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nothorses · 2 months

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I think one of the ways that tranandrophobia seems to distinguish itself from the other forms of oppression it is connected to is in the way it attempts to convince you it is indistinguishable and that transmascs are always just collateral damage to everyone else's "real" problems.

One example is the very blatent tirf claim that transphobia on its own isn't real, that it is all misdirected transmisogyny, and that transmascs only experience oppression due to our association with transfemmes.

But there is also the insistence that anti abortion laws and similar things are targeted at cis women and therefore are "women's issues" - transmascs shouldn't complain about being excluded because it "isn't about us". Same with homophobia and butchphobia. Even the terf talking point that they are just protecting "little cis girls" from making irreversible mistakes pretends that actual the transmascs being harmed is just an accident and not the goal.

Trying to talk about transandrophobia is a constant stream of "It's just transphobia. It's just misogyny. No, you can't call your experiences misogyny because that isn't about you. You can't call yourself a lesbian or a butch or compare your oppression to lesbophobia. It isn't about you. Yes, terfs hurt you, but you aren't their main target. This isn't about you. Yes, you need abortions and experience medical misogyny, but you can't talk about it because this isn't about you. You were sexually assaulted because of misdirecred misogyny. Don't make it about you. You've never contributed to the history of gay men, or lesbians, or the trans community. It isn't about you. Those cross dressers weren't trans. Stop trying to make women's history about you. You can't reclaim cunt or faggot or dyke because those words aren't about you. I don't care how many times you've been called a tranny. That word isn't about you. Why must you make everything about you?"

Because sure, transmascs exist, and we might be impacted by everyone else's oppression, but it is always thought of as a theoretical consequence of what is really going on, if it is thought of at all. Transmascs are not considered to be oppressed in our own right.

This idea gives the lawmakers plausible deniability, allies an excuse to ignore us, and feeds into transmasc erasure. If we are never the actual target to begin with, then clearly, we can't be uniquely targeted. The law makers don't need to be held accountable for their transandrophobia because it isn't like they are trying to hurt transmascs, right? We need to let the real victims speak, the ones being targeted on purpose.

Nobody ever sees the way it all piles up, and even if they do, they think "well it's just an accident, right? If we fix the main problem, then this fringe issue will go away on its own" without ever considering that transandrophobia isn't as rare, fringe, or accidental as society wants it to appear and that actual effort needs to be put into dismantling it.

It isn't that they actually believe that transandrophobia isn't real. It's that they just don't believe it is about transmascs. Because even if we are the common denominator, we are still just collateral damage and could not possibly have anything of value to say. Because as collateral damage, our issues are never our own and thus never need to be discussed on our own terms.

100%. And I think this is exactly what this sort of cycle of erasure depends on.

We are erased, our problems are erased, and our oppression is erased, which means it's easy for people to ignore us, our problems, and our oppression. There's so little evidence, so few people talking about it, and they never really see or hear anyone name us in this violence, so surely, it isn't about us at all! It must be about the people they know about already, the problems they know about, and the ones who are always readily named in these conversations.

If we're speaking up, there's no reason to believe us; if anything, we come under scrutiny for trying to talk about these issues nobody else can see. We must be crazy, hysterical, whiny and overdramatic, or perhaps malicious. We're stealing attention, stealing space, and stealing help. We might be victims, but we are incidental and unworthy victims.

And ignoring us, our problems, and our oppression means we continue to be erased. Which makes it easier to ignore us, and erase us, and easier to perpetuate violence against us. And so on.

It's understandable, in a way, for people to ignore us; most people don't know about any of this in the first place, and when they do, they're not inclined to take any of it seriously. Even if they do see convincing evidence that our problems are real and worth talking about, it's easy for that to be a one-off that they eventually forget about. Everyone else is talking about everything else, so we sort of fade away.

It's not their fault; they're not trying to ignore us. They just haven't learned to recognize violence against us, and they just don't seek us out, and can they really be blamed for that? Can they really be blamed for the violence that continues because they and others don't see or try to stop it? We're so hard to find in the first place. You know, because we've been so thoroughly erased.

There are a lot of people who've been fighting this for a long time, and even more we don't-- and probably won't-- ever know about, who've been fighting for even longer. I think it's getting better; the organized backlash against us is, imo, a sign that our reach is getting stronger and wider. But it's a hard cycle to break.

#transandrophobia #anti transmasculinity

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pavel-chekov-appreciator · 2 months

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I was thinking about The Logical Vulcan Bowl Cut, and T’Pring’s absolutely gorgeous hair, and the fact that any choice a Vulcan makes has to have at least the plausible deniability of logical reasoning behind it, and what that all means regarding the idea of personal expression within a society that does value aesthetics to a degree but does not value emotions.

So. Headcanon that, for Vulcans, engaging in an intricate grooming ritual like putting your hair into an elaborate hairstyle or applying makeup is considered a form of meditation.

For one, it’s creating art that is inherently temporary-hair will be unbraided, makeup will be removed-similar to sand mandalas.

Additionally, due to the diligent care taken to disconnect from their emotions, it is not uncommon for some Vulcans to also experience a mild dissociation from their bodies during times that they are working extra hard to disconnect from their emotions, and this form of meditation serves to help reconnect the mind and the body by placing focus on the physical act of personal maintenance.

If someone very suddenly starts engaging in this sort of ritual, it can be a sign that they’re going through a difficult time-that is to say, experiencing something that threatens to elicit a strong emotional response, either positive or negative, which requires an increased level of disconnection. It’s just as common to see someone taking extra care on their hair or makeup following the birth of a new child as it is following the death of a parent.

It’s largely considered rude to comment on or inquire about this-it is instead taken as a sign that this person is acting responsibly and engaging in the necessary meditations to maintain their control.

T’Pring is serving absolute cunt at her wedding because she’s been suppressing her very strong feelings about Not Wanting To Marry Spock and Being In Love With Stonn and Hoping Stonn Doesn’t Die and Feeling Kinda Guilty About This But What Else Can She Do.

This woman is going through it, and everyone can tell. But the people around her just assume she’s basically got the Vulcan equivalent of pre-wedding jitters-suppressing affection towards her partner, and/or concern over her first experience of Pon Farr.

Similarly, Spock wears makeup every day as a more mild form of this ritual because he’s pretty much always working way too hard to suppress his feelings and Kirk is Right There and he loves him So Much and then he feels bad for loving him but That’s A Feeling Too, Fuck.

Pictured, a man who is also Going Through It.

Anyways the conclusion to this is that the cuntier a Vulcan is the closer they are to absolutely fucking losing it.

#star trek tos #star trek #spock #t’pring #vulcan #priority one shitpost

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abyssruler · 1 year

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plausible deniability

scaramouche x gn!reader

your boyfriend is nice, your boyfriend is sweet, but your boyfriend is also a serial killer. “relax, it’s just a dead body,” he tells you like he hadn’t just hit a man on the head with a brick hard enough to crack his skull. well, at least he did it to defend you? or — scaramouche kills people and you have the world’s biggest ‘i can fix him’ complex. (modern au)

crack, comedy, a few people die but who cares, scara is soft for one person and one person only and that’s you, “i would kill for you, in fact, i have killed for you.” “honey, did you take your meds today?” - scara and reader

You were never a fan of true crime documentaries, or horror movies, or gory shows, or anything that involved excessive blood spraying and lightless eyes staring into the camera.

So, it would stand to reason that at the first sign of your boyfriend being more than into those kinds of things, you would’ve turned tail and ran as far away as you can, right?

Unfortunately, you’ve always been blind to the color red.

…Figurative red, that is, because the red seeping through your couch and the ones coated on your boyfriend’s hands are definitely visible to you, bright and dripping and most definitely staining your pristine white rugs that you just bought last week. Ah, how are you going to explain that to the laundry lady?

“Scara, honey, what did I say about killing other people?” you ask, voice visibly strained.

He sneers at the face of the dead guy sitting haphazardly on your couch. “I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

You sigh.

✧

It wasn’t always like this, with the whole blood viscera happy-murder thing.

Your boyfriend, Scaramouche, had this odd habit of being so immersed in the news, a little smile lighting up his face (which you’d thought was cute at the time and, well, you still do) whenever the reporter gets to the local murders that used to have you shaking in fear on your bed.

He was charming though. A little possessive, but that was a trait you also thought was quite endearing—and, if you’re being honest, you still do. Scaramouche had a vast collection of sharp knives, some small and practically harmless (or as harmless as a knife can be) and others… not so harmless. You didn’t question it because he often cooked for you, your brain chalking it up to him using those knives for it.

It wasn’t until you were walking home alone from university that you discovered his little hobby of, well, killing people who inconvenienced you and him. Mostly people who inconvenienced you though, which was disturbing but also flattering in a crazy sort of way.

“Relax, it’s just a dead body,” he told you like he hadn’t just hit a man on the head with a brick hard enough to crack his skull.

You were cowering on the alley’s wall, eyes wide and knees shaking as you watched your supposedly nice and caring boyfriend wipe away the blood on his hand like it’s a normal occurrence. And when he grinned down at the body, something almost satisfied in his eyes, you realized that he was the cause for all the recent murders popping up in the city.

Now, the thing about this is that you should have run away screaming bloody murder, maybe call the cops or even do the sensible thing like break up with your boyfriend who’s apparently a psycho.

And you would have done it, if he just hadn’t been so… so…

He turned to you with concern shining in his eyes, stepping over the corpse of the man who’d pointed a pocket knife at you and tried to rob you. With hands still slicked with blood, he cradled your face and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “It’s a good thing you weren’t hurt.”

…sweet.

And as he pulled you away from the crime scene, dragging you home and running a hot bath for you both, asking you what you wanted for dinner like he hadn’t just murdered someone in front of you, you finally calmed down and saw the truth of the matter.

Yes, your boyfriend is quite possibly a serial killer, yes, you might just be making the worst decision of your life, and yes, you’re well aware this is because of all the wattpad bad boy stories you consumed when you were young, but you’ll be damned if you let Scaramouche go. He was kind (at least, to you he is), he was charming (when he wanted to be), he was a great cook, he was good with kids and the elderly, he was smart, and finally, he would never cheat on you.

So, while there might be the unfortunate addition of him being a little too happy with the idea of killing someone (have, in fact, killed someone, multiple someones at that), he was also the perfect boyfriend you could ask for. He just needs a little guidance, is all.

The next day, he proudly showed you the severed hand of a man who once made you cry because he groped you.

…Okay, a lot of guidance, but you can manage, you’ve read tons of bad boy turns good after falling in love type of stories. How difficult can it be to have your murderous boyfriend change his ways?

✧

Quite difficult, as it turns out.

A quick google on why people become murderers brought up a lot of questions and concerns for you, and while you’re well aware that google isn’t exactly the most reliable place when it comes to looking for advice, it’s also the only place you can go to without getting arrested for assisted murder—even though you’ve never actually helped Scaramouche when he goes all ham crazy on the general populace.

You sit him down on your couch, which was now free of blood thanks to google’s advice and good ol’ handy-dandy hydrogen peroxide.

Like this, facing each other and holding his hands, it almost seems like an actual, legitimate therapy session, minus the whole licensed psychiatrist thing. But hey, you’ve read tons of articles on the internet, so while you may be lacking in some aspects (namely, the fact that you don’t have any idea what you’re doing and aren’t qualified at all to be your crazy boyfriend’s therapist), you’re confident you can just wing it.

“Baby,” you start. Calling him endearments was an advice you picked up from reddit. A kind user named ballz3000 said that referring to them sweetly using innocent pet names can make them softer and calm their homicidal tendencies. “You know I don’t like it when you bring home dead bodies.”

According to another user named yn-yournuts, being open and communicating your feelings is the first step to establishing a healthy relationship and, consequently, a better mental state.

“It would’ve been difficult hiding the body at daytime,” he grouches, but he still keeps a gentle hold on your hands, which is a good thing. Baby steps, you tell yourself, baby steps—even though those baby steps might as well be called snail steps, wait, snail slithers.

“Then you should’ve waited until it was dark or midnight to kill him,” comes your immediate response—wait, damn it! You’re supposed to encourage him to steer away from murder, not give him advice on how to do it better. Smiling, you attempt to salvage the situation, “But, of course, it would be better to not kill anyone at all.”

It’s too late. He’s already donning a contemplative look on his face that soon turns into a grin, leaning in and briefly slotting his lips against yours.

“Thanks for the suggestion. I’ll be more careful next time, love,” is all he says before getting up and abruptly ending your impromptu therapy session.

And admittedly, there must be something wrong with you too, because instead of being horrified at his words, you giggle to yourself.

This is the first time he called you love!

✧

Alright, so operation therapy failed, it’s now time to charge in like a boar. Straightforwardness is always good according to that one article you found in google made by Hugh G. Bawles.

The two of you were in bed, the lights already turned off, when you took a deep breath and began preparing what you were going to say to him to prevent any more innocent people being killed.

Scara, I don’t like it when you kill people.

Baby, don’t show me anymore dead body parts.

Why did you become a murderer?

Sometimes, I feel like we’re a normal couple, but then you’ll suddenly go and casually bring me a bloody finger as a gift.

But instead of saying any of those, what comes out of your mouth is,

“Darling, I think you’re just confusing your constipation for homicidal urges.”

In hindsight, maybe attempting to start a heart to heart talk in the middle of the night just before a morning class was a bad idea.

You wait a few seconds, then minutes, and when he showed no signs of responding, you turn your head only to find him with his eyes closed and sound asleep.

Fine, you’ll just have to try again tomorrow.

✧

You share exactly one class with Scaramouche and it’s philosophy. Unfortunately, it’s also the class with the worst professor known to mankind.

“Ah, I got a low grade…” you mutter to yourself, looking down at your essay forlornly.

Your boyfriend takes one peak at your paper and immediately scowls. “You spent an entire night writing that.” He turns a glare to the professor currently ignorant of the murderer sitting in his class. “That asshole should’ve given you a perfect score. Maybe I should give him a little visit.”

You calmly take his hand under the table and squeeze it, all too used to him casually alluding to killing other people. “Dear, we talked about this. What do we do when we’re having homicidal thoughts?”

He looks down the table, brows furrowed in a sulking manner. “Don’t do it.”

You beam, proud at him for remembering the one thing you keep reminding him whenever he brings a dead body back to your house.

The blonde twins seated in front of you turn their head in horror after overhearing your conversation.

“What are you looking at?” Scaramouche sneers at the same time you say, “We’re roleplaying.”

“Right…” the long haired twin you distinctly remember was named Aether mumbles before he ushers his sister to ignore the two of you.

Oh well, at least you managed to stop one person from dying today. User tojiscrustysock on twitter always says you should take whatever victories you can, so you’ll consider this a resounding success.

✧

When you open the news next morning, the face of your professor is the first thing you see along with the words, found dead near his home.

You turn to your boyfriend sitting beside you, an innocent look on his face as you look at him with disappointment.

“My hand slipped,” is the flimsy excuse he settles for.

Sighing and utterly out of options, you’re forced to resort to the one thing you didn’t want to do. The worst possible option there is. If there’s going to a therapist and potentially getting arrested kind of worst, there’s this kind of worst—the absolute worst of the worst.

“Scara, I think we need to start doing yoga.”

word count: 1.8k

#scaramouche birthday fic!#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #kunikuzushi x reader #gn reader

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dduane · 3 months

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I graduated with a meteorology degree recently and I’m curious: have you ever thought about how wizards would respond to climate change?

The short answer: very carefully.

The longer answer:

As would befit a wizard setting out to solve a problem, one has to first fully tease out the various associated difficulties attached around the fringes of the problem... so that you don't (a) make the main problem worse when you start to intervene, and (b) make the ancillary problems worse too. (As one of those unwritten rules of wizardry is There is never just one problem.)

The first thing that becomes obvious is that "climate change" is way too big a thing, with too many causes, to just sit down and construct a wizardry to make the whole thing go away. (Or back to some arbitrary "reset" point.) You have to pick a spot—in the problem-solving sense of the term—to start an intervention that's within your power, or the ability of the group of wizards you're working with, to successfully complete. You also need to check that the wizardry you're planning won't interact badly with one that might already be running in the area, or (later) with a different one that's still in the planning stages. You're going to need to find a way to make it self-sustaining, or to channel sustenance into it from some other aspect of the ecosystem that's already working, with no danger of that other aspect's own persistence being threatened. And if your wizardry affects a large enough region, biome, or number of lives, you're absolutely going to have to clear it with Earth's Planetary wizard.

This isn't just a matter of keeping spell logistics from colliding, either. There are always ethical constraints to consider. And one of the main ones, since we're working in a planetary culture that's mostly sevarfrith, is that whatever intervention you're planning must not be liable to attract attention to itself. When running and producing its desired effects, it must appear (at least on the surface) to flow correctly from the presently understood science surrounding climate change.

For example: if it was possible to construct a wizardry powerful enough to immediately reduce the global average temperature by, oh, half a degree Centigrade—leaving aside the godawful storms and other climatic results that would more or less immediately ensue—such an intervention would play straight into the hands of climate change deniers. These people would (with reason, which you gave them!) promptly start bleating triumphantly, "See, we told you it was a blip!" And in the aftermath of this, sure enough, everybody goes back to their naughty carbon-spewing ways, and you've blown a lot of energy on a wizardry that's come to nothing in the long term... and your Planetary is very out of sorts with you.

What would be seen as far better practice would be to find ways to enhance already-working efforts at specific, targeted reductions or repairs. A wizardly intervention that boosts something of this sort into working a little better, a little faster, than it might have otherwise, will potentially attract far less attention than bolder or more speedily effective moves... and will also in the long run prove far less culturally destabilizing.

(There's a throwaway mention of something thematically similar to this approach in A Wizard of Mars. In this brief bit of background, it's revealed that wizards with puffer brushes and carefully-protected cans of "canned air" make a habit of popping up to the Red Planet in the wake of known dust storms, and blowing clean(er) the solar panels of Mars probes that need a little help of this kind to keep running. The dust storms provide perfectly plausible deniability for the improved operational status: the scientists back on Earth are pleased enough that their probes are able to keep running that no one bothers to question the circumstances too closely: and the wizards get to reassure the probes, en passant, that their ongoing efforts are appreciated. It's a win-win situation all round.)

On the other hand: in situations where current science is as yet unable to detect changes occurring, there's still some room for maneuver. For example, again in Wizard of Mars, there's some discussion of the great 19th-century wizardry now referred to as the Gibraltar Passthrough Intervention. At the time the famous hydromage and Planetary wizard Angelina Pellegrino enacted this work, no Earthly science was capable of detecting except in extremely gross detail exactly what had been going wrong with seawater exchange between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. And no science then extant was capable of detecting what was going on down by the Camarinal Sill to put the problem right... or at least keep it from getting any worse.

Nowadays, of course, the Passthrough (which I gather from the Errantry Concordance entry is still operational in YWverse-canon) has been running for so long that it's routinely mistaken by oceanic specialists for a natural phenomenon: some kind of historical shift in the thermohalic flows between the Atlantic and the Med, kicked off secondary to (insert handwave here) European subsurface tectonics, or previous ill-understood and undocumented solar mechanics, or some other damn thing. ...Sunspots! That's the ticket; let's blame sunspots. At least the flow between the two bodies isn't getting any worse, and that's what counts, isn't it? :)))))

So the whole point, from the wizardly point of view, would be to enact beneficial change to our planet's current nasty situation in some manner that can't be spotted happening... but also won't upend or cast into disrepute what we already know about climate science. Because seriously, there's a lot to do, and as this emergency unfolds, the planet needs all the help it can get. And sometimes the work of nonwizards of good will is the best, and least entropic, intervention available.

Hope this has shed some light!

#Young Wizards meta #wizardry #climate change

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double--blind · 6 months

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(SPOILERS) Andrew and plausible deniability, OR: mfer doesn't wanna be held accountable for his actions

This has been churning in my head for a while (I am mentally ill 🥴), but a large part of the driving force behind Andy and his actions is his aversion to blame. He sorta shares this w/Ashley (she's got quite a few rants abt how things aren't her fault), but I believe Andrew takes it just a step further.

I've seen many say this before, but from the start of the game, you'll notice that even beyond normal moral quandaries, Andrew's first objection to any horrific action Ashley proposes is usually a variance of "what if we get caught?". He objects not bc her ideas are ethically repugnant, but bc they could be found out as having done them, and he knows rationally that others know they're bad. This goes as far back as childhood with the Nina incident. He fears punishment and the threat of prison more than he apparently worries about what his crimes might mean for him as a person or what they might mean for the people that might be affected by them (save him and Ashley). This doesn't mean he doesn't feel guilt or have nightmares abt them, but they're not his first priority. Trouble's a pain to deal with, and the dude's low-energy.

In fact, most of his guilt seems largely self-centered. Like, no exaggeration: if it isn't about either him or Ashley (which is, in a way, lowkey also about him), then he couldn't really care less. Do you recall him ever expressing worry or remorse on Nina's behalf? Mourning her? We think Ashley's the one w/empathy issues, but Andrew's in the same boat imo. Self-preservation and self-interest is all that's keeping him seemingly amiable enough for polite society, bc for the most part, he really couldn't be bothered.

In his dreams, the victims of their murders are just bodies: interchangeable, holding no more meaning beyond the fact that they're dead. Any corpse's limb will do to replace the one Ashley cooked—never mind that they may be from different people—bc they're all the same to him. Even Julia, sitting in her dorm room surrounded by evidence of Ashley's harassment, gets no sympathy from Andrew. For the most part, he elects to ignore it all, and regards Julia herself with a detached sorta nostalgia tinged in no small part with apathy.

img txt: You'll never see her again. And the fact that it doesn't really bother you, bothers you.

(The only things of notable worth from her were the colored pencils on her desk, which he promptly takes from her to give to Leyley instead, and isn't that just some crazy symbolism right there?)

His fear of punishment goes hand-in-hand with his desperate pursuit of plausible deniability. Everything he does, he does under certain self-imposed conditions. If it's Ashley's idea and he argues back, it doesn't matter in the end if he goes along with it, bc it was Ashley's idea in the first place. He's just there to make sure she doesn't get them in trouble, bc she needs him, bc he's gotta take care of her. Even if it's not her idea at all (e.g., killing the closet warden, killing the lady in room 302), it's still her fault, bc he did it for her, bc everything he does, he does for her.

Ashley's a manipulative, evil lil possessive gremlin w/a soul as black as tar, and Andy's a doormat, but don't think for a second that part of him doesn't use that dynamic a little to keep from reflecting on what he is. He suffocates under it, but he also relies on it. If there's any sort of plausible deniability available, he'll take it and run with it.

The truth of the matter is that they're both deeply toxic, warped individuals. The difference is that Ashley's owned up to it and quite frankly doesn't care. Andrew hasn't. He's the "normal" one.

Now, for the funky incest part (what we're all here for babyyyyy)—

We've all seen the flavor text abt the bed-sharing by now, right?

img txt: Oh yeah, you tooootally have nightmares as often as you claim.

We know for a fact that aside from some light teasing, maybe, Ashley would have no problem whatsoever with sharing a bed w/Andrew. Heck, she'll coax him into bed (demo) or climb onto the couch with him (ep 2) w/o any prompting from him whatsoever, just bc she feels like it. Andrew, apparently, can't do the same. He doesn't allow himself this intimacy of his own choosing, so he has to lie and pretend to get it if he wants it. He's greedy for her, too, but he can't let himself show it.

If something is sufficiently too intimate in his eyes, beyond anything he can excuse away for some reason or another, then he'll stop himself from doing it. Just like how he wouldn't let himself succumb to the urge of pulling Ashley into his arms to make her smile, but is willing to give her a hug when she asks for it in front of their parents.

He insists on the extra expense of two beds, and then cites his nightmares and panic attacks as the driving force behind crawling into bed w/her, bc then it isn't really his fault now, is it? He tried to stay away, after all. He did! He just didn't have a choice!

Lol

Andrew can't admit to wanting this—buries those feelings and thoughts as deep as he can so they fester and bleed, the repressed idiot—so he gives Ashley all the power to decide how close they get. It's in Ashley's hands. He's free of that hassle.

Which is why the post-sex vision, and Ashley's reaction to it, is so dangerous. @csg-iii made a good point about it in my last post:

img txt: I think the biggest point about "11" is that Andrew asks/begs Ashley for reassurance that it will never happen ("never say never"). It's a subtle admission that if she really wants it to happen, he knows he won't be able to resist his own urges. His only ""hope"" of avoiding going there is if Ashley doesn't want it.

Andrew, in absolving himself of this choice and putting it in Ashley's hands, shoots himself in the foot, bc what if Ashley goes the whole mile? Then the only real thing keeping his desires unrealized was the fact that they had never been voiced as an option before.

He doesn't want to think of himself as someone who'd bone his own sister. Forget being a cannibal, demon summoner, or a murderer; those titles were foisted upon him. This is too close to something real that he carries inside him; this isn't anything Ashley's buried in him, but rather something of his own invention. Something he'll definitely have to take responsibility for.

#the coffin of andy and leyley #tcoaal #coffincest #andrew graves #txt post #yeah......... I'm rambling again sorry guys #character analysis

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fangirleaconmigo · 3 months

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Geralt x Jaskier Geraskier First kiss, friends to lovers

Geraskier Dancing

When Geralt of Rivia was a child, he begged Vesemir to teach him the kind of dances they performed at court. The answer was always no, but he kept trying.

After the trials, when Vesemir seemed so affected by his eyes, Geralt would widen them and look up at his tutor, pleading.

After all, Geralt thought, what if he rescued a fair maiden, and she demanded that he accompany her to a party? Perhaps she would drag him, giggling and flushed, onto the dance floor. He would be her noble savior, and she would be his grateful maiden.

He didn’t tell Vesemir his reasoning of course. He said that it might be important for royal courts, with kings in them. Wouldn’t it be best if he could fit in? Fencing was similar to dance, so surely Vesemir could handle teaching it.

Vesemir sighed and gave him the same speech he always gave.

"Geralt. You are not training to be a knight. Put that out of your mind. You are a professional. A working man.

Further, you are a mutant now. You will not be greeted with gratitude. You will be lucky to be greeted with the cash that you are promised."

Geralt felt stubborn. Furious. But he knew when to drop the subject.

Vesemir would pat his shoulder and offer him a sweet bread. His eyes always held regret.

Geralt understood him now. After years of hard lessons, he understood. When he thought back on his youth, he felt like a dolt.

The women he saved were traumatized. He was meeting them during the most terrified, violent moments of their lives. They screamed, bled, and threw up. And they all ran. With his bloody sword and ashen skin, he looked little different from the monsters he fought.

At least to them.

And yet?

He still learned how to dance, despite having given up the dream.

It started with Jaskier of course, like most misadventures and novel undertakings. The young bard had just shown up in his life one day and sort of just...never left.

His enthusiasm, energy, and optimism infected Geralt's life, as did the handsome twinkle in his eyes.

One night, after several glasses of wine they shared their most ridiculous childhood dreams. Jaskier admitted that he wanted to publicly rub his success in his family's face, to make their rejection sting less. So Geralt admitted that he'd always stupidly wanted to woo a grateful damsel on a dance floor.

He thought they were just talking nonsense, so he was startled when suddenly, Jaskier was on his feet, woozy and holding out a hand.

"C'mon. Lesgo." Jaskier jerked his curly, disheveled head towards an empty spot on the tavern large enough maybe for one large man.

Geralt refused at first. It was silly. Besides, They were both men. Who would lead?

But Jaskier simply grabbed his hand. When they touched, Geralt found that all of his resistance dissipated like a magic spell. He found himself standing and allowing himself to be dragged. And after they moved a few tables, he found himself touching the small of Jaskier's back and swaying with him.

Why didn't it feel odd? It should have felt odd.

It probably felt fine because they were alone.

They always danced alone.

They would be in a bar that was emptying out, the last drunkards stumbling home. Jaskier would be inviting, leaning against him, words slightly slurring.

Geralt selfishly loved him like that, not because Jaskier would lose his inhibitions, but because Geralt would. Plausible deniability.

"No one is here, Geralt. You won't ruin your fearsome rep--rep--pox on it. People won't see you." Jaskier waved dismissively as he dragged him.

The bard's lips grew pinker when he drank, and his cheeks flushed when they danced.

So Geralt let himself be led into the middle of empty bars, dance halls, and sometimes even just under the stars near a campfire.

"Y'need this for" *hiccup* "d'plomacy." Jaskier tugged him this way and that.

Despite the slurring, Jaskier always moved gracefully, like a swan. He'd sing to himself, lost in the music, touching Geralt with surety, guiding him. His body would be warm and little puffs of his wine soaked breath would drift towards Geralt. The witcher would inhale and try to control the surge of something primal in him awakening from a terribly long slumber.

Jaskier always led.

"I thought you were teaching me to dance with ladies," Geralt complained playfully one night. Jaskier was leading him in a lazy circle under some street lanterns on an abandoned street. Trash and litter was everywhere, left over from the spring festival. Their feet crunched on discarded candy wrappers as they moved.

"I am," Jaskier huffed indignantly, eyes hazy. "You must charm these noble ladies. It's not easy, you know. You must practice."

Geralt bit the side of his mouth trying not to smile. He didn't want to ruin the moment. He was so close to Jaskier, the closest he ever got to stand. "But I'm not learning to lead."

"Oh, s'fine. You'll just," Jaskier gestured, twirling his hand in a circle, "turn it all round." Then it was a rolling motion. "Flip it. Change it backwards. You know what I mean. They'll love it."

It was quiet for a moment, Geralt turned his head and crept closer, so he could secretly smile to himself.

"You already complain they simper around me," he murmured near his friend's ear. "You want to make it worse?"

Jaskier snorted loudly. "They're just trying to get to me, Geralt, you know that. Price of fame!!"

Then he spun Geralt, and all the while, Geralt grumbled, purposely moving stubbornly. "I don't twirl, Jaskier."

Jaskier was wobbly and dismissive. "Y'doing great."

Geralt really did learn during those nights. But they never spoke of it in the morning. Those nights were sacred and untouchable lest they shattered in the light of day.

But one day, they finally, truly paid off.

Geralt wanted to run and tell Vesemir. He'd been right. He had needed to learn the skill after all.

Because one spring day he rescued a beautiful young woman, and she was grateful. She was lovely, truly. Her auburn hair cascaded down her back, caressing her delicate waist.

She had been menaced by a werewolf and run screaming into Geralt's arms, invitation to a ball at the ready. It was just like in his youthful dreams.

The werewolf wasn't such a bad guy to be honest. His name was Gil. And he wasn't so much menacing her as he was trying to say hello and simultaneously coughing. But it was an unpleasant sound to be sure. It was a hacking cough.

Geralt had intervened, having been sent there on an errand by Jaskier. The witcher took Gil aside to speak to him. The werewolf was moving on, anyway. He'd just come to see a picnic of beautiful women that Jaskier had told him about, thinking he would say hello.

Geralt wanted to shake Jaskier. Gently of course. To tell his friend that yes, he had needed help with dancing, but certainly did not need help with finding ladies to rescue. They were lying about everywhere there were monsters. Jaskier wasn't around though, he was nervously flitting around at fittings and lute tunings, preparing anxiously for the dance.

It was silly of course.

And to be honest, the young woman hadn't needed much rescuing. Gil's nose was still sore where she had hit him with her bag.

But nonetheless, when she'd seen Geralt she'd sighed and pretended to be quite helpless.

Geralt carried her to safety on Roach, and she had invited him to a dance that night. They were in Lettenhove, and the dance would be packed with nobles. It was the perfect setup.

Geralt got ready with trembling fingers. He laced on his best armor and slicked down his hair. His stomach was weak just to think of it.

When Geralt arrived, the maiden was there in a stunning gown. She arrived breathlessly, ready for her dance. She batted her eyes and curtseyed.

Geralt bowed slightly, and led her onto the dance floor. After a few moments, her raptured attention began to cool. She was well educated and polite, but Geralt caught her regretful glances towards the handsome young nobles in the corner.

He didn't blame her. He was not a small man, and he was stepping on her toes.

The bloom was very quickly off the rose for the young maiden.

"I'm sorry. My mistake." Geralt muttered at every wrong turn.

If you had asked Geralt as a child, whether the disappointment of a maiden would sting, he would have imagined so.

But it didn't. This was not what he had come for. This was not why his stomach had done somersaults as he had laced on his armor. It was because this party was not just packed with nobles, but very particular nobles from a very specific family.

Geralt glanced up to find him.

Jaskier stood off to the side, close by, clutching a glass of wine, and staring daggers at his cousin across the room. His cousin was a handsome man, if you went in for that kind of thing, though not as handsome as Jaskier. But he was holding court with several ladies.

Geralt excused himself with the relieved young lady who tried to look as though she were not fleeing.

Geralt came up behind Jaskier, and touched his back.

Jaskier did not jump or startle. He must have known Geralt's touch and scent by now. He simply turned and smiled.

"You're here!" Jaskier looked behind him. "And Juliet?"

Geralt shrugged. "I never actually learned to lead."

Jaskier's face fell. "I'm sorry, I-" he looked mortified, "-I don't actually know how to teach dance. I only know how to dance. I was just-"

Geralt cut him off by pulling him into his arms with an 'oof'.

Jaskier startled, leaning eagerly into the embrace. But then he remembered himself and looked around cautiously.

"I don't care if they see," Geralt whispered. "I want them to. Let the miserable bastards gossip until their throats are sore."

The widest, brightest grin he had ever seen blossomed on his handsome bard's face. "Well then." Jaskier straightened his shoulders and cleared a catch in his throat. Let me do this properly."

The bard gently detangled himself from Geralt's arms. Then he bowed at the waist and held out a hand. "Geralt of Rivia? May I have this dance?"

Geralt nodded and straightened his jacket. "You may, Viscount Julian of Lettenhove."

Jaskier held his hand with both of his, but he shook his head and whispered. "No. Viscount Julian is theirs. I am Jaskier. I am yours."

Geralt's heart melted. He did not know how to cope with that, so he just nodded.

The music fell silent, and a new song began.

The witcher and the bard were the first couple out on the floor. It may have started as a way to help Jaskier rub his success in his family's eyes. But almost instantly they forgot all about that. They lost themselves in the movement, the laughter, they only saw each other.

But Jaskier's family saw. His mother. His father. His envious cousins. They all saw that he was loved. That he was talented, famous, and loved.

Geralt didn't think a whole lot about Vesemir that night.

He simply danced. And when the last note on the last song died out, he touched Jaskier's chin. His love's eyes lit up with hope. Geralt didn't want to draw out the suspense, so he pulled him in for a kiss. It was tender and they were sweaty, their hearts beating in their chests.

It felt right. And not because they were alone. It was because they loved each other.

When Geralt visited Vesemir during the winter, he brought up his childhood dream. He would tell the old witcher that he understood now.

Love wasn't something you earned through daring acts. It wasn't something you extracted from terrified women as the price for their safety.

Love was a bard who tried his damndest to fulfill your dreams at the expense of his own.

Love was taking him in your arms and fulfilling his.

Well, Geralt tried to say all that. Perhaps it didn't come out the way he meant. Perhaps he stumbled over his words and grunted some.

But when he pulled Jaskier into the room to introduce him to Vesemir, the old witcher understood.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #descarada writes geraskier #i hope you enjoy it my geraskier friends

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imfineitsfineeverythingsfine · 5 months

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Communication and a Question for the Fandom

I started this off thinking I would end up with one conclusion and I actually found myself changing it by the end. I’ve read a lot frustration with the ineffable husbands and their lack of communication. “You don’t ever talk to each other" and "You never say what you’re really thinking.”

Now, that may be true. But also, throughout both seasons, we have seen repeatedly how they have been under surveillance too.

Not just visual

But audio as well… Sign in Hell: Be Careful What You Say. But there’s more to the sign itself. I just can’t make it out. It’s not a sign that’s featured in the extras either, which is also interesting.

What I could find though, in the The Devil in the Details X-Ray video was a little more of the sign, but I still can’t make out what the rest of it says:

Which brings in my Question for the Fandom. If anyone else is able to make out rest of this, I’d be interested. (This was around the 2:05 timestamp)

Moving on, that’s not the only *Clue* about their surveillance either. We know about Hell using electronics as a means of communication. They just cut in to whatever happens to be playing at the time, right? Radio, tv, Saturday Morning Funtime… so it would make sense that they’d use it to listen too. Is the Bookshop any safer, being an embassy for Heaven and all?

And it’s hard to pinpoint exactly how either side is listening in. We all remember this interaction but really… played as a joke but what if it wasn’t? Or maybe they just hadn’t figured out the specifics yet at that point.

Maybe there are certain “trigger words.” We see the reactions when Crowley is called “nice.”

Crowley tells Aziraphale to “shut up” numerous times. We hear both them say “don’t say that” a lot.

But also…

Closed captioning capitalized it just like that. Interesting. (If you haven’t watched the show with cc on, I recommend it)

What does this all mean? They just don’t talk to each other? Well, no. Not necessarily. We’ve also seen them find ways around directly speaking too.

Writing it down. (Which was promptly burned)

Aziraphale mouthing “Trust Me” during the bullet catch. Could they have had other short hands or code words? Emergency contingency plans? I personally imagine so. Side note: could they have also been using alcohol (laudanum) as cover for plausible deniability?

“Safe spaces”? The backroom in the Bookshop that they kept going to for private conversations. We know they had alternative rendezvous locations in the first season too – the old bandstand, the number 19 bus, and the British Museum café.

The Final Fifteen. I don’t want to take away from the emotion of the scene and I think Season 3 (come on Prime!) give us the rest of the story. I have faith in Neil Gaiman (pun sort of intended). But I will propose that the kiss may have been not only Crowley’s plead but also a misdirect or signal or other way to communicate between the two that we have yet to understand. In the end, Aziraphale was able to get the Metatron to break and divulge that the next step of the Great Plan was the Second Coming…before even leaving Earth…which was pretty impressive in itself. Was Aziraphale then able to relay anything to Crowley before the elevator? Sendarya’s video here does a great job with that very question (and others).

Most experts agree that 70-93% of communication is nonverbal and when communicating emotions, applying the 7-38-55 rule. Meaning only 7% through spoken word, 38% tone of voice, and 55% through body language. So maybe they’re not doing so bad after all. Those are just my thoughts and we’ll just have to wait and see and hope.

#good omens #good omens season 2 #good omens season 3 #renew good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #the final fifteen #wait and see #I wish I had something clever to put here but really I'm just rambling

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hanasnx · 6 months

Text

scott barringer headcanons.

MINORS DNI 18+

WARNINGS: enemies (?) to lovers | flirting | mentioned: fingering

He's a hot, new commodity on the Horizon market. At least two girls you know have their sights set on him. It's clear how gorgeous he is, but you tried to keep your distance. The last thing you wanna focus on is some boy with his own set of problems. Fate finds a way. Every time you'd pull back, it'd draw you in, pairing you with him on chores more often than not, conversation was inevitable. You had a suspicions it's because neither of you are particularly chatty, and staff thinks you're less likely to cause an upset. "Ever done a campfire?" he taunts. The sick innuendo makes you scoff, tearing up grass while you sit on the ground with him. "You just say things to shock people, don't you?" you remark. You brush your hair back, and he keeps his gaze on you. "What else is there?" his reply is wry, and you roll your eyes at him.

When you break the rules together, you serve the time together. Which means you and Scott work alongside each other scrubbing the bathroom floors. "What? Afraid to break a nail or something?" he tosses the phrase at you, regurgitated from the other misogynists he's heard it from. "Shut up, Barringer," you reply, just as unenthusiastic. The latex gloves catch on your manicure as you slide them on. "I'm not doing all this by myself. So make yourself useful." The vision of him on his knees is truly a sight to behold, the sudsy brush in his large hand. You have half a mind to kick him over by his chest, just to see what he'd do. It's not like you to exercise empathy, more like experimentation bred out of sick fascination. Besides, he deserves it. Him and his sour attitude. "Just get started without me." you tell him with a pinch of your shoulder, waving him off with a flick of your wrist. "Yeah," he scoffs. "you'd like that, wouldn't you?" He slaps the brush onto the tile, soap splatting out. You flinch, narrowly evading a stray splash on your shoes. "Watch it!" you admonish, "You almost got it on my Birks!" There’s an air of silence but you’re positive you can hear his eye roll. You have to fill it as you gingerly get down onto your knees next to him, dusting off your hands after. “I don’t get why we have to do chores. The amount of money my daddy’s paying for this place they should be able to afford a maid service.” "Yeah, I wouldn't expect daddy's little princess to understand."

Even if he makes it hard, you and him do manage to get closer organically. It came in the ways he mocked you for your upbringing or your supposed stupidity. Scott has a lot to complain about, evidently. It blossoms into a sort of teenage fantasy. You let him get away with messing with you because you kinda like it. Little excuses to talk to you, bump you, tug on your hair. It's not long before he's messing with you more physically too. Less plausibly deniable.

When things start heating up, you find yourself unable to stay away from him. The first time you kiss begins a torrid affair. Full of tugging him into dark corners to make out, sneaking off to the woods for “inappropriate touching” as the rules so clearly state to stave off of. He’s so frustrating all you wanna do is shut him up and make him useful. He’s a god at fingering you, makes quick work of it too, even if he is clumsy.

There’s not much he won’t do to get your attention on him, he can't stand when it's anywhere else when he wants it. A bag of frozen veggies in his hand while you reach for it. "C'mon, is that how high you can jump?" "Scott!" you scold, balancing on the tips of your toes as you brace a hand on his chest. "Gimme it." Each time you crest, he moves it out of your way. You don't notice him sneak a hand around your waist, spinning you so your back is flush against him. His body curls around you, his cheek against your head as you weakly fight him off, using his arm to propel yourself up for the bag. "Will you forget the vegetables already?" He tosses them behind the two of you, but keeps you in place when you try to chase them, nuzzling his nose into your neck in search of skin to latch onto.

#indy: headcanons #ch: scott #scott barringer headcanons #scott barringer x reader #scott barringer x reader smut #scott barringer x f!reader #scott barringer x f!reader smut #scott barringer smut #scott barringer x you #scott barringer x you smut #scott barringer imagine #reader insert

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gallusrostromegalus · 11 months

Note

You’ve mentioned several times that Matsumoto is deeply weird, could you explain how?

I think Matsumoto is Autistic and EXTREMELY good at masking, somewhat to her detriment, to be honest.

Point the first: Matsumoto drinks a lot- or at least, is SEEN to be "drinking" but she's rarely actually drunk. She's practically sober relative to her companions the few times we see her drinking in a group. I think that she's not drinking that much- She's getting *just* tipsy enough to: 1. Take the edge of some of her sensory issues and 2. To give her plausible deniability if she blurts out the wrong thing or says something that comes out way more rude than she intended. 3. Surround herself with people whose social inhibitions are lowered and whose skills are a bit clumsy- like how she feels all the time.

Point the Second: Matsumoto is Constantly fucking tired. I think the midday naps are the result of constantly overclocking herself to stay socially likeable and ignore how much that 'silly' thing is bothering her and probably also a sensitivity to barometric pressure changes that lots of Autistic people have.

Point The Third: What evidence do we actually have that Matsumoto is a Bimbo vs this is an act she puts on? IIRC, we don't have canon proof she sleeps with anyone in the series except MAYBE Gin, before they became shinigami. It's been 15 years since I read the series but for someone who certainly dresses and talks and plays up her reputation as a Bimbo, Matsumoto doesn't seem to have much sex. I think the Bimbo persona is just that- an act. It's an act she's learned gets her the kind of attention she wants- In the Rukongai, it was probably a great way to earn hella tips while working service jobs before she became a shinigami, in the academy nerds would be falling all over her to help her study, and as a seated officer, the carefully cultivated Bimbo persona means she can sort of excuse herself from any project she doesn't want to work on.

I'm basing that last point, and a lot of Matsumoto's characterization in AEIWAM on my aunt, who is an attractive big-chested blonde who didn't get diagnosed with Autism until her Mid-fifties. But SO MUCH of Matsumoto's mannerisms and behavior from the Manga remind me of Aunt Sophie- she has a doctorate in Theater Science now, but while she was working undergrad, she was a bartender who cultivated a persona she called "Bartend Barbie" who was a silly, slightly drunk and giggly bimbo with an impressive collection of blonde jokes at her disposal, and "Barbie" got about five times in tips what she was being paid hourly, and that's how Aunt Sophie graduated without student debt in the 80's. She's also recently made the connection between how her severe masking is and her profoundly deep understanding of how theatrical roles are played.

I think Matsumoto Rangiku is very autistic but has had a long time and a lot of practice masking to the point where she has an intensely convincing and extremely likeable persona that she uses almost constantly, and that prior to his betrayal, Gin might have been the only person that knew Matsumoto from before her "Barbie" days.

I don't know what Matsumoto's special interests are. Kubo wasn't great at giving his female characters interiority. I'm tempted to give her Aunt Sophie's understanding of theater, but I'm open to suggestions.

#AEIWAM #An Elephant Is Warm And Mushy #bleach fanfic #matsumoto rangiku

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itsabouttimex2 · 6 months

Text

Monkiefam: Part One

Transformation Troubles

(Part Zero) (Part One) (Part Two)

“It’s for your own safety, kiddo.”

Those words ring in your mind as you stare out of the window, watching as your “father” trains your “brother”. You idly watch them clash, deftly swinging their staffs, blocking, counter-attacking, and breaking through each other’s defenses. Wukong stands leagues above MK, even though the kid is learning fast. You’ve gotten used to the sight of the monkey demon correcting his mentee’s stance, shifting his arms and legs, hauling him off the ground and dusting his clothes off when he knocks him down. Once, you would’ve stood in wide-eyed awe, caught on every fluid strike and powerful swing. Now, it’s become so commonplace that you barely bat an eye.

You only really start to pay attention when they start rapidly shifting between several forms from the 72 Transformations technique.

Although your “family” had allowed you to partake in basic training exercises like stretches and warmups, anything beyond that was strictly off-limits to you. As MK mastered skill after skill and bolstered his arsenal of techniques, you were stuck inside, only able to watch him grow. All to keep you safe, in their own words. One was a monkey demon and one was an inheritor to the legacy and powers of said monkey demon. They were powerful and mystical, and you were a regular human, short-lived and fragile. Weaker, slower, squishier.

But more than smart enough to learn a few of their tricks.

And brave enough to try one out.

“If you wanna change your body, you gotta change your thinking first, bud.”Wukong had instructed MK with these words not too long ago. From a hawk to a tiger to even something as small as a butterfly, Sun Wukong had already mastered all 72 and MK was well on his way to learning to do so himself.

You only had one in mind to start with. If you wanted to ever escape the smothering clutches of these two warriors, you weren’t going to be able to do it with any kind of mindless force. Being able to take the form of a hawk might’ve sounded useful, but the Monkey King could easily outspeed you. A tiger? Both of them could take the same form, and were much stronger to boot. Picking something like a spider would easily keep MK away, but wouldn’t deter Wukong in the slightest.

So instead, you settled on the monkey. Then, you had plausible deniability on your side. You could shrug it off as ‘wanting to be more like him’ or ‘wanting to see what it was like’ if Wukong asked you why you’d been practicing transformations at all. MK wouldn’t need any sort of explanation from you, because he’d probably just get excited about you learning such a technique.

You have your plan. And your reasoning, if things go poorly. All that’s left to do is to get started.

Change your thinking.

Wild, exuberant energy. Skillful jumps and leaps. Dexterous limbs and powerful bodies. Unbridled curiosity. Devotion to your troop.

An innate desire to revel in freedom.

At first, you had worried that the transformation might hurt. But then the whole world flashes gold and your body shifts and reshapes, and you feel better than you ever have before. A burst of adrenaline rushes through you, glowing sparks of white hot energy coursing your veins. You lie there on the floor for a few minutes, trying to regain your composure as the searing ecstasy of success flows through your shifted body.

And then there’s a knock on the door. You try to scramble to your feet, only to trip over your unfamiliar appendages. You slip and lightly thud against the floor, which only worries your captor more.

“You doing okay in there, bud? Training ran a little long, huh?”

You can’t respond. You try to respond, but nothing akin to speech comes out. Only silk-soft chittering. Then it hits you.

You aren’t a gorilla, a chimpanzee, an orangutan.

“Are you still mad that we won’t let you train with us? Am I getting the silent treatment now, kid?”

No, you’ve shifted into one of the little monkeys that flourish on Flower Fruit Mountain.

“Aww, don’t be too upset, alright? Hey, I’ll have MK bring us some of those noodles the two of you like, okay? The three of us can eat together.”

And you don’t know how to turn back.

“Y/N?”

You only have a few seconds to register the concern in his voice before the door between the two of you flies off the handles, broken down by a single kick from Wukong. He crosses the threshold into your room, looking around not only in worry, but tentative anger. If you had broken out again, he was going to…

You look up. He looks down.

There’s only a couple of seconds where he’s confused, head tilted curiously to the side at the sight of the little monkey in front of him. Then, recognition writes itself across his face.

His eyes widen in adoration as the end of his tail curls into a sort of heart. He dashes forward and snatches you off the ground with a huge grin, holding you up to his face. He nuzzles you against himself, brushing his cheek against your own. He only pauses to call out to his student.

“MK, bud, you gotta come see this!”

Once you hear excited footsteps pounding down the halls, you know that you’re in for a long day.

#platonic yandere #Yandere Lego Monkie Kid #Yandere LMK #Platonic Yandere LMK #Yandere Sun Wukong #Yandere MK #Monkiefam

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cobblestone-butch · 11 days

Note

jus saw ur post ab sculptor etho muse joel, ik u got forcibly ejected from the writers room but if i make another writers room will u write it /hj

hey tysm! I ended up writing a little something so it will be below <3 this is mostly just Cleo helping Etho realise what might be going on with his struggles to sculpt. I hope people like and mostly that anyone who knows anything about art would write for it too (I know nothing!)

"So, first things first! Why do you want to learn to pose armour stands, Etho? Have you got a specific project in mind?"

There's an awkward pause.

"I only ask so I can get a good idea of what to focus on. It's just good if we start our work with something you're already interested in, right?"

She's never seen Etho look so... Nervous. Learning can be a vulnerable thing, sure, but Etho has never been shy with questions and comments and the unknown the way some people are. It feels wrong to turn to insults, light as they may be, to ease the attention - they're at a complete loss on what to do other than let him work through whatever he's feeling.

"Nothing, there's nothing... Specific I had in mind. It's... I tried sculpting."

"Okay that's good. That's great! What did you like about sculpting?"

"I didn't like sculpting."

Cleo laughs, a mix of confusion and genuine amusement, "Alright! So why do you want to learn 'armorstandography' then?"

Etho is still looking down, picking what she now suspects to be dried clay or quartz from his clothes. His shoulders drop a little from their previously hunched state though, which is a good sign.

"I just figured that maybe it would be easier. N-not that what you do is easy, I mean, you're clearly very skilled, and that's why I've asked you-"

"Etho, slow down, it's okay. I am perfectly assured in what I do and how much effort it takes. But still, I appreciate it."

"I thought maybe something with color would be more, familiar? I like vibrant colors and how they go together, and sculpting out of quartz is so... Lifeless."

Cleo shakes her head, "I won't teach you, Etho."

Etho snaps his head upwards, looking for some sign that it's some dry British humor he's missed. Cleo's face is even more stony than his recent attempts at sculpting.

"I won't teach you", they repeat, "Not for that reason. Color won't inject life into what you make, Etho. I won't teach you something that isn't true."

"Uh huh..."

"And besides, I don't think I believe you. I bet your sculptures have plenty of life in them." Cleo sees a frown pull on Etho's features, "Go on, prove me wrong."

---

Etho puts his hand on the door leading to his storage area. It's a big enough space for art projects, and it's nice to hear items sort themselves as he works, frustrated as he's been with the outcome of his endeavours recently. Cleo reads his hesitance immediately, and knows that Etho won't find comfort in their reassuring words. Here, at the doorway, she pushes past him.

She's drawn to her own face first. Sat on a block is her own head, looking back at her. She sees her own soft features, big eyes and strong nose. A dozen other faces around the room, and she can just about identify them as their friends. There's one off to the side, hidden enough to not drawn attention but not hidden too much, as if he's given himself plausible deniability for doing it. Etho's problem is not that his sculptures look lifeless. Etho's problem is denial.

It takes Cleo seconds to spot and minutes to confirm - there's only one sculpture amongst the collection that properly resembles the person it's modelled after. Every other head or bust has been affected by it, flawed in different ways but for the exact same reason. They all look a bit too much like Joel. It's in the furrow of her brow, the fierceness of Scar's smile, the curl of Doc's hair. Their eyes are all bright, smiles meeting them in genuine warmth, and Cleo can see even with just quartz how skilled Etho is at what he does.

Cleo isn't sure how aware Etho is that he's making them all in Joel's image, so they opt for asking something less direct, "What do you think the problem is? With these sculptures?"

"They're all... Wrong. I just can't get anyone right, and I'm not exactly going for artistic liberty."

Cleo laughs kindly, "That's not exactly true, is it? I can see one that's particularly uncanny."

"Uncanny valley?" Etho makes the joke before she can, but it's not what she was pitching for.

She walks over to and stands behind the sculpture of Joel. "I like this one. I've definitely seen this face before I've died a few times."

Etho laughs, and it stops the ever-shifting of his feet and the picking at his hands. He runs a hand through his hair, letting it rest at his neck as he rubs at it in slight shame. "He's, ah, a vicious one, Joel. He does this little huff thing, and it sounds like a tiger- he's always in some kind of mood and it's always so big, he can't do anything calmly or slowly, you've seen how quickly he builds, and, I just thought what's the most 'Joel' face I can think of? I remembered how he looked building that TNT cannon..."

Cleo lets him talk. It's nice, after all the awkward, to see him talk to openly about all the thoughts that went into the Joel sculpture. She can almost see what he means when he says the other attempts are lifeless; the animation in his voice when he talks about Joel makes everything else pale in comparison. She doesn't think he realises.

"Do you know what a muse is?" They ask after Etho has run himself out of steam, or perhaps noticed a conspicuous lack of interjection from Cleo, a usually very active listener.

"You mean like an inspiration?"

"Yeah! Well, sort of. In Greek mythology, the Muses were goddesses, and their domains included art of all kinds. And we've sort of derived meaning from that, so plenty of artists say they have muses that inspire them. And it helps them make art even if it's not always about them."

"Uh huh. So you think that I need to find my muse?"

"I think you already have, Etho." She looks down at the head between them, and Etho follows her gaze. Joel's eyes look back at him, intense and alive and challenging. He averts his gaze, something complicated settling over him - what they shared was so long ago, in a time and place so far from here. To feel the pull of that, it feels cosmic and mythical in a way Etho naturally rejects.

It's like Cleo can see through him, always. "It doesn't have to be complicated. It can be as simple as knowing someone well enough to capture a second of their likeness. That's what a lot of my armour stands do, they're just snapshots in time. Maybe you should just talk to Joel."

"Oh, I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"He'll be insufferable about it."

Cleo actually snorts at that. "Fine then, don't talk to him. Just make more excuses to send him mail and wait for an extrovert to bring you to his base to talk, or whatever it is that you guys do."

"You're not far off, Cleo."

"Oh, I know. I have to hear all about it."

"What?! The next time I see Scar..."

---

Joel stares back into his own eyes. The head was left at the gate to his base, like something the mafia might do as a threat. There was a single sign next to it: Feel free to alter or remove - Etho. It's incredible, seeing his likeness through someone else's eyes. He didn't know his hair was so fluffy, his smile so sharp. He picks up the head with a grunt (Bloomin' heck, is this thing solid quartz?!) and moves it somewhere it can be seen, before pulling a book from the chest under his mailbox and penning his sculptor a message.

#hermitfic #ethoslab #etho #smallishbeans #hermitshipping #could be read as platonic but i want to be safe :)#smalletho #boat boys #i miss cl.etho so much im gonna go rewatch sl #ty to the people who wanted this to exist it inspired me #i wrote it in one go in a hyperfocus state and then didnt read it over. sorry for any issues

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