Machete and Vasco are so pomegranate-and-the-hand-that-slices coded. To me.
Pomegranates are seen as messy, bloody, inconvenient fruits. You slice or tear or bite and in return for your effort you come away underwhelmed, disgusted, and stained too deep to wash. The consumption of a pomegranate is a violent act of defilement, for both the fruit and the eater.
But that is because most do not understand how to open a pomegranate. They have little patience for the precise carving. They see no point in coreing the fruit gently, no reason to be reverent as they pull the quarters apart. When done correctly, opening a pomegranate leaves little mess. Your fingers will still stain, your knife will still slick, but there will be no pool of crimson drowning both you and the fruit.
The seeds are only sweet to those who understand the merit of a light hand and intricate slicing. Why put in so much effort for a food so bitter and clearly armored against consumption? Surely it must not yearn to be eaten.
(^insane about silly catholic dogs)
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the thing about eliot spencer as a character, right. the thing about him.
(and as always your mileage may vary on my analyses so if we disagree that's cool actually)
is that he is in fact a somewhat emotionally constipated idiot who is occasionally sensitive about his perceived masculinity and gets defensive about emotional intimacy around other men (largely hardison, who's much more comfortable expressing affection and embracing a softer kind of masculinity), but eliot displays enough emotional awareness and sensitivity and respect for women etc etc that anyone who's been subjected to that era of television will put on rose-tinted glasses without even looking twice.
(and he is, don't get me wrong, incredibly emotionally aware for a professionally punchy guy with enough trauma to sink the titanic. it still startles me to see.)
on top of which we have the layers and the accessories and the excellent hair with the secret braids and the way he barely has an ego and he's good with kids and protective of his team without taking it too far, and some of us never stood a fucking chance.
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just a cute little thought i had based on the fact that the dude is almost always wearing some sort of hat (including in the non-canon voxtagram posts!)
character: vox
genre: fluff
words: 374
vox has an impressive, extensive hat collection that he is exceptionally proud of. it’s obvious; easy to guess, based on his ability to produce the perfect hat for any occasion, but not many have actually had the privilege of seeing his collection in the flesh, in the full.
because that’s personal, that’s special, that’s not just for anyone to view.
it takes a while for him to finally show it to you, a second room wedged deep within his walk-in closet with tall, floor-to-ceiling shelves built into the walls, housing his wide array of hats.
it’s immaculately arranged, but you wouldn’t expect any less from vox. they’re categorized by event, he explains to you as he leads you further into the room, one of his hands in yours. and then organized by colour. it’s the most efficient way to display them, i think, because it makes selecting the ideal accessory hassle-free.
and it’s kinda cute, how excited he is about it, how excited he is to share it with you, each and every hat having a story of its own; a purpose, a past, a reason for being in his collection, packaged with sweet little anecdotes and memories—where he got it from, who made it for him, why he needed it, what happened when he wore it.
throughout it all, you hum and ooh and nod, thumb rubbing rhythmic caresses across sharp knuckles; a silent encouragement. he meets your questions and remarks with enthusiastic responses, words bouncy and crisp, smile stretched from edge to edge, so wide it almost looks painful.
“maybe i’ll let you wear one of ‘em, one day,” he muses near the end of his showcase, placing a white snapback on your head gently, then tilting his head in observation.
eyes dimming to a tender glow and smile relaxing to something languid, he grips your chin between a forefinger and a thumb, tipping your head one way, then the other, pupils sweeping in time with your motions.
“cute,” he murmurs to himself as his grasp releases, the tips of his fingers, then edges of his claws, brushing along your jaw. “i’m sure the press would have a damn field day with that.”
but he’s sure he wouldn’t mind one bit.
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