#whenever it is even remotely relevant

[fearandhatred]

the devil entered me at 3am last night and i came up with this so here have a post-s2 crowley pov poem. pls be nice to me i don't even write poetry i have no idea what's going on

anyway i imagine this being read like an analog horror video

[supercantaloupe]

this is how i advertise opera to my unsuspecting group chat companions

[auxon]

ALSO read eager by ben goldfarb. this is my final message. goodbye

[fyuyushia]

It wasn't love.

: ̗̀➛You only ever realize someone's worth until they leave you.

: ̗̀➛ft. A longing wanderer

In recent years, wanderer found himself reminiscing about the past more often. Indigo hues idly stare at the night sky, counting the stars, tracing the patterns they made with his hands.

Ah.

He stops himself when his hands begin to stretch out, as if trying to reach for the stars. He blinks, snapping out of his daze. He retracts his arms, shifting his eyes to look at his palm. His brows furrows, I'm doing it again. Closing his hands to form a fist, he breathes out a sigh and rests it on his lap.

Wanderer has been reminiscing frequently these past weeks.

Perhaps it was because of the blonde traveller and the wretched archon's influence; his interactions with them guided him to be more intact with his feelings after all. Or maybe it was because a certain date was drawing near, and he subconsciously associates it with the past—with a ghost—either way, he's been thinking. His lashes flutter, finding himself more distracted than usual.

His jaw clenches, your image is too vivid. You're engraved too deep—he knows you too much, it pisses him off. Your visage is tattooed on his eyelids, every detail carved on his brain. He thinks of you too much, too long it's irritating.

He doesn't understand why now out of all times he's starting to think about you. Your smile, your lips, your eyes—your voice, you're too inside his head and he admits he's scared. He's lost, why are you so relevant now when you've already left so many years ago? Why now, when he's never cared?

He doesn't understand. Why are you in his head?

A stupid question. Deep down inside, he knows exactly why he thinks of you. He knows why he sees you in everything. In the stars, in the clouds, in the traveler, in everywhere—he knows why everything reminds him of you. He knows why he hears your laughter echo on the back of his mind, he knows why he turns around everytime he finds someone who looks the slightest bit like you—but he'll never admit it.

He'll never say it.

Instead, he'll say it's hate. He'll bury your memory, lock it in a cage and toss away the key. He'll ignore your silhouette, close off his heart and throw away anything that remotely reminds him of you. He'll burn your image, drown you in poison and sully your name with curses he knows he won't let anyone say to you.

But even if he does all that, even if he'll write a whole book explaining how little you mattered, nothing could make him forget the way your hand gently cradled his face. Wanderer can never forget the sweet words you've whispered, the stolen glances between silent exchanges, the harmless bickering, you. You were too much a core memory to easily let go.

It's not love.

Wanderer grits his teeth, glaring at the stars that had led him down the spiral into that mess of a time. He covers his eyes with his hands, trying to erase the memory of you that always grew stronger whenever that certain week came.

It's not love.

It wasn't love when he didn't mind letting you rest your head against his shoulder because you were sleepy. It wasn't love when he followed your lead and bid you good mornings and good nights. It wasn't love when he allowed you to be the weak spot in himself. It wasn't love when he spent years searching for a way to elongate your life—It wasn't love when he dug your grave himself—barehanded all night just to ensure you were resting in a place you'd approve of. It's not love.

It's not love, he repeats like a mantra.

He sits up, rubbing his eyes with his hands that were too cold to mimic the warmth of your touch. He breathes out a heavy sigh, clicking his tongue in annoyance.

He thinks of you too much, damn it

"Maybe I'll go give them a visit."

He says, yet his voice sounded defeated. Because even if he says all those things—he knows damn well it's more than love.

[wixhing0nastar]

From Hound to Hawkeye: The Evolution of Vi's Protector

I remember when I first saw the interview lines from Amanda Overton post-S2 talking about Vi's character arc this season and feeling a little confused by them at first. Who is Vi when she doesn't have anyone to protect? The type of person to fall in love. Which while beautiful, begged the question in my mind; what about Caitlyn?

But the more I've thought about it in the interim the more obvious the answer has become. Vi doesn't have anyone left to protect because Caitlyn doesn't need Vi to protect her. In fact, over the course of the show Caitlyn undergoes a journey to become Vi's protector. Specifically, Caitlyn steps in and fills the hole, that need for love and protection, that was left behind after Vander's death in Vi's youth.

And once I made that connection it was suddenly really easy to start noticing all of the parallels between Caitlyn and Vander, especially when it comes to their interactions with Vi.

Caitlyn's journey on the path to becoming Vi's protector started in Stillwater, when she first freed her, but this arc doesn't really kick off until after Vi gets stabbed while fighting Sevika at the end of Episode 5 and she's then forced to depend on Caitlyn for safety, on account of the whole being stabbed thing. And that's when the Protector Arc, and the Caitlyn/Vander parallels, begin in earnest.

~Both lecture Vi for her impulsiveness before/while tending to her wounds~

Even this early on Caitlyn already cares for Vi's safety (a trait we quickly learn applies to most people) and we get the very obvious, show makes sure we know it's a parallel to Vander, Caitlyn telling Vi that she has a good heart.

This is quickly followed by her leaving to find Vi some type of medicine which leads to the next big parallel between Vander and Caitlyn.

~Both sacrifice their weapons in a dangerous situation to keep Vi safe~

Vander drops his gauntlets on the bridge in the middle of the fighting (even if it was dying down), sacrificing them in order to pick Vi and Powder up and take her to safety. In the same vein, Caitlyn sells her only firearm in the middle of a dangerous environment while tracking down a terrorist with almost no bureaucratic support to get Vi a cure for being stabbed.

Shortly thereafter we get the whole escape from Silco/finding Jinx sequence which isn't relevant except for how it leads to the next parallel when Vi and Caitlyn get captured by the Firelights.

~Both attempt to sacrifice their freedom for Vi's~

Now, Caitlyn's already captured here but I think it counts. Before the reveal that Vi's on good terms with the Firelights, Caitlyn is seen fighting tooth and nail to get them to release Vi and keep her in Vi's stead. Vander on the other hand willingly turned himself over to the Enforcers in Vi's place to keep her from having to spend who knows how many years in Stillwater.

~Both went to bat for Vi against politically powerful opponents~

Caitlyn immediately goes toe-to-toe with Cassandra when she makes it back topside, demanding assistance and offering reproachful glares whenever someone says something remotely offensive about Vi (honestly everything with Ambessa also fits here but she's later). Vander on the other hand was trying to juggle Silco's schemes (that he didn't even know about), Marcus' impudence, and Sevika's betrayal while trying to keep Vi's life unaffected.

After this there's only one major parallel between Caitlyn and Vander until the end of S2A2, but there's some other fun Protector Things to talk about in S2A1. Specifically, how Caitlyn steps up and becomes Vi's protector in the wrong way during this act.

There's this specific old-timey usage of Protector that's popular in like... period romances(?) I was a lit major but I didn't specialize in period romances lol to refer to an influential individual (typically a man) who bestows financial and social protections on someone (typically a woman) without granting them the legal protections of marriage.

This is, essentially, what's happened with Vi and Caitlyn in the first act of the second season. We know that Vi's not living with Caitlyn but she also doesn't seem to be working, so the logical conclusion is that Caitlyn is handling her accommodations. In terms of social we know Caitlyn went so far as to threaten to pull her family's funds from the city if they didn't, basically, treat Vi as an equal citizen instead of the sister of a terrorist. But they aren't together romantically and they aren't living together with any of the implied legal protections one might have as an actual ward of Caitlyn's house.

Which leads up to the next one:

~Both lash out in their grief at the wrong people~

And more specifically, they lash out at the wrong person who was sort of a tangential cause in the death of a loved one. Vander attacks and blames Silco for Felicia's death and while she's primarily holding herself responsible, Caitlyn is also aware that she would have stopped Jinx without hesitation if she wasn't Vi's sister; if Vi hadn't made her second guess herself and show mercy... well Cassandra might be alive.

There's also a very specific parallel between S2A2 Caitlyn and Post-Bridge Vander. Both allow an outside force (the Enforcers/the Noxians) to have unfettered access to the Undercity in the hopes of preventing escalating violence, only for things to continue to get even worse.

~Vi is able to pull them from the dark/reestablish their humanity~

When Vi reunites with both Vanderwick and Caitlyn in S2 Act 2 they've both completely lost themselves down darker paths. Vander's mind is being destroyed by Shimmer and he barely remembers he's a person and is largely just Warwick at this point while Caitlyn is lost in a sea of guilt-driven revenge and is donning the title "Commander" like a cloak of self-flagellation. And Vi's able to cut through Warwick to Vander and The Commander to Caitlyn because of their deep rooted love and need to protect her.

Then we get Caitlyn betraying Ambessa and the fight at the commune and I'll come back to this with the last parallel but first I wanna talk about the decisive moment where Caitlyn became Vi's protector, for real this time.

~Both choose to sacrifice revenge in order to save Vi~

During the fight at the commune, Vi is horribly, life-threateningly injured. As folks have noted before, Jinx gives Caitlyn a clear shot at her back while she's distracted (while there's enough chaos for it to be realistic for her to get caught by a stray bullet) and Caitlyn completely ignores her in favor of rushing to Vi's side. Plus she continues to put aside her feelings about Jinx in order for them to get Vi topside safely, and eventually allows Vi to free her when she willingly surrenders. Meanwhile, Vander pulled the same sorta deal in Episode 3 when the factory was about the blow up. He had a moment he could have gone, was going to go after Silco but realized the building was collapsing and Vi was still trapped inside after having a beam dropped on her. Naturally Vander rushed to save Vi, which allowed Silco to escape.

For Caitlyn, however, this is the exact moment she basically takes Vi properly under her protection. In fact, going back to the "old-timey romance novel" version of Protector. The way in which Caitlyn allows Vi to free Jinx, in addition to the fact they are living together post-canon, show that Vi now has legal protections and those protections come from her implied position as a Kiramman.

More to the point, the way in which Vi frees Jinx is reminiscent of how Caitlyn herself freed Vi back in Episode 5. With Caitlyn manipulating the pieces behind the scenes since Vi wasn't really aware she'd been granted Kiramman privileges yet. But to summarize:

Both were somewhere they weren't really supposed to be, but there wasn't anyone who'd question them (Caitlyn because she's a Kiramman, Vi because Caitlyn removed all the guards)

Both freed a prisoner unauthorized knowing hoping that someone higher up would have their back (Caitlyn knowing Jayce would have her back and Vi hoping Caitlyn would be willing to let Jinx help)

Both did indeed have someone higher up the food chain keep them from getting in trouble (Jayce covering for Caitlyn to Marcus and Caitlyn coming down to the cells to make sure she found/freed Vi before anyone else)

Another point in the "this is where Caitlyn becomes Vi's protector" agenda, but ever since that very first scene of the series on the bridge, Vi's always worn some sort of wraps right up until she wakes up in S2A3 in Caitlyn's bed.

Aka: she can finally put her weapon's down, because she's found herself placed firmly under Caitlyn's protection, which means she's finally, fully safe.

And then for the final (and this parts' going to be a dozy so buckle in) we can hop back to the battle at the commune and Caitlyn turning on Ambessa. And what I really love here is that Caitlyn, who has spent the last several months being manipulated at literally every turn, finds one single earnest, honest person again and is like

~Both are willing to start a war in order to protect Vi~

This parallel actually goes a little nuts. Because not only are both of them willing to start a war to protect Vi and her family, with Vander refusing to give the kids up to the Enforcers and nearly starting the civil war almost a decade early versus Caitlyn who refuses to give up Vanderwick real full circle moment here to Ambessa and Singed and actually starts a war with Noxus over it. No, they are both nearly killed in the fallout while taking a knife to the gut from someone they used to trust (Silco/Ambessa) after getting betrayed by someone they thought they could (Sevika/Maddie).

And Caitlyn actually does have to start and finish said war in order to protect Vi. Which brings me to my final point, which is actually something I've seen several complaints about but was really important for Vi's character arc.

Caitlyn needed to fight in the war without Vi. With Vi at a considerably safer location, all things told. Because an important part of Vi's arc is that she's just a normal girl who keeps getting caught up in matters far larger than her when really all she wants is to keep her little family safe, only to have it tragically clawed apart again and again.

So there are two parts to this. Firstly, why it was important for Vi to not need to be there. Because time and again Vi's watched as she'd failed to save her loved ones. Been feet away from them as they were brutally killed in front of her. Her being there hasn't ever been enough to save anyone. But with Caitlyn? Who's protecting not just Vi's fragile mortal form, but her battered, bleeding heart? Caitlyn didn't even need Vi there to come back alive (hurt, but alive).

Building from that we then circle back to the fact that, again, Vi's just your average girl from down in the lanes. There's a reason she nearly has a panic attack when she's sitting in on the war council and realizes how bad the situation is. And it's okay. In the end, Caitlyn and her people (well, mostly Mel) are able to handle Ambessa while Vi's allowed to basically focus on a family matter putting Warwick to rest with Jinx. Aka: Vi isn't responsible for dealing with the big major catastrophe and doesn't have to make it her priority. She can trust that Caitlyn's taking care of it and focus on taking care of her family, the thing she's wanted to do the whole time regardless of how it might have turned out.

While they don't really have a ton of screen time once they get together, the two scenes we do get also showcase this change in dynamics. Especially since, given Vi's affinity for fighting, most of the protection Caitlyn is providing at that point is emotional.

I just mentioned how Vi nearly had a panic attack in the war council, but note how it was nearly because Caitlyn immediately picked up on it (like, it took less than five seconds) and reached out for her, in an official, public setting mind you, to hold her hand and reassure her.

The final scene lends even further to this. Caitlyn is clearly hard-tuned in to Vi's emotional state. She's smirking and running off to see her after hearing her hum like, one line, clearly excited to witness some sort of levity out of her. And after Vi explains though Caitlyn offers some fairly non-evasive comfort (resting her head against Vi's shoulder and gently encouraging her to open up if need be) which serves as an invitation for Vi to choose to take more of said comfort, which she does, physically at least.

And it's such a perfect culmination of their respective arcs. Vi's a Lover, who's been forced to don a Fighter's mantle for years until nothing of her was left. While Caitlyn is a Fighter Protector who spent her whole life locked up in a gilded cage, desperate for more but constantly told her only role was to dance and sing for her public.

In the end Vi's allowed to start piecing herself back together, figuring out who the hell Violet is, while Caitlyn finally has a partner she can trust and rely on who does the same for her in turn.

Someone who sees her as an equal and loves her for herself, someone she can safely hand her heart over to.

And that's for both of them.

[searchingforserendipity25]

i know it's too early in the fandom for a secretly a royal au but. secretly a royal au. the reason everyone is shocked by cardinal lawrence's homily is that no one thinks cardinal lawrence is even remotely interested in the papacy.

it's not the done thing to have a royal in the papacy and hasn't been for centuries, for several excellent historical reasons; and moreover, he's made a name for himself as an administrator, a canonical expert who works in the background, cleaves to the liberal faction, remains in the shadows of more outspoken diplomats, and most importantly: does not rule.

being dean of the college of cardinals is as much of a relevant public-facing job as he's ever had, and he would really rather go without. if he had wanted power he'd have stuck it out as a duke's son and married one of his hanover cousins or some such, back when it seemed shockingly likely that he might end up sitting on the big chair himself.

instead he rather famously ran away to france to be a seminarian out of genuine spite and also a genuine spiritual calling, which would have gone over much better if he'd stuck with the anglican turn of things.

managed to get by with shocking discretion for most of his ecclesiastic career by virtue of being deeply private and going by one of his mother's dozen of names. though the fact that he's a cardinal at all and was secretary of state was quite debated when it made the news.

everyone in the conclave knows, and also everyone in the world, except perhaps for vincent benítez, who was in the middle of being more-or-less kidnapped by a cartel in veracruz when that exposé on the vatican's brand new cardinal made its way into the international papers back in '11. i

it's fine, he talked them into letting him go and also into the path of atonement; he just doesn't have the context for why dean lawrence keeps having a small internal death of the soul whenever he tells him he's voting for him. please do not vote for him.

he went and joined a religious cult where he's explicitly forbidden from inheriting anything and marrying and producing children to avoid a crown, he really does not want to be elected into any position of power. it's unethical, it's gauche, his sense of self would crumble, and also the international fallout would be 1) terrible 2) force him to speak with his family.

cardinal bellini also found out in '11. he is very supportive as a friend, and barely makes any boston tea party or redcoats jokes at all.

the fact that for the third act of the conclave an actual prince thomas seems like the best best for a liberal win inside the vatican paints a very very sad picture of the curia.

this does not work very well as a concept i recognize. but the idea of thomas lawrence trying to skive off the institutional horror of british imperialism to end up second-in-place at the vatican and narrowly avoiding the papacy is very funny to me.

man who adamantly vows not to be attracted to power tragically stuck in power-corrupts machine and keeps being shocked when colleagues and peers are revealed to be corrupt, nonetheless keeps on revealing corruption with compulsive detective work. as a form of atonement??

possibly a running thread might be the concept of service to god and the church as an imperfect means of finding meaning and erasing the self, and how giving up one one's agency/believing in one's own powerlessness/self-hatred and shame is of no practical good use to anyone or anything, and only adds to the entropy that wears on every good intention.

and most importantly. can you imagine how intolerable tedesco would be about it.

[nofomogirl]

Good Omen's problem with having two canons

They're fundamentally different. That's the problem. That's my point.

For quite a while I focused almost exclusively on the new season of Good Omens, but now I am slowly delving into analysis that takes the entire show into account, and I've encountered a little obstacle. Namely, things from S1 can be really tricky to interpret.

Fair warning: this post is going to zig-zag between various points but I want you to trust me and take this scenic route with me. It will take us somewhere eventually, I promise.

The Arrangement

It's one of the core elements in the Good Omens universe and at the same time a perfect example of the issue I want to discuss. So let's have a closer look together.

In the book, the Arrangement is presented to us in two passages:

the first one, where it is first - very briefly - mentioned:

Aziraphale had tried to explain [free will] to him once. The whole point, he'd said - this was somewhere around 1020, when they'd first reached their little Arrangement - the whole point was that when a human was good or bad it was because they wanted to be.

and the second one, where it is properly introduced and explained:

The Arrangement was very simple, so simple in fact, that it didn't really deserve the capital letter, which it had got for simply being in existence for so long. It was the sort of sensible arrangement that many isolated agents, working in awkward conditions a long way from their superiors, reach with their opposite number when they realize they have more in common with their immediate opponents than their remote allies. It meant a tacit non-interference in certain of each other's activities. It made certain that while neither really won, also neither really lost, and both were able to demonstrate to their masters the great strides they were making against a cunning and well-informed adversary. (...) And then, of course, it had seemed even natural that they should, as it were, hold the fort for one another whenever common sense dictated. Both were of angel stock, after all. If one was going to Hull for a quick temptation, it made sense to nip across the city and carry out a standard brief moment of divine ecstasy. It'd get done anyway, and being sensible about it gave everyone more free time and cut down on expenses.

In the show, the Arrangement is presented to us in two original scenes in the cold opening of S1E3:

(I am quoting most relevant dialogues only)

537 AD, Wessex:

C: So we're both working very hard in damp places and just canceling each other out? A: Well, you could put it like that. It is a bit damp. C: Be easier if we both stayed home. If we just send messages back to our head offices saying we'd done everything they'd asked for, wouldn't it? A: But that would be lying. C: Eh, possibly, but the end result would be the same. Cancel each other out. A: But my dear fellow... well, they'd check. Michael's a bit of a stickler. You don't want to get Gabriel upset with you. C: Oh, our lot have better things to do than verifying compliance reports from Earth. As long as they get paperwork they seem happy enough. As long as you're being seen doing something every now and again. A: No! Absolutely not! I am shocked that you would even imply such a thing. We're not having that conversation, not another word!

1601 AD, The Globe Theatre:

A: I have to be in Edinburgh at the end of the week. A couple of blessings to do. A minor miracle to perform. (...) C: I'm meant to be heading to Edinburgh too this week. Tempting a clan leader to steal some cattle. A: Doesn't sound like hard work. C: That's why I thought we should... Well, bit of a waste of effort, both of us going all the way to Scotland. A: You cannot actually be suggesting what I infer that you are implying. C: Which is? A: That just one of us goes to Edingburgh, does both. The blessing and the tempting. C: We've done it before. Dozens of times now. The Arrangement- A: Don't say that! C: Our respective offices don't actually care how things get done. They just want to know they can cross it off the list.

S2 doesn't actually reference the Arrangement. But it does reuse the dialogue about free will where the 1020 date is dropped. We will get back to it.

The challenge of adapting Good Omens

Good Omens shares a certain characteristic with all of Terry Pratchett's solo books I've read - it couldn't care less about "showing instead of telling". Which I love, just to be clear. A book is a written medium. It's made with words and one of words' major strengths is that you can use them to just tell things point blanc.

Good Omens does it a lot and it's fantastic.

Look at that second passage from the book I quoted earlier.

From just those few sentences we learn a lot about the relationships between:

Heaven and Hell (opponents and competition)

Aziraphale and Crowley (two individuals in the same position and in direct contact with each other)

Aziraphale/Crowley and Heaven/Hell (field agent and a remote HQ that are not in direct contact)

Aziraphale/Crowley and Earth (two individuals and a space they live in)

Heaven/Hell and Earth (a board where the game is played, only winning or losing matters, what actually happens on a board does not)

It's really an extra condensed worldbuilding gem sprinkled with humor, so it's no surprise it's become one of the most iconic passages from the book.

I mean, just browse through some interviews with David and Michael - especially the ones from 2019 - where they explain what Aziraphale and Crowley are about. You'll be hard-pressed to find any where they don't reference that specific paragraph, consciously or otherwise.

But it's only this neat on the pages of the book, where narration like this takes mere seconds to absorb. It's impossible to convey the same information in a visual medium with anywhere near the same efficiency.

The fact that the majority of Good Omens is like this was, in my opinion, a main challenge the adaptation faced. The book is very narration-heavy. It's full of fun facts about characters, side jokes, hilarious comments, etc. Some of that precious material was salvaged by introducing God as a narrator, but there was only so much of it you could squeeze into a TV show. The rest had to either be fit into dialogues or lost in translation from the written medium to the visual one.

Obviously, in the case of the Arrangement, it was the dialogues.

Book canon and show canon

We all know they're not the same. Neil Gaiman also pointed it out several times. But I think our mistake is that we still tend to think about them as complementary.

Look at the Arrangement again. The show canon seems to merely expand on the book canon. Add extra details and fill in the blanks. The Arrangement works the exact same way, except now we also know more about how it started.

If we compile what we know from the book with what we know from the show, we get a more detailed timeline:

Crowley first proposes the Arrangement in 537 (show).

The Arrangement starts in 1020 (book), ie. Aziraphale finally agrees to it (show - deduction); we don't know for sure if it's a "basic version" (not getting in each other's way), or a "full version" (doing each other's jobs) but we can assume it's the former.

In 1601 "full version" of the Arrangement is in place for some time (they've done it dozens of times) but Aziraphale still objects and needs convincing.

But read that description from a book once more.

Does it really fit into the version of events shown in the TV series?

The Arrangement in the book is something that just happened. A natural, and in a way inevitable result of Aziraphale and Crowley's circumstances. We are never told who came up with it first because it doesn't matter. Because it could have been either of them. Because after five millennia on Earth, they were both ready to do it. They were both of the same mind. For all we know it might have been an unspoken agreement all along!

But for the show, the creators had to come up with a good reason for the Arrangement to be discussed out loud. And what could be a more natural situation for someone to describe and explain an idea than trying to sell that idea to someone else?

For that practical reason - among many others, no doubt - the Arrangement is not only explicitly Crowley's idea, but an idea Aziraphale vehemently rejects at first. He needs to be convinced and even when he finally relents he's never entirely comfortable with it. He keeps objecting and it requires Crowley's constant effort for them to keep cooperating in any way.

The fact that Aziraphale is reluctant gives Crowley a perfect reason to keep convincing him ie. talk about the Arrangement. But the fact that he needs to explain and keep convincing Aziraphale means that Aziraphale is no longer a person who understands the same things and feels the same way.

That is a huge change.

Of course, you may say that what I've written about the Arrangement in the book is just my interpretation. It's true that technically there's nothing there that would contradict the events from the show in any way. The thing is, the events in the show aren't very compatible with the overall characterization of the ineffable duo in the book.

Evolution of Aziraphale and Crowley

You might have read that our leading pair was originally conceived as a single character that Neil and Terry eventually decided to split into two separate individuals.

My reaction when I first learned about it was: "Of course they were! That makes so much sense!" Because honestly, as a person who watched the show first and then read the book, I was surprised at how few differences there were between the two in the original text. If you squint your eyes really tight, you can see how book!Aziraphale and book!Crowley are two versions of the same character. They're far more similar than their show versions.

Most importantly, their attitudes toward Heaven and Hell are pretty much identical. Perfectly mirrored in every regard. What Hell is for Crowley, Heaven is for Aziraphale. What Hell is for Aziraphale, Heaven is for Crowley. In. Every. Possible. Way.

Allow me to present some evidence from the book.

Exhibit #1: the end of the scene where Crowley convinces Aziraphale to interfere with Warlock's upbringing

'You're saying the child isn't evil of itself?' he said slowly. 'Potentially evil. Potentially good too, I suppose. Just this huge powerful potentiality, waiting to be shaped,' said Crowley. He shrugged. 'Anyway, why're we talking about this good and evil? They're just names for sides. We know that.' 'I suppose it's got to be worth a try,' said the angel. Crowley nodded encouragingly. 'Agreed?' said the demon, holding out his hand. The angel shook it, cautiously. 'It'll certainly be more interesting than saints,' he said. 'And it'll be for the child's own good, in the long run,' said Crowley. (...)

When Crowley first points out that good and evil are just names for sides, and then insists it's something they both know, Aziraphale doesn't react in any way. That's because these aren't things that book!Aziraphale disagrees with. He does indeed know it and doesn't deny it.

Also, please note just how cynical the angel is here with his comment that influencing the Antichrist would be a more interesting project than influencing saints!

Both would be rather OOC for show!Aziraphale.

Exhibit #2: the scene just after Warlock Dowling's birthday party, when it becomes evident he is not the Antichrist

'You said it was him!' moaned Aziraphale (...) 'It was him,' said Crowley. (...) 'Then someone else must be interfering.' 'There isn't anyone else! There's just us, right? Good and Evil. One side or the other.' He thumped the steering wheel. 'You'll be amazed at the kind of things they can do to you, down there,' he said. 'I imagine they're very similar to the sort of things they can do to you up there,' said Aziraphale. 'Come off it. Your lot get ineffable mercy,' said Crowley sourly. 'Yes? Did you ever visit Gomorrah?' 'Sure' said the demon. 'There was this great little tavern where you could get these terrific fermented date-palm cocktails with nutmeg and crushed lemongrass-' 'I meant afterwards.' 'Oh.'

Can you imagine this kind of exchange in the TV series? Can you imagine show!Aziraphale being this realistic about Heaven, and show!Crowley so naive about it? There's no way.

Show!Aziraphale genuinely believes that Heaven is good at its core.

Book!Aziraphale knows Heaven isn't any different than Hell and would punish him just as ruthlessly and unfairly as Hell would Crowley.

Show!Crowley understands both Heaven and Hell on a very deep level and is highly aware of their true nature.

Book!Crowley buys a piece of celestial propaganda about ineffable mercy and actually expects Heaven to be forgiving.

Let the magnitude of that difference sink.

Exhibit #3: same scene, a bit further

'So all we've got to do is find it,' said Crowley. 'Go through the hospital records.' The Bentley's engine coughed into life and the car leapt forward, forcing Aziraphale back into the seat. 'And then what?' he said. 'And then we find the child.' 'And then what?' The angel shut his eyes as the car crabbed around the corner. 'Don't know.' 'Good grief.' 'I suppose (...) your people wouldn't consider (...) giving me asylum?' 'I was going to ask you the same thing. (...)'

This is just a cherry on top, really.

Yes, in the book, when things go pear-shaped, both Aziraphale and Crowley consider seeking asylum on the opposite side.

Do you need more proof that book canon and show canon really aren't as compatible as they may seem?

Free will

As promised, let's get back to that dialogue because while it may not be obvious at first glance it really illustrates perfectly the problem arising from balancing between two canons.

Here is the full quote from the book:

Aziraphale had tried to explain [free will] to him once. The whole point, he'd said - this was somewhere around 1020, when they'd first reached their little Arrangement - the whole point was that when a human was good or bad it was because they wanted to be. Whereas people like Crowley and, of course, himself, were set in their ways right from the start. People couldn't become truly holy, he said, unless they also had the opportunity to be definitively wicked. Crowley had thought about it for some time and, around about 1023, had said, Hang on, that only works, right, if you start everyone off equal, OK? You can't start someone off in a muddy shack in the middle of a war zone and expect them to do as well as someone born in a castle. Ah, Aziraphale had said, that's the good bit. The lower you start, the more opportunities you have. Crowley had said, That's lunatic. No, said Aziraphale, it's ineffable.

And here, for comparison, is how it was reused in S2E3:

A: There is a stolen body in that barrel! This is wicked! C: Oh, I'm down with wicked! Anyway, is it wicked? She needed the money. A: That is irrelevant. Look, I am good. You, I'm afraid, are evil. But people get a choice. You know, they cannot be truly holy unless they also get the opportunity to be wicked. She is wicked. C: Yeah, that only works if you start everyone off equal. You can't start someone off like that and expect her to do as well as someone born in a castle. A: Ah, but no, no. That's the good bit. The lower you start, the more opportunities you have. So Elspeth here has all the opportunities because she's so poor. C: That's lunacy. A: No, that's ineffable.

I'll be honest with you - I didn't like that scene in the show. It felt jarring and off. Aziraphale was acting like it was his first day on Earth and it was frustrating to watch.

Then, on one of the rewatches, just as I was rolling my eyes at "that's ineffable", a bulb lit in my brain. That line didn't work there because it wasn't created to be there! In the book and in S1 "it's ineffable" was kind of Aziraphale's catchphrase but in S2 it only appears this once. More importantly, in the book and S1, the fact that the angel would say that was all a build-up to the scene when he threw it in Heaven's face at the Tadfield Airbase. Using that word in S2 was like trying to make a running joke that has already reached its destination run again.

And just like that one line the entire dialogue didn't fit because it wasn't meant to be there. It was created for an entirely different context.

What's the difference?

Firstly, book!husbands' conviction was very shallow and it wasn't uncommon for both of them to spout slogans without meaning them. Therefore, book!Aziraphale's words didn't carry that much weight. The very fact that the conversation took place at the same time they formed the Arrangement tells us something about how serious he was. But show!Aziraphale's relationship with his beliefs is different, so when he says things like that it's a much bigger deal.

Secondly, the book explicitly states that Aziraphale and Crowley only developed free will on Earth, due to extended exposure to mankind. The show never really makes a stand on the matter but based on what we've seen so far I think we can safely assume that angels and demons are capable of making their own choices as much as humans do.

In other words, in its original context, the conversation was just Aziraphale talking about a concept he didn't fully grasp, quoting propaganda he didn't fully subscribe to. He was being ignorant and mildly obnoxious in an endearing way.

But using the same dialogue verbatim in the Resurrectionist carried a completely different meaning. Aziraphale who utters it in the show has no reason to be so ignorant about free will. Aziraphale who utters it in the show genuinely tries to defend Heaven. Most importantly, Aziraphale who utters it in the show, doesn't just idly bicker with his friend about general things but is judging an actual human individual that's right in front of them. That, more than anything else, makes it sound heartless and ignorant.

What is the problem with having two canons, exactly?

It's time to wrap things up.

In the opening paragraphs, I've mentioned that I've noticed the issue while interpreting scenes from S1, and yes, that was the case and I do believe that the existence of two canons is especially problematic for S1. That's because pretty much every scene in S1 is potentially like that dialogue about free will in S2, except subtler and harder to spot.

A grand majority of what we see and hear in S1 comes directly from the book. But while words and actions were kept, in some instances things that gave them their original meaning might no longer be valid in the show universe. Sometimes they easily take new meaning, and we don't even notice. But sometimes there's this dissonance that's not as easy to work around.

S1 deviated from the book and created its own canon. But the difference didn't seem to go very deep and it seemed perfectly reasonable to use some trivia from the book to shed some extra light on the content of the show. I used to do it in my head, even though I was aware of the changes that were made.

But S2 expanded the show canon so far beyond what was in the book that I'm really not sure it makes sense to compile them anymore.

There are a lot of things that were only explicitly stated in the book that I keep clinging to. But perhaps it's time to let go...

Thank you for your patience.

I know all of the above isn't exactly a revolutionary discovery, but I needed to get it off my chest before writing anything else.

[columboposting]

When I went and read the Torchwood scripts on the BBC's website, by far the funniest discovery I made was all the bondage jokes they cut. If there is an episode in which Jack is held captive, you go and look at the script and you will discover a wisecrack about BDSM that didn't make the final cut. Just, the most obvious, low-effort, basic-ass bondage jokes. Every time. My new headcanon is that Jack makes constant bondage jokes whenever even remotely relevant to his situation, but they got so old so quick and are so annoying that the camera simply refuses to record them.

[randomameteur]

Y'know, for all the fandom tomfoolery around sans's heehoo glowey eyeball, I don't think I've heard anyone bring up anything truly plot-relevant or thematic about it, so here are my observations:

In UNDERTALE, virtually all battle sprites (save for the healthbar and battle options) are black and white:

This applies consistently with virtually every monster battle sprite as well.

When a monster's fight features some kind of color, it's usually a really big deal: When you first see the color blue in battle, it signifies the beginning of the blue attack and blue SOUL mechanics, when you see green, you get the green SOUL mechanic, when you see purple, you get muffet's signature purple SOUL mechanic, Yellow is also a SOUL mechanic etc, etc. Characters that introduce new SOUL mechanics are usually the more important ones: Papyrus, Undyne, Mettaton/Alphys, and Muffet.

Additionally, colors have thematic implications, and this is the part that actually starts connecting to sans' sprite.

As far as memory carries me, the first time you'll ever see a consistantly colorful element of a battle sprite is against Asgore.

Asgore sports a trident worthy of a fight against the devil himself, and it's the same ruby-red we come to associate with the player, Frisk's SOUL, and by extension DETERMINATION. In a way, this fits. Asgore has been the most (naturally) determined being in the underground for as long as until Frisk arrives. His drive to free his people, though not fully put into action due to his guilt and ineptitude to handle responsibilities on his own, is IMMENSE, and only someone essentially made of determination can overpower that.

However, the red player soul is not the only one to bear any kind of meaning. Thanks to "ball game" in snowdin, we know the virtues the other SOULs embody as well:

Red signifies DETERMINATION

Orange signifies BRAVERY

Yellow signifies JUSTICE

Green signifies KINDNESS

Cyan signifies PATIENCE

Blue signifies INTEGRITY

And Purple signifies PERSERVERANCE.

Green shows up all the time in healing projectiles, no questions there as to why, but ONLY ONE CHARACTER has not one, but TWO of these colors present in their battle sprite: Cyan and Yellow.

Now tell me, who in UNDERTALE's main cast is A: Willing to wait all fucking day for something to happen and B: Willing AND capable of actively judging you the ENTIRE time?

Sans the motherfucking skeleton.

(Best gif i could find, my phone really doesn't like the gif selector!)

Sans's left eye.... eye socket? His eye thingy rapidly flashes Cyan and Yellow whenever he uses his strongest attacks. If we're to assume a SOUL color appears where its corresponding attribute is at its limit or highest prominance, then this makes a lot of sense.

Sans is the living definition of letting things be, he'll wait as long as humanly possible to so much as pick up a sock.... and then wait some more. His patience is perhaps TOO great, and largely manifests in a sort of apathetic complacency so thick that he won't even fight you until there's literally no other option left. When sans DOES fight you, he's not even remotely determined or anything, rather he knows that his only shot--monsterkind's only shot-- at survival is not merely killing you, but in making sure the experience sucks so much for so long that you decide to stay dead and quit the game. Sans is not determined, he is desperate, and he'll have the patience to wait forever if it means stopping you.

Sans is also very observant, like.... SCARY observant, he does NOT remember you're genocides, but he certainly can extrapolate that they've happened after a good long look at your expression every time you're forced to reload your save. This observance plays into his incredibly strong sense of justice, which is likely why he's the royal judge. Sans' way of things is very "what goes around, will eventually come around", and this even manifests in his battle mechanic literally being called Karmatic Retribution, or KR.

Sans knows better than anyone (other than flowey) that he cannot possibly send you to the hell he knows you deserve, but he can absolutely build one of his own for you, and if he had the energy to do so he'd keep you there forever until you, the player, make the one good remaining decision to quit the game.

TLDR: Sans's glowing eye is not only intimidating and fancy, but also a direct reprisentation of his core virtues at their absolute strongest.

[jadeoru]

liar's love.

00: prologue -- masterlist

warnings: family issues, briefly mentioned religious trauma, smoking, slight alcoholism, unhealthy coping mechanisms, broken childhood, depression, self harm (burning skin with cigarettes), overall pretty angsty, you have been warned!

She remembers when she was a kid; watching models twice her age strut down a pristinely clean catwalk, looking flawless. She remembers the flame that ignited within her, her eyes sparkled at her cheap television. It was old - older than her, and it frequently froze and glitched. She remembers battling the dust that rested on top of it, choking on it as she hit it with whatever was closest to her, trying to get it to work again. Static brought her a strange sense of nostalgia; the snow reminded her of cold evenings, barely back from school and immediately locking herself in her room. She’d stay up until the sun rose, over-analysing each and every model she saw: every move, down to the smallest of habits. She wrote down everything in a pink glitter gel pen, inside of her unicorn notebook she spent all of her allowance on. Before bed, she’d read through every note, with the television blaring in the background.

The noise created a shield, a blanket, that helped protect her from the outside world. To her, her bedroom was an escape. In her eyes, she thought it was normal; the shouting, the sounds of broken glass, furniture being thrown to the ground. She wasn’t aware that it was wrong, but it made her feel bad. Her parents shouted a lot, and although she didn’t comprehend what exactly was happening, she knew she didn’t like it. She was too young to understand the words they’d scream. Instead, she shrugged it off, waiting for the day her teacher would mention the terms; definitions. Unfortunately, ‘affair’, ‘alcoholic’ and ‘divorce’ weren’t relevant to her education. When the snow danced on the screen, and the low humming static snapped her back into her sad reality, she felt a pit in her stomach. She didn’t have the vocabulary to describe it, other than “painful, but not physical”. Whenever the aching feeling washed over her; found home inside of the deepest parts of her mind - where not even sunlight could reach, she’d reach for the remote, and fill it with noise.

She always liked fashion, although due to her financial situation she could never express her passion the way she wished she could. She remembers staring through the windows of designer stores, up the ‘rich people’ side of town. She’d take her mom’s phone, and take pictures of all the beautiful gowns that were on display. She was never really sure why she did it, she just liked looking at them; drawing them in her unicorn notebook and imagining it was her wearing them. She dreamed of the day she could wear those clothes. Unfortunately the second-hand charity shops in her town didn’t have the extravagant garments that she’d find behind those windows. Her fanciest dress belonged to an old lady before it fell into her hands. It barely even fit her. She didn’t like the life her parents put her in, but she wouldn’t dare complain. Her father, although he never had much to say to her, made it clear that her opinions weren’t worth his time. If she had a problem, he’d send her to her room, to ‘pray it away.’

She always had a weird relationship with god.

She remembers when she came home from school early one day, to the television accidentally left on. She didn’t know where her parents were, they were often gone. She learned not to question it. Instead, she took her shoes off, and curiously checked what show her mother left playing.

That was when she first discovered modelling, and quickly she fell in love with it.

The camera’s blind spots hid a lot of things from her, she realised as she got older. She learned much more when the camera’s stopped rolling than she ever did on tv. She was fooled by the tabloid press into thinking her life would become a life-long party. She thought she’d finally have the life she’d dream of; she’d earn her way to happiness. She never had much free-time. As a model, she needed time to ensure she was always in peak physical condition, to meet the demands of the job. As a freelance model, she used to spend up to eight hours a day in front of a camera. Sometimes she’d take a break, and enjoy a day to herself, but sometimes, that would make her think. And whenever she thought, the empty feeling from her youth revisited her. Which is why she worked hard, consistently; constantly. She buried herself in work, to distract herself from her cruel mind. Maybe if she worked hard enough, she’d finally feel fulfilled.

Luckily, when her career started to kick off, and her name started to get recognised, she found a modelling agency that would support and represent her with pride: the Tsugi Agency. They helped project her in ways she couldn’t fathom: booking frequent jobs, scheduling shoots, runways, interviews, everything she needed to boost her career to the fame she has now. They provided help and wisdom, encouraging her and helping her reach the confidence she didn’t know she was capable of having. She finally had the life she dreamed of as a kid. Her face was plastered on billboards all over the country, and she couldn’t step outside of her house without people recognising her face, knowing her name. It was weird, and there were plenty of times she felt as though she didn’t deserve any of this. Despite the fact that she was living the life she dreamed of,  it felt wrong. She distracted herself from those thoughts by working. She bottled up every negative feeling, just as she did in her family home; the static television filling the emptiness inside of her. She ignored her body's need for breaks. She ignored how desperately it needed to release the growing dread and sadness that she buried deep within her.

Instead, she worked.

She remembered the first time she held a cigarette to her lips; the smoke hit the back of her throat, causing her to choke. It was weird, and she didn’t like it all that much, but she didn’t stop. The smoke filled her lungs, providing her with warmth similar to a hug - it was the closest thing she had.  She remembers when her thoughts got the best of her, and she put the cigarette out on her skin for the first time. It didn’t hurt much, especially in comparison to the pain her mind brought her. In a way, it was relaxing. The light scars that accompanied the burns made her feel stable, secure. But the pain was only temporary, and the guilt that followed her after never felt worth it.

Eventually, that wasn't enough to distract her. Her shaky hands brought the cigarette to her lips, but the smoke no longer felt like home. It wasn’t enough to satiate the ache that begged to be hidden. The ache that only seemed to go away when she’d suppress it, burying it in other problems: Her sweet distraction. That was the night she tried alcohol for the first time. At that moment, when the bottle crashed onto the floor, shattering into shards that reflected the broken remnants of herself, she understood why there were always so many empty whiskey bottles next to the sink. As she witnessed her father’s drunken state, she remembers when she promised she’d never drink; swore to herself that she’d never end up like him. But, as the bottles began piling up in her room, she came to the cruel realisation that she was always her father’s daughter. Nothing could ever change that. Even as a child, she mimicked his coping mechanisms without realising; blaring the television, drowning out her problems - to the present, burying herself in work.

Distractions. 

Her childhood habits followed her into her adolescence, providing her the comfort her parents failed to teach her. Eventually, when she stared into the mirror, it was her father’s face that stared back. As his angry eyes stared into her, her own screaming filled her ears; nails grasping her hair for stability,

She decided to give sobriety a try.

It ultimately made her worse.

There was only one person that understood her, and that was her stylist, Hitoka Yachi. She was younger than her, only by a year, and she was beautiful. She wasn’t as experienced as her in the modelling field, but her enthusiasm made up for her inexperience. She was great; the living embodiment of sunshine. She could light up a room just by entering it. In a way, she kind of envied Yachi. She wished happiness could come to her as naturally as it did to Hitoka. Her smile filled out her cheeks after almost every sentence, like muscle memory. She was one of the only people in her career that treated her like a human being, and not an object to shape and mold to their desire.  She always felt comfortable around Hitoka. When she saw the burn marks that littered her skin, in places her clothes would usually cover, (she was a model after all, she couldn’t let the media see her flaws.) her voice was filled with genuine concern, a tone she only heard a few times prior to that. A voice she never heard as a child. 

Yachi understood her. - in ways no one ever had. She cared for her, in a moment of her life when no one else had. They often spent late nights together; after a frustratingly eventful day. They stayed in her dressing room, and talked about every problem that crossed their minds. She opened up to Hitoka, and never once did she shame her. She was flawed; made so many terrible decisions, mistakes, and honestly spent most of her life being a terrible person, but Hitoka never  judged her: she listened to her, and understood. She saw through the mask she wore, she knew the fragile, broken person that hid behind it,

And yet she stayed.

“Hitoka?” her voice was low, almost a whisper. She turned her head to the side, facing her friend, who was lying on the cold floor with her, staring at the ceiling next to her. “Hm?” Her head turned too, a brief silence encompassing the room as they held eye contact. Her mouth opened, lips twitching slightly as she hesitated to speak.

“You shouldn’t be my friend.” Her words were certain; demanding. Her tone was like a warning. Yachi’s eyebrow raised, a small smile creeping onto her face, the same smile she never struggled to wear. The same smile that she shared with everyone, spreading it around the office like a breath of fresh air. “And why’s that?”

“Because,” she began, turning her head back up to the ceiling, “I'm a mess. You deserve to spend your time with someone happy. - like you.”

She laughed, loudly, it almost made her feel stupid; regret even opening her mouth to begin with. “I’ll leave it up to me to choose who I’m friends with, thank you very much.” she spoke matter-of-factly, elbowing her gently; playfully. “I want to be your friend.” Yachi added, noticing the uncertainty in her friend’s eyes. Her voice was significantly softer, she spoke her name like it was natural to her, like she’d been saying it all her life. She sighed in response, “I’m miserable. I’m going to drain you.” She briefly paused, before continuing, “I’m- I’m going to make you miserable.” She did a bad job at hiding the shakiness of her voice. 

She squeezed her eyes shut, both to fight the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes, and to brace herself for the oncoming insults she would inevitably throw at her. She waited for Yachi to realise the truth: That she really shouldn’t be her friend. Although she knew it to be true, she silently hoped she was wrong. She was broken. She was an empty shell of a young girl that used to be so bright, so full of life, so passionate. She ruined everything she touched, everything she loved inevitably tainted by the infectious evil that nestled its way into her fragile core. Her life was a constant losing streak, and she prepared herself to lose the one person that made her feel normal; safe. Before she responded, she flinched slightly as Yachi grabbed onto her hand, squeezing it reassuringly.

“It’s okay, I won’t let you.”

Over the course of a few months, they quickly became best friends. They were inseparable. Finally, she had something in her life that made her feel valuable, and special. She had a constant. She had finally found the key to recovery; the lighter that reignited the fire inside of her that died so long ago. She found someone that made her realise she wasn’t a horrible monster that only caused destruction,

She was just young, and scared.

All good things come to an end. She knew this. She had everything good taken away from her, that’s just how things were. It always happened, no matter how hard she tried to fight it.  But still, she mustered up the wounded faith that was forced upon her, and prayed for a change. She prayed for God to take away her pain, and grant her the freedom and salvation that was ripped away from her.

As usual, he never listened. 

She remembers walking into her dressing room, coffee in her hand as she prepared for another busy day of shooting. She looked forward to seeing her; excited to talk to her about a funny encounter at the café she spent her morning in. She looked forward to seeing her signature smile; hearing her laugh that always made her happy. The laugh that made her laugh in return. But as her eyes scanned the room, there was not a single trace of her to be found. Instead, standing in her side of the room, was a tall man, with glasses hung lowly on the end of his nose. A man with dark hair, and a cold, focused gaze. Not Yachi. He had a clipboard in his hand, and was meticulously writing something down on it. Before you could even question the stranger, his eyes turned to you, and he quickly filled the suffocating silence.

“You must be Yn. It’s nice to meet you.” a fake, sickeningly polite smile plastered on his face. 

“My name is Akaashi Keiji, and I’ll be your new stylist from now on.”

TAGLIST (open): @wyrcan @kawamarii @moucheslove @mollyrolls @t8tiana @eggyrocks @soobin1437 @dazqa @hibernatinghamster @starkyu @g0vernment-hook3r @giocriedpower

[milquetoast27]

The Emotional Reticence of Holmes and Watson

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, two shy Victorian men, maneuver their vulnerable feelings of affection for one another in an expertly flawed and human manner crafted by Arthur Conan Doyle. First and foremost, I am examining their use of "my dear Watson" (91 times in the canon) and "my dear Holmes" (14 times).

The first time Holmes ever uses "my dear Watson" in the canon, it's actually in a rather sarcastic tone.

"What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly, when we had regained the lower room once more. "My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a touch of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be instructive to compare results." (SIGN)

Note: for The Great Game, this absolutely isn't the first time Holmes has used this phrase, but from the narrative perspective, it is absolutely the first time Conan Doyle put this phrase to paper, which is more relevant to this examination.

Holmes uses this phrase with a touch of exasperation, which even in itself holds some love within it as he encourages his friend to utilise his own beloved methods. And even in this first instance, while Holmes's tone indicates some displeasure, the personal address ensures that it isn't a genuine blow. But the intimacy of "my dear" is quite daunting, isn't it? so Holmes utilises the veil of sarcasm to break the barrier, in the spirit of "look, I've said it now. Now I may go and say it as much as I want."

Oh, and he does. The frequency of 'my dear Watson' slowly builds through the canon and peaks through FINA, HOUN and EMPT. It isn't surprising, considering they hold some of the most critical points in their relationship.

• "My dear Watson, you were born to be a man of action." (HOUN) • "Not for the world, my dear Watson. I am perfectly satisfied with your company if you will tolerate mine." (HOUN) • "Then these are your instructions, and I beg, my dear Watson, that you will obey them to the letter." (FINA) • "My dear Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected." (EMPT)

It is evident, that it is after this barrier is broken in SIGN, that Holmes feels comfortable to use this address in such a sincere manner. In fact, it is apparent that it is in particularly emotional circumstances that Holmes is more likely to call for Watson through any means at all.

So, how about Watson?

His use of "my dear Holmes" is almost exclusively out of shock or surprise whenever his 'Johnson' claims anything particularly outré. Again, while Watson is in disbelief, and most probably doubtful of Holmes's claims, the personal address softens this blow to say that no real harm is done between them.

• "My dear Holmes," said I, "this is too much." (SCAN) • "My dear Holmes!" "Oh, yes, I did." (SPEC)

The first real instance of Watson using this phrase sincerely is in FINA.

"You are afraid of something?" I asked. "Well, I am." "Of what?" "Of air-guns." "My dear Holmes, what do you mean?"

Holmes is acting more than out of the ordinary to put Watson in some kind of concern and this question comes no doubt more from worry than simple surprise. He even asks again, "but what does it all mean?" which highlights his wish to be by Holmes's side, even in danger.

The first and only instance of a good-hearted affectionate address comes to Holmes in HOUN. However, interestingly, it is only through the written word, in Watson's letters to Holmes from Dartmoor.

• Congratulate me, my dear Holmes, and tell me that I have not disappointed you as an agent. • Such are the adventures of last night, and you must acknowledge, my dear Holmes, that I have done you very well in the matter of a report.

Watson's method of breaking the barrier is to send it remotely through his pen, which is, after all, much less daunting than saying it directly. It is absolutely worth noting that Watson has also used this language when specifically wishing for praise - it shows us that he feels the closest to Holmes when he is able to follow his own methods.

Conan Doyle shows us the ways insecurities and pressures can collaborate with our most earnest and deepest affections. Holmes and Watson aren't perfect beings, but navigate through their web of reticence and inner desires to find an unspoken but profound dialogue between them.

[icedragonlizard]

Can I be honest about something?

I yawn whenever I see people argue about whether or not Kirby is actually 8 inches tall.

Because I genuinely believe that the sizes of Kirby and the other characters of his franchise aren't really meant to be taken seriously.

Some official sources say that he's 8 inches tall, but this is literally just all tell and no show. This is never actually demonstrated anywhere. If Nintendo and/or HAL were even remotely adamant about Kirby being 8 inches tall, you'd think they'd whip up a size comparison and show him being super puny compared to the likes of Mario and Link, but they haven't. And so as far as I'm concerned, it's just completely arbritary. It's not relevant and never has been.

It's also extremely easy to gloss over when you play Kirby games. It's not like Olimar who's actually shown to be tiny in the Pikmin universe. Kirby isn't shown to be tiny in the universe of his franchise, so someone most likely wouldn't ever guess that he's 8 inches tall if they hadn't read any of the official sources that state it beforehand.

You could, of course, argue that Kirby characters in general are tiny to scale with 8 inch tall Kirby, and argue that Popstar is much smaller than Earth, but this isn't ever actually proven anywhere. It'd even be easy to believe otherwise because of the existence of Adeleine. You could argue that she's fictional and not truly a human, but she looks enough like one for someone to think she'd scale perfectly to them.

Not to mention that Samus, an actual undeniable human, and a character from another Nintendo franchise, appears as a cameo in Kirby's Dreamland 3, and she's only shown to be twice as tall as Kirby. You could easily say this is irrelevant because it's little more than a cameo appearance that only exists for a heart star mission, but one could also reasonably use it to disregard the notion of Kirby's universe being tiny. There's also Forgotten Land's world where Kirby doesn't look too small compared to the cars and buildings.

And here's another reason why I don't think Kirby character sizes are meant to be taken seriously: They're inconsistent. King Dedede is the foremost example when it comes to this. In some games like Triple Deluxe, he's only twice as tall as Kirby, but in other games like Forgotten Land, he's like three or four times taller than Kirby. Dedede's size is inconsistent alongside his designs. I cannot bring myself to believe there's a confirmed set-in-stone size for him, and we could say the same for the rest of the characters in the franchise.

My point is, it doesn't really matter. You can either believe that Kirby is 8 inches tall, or not. You can either believe that Kirby characters in general are tiny, or not. If you ask me, whichever notion you should believe just depends on which one you'd prefer to believe.

Kirby could be 8 inches tall, or 2 feet tall, or 3 feet tall. Just pick whichever size you want him to be. If you actually prefer him being 8 inches tall so you can hold him like a burger, go for it, but if you think it makes more sense for him to be 2 or 3 feet tall, then go for that.

[drawlfoy]

benefits of journaling p.2

read p1 here!

pairing: diary!tom riddle x ravenclaw!reader

summary: you pick up an unassuming journal in diagon alley during an antiques sale without knowing that it's actually a part of a late dark lord's soul. sort of no voldy AU, set in the golden trio era where voldemort was defeated in the first war and thus harry has parents still.

warnings: recreational drug use, language, mild gore, snakes, a mouse gets eaten (thoughts and prayers), tom is a little bit gaslighty, the quality of my writing declines sharply

a/n: note that this is not finished at all, but i'm not planning on finishing this series unfortunately :/ i just have too much going on. this is unedited, unrevised, unoutlined, etc. so adjust your expectations accordingly. i just kind of want to get this out so i've given u guys at least *some* semblance of closure for this series. (UPDATE: now that i’ve written this i’ve changed my mind. i will be working on the next part. i forgot how much i love tom)

wc: 6.7k

enjoy !

This time you were unceremoniously dumped into a hard wooden library chair. You gasped as you braced yourself against the hard table in front of you, drawing in shaky breaths as you gathered your bearings. 

 A loud bang startled you into wrenching your gaze up. Tom had dropped a thick book with an ebony cover right next to you, nearly atop your hand. 

“Here you are,” he said pleasantly. “Happy reading.” 

“Do you think I can take this back with me into my world?” you asked. The cover was smooth under your fingertips. 

“Unlikely,” said Tom, dropping elegantly into the chair beside you. “You’ll have to read it here.”

You gulped. “Alright.” 

The papers were yellowed and fragile against your touch, and you couldn’t help but wonder just how old it was. 

“Any section you’d recommend starting with?” 

The book was around 700 pages with tiny, fine print.

“Perhaps the beginning.” Tom waved his wand and wordlessly summoned a stack of books, lifting one up and beginning to read for himself. 

You’d thought that you’d be less intimidated knowing that he was also doing something besides staring at you reading, but the back of your neck still prickled as you pulled the book to the edge of the table and began to dig in.

It was bizarre, reading next to a boy like this. The only one you ever studied with before had been Ishan, and he hardly counted. It was different with Tom. His presence hung in the air around you, a tension so tangible that it wasn’t unthinkable that you might feel something if you let your fingers sift through the space between you.

Despite all you’d told Tom, spending time around him made you unfathomably nervous. He was too good-looking to feel even remotely normal around him, and it was all you could do to hope that he didn't notice how much you blushed whenever he spoke to you.

The book he’d given you was dense and horrific, detailing magic so ugly and foul that you felt dirty just reading it. It covered topics you’d heard of before, like cases of the Imperius curse or the misuse of love potions or the nature of dark magic. 

But there was nothing pertaining to Tom’s situation.

“Can’t you at least point me towards a chapter? Or…a general section of the book?” you asked him. 

Tom lifted his gaze from his work, quirking a brow. “Having trouble?”

“This is going to take me forever to read.” You motioned at the width of the book. 

“Then I guess I’ll be seeing much more of you.” 

You couldn’t fight back the flush that spread across your face. “Well, this is an easily solvable problem. You really ought to just point me to the most relevant part.”

“And here I was, thinking I was doing you a favor,” said Tom. His eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment you thought you saw the slightest suggestion of a smirk on his lips. “Given that you’re such a glutton for knowledge and not at all singular in your academic pursuits.”

“That’s not—” You paused when you saw the amusement on his face. He’d been playing with you. “I’m flattered that you remembered. I suppose you’re right.”

And since you refused to let him win, you flipped the book back open and picked up right where you left off. 

It was really stupid to feel so light at the fact that Tom had remembered a sentence you’d said verbatim, because even if it implied that he’d thought about your last interaction enough to commit it to memory, it was hardly a surprise. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do in his empty version of Hogwarts except read books he’d probably already read many times before.

You snuck another look at him a few chapters later. A few waves had fallen across his face, dangling over his brow. For a moment, all you could do was keep yourself from reaching out to tuck them back into order, to know what it felt like against your fingers.

But that was a boundary you hadn’t crossed yet—if you even could. Who knew how the rules worked in this dimension?

You resolved to believe that you couldn’t touch him. That it was impossible. Because if you believed that, maybe you’d stop wanting to. 

“You never ended up telling me if you were a Parselmouth,” you realized aloud after you’d completed another gruesome section about ritualistic Dark Magic. 

You watched him closely but didn’t detect even a glimpse of surprise. 

“I didn’t,” he agreed smoothly. He didn’t look up from his page. 

“So? I gave you a secret. Many, actually.”

“I think you already know.” He turned the page, dark eyes darting across the next. 

“Well—” You paused, worrying your lip between your teeth as you realized that he was right. “What’s it like?” 

That was what prompted him to finally lean back in his chair and lift his gaze from the book to your eyes. 

“What’s it like?” 

Repeated back to you, it did sound very silly. 

“I mean,” you said, cheeks hot, “What do you even talk to snakes about? The weather? Whether or not there’s enough mice in the area?” 

“It’s unlikely to find snakes that do more than listen to me,” he said. “Most aren’t very good conversationalists.”

“A boy in my—our, I guess—year has a pet ball python,” you told him. “I just don’t understand why he’d want one. They don’t seem like very good companions.”

“Why not?”

“Because they have no emotional depth,” you said. You could feel your voice slipping into the tone you used when you tutored younger students, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You’d researched this extensively in the library after the Incident in third year when you were looking for any good academic reason for how terrified you were of Malfoy’s pet. “They have no limbic system, so everything for them is about survival. There’s no—no mutual concern or love like you’d get from something normal, like a cat or an owl. As their handler, you only matter because you’re what keeps them alive. I don’t think I’d ever be able to get over that.” 

“So all your companions have to love you?” Tom was resting his chin in his palm now as he looked at you. “They’re worthless otherwise?” 

“That’s not what I’m saying,” you responded. “But I like my company to see me as something more than an avenue for survival or a means to an end.”

“Their companionship isn’t enough?”

You blinked. Everyone else that you’d given your reptile spiel to had completely understood. You couldn’t quite figure out why Tom wasn’t agreeing. “It’s just nice to be cared about, don’t you think? And it’s…it’s nice to care about something without it feeling meaningless.” 

“I imagine that that’s true,” Tom said evenly. 

Something deep inside you twisted at the implications of his answer. You’d sort of forgotten that he grew up in a muggle orphanage and likely didn’t have any sort of emotional closeness during his early childhood. But he was so pretty and sharp and witty that it was hard to imagine no one caring for him. Perhaps that had changed upon his admission to Hogwarts. He had said that witches and wizards found him charming. You could attest. 

~

You passed the following Potions lab with flying colors and a perfectly brewed Draught of Peace that made even Snape nod approvingly. It was thrilling. It was incredible. All you wanted to do was get Tom’s diary out right then and there and document it as it happened—as if he were right beside you—but you refrained. You told him that night instead, when you were back again for another reading session.

You were falling into his world on a daily basis, devouring as much of the book as you could without forgoing any conversations with Tom. He’d been impressed to hear about your potion in his own very Tom way. He didn’t tell you outright that he thought that you were brilliant or smart or incredible. Instead he seemed entirely unsurprised, like he thought you capable of nothing less. Somehow that made you glow more than any explicitly stated praise that he could’ve offered.

When you weren’t reading, you were walking around the grounds with Tom and just talking, much like you used to write to him. At first you’d been nervous and uncomfortable with being as open with him in person as you’d been in writing, but Tom had a funny way of making you feel seen. Despite his slight aloofness and obvious air of pretension, he listened to you and appeared genuinely interested in your life by way of remembering things you’d said months ago.

Like when you’d told him off-handedly that it was raining back in the real world and that it was your favorite weather, and ever since the Hogwarts you were transported to was constantly overcast with torrential downpours unless you two were walking outside. 

You still never dared to touch him, though. That was a line that you refused to cross. Tom seemed to hold the same opinion, keeping a wide berth around you whenever tactile contact was in the realm of possibility. 

“How did you become a Parselmouth?” you asked him one day while you were taking a break from reading and walking through the Transfiguration Courtyard. 

His eyes narrowed as he turned to you. “Do they not teach you about Parseltongue in Defense Against the Dark Arts anymore?”

“No,” you said. “I’ve only ever heard about it by reading a book from the Restricted Section. It was very vague. All I know about it is that it’s the language of reptiles.” 

“No one becomes a Parselmouth.” Tom turned his attention back to the walking path, adjusting the cuff of his robes for just a second. “All Parselmouths are born. It’s entirely hereditary.” 

“So did you have to learn it?” you asked. Your interest was piqued—you’d never heard of a language that was passed through genes.

Tom shook his head. That one rogue strand of black hair had escaped its orderly wave, just like how you remembered him from his yearbook picture. “I’ve never had to think about it. I’ve just always known how to say what I want.” 

“Do you think that you could…” Your voice trailed off and you swallowed thickly. You weren’t even sure why you’d started asking him that question. Of course he couldn’t teach you Parseltongue. You didn’t even really want to know it, either. You’d never use it. But you hated being told that you didn’t know something. That you couldn't know something. 

“We can give it a try,” he offered. 

You dared to glance back up at him and found him already looking at you. “How did you know what I was going to say?”

“I don’t know.” He appeared to be making a valiant effort to quell a grin. “I suppose it has something to do with your approach to acquiring knowledge. One could almost call it…gluttonous in nature.”

You sent him a glare.

Tom shrugged, properly smiling now for the first time in front of you. He had shallow, almost perfectly circular dimples. “Anyway. I’ve never taught anyone before. I actually don’t believe it to be possible, but we might as well give it a go.”

“You’ve never tried?” you asked. “None of your friends at Hogwarts asked you to teach them?”

“No,” he said. “No one knew I was a Parselmouth. I kept that a secret.”

“Why?”

He shrugged again. “I enjoy my privacy. Right, then. Serpensortia.”

A large, hissing snake appeared at your feet, thrashing about in the grass as it unhappily acclimated to its new environment. 

You yelped, leaping nearly a foot in the air. Tom simply stood still, watching you with an amused expression on his features.

“Having second thoughts?”

“No,” you said through gritted teeth, refusing to let your eyes move from the wriggling snake in front of you. “I’m just—surprised.”

“It won’t hurt you.” His voice was low, gentle. “Don’t be afraid.” 

“I’m not,” you said, but the slight wobble in your tone betrayed you. “Just—get on with the lesson, alright?” 

He stood silently, his head tilted in concentration.

“What’s it saying?” you found yourself asking. “Is it—I dunno—threatening my life or something?”

Tom sent you a look that you couldn’t quite decipher. “It’s scared of you.”

“Really?” A spark of smugness lit up within you.

“No.”

“Oh.”

“It’s expressing how upset it is at how suddenly I’ve conjured it. Apparently we’ve interrupted the start of its meal.”

“What do I say if I want to apologize?” 

 He appeared to consider your request for just a moment before opening his mouth and making a hissing noise that you didn’t think you could replicate if you had a thousand years. 

The snake immediately quieted and stopped its thrashing, its tiny head lifting from the ground to regard Tom curiously. 

He looked back at you, expectant.

“Again, please,” you said. “A little slower this time. I didn’t quite catch it.” 

He obliged, going through each syllable separately.

You felt very much like you were back in muggle school before you’d found out you were a witch, being forced to read out a passage in French. The sounds that came out of you were clumsy and not at all what you thought they’d sound like.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you accused. “For the record, I know it was bad.” 

He didn’t address it beyond just the slight upward twist of his lip before he repeated it again, syllable by syllable.

You tried once again with the same outcome. 

“Your tongue should be a little behind your teeth,” he said. “You have yours too far back on the roof of your mouth, which is why you’re losing control. Try again.” 

This time, it came out much cleaner. The snake took notice of you for the first time, its dark scales glistening under the cloudy sky. It hissed something back. Tom’s mouth split into a grin.

“What did it say?”

“It wants to know if you have any food,” he told you. 

“What’s ‘yes’?”

Saying yes in Parseltongue was much easier than saying sorry—it only took two syllables, both of which were made up of sounds that you were pretty sure you had in the English language.

The snake was giving its full attention to you now. Its forked tongue stuck out for just a second. 

Gulping, you accioed a small stone into your palm and cast a quick charm to transfigure it into a mouse—something that you’d learned years ago. 

You set it on the ground and watched the snake lunge.

“Gross,” you said under your breath, wincing as it began to swallow it whole, its body twisting and contorting as it shoved it down.  “I—I think I’m done with the lesson now. I’ve learned enough.” 

“You really didn’t need to feed it,” Tom pointed out helpfully. 

“Yeah. I know that now. I just felt like it deserved something for the trouble.”

Once the snake had succeeded and the only evidence of the mouse was a bulge in the adder’s scales a little past its head, it lifted its head again to meet your eyes, its tongue slithering out as it made a sharp hiss. 

“What’s it saying?”

“It thanked you,” said Tom. He was giving you that look again—like he was reconsidering you. 

“And if I wanted to say ‘you’re welcome’?”

“I thought you said you were done with the lesson.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Consider this my last request. I’d like to be polite.” 

Tom let out a sigh, then made a sound that glided from a long S to a few sharp, pointed consonants. 

You clumsily mimicked him, feeling like your tongue was much larger than you’d ever bothered to notice. 

To your surprise, the adder slithered towards you, dragging itself onto the rock of the courtyard and in front of you. It coiled around your shin, slowly pulling itself up your body.

“Tom!” you whisper-screamed through your teeth.

“It’s alright,” he said. 

“Do something!” 

The snake continued up your leg, looping once around your waist as it continued its ascent up to your shoulder. It was cold and oddly heavy, its scales clammy against the bare skin of your neck.

For one terrifying moment, you thought that it was going to coil around your neck and squeeze until you asphyxiated. Your breath caught in your throat as it came around behind your neck, both ends dangling around your neck as you were paralyzed with fear. 

Then it did the most peculiar thing; it stopped, just hanging in a loose hold around the base of your neck, its face nestled into the collar of your robes. 

“What’s it doing?” you whispered. You tried to ignore the lump in its body that you could feel at the side of your neck.

“It’s resting on you,” said Tom. 

“Why?”

“Because it likes you.” 

You stared at him, floored. “It does not.”

He hissed something to the snake around your neck. It responded with something you couldn’t even begin to understand. 

“It just told me so,” said Tom.

“How do I know you didn’t just make that up?” you said, mentally crossing your arms across your chest but refraining since a snake was taking residence there at present. 

“You don’t trust me?” asked Tom. “I’m hurt.” 

Before you could respond, you felt the slow, languid movement of the adder as it lifted its head from your collar. Without thinking, you offered it your hand, watching in quiet fascination as it slithered around your wrist.

“Hi,” you said shyly, like you’d speak to a nervous cat.

“It won’t understand—”

“I’m aware, Tom,” you interrupted, sending him a look before turning back to your wrist. “We’re bonding. Bugger off.” 

He held his hands up in exasperation. “Bonding? Are you going to take him back to the real world as your familiar?” 

For a moment, you actually considered this.

“Because that’s a terrible idea,” continued Tom, crushing your dream right then and there. “Adders are venomous. Once you don’t have me around, you won’t be able to communicate with it. It’ll probably bite someone.” 

“Then perhaps we should start brainstorming ways to bring you back,” you said. “For safe snake handling, if nothing else.” 

Tom didn’t say anything to this; instead, he reached out and gently unwound the adder from your wrist, his skin not brushing yours once. 

“Surely there’s someone wondering where you are,” he said once the snake had been deposited on the ground. “You’ve been here longer than usual.” 

“Do you not want to get out of here?” you asked, frowning. “It hardly seems like you’re trying.” 

“I’ve been doing research when you’re not around,” he said simply. “I think I just need to theorize for a bit longer—figure out the best course of action.” 

“The process would be sped up significantly if you let me help.”

“I won’t ask that of you. It’s very complicated magic—” He paused for just a moment, noticing the derisive curl of your mouth. “—Not that I think you incapable, of course. But you’ve better things to do. It would distract from your exams, and I tend to work better alone in this stage of research.”

“Oh,” you said, hoping the hurt wasn’t showing on your face. It made sense that he would want to work on this alone. You understood not wanting to have to explain things to people when you could already be going down a rabbithole that you’d deemed important. Plus, your current Tom rendez-vous schedule was eating enough time as it was. But it still stung. 

“You’ll be the first to know if I stumble across anything conclusive,” said Tom.

You snorted. “Obviously.”

“Well—” Tom stopped himself. You thought for a moment that you detected the slightest flush across his pale skin, but that was likely because of the chill outside. “That was more clever in my head. Sorry.”

“I imagine that being in solitary confinement for half a century might addle your mind a bit,” you offered diplomatically.

“My mind is not addled.”

“I was very graciously giving you an easy out.” 

“Someone is probably wondering where you are,” he repeated, his jaw tense. “So I’m going to send you back now.”

Without giving you another chance to argue, you were catapulted back into your desk chair.

~

“You look like you could do with a night out,” Lucy observed as she watched you storm into your dorm and send your satchel flying through the air to land messily on your bed.

“Casting my first and last Unforgivable on McLaggen would be preferable,” you said through gritted teeth. 

He’d been your partner today in Arithmancy to work on a partner problem set. It apparently wasn’t enough for him to be dreadfully stupid and slow—he had to be an absolute chauvinistic arse about it. Whenever you attempted to correct him, he’d look at you with so much amusement that it made your head pound.

He didn’t even need to say anything—the look in his eyes told you that he didn’t even see you as a person. 

The last person to treat you so dismissively had been Pansy Parkinson, but at least she’d been smart. And a witch. McLaggen dripped with conceit and smugness and was disgusting towards the most pureblooded witch on a good day. 

It’d been nearly 3 hours and your blood was still boiling. 

“Well, I can’t arrange that,” said Lucy. “But I can tell you that Hufflepuff is throwing tonight. McLaggen probably won’t come—Ernie hates him, and he’s the one who put it all together.” 

You considered this, looking longingly once at the bag on your bed. You hadn’t done anything with your friends in forever; nearly all the time you had was spent either studying or with Tom. 

The Hufflepuffs were always gracious hosts, too. The last time you’d gone, they’d given you something to smoke that had smelled like a meadow on a sunny spring day and made you feel like you were floating. You’d giggled all night with Lucy, clinging to one another. You’d gone on some tirade about how much you loved her, touching her face and tearing up as you said something about how you didn’t know what you’d be without her. Lucy’d beamed back at you, her face wide open with raw gratitude. 

It had been sappy, but it had been fun and one of the few positive memories you had from the disaster that had been O.W.Ls season. 

“You know what,” you said slowly, watching Lucy’s face light up, “I think that’s just what I need.” 

Tom could wait. 

Lucy squealed and got right to work. In seconds, all the clothes you’d brought from home were strewn across her bed as she scrutinized each one. 

“I thought this was just going to be, like, a chill thing,” you said. 

Lucy picked up a sequined top, held it up to your chest, and wrinkled her nose. “Too loud.” 

“Lucy—”

“I never get to go out with you,” she interrupted, yanking a black slip dress from the pile that caught the warm overhead light. “Thoughts? We could do some fun earrings or something to dress it up.” 

“Are we not just going to sit in a circle and smoke again? This feels a little overkill.” 

“Well, it’s not,” said Lucy, throwing it at you. “This is hardly a ballgown. Plus, this is your annual outing. Dress to impress.” 

You rolled your eyes and slipped the straps off the hanger, throwing it over your shoulder as you turned around to change.

Lucy continued her rampage, ooh-ing and aah-ing upon seeing it on you and immediately cornering you with a scary looking brush.

“For your eyes,” she said, like that made you feel any better. 

“What?” 

“Close them.” 

You squeezed them shut, willing this to be over. You’d had your own experience with muggle makeup, which was tame and not at all exciting. The Wizarding World always had interesting takes on beauty tools, like charmed kohl that could turn your entire eye black if you weren’t careful enough. 

Something cool and wet swiped across the corner of your eyes. Lucy mumbled something under her breath, and there was a slight ruffling at the end of your lashes, like a light breeze had swept through them. 

“Open.”

You blinked, your lashes feeling a little heavier. 

“Pretty,” said Lucy, nodding seriously. “Hang on. Do you have a lip color preference?” 

You stared. A lip color preference? “Er—whatever you think makes the most sense with my undertones.” 

“You would say that,” Lucy replied, already holding a wand of lip gloss. “Put this on.” 

When you turned to look into the mirror she was holding out, you nearly started at your reflection. Lucy had done something insane with your lashes, curling them up and adding length that didn’t look too obvious. That weird tool she’d used on your eye had created a sharp, clean line that followed the contour of your lashline and licked out at the end. 

You looked really pretty. Not quite Tom Riddle level pretty, but pretty nonetheless.

“Thanks,” you said, turning back to Lucy after you’d applied the gloss she’d given you. It smelled faintly of something that you couldn’t quite place—like old parchment and the memory of walking through the library in the middle of the night. It was the strangest scent you’d ever encountered in a lip product. 

Ernie and the rest of the Hufflepuffs did not disappoint. They’d bribed house elves into bringing an entire spread of food that was fragrant and under a constant stasis spell to keep an optimal temperature. You spent the evening chatting with your Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff friends and feasting on ripe slices of pineapple and bites of strawberry that stained your already glossy mouth a vibrant pink. 

Then Hannah Abbott reached into her pocket and pulled out a stash of corked bottles. 

“Party Potions,” said Lucy in wonder as you both stared at the swirling liquids.

You’d heard of them before but had never personally had one. You weren’t entirely sure what they did, in all honesty, and that stressed you out enough to keep you from giving them a whirl. 

They were different vibrant colors—one an opalescent pink, one a vibrant orange, one a blood red, one a deep, midnight blue that reminded you of your house colors. 

“Anyone want one?” asked Hannah, motioning to her pile. Terry Boot raised a hand and plucked the orange one from the table, uncorking it and downing it in one go. 

“What do the different colors mean?” you asked. The longer you looked at them, the more you were mesmerized. 

“I don’t remember,” admitted Hannah. “Nothing crazy, I don’t think.”

“You don’t think,” you repeated.

“Just because I don’t remember why I bought each color doesn’t mean that I would’ve purposefully bought something that did bad things,” Hannah told you. “Here. Take one. It’ll help you relax.” 

The midnight blue potion sat on the fingers of Hannah’s outstretched palm. 

“Oh, I couldn’t—”

“I promise it’s nothing too intense,” said Hannah. “You’ve smoked before, right? I’ve had one and it was honestly just like getting crossed. You’ll be fine.”

At the mention of smoking, common sense flew out the window. The last time you’d been offered an illicit substance in the Hufflepuff Common Room, things went really well. Who were you to deny that again?

“If you’re sure it’s alright for me to have it,” you said. The bottle pulled easily from Hannah’s hand and into your grip.

“Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?” Lucy was grinning at you widely. 

Up close, the midnight blue wasn’t solid—there were specks of silver in there, like thousands of stars littered across the night sky. It was stunning. You felt almost bad uncorking it and downing it, but you didn’t give yourself a chance to second-guess.

It tasted like lavender and honey and something burnt that was horribly gross but faded away with time and went down like water. 

“You didn’t save anything for me?”

“Sorry, Luce,” you said, swiping the back of your hand across your lips. 

You weren’t feeling anything yet. Or were you? Was this how you normally felt? The ceiling of the Hufflepuff common room definitely didn’t move, right? And Lucy typically wasn’t outlined in a fuschia pink. That you were sure of.

“Whoa,” you said dumbly.

“I think Y/N’s feeling something!” called out Hannah. “What’s it like?”

You stared at her, watching as a warm brown that reminded you of English Breakfast tea with milk stirred in surrounded Hannah’s edges. 

“You’re such a good person,” you said, feeling tears prick at your eyes, because Hannah Abbott truly was. “And so are you.” 

You turned to Lucy, trying your best not to cry. “Did you know that you’re the color pink?”

Lucy nodded gravely. Later she would laugh about this, but not now. “That’s very kind of you.” 

You spent the evening in a daze, staring open mouthed at your friends as you saw different colors swirl around, some overlapping and blending. 

It was beautiful. Then the sadness kicked in. It wasn’t clear to you exactly what caused your sudden rush of melancholy—but all of a sudden you were staring at the happy people dancing around you, the colors blurring and mingling, and all you could think about was Tom. Tom, who was all alone. Tom, who might never get out. Tom, who was destined for an eternity of loneliness. 

“I’m going to go back,” you said to Lucy, tugging at her sleeve to get her attention. 

She frowned. “Aw, why? Are you not feeling well?” 

“The potion Hannah gave me is making me feel really tired,” you said. It wasn’t a lie. Your eyelids were heavy and the thought of curling up under your blankets sounded better than anything. Well, almost anything. There was something you needed to take care of first. 

“Booooo,” said Lucy, rolling her eyes. “Fine. Do you want me to walk you back?” 

“No! I mean—” You gulped. “You’re having fun. I’ll be fine getting back. I think Ron’s on the rounds in our part of the castle. He’s not going to write me up.” 

“You sure? I’d be happy to take you.”

You started pushing her in the direction of the other party-goers. “Very. Go have fun. I’ll see you when you get back.” 

By the time you’d burst back into your room, your chest was heaving with exertion from sprinting up the stairs as you wrenched open your desk drawer and pulled out the journal.

Tom you wrote. Can you let me in? 

He didn’t answer; instead, you were falling through space and into the warmly lit Hogwarts library from the 40s. 

“Tom!” You couldn’t stop the grin that came across your face. 

“Oh—hello.” Like always, Tom was standing tidily a polite distance from you, his hands tucked neatly behind his back. Unlike always, he was staring at you like you’d just shot his dog. 

“Is everything okay?” The potion you’d taken was definitely still in effect. An inky blackness was hanging around his shoulders—a stark contrast to the paleness of his skin. 

He swallowed, his eyes darting up and down. “Yes. Sorry. You just look a bit different.” 

“Oh. Yeah, I was at a party. Did you know you have a black aura?”

“What?”

“Your aura is black,” you repeated, slower this time. 

He just stared at you. 

“Sorry,” you mumbled, averting your eyes. Maybe he was insecure about having such a lame aura color. It had been a bit rude of you to point that out all willy-nilly. 

“I’m not—” Tom stopped, pressing his lips together before continuing. “I’m sorry, is there a reason why you asked to see me? Surely you don’t mean to read after you’ve just stepped out of a party?”

“Oh,” you said, and suddenly you remembered why you’d come. A somberness dropped over you. “I was just…I was having so much fun tonight. And then I thought about you.”

He stayed silent.

“What’s going to happen to you if I can’t get you out?” Your voice wobbled as tears pricked at the back of your eyes. “Are you just going to be stuck here forever? Won’t you be lonely?” 

When he didn’t immediately answer and opted to stare at you in shock instead, you continued.

“Because I keep thinking about what might happen if something happens to me or I lose your journal,” you confessed, now ardently choking back tears. “I really worry about you. I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t help you leave.” 

“Are you…” His eyes darted up and down you again. “Drunk?”

“Hardly,” you said, swiping angrily under your eyes as you collapsed onto the loveseat that you so often read on, pulling your knees to your chest. Then, quieter: “It was just some potion a friend gave me.”

“If you’re so worried about something happening to you so that I’m left alone…” You weren’t looking up at him, but the increase in volume told you he was coming nearer. “...May I suggest not taking mystery potions?”

Before you could issue a retort, the loveseat cushion shifted to accommodate the weight of a second person, sending you toppling over to the other side. 

Right onto Tom. 

Your hands went flying to the opposite armrest, fingers digging into the worn blue velvet with a death grip as you righted yourself, pushing your knees from where they’d landed sprawled in Tom’s lap.

Which you could actually touch, by the way. The implications began rolling in once you were back on your respective side. He’d been solid and warm and completely void of any attributes that may suggest he was a ghost. Which meant that it was probably possible to…

No. No. You weren’t going to think about that right now. 

“I didn’t realize I could touch you,” you heard yourself saying, staring at him in wonder. “I just assumed I couldn’t.” 

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Oh.” 

And for purely scientific purposes (no reputable academic came to a firm conclusion based off of a single trial), you reached your hand out and experimentally poked his forearm again. 

“Wow,” you said.

“Will you stop that?” said Tom. 

“Yes.” You retracted your hand and placed it firmly in your lap. Then, because your manners hadn’t completely abandoned you: “Sorry. That was rude of me. I just sort of assumed that since you’re—well, whatever you are—it’d be like touching a ghost or something.” 

“Whatever I am,” he echoed, looking off into the distance with what you could only describe as a very harrowed expression. 

“I’m sorry,” you said again, but you weren’t entirely sure what you were apologizing for. 

Instead of responding, he buried his face in his hands, heaving a heavy sigh as his fingers tangled into his hair. 

“What’s wrong?” you asked. 

He just shook his head, scrubbing his face with his hands once before he let them fall. 

“Er, all right then,” you said. “Would you like me to leave? I’m sorry for bothering you.” 

“You really shouldn’t worry about me,” he finally said. The awkward, slight pauses between his words gave you a sneaking suspicion that he was choosing his words very carefully. 

“Of course I’m going to worry about you.” Now that you knew that you could touch him, nothing stopped you from reaching out to flick his arm indignantly. “We’re friends, and I like to think that my friends would worry about me if I was stuck in journal jail. Or whatever this is.” 

He was still staring at where you’d touched his arm. 

“...Unless you don’t want to be friends,” you added, suddenly feeling a little silly for jumping to such rash conclusions. “Which I’d understand. I can give your journal to someone else. A Slytherin, maybe. Someone a little more your speed.” 

You decided to blame the potion for the obvious hurt that had seeped into your voice at the prospect that there was someone else who was better suited as his confidant. 

“I don’t want you to do that,” Tom eventually said. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. 

“Then what do you want?” The strength in your words surprised even you. “I don’t understand you. You tell me you want to get out, but you still won’t let me help you. You let me talk to you and come visit you and read with you, but then you expect me not to care. It doesn’t make any sense. You don’t make any sense.” 

“It’s more complicated than that,” said Tom, thumbing the ring he always wore around his finger. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

“So help me understand!” Your voice rose sharply, echoing off the walls of the empty library. 

Tom finally turned to you, his face split open with something so uncharacteristically raw and open that it takes everything within you not to gasp. 

“No.”

“What?”

“No.” He drew in long breath. “Not right now. I need more time.”

“Oh, a half century wasn’t enough?” you retorted. “Need another?” 

“It doesn’t work like that,” said Tom, an edge of franticness in the way he spun the ring around his finger quicker. “I never thought that I’d—I didn’t think I’d ever be found. I wasn’t supposed to be found.”

You didn’t know what to say to this. Instead, you sat there with your hands clasped tightly in your lap, eyes set on the floor, your mind racing with all the implications of everything you’d learned.

A moment passed. Then another. Once it appeared clear that you weren’t going to say anything back, Tom spoke up again. “You’re angry with me. I understand that this is…” He paused. “Unconventional. But I am grateful you’ve found me, and I’d really rather prefer that you don’t give me away to another student.”

You were just about to respond when—

“But of course I’d understand if you did,” he added hastily. 

It was the most unnervingly emotional speech you’d ever seen come from Tom, ever the stoic, and under the influence of the potion that Hannah had given you, it was almost enough to make you give in and move on. But not quite.

“You said ‘supposed to’.” Your eyes still didn’t move from where they were trained on the scuffed wooden floor of the library. “You said ‘I wasn’t supposed to be found.’”

“That’s right.”

You turned to look at him, inky black aura spilling over his equally dark hair. “‘Supposed to’. Like you knew this was going to happen. Like this wasn’t an accident.”

And the change you saw in him was so miniscule that if you hadn’t been spending enough time studying his face, you might not have noticed it. But you had, and the slight dilation of his pupils and twitch of his jaw was enough to betray his panic. 

Then his mouth split into a smile and his face smoothed over, his eyebrows furrowed with just the right amount of concern. The shift was startling, like he’d slipped on a mask. “Of course this was an accident. Do you really think that I’d choose to be stuck here for eternity?”

“That’s—” You paused, shaking your head. “I don’t know. I’m not sure.” 

“I wouldn’t,” he pressed, and this time his arm came up to drape over the back of the couch. You tried your best not to think about how you could feel warmth radiating from it, how if you tilted your head back, you might brush against it. “Are you sure you’re well?”

“I’m fine.”

“I’ll send you back,” he said, a polite smile set on his lips. “You should really get some rest.”

And for the first time since you’d first discovered the journal, you fell asleep feeling a little bit afraid of Tom Riddle.

[david-talks-sw]

"Bring in the flamethrowers!"

The above moment from The Clone Wars gets brought up a lot to illustrate Ki-Adi Mundi or the Jedi's moral decadence, a fall from grace caused by the war.

Figured I'd point out a couple of things in support of Ki-Adi!

1) Simple answer: the situation called for it.

The Geonosians attacking Ki-Adi were:

enemy fighters

with the element of surprise

who could fly and were thus harder to hit with the clones' blasters, hence why more wide-ranging weapons like flamethrowers were called for, as the clones were getting picked off one-by-one.

Time was of the essence, men were dying, Ki-Adi made a choice.

Wanna know what Jedi choose when a Geonosian isn't actively trying to kill them? They save its life (and get praised for it by their peers).

2) In-universe, the Geonosians are assholes.

From Attack of the Clones - The Illustrated Companion, 2002:

"Geonosians are a physically intimidating race conditioned to live and work in caste-segregated hives. The vast majority of Geonosians are subservient to the ruling caste, and throughout Geonosian society, there is evidence of a biologically engineered class system. Some Geonosians have wings, while drones do not. [...] The blind obedience of menial Geonosians makes them an easily exploitable workforce for the upper classes, who have built a highly profitable business manufacturing Battle Droids, Super Battle Droids, and Droideka Droids for the Trade Federation and its allies."

"For unusually intelligent Geonosians unlucky enough to be born into the lower castes, participating in the games provides the only chance they will ever get to escape the misery of their downtrodden lifestyles and the rigid social expectations of the upper classes. Triumph in the arena is often a hollow victory, however; while lower- and middle-class Geonosians may win the right to talk to their superiors, they can never earn their respect."

Okay, so the winged upper class are obviously elitist bastards, but how is that even remotely relevant--

-- oh. But hey, two of them don't have wings! Those are members of the drone caste, and they're all begotten underdogs, so--

"If there is one thing that unites Geonosians of all classes, it is their xenophobia. A traditionally isolationist species, they fear espionage attempts by rivals eager to learn the secrets behind their latest droids."

-- oh. Huh.

Bottom line: yes, they're sentient... but they're xenophobic, have an elitist caste system, and earn their living by forging weapons that melt your insides or blow up planets.

Now sure, this notion has been explored and deconstructed in Star Wars: Rebels...

... and I'm not entirely sure if the quoted info still holds true in current Disney canon (the lore is from 2002, after all), but if you ask me?

On a normal day, ol' Klik-Klak would be actively trying to murder the entirety of the Ghost crew for daring to even step their dirty non-Geonosian feet on his pure red planet.

3) Out-of-universe, the Geonosians are just "bug aliens". Nothing more.

The production team of Attack of the Clones referred to them as the "termite people". The script describes them as "winged creatures" who are heard "chuckling" once Anakin and Padmé are sentenced to a gruesome death. At some point, the storyboard artists considered introducing the Geonosian workers like you would a horror monster.

Hell, the whole Lucas decided to base them on termites is because his house was besieged by them.

They're not people, which is why they're not designed to look like people. They're purposefully dehumanized so that when one of them gets killed by our heroes, it's ethically "okay" and the audience doesn't need to stop and think "oh my God, that's murder!" or "hey! that's racist" whenever a clone calls one of them a "bug."

A similar logic is applied to the stormtroopers, who have face-covering helmets that dehumanizes them.

Functionally, a stormtrooper is a fascist goon, nothing more.

Same goes for the Geonosian. It's a bug alien, that's about it.

4) The flamethrowers were probably just added because they're cool.

Dave Filoni described how the decision to add flamethrowers came up, and it doesn't sound like George had deeper storytelling motives:

"You know, we're going through the tunnel with the Geonosians and George is like: “Yeah, well, here, we'll have the-- the tunnel and the flamethrowers. Yeah. How about that? ‘Bring in the flamethrowers!’ have Ki-Adi Mundi say ‘bring in the flame throwers!’” And it's like “flame—- What? Flamethrowers?!”" - Dave Filoni, “Return to Geonosis” Featurette, 2010

It sounds like he came up with it on the spot.

The flamethrowers aren't indicative of "the moral degradation of Ki-Adi and the Jedi Order." They're likely just in there 'cause they're cool (and if you've played Team Fortress 2, you know that's true)!

At the end of the day, when it comes to the Geonosians, I think that there's a certain irony to how their story ends.

They gleefully created the battle droids that tore the galaxy asunder and the Death Star, a weapon that enables the Empire to commit genocide... but fell victim to genocide themselves, at the hands of an even bigger monster.

They reaped what they sowed. They're not meant to be mourned.

And it's nice to see this aspect of the narrative doesn't get ignored as much as I would've expected.

I came across this video that basically rips into Ki-Adi for using flamethrowers, and I was ready to roll my eyes when I scrolled down to the comments section...

... but then, a happy surprise!

Most of the comments disagree with the video's stance! For once, logic prevails over anti-Jedi bias.

So yeah, that put a smile on my face.

[pastanest]

Ripley x gender neutral!reader

A/N: spoilers for Alien/Aliens/Alien 3 (would recommend watching both of those before reading any of my Ripley works bc they are all great and having seen gifs of Resurrection Ik I’ll be converting to lesbanism after that but for now none of my works reference that one)

Dating Ripley Would Include

there’s a lot to say for her relationship dynamics depending on whether she meets you pre-alien, in the timeline of alien/aliens/alien 3

if you meet her pre-alien and you’re a member of the Nostromo crew, you’re one of the only people on the ship capable of actually making her laugh

spending time with you while on the ship is her preferred means of destressing, because around you she doesn’t have to enforce her authority; Ripley knows if it came down to it, you would listen to her without question, and she would listen to any concerns you presented

the mutual respect and trust allows her to actually relax in your presence

doesn’t matter what Ripley’s assigned task is, you’re offering to assist

doesn’t matter what your assigned task is, Ripley will find a way to check in with you as often as she can

she’s not one for PDA, but Ripley has other ways of making her interest in you clear

very aware hypersleep pods are not designed for more than one person, but that doesn’t stop Ripley from considering it. seriously. and she can't believe she considers it

something tugs at her heart whenever she sees you cooing over Jones; Ripley loves finding Jones and bringing him to wherever you happen to be on the ship to surprise you with him, because you always look so surprised and overjoyed like you didn’t see the cat literally 10 minutes ago

Ellen will do whatever it takes to keep you safe and smiling

if you meet during Aliens, Ripley’s got a lot of trauma under her belt and is more reserved as a result; less inclined to trust and make connections after losing her entire crew and finding out how long she’d been in hypersleep meant she lost her entire family too

so you can imagine her surprise when she meets you and the genuine smile you give her is enough to splinter the walls she’d built around her own heart

like everyone other than Ripley at that point in time, you have no knowledge or experience with Xenomorphs, so it’s when Ripley finds out you’re joining the research expedition to Acheron (LV-426) that she decides she’s going, too

you are the first warmth she’s found since boarding the Nostromo, the first warmth after waking up and finding out she lost everything; there’s no way in Hell she’s letting a goddamn thing happen to you

following the events of her life, she’s more protective of someone as precious as you are to her then she anticipates, and Ripley struggles with that a little

doesn’t really understand why she feels the way she does outside of a professional, mission-based context

but she doesn’t ever take that out on you

instead, Ripley snaps at anyone who suggests anything that even remotely puts you at risk

canon event: you and Ripley adopt Newt and Hicks is the cool uncle

and if you don’t accept the events of Alien 3 as canon then you, Ripley and Newt all live happily ever after <33

but if we’re going by you meeting Ripley in the Alien 3 timeline…hoo boy

this woman COULD NOT have lost more. she lost everything, gained glimmers of hope, then lost everything all over again; she takes no prisoners (pun intended) and the tenderness in her heart is under lock and fucking key

there’s a relevance to gender in Alien 3; there’s a lot more plausible roles for anyone who identifies as a man that make sense, but if you’re the only other person in the vicinity who identifies as a woman, Ripley is SO protective of you from the moment she meets you

any of the prisoners try anything with you, she will spark them out

doesn’t matter whether you can or cant handle the prisoners yourself, Ripley WILL be handling them on your behalf

don’t go thinking if you identify as a man that she’ll protect you any less either. she’s got the strap for all genders (that’s a double entendre for my scissor sisters out there x)

regardless of at what point in Ripley’s life you come along, you will be her point of focus from the moment you enter her life until you leave it

or, as she’d prefer to say, when her life ends (Alien 3 when I catch you Alien 3)

the epitome of sunshine x serious trope, you are the smile that she fights to hide and keep off her face, the gentle hand she hasn’t felt from anyone else in so many years, the hope for a future she stopped dreaming she could have

Ripley is a natural leader, a strong dominant presence, if you think you’re topping her…she will out-alpha you in a second flat

she likes a tasteful flirt, and as much as she hates admitting it, she loves it when you quietly call her pretty after she’s just given an order to you or someone else

because however strong and powerful she is, she’s still just a girl at heart

and to be honest, over the years Ripley has forgotten what pretty feels like, and while she does remember every time she sees and touches you, it’s when you make her feel pretty that she feels most vulnerable with you

the comfort you give her is indescribable

in particular, the moments when she wakes up from her nightmares and her hand is feeling her chest, searching for the horror she lives in fear of getting her (Alien 3 when I catch you Alien 3)

you’re there, holding her, shushing her, combing your fingers through her sweaty hair, rubbing circles in her back to calm her, reminding her that she’s safe and that you are safe, which matters more to her than anything

reminding Ripley of her own safety is one comfort, but knowing you’re safe, that you feel safe and protected by her? oh, there’s nothing better

[newbornwhumperfly]

whumpmas in july day 14: ideal fic wishlist

one of the most frustrating parts of being a writer is dreaming up a delightful fantasy, saying to oneself "damn, wish i could read that..", and then realizing..."fuck. i have to write it, don't i?" 😅💖 but, in lieu of that, i want to describe an ideal fiction i haven't yet written or read!

one my absolute guaranteed sources of whumperflies is some massive, yet plot-relevant, misunderstanding that results in catastrophic distress and pain 😈😢😈

for years, i've had this fantasy about a "villain whumpee" (this is a nebulous definition, typically describing someone outcast, perhaps because they are a magical being or perhaps because of being trapped in a nefarious position in life) being inducted into a team of "heroes" (typically people cast as "good guys" in some socially significant way, usually a combination of people genuinely trying their best to be good in a flawed, shitty system or genuine assholes of some brand). typically, this "villain" character does genuinely buy into their own "badness" to a degree that severely impacts their self-worth. 🥺🥺🥺

anyways, of course, this villain whumpee, who is so desperately trying to prove themselves to their team, to society, and to themselves, is caught in a situation where they must (seem to) ✨ betray their team ✨ and, oh no, my poor whumpee is horribly punished in some...Socially Justified Manner for their perceived betrayal (perhaps by the authorities, perhaps by other "villains") but regardless, this villain whumpee is left permanently and profoundly hurt 😰😢

this villain whumpee now must flee, running away for their own safety, because they cannot bear being further harmed and punished by their team, both because they know the impending punishment would be horrible to experience (and they are already so very hurt, they are in so much pain) and also because they cannot bear the people they've become close to now being their - of course very justified - tormenters 🥺🥺🥺

so the villain whumpee flees, carving out a meager, difficult little life for themself, while nursing their disabilities/injuries and also their heart-wounds at the betrayal they do not want to reckon with as well as the actions they committed against their newfound friends 😭🥺

but eventually, their former friends, the team of "heroes", tracks down the "villain whumpee" and the whumpee believes with all their heart that their former friends are here to enact revenge or justice or both. 🥺💔😭 a particulate feature of this story which i enjoy imagining is the villain whumpee desperately, in terror, trying to escape and get away and still getting caught, cornered, perhaps tearfully pleading for mercy? 😭😭😭

(whether or not the team is there to genuinely reconcile with their former friend because they realize they were in the wrong OR they are there to...apprehend this person for some reason - perhaps plot relevant information reasons, perhaps even begrudgingly, perhaps still believing their old friend was a traitorous piece of shit - is variously intriguing to me....😈😈😈 in other words, it is entirely plausible that this "reunion" has many earmarks of a capture.)

the apprehension of this deeply injured, malnourished, exhausted, terrified, outnumbered person by a cadre of powerful, pissed-off, former friends, all faces this whumpee knows and loved and can personally plead with by name, is...extremely delicious to me and my trope-loving little heart 🥺💖😭

i've had some loose sketches of characters here and there stewing on the back-burner for some time now, some of the inspiration for this character being found in my blog's tag "vasily vibes", in case anybody is curious! but i've never written and fleshed this idea out fully but it is a brand of fantasy i've greatly enjoyed whenever i come across anything remotely fitting the bill. 😍😍😍

gimme desperation, gimme aching angsty sadness at not being believed and thinking oneself abandoned and cast aside but still loving and being devastated by that loss, gimme social exclusion, gimme complex and morally dubious good guys, gimme indulgent levels of sheer "weeping over the memory of those who despise you" hurts, gimme disgustingly tropey disgust and ostracization and a lack of meaningful self-defense. 💔💔💔 i'm an absolute sucker for a well-meaning outcast falling deep into the "oops i care so much" hole and being subsequently fucked over for it 😈🥺😈

if you have a tale that seems similar at all to this - or you just want to share your headcanons! - please hit me up. i love suffering 😍💖

have a very merry @whumpmasinjuly everyone and stay safe! 💖

@whumpmasinjuly-archive