#and fictional value

[botwstoriesandsuch]

Foreshadowing is a literary device—

[louroth]

Hello sweetcheeks! Just letting you know that the OUROBOROS old demo is now uploaded here: OUROBOROS ON COGDEMOS

Although... it is not as pretty as the new app, coming to you soon.

:> ❤️

[artbyblastweave]

Funniest thing I've seen recently, and not funny in a ha-ha way, more funny in a "the endless entropic void gnawing at my will to live" way, was somebody asking around for alternatives to Neil Gaiman, in the light of Neil Gaiman's ongoing fall from grace. As though what we're currently sitting through isn't the collapse of the carefully curated "Good Guy Neil" image that caused people to parade Gaiman as the same kind of preferred progressive alternative to, say, Rowling. As though we won't be in the same goddamn situation in a few years or months, with some number of the new progressive sci-fi/fantasy darlings- not all of them, to be clear, but at least some of them- when their impeccably-curated marketing implodes in on itself and they're revealed to be the same kind of sex pest or abuser. Can you not see the wheel to which you are strapped. The game of human pinball you are condemning yourself to with this mindset. Maybe you do see, and you're just resigned to taking it one soul-crushing disappointment at a time, one "I never would have guessed" after another. I mean I think we all need to get resigned to that one way or another, sun's gonna go out before it stops happening

[eddiebloombug]

all comic fans know how to do is: develop superiority complexes based on their personal perceptions of a character, eat hot chip, and lie

[fightingwithallreality]

The Enchanted Horse (1992) written by Magdalen Nabb, illustrated by Julek Heller

For @horsefigureoftheday

[whetstonefires]

there was a post i saw a while ago, before i'd read the vorkosigan books, unfavorably comparing that conversation about Cordelia being simultaneously put in charge of the child-emperor's education and told she was Not Allowed In Politics (where they're like, do those old men realized what they've done lol????) to a much sadder character in I believe a piece of historical fiction?

who had the early upbringing of several boys, but ultimately no control over the sorts of men they grew to be, which was determined instead by the men in their lives and the expectations of the world, because that's the reality of what it means to be a woman in a patriarchal society etc etc.....

and the person found that conversation obnoxiously twee and smug and unrealistic on Bujold's part. a cult-of-women's-knowledge style second wave feminist historical revisionism of how gender roles and power interact. and i remembered this, because it was interesting and well-argued.

so it was really funny when i actually read that book and was like. hey. hang on. the person who wrote that meta post was wrong. they Did Not Get this scenario in a very crucial way; they were imposing their own expectations too hard.

because the key thing about Cordelia in this scenario is not that she is a Strong Female Character, who's going to subvert this society single-handed via the undervalued Feminine Power.

it's that she's foreign. she is from another planet with wildly different social values, ones significantly closer to the interstellar norm than those of barrayar.

and barrayar is a formerly closed society going through the ructions and convulsions of adapting itself to external influences from galactic society, of deciding what it will and will not allow itself, in terms of change, and whose expense those changes that do occur will come at, and so forth.

aral's brief as regent, the thing the last emperor broke and bridled him to achieve, is staving off the reactionary fascist era of Barrayaran history.

they were so close to eating themselves alive that way.

giving cordelia, his partner, an outspoken Betan with a strong personality and strong opinions, control over the education of the boy emperor, and therefore structuring how he is going to respond to the inevitable changes in their no longer static society, is a completely accidental surrender of vast amounts of future territory by the conservative wing to the progressive one.

because they were so fixated on gender and pushing people into gender roles as a form of control that they couldn't see the bigger picture.

[spop-romanticizes-abuse]

i hate the trope of a straight couple, usually teenagers, where the guy is about to meet the girl's parents, and her dad is the weirdly overprotective kind.

it's supposed to be endearing but it just comes off as controlling and not trusting his daughter's judgement, and also bullying a teen boy for no reason.

[rookflower]

warrior cats is often extremely weird about its disabled characters dont get me wrong but to be honest i do think the argument of "why do these characters struggle with their disabilities in the books when disabled cats irl are barely hindered?" is a little flawed because of the way the books anthropomorphise their characters. im not physically disabled so dont take my words to heart on this but i think the point is less about the logistics how the characters would be able to move or thrive in a realistic physical setting, and more about what the books do with the themes of disability from a conflict and narrative standpoint.

[ficsloverblog]

I was wondering if you could write something for Debbie Jelinsky? Like reader is an oblivious rich woman, but has small psychotic symptoms? She doesn't usually target rich women but the reader was an exception

In Case I Bleed (NSFW)

Debbie Jellinsky x fem!reader

A/N: Realised I love writing for Debbie, she’s such a fun character to write for. Thank you for your request. Enjoy! <3

TW: Murder Attempts as Flirting · Suicidal Ideation but Make It Whimsical · Toxic Codependency · Emotional Manipulation · Slow Burn (into the grave) · Smut (eventually) · Mentally Unwell Dreamy Reader · Debbie “Unhinged & Hot” Jellinsky · Nobody's Okay and That’s The Whole Point

Debbie has done this before.

Lonely people. Fat inheritances. Drafty old houses with too many rooms and too few locked doors. The scent of fading grandeur, cologne soaked into upholstery, dust stirred only by memory. She knows this world. She knows how to navigate it.

But this one doesn’t start with her usual web.

This time, you come to her.

Or rather—she finds you through a half-inch column in the back of a regional paper. A notice from your family. “Seeking a full-time companion for our fragile daughter. Generous pay, quiet estate. Must be discreet.” The sort of polite phrasing that means please, someone come take her off our hands.

Debbie sips her coffee and circles the ad in red ink.

She’s made up her mind.

She arrives a week later, on a Wednesday.

She doesn’t knock, just pushes the door open like it is waiting for her, like she already lives here.

Heels click first. Then a swoop of white—like a wedding gown, an hallucination, a swan with a knife in its beak. Blonde hair too bright to be real and lipstick the color of arterial blood.

“Hello,” she says, with a voice like butter melting under the sun. “I’m Debbie.”

You don’t remember standing up. You don’t remember smiling.

But you must have done something right, because she’s coming closer.

She settles in fast. She knows how to make herself useful, how to hum while she cooks, how to make tea just strong enough to hide the aftertaste. She smiles often. Just enough to be adored, never enough to be trusted. Her last husband died trying to reset a fuse box with a fork. Before that, there’d been a gardening “accident.” The one before that had a heart attack halfway through signing a life insurance policy in her name.

Debbie isn’t subtle.

But she is successful.

And you? You’re perfect.

You don’t question her presence. Don’t ask for credentials. Don’t flinch when she appears in your bedroom doorway at midnight, silhouetted like a dream someone meant to forget.

You just smile. That slow, dazed smile like sleepwalking. Not stupid. Not fearful. Just… still.

You drift through the house like something barely alive. Eyes half-lidded. Always tracking her. You don’t follow, not exactly—but you’re present. Like gravity. Like a mirror she can’t walk past without glancing into.

The first night, she offers you tea.

“Chamomile,” she says, holding the cup between both hands like a prayer.

You take it, nod, and drink.

No suspicion. No hesitation.

Just trust.

Or something like it.

She watches the cup lower. Watches your tongue sweep a trace of it from your bottom lip. Your eyes flick to hers, slow.

You don’t ask what’s in it. Not even as a joke.

You just smile again.

A week later, she brings you peaches.

You sit on the veranda, sunlight dusting your shoulders. The fruits are slick, heavy with syrup. Laced with cyanide.

You eat around the pits. Slowly. Carefully. You hum, a single note, low and tuneless.

“I’m not very hungry these days,” you murmur.

She doesn’t press. “Shame,” she says, tilting her head. “You should try harder.”

Your eyes meet hers. Lingering. Fogged with sleep or something deeper.

Still, no accusations. No games.

She’s almost disappointed.

Where’s the tension? The terror? Where’s the trembling hands and the panicked glance at the cutlery drawer?

Instead, you thank her.

You say goodnight in the middle of the afternoon.

You drift through the house as if death is just a suggestion, not a destination.

Rooms begin to change with her.

Curtains open on their own. Candles stay lit long past their wicks. The kitchen smells like black tea and Chanel N°5. You become something soft under her fingertips, something pliant and unresisting.

She helps you undress for bed like a ritual. She brushes your hair and touches your throat, her fingers pressing lightly to feel your pulse.

You thank her again.

“You’re not afraid of me,” she says one night, arms folded against the doorframe.

You shrug. “Should I be?”

She bares her teeth in a smile. Not amused. Not warm.

“Of course not.”

She draws you a bath the next day.

Lights candles. Jasmine and oil. The kind of thing you do for a lover or a ghost.

“Don’t drown,” she says as she turns to go, leaving the door open behind her.

You let your head slip underwater.

Once.

Twice.

You imagine not coming back up.

But you do.

When your head breaks the surface again, she’s there. By the sink. Holding a towel—and a revolver.

You don’t scream. You don’t move.

You just sigh, stop pretending like you’re oblivious to her scheme.

“A little cliché.” You say.

“I’m tired,” she answers. “I was going to do the bathtub thing, but you beat me to it.”

You smile. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

The mask falls after that.

She doesn’t bother with niceties anymore. She calls you “freak” when you whisper to the fridge. She leaves things—sharp things—within reach. She mutters under her breath when you pass by, whispers poison into your dreams.

But you don’t flinch.

You never have.

Because it isn’t fear that binds you to her.

It’s something else.

You lie on the stairs one night. Pale and limp and quiet.

She finds you like that.

“Are you dead?” she asks, nudging your ribs with the tip of her heel.

You blink once. “No.”

She steps over you, scoffing. “Try harder.”

She finally tries for real in the garden.

It's mid-morning. The sky is white and cloudless. You’re barefoot in the grass, arms outstretched like some half-dead apostle waiting for crucifixion.

Debbie stands behind you. Something heavy and metallic in her hand.

You feel the brush of the shovel against your shoulder.

“I could make it painless,” she says.

“Then don’t.”

You turn, bare feet in the dirt, neck tilted like an offering.

She raises the shovel. Holds it in the air. Breath caught between choices.

“I want to want to kill you,” she says through gritted teeth. “But you’re just so—”

“Easy?” you finish. “Too easy?”

She drops the shovel. It lands like a verdict.

“No,” she says. “You’re wrong. You’re not normal. You’re not anything.”

That night, the rain comes.

She enters your room in silence. She’s not wearing makeup. Her robe clings to her skin like second thoughts.

You’re curled on your side, blanket twisted around your legs. You don’t speak.

Neither does she.

Not at first.

“Do you think you’re in love with me?” she asks eventually.

“No.”

“Good.”

Pause.

“Are you in love with me?”

“I don’t believe in love,” she snaps.

You smile into your pillow. “That sounds like a yes.”

She leaves a noose in your closet the next day.

A gift.

You hang it on your balcony like a Christmas decoration.

That afternoon, you serve her tea beneath it.

“I’m thinking of using it for Easter,” you say.

She raises her cup. “Wear something seasonally appropriate.”

The final attempt is silent.

A pillow.

She climbs into your bed with it, straddles you. Her breath comes fast, uneven.

The pillow smells like lilac and static. Her fingers grip it tight.

She lowers it.

You smile against it. You feel the air slip away. You don’t fight. You never do.

And for a moment, you think this is it.

Finally.

But it isn’t.

She lifts it. Her hands are shaking.

“I can’t,” she whispers.

You don’t move. “I know.”

She stays on top of you.

She’s trembling. Her robe open. Her breath on your skin.

And you—still smiling—reach for her.

Your hand slides to the back of her neck.

And something breaks.

She kisses you first.

Hard. Ungraceful. Her teeth catch your lip. She tastes like gunmetal and blood oranges.

Your hands slide under her robe, over damp skin, the curve of her back, her hips, her thighs. You flip her, not with dominance but desperation.

She lets you.

There’s nothing careful in it. Nothing planned.

Just heat. Friction. Bodies trying to become one thing.

You push into her slowly, and her mouth opens in a silent cry. Her nails rake down your spine. Her legs wrap around you like instinct.

You move together, breathless, writhing.

She bites your shoulder. You gasp. Her name tumbles out like prayer.

You kiss her. Again. Again.

There’s nothing romantic about it. Nothing sweet. Just two people trying to crawl into each other, into the ache, into the place where the killing almost happened but didn’t.

And when you come, it’s with your face buried in her neck, and her body trembling beneath yours, and the sound of her breath hitching like she’s finally alive again.

She doesn’t say anything afterward.

You don’t need her to.

She stays.

And for the first time in months, you sleep without dreaming of death.

Only of her.

Morning comes slow, silver-grey and wet with fog.

Debbie’s robe is half on the floor, half tangled around your legs. Her hair’s a mess across the pillow, lips parted just slightly. You’re on your side, watching her breathe like you’ve been doing it for hours.

She wakes with a start. Not fear. Just habit.

Her eyes find yours.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks.

Then—

“You’re still here,” she mutters, voice rough.

You nod. “You didn’t kill me.”

She exhales. Something like a laugh. Something like surrender.

“Don’t get used to it.”

You reach out, brush her hair from her cheek.

“I already did.”

She closes her eyes again, lets your fingers stay.

Outside, the noose sways in the breeze.

Inside, the bed is warm.

And for now, that’s enough.

[filletedfennysnake]

inherently transgender to be a fictional knight. send post.

[velvetwyrme]

Are cybug seekers predators? Is there a particular reason Sunny and Sides react so negatively to an image of Screamer in this verse (beyond the fact they are like this in canon)? And finally, how has TC got his trine in this verse bc it looks like Buster suddenly had three seekers instead of one one day.

great questions!

1. yep! seekers are predators! ive been imagining that seekers have a varied diet, so they also eat fruits but due to frame requirements they frequently eat meat and other cybugs

dwindling food in the wild and reduction in environments they can safely hunt in would also drive them to be more aggressive/inventive with the ways they get food. (uh. lets say there have NOT been any reported cases of them going after humans yet.)

2. because of the above, seekers have become well-known for attacking other cybug colonies and this is information that would've passed down generationally (epigenetically?) and sunny and sides mostly picked it up that way. it's more a sense of DANGER rather than dislike- sort of like how meerkats make alert noises when they see eagles or snakes!

3. yeah pretty much LMAO. she had TC (he was gifted to her) and then one day these two idiots showed up after seeing TC through a window or something.

skywarp probably saw him first and pointed him out to starscream

then both of them courted him through the glass and then found their way inside

starscream gets caught while skywarp is cosying up to TC

buster would probably have let star outside again at this point

so she comes back inside and is just like ANOTHER ONE? while starscream is furiously banging against the window

[chrollohearttags]

I can have a million things stressing me out but I can never say a man is one of them God bless

[moonwaif]

An important thing about Wei Wuxian and Mo Xuanyu is that they do die. Their fictional resurrections are, regardless of authorial intent, an act of queer resistance. Because the fact is that when people in real life speak truth to power, whether through activism or merely by living as their authentic selves, whether queer or otherwise, they often pay a consequence. Many have paid with their lives.

We see this kind of revision happen in TGCF and SVSSS. Shen Yuan's fictional transmigration rewrites a narrative of repressed queerness and toxic masculinity into a narrative of queer truth. Xie Lian is actively sabotaged while challenging systemic forces. Due to many factors, he fails. At one point he is even sealed in a coffin. His reascension grants him the opportunity to redress past wrongs and live his queer truth with Hua Cheng.

Xie Lian and Wei Wuxian especially are characters that deliberately challenge multiple forms of injustice going on in the context of their society. And they pay, literally and symbolically, with their dignity and their lives.

Anyway my point is a moment of silence to all who have lost their lives speaking truth to power, for living authentically. And a moment of encouragement and solidarity moving forward.

[turtleblogatlast]

Something I love to think about is every iteration of Leo’s relationship with Splinter and how Splinter’s interests always define how a Leo presents himself.

I used to abide by the idea that a Leo will simply emulate his Splinter directly, and to an extent I still believe that to be the case, but moreso I think Leos have a tendency to mold themselves into what they believe is their Splinter’s ideal son - someone who embodies all the traits Splinter has explicitly shown to admire or value in a person.

Most of the time, they try to be a dutiful and honorable boy abiding by the full extent of ninjitsu teachings. Then you have Rise Splinter, who very much still has undeniable prowess in the art of fighting and being a ninja, but when it comes to how he shows his interests to his boys…one thing reigns supreme.

Acting. Shows. One liners. Flamboyance in the name of gaining an audience’s attention.

He showcases Lou Jitsu movies on repeat for the boys, passing down the morals and words from those movies to them with no small amount of pride. All while fully expecting them to respect these teachings.

So, of course, Rise Leo picks up on this. He’s a Leo, after all, as much a daddy’s boy as any other variation of him, only he clocked his father’s interests to be different than most others. He picks up on the art of showmanship, of keeping things to himself so as to be a more exciting twist later, of treating the world as a set to act in.

He’s an actor, not just because Splinter himself was one, but because Splinter likes acting and showed one particular actor (unknowingly to the boys, it was himself) as the pinnacle of all his teachings. As someone to value and admire. And even more than that - Splinter focuses on the character the actor is portraying rather than just the man himself.

And I think this is all even more interesting when taking the turtle tot short into consideration, because very, very briefly, just as with many times else throughout the series, we see how easily Rise Leo aligns with his other selves, seeming to pick up the sword easier than his brothers do their own weapons - after quoting Lou Jitsu of course. After emulating his idol - the person who his father seems to admire so much.

Point being, it’s so interesting to see how Leos tend to mold themselves in one particular way throughout every variation - that being, what their father is shown to value most in people.

[sommerregenjuniluft]

hippie pandora this, divine vision plagued/blessed pandora that— THIS WOMAN LITERALLY DID NOT CARE ABOUT ANYTHING BUT HER SILLY LITTLE EXPERIMENTS. i know ppl love to make her out as the soft girl, the one in colorful clothes, bearing happy smiles, speaking encouraging words in soft tones. the glue of the group that holds her boys together and is the most empathetic of the bunch. *WRONG BUZZER NOISE* pandora literally didnt care enough about a literal racially(?) motivated War going on to pick a side. she’s like one of those people that don’t go vote!! T-T she’s privileged and she KNOWS and she doesn’t let her close family do Shit to jeopardize that ‘just to help others’. pandora is very selfish and egotistical! she probably rolled around in her grave when she saw luna befriend harry and help fight in the war. maybe she would be proud at last (once they won!) but mostly i think she probably would have liked to trottle her daughter and lock her in a room where she’s safe. pandora probably wasn’t that good of a person if we’re being real. she was possibly unsafe about her spell innovations, she was a mastermind and a maniac. pandora was a unbelievably talented witch and she actively chose to not be of help in a war. she was a horrible and i looooveee her for it. in this house we support women’s wrongs!!!!!! dont rob her of it<3

[thewanderingmask]

smajor fanart that got away from me a little