#THIS IS EVEN CLEARER. LIKE AT LEAST 80%

[spheredotorb]

DUDEEEEEE WTFFFFFFFFFFFFFF I LOVE THIS SM(explodes)

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

*makes a whole bunch of art and crafts*

“I want to sell this so I can make EVEN MORE and also hopefully someone else will enjoy it!”

*can’t fucking drive because of my gods damned epilepsy*

“Alright, so, while I could probably walk this stuff to the ups store two blocks over during spring and fall, once it starts to get really snowy the sidewalks are going to be shit and i don’t want to risk damaging something before I can even send it!” 🥲🫠

[craqueluring]

i want to talk about randall tier

hannibal draws a lot of inspiration from manhunter (1986), which was the first film adaptation of the hannibal books, and i want to talk specifically about the scene where randall crashes through will's window, because it derives from a scene in manhunter. i am going to compare these two scenes, and use this to further my discussion of hannibal, which will be the focus of this. (there is a TLDR at the end of this!)

in manhunter, at the end of the movie, will runs and crashes through dolarhyde's window, shattering it and directly jumping into a fight with him. now, there is a copious amount of imagery in manhunter depicting will talking to his reflection in glass, windows, etc as if his reflection is dolarhyde. we get the sense that dolarhyde is inside of will’s head, and they start to blur as will has to relate and empathize more and more with dolarhyde to catch him. 

will crashing through the window is him meeting the darkest parts of himself face-to-face – now, he and dolarhyde are on the same side of the glass. will kills dolarhyde, which represents will overcoming (or, at least, suppressing) his violent urges and the turmoil that comes with understanding killers so deeply.

so, will crashing through the glass to meet dolarhyde is him meeting the ‘bad’ part of himself, the part that understands killers and lets them inside of his head, and by killing dolarhyde, he defeats this darker part of himself. will graham, in typical 80s fashion, ends the movie stable in his morality and can return to his heterosexual family life and watch the sunset with his wife and child.

the scene in hannibal is a bit different. instead of the identity parallel being between will and dolarhyde, it is between will and randall tier. randall is (if i am not mistaken) the first patient of hannibal’s we meet that has undergone his “therapy” and is considered a success. this is when we fully start to grasp what it is that hannibal does with his “therapy.” and what will could Become if he accepted hannibal's guidance.

instead of solely will’s violent urges, like dolarhyde represented in manhunter, randall tier represents, in a way, what will could be: a 'balanced' person who embraces his violence and becomes one with it. randall tier has the same violent urges and the dissonance in his identity that will has, but he accepts it, embraces it, and revels in what he is. 

so, when randall crashing through will’s window, will not only comes face to face with himself, but the Higher Self that hannibal is guiding him to Become. this is why randall is depicted as the raven stag, and then the stag man: will is forced to come face to face with who hannibal is guiding him to be, hannibal's influence, and has to confront how to handle his violent urges once again by being forced to kill in self defense. however, his fight with randall does not represent him overcoming these violent urges, as was in manhunter. the fight does actually facilitate will’s Becoming. will throws his shotgun away and chooses to use his hands to kill randall, as hannibal suggested. through Will’s fight with and murder of randall tier, he actually becomes closer to his Higher Self and his Becoming.

this is furthered by will's choice to make randall tier into a tableau. will’s first tableau. in will’s pendulum conversation with randall, it is made even clearer: will says “you forced me to kill you” and randall replies “i didn’t force you to enjoy it.” !!!!!

TLDR: in manhunter, will crashes through the window to meet a man who represents the darkest parts of himself. by killing dolarhyde, will defeats this dark part of himself and fortifies his sense of morality. hannibal flips this completely around. in hannibal, randall crashes through will’s window. will comes face to face with him, who, in a sense, represents his Higher Self and who will could be if he accepted hannibal's guidance. his fight with randall marks the start of him beginning to embrace this intimate violence hannibal has been talking about. by killing and displaying randall in a tableau, will revels in his violent urges by killing him with his hands and enjoying it and becomes closer to his Higher Self and his Becoming. instead of will overcoming his violent urges through this fight between a him and a representation of his violence like in manhunter, will killing randall fuels these urges.

[he-goes-down]

There Was A Time:

fic chapters,warnings, ext

SORRY IF THIS IS SO CONFUSING I APOLOGIZE

1. Move To The City:

Warnings:

Implied sexual acts

Drinking

Time travel (confusing)

Second person POV:

All the things that you just experienced had been forgotten in an instant. It felt like nothing had happened.

But everything happened.

You cursed under your breath, you're about to miss the band playing and you haven't even said good luck or more importantly get the roadies and other technical teams managed. 'Shit. what if they're not even ready?' You thought to yourself in a panic. You started rummaging through your satchel to find your phone for any missed calls and to check how late it is. Everything else was in your bag; notebook, passport, ID and documents. But no phone and a wallet with only one card and loads of cash. Instead of a phone there was a Walkman and your handwriting on it spelling out: 'Best Tunes'. "What the fuck" You whispered under your breath. Who still uses a Walkman? And why do I have one? Why the cringy ass title? You thought. Anything and everything was going through your head. You searched the windows of the shops on the street just for a glimpse of a clock or anything, but all of them were closed. One of the shops windows glowed, an electronic shop, every kind of tv was there and playing the same thing. Box TV's. No smart TV's. 1 or 2 flat screens. The news is on but it's grainy and the presenters aren't the same. The time.

'8:45' it read on the top left of one of the screens.

28th February 1985.

Headache. High pitch ring.

You nearly fell back onto the pavement.

Your head kept pounding.

Your face scrunched as you pierced your eyes shut.

Scenes of past memories came flooding back and replacing the ones you had, but they were both still in your mind, just supressed.

'Fuck, what was I doing?'

You searched your bag again, this time taking out a little notebook. You always had things to do written down in case you forgot something important. 'Find new band' it wrote and under it was suggestions on which bars to search. Luckily you could hear the thumbing bass of a band playing down the street in one of the bars. The Whisky a Go Go. As you walked closer you heard the song getting clearer and the higher frequencies the guitar was producing. The drums were hard driving, it nearly made you shake ass in the middle of the street. The guitar wind and you noticed there was another that kept the rhythm. The bass made something in you tingle. You finally got to the entrance of the bar, it was packed in the front of the stage and the booths but there were about only two people sitting on the bar stools, it was dark, the bright lights shone on the stage and only a dark dim light was provided at the bar for bartenders to be able to make drinks. You sat down by one of the stools closest to the exit, sitting your small suitcase in front of your stool under the bar top. The band was loud, and the crowd was going wild, the mics and speakers weren't good quality, but you could feel the raw energy from when their instruments were struck and when the lyrics spat out their mouths.

All the members had long hair; it was the 80's anyway. The singer was like a live wire, ginger hair and mouth that could burn anyone by how he screamed and made it sound like ecstasy in hell. The two guitarists, one with curly hair that bounced when he bopped his head as he strummed, sweat dripped down his chiselled brown abdomen as he arched his back to shred. All that was heard were screams from girls in the front, I mean you couldn't blame them, something in you wanted to throw yourself at him and let do anything. The other one had black hair and was the most modest looking; the rest had no shirts on or the very least a sleeve-less mesh shirt on. He wore a white long sleeve and a black waist coat, and he was gorgeous in sickly, pale, ill, vampire way. The last two members were blondes. The bass player tall and handsome as he plucked the strings of his bass, you had to stop yourself from meowing out loud, because good god. Although you couldn't see the drummer all that well, he was super cute as his fluffy blonde hair bounced around and his smile brightened the room. 

You tapped your feet to the beat of the song. It sounded familiar. You order a long island iced tea before you continued to watch them play. 'Why does it sound so familiar' You thought to yourself as the ginger front man sang "But you, you had to move to the city!" He sang, and you took a sip of your drink that the bartender just sat down on the bar top. It was cold and a small piece of ice touched one of your teeth. "Into the city where it all began!" It began to ache, and it travelled to your head.

That's fucking Guns 'n Roses. Time stood still for a moment, and you couldn't move from the shock that just went through your body.

"What the fuck." You mumbled to yourself, your mouth slightly a gape. 'This can't be happening' you thought. 'I'm in the 80's?' 'Guns 'N Roses is right in front of me.' It was like every dream was coming true in that moment. You starred at them not believing they were right there, and you were the only one in the crowd that knew the lyrics off by heart. The black-haired guitarist looked straight back at you and his eyes widen. He strutted closer to the bass play and nudged him, the blonde looked up, the guitarist nodded to where you were and his plucking faltered slightly, and then they went back to playing but with more focus than before. You were confused then remembered why you were there in the bar. You had a job to do, they probably knew you were coming to scout for bands to sign. You tried to focus and forget about all the weird things, there is nothing you can do. There are no time machines in the 80s, rather make the best out of this situation. Work now, panic later. They finished their song and walked off, the guitarist and bassist made it painfully obvious that they were searching for you in the crowd before walking off. You stood up to walk to back, but you asked to bartender to look after your bag in case it got stolen. You searched where the entrance to the back was, you saw where all the girls were going and followed.

It was a large dressing room, with a mirror that spanned across two of the walls. Graffiti scattered on the dirty yellow walls. Groupies already surrounded the band, and giving them all special kinds of favours, on chairs, couches and walls. You tried to keep your confidence to not look completely lost, but you really wanted to shrink down into a hole and die. To your rescue the shorter blonde haired one that had two girls on him as he was pressed against wall, noticed you. "Shit!" he breathed loudly and tried to push the girls off him. The rest of the band did the same and shooed them out the dressing room door, some members didn't even have women on them but had to put away their bottles upon bottles of alcohol. 'How do they drink that much, they just got off the stage.' You thought. You crossed your arms as you leaned against the wall, the five of them stood in a line across the room. 'Did they rehearse this?'. It was silent. One of them started to swing his arms slightly, like a 5-year-old that was bored. "Is this like the final boss groupie or...?" The curly haired on said but got elbowed in the stomach before her could continue. You couldn't help but giggle a bit. "You guys have a lot of potential." You knew they were going to one of the best bands in history, but you weren't going to spoil the surprise. "I'm here to sign a deal with you. Well, if that's what you want-." "YES" The short blonde interrupted, he then cleared his throat, "Please."

You sat with them at one of the booths for about 2 hours, having light drinks and discussing management, recordings and contracts. It was like there was two versions of you, the past and future, the past version was currently in charge as you were talking business and the other lied dormant. "You've been telling us all these things about your job, but you haven't told us your name beautiful." The ginger flirted. You already knew all their names and government names before they even told you, but that doesn't really matter. "Y/n." you told them. "Are you going to be the one managing us?" The black haired one said coldly, Izzy, with his one arm folded and the other holding his cigarette. He sat on the opposite side of the booth. "If all goes well, yes." You said, but you could feel he might have wanted a different answer. "All goes well as in, if Axl doesn't fuck shit up before the time." The taller blonde laughed, Duff, as he nudged the ginger, Axl, who sat next to you. He elbowed him back in the ribs harshly, whispering curses at him. "You're gonna see this and a lot worse." Slash, the curly haired one, said in a chuckle. He gently put his hand on your shoulder as he got up, "I'm gonna get another drink, want one?" He looked down at you, giving a small smile while raising an eyebrow. Though you couldn't see it as his hair covered his eyes. "Nah, I think I need to head off." You said, as you got up as well. "Um, I need a number to call you guys with." "Are you asking for my number?" Axl yelled as he slammed his hands down on the table as he got up. "What are you yappin’ about?" You laughed

Izzy wrote down the house number on a piece of paper as Duff and Steven excitedly asked about tours, interviews and photoshoots. You tucked the paper into your pocket, got your bag from the bar, said your goodbyes and left. It was a cold night; the streets were empty and silent, and there was an even chillier breeze. You just wanted to go to a hotel and roll in the bed, as you just met your favourite band. 'Shit the hotel'. You booked a hotel to stay at for your band's venue back in future. "Shit" you muttered, as you searched your bag for a sign that you at least have a place to stay for the night. Nothing.

"Fuck". You slumped down and next to a wall of a building. Every emotion rushed through you; panic, confusion, hatred, depression. Your other half wasn't speaking to you, it was like there was a limit on how much you could each version of yourself. You started to tear up as you started to overthink; Does this past version of you have friends? A partner? A place of your own? You couldn't remember anything except for the night you just had. You laid your head on your knees and closed your eyes just trying to compose yourself. Streams of tears just rolled, and you couldn't do anything, your brain was all muddled up and mush. You felt yourself spiralling, it was out of your control now. It was cold and it started to rain, just what you needed. You wanted to call up one of the guys and ask for some salvation, but you didn't even know where the nearest pay phone is. All the roads were just twists and turns in a maze that kept changing.

"Y/N?"

———

If you hated this you can like, push me down stairs or sumthing

[runawaycarouselhorse]

I absolutely adore Inoue Momota's movie manga. She adapted the last DP movie (Zoroark) with a rougher but still rounded style that reminds me of 80's shounen about the face and all three BW! movies with this absolutely adorable, clean and softly rounded style that I find so inspiring.

It isn't just that her style is adorable and the expressions funny and varied, it's that she draws and writes the characters like a fan in the best of ways--she knows their little quirks and she even improved on the already good Victini movie's plotline to make it clearer that Ash is the Hero of Ideals. And as adorable as her style is, she can still make Ash look heroic and cool when it comes down to it!! She's got range.

She adds more emotional impact to scenes, like Ash awakening Zekrom, or Ash seeing the resurrected and altered Genesect fight the modern day Pokemon (I feel like it echoes the clones vs originals battle from the first movie, here)...

And the sweetest thing is, she took an already beautiful scene (Mewtwo in space in the Genesect movie, finally feeling connected and part of the world) and referenced the past and other characters we know (showing Misty, Brock, Delia, Mimey... and characters from every movie she adapted into a manga)--it felt like a farewell, knowing it's the last one she'll adapt. You can just feel the love in her work! ;_; I absolutely wanna own copies someday!!!

I think it's fair to say she was a fan of the Pokemon anime, or at least, the original series, perhaps while growing up, because there's some tells (aside from including the OS trio in this scene...): she draws James' hair in a very 90's way! The ends of his hair didn't have those alternating thick and thin/straighter jagged edges (often with loose strands) except in early Kanto episodes!!! This was streamlined later on into more uniform jagged/triangular chunks early in the seires. : D

Now, closing by spamming panels with Iris because she's my favourite and I love how Momota draws her.

(Even when it's something like this "Iris is too short to properly fit in this frame" gag she does sometimes, because it's cute.)

Anyway, please purchase Inoue Momota's movie manga, please and thank you. You can also borrow copies to read (in English!!!) from the Internet Archive's Open Library, that's how I read a bunch--just note that it's low quality on there!

[workingdownthewordmine]

Love Thy Neighbour - Chapter 1 Behind Closed Doors

Set adrift by his own choosing, Bucky goes home to the abandoned apartment he grew up in, but perhaps it isn't as abandoned as he first thought.

Read it on AO3 here.

Chapter 2

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes Rating: T CW: blood, threat Prompts filled: Fandom-Free Bingo Frosty Edition (card 1): Cuddling to stay warm @fandom-free-bingo Fandom-Free Bingo Flight Edition: Anonymous gifts Fluffbruary: Day 2 - Scent, Day 16 - Neighbour @fluffbruary Seasonal Delights Language of Flowers: Calla lily @seasonaldelightsbingo Multifandom-Flash Round 1: A scar to remember @multifandom-flash

Dividers by @cafekitsune

“The Bible tells us to love our neighbors, and also to love our enemies; probably because generally they are the same people.” 

G.K. Chesterton 

Bucky came and went via the fire escape that he’d carefully mangled on his second night back there, a relic of his childhood now inaccessible to anyone who couldn’t bend cast iron or jump 6ft straight up. Didn’t account for at least half of the people he actually knew, sure, including the guy he’d most often climbed it with, but seemed effective so far at keeping out random squatters. Not real charitable, he guessed, locking down an entire apartment building to himself somewhere so many people lacked even a roof to call shelter but he never signed up for them to be his problem. And he liked not being disturbed. Other things he liked included not thinking too hard about some of the stranger aspects of the building he was once again calling home. In spite of the housing shortage, he guessed it might not be so weird that no one had gotten round to tearing the place down in all these years, and to judge by the disintegrating newspapers he’d found tacked up as draft excluders the building hadn’t been inhabited since the 80s. But why was the gas still connected? No electricity, far as he could tell without knocking more holes in the walls than he thought the place could take without crumbling, but the water was still running.

Those mysteries had come clearer after he found the first camera. It had been pretty well camouflaged by a dense cobweb that looked dyed black by half a century of city smog – fuck knew how the asshole had managed that. He’d never have spotted it if he hadn’t caught the whine of tiny servos or something when he passed it. He’d panicked, smashed the thing, torn around the building searching for more. As he bore down on the third, it spoke to him. “Hey Terminator, point’s taken. Quit breaking my stuff. Drop the others in the mailbox and I’ll have them picked up.” He had dropped them in the mailbox. But he’d taken a certain joy in crushing them as small as he could before he did so. Oops. Sorry, Stark. It made him itchy for a while to think of Stark having anything to do with his habitation – hadn’t he turned down a space at the compound because he wanted out of barracks controlled by someone else? But, fuck it, if the nerd had nothing better to do with his billions than pay Bucky’s bills he might as well let him. And now he was back, he didn’t fancy leaving. 

This last week his resolve was being tested. It had started with the smell. He knew the odours of sweat and blood well enough, and he knew that neither had been coming from the back apartment when he left for work. He’d been back there, of course, on his initial homecoming perimeter check and again on his hunt for Stark’s bugs. The place had been as deserted as the rest of the building, inhabited by nothing more sinister than rats, roaches, and a few pigeons. He needed to check again. He also needed to stop and fucking think. He was half way over the sill before he remembered it had taken an hour’s scrubbing for him to get more than a bit of half-assed light through his own apartment’s grimy windows. From the outside? No chance. It would have to be the hallway. 

With the generator humming and the wireless playing (somehow even now he struggled to think of it as the digital gadget it was), giving all the impression that he was still in his own apartment, he edged out into the hall. He winced at the minute change in the air pressure when he opened the door. But the only people likely to drop-by unannounced who would notice something like that would either have taken more care with their smell or would have said hi. Unless it was deliberate bait. Ten feet to the next door. A longer step over the cracked floorboard that had groaned ominously the first time he’d crossed it.  

The smell of the intruder grew stronger as he approached the door. The ancient lock hadn’t given him much difficulty when he took his original look around but the door was heavy and he shifted it with care. He wished he’d thought to oil the hinges, or pulled the door right off them. Aging lino crackled silently beneath his feet. His own heartbeat filled his ears and gradually he remembered how to breathe and move, even blink, in time with it, aligning the sounds he made so anything that fell outside the rhythm would instantly draw his attention. He remained alone with the soundtrack of his own body.  

He knew he was just short of silent as he passed from room to room, every sense trained for the least disturbance... so when the affronted pigeon erupted from behind the bathroom door raising a fetid cloud of feathers and dust, it took him effort not to swallow his own tongue. He tried to inhale as little as possible of the heavily pigeon-laced air while he let his heartrate settle and watched the bird panic at the narrow window until it finally burst out into the gathering evening gloom. The bird’s distress must have been audible to anyone else in the otherwise silent apartment but nothing and no-one stirred. He lowered his guard a degree as he made his way around the few other rooms. His search was thorough, every cupboard opened, the sparse remains of furniture eased away from the walls. No one.  

The thought that it might have been his imagination haunted him from hall to kitchen. He shook the hair from his eyes and touched a cold wrist to his forehead, trying to remember exactly. The smell lingering in the hall. He was sure. Wasn’t he? He shivered. But the air in here felt disturbed, didn’t it? By more than a pigeon and his own cat-like steps? There was a taint on the air – garbage? He crossed, moving more quickly now, to the window that overlooked the alley and its tideless sea of detritus. The smell hit him harder as he stepped into the cold air that hung in front of the window. The glass was uncracked and no draft would be creeping around that deeply dirt-caked frame. He tested the sash. Grime and old paint wouldn’t resist him but it might hold out longer than the decrepit frame. A little more pressure. He hissed between his teeth when the window rose, barely sticking or rattling in its grooves.  

He was crouched below the sill before conscious thought could catch up. 

Fuckfuckfuckfuck. Dumbass.  

How long had he been stood in full view of any of half a dozen rooftops and twice as many windows? Long enough for a whole squad of snipers to take their shots. Again he let his pulse regulate and raised his head a fraction. No one had shot. And as thorough a survey as he could make of the surrounding area, stopping to scrutinise every spot he would have selected for his own firing position, showed him nothing suspicious – not a movement or a shadow out of place. Nothing, in fact, to cause him concern. Until he drew his gaze back into the room, and down over the smear of blood on the peeling paper below the windowsill. He sank down. A knee had brushed the wall as the other leg lifted to the sill. And, yes, now he could see the pattern of new chips in the old paint where a foot had braced. He returned to the blood. A fair stain. The size of his palm. A significant wound, but not enough to keep the victim from climbing or to force them to staunch the blood with a hand. He gave the window another look as he closed it. No trace of a bloody fingerprint. 

Bucky returned to his own apartment troubled. He could nail up the windows as he’d done downstairs. He had enough supplies for that, sure. From his seat where Winnie Barnes’ spotless kitchen table had once stood, he glanced at the stack of salvaged wood in his mom’s bedroom. She’d be spinning in her grave if he didn’t get it cleared out of there soon. And with a bit more work he could probably make the windows virtually unreachable by climbing too.  

He picked up the M38 that stood on its stock beside him and began checking it over again. The thing was... He found himself picturing the boarded up back apartment – dark and silent rooms in which his neighbours had once laughed and rowed and rushed to get out the door for work. The thing was... that, if he forced whoever had gone to the trouble to climb into the second floor of his building to move off permanently, they were unlikely to lose interest. He would either have to hunt them down – so much for the quiet life – or he would be waiting for a bullet through the head or worse until they made themselves known one way or another. That didn’t exactly sound like a peaceful retirement either, did it? And the thing was... he’d felt his heart beating back there.  

Whatever he did about apartment 4, he wasn’t as safe in here as he’d let himself believe for a while. That needed fixing tonight.  

This was his last stop, rucksack already bulging. He heaped the coils of fishing line and bungee cords on the clerk’s desk. The guy’s eyebrows rose when Bucky dropped a couple of handfuls of personal attack alarms on top of the pile. “Stocking fillers. For my self-defence class,” he offered. His cheeks heated a little when the man glanced at the glossy and explicit calendar behind his shoulder which read “February” without offering the least apology for the embarrassment caused. Bucky followed its example and stared blankly, defying contradiction.  

Supplies secured, he disregarded his fire escape and entered by his bedroom window, hauling his way up by the well-concealed handholds he’d made on his way out, scooping out lines of mortar with Vibranium fingertips. He paused on the windowsill to delicately pluck the rudimentary tripwire free and by-pass the edged weaponry that would otherwise have made a spirited attempt to ruin his good looks. He’d considered using a few grenades, but decided it wouldn’t be worth the clean-up. He had enough structural damage to repair around the building as it was. He did a quick round of the other possible entrances, but all were untouched, their makeshift defences untriggered. Finally, he wormed his way up inside the crumbling wall cavity to retrieve one or two personal items he hadn’t been able to leave on display to any sightseer or would-be hit squad but could also not carry freely around Brooklyn, his rifle chief amongst them. He’d read a couple of Stark’s James Bond novels when he’d been insufferably bored in the Tower. Why did that guy’s weapons all fit up a sleeve or his ass or something? When his requisitions came through the British civil service? Stark, SHIELD, and Hydra should all be fucking embarrassed to be lagging so far behind.  

With the limited supplies he’d had on hand, protecting his personal domain had taken precedence. Once he’d made a more professional job of his fortifications, he loaded up some materials and headed back into the corridor. And stopped.  

Something was on the floor outside of number four. Something whose colour and life stood out in the dingy shadows. He went closer and looked down at the leafy plant in its bright striped pot, its three white trumpet-like flowers gazing right back at him. Surely, only a lunatic or a child could like a combination of sunflower yellow, electric blue, and that alarmingly neon pink? A folded paper dropped as he picked up the plant. The handwriting inside was almost as childish as the colour scheme, printed in biro comfortably rounded and neat – something about it made Bucky momentarily picture the writer’s tongue poking out between their teeth as they worked. 

“Hey neighbour, sorry if I bothered you this afternoon. 

Got you a housewarming present as an apology. Hope you like it!” 

It was unsigned, though they’d made no apparent attempt to disguise their handwriting. He glared at the door. It hung slightly askew, and would do – of course – until he was done with the repairs to his own place and made a start on the rest of the apartments. Well, if he was honest with himself, he’d have to get started on his own apartment first of all. Nothing stirred beyond the door. He tucked the note back into the pot and went thoughtfully back up the corridor. He found the plant a spot by a window and stood staring at it for a full minute, waiting for an explosion or maybe some kind of toxic spore cloud – though maybe the latter was kind of cartoonish even for his usual enemies. The plant did nothing sinister. Its dark glossy leaves shone slightly in the light of the sunset.  

Bucky took his M38 up to the roof with him that evening and stayed low for a few minutes, circling in a crouch and checking out his surroundings, but in the end the distant roar of the city lulled him just as it always had. On his third circuit, he touched his fingertips to the chimney stack where he and Steve had scraped their initials, taking turns with Bucky’s new penknife. Smog and pigeons had done their best to obliterate the deep, angular “JBB” and the lighter, neater “SGR”, but Bucky had done his best to restore them the first time he’d come back up here. They’d huddled together against the stack for warmth, watching the stars and hoping Stevie’s dad wouldn’t turn up to drag him home this time, Bucky’s arm usually wrapped round his best friend’s skinny shoulders to stop him shivering. 

He’d dismantled the lower part of the fire escape after his search for the intruder but when it came time to remove their old route to temporary freedom... no, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Fuck it, anyway – anyone determined enough to get onto his roof, with no way to cover the first twenty feet, wouldn’t be put off by a little thing like a missing fire escape. So, he wondered as he settled down with his back to the long-cold chimney and let his gaze wander out over the Hudson, who would got to so much trouble to infiltrate his safe house, just to leave a smear of blood and a goddamn house plant? “Neighbour”? If they were a local, why had he never had any inkling of someone interested in the place? He’d been vigilant enough. Passers-by mostly treated the condemned and wire-fenced pile as though it wasn’t even there. Like it was as invisible to them as it was irrelevant. Just a relic. Hah. A ghost story.  

A last glimpse of the sunset flashed off his fingers. He rolled his shoulders and hissed between his teeth. It was bad tonight, but he would have to do without the pills. If there was still someone prowling around he wouldn’t risk being caught sleeping too deeply. He eased his left shoulder; knotted scar tissue stretched like exposed sinew, raw as a live wire. No, he wouldn’t be sleeping tonight. No fear on that score. He tapped his knuckles against the wall and knocked free a triangle of cement. He bounced it on his palm. He and Steve had thrown so many of these it was a wonder there was any building left. Steve’s had almost always fallen short of any mark he chose, of course, though Buck had sworn blind he’d seen them hit more than once when his buddy’s spirits needed a lift. Hundreds had dropped into the alley below, sometimes raising angry shouts that sent them laughing into cover before anyone could spot their faces silhouetted overhead. The fragment exploded into dust against a raised air vent three buildings over and Bucky grinned to himself as he swung over the edge of the roof and returned home.

For @heretherebewolves, my inspiration.

[sword-dad-fukuzawa]

ok ngl i sent you several asks now but im pretty sure you're the reason why i've accepted that i am actually a guy with a pussy (i just had a mini breakdown abt that today and i found your blog like. a day or so before?)

(and tbh i do like being a girl but sometimes im just. not. and i dont have to force myself :) also. i love that you dont like transmasc hcs bc same lmao i thought i was like. transphobic but no. there's something going on here but it's not bigotry idk ig it just hits too close for me?)

I’m blinking at you like a stunned owl right now. Congratulations man I’m glad I could’ve helped in some way :] this is such a crazy ask to wake up to LOL (sorry if I’m not too eloquent, it’s buttfuck o clock in the morning but I thought I’d answer this as quick as I could)

You really don’t have to force yourself. I think every trans person has a complicated and deeply personal relationship to gender and at the end of the day it’s whatever makes you happiest, at least to me. Personally, my conception of my own gender fluctuates; presentation and androgyny are strong influences on how I feel; transmasc and genderfluid are just the simplest (and thus most useful for my purposes) labels even if they’re not 100% correct for me. Queerness is one of those things that can be hard to catch by the ankle and wrestle into a label. Although for some people it is! Not to be wishy washy but it’s all different.

Anyway. I didn’t talk at length about why I don’t really fuck with transmasc headcanons (I’d rather not get accused of transphobia on tumblr) but it’s really just that transmasculinity is my real actual life. A lot of my life already centers transness by default, which is not, you know, a bad thing. It’s just how it is. And again I have a complicated relationship with gender.

So while I’m a firm believer that other people should make their paper dolls look and fuck how they want, my paper dolls will almost always be cis guys. Something about the fantasy of having a dick, something about me personally finding dick on dick action hot (points at myself. fujoshi.) something about not wanting to write about all the intricacies of transness and worry about if I’m “portraying it correctly” or “representing the community well”…it’s too much and quite frankly I’m an erotica writer having too much fun on the internet, and that’s how I like it. A mutual described all that as “the politics of pussy” and that sums up the aversion I have to writing about transmasculinity when I write for kicks and giggles. I want to do it “right” even if I simultaneously hold the belief that there’s no “right” way to write most things and that kind of cognitive gymnastics is tiring.

As always I have exceptions. You’ll find at least a couple works on my ao3 that feature explicitly transmasc characters or are vague about the sex of the characters on purpose. This is either because someone paid me to write those (which is not a dig, I wouldn’t have accepted the commission if I didn’t want to!) or because I was just in the mood to write trans porn, lmao. It’s difficult to be specific about What Exact Flavor of Transmasc is the kind I’m willing to create or eat on the internet, which a. kills nuance and b. isn’t obligated to cater to me specifically.

Trans erotica played a large part in helping me accept myself and my sexuality as a trans person. Trans headcanon also tends to be close enough to home that engaging with it 80% of the time is not fun. I think, too, that headcanon doesn’t reflect your beliefs as a person; what matters is how you treat real actual people.

But yeah, sorry for going on for so long. I have terminal yapper disease LOL. Congratulations on the realization and I’m sorry about the breakdown, hope things get clearer and easier for you in the coming days :]

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

This post originally appeared on Reddit

My "Aha Moment" happened because of a package of hamburger meat. I asked my husband to stop by the store to pick up a few things for dinner, and when he got home, he plopped the bag on the counter. I started pulling things out of the bag, and realized he'd gotten the 70/30 hamburger meat - which means it's 70% lean and 30% fat.

I asked, "What's this?"

"Hamburger meat," he replied, slightly confused.

"You didn't get the right kind," I said.

"I didn't?" He replied with his brow furrowed. " Was there some other brand you wanted or something?"

"No. You're missing the point, " I said. "You got the 70/30. I always get at least the 80/20."

He laughed. "Oh. That's all? I thought I'd really messed up or something."

That's how it started. I launched into him. I berated him for not being smarter. Why would he not get the more healthy option? Did he even read the labels? Why can't I trust him? Do I need to spell out every little thing for him in minute detail so he gets it right? Also, and the thing I was probably most offended by, why wasn't he more observant? How could he not have noticed over the years what I always get? Does he not pay attention to anything I do?

As he sat there, bearing the brunt of my righteous indignation and muttering responses like, "I never noticed," "I really don't think it's that big of a deal," and "I'll get it right next time," I saw his face gradually take on an expression that I'd seen on him a lot in recent years. It was a combination of resignation and demoralization. He looked eerily like our son does when he gets chastised. That's when it hit me. "Why am I doing this? I'm not his mom."

I suddenly felt terrible. And embarrassed for myself. He was right. It really wasn't anything to get bent out of shape over. And there I was doing just that. Over a silly package of hamburger meat that he dutifully picked up from the grocery store just like I asked. If I had specific requirements, I should have been clearer. I didn't know how to gracefully extract myself from the conversation without coming across like I have some kind of split personality, so I just mumbled something like, "Yeah. I guess we'll make do with this. I'm going to start dinner."

He seemed relieved it was over and he left the kitchen.

And then I sat there and thought long and hard about what I'd just done. And what I'd been doing to him for years, probably. The "hamburger meat moment," as I've come to call it, certainly wasn't the first time I scolded him for not doing something the way I thought it should be done. He was always putting something away in the wrong place. Or leaving something out. Or neglecting to do something altogether. And I was always right there to point it out to him.

Why do I do that? How does it benefit me to constantly belittle my husband? The man that I've taken as my partner in life. The father of my children. The guy I want to have by my side as I grow old. Why do I do what women are so often accused of, and try to change the way he does every little thing? Do I feel like I'm accomplishing something? Clearly not if I feel I have to keep doing it. Why do I think it's reasonable to expect him to remember everything I want and do it just that way? The instances in which he does something differently, does it mean he's wrong? When did "my way" become "the only way?" When did it become okay to constantly correct him and lecture him and point out every little thing I didn't like as if he were making some kind of mistake?

And how does it benefit him? Does it make him think, "Wow! I'm sure glad she was there to set me straight?" I highly doubt it. He probably feels like I'm harping on him for no reason whatsoever. And it I'm pretty sure it makes him think his best approach in regards to me is to either stop doing things around the house, or avoid me altogether.

Two cases in point. #1. I recently found a shard of glass on the kitchen floor. I asked him what happened. He said he broke a glass the night before. When I asked why he didn't tell me, he said, "I just cleaned it up and threw it away because I didn't want you to have a conniption fit over it." #2. I was taking out the trash and found a pair of blue tube socks in the bin outside. I asked him what happened and why he'd thrown them away. He said, "They accidentally got in the wash with my jeans. Every time I put in laundry, you feel the need to remind me not to mix colors and whites. I didn't want you to see them and reinforce your obvious belief that I don't know how to wash clothes after 35 years."

So it got to the point where he felt it was a better idea — or just plain easier — to cover things up than admit he made a human error. What kind of environment have I created where he feels he's not allowed to make mistakes?

And let's look at these "offenses": A broken glass. A pair of blue tube socks. Both common mistakes that anyone could have made. But he was right. Regarding the glass, I not only pointed out his clumsiness for breaking it, but also due to the shard I found, his sad attempt at cleaning it up. As for the socks, even though he'd clearly stated it was an accident, I gave him a verbal lesson about making sure he pays more attention when he's sorting clothes. Whenever any issues like this arise, he'll sit there and take it for a little bit, but always responds in the end with something like, "I guess it just doesn't matter that much to me."

I know now that what he means is, "this thing that has you so upset is a small detail, or a matter of opinion, or a preference, and I don't see why you're making it such a big deal." But from my end I came to interpret it over time that he didn't care about my happiness or trying to do things the way I think they should be done. I came to view it like "this guy just doesn't get it." I am clearly the brains of this operation.

I started thinking about what I'd observed with my friends' relationships, and things my girlfriends would complain about regarding their husbands, and I realized that I wasn't alone. Somehow, too many women have fallen into the belief that Wife Always Knows Best. There's even a phrase to reinforce it: "Happy wife, happy life." That doesn't leave a lot of room for his opinions, does it?

It's an easy stereotype to buy into. Look at the media. Movies, TV, advertisements - they're all filled with images of hapless husbands and clever wives. He can't cook. He can't take care of the kids. If you send him out to get three things, he'll come back with two — and they'll both be wrong. We see it again and again.

What this constant nagging and harping does is send a message to our husbands that says "we don't respect you. We don't think you're smart enough to do things right. We expect you to mess up. And when you do, you'll be called out on it swiftly and without reservation." Given this kind of negative reinforcement over time, he feels like nothing he can do is right (in your eyes). If he's confident with himself and who he is, he'll come to resent you. If he's at all unsure about himself, he'll start to believe you, and it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Neither one is a desirable, beneficial outcome to you, him or the marriage.

Did my husband do the same to me? Just as I'm sure there are untold numbers of women who don't ever do this kind of thing to their husbands, I'm sure there are men who do it to their wives too. But I don't think of it as a typical male characteristic. As I sat and thought about it, I realized my husband didn't display the same behavior toward me. I even thought about some of the times I really did make mistakes. The time I backed into the gate and scratched the car? He never said a word about it. The time I was making dinner, got distracted by a call from my mom, and burned it to cinders? He just said, "We can just order a pizza." The time I tried to put the new patio furniture together and left his good tools out in the rain? "Accidents happen," was his only response.

I shuddered to think what I would have said had the shoe been on the other foot and he'd made those mistakes.

So is he just a better person than me? Why doesn't he bite my head off when I don't do things the way he likes? I'd be a fool to think it doesn't happen. And yet I don't remember him ever calling me out on it. It doesn't seem he's as intent as changing the way I do things. But why?

Maybe I should take what's he always said at face value. The fact that these little things "really don't matter that much to him" is not a sign that he's lazy, or that he's incapable of learning, or that he just doesn't give a damn about what I want. Maybe to him, the small details are not that important in his mind — and justifiably so. They're not the kinds of things to start fights over. They're not the kinds of things he needs to change about me. It certainly doesn't make him dumb or inept. He's just not as concerned with some of the minutia as I am. And it's why he doesn't freak out when he's on the other side of the fence.

The bottom line in all this is that I chose this man as my partner. He's not my servant. He's not my employee. He's not my child. I didn't think he was stupid when I married him - otherwise I wouldn't have. He doesn't need to be reprimanded by me because I don't like the way he does some things.

When I got to that point mentally, it then made me start thinking about all the good things about him. He's intelligent. He's a good person. He's devoted. He's awesome with the kids. And he does always help around the house. (Just not always to my liking!) Even more, not only does he refrain from giving me grief when I make mistakes or do things differently than him, he's always been very agreeable to my way of doing things. And for the most part, if he notices I prefer to do something a certain way, he tries to remember it in the future. Instead of focusing on those wonderful things, I just harped on the negative. And again, I know I'm not alone in this.

If we keep attempting to make our husbands feel small, or foolish, or inept because they occasionally mess up (and I use that term to also mean "do things differently than us"), then eventually they're going to stop trying to do things. Or worse yet, they'll actually come to believe those labels are true.

In my case it's my husband of 12+ years I'm talking about. The same man who thanklessly changed my car tire in the rain. The guy who taught our kids to ride bikes. The person who stayed with me at the hospital all night when my mom was sick. The man who has always worked hard to make a decent living and support his family.

He knows how to change the oil in the car. He can re-install my computer's operating system. He lifts things for me that are too heavy and opens stuck jar lids. He shovels the sidewalk. He can put up a ceiling fan. He fixes the toilet when it won't stop running. I can't (or don't) do any of those things. And yet I give him grief about a dish out of place. He's a good man who does a lot for me, and doesn't deserve to be harassed over little things that really don't matter in the grand scheme of things.

Since my revelation, I try to catch myself when I start to nag. I'm not always 100% consistent, but I know I've gotten a lot better. And I've seen that one little change make a big improvement in our relationship. Things seem more relaxed. We seem to be getting along better. It think we're both starting to see each other more as trusted partners, not adversarial opponents at odds with each other in our day-to-day existence. I've even come to accept that sometimes his way of doing things may be better!

It takes two to make a partnership. No one is always right and no one is always wrong. And you're not always going to see eye-to-eye on every little thing. It doesn't make you smarter, or superior, or more right to point out every little thing he does that's not to your liking. Ladies, remember, it's just hamburger meat.

==

What socially acceptable abuse looks like.

[sevensided]

What popular byler meta do you think is the least likely to happen?

Literally anything related to 'Will created the Upside Down'.

I get why it's popular, and it's partly because we want Will to have power. But the idea that Will has powers/has the power of imagination runs contrary to the show's narrative.

A hugely important component of Stranger Things more broadly is the 'Reds under the bed' idea: that dangerous things lurk in the most unexpected of places. Stranger Things is about the subversion of the 80s suburban middle-class. It draws on many of the anxieties prominent in this period around social cohesion, normalcy, and political conservatism. When people call ST a love letter to the 80s they mean it in a visual sense; however, it's clearer to me that this is a show dedicated to exploring and uprooting many of the narrative columns that buttressed this historical period.

S1 is very clearly a lost child story. When Joyce asks about the '1%' of children who don't just run away from home, that's it. That is the hinge of the narrative. Because what happens to Will is so otherwordly it is impossible to categorise beyond the realm of fiction (which is what the Party do, when they use D&D to understand what has happened to their friend).

If Will - a character coded, and now confirmed in canon, to be gay - is presented or implied to have created the subterranean monstrosities that Hawkins is eventually subjected to, that is homophobic. Particularly in the 80s context, where 'gay diseases' like AIDs symbolicaly blurred the lines between sexual orientation and physical manifestation of illness. That the Upside Down is presented as a plague in S2 is the obvious extension of this logic.

Fundamentally, Stranger Things is about what happens when unusual (or strange) things happen to apparently normal people. Not a new premise - but that is what the story is about.

I also have a real bone of contention with any theory about Will having disorders and/or being secretly evil, or whatever. I could go into this in further depth, but really, I just hate these with a passion. Putting aside the stigmatisation of mental illnesses like, for example, DID, to conflate something like DID with the evil of the Upside Down or even Vecna is just... come on.

Ditto anything related to Will being Henry, or Henry being similar to Will, and so that means Will could be Vecna 2.0... or whatever. Again, are we watching the same show? The whole point is that Will faces the same social barriers as someone like Henry but he does not succumb to the darkness. Will is the light: he is a Cleric. He literally fights the darkness.

I could go on but I'll stop before I get too spicy. I can pull up some old posts that I have made about this very topic, if you like. Just let me know. :)

[the---hermit]

Cinnamon rolls

I normally don't really post recepies of what I bake and cook, I think in the past I only shared my lavender lemonade, but @crescentstudies asked me under a post, and I though someone else might be interested so here it is.

Mind that I have a tendency to eyeball the quantities of ingredients when I cook so this is more of a guideline than anything. Also here's the link to the first recepie I started to follow when I learned how to bake cinnamon rolls so the basics came from there.

Ingredients:

620 g of flour

50 g of sugar

yeast (the type I get is divided in pre-measured packs that I believe are around 7g more or less, it's the same I use for pizza or bread)

a generous pinch of salt

one egg

80 g of butter

120 g of water

120 g of milk

As with the majority of things I bake I mix dry and wet ingredients separately, in this particular recepie I melt the butter so things are bit faster and easier (just wait for it to be at room temperature before adding it to the rest of the wet ingredients, because you don't want the heat of the butter to cook part of the egg while you mix). After I have my two mixtures I combine and as soon as I form a dough I put it to rest. For this kind of recepie I like to let the dough rise in the oven with just the light on, so I am sure the temperature is stable (you can cover it with plastic wrap, that helps too). I don't really put a timer on, I'd say I leave it to rest for an hour more or less. At this point I roll the dough out in a rectangular shape, again I totally eyeball it, I just try to have it evenly spread out. After I did this I melt a bit more butter that I then spread on the dough (and also on the bottom of the baking dish I'll use). Then I spread on the butter (both on the dough and on the bottom of the dish) a mixture of sugar and cinnamon, I again eyeball the measures, I would say start with 100 g of sugar, add cinnamon and mix until it has evenly browned the sugar, and then if you need a bit more just adjust, you'll figure things as you go. Once I have this done I roll the dough as evenly and thigt as I can on the longer side of the rectangle. Once I have the dough rolled out I cut it into pieces, to make sure the rolls are more or less of the same size I like to cut the dough in half and then each half in half and so on. Depending on how big you want your rolls to be you can create either 12 or 16 rolls. I prefer to make 16, but it's totally up to you. At this point I place them in the baking dish, and I let the rolls rest and rise again for at least one hour, this is the stage in which they get much bigger. I sometimes let them rest for even one hour and a half or two hours, but in general I like to let what I bake rise a lot before baking, as that tends to make everything a little les harsh on the stomach. Once the rolls have rested I cook them for more or less half an hour in a pre-heated oven at 180°C. Each oven cooks things much differently so I'd advise to keep an eye out and use a stick to check if the rolls have cooked before taking them out of the oven.

And that's it! These are best when freshly made, as they tend to get a bit harder in the days after, to avoid that I would recommend deviding them as you plan to eat them. This way the sides that are connceted will stay a bit softer. Not that they will last long, because believe me these are really good and they will disappear in not time. If you end up making them let me know!! I hope I was clear enough in explaining everything, and although I know it'd be better to have clearer mesurments, once you get used to baking you'll see that eyeballing things is much easier.

[dynmghts]

ok and because i didn't want my other post getting TOO long... let's also talk about bakugou katsuki's undying devotion to midoriya izuku.

to do so requires understanding how their bond plays out in canon. and, understandably, that shit is complicated. but i'll do my best to simplify it so i can actually expand on the part that i do want to talk about, because he's literally insane with how deep his devotion runs?????

like okay, we all know the main gist of their beginnings: katsuki and izuku were friends. katsuki fell off a log, izuku went to help, and that intimidated katsuki so much that he pushed him away and did everything he could to violently cut him off. we also know that katsuki was extremely antagonistic towards izuku, and though that tapered off a fraction after the sludge villain incident, it wasn't (at least partially) resolved until deku vs. kacchan part 2, at ground beta.

this is also where things kind of get muddy for most people; that transitionary period from their previous enemy dynamic to a more assured rivalry. which i understand as well! it's a bit of a jump, and can be very hard to define the nuances in the way they speak to each other after that fight.

i think the most important takeaways are this: izuku is a lot more open to addressing katsuki, and katsuki can have a one-on-one conversation with him without it getting destructive. furthering on from that, katsuki is willing to participate in discussions about one for all and the subsequent powers that emerge past the base quirk, and it's evident that he spends a considerable amount of time training with izuku outside of class hours. izuku reads as someone still trying to adjust to this new side of kacchan, but he's also a lot more bold about the way he speaks to him - like true rivals.

and yes, katsuki still gets a bit mean-spirited with izuku, but izuku most certainly learns not to take any offence to it. (see: the way they bounce off each other in joint training, their dynamic in endeavor agency.)

so cam, you might ask, when did katsuki make such a 180?

and my answer is: it was never a 180.

his devotion began the moment he fought midoriya izuku in ground beta. as soon as izuku clarified the things katsuki spent YEARS clinging onto, as soon as katsuki had the boy pinned down with a win despite it being all might's quirk... there was a part of him that knew, i think. that this was going to change who he was to izuku forever.

in the manga, we get much clearer signals that katsuki's becoming more devoted to being by izuku's side, even before the first real showing of it in ch285. they left this little bit of foreshadowing out in the anime, but after katsuki saves jirou...

"this is the first time we've seen him put it all on the line for someone else."

this was back in ch208, before they even went to work studies. the characters themselves don't know this of course, this foreshadowing is strictly for the viewers, but you know which character is the most likely to know he would put everything on the line for midoriya izuku?

bakugou katsuki himself.

then skip forward almost 80 chapters, and katsuki literally risks his life to protect izuku's. skip forward a little more, and he's marching through the hospital with the risk of reopening wounds, just to find izuku and make sure he wasn't going to die.

again, and he's one of the few rallying the class into chasing izuku - the one who puts his foot down TO A PRO HERO, stating that he knows izuku better than anyone else. he joined the search with a still-wounded shoulder and helped the efforts to catch him. and when they did, he finally stepped forward and wore his heart on his sleeve: he apologised to the kid he bullied for ten years, in the rain that he hates, in front of the entire class who didn't know the extent of it.

then he's the one who swears off the name "deku" unless it's strictly for hero work, where it's his hero name, and that's how he wants it to be. he's the one that trains with izuku day in and day out leading up to that final battle against shigaraki. he's the one stationed with izuku to fight on the floating ua, with a team of heroes in the top ten and the big three of their school.

he knew his existence was the death warrant from shigafo, because he's the closest person to midoriya izuku, and he decided that if he had to die, he had to make sure they would win - he went to his death with the hope that his final attack would give izuku an edge when he got back. edgeshot on the summary of vol37 said that the person katsuki was waiting for, deku, would come, and that was why he had to bring him back to life.

and then what happens the MOMENT katsuki comes back? he goes to the edge of ua and spots izuku. rushes to his side. lets himself be directed to where he has to be, to ease the burden, to save their mentor and idol and the symbol of peace before beating the symbol of terror. and even after getting a brief respite, the moment he had to be there for izuku, he was - he had no portal to get him all the way back to where he was located. he TOOK HIMSELF THERE.

finally, in that aftermath, he went to izuku's room and heard he was quirkless again and his entire fucking world shattered.

because if all of the above doesn't speak the volumes of devotion bakugou katsuki has for midoriya izuku, he is so, so dedicated to that boy that... well;

"i guess i thought... we'd be competing... and i'd be on your heels... for the rest... of our... lives..."

it doesn't matter how you want to perceive his and izuku's bond. in the end, i don't really think it matters how the manga decides to end either. everything i've said is canon - or, at least, as close to canon as i can interpret it.

their lives are so innately intertwined now that it's so, so hard to separate them. katsuki's devotion to izuku runs so deep that he has endured pain, endured things he hates, endured death and resurrection and permanent consequences for the actions he's taken, and yet... he would do it all again for him.

and if that strikes fear into your muse, it honestly, probably should.

[gerrymike]

Writing pointers Ive internalised up to now more or less for my own reference no one asked but i needed the refresher

- classic show not tell kinda subscribed to the Palahniuk school i dont have the article on hand but it’s good even though i forget to do it sometimes. My philosophy is show for the 80% of time where showing lets you puppet around sexier pictures, tell for maybe 20% of the time when you have a specific voice to the telling and if the pictures the showing makes are pointless/redundant/slow-downs. okay hey wait I found the article it’s called “Nuts and bolts”

- Ocean Vuong on metaphors where the metaphor HAS to serve a purpose or connect to something, or at least have an “underneath” underside to it that can’t be accessed through any other means, note: sometimes the metaphor comes to you but usually if you feel real strong about it and can’t seem to replace it with anything else then it’s probably got a hidden layer already that will show itself to you with time even if it doesn’t really make sense in the moment. This pointer is the main source of my anguish when i read my old stuff because Im always like fucccckkkkk this metaphor is so gauche, what are you doing

- again i dont fkin remember where this is from but the thing about external/internal prose - God i swear this is from someone’s medium account but i don’t know. Basically interior novels where page space is mainly your character’s thoughts VS physical space novels, with your characters moving around, acting out and interacting with an environment with their thoughts maybe veiled from reader. Kind of ties into Nuts and Bolts with the showing, but on a diff level I like to stay in the external realm in a way where you could block the whole novel as a play with clearer, charming actions that can translate to visually compelling stage directions. Of course it depends on how interior/exterior your narrator/character is but in principle i find it easy to dislike overly interior narrators (why should your reader care what your narrator thinks??)

- secondary to prev point, if the movement/interactions you block aren’t inherently stylish then they should serve a purpose, moving your characters from point A to point B necessitates a relevant activity at point B, a push factor away from point A, or valuable information communicated from what happens in the journey…wait i say stylish a lot i dunno if ykwim best example i can think of is from Miss Julie where (even though it’s secondary to the dialogue at hand) while Julie tries to bargain with Christine you have Jean VISIBLE TO THE AUDIENCE in the wings of the stage sharpening his razor two hands nodding to himself as she repeats exactly the words he used to bargain with her <- THAT is style

- kinda boils down to the common thing about ensuring motivations for all of your characters, like all of them should have wants that drive them to be in places (if you flesh your guys out wholly enough this should come naturally)

- on character voices best if you can reach a point where you can basically hear them chatting at you in your head: best examples I think are like, Mercymorn from the locked tomb (crazy brilliant and bonkers voicing from muir imo), Tennessee williams plays (but they’re plays so obviously the voices are meant to be heard - i just personally haven’t seen any of them performed so i hear them 100% based on williams’ skill in writing dialogue)… no real tips on getting to this point but if you’re going for a specific brogue obviously listening to it helps. Though the point of writing fiction is ofc that it’s fiction and you can make your characters talk funnier and smarter than anyone in real life might so like: liberties, my philosophy is style over realism in the tradition of stage monologues and the like, where your characters chat in the manner you wish people around you talked all the time (STRIKE THROUGH THE MASK!!!!!)

- word count for sake of word count is your enemy if you ever catch yourself writing a scene that bores you, if it bores your reader then no ones gonna be happy. Cut it and frame it in a way that you like enough to keep in at all costs

- lowkey been trying to cut down my semicolon usage because I grudgingly see the value of Cormac Mccarthy stylistic choices but laaaaiiiikeee its hard and sometimes you need it to install a kind of half-breath in your prose - i think the middle ground I want to reach is the use of it as a luxury and not like pepper (literally searched the last chapter for my semicolon usage and its 28 like 3 per thousand words :( help)

- literally never make me read the word cishet in a serious work of writing ever. “Dysphoria” no “trans” its 50/50 “genderfuck” get out of town no “intersectional feminist” no. Okay lol this point is just me being not liking any explicit integration of the present cultural-political terminology into writing and also me being a bit bitchy about this one lgbt cult novel named after a US state if you can guess which. My view is it will always be gauche and i dont like it and it tends to prompt me to say out loud to myself My God I hate gay people

More later if i think of it but i swear ive yet to meet the writing pointer from a true sage that is gonna transform my thinking and make what im capable of transcendental

[karouvas]

karencamila is so insane I literally love them so bad. Karen really knows and gets Camila imo in a way really no one else in the book does, and I think that’s why when she talked about her in the book are the times Camila feels most like a real person and not other people’s idealized images of her yet the descriptions are so full of love like the Camila wanting pancakes for breakfast and then tricking everyone into having them for breakfast instead of what they actually wanted story being in Karen’s pov, and then so are the scenes where Camila’s strength and faith and love and acceptance are painted as admirable and specifically something Karen relied on to steady her most clearly in the scene where she takes her to the abortion clinic and the way she accepts Karen wanting such different things out of life than she does. 

At the same time, it’s so obvious that Karen looks at Camila and sees everything she would Never ever want to be and everything she would Not want out of life. Karen Camila and Daisy really are supposed to be representative of how very different women can get what they want out of life in different ways (while also not quite getting what all that they want because everyone’s endings are bittersweet which is a big part of what appeals to me about it so much tbh) I reblogged a post comparing them to Jo Meg and Amy March respectively with their roles and I think that 100% tracks and makes sense for the themes there. I enjoy how it’s done overall even though I don’t love that the only brown woman in the story is meant to be this ideal mother figure who has everything figured out and facilitates Karen and Daisy’s complicated arcs (which I do love) around what they want and how that’s different/similar, I liked that in the show it was a bit more obvious she had some bitterness around having to raise Julia on her own while Billy was in the band it felt realistic and did correspond with the part of the book where Karen remembers Camila starting to complain and then sort of backtracking and saying she loves and is totally happy with her life/marriage (which again adds to my Karen-had-the-most-clear-picture-of-Camila belief. or conversely I guess you could say maybe Karen is projecting some of her own baggage onto the memory but I prefer the former more). 

Also I said before that I think Graham very much wants Karen to be his Camila (because he wants Billy’s life) and to turn her into that (Billy writing the first version of honeycomb vs Graham writing the canyon which gets rejected by Billy and Karen is so happy/relieved to not have to sing about him wanting a white picket fence life with her teehee) so I think that would cause a change in how Karen views her too. I do think it’s so interesting even though the show gives us a clearer picture of Karen and the others complacency re: DB (and it does ring true to me that Karen would prioritize what’s good for her career over friendships. I saw someone praising Karen for being a really good friend to Camila and Daisy equally and not getting involved in the love triangle drama… she was not a good friend for that lmao.

And it’s not like she was choosing her friendship with Daisy over her friendship with Camila, and she certainly wasn’t choosing Billy who she has a good repair with and cares for but is not nearly as close with as the two women, I do think if it came down to who of those people/relationships was most important to her even with her respect and soft spot for Daisy it would be Camila… her ambition is top priority for her and that’s the choice she made (I love her so bad <333). And like, in the book there were pages and pages of everyone in the band saying how obvious especially Billy’s feelings for Daisy were (as Billy tried his best to beat the allegations and be all Iwon’tsayI’minlove:mp3 until he was worn down gradually then eventually did a 180 around the 80% mark. They knew what was going on at least most of them, definitely Karen and Graham and Teddy (going off secondhand from Rod) and Rod. I do like that the show muddied a lot of how far characters actually went with their mistakes or unsavory actions or activeness vs passiveness and the resulting harm, and I think it is so fascinating how differently audiences received those choices where they want to draw lines etc.

[baby-girl-e]

Currently I’m sitting on a google doc that has 80 Icemav fics that I’ve read and LOVED, soooooo I think now is a good time to share! I’ll do at least one a week if not more!

So without further ado…

When and where by twowritehands on AO3

This fic is beyond beautiful! It’s a slow burn, but the payoff is so worth it!

It’s a Soulmate AU where everyone gets a clue that’ll help them find their soulmate and as the years go on your clue gets clearer. Mavericks clue is what was Charlie’s house, until she leaves and Ice moves in 👀

I adore this fic, it’s even downloaded onto my phone so I can read it whenever! I cannot recommend this one enough, whether you like AUs or not! The building up of the relationship is so beautiful that I can only hope to be that good in my writing one day!

If this writer has a tumblr I’m unaware of please tag them so we can all tell them how amazing they are! Don’t forget to give kudos on their fic!

[theretirementstory]

Bonjour et bienvenue on this cloudy, cool morning, it’s only 5c out there at the moment and we can expect a high of only 10c. However, I don’t care as I am going out for lunch to the restaurant by the lake.

4 years ago, to the day, I stood on the rooftop of the museum in Mahdia and took this photo. I had arrived on the 22nd for the start of a 10 day holiday in Tunisia, I felt it was a good idea to be reminded of the sun and sea.

I have decided to do the music section first this week for reasons which may become clearer as the blog progresses. The first song is dates from 1980 and is by the Average White Band, its, Let’s Go Round Again. AWB are probably better known for their hit “Pick up the Pieces. I hope you enjoy these songs. The second song also from the 80’s is “Its My Life” by Talk Talk from 1986.

My young friend Pauline celebrated her 27th birthday on Monday, she had a great day. On Sunday she had been to the beach in Barcelona enjoying some someshine. She had a cake with candles and made a wish that I would recover! What a wonderful wish 😊. She said for the first time she is loving her work, obviously working in Barcelona, where she benefits from the brighter days, has booster her morale. Not like when she lived in Dublin and the bright days were few and far between.

After an horrendous nightmare where I felt like being “The Pied Piper” and leading zillions of 🐀 🐀 🐀 to the banks of the River Aube, I decided to ask my neighbour to check out my composter. The verdict was “No rats in here Mrs” oh did that make me feel better and I went into the garden and cardboard mulched around the hellebores which made my day. I also found close to the hellebores and even in the grass signs, if not primulas, then cowslips. I plan on letting the grass grow in order for them to at least flower, as long as I don’t have long spells in hospital, I hope to not let the grass be “shorn to the ground” which is what my neighbour seems to do to his grass. It’s kind of him to mow my grass but not to have it covered in moss during the wet months.

Primulas have been messed up again in the potager by “the damned cat” and now it has found it’s way into the back garden to 💩 first of all in the grass and then into the raised bed to not “tiptoe through the tulips” (as the song goes) but to 💩 and scratch among the daffodils. Is there no end to this “Monster”.

I had hurt my back last Friday replanting the planter (think I have pulled a muscle). So plans to add more cardboard mulch to the borders are on hold. As I can’t even carry a quarter bag of compost!

The nurse came and took my bloods, I had felt rather faint (hungry) before she came so bless her she was going to get me some breakfast before she left. I just asked for a cup of milk, which she brought me, I thought that was very kind of her.

I did a lot of reading at the weekend which meant that my knitting has been neglected 😱. I did a little bit early in the week but my heart isn’t in it at the moment. I went into town on Tuesday to see Claudine and to give the photocopied pattern for the crocheted pendant and earrings to her. We are looking to make some smaller items to sell at a lower price so that people will buy them at the markets. I then walked into town to see if the jeweller would be able to look at the stone in my grandmothers engagement ring to confirm if it was real or not. When I arrived possibly about 14:50 he was out and would be another 20 minutes or so. I couldn’t hang around!

The toilet I had fitted when I first moved into this house in 2019, has for years had a temperamental flush. Occasionally it flushed and water continued running down the back of the bowl causing terrible rumbling noises in the pipes. I guessed it was due to limescale but how to solve it? I asked my new plumber the cause and he cleaned the flush but it was still doing it occasionally. Well he came and worked his magic this week I think he cleared a lot of the limescale out of the cistern, replaced the flush, which now does exactly as needed a half flush as well as a full flush and at the moment no gurgling pipes.

Oh my goodness, have I told you how wonderful my grandchildren are? I received three videos of them playing at home. They are happy to play separately but the youngest (my grandson) was playing with his ro-ro ferry near where my granddaughter was playing with her dolls, needing some help he asked so politely if she could help him, she stopped what she was doing to open one of the doors then when he wanted it closing again she did that too. It was so wonderful to see.

“The Photographer” was unable to take photos at Scarborough AFC on Tuesday as he was working a 1-9 shift. He had been to an hotel near to Skipton for a night which included a meal at the Michelin Star restaurant. It was a 7 course taster menu, it all looked really delicious.

“The Trainee Solicitor” and “The Ex-Graduate” had four nights away in a “lodge” in Wensleydale. It had beautiful views but on their last night they were so cold and rain was coming in through a skylight. They were also disappointed with the siting of the hot tub. They did manage a decent walk to Hardraw Falls before returning soaked through. They took a trip to Aysgarth Falls it’s an area of renowned movie locations and of course Wensleydale cheese is known from the Wallace and Gromit film series.

My appointment with the oncologist was on Friday and as I had perused my blood test results I knew that all was not well. However, telling myself I am no doctor, I waited to hear what he had to say. Yes, cancer is back! So there I am not struck dumb at all and my first question was “is there treatment available?” The reply was “yes” my next question “when do we start chemotherapy, next week?” Yes I go into hospital on Tuesday. That’s all I needed to know. Poor Monique when I messaged her…. She replied did I want her to ring me or call to see me the next day. I said for her to come and visit me the following day. Apparently she had cried, she rang her daughter and cried again. My friends are rallying again, hence the restaurant lunch today. Anie who is still suffering with shingles pain without the postules, made me laugh when she said the postules can’t get through her fat, she isn’t fat at all! She too provided moral support. Pauline hadn’t answered my message yet and I know she will be upset. However, I am here and obviously fit enough to go through more treatment. It has made me think that perhaps the nine years I had when I thought I was a cancer survivor, I was actually just living with cancer. Who cares, I have had some great times and if I have any say in the matter I will have a lot more to come!

Monique came yesterday and we had a really good chat (about two hours worth) 😳. She always amazes me, she has a lovely garden at home but she looked out at mine, at the hyacinths just starting to flower, the tulips, daffodils, iris and the hellebores and declared it a wonderful garden. She loves the potager full of violas whose seed blew on the wind and filled the potager with yellow and green brightness. Then she noticed the violas tulips and iris I had transplanted to there location near the composter and was full of admiration. I felt very proud. I think I had better check the seeds I have to plant this year as I really do want the garden to be a riot of colour!

I had my book delivery on Thursday, whew what a relief! I have plenty of reading material to take into hospital with me.

Now I really must leave my bed and start to get ready for my lunchtime rendezvous.

Oh I would just like to add a special “God morgen” to anyone reading this in Norway.

Until next time…..

[emblazons]

I always thought it was weird that the thing Melvins defaulted to when they saw July criticism of Mike is "you're just mad your ship didn't happen" or "So Byler not being canon makes Mike a bad character? Stay mad." Because there's a large middle ground in between "Byler canon in vol 2" and "Mike ignoring Will crying in the van and saying his life started that day they met El in the woods."

If they weren't intending for Byler S5 endgame (which we know now that they are) then there is so much they could have done that didn't fit into one of those two extremes and still was written well, and so seeing all the (at the time) valid criticism be dismissed as just bitter shippers being bitter never sat right with me.

(I’m assuming this is in regard to the answered asked I linked in a couple of posts before this, so forgive me if I’m mistaken lol. That’s what I had in mind answering this).

Honestly? When I first walked into this fandom I didn’t even realize the things you listed were mlvn “talking points” until I saw them repeatedly in comments from vitriolic antis obsessed with ‘defending’ their ship / tearing down byler 😭 the first time I saw someone try to use me being critical of the writing to say that somehow meant mlvn endgame I laughed aloud, because the fact is (dare I admit this lmao) I was sold on those two breaking up more clearly after vol ii than I was Byler happening in S5 ☠️

That said—it is curious even now that people think engaging critically / having (at least somewhat objective) criticism for your media somehow means you don’t like what you’re criticizing, considering that (at least for me) it was the total opposite. It was my love for ST that made me invested enough to dig into why what happened in vol ii with WillElMike went down in the first place—and I’ve always been a firm believer in the “the most respectful thing you can do when engaging with an artist is to take their work seriously,” which was the respect I showed The Duffers by making an attempt to make sense of the “mess” they presented in Vol II.

To this day I think there might have been a few ways to make clearer their intent without giving the entire plot away—and I think The Duffers realize it too, considering they’ve admitted to hearing feedback from S4 and clarifying / reworking some things in S5 (if someone had that I’d love a link. I’m like 80% sure it was something for TUDUM) even though they do play stuff close to the chest. It’s not bad to admit a few things could have been clearer/tighter or even that it’s probably not great that it took most of even their most dedicated fans several months of reframing to make sense of their work, but I digress—the duffers aren’t perfect, even though they’ve written a great story + have a clear setup moving them into season 5. And that’s okay!

I’m more than willing to give them the benefit of the doubt now that I know what their intentions were—which is why I always tell people to listen to the creators more than the actors when it comes to understanding wtf is going on. When you listen to how they write / what they think about what’s going on, it becomes a lot clearer 1) where their interests lie and 2) what they are trying to get across in both the action and the subtext—which is how most bylers got to the sentiments we have now.

Thanks for the ask!