bowie

Mountain: props for naming an album ‘Climbing’

Nazareth: I want to make a John Mulaney joke here, but I can never come up with one

Nicks, Stevie: witch queen

Night Ranger: I get them confused with Urge Overkill

Nirvana: Kurt Cobain was the ally grunge needed

Nova, Aldo: he’s Canadian, at least

Nugent, Ted: *serves a ghost as jerky*

Offspring: nothing here

Osbourne, Ozzy: this bitch crazy

Outfield: Your Love is kind of a sketchy song, but it slaps hard

Palmer, Robert: low quality Eddie Money

Pearl Jam: *grunts in Eddie Vedder*

Petty, Tom: I have so many feelings about Tom Petty and they are all good

Pink Floyd: which one is Pink?

Plant, Robert: solo career is a crapshoot, but his voice is unparalleled

Poison: I want them to write a song called ‘Alice Cooper’

Pretenders: I want to say good things, but I have nothing to say

Queen: A doctor of astrophysics, a screaming girl, a disco queen and a diva walk into a bar. It’s Queen; they’re there to play a gig

Queensryche: neutral opinion

Quiet Riot: they got big because of a song they hated. I love that

Rafferty, Gerry: the second-sexiest sax opening in all of music

Rainbow: Ritchie Blackmore created something very magnificent

Ram Jam: one good song and they didn’t even write it

Ratt: I’m sure they have more than Round And Round, but I don’t know it

RHCP: funky, but if you have paid money to hear them, you’re going to The Bad Place (I don’t make the rules)

Red Rider: basically Golden Earring

Reed, Lou: Walk On The Wild Side would be such a cool song if it wasn’t so dull

REM: American Tragically Hip

REO Speedwagon: Props for having a dad joke as an album title

Rolling Stones: Never in my life could I imagine the drummer being named anything but Charlie

Rush: How to make being uncool the coolest fucking shit

Santana: The world needs more Santana

Scandal: There’s something really funny about The Warrior being my brother’s “song” with his girlfriend

Scorpions: Was Wind Of Change written by the CIA? Only the spotify podcast I got an ad for once could say

Seger, Bob: A different variety of Eric Clapton (frankly a better variety, but that’s just me)

Simple Minds: we ALL forgot about you

Skid Row: Sebastian Bach is prettier than all of us

Soundgarden: music that makes you feel like you dunked your head underwater

Springsteen, Bruce: my arch-nemesis. Maybe someday, he’ll find out about it

Squeeze: according to my friends, the stupidest band name ever, but they’re theatre kids, so you know

Squier, Billy: If he can make it through 1984 alive, you can make it through whatever bad day you’re having

Stealers Wheel: Yet another band who I always mistake for George Harrison

Steely Dan: my house’s nickname for the Robber in Settlers Of Catan

Steppenwolf: Either makes me think of Jay & Silent Bob, Jack Nicholson, or that time I had to cut 6lbs of onions

Steve Miller Band: when you’re in the right mood, they slap hard

Stewart, Rod: my soundtrack to summer 2015

Stills, Stephen: Love The One You’re With Is Catchy, but the lyrics are questionable

Stone Temple Pilots: the only band to write a song about goo you smear on yourself

Stray Cats: an obscene amount of merch is available for them

Styx: Supernatural would have ruined them for me too if I hadn’t been into them previously. 

Supertramp: I hunted for Breakfast In America for two years and it was worth every hunt

Sweet: I will never understand my two-month obsession with Ballroom Blitz when I was 15, but it was legit all I listened to

Talking Heads: you may find yourself in a pizza hut. And you may find yourself in a taco bell. And you may find yourself at the combination pizza hut and taco bell. And you may ask yourself; ‘how did I get here?’

Temple Of The Dog: I keep confusing them for Nazareth

Ten Years After: somehow still relevant

Tesla: not the car or the dude

The Beatles: Evokes a lot of opinions from people. Mine is that I love them

The Clash: I showed my sister the ‘Lock The Taskbar’ vine ONCE and it still kills her

The Doors: evokes teenage terror from deep within my soul

The Guess Who: Canada’s answer to confusing question-themed band names

The Kinks: kinky

The Police: wrote the theme of 2020 and everyone somehow forgot it was about a teacher resisting becoming a pedophile

The Ramones: playing all of their songs in a row wouldn’t take more than 2 hours

The Romantics: you don’t think you know them, but if you’ve seen Shrek 2, you have

The Who: If someone can explain Tommy to me, I’d be glad to hear it

The Zombies: I think they happened because of the 60s

Thin Lizzy: Could the boys maybe leave town?

Thorogood, George: blues, but make it modern

Toto: the most memed song behind All Star

Townshend, Pete: just makes me think of the end of Mr. Deeds

T-Rex: Mark Bolan is an icon

Triumph: The no-name brand of Rush

Tubes: like the yogurt

Twisted Sister: they did a christmas album and my mom does NOT hate it

U2: U2 Movers; we move in mysterious ways

Van Halen: RIP Eddie

Van Morrison: honestly, who’s named Van?

Vaughn, Stevie Ray: Steamy Ray Vaughn

Walsh, Joe: The Smoker You Drink The Player You Get

War: Foghat, but even groovier

Whitesnake: the most successful band to be named after a penis

Wright, Gary: the 90s thanks him for writing the song every movie used for the “guy sees cute girl and it’s love at first sight” scene

Yes: To Be Continued

Young, Neil: The best part of CSNY

Zevon, Warren: the album cover of Excitable Boy makes me deeply uncomfortable for reasons I don’t understand

ZZ Top: has been the same three guys since 1969. Lineup unchanged. 

3 Doors Down: They feel a little modern to be on a classic rock station, but whatever

38 Special: Why 38?

#I made this instead of doing homework #Classic Rock #Meme

[spectrumed]

7. identity

The aesthetic of suffering, the allure of victimhood, it’s important to acknowledge that to many people, the idea of struggling with mental illness is hot. A common trope in teen dramas is the existence of the sexy bad boy haunted by demons of depression or addiction or some other psychological malady. Women with mental illness tend to be sexualised, less, but then again, women are most typically always sexualised, no matter the state of their mental health. But it’s not just a case of some people finding mental illness to be attractive in others, many see mental illness in themselves as something to take pride in, to celebrate and nurture. To seek out a diagnosis, to infiltrate communities that exist to provide support to those in need, and to declare themselves as being special. Fakers, you could call them. Yes, we’re going to be entering into dangerous grounds here, talking about a potentially incendiary topic that might feed the flames of controversy, but it’s a topic worth discussing. Self-diagnosis. Is self-diagnosis valid or not? Should one self-diagnose? Is it ableism to be against self-diagnosis? Is it ableism to be for self-diagnosis? Is it ableism itself ableist? I don’t know, sweetheart, you are asking a whole bunch of questions and I am hungover… But let’s go on rambling about what it means to be labelled neurodivergent.

Do you have an identity? Do you root for a particular sports team? Do you like a particular kind of music? Do you dance a lot? Are you a dancer? What are you? Simply stating that you’re just “a human” probably won’t do. Sure, it’s correct, but I am also a human, and we could be two very different kinds of people. Your identity should be that certain something that makes you stand apart from the rest, that distinguishes you from the squirming mass of flesh that is the whole of humanity. There are plenty of things about you that do figure in your identity, even though you wish it didn’t. You’re black, you don’t wish to always be “that black guy over there,” but you’ve come to realise that’s just how society views you. Maybe you are a transwoman, and you very eagerly want your friend to stop introducing you as her “trans bestie.” You’re just a woman, you don’t need her to keep labelling you as trans, even though that's what you are. There are many ways we can change our identity through direct personal action. Maybe you could start wearing a hat, and be known as “that hat guy” to the people you work with. Maybe you could embrace a punk aesthetic, looking like young Johnny Rotten stepped into a time machine and got transported to the current day. Actions like these can have a big or small impact on how others see you, but it feels good to be able to make a decision like that and get a response. This is me, this is what I am. I’m the guy who wears bow-ties, don’t I look cool? If only shaping your sense of self always came down to personal decisions like that. You don’t always have a choice.

I’ve lately been watching some Conan O’Brien (American TV talk show host who’s recently decided not to be a TV talk show host) clips. I am sure I don’t need to explain who Conan O’Brien is to my readers, but just in case this is being read by aliens ten-thousand years from now, what I can tell you is that Conan O’Brien is well known for being freakishly tall. Like, really tall. He’s an elongated leprechaun. He’s turned being tall into one of his trademarks. Like many comedians, he’s come to use his corporeal form as a source for levity and fun. While, naturally, the man did not choose to grow as tall as he did, he’s come around to use his height not as a hindrance to success, but rather as an asset. He’s “that tall irish guy on the TV,” and he’s been that person for nearly thirty years. It pays to have some distinguishing feature if you wish to be distinguished. Mr. Joe Average might be perfectly funny and charming, but being an average-looking guy can be wholly detrimental in making a career for yourself as a funnyman. At least get yourself some weird voice, or something. Maybe pretend to be some foreigner and put on a fake accent. As a comedian your job is to be exploited, you wish to be made into a commodity to be sold. People will want to watch your special because of that funny face you pull in the thumbnail. To be different can be financially lucrative.

What’s the best approach in turning something that could be perceived as an abnormal feature into something that is beneficial to you? To make jokes about it? Certainly, if I were to meet a man with a heavily scarred face, I feel there’d likely be a tension between me and him that could be dispelled if that man with the heavily scarred face made some little joke about his appearance, some little quip. “I’m sorry, I cut myself shaving this morning,” would do. The person isn’t obliged to justify his existence to me, he does not have to go out of his way to make me feel less uncomfortable. I am the one in the wrong, certainly. I shouldn’t look at a person with a heavily scarred face and feel uncomfortable, that’s me letting prejudices get in the way, I know that. But, it is what it is. If you’re looking for a practical solution, telling people to simply get over themselves and learn to not be so awkward around folks with physical deformities won’t do. It may be the right thing, but it’s not going to happen any time soon. I am sure that the man with the heavily scarred face isn’t interested in being defined by his heavily scarred face. He's probably sick and tired of that little joke, and wish he didn’t have to make it. But it does the job. Suddenly, you are not looking at something to be feared, the other, you are looking at a person, and someone with a sense of humour. The importance of humour in eradicating stigma, making it possible for the ostracised to enter in society, cannot be understated. Through humour, you can convince most everyone that you are someone worthy of inclusion, because… well, you’re just a funny guy, who doesn’t wanna hang out with you?

For those who have grown up not feeling normal, worrying that there are aspects of your character that others may perceive as unwanted, the yearning to be liked can at times become excruciating. I like to consider myself a funny person, while this blog isn’t intended to be a humorous one, occasionally small little jokes will squirm their way to the top, like worms coming up to the surface during a rainstorm. I am also a cartoonist, and produce a new cartoon every other day. My humour isn’t universal, no good humour ever is universal, but it’s done good in getting some folks to like me. Some people want to be admired, some people want to be feared. I only want to be liked. The one thing I absolutely do not want to be is pitied. I don’t want your pity, I fear your pity.

You’re probably familiar with The Sims, right? It’s a life simulation game, where you control a little digital human, known as a sim, and try to help them make the right decision through life. Each sim has a number of meters that measures their current needs. Hunger, hygiene, energy, if they need to urinate or defecate (though, frankly, the distinction between the two isn’t made in the game, so one can assume that sims are like birds and have just one cloaca that does both,) and so on. One of these meters is for social activities. If a sim hasn’t been social in a while, they go nutty. What’s interesting here, the reason why I bring it up, is that in real life, though we all (to a lesser or greater degree) crave to socialise with others, what kind of socialising you do is of a very big importance. There are a myriad of ways in which one can be social, and depending on your needs at the time, one kind of socialising may not do, whereas another kind of socialising may be just what you need. Do you want to hang out with your pals, cracking jokes and maybe drinking a couple of beers? Do you want to have a serious conversation with your partner about what you wish to accomplish together? Do you want to play with your dog? These different social situations scratch different parts of your mind, and you can’t just substitute one for the other and think that’s all alright. A person may have tonnes of friends, lots of buddies to spend their time with, but they may still desperately be yearning for another kind of social interaction, one that none of their friends can deliver. The human need for company is more complex than how it is depicted in The Sims… which, to be fair, probably shocks nobody. The Sims doesn’t pretend that it’s some highly realistic simulation of real life, it’s a game meant to be played for fun. But what’s important here is the fact that while humans do have a need to be social, how that need is fed changes dramatically on the person, and their conditions. Socialising that may bring comfort to one person, may bring discomfort to another person.

I don’t want you to pity me. I may list my diagnoses, I may tell you of the difficulties that I face in life, but I do not want you to feel sorry for me. I want you to be entertained reading this, I don’t want to make you weep thinking about how cruel life can be. I don’t want you thinking I’m special, or different, because of my diagnoses. I want you to think I’m special and different because of my writing. Sure, this blog is about living with autism spectrum disorder, but I don’t want you reading this blog just because it’s about autism spectrum disorder. I want you to read this because, while it is about a diagnosis you are interested in learning more about, you also find what I write to be well-written and at times, mildly humorous. This blog isn’t my rabid manifesto detailing all the ways my life sucks, and what must be done by society to appease me. Nah, I’m doing relatively fine, don’t feel bad for me, please. I don’t want that kind of attention. I do want attention, I won’t lie and tell you that I don’t have an ego, or that I don’t get pleased seeing people like the things I put out there. I do have a social need, it’s just that being pitied does not do it for me. It doesn’t make me feel good. It makes me feel bad. It makes me feel sad. It really makes me feel mad.

We’re finally getting around to the topic I promised I would discuss. Self-diagnosis. A principal concern people have with self-diagnosis is that people only self-diagnose in order to receive pity from others. The difference between someone like me, who’s got a proper official diagnosis, and someone who is self-diagnosed, is that I don’t want your pity. I don’t want you to fetishise my diagnosis, this thing about me that I did not choose to be. I don’t want special favours just because of my diagnosis, I don’t want to be known as “that cartoonist with autism.” I am autistic, I’ve come to accept that, but I don’t want anyone to introduce me as “their friend who’s on the spectrum.” Some may accuse me of self-loathing, treating being autistic like some bad thing that I am ashamed of. But that’s not it. After all, I did start this blog to discuss what it is like. I just don’t want to be defined by this certain something that lies outside of my control. I don’t want it to be my “thing.” I don’t mind being referred to as a hairy cartoonist, because I am pretty hairy. I don’t want to cut my hair any time soon (especially with this plague going around.) No-one would pity me just because I am hairy. At most they may regard me as a good-for-nothing beatnik, and I’m okay with that. Ideally, I still want to be liked, but anything is better than being pitied. To be pitied is to be robbed of your own agency, your own potential. Sure, it gets you that attention you may be craving, but at the cost of infantilization. Autistic people often struggle with being infantilized by society, to the point where some folks don’t even realise that there are autistic grown-ups in the world. Anyone who would voluntarily seek out a diagnosis just to be pitied, well… it doesn’t sit right with me. It makes me, quite frankly, feel demoralised.

But not all people self-diagnose just to get pity from others, right? For some it’s genuinely their only option, likely living in a barely-functioning country like the United States where receiving psychiatric care is expensive and it’s just not something they can afford. It’s unfair of me to phrase self-diagnosing as just a quest to receive pity, it’s way more complicated than that. And yes, I’d have to agree. To know all the reasons why a person may self-diagnose, you have to go personally ask them. Even if it is possible to highlight a few certain trends, things that they all have in common, it’s bound to be impossible to make this one sweeping generalisation to explain everything. All I am saying is that there absolutely are those people who do self-diagnose with the explicit goal of getting pitied. Whether they are knowingly faking their condition or not, to them, being pigeonholed as a person with autism isn’t at all a negative. It’s their identity. It is how they have chosen to let the world see them. They made a choice. They chose this label. This is why many people who have official diagnoses are sceptical of those who've only got a self-diagnosis. Whether your self-diagnosis is accurate or not, in the end, you chose to identify yourself with it. You made a decision, oblivious of the fact that many people don’t get to make that kind of a decision, and they may bear resentment for how you are turning something they’ve faced ostracization for, into what is potentially on the same level as listening to a certain kind of music, or being a supporter of a sports team. A diagnosis is not something you should choose to have.

There are other things to say about self-diagnosis. First of all, it can be dangerous. Some of the diagnoses I’ve seen people give themselves are really serious, things like personality disorders or psychosis. Psychiatrists are very careful when putting these kinds of labels on people, knowing the harm that it can do. A diagnosis is meant to only be given after careful deliberation, and after long conversations with the patient. Psychiatrists know that reducing a person to a set of symptoms can have detrimental effects to that person’s sense of self. If you’re trying to cling on to a diagnosis, seeing it as a major part of your identity, then that may hamper any attempts you make to become a better person, to improve your mental health. You will feel as if you need to correspond to the exact specifications of the disorder, and you will not allow yourself to grow naturally as a complicated human being, a human being whose internal life is far too vast to be fully rounded up with some psychiatric jargon. There are plenty of things about me that do not line up with the diagnostic criteria for autism spectrum disorder, and guess what, that’s quite good actually. It doesn’t mean that I don’t have autism, I very much do, but I realise that as a person, I am more than just my diagnosis. The diagnosis does not define me, I define the diagnosis. If you self-diagnose, do you comprehend all that you are getting yourself into? Are you going to find yourself in psychological traps that will only serve to worsen your mental health? It’s hard to look at yourself objectively, you could easily be misrepresenting yourself inside your own mind. You may effectively be locking parts of yourself away, making it so you are no longer able to see the full you. You will no longer be all there, you will be segmented in favour of upholding the defining marks of a diagnosis that doesn’t suit you.

Instead of self-diagnosing, try doing a self-assessment. Keep in mind that, while you may have this diagnosis, it’s too early to say for sure. You’re going to need somebody else’s input. You’ll need to sit with it for a while to see if it sticks. Keep an open mind, realise that there’s no easy way to explain exactly who you are, or what you are like. It’s very possible that you will come to realise that you are in fact autistic, or have whatever other diagnosis you may suspect describes you. I, after all, came to the conclusion that I was autistic before I got the diagnosis (though, I was going to therapy at that point, and I was on the way to undergo a neuropsychiatric evaluation.) It’s not bad to try and get to understand yourself, don’t come out of this thinking that self-reflection is only possible with a psychiatrist looming over you, telling you how to think about things. We all need to come to certain conclusions over how we self-identify, and sometimes you need to take mental leaps to explain certain things. Just don’t feel as if your best option is to put a label on yourself that can potentially negatively affect your psychological well-being. If you are truly searching for understanding, if your goal is to find out more about yourself, you should act with caution and concern for what you are doing. If all you are looking for is to have people pity you, then… well… I don’t know what to say, really…

#neurodivergent #neurodiversity #autism spectrum disorder #autism #aspergers #mental health #diagnosis

[st-just]

Semi-coherent Thoughts on the Poppy War Series

(Because I really need to start forcing myself to write semi-consistently again)

So I’ll say outright that I actually liked the series quite a bit, which does mean I actually got engaged and invested enough to start turning it over and picking it apart in my head after I finished it. So, like, this is probably going to come across as more negative overall than my actual opinions of the books.

Anyway, first off I really do adore Rin as a protagonist (I’d say ‘heroine’, but, well, no). Now partially this is because I always love even minimally sympathetic morally grey (..grey like coal soot, in this case) protagonists. But she’s just also such a complete garbage fire of a person, it’s kind of endearing. Well, that’s a bit callous – her entire personality is more or less a conflict between different kinds of unhealthy responses to powerlessness and trauma. Be she’s also just such a mess, and when she really starts leaning into delusions of grandeur you can’t help but root for her and hope things do actually turn out okay, regardless of how many fivers of blood she’s currently fantasizing about creating.

A big part of that is just how thoroughly awful the entire setting is, and how terrible everyone in it are, of course. Like, there are basically exactly three developed character in the entire trilogy who are unambiguously at least mostly good people (Chen, probably Venka, specifically the amnesiac and semi-delusional version of Jiang, but that’s being generous), and the fact that they stick around with Rin right to the end kind of puts that into doubt, honestly. Beyond that – almost every family has negligent or abusive parents, and literally every political figure is a bloody-handed tyrant ruling through violence and fear. The Hesperians are racist imperialists convinced they have a divine mandate to conquer the world, the Mugenese are every horror story from the IJA during WW2 translated to a pre-industrial fantasy setting, the ruling elite of Nikara are so many racist, scheming, power-hungry snakes with no concerns except their own position....

And, part and parcel with how terrible the setting is, Kuang does an incredible job of making all the worst things Rin does (until the final act, anyway) incredibly cathartic and badass and fun-in-a-fucked-up-way to read. There’s a terrible sort of awe while she turns the main islands of not!Japan into a pyroclastic hellscape. And whenever she gets a chance to enact any of her numerous revenges on some of the many people who abused and betrayed her it’s always poetic, in a Count-of-Monte-Cristo sort of way, and so kind of sickly compelling, even beyond it being some of the only times Rin’s really hopeful and happy. (Also, there are fun villainous monologues and quippy post-murder one-liners!)

Also, all forms of love are a terrible idea 100% of the time and is only going to end in at least one of the parties dead, abused, or (more or less literally) killing themselves in order to keep up with the other/earn their approval/try to keep them together. (I mean, Rin mostly had horrible taste in men, but Chen wasn’t able to stay mad at her for longer than a few months even after the whole ‘genocide’ thing, which he’s just about the only person to react to with any horror whatsoever. And look at how that ended up working out for him, so-)

I’m sure comparing grimdark fantasy to A Song of Ice And Fire is thoroughly out of fashion by now, but the overall perspective really did strike me as incredibly similar to Martin’s, a lot of the time. ‘Legitimate’ power and ‘lawful’ authority are ultimately nothing but polite fictions maintained by violence, terror and brutal oppression. War is a hell suffered most keenly by civilians with the misfortune to live and die in the middle of it, and least of all by the people with the power who actually start and end them. A flawed and unequal peace is very often preferable to dragging everything to hell with you as you die for the sake of freedom. And so on.

Now, to start the nitpicking – this is entirely personal and aesthetic, but it was kind of annoying how each of the first two books ended in moments of megalomaniac grandeur and terrifying empowerment, and then the next book started with a timeskip of things having gone to shit and her back under someone else’s thumb, and then a solid majority of the text is spent getting manipulated, betrayed, and finally crawling and clawing her way back out to the same point (both emotionally and in terms of independence/vision) that she had been at the previous book’s climax.

This isn’t anything even close to unique to TPW, of course – everything going to shit between the end of one story and the start of the sequel is kind of endemic to a lot of genres, really. And it is frankly incredibly in character for Rin to go through cycles flipping between resentment at being manipulated and used, and desperately craving authority figures to tell her what she should do and give her validation as valuable or useful. Still a bit annoying to read, though.

I’m sure it’s more me than the books – not like they didn’t put in the effort – but I could just never get really invested in the whole enemies-to-almost-lovers-to-enemies-again-to-? Thing with Nezha. Like, he’s interesting in that you can do a 180 perspective flip and he’d clearly be just as suitable a protagonist as Rin is, and his life’s very sad and everything. But, like, we get a front row seat to Rin’s internal monologue, and she gets thirsty for plenty of terrible men (and one awful woman), the only thing that makes Nezha special is that he’s not at least twice her age. So I never really got nearly as emotionally invested in them as the books seemed to expect me to. Which does kind of hurt the whole final act of book three.

Speaking of – okay, the ending isn’t awful or anything, but it is kind of disappointing in being exactly what you would expect it to be, as far as Rin’s character arc goes? Which might be just because I was already primed to compare this to ASOIF and she just literally pulls a Daenerys (fire-aligned vengeance/justice character with revolutionary impulses and an autocratic sensibility is willing to burn down the world in the process of freeing it, goes mad with power and paranoia, needs to be put down for the good of the country), but still. Her reading Venka throwing her to the ground to avoid an assassination attempt as a betrayal and burning her to death before she realized what was happening was just really heavy handed, you know? Same with turning on Kitay, who at this point is her actual literal soulmate. (Also sad in a broader sense, because those two are like literally two of the only characters in the entire series I’d actually peg as worthy of/capable of being trusted with political power.)

The specifics aside, I’m a miserable enough person to appreciate how unsatisfying the actual resolution at the end of the book is – imperialism wins! Literally no choice but to sign those unequal treaties and hope you’re eventually able to grow strong enough to force them out! Everything is the same as before this forty-year cycle of wars except much, much worse! - but yeah, I really just don’t actually care about Nezha enough as a character for it to really land. Also Kitay and Venka deserved better, even if literally no one else did.

Anyway, yeah, good series. Would recommend if you like the genre and can stomach all the, well, everything.

#books #the poppy war #the dragon republic #the burning god #r. f. kuang #book review #in this essay I will #this is theoretically a writing blog

[tenebrius-excellium]

Douxie for the character ask meme, please? (If he's already been done, I'd love to hear your thoughts on Hiccup!)

Why not both? Let's do it!!!

Douxie

What I love about him: How this boy is so confident, charming, smug, stylish, reckless, cool, adventurous on one hand and yet so profoundly humble, deeply caring, super kind, considerate, weak, and hurting on the other hand. You don't see those two go together often and it's attractive. So often people are using the first persona as a facade to mask the vulnerability of the second. But with Douxie you know that he's openly both. He's honest to the core and, as so many have said about him before, wears his heart on his sleeve. He's real. I love his careless, free-spirited, figure-it-out-as-we-go attitude towards life, the quick wit he uses to come up with spontaneous ideas and solutions, and it's absolutely mesmerizing to see him have fun. I would trust him with my life, and I want to meet an irl version of him one day!

What I hate about him: His eagerness to please Merlin becomes annoying fairly quickly upon the occasional Wizards rewatch, but it's bearable knowing you're obviously only supposed to go through the same issue once in life. And because you know he gets better. Other than that, I...um...I have to confess that I don't really like moppet. I would have liked to see him have at least one (1) good idea to show us that the wits of the older and smarter Douxie were already slumbering in his younger version. Or, alternatively, something to show us that his tiny, moppety problems were ALSO valid. But all we got was the dead stupid apprentice. There, I said it. Jail for Mother for One Thousand Years from all moppet lovers XD

Favorite Moment/Quote: You're making me pick? Impossible. I'll narrow it down! Um... the unexpected guitar is a classic favorite, then the "Eternal Time Trap/I am Hisirdoux Casperan!" speech and "That was kind of the plan." Yup. That's about it :)

What I would like to see more focus on: moppet, I guess, as stated above, Ash Dispersal Pattern and his relationship with Zoe and Arch. You could basically have given me a 5-hour documentary about his ordinary life and I'd have watched it.

What I would like to see less focus on: Nothing. We all wanted more, not less, and rightfully so! :)

Favorite pairing with: ...................me, please? Haha <3 oh, to cuddle with a bf in a hoodie as comfy as that...nahh, not really. I'm in love with his personality but I'm not sure I'd like the goth aesthetic every day of the week. Also, he's just a teeny-tiny bit too skinny and pale for my taste...and he prefers Zoe anyway. So that's that. To be honest, I can imagine him just staying single as well. He's got too much great big brother energy!

Favorite friendship: Claire and Steve. To watch both friendships grow and improve in their own unique ways is super satisfying to watch. I'm still 100% convinced that Douxie had no choice but to look at Steve one day and go "welp. I'm stuck with this idiot, so I might as well be his friend." Steve values it deeply, though.

NOTP: With anyone else but Zoe.

Favorite headcanon: That famous Ash Dispersal Pattern concert in New York City I just won't shut up about. Somewhere, in some universe, it happened and he had lots of fun and carried the smile of a child in his happy place :)

Thanks for asking, anon! Doing Hiccup under the Read More because this is getting a bit long :)

Lots of love <3

Reddie

Hiccup

What I love about him: Oof. He wears his heart on his sleeve as well, but introverted haha. He's quietly observant, incredibly smart, daring and brave. He's honest to himself too, playing only to his strengths and not even remotely trying to be someone else than he already is. He's very handsome, beautiful and a deep thinker.

What I hate about him: Hey, remember the other ask meme? The one where it said "if you could, which character would you whack over the head"? Yeah that's HICCUP. HOW CAN YOU BE SO STUPID. HOW CAN YOU WHO WERE PRAISED FOR YOUR SOPHISTICATION DENY EVERY SINGLE BIT OF LOGICAL THINKING UTTERED BY YOUR FATHER AND WALK INTO THAT STUPID TRAP SET BY DRAGO. AND HOW CAN YOU NOT REALIZE THAT IN HTTYD 3, YOU NEEDED AN ACTUAL PLAN BOY; BECAUSE YOU'RE CHIEF NOW AND YOU'RE DEFINITELY, UNDOUBTEDLY RESPONSIBLE FOR LIKE 700 PEOPLE AND 2000 DRAGONS. No seriously, his development in the later movies drives me mad as heck. I projected a lot onto him when I was younger, and felt highly insulted when his character turned dumb. My greatest fear is that people will think that I'm that way. I'm all for spontaneity and taking chances, but NOT without thinking logically first.

Favorite Moment/Quote: Pheww...you're making it impossible to choose again. First one: That "Yes" after Astrid asks him whether he'd sacrifice it all for his pet dragon. Second: "Yesterday...when we flew together...it's like I got back something I didn't know I'd lost. And that's the part I'll choose to remember" (taken from a deleted Httyd 2 scene where Valka was still the villain). Third...the "Toothless made it easier" - "What are you going to do about it?" - "Probably something stupid" line from the last movie. Man, that scene was good.

What I would like to see more focus on: Frankly, the rest of his life. Because Httyd tells so much of his story, and well, life doesn't end as soon as you're married. I would have liked to see him be a great Chief. I wouldn't even want a Httyd 4 to be about his kids or something. Just him. I believe there's still more to him, you know.

What I would like to see less focus on: HIS OUTRIGHT STUPIDITY PLEASE AND THANK YOU

Favorite pairing with: Astrid.

Favorite friendship: Dagur. I just love how they were written to become brothers.

NOTP: Heather??? Whoever thought that was a good idea????

Favorite headcanon: Another happy flying scene where it's just him and Toothless in Httyd 3. And oh, yeah. The shield he brought to the cove in the first movie? It's still stuck between the two rocks. You bet.

#ask meme #ask #asks #anon #anonymous #wherethekitethought #toa fandom #douxie #hisirdoux casperan #httyd #hiccup #analysis #httyd analysis #toa wizards analysis

[vixenpen]

Homie, Lover, Friend (Bakugo x Black! (F)Reader x Deku)

Pt. 1

(This is the second part in a series. Reader-Chan is black and hood coded)

The walk to the cafe had given you time to clear your head. Unfortunately, your body hadn’t quite gotten the memo. Because the way Bakugo had looked at you...the way he touched you... It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make you see your friend in a different light.

It wasn’t as if you didn’t find Bakugo cute. Hell, since he’d grown up, developed his style, and started getting piercings, you had to admit your bestie was a whole ass snack. It also wasn’t lost on you that he may have had a slight crush on you. Hell, you’d seen the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. You may have had a teensie little crush back even, but you always thought it was just innocent. Just a surface level attraction that would never go beyond light flirting.

Was he seriously trying to make a play for your hand? If the predatory way he had stared at your lips was any indication...whew. You had to calm the hell down. You had a date with Izuku, another little cutie that you’d been crushing on for years.

In fact, said cutie was waving at you from the sidewalk as you made your way towards the line of shops and restaurants.

“Hey, y/n!”

“Wassup Zuzu?”

He pulled you into a hug that had you pressed into his hard chest.

Ok, Zuzu...

You thought as you felt his pecs flexing against you. You couldn’t believe the once shy little green haired kid had grown into this confident, fit, and frankly fine as hell, fledgling hero.

“Okay, Zuzu! I see you, boo. All fine and shit.”

He blushed, scratching his green curls. That was more like the Izuku you had grown up with.

“Haha, thanks, y/n. I could say the same about you. You look really pretty.”

You gave him an appreciative smile.

He held open the door to the cafe “After you.”

The two of you settled into a cushiony booth in the back of the shop and placed your orders.

“So, Mr. Big Shot Hero, I ain’t heard from you in a while,” you nudged his leg under the table with your foot. “Wassup? Too busy being famous to hit a bitch up now?”

“I would hardly call myself a hero! I’m just a sidekick, but yeah, I guess it does keep me busy.”

“Clearly,” you pouted. “Too busy for little old me.”

“N-no! Never, y/n. I-I’ve been wanting to reach out to you.” He grabbed your hand across the table. “I’ve missed you a lot, but that’s not an excuse.”

“Zuzu, chill, I’m just playin! I know you’re busy living your best life as a hero,”

Izuku started to correct you, but you cut him off.

“You’re a hero in my book, Deku, so get used to the title.”

He chuckled. “If you say so, y/n.”

“Anyway, boo, I’m just glad we’re finally hangin out-“

“On a date.” Izuku corrected you with a smile.

“On a date.” You smiled back. “See?” You reaches across the table to smack his forearm. “Why can’t you say that you’re a hero with that same confidence?”

“Because,” Deku grabbed your hand, gently, “I’m still working on the hero thing.”

He brushed his thumb along your knuckles.

“But I already succeeded on getting a date with you.”

He kissed your knuckles gently.

Lord Jesus...

Since when did sweet little Deku, get so much big dick energy? And better yet, could he back it up?

You tried to think of a cheeky response, but much like with Bakugo earlier, your mind was failing you.

Thankfully, your cherub cheeked waitress appeared with your order.

“Here you are, you two. The high tea!”

She announced, sitting down a 3-tiered platter piled high with mini sandwiches, cheeses, and tartlets in front of them. A second waitress followed suit with a cup of rose tea for you and chai tea for Deku.

“Oooh! This is so cuuute!” You squealed whipping out your phone. You snapped a quick aesthetic pic for the gram and then another of yourself much to Deku’s amusement.

“Got the shot?” He asked.

“Yessir. Angles n awl uh dat!”

He chuckled.

“So,” He started, “hows your work under Midnight going?”

“It’s been pretty dope actually! Midnight has been training me on how to kick ass and on the art of seduction.” You wiggled your brows.

“Well, you don’t need help on that.”

Apparently not, since I got you and Boombastic thirsting over me...

“No, but it doesn’t hurt to refine my skills. Not to mention, Midnight is way more kick ass than I originally realized. Like, if she wanted to rank higher, she totally could, you can tell she’s just coasting.”

Izuku predictably perked up at the hero talk, his green eyes brightening a little more.

“Oh yeah, Midnight is amazing. She’s much more skilled than people give her credit for, but she’s underestimated due to the nature of her quirk and the way she dresses.”

“I know right!” You exclaimed. “Like, I dead ass saw her take out eight villains even when her quirk wasn’t functioning properly.”

“Aw man, I would have loved to see that!”

“It was so dope. I’ve definitely upped my fighting skills learning from her.”

“Well, from what I’ve seen and heard, you’re doing amazing. I don’t think you could have chosen a better mentor.”

“Says you, Mr. I-work-for-the-number-one-hero.”

“Hey, who better to learn from if I’m gonna be the number one hero one day?“

You cocked a brow at Izuku’s bold declaration, and A blush rose on his freckled cheeks. He scratched his head.

“Oh jeez, I sound like Kacchan, don’t I?”

“Yeah, you do.”

“Speaking of, Kacchan, does he uh...know about us?”

You chuckled nervously. “Well, now he does.”

“How did he take it?” Izuku inquired as he munched in a sandwich.

“He asked me to cancel it and threatened to kill you.”

“Sounds about right.” Izuku snorted.

“And that was before he figured out who I was going out with.”

“Yikes. Guess I’ll get started on my will. Anything you want y/n?”

You giggled.

“Don’t worry, I told him he doesn’t own me and I can go out with who ever I want.”

“Trust me, y/n, I’m not worried about someone whose not in my position right now.”

“Damn Zuzu, it’s like that?”

“Hey,” he shrugged, “it is what it is. Now are you gonna eat that strawberry tartlet?

You and Deku spent the remainder of your date feeding each other the little tarts, laughing, and joking.

By the time you guys left the cafe and made it back to your apartment hand in hand, it was nightfall.

“I’m glad we went out tonight, Zuzu, this was hella fun.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, y/n.” Izuku smiled down at you.

“I almost forgot how much fun you are—ya know, since you turned into a stranger and all.” You gave him a playful nudge.

“Well, You let this stranger take you on a date and walk you home. So, I’m guessing you like him, huh?” He nudged you, playfully.

“Well...he kinda cute or whateva, so I guess I’ll keep him around for now.”

“Good.” Deku replied.

As The two of you stopped in front of your front door, he pulled you into him, arms around your waist.

“I’m gonna work on making that ‘forever.’”

Before you could think up a reply, his lips landed on yours; soft and sweet and warm.

Your eyes fluttered close at the gentleness of his touch. You melted into the kiss, returning it hungrily. Just as you began to lose yourself in the moment, Deku pulled back.

He gazed down at you for a beat before finally kissing your nose.

“Night baby.”

Baby?????

“G-goodnight, Izuku.” You whispered.

With that, he left.

#bnha imagines #bnha headcanons #deku x reader #my hero academia #love triangle #bakugo x reader #bnha #my hero fanfic #bnha scenarios #bnha smut

[jaysworlds]

T4TMA Day Three - AU

Gerry has a lot of tattoos, he knows that. He gets looks from old women on the tube if he’s wearing short sleeves and looks from children in the street, and he’s running out of empty space on his torso, but he likes tattoos. Every time he spends a little more of his late mother’s money on a new design it feels like a fuck you to her, and he revels in it.

(So, he may have one or two issues still to work out. He’s fine!)

Unfortunately his last artist (a rather difficult old woman named Gertrude, who gave the impression of someone who would crochet doilies, not give tattoos) just moved to the states, and now he has to find a new one, and he doesn’t like change. Or people.

It’s proving kind of difficult. Most of the artists just aren’t what he’s looking for, and maybe he’s picky but they will be sticking needles in his body, so he feels like he’s allowed.

A couple of months after his artist moved he walks past a new tattoo shop on his commute home from work. He knows it’s new, because he’s been to pretty much every shop in London by now and he’s never even heard of this one.

It’s called The Archive, and he doesn’t have time to stop by now, but when he gets home he pulls it up on the internet.

The website looks like a myspace page from 2002, but the examples look pretty good, and it’s close enough that he might as well check it out.

The site doesn’t say whether you have to make an appointment or not, and it’s new enough that Gerry guesses probably not.

He has time at the weekend, so he makes a note to drop in and then pushes it to the back of his mind and gets on with his life.

He’s forgotten about it until his phone dings with the reminder and he realises that he might as well go now. If it doesn’t work out it’s just another thing to cross off the list.

The shop doesn’t look like much from the outside, but there are some designs stuck up in the windows that weren’t there before, and the sign says open, so he pushes the door open and goes inside.

The person behind the counter is hot. Like off the wall hot. Button up shirt rolled up to the elbows and hair that somehow manages to look soft hot, and Gerry nearly turns around and walks right back out, because he’s definitely going to make a fool of himself if he stays, but the person has already noticed him.

“Hello,” they say, standing up a little straighter. They’ve got vines twisting up their forearms. “What can I do for you?”

“Hey,” Gerry says, and takes a few cautious steps further into the shop. “This is a new place, right?”

“Yes,” the person says. “We’ve, uh, just opened. Already had a few complaints from nearby old women.”

Gerry huffs a laugh. “I’m not surprised.”

The person nods. “Yes, it’s … it’s fine. Sasha usually deals with it; she’s very good at speaking to old ladies.”

“Sasha?” The name is familiar, and Gerry wonders vaguely if it’s the same Sasha who used to work for Gertrude. He kind of hopes so, because it would be nice to have a familiar face around. They hadn’t exactly been friends, and he hadn’t yet figured out where she’d gone when the old shop had closed down.

“Yes,” the person says. “She’s … one of the other employees. I’m Jon, by the way. My pronouns are he and they, and if you have a problem with that this isn’t the place for you.”

It sounds almost rehearsed, like he’s anticipating people who do have a problem, and Gerry kind of gets it.

“Great,” he says, perhaps a little too eagerly. He hasn’t met a trans artist before, but he has met several who have been weird about his top surgery scars, and honestly it’s a relief to know this place is trans-friendly. “I mean … that’s nice. To know. I…” He is making a real hash of this. It’s Jon’s fault for being so goddamn hot. “I’m trans too,” he manages, running a hand through his hair.

“Ah,” Jon says, and they’re smiling a little. “In that case, what can I do for you?”

Gerry shrugs. “Are you free now?”

Jon nods. “Yes. As long as what you’re hoping for won’t take longer than a few hours.”

“I don’t really have anything in mind,” Gerry admits. “Maybe you could come up with something for me?”

“Alright,” Jon says. “You can come into the back with me. I’ll get one of the others to watch the desk.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Tim!” Jon calls, and a moment later a tall man in a frankly hideous shirt pokes his head out of the door behind the counter.

“Yes, boss?”

“Could you watch the desk for me.”

“Sure thing. Who’s this?”

“A customer,” Jon says, giving Tim a withering look.

“I’m Gerry,” Gerry says, walking over to the door Jon is beckoning him towards.

“Right,” Tim says, waggling his eyebrows. “Enjoy yourselves.”

Jon glares at him again and ushers Gerry through the door.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, sighing deeply. “Tim can be … a bit much sometimes.”

“He seems great,” Gerry says, smiling a little. “Horrible sense of fashion, though.”

“I’ll tell him you said that,” Jon says, lips twitching upwards. “He won’t believe any of us.”

“You do that,” Gerry says.

Jon nods quickly. “Anyway. Do you want to sit down?”

“I can do,” he says, wandering over to sit on the bed. “You wanna see the stuff I’ve got already?”

“That would probably be best,” Jon says, stepping a little closer.

Gerry shrugs his jacket off and pulls his shirt over his head, showing off the patterns over his chest and arms.

“Wow,” Jon says, and he sounds honestly impressed. “I hate to think how much all that cost you.”

Gerry laughs, leaning back on the bed. “A lot,” he says carelessly. “My mother’s money, though. I imagine she’s rolling in her grave.”

“Ah,” Jon says. “My condolences, I suppose, though you don’t sound as though you miss her.”

“I don’t. I was thinking here, for the tattoo?”

Jon wisely doesn’t ask any further questions about his mother, just comes over to see the patch of skin he’s referring to, over his left ribs. They ghost their fingers very gently over his skin, and he can’t help but shiver a little.

“Alright,” they say, finally. “That seems reasonable. I doubt I need to warn you that it will hurt?”

“Nope,” Gerry says. “I don’t think I’m capable of feeling pain anymore.”

Jon laughs quickly. “Great,” he says. “I’m sure I can come up with something for you.”

He moves away from Gerry (to his disappointment, though he’d never admit it) and over to a desk, getting a pencil and a sheet of paper and scribbling away for a while.

Gerry is content to sit quietly and look around the room. It’s almost empty, just some basic equipment and one or two designs. He supposes that the shop hasn’t been open long enough to collect stuff.

“How many customers have you had?” he asks, after a while, and Jon looks up.

“Two, including you.”

“Huh,” Gerry says thoughtfully. “How long have you been open?”

“Two weeks.”

“Not bad.”

Jon smiles. “No, it’s not. Would you like to see what I’m working on?”

“Alright,” Gerry says, and gets up, walking over to Jon’s desk.

“Here,” they say, offering him the paper they’ve been working on. “I thought it went well with your whole … aesthetic.”

Gerry takes it to look over, and they’re right, it does fit his aesthetic. A book, flames curling over the pages. His mother, with her immaculate libraries, would hate it.

“It’s perfect,” he says, and Jon smiles.

“Thank you.”

“You can do it now?”

Jon nods, waving him back towards the bed. “Yes.”

“Awesome,” Gerry says, and goes to sit down, pleased with himself. This was definitely worth it, and he thinks he’s going to be coming back.

Jon takes a moment to pull gloves on and gather up his equipment. He’s humming to himself, Gerry thinks, and it’s … kind of adorable. Not that he would actually say that; Jon strikes him as the kind of person who might take it as an insult, and that’s the last thing he wants.

“Alright,” Jon says, finally, and comes back over. “Could you lie down for me?”

Gerry complies, biting back the joke that immediately springs to his lips. He doesn’t know anything about them, really, and he doesn’t want to get kicked out for making an off-colour joke.

He’s more than used to getting tattoos by now, and honestly it’s pretty relaxing. Especially since Jon’s hands are stroking gently across his ribs, and every time he hisses involuntarily they say shh, shh, and he really likes that.

It takes just over an hour and half for the tattoo to be finished, and it’s rather sensitive by the end, but Gerry expected that. He has tattoos on all his joints, and those hurt way worse than down his ribs.

“Right,” Jon says, finally. “I’m finished.”

Gerry opens one eye and looks up at him, pulling his gloves off. “Great.”

“You were very good to work on.”

Gerry raises an eyebrow. “Is that a compliment?”

“Yes,” Jon says, their cheeks going a little red. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Gerry says, sitting up and waving a hand. “It was nice to have you working on me.”

“Will you be coming back?”

Gerry grins. “You want to see me again?”

The colour in Jon’s cheeks gets a little darker. “I … well … I suppose so, yes.”

“You could have just asked me out.”

Jon exhales, a little shakily, and Gerry prays he hasn’t misstepped. It will really suck if he scares him away by being too forward.

“I…” Jon stutters, seemingly trying to compose themself. “I didn’t want to assume anything.”

“You can assume if you want,” Gerry says, smiling a little. “So, are you going to ask me out?”

“If … you would like that. Then yes.”

“I would like that,” Gerry says. “Do you want my number?”

Jon nods quickly, pulling his phone out of his pocket and offering it to Gerry. Gerry types saves himself as cute goth <3 and hands it back. If Jon wants to change it they can, and he thinks it’s funny.

“Right,” Jon says, and he’s smiling as he puts his phone away again. “Thank you. I … will message you.”

“Cheers,” Gerry says. “I look forward to it.”

He gets up and stretches, wincing as it pulls on his sensitive skin.

“Hold on,” Jon says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Let me cover that for you.”

“Alright,” Gerry says, pleased, and stays still as they care for the very fresh tattoo with careful hands. He’s definitely not going to complain.

“Right,” they say, once they’re finished. “That’s all, then. I’ll message you.”

“Thank you,” Gerry says, leaning in to kiss them on the cheek, almost without thinking about it. He pulls away very quickly, realising he hadn’t exactly asked if he’s allowed to do that. “Shit, I’m sorry. Is that okay?”

“It’s okay,” Jon says, looking almost as though he’s trying to hide behind the waves of his hair. “I don’t … it’s okay. Thank you.”

Gerry smiles, relieved, and does it again. “Alright. Good.”

He really does have to leave now, but he really doesn’t mind. Got a new tattoo, and gave the very cute artist his number.

Not bad going. Maybe he’ll even forgive Gertrude for moving away.

#t4tma #jongerry #jon sims #gerry keay #tma #its under a cut because it accidentally got long #whoops #tattoo artist!jon #he/they jon #as per usual for me #no fears au #i like this one a lot actually

[jaskiersvalley]

Hi! Hope you're doing well, dear ♥️

Hi Nonnie! I am living my best life currently, so all is good in my corner of the world. Hope you’re keeping well too. To try and make your day a little better, have a very silly ficlet about witcher fashion senses.

Frankly, Jaskier was a little sick and tired of Geralt’s outfit choices. Always drab and black. They were easy enough to repair, lasted considerably longer than expected, given the use and abuse they suffered but they were so boring. The cheapest possible clothes that lasted the longest. Economically it made sense but Jaskier thrived on aesthetics. Which was why, more often than not, Jaskier stared at Geralt’s face before stripping him to enjoy his body.

“Would some colour really ruin your reputation this much?” Jaskier gestrues wide with his hands to show his lack of understanding. “I would have thought if it was a witcher thing, there’d be some tail about witchers only wearing black because they only wreak death and destruction, leaving grief in their wake.” Holding up a hand, he made the most important point. “Which would be utter bullshit by the way, don’t get mopey on me.”

The long and short of it was that, eventually Geralt had had enough of Jaskier’s nitpicking about his fashion choices. Which was how the invitation to go to Kaer Morhen came about and Jaskier got rather excited. He had plans, wanting to bring a bit of cheer into the School of Wolf along with a bit of style.

“I want to bring them all gifts, you tell me so little about your fellow witchers so you’re going to have to come to the market and help me. They need to be practical gifts but I don’t know what they already have and what would be considered offensive.” Jaskier shuddered at the memory of Geralt’s glare when he had been presented with a loofah, as well meaning as Jaskier had been, he never tried that again.

Thankfully, the gifts couldn’t be too large, they had to fit in a satchel and be carried up the mountain. In the end, Jaskier, with Geralt’s non-verbal guidance managed to pick out the most curious assortment of gifts. A large brooch, a hatpin and some quite delicate bangles. At a guess, Jaskier figured it was better than giving each witcher a pouch of coin to buy their favours, even if they only traded their gifts later on. Maybe the hatpin and the brooch could be used as a weapon in a pinch or the bangles enchanted. Jaskier didn’t want to guess, as long as everyone was happy, he was fine too.

They trekked up the mountain to Kaer Morhen. When they were still a little way out, the shouting started. Only, it wasn’t shouting more like cackling calls.

“Yoohoo! Plebs!”

Geralt shook his head. “Ignore Lambert, he’s insufferable.”

No matter how much Jaskier craned his neck, he couldn’t catch a glimpse of the noisy witcher calling to them.

“This way, drab bastards!”

Muttering under his breath, Geralt rolled his eyes. Finally, they were at the doors of the keep and they were flung open. There were many things Jaskier was anticipating but not this.

A witcher in a wide brimmed, extravagant hat waltzed out to punch Geralt in the shoulder then pull him in for a gruff hug. There was a murmured “Lambert” from Geralt and then another witcher was appearing, this one in a fancy cape that trailed dramatically behind him.

“Vesemir!” Geralt nodded with a small smile. Behind them all was a final witcher, dressed much more sensibly. It was almost easy to miss that rather than clothes he seemed to prefer a few simple bracelets and a couple of rings. He hugged Geralt the tightest and longest, their foreheads resting together for a moment as they smiled.

One positive thing that came from the greeting was that Jaskier didn’t even have to second guess which gift was meant for who. The hatpin was crooned over by Lambert while Vesemir looked rather proud of a new brooch holding his cape in place and Eskel quietly slipped the bangles on, twisting them round and round as he fidgeted.

Late that night, once everyone had eaten, caught up and settled in their respective rooms, Jaskier spotted a wardrobe in Geralt’s room full of clothes that looked more like Yennefer would wear than Geralt.

“I have to ask. What the hell?”

Geralt smiled at the honest question.

“We can’t have anything nice on the Path. We’re already hated, anything we value would become a target. I don’t want to spend precious coin on a nice outfit, only to have it tear, get covered in gore or be pelted with rotten vegetables which will never wash out.”

Which made a distressing amount of sense. Jaskier always grumbled about his clothes getting dirtied and damaged. And he wasn’t even the one doing the fighting. So witchers kept things simple, attachment free on the path, keeping everything they valued in Kaer Morhen. Logical. Jaskier found himself agreeing with their ideas.

The next morning he didn’t just understand and agree, he was also deeply appreciative when Geralt pulled on colourful and soft clothes, preening shyly under Jaskier’s gaze. Winter, Jaskier decided, was definitely his favourite season.

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #lambert #eskel #vesemir #witcher wolf pack #tldr: witchers do appreciate finery and good clothes

[darling-i-read-it]

Yours

Will Graham x reader

Word Count: 1.1k

Warnings: break ups

Author’s Note: I love Will Graham. This isn’t Halloween themed, clearly but neither is the other request and frankly it’s my blog so I make the rules lol. I really hope y’all enjoy this! It was weird not to write this as part of an episode but I can’t say I didn’t miss it. 

Requested: by anon, hey there! i absolutely adore your blog 🥺 your will graham is just *chefs kiss*. could i request a song aesthetic fic if thats ok? one for will graham - hurt/comfort or fluff with the song laundered by foxing? if not no worries at all! thank you so much! ♥️

Summary: based on the song

Genre: angst with a happy ending because i can’t not do a happy ending with will

Song: laundered by foxing

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director 

(not my gif)

The air was cold. It came with the territory of it being so late in the year, winter approaching, fall weigning. You were shaking from it though, shaking from the lack of layers you had decided to put on today, shaking from how the air still managed to match your mood. 

Will could see you, across the crime scene and suddenly you were all that he could see. He was tired. He had been sleepwalking and he had been having these nightmares, these terrible nightmares. They kept him awake every night and now he was scared to fall asleep. Not so much scared actually. Perhaps just worried. 

You and Will broke up a week ago. 

You had been together for a year and a half and he broke up with you a week ago. You picked up and moved out, forced to move in with your close friend Alana Bloom while you tried to find a place for yourself. He didn’t give an explanation. He just told you it wasn’t working for him.

Wasn’t working for him. 

You wondered, even then, what hadn’t been working? Could you have changed something? Could you have seen to it that something was helping him? 

You worried about him all the time now, worried that he wasn’t going to find his way back from one of those sleepwalking trips. You worried his nightmares would make him feel alone. You worried he would break and you wouldn’t be there to put the pieces back together. 

Will stared at you and the crime scene seemed to diminish. Your face was soaked into his brian and he could tell that you were making an effort not to look at him. He should have thought about the fact that you would continue to work beside Jack, that you couldn’t give that up even if he was there. 

Jack walked up to Will and his voice broke him out of the effortless dilation he was in.

“What do you see?” Jack asked. Will looked at him and tried to think of a good reason he hadn’t done his thing yet. 

“Nothing yet.” Jack followed where Will had been looking and his gaze landed on you. “I want to talk to her,” Will muttered.

“Don’t.” 

“Why not?”

“You’ve broken her enough. You’ve broken my best detective Will and now you aren’t looking into this crime scene either? This needs to be solved and I can’t do that if you distract her any more than she already is.”

Will found some sort of desperate hollow sadness in the fact that you were broken. That wasn’t his intention. Not by a long shot. He looked at Jack hard and then down at the dead body but he felt nothing. 

That night Will sat in his home. He was petting the dogs in front of the fireplace, wishing he had company. There was a harsh rasp on the door and he half figured it was Jack, back again to chastise him about not being focused. 

He got up and walked to the door, surprised that it was you when he opened it. Surprised but not bad surprised. Pleasantly surprised. 

“I need to know,” you said. Your voice was hoarse, like you had been screaming. Your eyes a red color from tears.

“What?” 

“I need to know what wasn’t working for you.” You were shaking, hands shoved in your pockets. The fact that you were there made you feel unbelievably sad but you needed to know. “Tell me what I am, tell me that what I am isn’t working for you.”

Will’s heart was broken. He was so confused all the time, he was working with Hannibal, he was working with Jack but he was really, truly, working with you. It had always been you that he worked perfect with. 

“Come in-”

“No.” He felt his own eyes welling up with tears at that very blunt word. “No, I can’t.” 

“I can’t let you watch me go,” he whispered.

“Go where?” you asked, voice a desperate kind of angry.

“Go where I don’t recognize myself. I’m confused...I don’t want you to see me as what I’m not.” He was getting emotional as well. He didn’t want to tell you this. He wanted the break to be clean and emotionless but he knew now that was just wishful thinking.

“You know what you are Will Graham?” you asked and suddenly your voice sounded a serene sense of calmness. “You are funny. You’re witty and sarcastic and careful and loving and I can’t stand to be rid of you.” The words made you want to sob but you didn’t. “You were mine.” 

Will stared at you and you stared back at him and his emotions broke into a small sob. You reached for each other at the same time and he hugged you like he never would again. 

“I am yours,” he said through a sob. You held him tightly and together you sobbed on the porch into each other's shoulders, grasping desperately at whatever you could get your fingers around. His hair had never felt more like heaven underneath your fingers. Finally, after a while he pulled away and kissed you. As you pulled away, you spoke.

“I’m yours too,” you promised. He knew that was probably the truest thing you had or would ever tell him.

#will graham x reader #will graham imagines #hannibal imagines

[galaxycosplayart]

A Man on a Roof

A simply short story I wrote heavily inspired by a dream I had. I tried my best to do research on 1920's fashion and culture, as well as try to make the New Orleans theme authentic. Constructive criticism is appreciated! (There's also some lgbtqia+ representation in here since I'm basing this off my dream where I was the narrator and I am in fact LGBTQIA+) ---

The sound of jazz resonated throughout the rather extravagant hotel venue, loud and upbeat. People swung along: dancing to the sweet melodies like there was no tomorrow. The band’s performance was booming with energy, passion and life; the colourful music painting a perfect picture of the ‘20s in all of the attendee’s minds. The dance floor was packed of all different shapes, ages and sizes. This gathering was one you wouldn’t forget. The sights, the sounds, the feeling; this 1920s themed extravaganza surely did live up to that title. I would know. I was smackdab in the middle of it all.

I’m going to be honest: I don’t really like parties. Too populated, too loud, too obnoxious – but I can’t say no to some swing. This party really was worth coming to, and for once I have to say I had the time of my life. Something about the general aesthetic, the beaming faces of everyone there, the historical backstory, it just made me swell up with joy (and excitement!). I was on my own, my parents were probably off making friends with other adults. In my hand was a glass of non-alcoholic champagne. I am but 13-years-old, after all. I continued to sway, careful not to spill my drink, when I happened to notice a boy leaving the party. He caught my eye, not for attraction, but intrigue. He looked to be a young man, around 16 or 17, but he was somewhat tall and lanky. Unfortunately, I didn’t get enough time to take a proper gander. Fortunately, nothing stopped my compelled urge to follow.

---- He was going to the roof. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry. No, he trotted nonchalantly to the elevator, his footsteps in sync with the music. He seemed to caper with the pleasant melodies coming from the venue. As he entered the elevator car, he lingered on to the tune with each step. The door closed before I could join him, and I watched the floor-level indicator above the gate gradually flicker to the roof of the building. Now, I know tailing people isn’t very polite, but I had taken a liking to the man’s... energy. Once taking a separate car up and searching a bit, I spotted the man near the edge of the flat roof. He continued to tap, now bathed under the glow of the full moon, illuminating his dancing figure. Since I could finally see his face, I can tell you he certainly was a rather attractive man. His warm amber skin basked splendidly under the moonlight; his eyelids shut. His low-ponytail of curly black hair swayed with him as he stepped, the music taking control of his body and mind. His outfit was truly vintage: a neat white dress shirt beneath some dark brown suspenders, the shirt tucked into his black dress pants. He also wore a dark chocolate-coloured bow tie and a light-grey longshoremen cap. Strong jazz could be heard, slightly muffled from the floors below, but that didn’t stop the young tapper from Charleston-ing his way around the roof.  Listen, I’m no professional dancer, but I like to have a bit of knowledge in any given topic. My little knowledge prompted a question in my head, “Aren’t you supposed to have a dancing partner for this particular swing?” I said nothing aloud though, for my focus was on observing this man’s joyous pep. I leaned against the wall, quietly enjoying the stranger’s strut, when the moment was cut short by the sound of giggles. He opened his eyes, revealing mahogany brown irises, only adding to his beautiful appearance. He and I both turned to see a group of young women, looking to be around his age, goggling the boy. I mean, you could say I was too, but I didn’t interrupt or jest at his actions; I merely gazed politely. The nearest girl walked up to him and began to chat, which ceased his dance. This disappointed me, he seemed to be enjoying himself and they decided to throw off his rhythm. He appeared uninterested in talking too, giving the girl a bored look and responding in short answers. From what I heard, she was clearly chatting him up, probably attempting to make a move on him. However, this encounter was also interrupted; for it was his turn to spot me. We made eye contact; his line of sight aimed downwards at my short figure. I immediately panic, thinking, “Crap. How am I supposed to explain why I’m here? ‘Hello sir, I followed you upstairs, I liked the vibes?’ Hell no.”  As I ran through all the possible excuses or justifications for why I decided to basically stalk this man up the hotel, I didn’t notice him making his way towards me. Nor did I sight the annoyed look of the girl he just left behind. He comes up to me, and soon realizing I was lost in frantic thought, gently places a hand on my shoulder. I snap out of my frenzied state, jumping at the touch and looking up once more to see him a lot closer than he was a couple of seconds ago. “Hey, you alright? You seemed frozen in time, dere,” he said with a gentle smile. His accent was faintly reminiscent of downtown New Orleans, which explained how his energy matched the parties so perfectly. It was smooth and peppy; an endearing tone. “Oh, yeah, of course,” I say quickly, still trying to find the right words. “I- uh- I liked your dancing,” was all that came out of my mouth, and I mentally facepalmed with the awkwardness that came with the broken statement. Instead of cringing at this display, however, he instead laughed. “Thank you, cher. And what are you doing, all alone on this here roof?” he asked kindly. “Just... exploring. I happened to notice you dancing when I got to the roof, so I kind of... watched for a bit,” I replied sheepishly. I mean, I wasn’t lying. I did explore the roof a bit before I found him, and I did spot his Charleston when I did. I just happened to omit the details of following him up the elevator car. And through the lobby. From the party. No biggie. “That so? Well then, can you dance?” he asked, extending a friendly hand and dishing out a genial grin. I panic again, but this time for a different, more trivial reason. “Oh, no, no I’m not that good at dancing-” “Really? Ya seemed to be enjoying it down there at tha’ party.” “...You saw me there?” “I watched you follow me, sha.” “...” Well, this was incredibly embarrassing. If I wasn’t already blushing from this whole ordeal (which I incredibly doubt – my face felt very hot), I most definitely was now. I should be thankful for his carefree attitude, because when my spluttered apology attempted to vocalize itself into comprehensible words, he simply waved it off and laughed once more. “Oh, it ain’t nothin’. Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he assured light-heartedly. “Still, I wouldn’t mind if you joined me. It’s fun to have a dancin’ partner, ya know?” “I- well... I guess a bit of dancing wouldn’t hurt,” I admitted. He extended his hand once more in invitation. I hesitantly accepted, and as soon as my palm fit into his, the grip strengthened as I was whirled to his side in the open area near the edge. As the next song started to play, and we couldn’t help but get lost in the music, I heard one phrase be exclaimed from the still-anonymous boy beside me, “Laissez les bons temps rouler!"  ---- I had easily resumed my cheerful demeanour by dancing with the man, enjoying our time to the fullest. Despite my lack of expertise in cutting a rug, we enjoyed ourselves quite a bit. It was more of feeling out the music and letting the rhythm take you, relishing a fun stranger’s presence. Sadly, this enjoyment was often interrupted by a third party, who continued to loiter around on the roof; each individual taking their turn in attempting to woo the boy. Louis, as I now knew him, also kept up his trend of giving the girls a cold shoulder, and we exchanged a cheeky grin each time one would storm off huffing. However, something did confuse me slightly. Well, the women were exceptionally beautiful. They also didn’t seem rude, or arrogant; they actually seemed rather kind and friendly. Some even referred to Louis by name, meaning he was probably familiar with the ladies. They simply were shooting their shot, and Louis would keep refusing one after the other. Obviously, he wasn’t obliged to humour any of their advances, but it’s like he didn’t even acknowledge the idea of dating them. I am a curious – and frankly, unfiltered – soul, so as the last dame trudge off to the group, I turn to my new friend and say,  “Hey, mind if I ask you something?” “Sure, what's on your mind, cher?” he replied smoothly, as we both watch the gaggle of women finally exit. “You know em’? The group there, I mean,” I clarify, though there wasn’t such a need for it anyway. I just have a bad habit of... shedding light on things that aren’t as dark, you feel me? “Yeah, they’re good friends of my brother’s. Why?” “Oh, well, they seem awfully interested in you.” “Yeah, they do that now and then. I’m used to it.” “Can’t take a hint, huh?” “Yeah, you right.” I decide to sit down as the current song begins to fade out, allowing myself a small break before the music resumed. Louis takes a seat beside me, sighing. I press further, while simultaneously pondering why I was so curious about his decision to dismiss these dates. Looking back on it, it was really none of my business, but something about the rejections just felt oddly... familiar. Still, I probably shouldn’t pry into other people’s matters. “May I ask why you constantly say no? I mean, they seem like lovely ladies. Are they just not your type?” He doesn’t reply at first, so I immediately jump to the conclusion that I upset him in some way. He’d be justified in feeling so, but I soon come to realize he was thinking of how to answer. After a few moments, I got the reply. “Sort of. I mean... in a way? They don’t know that though,” he says with a smile, to which I respond by giving him a quizzical look. What was that supposed to mean? I’m pretty embarrassed I didn’t realize it sooner when he sees my expression, and states, “Oh. I’m gay.” I stare at the boy for a few moments, blinking. I then burst out into laughter. What a heteronormative approach I took to my questioning. Me, of all people! He was amused with me, and we share a joyous laughing session to the realization.  “Ah... no wonder I related to your rejections,” I say with a cheerful grin. He quirks an eyebrow, and asks me with a curious twinkle in his eye,“Hm? What are you talking about sha?” “I’m bi. And non-binary. That’s partially why I found it so ironic that I didn’t get that sooner.” We chuckled once more, now aware of how hysterical the situation was when the final song of the evening began. He gets up first, helping me up, and we find ourselves dancing our way into the night.

#short story #dream inspired #from a dream #orginal story #LGBTQIA #lgbtq story #lgbtq pride #representation #jazz #swing #1920s #'20s #general fiction #fiction #orginal characters #ocs #history #historical fiction #story #writing #hobby writer

[acdhw]

ACD meeting Oscar Wilde

From Teller of Tales: The Life of Arthur Conan Doyle, by Daniel Stashower:

Why, then, should he have wanted to make his detective a drug user? For the modern reader, the image of Sherlock Holmes plunging a needle into his arm comes as an unpleasant shock. To Conan Doyle’s way of thinking, however, the syringe would have been very much of a piece with the violin, the purple dressing gown, and the interest in such abstruse subjects as the motets of Lassus. With Sherlock Holmes, Conan Doyle intended to elevate the science of criminal investigation to an art form. To do so, he needed to cast his detective as an artist rather than a simple policeman. Conan Doyle himself, with his broad shoulders, muscular frame, and ruddy complexion, could easily have passed for a stolid London patrolman. Holmes offered a striking contrast. He was thin, languid, and aesthetic. He easily fit the pattern of a bohemian artist, with all of the accompanying eccentricities and evil habits—one of which, sad to say, was cocaine. “Art in the blood,” as Holmes was to say, “is liable to take the strangest forms.”

The image of the Victorian habitué would have been very fresh in Conan Doyle’s mind as he sat down to write The Sign of the Four. Only a few days earlier, he had met a young man he regarded as the very “champion of aestheticism.” In August of 1889, Conan Doyle found himself invited up to London for a literary soiree. The editor Joseph Marshall Stoddart, of Philadelphia’s Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine, had come to London to arrange for an English edition of his publication. While in Britain, he hoped to commission work from some of the country’s promising young writers. At the time, Conan Doyle’s work was receiving far greater exposure in America than in Britain, owing to the lack of American copyright protection for foreign authors. Several of Conan Doyle’s stories had appeared in pirated anthologies, which, he noted with dismay, “might have been printed on the paper that shopmen use for parcels.”

Conan Doyle may have regretted the lost profits from these unauthorized printings, but they brought him a substantial American readership at a time when his name was less well known in Britain. Now, with Joseph Stoddart anxious for a meeting, Conan Doyle had reason to feel warmly toward his American audience. “Needless to say,” he later wrote, “I gave my patients a rest for a day and eagerly kept the appointment.”

The dinner was held in the West End at the prestigious Langham Hotel, a setting that would feature in three future Sherlock Holmes adventures (SIGN, SCAN, and LADY—my note). Two other guests enjoyed Stoddart’s hospitality that night. The first was Thomas Patrick Gill, a former magazine editor who had gone on to become a member of Parliament. The second was Oscar Wilde.

At thirty-five, Oscar Wilde was already a notorious figure in London society. Though his great plays were still ahead of him, he had made his reputation with his early poetry and with essays such as “The Decay of Lying” and “The Truth of Masks.” From the first, however, his true fame owed less to his literary output than to his celebrated wit and flamboyant personality.

It would be difficult to imagine two men more unlike each other than Oscar Wilde and Conan Doyle, and their first meeting must have produced raised eyebrows on both sides. The hale and hearty provincial doctor, with his bone-crushing handshake and earnest, direct manner of speaking, had traveled up from Portsmouth in his best professional suit. The world-weary, languorous Wilde cut a rather different figure. “He dressed as probably no grown man in the world was ever dressed before,” the actress Lillie Langtry once wrote of him. “His hat was of brown cloth not less than six inches high; his coat was of black velvet; his overcoat was of green cloth, heavily trimmed with fur; his trousers matched his hat; his tie was gaudy and his shirtfront very open, displaying a large expanse of manly chest.” One assumes that such attire was not a familiar sight in Southsea.

The two men also differed in their literary views. Conan Doyle, the champion of historical realism, was a born storyteller, and took pride in his clear, unadorned prose style. Wilde, by contrast, had set himself up as the leader of a movement dedicated to “art for art’s sake.”

Even so, the two writers got along famously. “It was indeed a golden evening for me,” Conan Doyle said of his meeting with Wilde. “His conversation left an indelible impression upon my mind. He towered above us all, and yet had the art of seeming to be interested in all that we could say. He had delicacy of feeling and tact, for the monologue man, however clever, can never be a gentleman at heart.” Only eight years earlier, Conan Doyle had gone up to London to see Gilbert and Sullivan’s Patience, which featured a thinly disguised parody of Wilde in the character of Bunthorne, the “fleshy poet.” Now he found himself sitting beside the “singularly deep young man” himself, while the pair of them basked in the attentions of a renowned American publisher.

Wilde impressed Conan Doyle with his “curious precision of statement,” as when he described how a war of the future might be waged: “A chemist on each side will approach the frontier with a bottle.” Not all of Wilde’s remarks showcased his famous wit. To Conan Doyle’s surprise, Wilde had not only read Micah Clarke but expressed enthusiasm for it. One must treat this report with caution. It is frankly difficult to conjure an image of Oscar Wilde, the archetype of Victorian aestheticism, with a lily in one hand and Conan Doyle’s robust epic in the other. In The Importance of Being Earnest, Lady Bracknell expresses her disdain for the “three-volume novel of more than usually revolting sentimentality” that she has found in a perambulator. One imagines that Micah Clarke would have brought a similar reaction from Wilde, though he may not have wished to say so to the author.

The evening ended with both men agreeing to produce a short novel for Lippincott’s. A few days later, Conan Doyle wrote to Stoddart to propose an idea. “I shall give Sherlock Holmes of A Study in Scarlet something else to unravel,” he declared. “I notice that everyone who has read the book wants to know more of that young man.”

Oscar Wilde also did well out of his association with Lippincott’s. His contribution was The Picture of Dorian Gray, one of the finest novels of the age. Upon publication, however, Wilde’s book came under attack for its perceived immorality. “There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book,” Wilde declared, by way of defending himself. “Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.” Conan Doyle, who came to regard some of his own stories as a trifle risqué, would not have endorsed this sentiment. Nonetheless, he thought Wilde’s book was excellent and sent a letter saying so. “I am really delighted that you think my treatment subtle and artistically good,” Wilde wrote in reply. “The newspapers seem to me to be written by the prurient for the Philistine.”

——

To summarise, this excerpt supports the points previously discussed elsewhere:

1. The influence of the aesthetic movement and Wilde in particular on the image of Holmes. No wonder Holmes comes off as queer-coded. He is queer intrinsically.

2. Doyle admired Wilde and was vocal about it but chose to be more cautious in his own writing.

Picture credits: londonremembers.com, hauntedjourneys.com

@garkgatiss, @sherlock-overflow-error, @sarahthecoat

#acd #oscar wilde