#how many years will it perpetually be in limbo

[zazora]

Does anyone actually know why there isn't a proper streaming service to watch Fullmetal Alchemist 2003?

Why do quite a few platforms have Brotherhood, but not the original? BH is a hugely popular anime, you would think 03 would be picked up by SOMEONE.

[slowd1ving]

Hi! If you're not taking reqs then feel free to ignore this but could you write Kim dokja angst? Maybe we're switching the roles and the reader is dying instead of dokja for once lmao

HOUSE OF CARDS ゜・KIM DOKJA

"A house made of cards, like the fools we are." In which a gambler finally pays the price for his bet. never actually written angst so I hope this is good enough anon art creds to kim28_dokja on twt! pairings: kim dokja + gn reader warnings: blood, injury, death, references to child abuse/dokja's past wc: 2.4k

ORV MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Dokja is shit at games. 

It’s clear to the dealer. Even on the best day, those omnipotent palms that allocate fate will grow clammy (which they never do) and that ever-present smile slowly turns into a profound grimace. They know. They feel it instinctually, on a cellular level: that hand was terrible. 

It’s clear to the people around him. The salaryman stumbles into the building as though he’s just learned to walk: in never-polished shoes, slacks that perpetually crease further with each nervous wipe of his hands, and the clinging scent of smoke that preludes his entrance. He’s not got his life together, they observe, behind stony poker faces he can never quite master. That’s why he’s here.

Most of all, it’s clear to Kim Dokja himself. Every irregular heartbeat pulses in his throat as he gazes at his cards—two seven offsuit. In his sweat-streaked fingers is the short straw urging him to enlist. On the table before him are all his chess pieces, lined up neatly: spectators to the constant check, his inevitable downfall. 

Despite his atrocious luck, the thin red string binding him to this world never quite severs. A fire befalls the casino. A bullet embeds itself in the shell of his helmet and not a hair further. The chess game is postponed by a phone call and the poignant sound of shattering glass—and Dokja is left to shoulder the limbo of an unfinished game.

He’s shit at games, but never truly loses. 

Is it simply up to chance? A coin is tossed into the air: another foolish plan devised, another chip placed that equates to one of his lives. Crisis after crisis—Dokja, that harbinger of misfortune—yet each time, he resurrects. He bets on it, in fact: quite literally gambling away everything. 

It is just how things are. He cuts corners. He smooth-talks the fates into letting his transgressions slide just a little longer. For once, he’s winning, and the grand prize is something beyond his wildest dreams—an ending, to mark the indefinite uncertainty of chapters that seem to grow like nebulae. 

“Dokja.” It’s a sigh each time when he defies the end. Anyone else would interpret it as exasperation, but he likes to think he knows you better than that; it’s relief you greet him with, no matter how many times he sacrifices himself. “You idiot.”

It’s nice to know his long-time friend cares about him. 

No matter how many times he places his bets, the value of his life never seems to deprecate for you. Sacrifice is something you’d rather avoid (so does he, but it cannot always be helped, right?). If Dokja’s life can be used to save more of the people he cares about, all the better. 

In fact, he’d rather keep you away from any front line. 

There’s a story of its own between the two of you: years of scraped knees and violence, of gazing up at your shoulders while you bruise your knuckles with whoever bruised his eye, of friendship pacts forged with spat-on palms and corded bracelets. 

Your very soul is entwined with his scrawny one from years past, and it’s always been the case that yours has fought the battles in his stead. ‘Why?’ he’d once asked, and he still vividly remembers the cool response you attempted to give, only to end up fumbling the words. 

Because I can. Because I want to. Because you deserve it. 

It’s his turn to repay his debts. These fights are no longer about a bloodied mouth and spitting red onto the asphalt. They don’t end with bruised ribs and broken noses. 

You sit out. This one, he thinks grimly, is his fight—one that will guarantee both you and him turning the page on ◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼. Every factor has been considered. Each risk is carefully mitigated at the expense of himself. None of the contingencies fail to prioritise his oldest friend. 

These are chips he cannot afford to bet on. 

Naturally, he keeps them close to his chest. 

゜゜・

Dokja is shit at games. 

His friends know it all too well. Those disbelieving laughs they let out, their fists clenching and unclenching as they debate whether to hit him across the head—Dokja, the herald of despair, he is—and finally the rush of words leaving their mouths like air deflating from a balloon: “Never do that again.”

All in, his chips go—each and every time. There is no other way about it: not unless you shackled Dokja to you in vain to make him listen—to stop the endless deaths he goes through. Over and over, until you feel his mind wear into recklessness, until you see the emptiness that taints his eyes as he slips into quiet contemplation.

How will Dokja die this time?

You’d rather erode into nothingness than clip his wings, though. That book he gushed about to you (syllables rushing over themselves in his excitement each update) gave him back his life—if you ruin his painstaking ◼◼◼◼◼◼◼, you don’t think you could forgive yourself.

Even if he’s ratcheting to Icarian heights. Those feathers of his are beginning to streak wax-hot down man-made frames, made of pages upon pages of a book obsolete to all but one dedicated reader. 

You think he can see the pain in your eyes, before he turns away with lips pressed together tightly. You’ll be safe, he reassured you. You’ve got me. I’ll create an epilogue for you to witness. 

Dokja’s changed. 

Those scrawny shoulders have become something that the very sky settles on: ones that no longer shake behind your own arms. The world has bruised you, and Dokja shall bruise it back. Every favour, repaid tenfold. 

Dokja’s changed. 

He’s still got the same facade of the boy you’ve called your oldest friend. If it weren’t for that, you’d think the man who coldly settles his death were a stranger. Someone you never shook hands with, childishly grimacing at the remains of a spat-upon pact rubbing into small palms. 

Dokja’s changed. 

He thinks he no longer causes misfortune with each risk he takes—as if his life were a mere trifle, as if each shred of news about him doesn’t shatter your heart over and over. 

When will it end? 

You haven’t seen him for months. 

Is it finally time to grieve?

゜゜・

Dokja is shit at games. 

It seems you are too. He turns the page of his book, and beside him the house of cards is carefully stacked on the glass table. It’s a precarious matter: high stakes against yourself, an unsafe tightrope that threatens to give way any moment now. 

Your eyes meet his. 

Like magic, the house collapses. 

゜゜・

You are shit at games. 

You take a deep breath, and begin organising what could be the final legacy of Dokja. It’s something he treasured even over his life, evidently: the ending, which you allow into your soul in the Kim Dokja-shaped hole left behind. 

It’s the first time you take a gamble: carefully picking up the shards of his ideas while rivulets of blood run down your fingers. It’s your turn. 

The battlefield in the scenarios is a sanctuary: white noise washing out Dokja’s ever-persistent voice in your head. There’s a perpetual, acrid smell of ash and smoke—a reek that is far better than the dust of buildings Dokja leaves you behind in. 

It’s hard. 

Gambling is not for you; in the sense that it sickens you, rather than just invoking disaster like it does for Dokja. The only good thing about it is that Dokja’s dream is finally being realised—a tribute to your oldest, dearest friend. Like funerary wine, metallic iron fills your mouth (a once-familiar taste) with each battle, every step closer to the story Dokja wove for you. A fabric so salient you couldn’t help but be entangled in it. 

I can do it. That is your gamble. 

You do it. 

You cut down monsters the size of buildings. You cling to life with bleeding fingernails, scraped raw with tenacity. Tentatively, you begin fleshing in the husk of yourself: talking with the friends you made in the apocalypse once more.

And like Dokja, you begin defying death. 

It starts off small—an arrow that you saw coming but didn’t feel like dodging. Jung Heewon almost blew a gasket when she took a glimpse, but then her eyes met yours—filled with the same distance that Dokja’s were, as though you too were peering through an impersonal screen—and she looked away for a brief moment. 

“Idiot,” she whispers. “Don’t treat yourself like Dokja.”

Your chips pile up. 

Except, you don’t quite have the same privilege that your dearest friend has. 

You will incur the cost, rather than somebody else. There is a reason Dokja is called a harbinger of ill fortune to others, and you are not. In the end, your downfall will be at your own hand. 

“Fool,” Yoo Joonghyuk grimaces as he cuts down a wolf you let claw your arm. The coppery stench is thick in the air, but there seems to be a manic grin on your face as you slice and chop and stab: a madness that slowly spreads like illness through your body. “There is nothing more worthless than sacrifice without cause.”

The debt accrues. 

Kim Dokja dreams of your knuckles, bloodied once more as you stand to face the world. But, it’s just a dream. 

He bets on it. 

゜゜・

You are shit at games. 

Bitter, arterial blood congeals on your hands as you try in vain to staunch the flow. There is nothing quite as caustic as the realisation that you fucked up, because now all the signs of your hamartia are clear. 

The house has long collapsed—it’s that final card that still hasn’t hit that glass table yet. 

Is this what Dokja feels? The thought runs wonderingly through your sluggish mind. Is it what he felt, you mean to say, but your throat grows thick whenever you speak about him in the past tense. You can’t quite accept the reality that he’s gone. The shock anaesthetises your mind: cradling your neurons with such gentleness that it’s hard to conceptualise you’re about to follow him to wherever he’s gone. 

Will I see him again?

Everything reeks of iron: from the massive corpse on the ground, to the claw impaled through your abdomen. It was inevitable. You’ve grown tired of the endless fight, and it’s cost you dearly. 

Your chest heaves desperately. 

Dokja. 

“Dokja,” you croak, collapsing onto the rubble freshly decimated. Despite the rough surface, your blood-slicked hands scrabble for purchase on the concrete—something that doesn’t quite feel like you’re the one puppeteering your strings. 

Deliriously, you watch as the same hand urgently attempts to apply pressure to your wound; it goes against rationality, but then again you’re not really yourself anymore. 

“Dokja?” you try again. Perhaps if you speak loudly enough—syllables soaked with sanguine that dribbles from your lips—you’ll be able to reach your dead best friend. 

There is a pressure behind your eyes. 

It may be tears; it may be an unwelcome guest in your head. 

It’s too late, you think. He’s dead, and soon I will be too. 

“Dokja,” you whisper, and there is salt on your tongue as you feel your limbs grow colder. Everything hurts—your pounding head, the thrum of your pulse as you marr the asphalt with crimson, and finally that stupid bleeding heart of yours that swears you can hear the spirit of your oldest friend. 

You can’t die, you think he says—a quiet scream drowned out by the static of your mind. 

“I’ll see you soon, though,” you slur, and the weight in your mind lifts—blurring and coalescing into a mirage you could recognise blind. 

Frigid fingers pass through the hologram, and you smile, bittersweet. 

“Dokja,” you breathe. “It’s been almost a year since I last saw you.”

His hands grasp your shoulders desperately, though his frantic mouth goes unheard upon your ears. You… can’t… die, his lips read—but that’s silly, you think. Doesn’t he want you to meet him again?

Horns curve out of his head, while his wings fluff out—shoulders shaking, with an expression you’ve only seen once on his face before. Utmost grief, when he came soaked in congealed blood and a haunted look in his eyes: murmuring she killed him, over and over. 

He’s your best friend. He was your best friend. 

Kim Dokja has lost his final gamble, and the bullet in the chamber has finally been spun into place for you too. 

“I can see you soon, right?” you murmur—there are cold fingers brushing against your forehead, and you think death is unexpectedly gentle. 

His lips wobble. 

Incorporeal fingers trace the tear tracks on your face—ones that mirror the slow stream of salt from his own eyes. You didn’t even notice—too caught up in the gradual greyness that spreads through each vessel, weaving through sinew and bone and brain. 

“I did a good job, right?” Your sword rests across the ground, heavy after almost a year of fighting. “Maybe it’ll help with the ending that you wanted.”

Dokja’s face crumples, and you can feel your own throat growing thick. Dokja, I’m scared, you want to admit. For the first time in your life, there’s a choking fear that grips you as the red surrounding you blooms into a field. 

Your own wings are rapidly coming apart. 

“Dokja, I don’t want to die,” you mumble. Struggling, you curl and uncurl your hands into fists, but you can no longer feel them. 

“Dokja,” you try again. You can no longer see him, but whether it’s from the salt clouding your vision, or the haze of limbo, you cannot tell. 

There is a phantom pressure that lingers on your face. 

“Dokja,” you gurgle, mouth iron-hot with arterial blood. “Don’t leave me alone—please.”

No response is given, but that sepulchral presence seems to remain—this time, those hands brush and cradle your face. 

You cannot tell if it’s him or death itself, but you don’t think death would kiss you like that. 

As if he could possibly breathe life back into you, his ghostly lips move against yours. Desperately, so urgently you half-wonder at his panic. 

Dokja, you want to ask. You’re already dead, right?

Right? 

With the final scraps of your vision, you watch as he pulls back—his tears pattering across your face—watch as his mouth moves for a final time.

I can’t live without you.

But by then, it is too late.

The words go unheard, and Dokja is alone once again.

[licncourt]

What character development do you think Anne rice missed out on for Louis when she threw him to dust? I know he pops up a few times in the books here and there but we never get to explore him again 😭

Oh my God soooo much!! Firstly I wish TotBT was a better book overall because Louis' characterization is so spot on and there's some really compelling stuff going on with Lestat too in a way that could have been promising in another universe....

Even if everything bad and annoying about the later books remained exactly the same, I think Louis could have had a really satisfying arc! In TotBT I wouldn't change anything about him really, I just wish he'd been around more because that's such a weird time period for him where his life is almost normal but he's at this weird impasse with Lestat where they have to decide to move forward, repeat cycles, or just stay in limbo. I would have loved to see even more of that as a pivot point for Louis.

Memnoch was a HUGE wasted opportunity because of how explicitly it grapples with religion (for better or worse). I feel like we see more of this with Armand, but I would have loved to see a lot more about how Louis is handling this..? Even though Anne retcons Memnoch somewhat later, at the time it should have been a truly crushing blow for Louis, basically confirmation that God and the devil are real, Christianity is the true religion, and he is indeed inherently evil and damned to burn in hell. I feel like this should have been huge for him, like full on spiral into religious obsession.

If that had happened, I think Merrick would have had even more impact7yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu56 (leaving my cat's input on the subject...) if Louis was coming off this ultimate religious trauma, it would make his aimless state make even more sense than just being without Lestat and give him a fundamental issue to grapple with. In my opinion, it would also really drive home his mental state in Merrick.

Even with the supposed knowledge that eternal damnation is waiting for him, the anguish of being vampirically sexually assaulted/forced to turn a human, hearing that Claudia's maybe-ghost hates him and always did, and the knowledge that Lestat might be gone forever still drives him to a suicide attempt which is even more horrible to think about. Then when he "dies" and Lestat brings him back, the realization that nothing actually happened would be something to grieve, but also a potential fresh start to start questioning the validity of Memnoch and his Catholic upbringing by extension.

I think that slow progress out of a vampire-length lifetime of intermingled religious fervor and nihilism would be an excellent backdrop to his time at Trinity Gate. I wish so much that we had gotten a way more in-depth look at that ten years because the change at the end of PL is DRAMATIC. In his epilogue, he's somehow almost completely at peace. I feel like we really missed out on watching him come full circle from the man we met in IWTV. There are so many character chapters in the final trilogy, I wish Anne had cut 95% of the new characters and split the chapters between the established major characters, especially Louis considering where he's at by the end of PL.

I've always felt like the PL trilogy could have easily been just one or two books, but since there's three, I feel like RoA should have been heavily Louis-focused as we see him living his new life in full. Especially with his background, seeing him in a position of power in a royal court structure would have been really interesting. I don't even want him to be a good person in this role, just Himself only happier and therefore potentially worse. I think it would have been really fun to see him as snobby, perpetually dissatisfied, detail-oriented businessman doing the real ruling and making everyone miserable from his fancy consort position while Lestat fucks around with a crown on. That was stolen from me, that's Louis' final form.

[kurtty-drabbles]

" 'How did I get here ?'

Teleportation is a very useful ability- Ah I see. You meant 'How did I get to this point in my life ?'

Seeing how you've elaborated quite a lot on how I cannot possibly be your father anymore and how Mystique is the only one deserving of that title now and forever seeing everything she did, I might as well elaborate on my answer. I shall keep it simple in comparison however because I have experience in monologuing unlike you... And Margali doesn't seem to have fully recovered from what you just said.

Three years ago, Krakoa sent an open invitation to all mutants. When I say all, I mean it : The good, the bad, the ugly. The bad like me were not only allowed on that paradise nation but fully pardoned for their past crimes no matter how big, cruel, sadistic, mindless or destructive.

When I first heard this, I genuinely thought that was a trap. Yet everyone jumped in head first, even Apocalypse himself. I was the last to join this unanimous travel and we all passed the gates. If an issue rose, we agreed I would make them leave as easily as they came... But one handshake later between your old teacher and Apocalypse and we were officially citizens of Krakoa without any criminal record...

And this Krakoa was quite frankly a mess. The Council, its government, perpetually rotated its members as they could come and go then return as if their absence was irrelevant ; I've decided to not keep track of who was there after learning of Apocalypse's inclusion right after my arrival. 'Good luck to whoever sits next to him', I thought. From this government, three mandatory laws were made; I believe you'd agree with me in saying they were quite strange. Truthfully, the strangest was about making more mutants. I've heard that law came as a revelation to one of our dear Councilmen who, get this, quoted Genesis when he presented it to the others. Exodus described it as a sign of prosperity to this paradise while I saw the many orgies on the island and believed otherwise.

Suffise to say, I didn't follow along. I am a lawbreaker at heart and there wasn't any thorough monitoring on who partook in that law or not. The result was predictable: There were too many children and very few parents who cared to look after them. The woods became dropoff sites, then dumping grounds then graveyards all in under a year. You probably heard of those haunted woods. Some citizens built orphanages to remedy this.

Then came the mutant religion and its inquisition which didn't want to admit they were either.

Then came the many attacks from within and out where plenty were slaughtered and allowed themselves to be slaughtered as the Councilmen said they would be brought back to life anyways.

Again, the nation was a mess, be it for ordinary citizens or us who were pardoned. Since our arrival, we were barely monitored ; I could for instance follow up on a deal I made with Emplate after the Council no longer had a use for him. His case was like so many as there was no tasks or jobs assigned to us.

I grew tired and bored of it all. Once the Limbo Embassy opened its doors, I moved there and proposed my services to Madelyne Pryor alongside an extra pair of hands with Emplate. Luck must have been on my side as I've apparently missed out on a big incurable magical epidemic that altered the citizens of the island-

Why didn't anyone reach out to you and your team ? Oh, I forgot to say this earlier, Margali, but that island only allowed humans through a decision by a Councilman or if said human, be it a criminal or an innocent bystander, was married to a mutant citizen : No one at the Council must have known you could have helped out. A shame really ; even the ruler of Limbo was unable to do much when the leader of the mutant religion and inquisition came down with a case of 'suddenly demon horns are growing on my head'.

As I'm remembering more of this, I realize it was apparently that same religious leader who was behind the law about making more mutants. The horny irony is palatable.

And so the mystery doesn't keep you up at night, from what I've heard, it was Belasco who created that illness, Margali. He was behind it all.

What for ? From my limited knowledge on his being, he was either after a magic sword or a child. The filled-up orphanages must have been like a beacon to him if it's the latter case... If it's the first, maybe the island's Waiting Room was what called him; a blade made from a piece of the Afterlife is nothing but powerful.

Now back to who I was first answering to, other than that epidemic, as my luck would have it, I also missed out on both the fall of a nation and the end of the world.

The Limbo Embassy decided to take action and created its own X-Men team to help rescue mutants across the world. As it was a large scale operation, I was part of it. Yes, I was an X-Men. This has truly been a confusing year overall.

A teammate, Havok, was mortally injured during our first mission and our leader, Madelyne, couldn't properly heal him with her demonic magic. As the Limbo Embassy didn't have Krakoa's restrictions on human assistance, I proposed to have Margali come and help which is how we got in contact with each other after all these years. Havok was back in shape through the Szardos' healing magic and the team expended by including Margali's.

We were under attack constantly and we figured out we must have been closely monitored one way or another. ORCHIS must have had its own magic users to travel as far as us, know where we were heading for and were ready to use mindcontrol on us if everything aligned properly.

This part might surprise you but they have actually had the means to mindcontrol mutants into attacking others for some time. They even succeeded in getting a Councilman to do just that to political leaders on a worldwide scale. This has been known by the Council before Krakoa fell and apparently nobody investigated it further than that : All they did was erase the name of who was used for the job outside of Krakoa and not even talk about said attack within the island.

We learnt this trick of ORCHIS the hard way after we left behind that Archangel during a mission...

I know that look of yours : Regardless of if I even cared about him or not, he was as mortally wounded as Havok on that day and contrary to Havok, getting close to Archangel while his blood was gushing out everywhere would have put me out cold for sure. Remember, his blood is toxic to both of us.

ORCHIS took him and mind controlled him into attacking us in the middle of the sea : It was Gambit who took him down after he forced me to help out because, even in a zombified state, Archangel was still too toxic for me to take any actions against him... Quite frankly I wasn't interested in doing that anyway.

While Margali's team was focused on investigating a teleporting dragon in Mexico, ORCHIS attacked the Embassy and slaughtered all the mutants in it, those who were there before and those who were just rescued following the end of the world. They succeeded in doing this while most of the remaining team at the Embassy fell for a Trojan Horse : ORCHIS caught Nils, yes Nils, and used him to trap the others.

When the attack started, it was absolute. I sent a signal to Margali but time was running out as the Embassy's most priced treasure would soon be taken. It was a Cerebro which could focus on mutant souls and locate them.

Even with Emplate assisting me, there was no way I could take down whatever mutant magic user they roped into their group : I needed the rest of the team so I went to Nils. Fortunately, he was aware of what was happening. Most unfortunately, he was fully aware but couldn't control his powers even after all his time on Krakoa. I took him out with a neck snap which released his prisoners. It was as painless and quick as I could.

... Our team then went into the Embassy to deal with every single ORCHIS agent in sight. Margali and her team came by less than a minute into this. The teleporting dragon turned out to have been one of ORCHIS's assets and while personally dealing with quite a close encounter with it as Emplate felt it was the perfect time for a payback, Margali figured out what was the issue with it. By removing layers upon layers of demonic corruption and mindcontrol, she revealed the beast's true form : A you from another world. I have had more than a hunch on this but as it was our first encounter, I couldn't tell it right away.

In the end, the ORCHIS squadron attacking the Embassy was removed from the premises of life itself. Madelyne hesitated in keeping the team but eventually disbanded it as no rescue mission could continue without a proper place to welcome those mutants. She thought about making a strike team but the X-Men acted faster than her on that idea from what I heard surprisingly. Emplate's insubordination and attempt at fleeing to get a quick meal during the end of the world made him one of the Embassy's unwilling tenants which meant he was in there until the ever expending structure was rebuilt. Thanks to Margali's quick arrival right outside the Embassy, she came across a slowly dying Nils and managed to heal his neck injury, even if he is still in need of physical therapy from the experience. He stays at the Embassy for now to help the matters there if you wish to pay him a visit. As for that alternative version of you, he was very confused and didn't know what went down with himself and his life for seemingly years. Margali and I agreed not to tell him about the mutants he accidentally cannibalized in his altered state and managed to sent him back to his reality as he couldn't really stay here with the still ongoing end of the world outside and within the Embassy.

Now because of all of this, I have come to discover a lot about myself even after thousands of years of existence : Mainly, that mutant only governments are filled with personifications of insanity whom I don't want to be a part of or deal with, the world is in a constant state of being taken over and ending to the extent it becomes an unsettling routine for me who only wants novelty and uniqueness, being in a mutant team has too much miscommunication to be long lasting or enjoyable to remain in, quiet magical communities are more in my taste and more durable relationships are more of my calling.

And this Son- sorry, Not-Son, is how I came to this point in my life : Utter chance, unlikely coincidences and unbelievable amounts of nonsense crossing my path.

Anyway, what have you been doing this entire time ? I knew you were on the island like all the other heroes but I can't imagine you wanted to stay there for long between the mutant religion, its cult and its inquisition roaming around. Were you with your teammates trying to avoid half of that madness ? Were you undercover with them while the world was ending planning the next move... ?

Why the unease ? If it's about killing, Margali here is absolutely sure it was in self-defence on your part. And look, whatever you did,

It cannot be as unhinged as that one mutant who went around masquerading as the wall crawling superhero while the entire world was ending."

- Signed, an anon who hopes this would cheer up Kurtty Mun after the IT exam.

Nonny I'm delighted in say how I aced my exam, and how this little snippet is wonderful.

MAZEL FOREVER LOL (if hm anyone here is reading this and wants to do a fan art...I would love to see it👁️👁️)

Making Belasco the big bad makes so much sense, srsly. It improves the shitty story to a tiny bit. Still shit but Belasco as villain is so good.

Yeah this man likes children and souls. Krakoa was a buffet waiting to happen. Belasco, in this au, couldn't resist. My dear Yana must be pissed but.....krakoa was a horrible idea.

Kitty should defend Utopia and Genosha bc those really could have worked. (Wanda revives those two nations who aren't like Krakoa. A team up kitty and wanda and they are clear that not all mutants are welcome like destiny, raven, prof X and Exodus)

Mazel!!!!

Kurt must be the dumbest fucker in the earth and ....I don't think Azazel can't even mock him bc it's just so sad.

The only thing to explain this is if Mr. Sinister alter his mind or if this is a fake Kurt. If he a fake Kurt....the X-Men aren't family bc no one noticed a damn thing.

Mazel!!!!

Jimaine has no thoughts on her mom's affair. If she and Azazel are back together she just shrugs. That is a mature response. (She is working on herself and really doesn't want to sleep for power nor wants to see Kurt ever again)

God this au is great. And nonny will post my version of Jonh Cockrum's Kurt.

[saltired]

20 Questions- Writing Edition

Thank you @wetcarcass for the tag! It was fun to do, even if I haven’t completed anything in soooo long <3

This is a sort of weird one, cause all my published writing is a few years old at least, and I don’t want to link anything or reference it too much because I find it kind of cringe haha! I started writing again after a long break a few years ago, so it all reads as very rusty to me.

I’ve been writing and not publishing for a little while though… although none of it is finished or even that coherent yet. (Yet. Watch this space?)

How many works do you have on ao3

40 on my abandoned old account, lmao. Hopefully 1 on saltired soon?

What's your total ao3 word count?

155, 113 on said old acc.

What are your top five fics by kudos?

Don’t really want to list them bc abandoned account/few years old etc, but the top one is apparently at 534 now, which is quite nice I think.

What fandoms do you write for?

I’ve written for loads, but now I want to follow my dreams and focus on asoiaf- I’ve only ever published one super short fic for it despite loving it for so long. I think it’s just intimidated me because I’ve loved it for so long, honestly.

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Absolutely! It’s so great to be able to engage with people who enjoyed your stuff! I always love it when an author replies to my comments <3

What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? Honestly, probably the current thramsay angst in my docs atm. It’s nothing insanely angsty, but still more bleak than my past stuff because… well, it’s thramsay.

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I’ve written a few sweet soft fluff pieces for friends, so those I guess? My endings tend to be the characters stewing in misery/shame/apathy etc as opposed to riding off into the sunset.

Do you get hate on fics?

I think I got some once, but it was super mild. Just someone complaining about stuff that was very clearly tagged. Like, that’s on you if you don’t like it, buddy.

Do you write smut?

Pretty much exclusively unethical and miserable smut.

Do you write crossovers?

I’ve done a few crack crossovers in my time, but never anything serious, they’re not really my thing.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I did once read a fic that was clearly very heavily inspired by one of mine, including the same phrasing on niche plot points, but nothing outright stolen. Never said anything about it though, and tbh I wouldn’t unless they had literally copied and pasted my fic!

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yeah, I had one translated- it was Spanish and don’t know any Spanish, so I have no idea if it’s faithful to the og though lmao.

Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

Yep, I’ve done a few.

What's your all time favorite ship?

Thramsay, hands down. They’ve lived in my head rent free for about nine years now, but I haven’t published fic for them.

What's the wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Not fic related, but I’ve got a few TTRPG adventure wips. I really want to release them one day, but considering I’m the sole writer/illustrator/graphic designer/etc then I doubt it will be any time soon- plus, I’d have to playtest them and edit all over again based off that. I still live in hope they’ll get done instead of sitting in perpetual limbo, though!

What are your writing strengths?

Always writing for myself instead of trying to write something that people will like- I think that’s really important!

What are your writing weaknesses?

Never writing anything in order/planning. It drives me absolutely insane and makes everything take forever because I’m chasing threads around, but I can’t seem to do it any other way. Also multichaptered fics, I get part way through and move on to something else.

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in a fic?

I’ve never had the need to, but I guess if you know the language you’re writing in and it makes sense in the story, go for it? Although I prefer if people put a translation in the notes so I don’t have to google translate and end up with a poor imitation of what was actually written.

First fandom you wrote for?

Probably Lord of the Rings or Merlin? This would have been back in 2012, on a fanfiction.net account that was thankfully lost to time. Bless past Salt and his enthusiasm for writing, but you could not pay me to reread it.

Favorite fic you've ever written?

I have an unfinished draft lying around somewhere based on Crash… it was a while ago, and could definitely be better, but it was so much fun and I’d love to revisit the idea again. If we’re talking published, then I wrote a gun-focused fic that I still think is decent. Loaded guns ended up in places they should absolutely not be, obviously.

Like the other tag I did, I’m not gonna tag anyone, but if you’re reading this and haven’t been tagged then I’m tagging YOU PERSONALLY <3

[the-ghost-bracket]

Ghostbur propaganda:

"My man was literally haunting not just the characters, but the narrative itself"

"Dude he is so sad all the time, nobody takes him seriously because he’s so kind and upbeat but he really and truly is so sad, he’s got awful memory problems, all he wants is people to be happy like he couldn’t have been, but they don’t even stop his pet sheep from dying because “it’ll just come back” bc it’s a ghost too and then he has a whole thing about how that doesn’t mean they don’t feel pain too and just he’s very very sad and is perpetually stuck in a train station all alone forever"

"This ghost, this poor little ghost was done SO dirty oh my god. Okay for context in case you don’t know about anything from that hellhole minecraft server, in that universe you get 3 lives, and once you die you get sent to limbo and a ghost takes your place in the overworld. Most people get ghosts but some don’t. But! You can get revived! Which means you get to go back to the overworld but you ghost takes your place in limbo. One more thing I should mention before I get to Ghostbur is everyone’s limbo looks different, because it’s literally their personal hell. I’m sure you see where this is going. :) SO! Ghostbur. Wilbur, the person he’s a ghost of was not a great person before he died. But Ghostbur is nothing but kind, if not a little naïve to everyone and everything. This all leads up Ghostbur getting murdered trying to help his little brother figure, and Wilbur being revived. This means Ghostbur gets trapped alone in limbo. Ghostbur’s story could have left off there but NOOOOOO his creator decided to make it worse. Water burns Ghostbur, so crying is painful. He has memory problems and with nothing to write on he only has the haziest memories of his family left. He’s stuck in limbo for decades before something happens. Meanwhile back in the overworld Wilbur’s been having a pissing contest with his ex and realizes “Huh, a lot of people liked this Ghostbur guy and I know where he ended up. Maybe I should do something nice for him.” And sends Ghostbur’s beloved pet sheep, Friend to hell to be with Ghostbur. The last we ever see of Ghostbur is he, for once in a very long time crying tears of joy as he is reunited with his Friend."

"DSMP gets a bad rep for the guy it’s named for (who I do not support in ANY way whatsoever), but it was made up of 30+ creators, many of which put so very much passion and love into the project. Wilbur Soot was one of them, and Ghostbur was his character after he died.

Ghostbur was sweet, goofy, and terribly tragic. He would go around offering blue dye to his friends, saying “have some blue”, saying it would soak up their sadness. He only remembers happy things from when he was alive. He had a sheep named Friend. He was as lovable as his memory was painful, and an overall very good ghost"

"when he got revived it was to help in a plan to beat up his chosen brother's abuser by breaking INTO jail and having his bro follow him invisible. he's the best musician on the server according to his dad :D. he has a blue sheep named friend on a leash who has infinite cannon lives. he has memory issues and can't remember bad feelings after they happen so people often infantilize him which sucks because he's actually very competent and just wants to help his friends and have a good time. he got sent to limbo sadly and has likely been there for a couple thousand years now. which is incredibly sad. the guy who plays him wrote sad hurt no comfort drabbles about it on reddit."

"just a really sweet guy, currently chilling in the afterlife with his sheep friend while the revived version of himself is working in a gas station in utah"

[nobodyatall6]

Rings, Part 4

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

“I’m a weak man.”

“That’s an interesting way of pronouncing ‘serial adulterer’.”

Don found some balled up socks on the floor and chucked them at Nina, who dodged easily.

“Shut up. This is serious.”

“Why do you want to marry her anyway? She seems like a drip to me.”

“I love her.”

Nina cocked her head and squinted at him, considering.

“I think I do believe you,” she said after a moment. “But only because you love anyone who lets you put your tongue in their mouth.”

He looked around for more socks to throw at her, but there wasn’t anything within arm’s reach.

“But that doesn’t mean you have to marry her,” Nina continued. “Is it the money? You gonna quit the hospital and become a house husband in that big haunted mansion?”

That thought honestly hadn’t occurred to Don. In fairness, almost nothing about After had occurred to him. He never really made a habit of thinking beyond the present moment.

“It just…seemed like the thing to do,” he muttered, finally.

Years ago he had taken Nina to a carnival, because that seemed like the sort of thing people do, taking their girl to the fun fair and winning her a big stuffed bear or something. But he hadn’t been able to ring the bell on the test-your-strength machine. He had been embarrassed, but she had taken the mallet from him and told him it wasn’t about strength, it was about accuracy. The closer you hit to the middle of the button, the higher you go.

CLANG! Straight to the center. Right in the heart. She hit it every time.

“But I mean, christ. Monday? That’s soon.”

“I didn’t know about that part when I proposed,” he grumbled. “I thought it would take, like, ages. People take months to even set a date. Pick out, fuckin’…table settings. Rich people especially.”

“Ohhh, I see now,” Nina said, arching her back languidly over the arm of the couch. Don watched her tank top wrinkle over the curves of her body. No matter how many times she did that, it was still sexy.

“You thought you’d end up in a perpetually-engaged, wedding-planning limbo where you wouldn’t have to make any decisions, would keep her happy by saying yes to everything she wanted, and could just keep things the way they were for ages.”

“But you didn’t count on the power of Daddy’s old-country Catholicism and now you’re getting married in two days and you’re panicking because everything is supposed to change and you can’t even stop yourself from boning your cleaner.”

CLANG! Straight to the center. Right in the heart. She hit it every time.

He did his best to snort derisively. “Oh, piss off, Sigmund Freud. You’re just jealous that I found someone who isn’t you.”

She smirked and rolled off the couch. “I have no reason to be jealous when it comes to you, Don Lothario.”

“You’ll never change.”

[robertphilip]

2, 7, 11, 28 !!!

2. How many works did you publish this year? 44 apparently !!! yippie !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

7. If you use song lyrics, which artist’s songs did you pull from the most? (x) 💜

11. What work took you the longest to write? hm. probably Your Love is my Turning Page (which I'm kinda happy with but also kinda not, looking back, but whatever . we move) I started writing that back in the beginning of 2023, and rewrote it probably a million times. Perpetual Bliss also took quite a few weeks, and was rewritten numerous times. As was I'm Forever Yours, and Love Drunk. I actually think Love Drunk might've been one of my first fics, but it was stuck in limbo (aka my notes app) since 2023 💕

28. Favorite work you wrote this year? wah... I'm Forever Yours... You're in My Arms is also a good one, because I love any time I can write about Robert taking care of Giselle. I just like how soft he is with her 🤧 There’s a Space in My Heart (and it’s Just Your Shape) - again, soft Robert, and also, sappy Robert... my weakness. She Keeps on Growing is one I have a soft spot for, too, because Robert and Morgan's relationship is Everything to Me. There are more, but I feel like I'm going to end up listing every fic, so... (x, x, x, x)

[denimbex1986]

'As the 2020s progress, it’s clear that escaping remakes and reboots is an impossible task. From film to television, each year sees more than a handful of original works being reinvented for a new generation, to varying degrees of success. At some point, we have to ask ourselves what works of art are not only deserving of a reinvention but need to be reinvented.

When Ripley was announced all the way back in 2019, many fans of Patricia Highsmith’s novel and the subsequent Anthony Minghella film were cautious. Why would something as beloved as the film version need to be remade, and how would the original novel’s text be changed for the streaming generation? Thankfully, from the series’ first episode, it’s clear that this isn’t a direct remake, but instead a resurrection of Highsmith’s prose and characters.

Like all its other versions, Ripley follows Tom Ripley (Andrew Scott), who is hired by a shipping tycoon to travel to Italy and convince his son, Richard “Dickie” Greenleaf (Johnny Flynn), to return to the United States. Acting as if he’s an old college friend, Tom quickly immerses himself into not only Dickie’s luxurious lifestyle, but Dickie as a person as well. But, as Tom’s obsession with his friend gets deeper, their relationship and lives quickly unravel into something more sinister.

Despite people originally being skeptical about his casting, Andrew Scott gives one of the best performances of his career as Thomas Ripley. While it may not be as showy as his turn in All of Us Strangers, under the surface of his Ripley lies a magnetic and brooding disposition. It’s slight at times, but as the show moves along his smirks and exasperated sighs work perfectly and give Ripley a nuance that wasn’t necessarily present in the film version.

Scott plays Ripley at times like a man possessed; he looks at Dickie in a way that’s all-consuming, as if he wants to cannibalize him so Dickie will be a part of him forever. By killing him and stealing his identity, Thomas is keeping an aspect of Dickie alive, immortalizing him through his own adventures and in turn transforming the man into Ripley himself. Through the killing, their identities become intertwined, suspending both of them in a perpetual limbo that will haunt their lives and legacies forever.

As the series unfolds, Tom’s resolve begins to crack, leaving in its wake a gaping hole to be filled with paranoia. We spend a lot of time with this version of the titular character, and it gives viewers a certain introspection that its film version didn’t grant to us. It’s interesting watching Ripley crack, while the paranoia is there it seems to harden him even more. His murderous desires are fleeting, but when they arise Scott shows it with a slight smirk and a crinkled eye, proving that despite the fear of being caught, Tom cannot help his true desires.

It’s a different portrayal than that of Matt Damon in The Talented Mr. Ripley, and one that in my opinion, makes this version all the more richer. We get to not only see a different side of the series’ titular character, but the people who surround him as well. Dakota Fanning breathes a staggering amount of life into Marge Sherwood, a character who in the novel and the film version feels devoid of both agency and a character arc. Here, her status as Dickie’s girlfriend is just as unstable as Tom’s friendship with him, making the two characters direct foils to one another. Fanning portrays her excellently, going toe-to-toe with Scott whenever they’re on screen together. It’s in their interactions that you’re forced to confront the idea that Tom may finally be outmatched.

In this adaptation, it’s not just Tom who is hiding within themselves. It’s Marge, Dickie, and even the scene-stealing Freddie Miles who weaves through various scenes like a predator stalking its prey. Everyone in Ripley purposely feels like caricatures of the roles they’re trying to portray in society, which causes Tom to appear out of his depth. He appears ostracized within the world he’s involved himself in, and at times it’s impossible not to feel some sort of empathy for him. He’s in over his head, despite putting himself in this position. It becomes increasingly clear as the series unravels that while it may not happen immediately, Tom cannot go on living his life like this.

As the show reaches its final episodes and Tom’s life enters its most unstable stage, Scott’s performance heightens until it crescendos into one of the best of the year. It makes for a riveting watch, one whose tempo increases as it becomes a game of cat-and-mouse filled with deceit. From its staggering cinematography to its wistful score, it’s clear that every person working on this show aimed to not only make a faithful adaptation but one that could rival its original material. While Ripley may not have been a needed remake, the miniseries does an excellent job of laying all the intricacies of Highsmith’s novel bare.

Summary

Featuring incredible cinematography, a wistful score, and a career-defining performance from Andrew Scott, ‘Ripley’ is a triumph that rivals its source material.

4.5 Stars'

[airic-fenn]

Only If You Think I Am.

Sometimes I remember the temp employee at my old high school job who offered to buy me lunch since I forgot my wallet, and then asked immediately after we sat down if I was mixed. I mean, he was right, but it was a very uncomfortable first question to be asked by a complete stranger.

But it was also one of the many instances that gets me thinking about how weird it is to be mixed race and also racially ambiguous.

Whether or not I’m perceived as a person of color depends entirely upon who is doing the perceiving, and even when and where in the world they’re doing it. Am I in the southern US, or Colorado? Am I in Europe? Is it summertime and I’ve developed a tan, or is it the dead of winter?

Some people dont bat an eye, other people look at me curiously, knowing I am something but they’re just not quite sure what.

One curious man jumped to the proud assumption I must be Turkish, instead of letting me finish explaining that my mom was only born there because her dad was stationed there once.

In France at New Years, my penpal’s friend made a joke about slavery, then laughed and assumed that if I was offended, its because I’m White.

And all of my experiences like these leave me wondering, where do I put myself?

A friend once admitted to me that in middle school when we were covering slavery in class, he had watched me closely to see my reactions to it, because at the time I was just about the most diverse that school got.

The funny part is back then I was barely aware of being mixed race, other than that my Opa is Black. I was just me, and that was just how my family was.

I didn’t really have Black friends growing up (re: very un-diverse schools and neighborhood). Though, my mom would tell stories about how as a kid, she’d get teased and called an “oreo cookie” and blatant questions from her cousins like “what are you?” She’d mention how she would code switch with them, and try to act extra Black with them because otherwise she wasnt Black enough.

But she didn’t talk about race, or how any of it might apply to me. She stuck with the facts: I was mixed. And that was it.

And so I grew up with little understanding of what that meant until I reached high school. I was sheltered, oblivious, surrounded almost entirely by Whiteness and barely aware that people might, sometimes, treat me differently.

That temp worker back at that job of mine was the first time I had considered that people might.

But because I am caught in this limbo, I will never know for sure. Unless they say it out loud, I am left to wonder whether someone is just being angry and rude, or if they’re pulling a racism.

Generally, I give the benefit of the doubt. And why shouldn’t I, when I often barely know for sure how to perceive myself? I’m just me.

Race feels like a concept thrust upon me. Am I

☑️ White/Caucasian?

Or

☑️ Black/African American?

If I’m given the option, I’ll fill in “Other.” But I’m rarely given the option to fill in both.

The problem with being asked to respond with one or the other is that singularly neither feels right. I’d be lying.

I know a lot of mixed folks identify with being Black. I’m not sure I can no, I’m not sure I’m allowed to, even if I probably, maybe could. Because I get caught up in my own questions and fears of “am I Black enough?”

“What even makes someone Black?”

“Sure, the color of your skin, but its also a culture, its experiences.”

“But isnt it reductive to reduce a person’s identity down to whether they’ve been marginalized?”

“Even if I identified as Black, wouldnt that be perpetuating old racist concepts like the one drop rule?” (And if I think long and hard enough about that, I inevitably fall down the rabbit hole and start thinking about how if I couldn’t or wouldn’t consider myself indigenous despite my great-grandmother, why is it acceptable to identify as Black? Even though, technically, I understand the messed up history of why of both).

I’m never able to answer these questions.

But at the same time, identifying as White would feel like I’m rejecting an entire side of myself. Like I’m trying to hide my Opa.

So, I make myself stop thinking about it for a while, and settle back down on just being “mixed.” Its an answer no one can deny, or tell me that I’m wrong.

And as a result, I find myself approaching prying questions or opportunities reserved for BIPOC folks with varying levels of confidence.

“Do you identify as Black, Indigenous, or other Person of Color?”

Yes. Sometimes. Maybe?

Only if you think I am.

[naoa-ao3]

New Frontiers

Natasha lays next to Clint, the new world she inhabits all around her.

He's asleep and his breathing is even.

She lets it regulate her own but it's hot under the blankets and the hotel room is unfamiliar and too bright.

They're on a job, in the middle of one and things are going slow. The assignments is going slow. It's stuck in the mud even.

She feels his body heat radiating next to her and wonders if he's dreaming.

She'd been dreaming. Awful, half memories of other girls and the crack of a weapon being discharged. Being emptied. Emptied into someone.

Her heart is hammering but only slightly and she tries to breath deeply with him, Clint peaceful next to her.

She wishes she could sleep like that. Close her eyes and just drift off the way he seemingly does every night.

Does he know how lucky he is?

He isn't though, he's got his own demons and she doesn't pretend he doesn't. She isn't that selfish.

She lays, afraid to move and wake him but it's stifling underneath the blankets and she starts to sweat and so she gently slides away and out form under the covers, feet hitting carpet and toes curling into it as she walks to the window.

She's been away from the Red Room and in the employ of SHIELD for a full year now but the nightmares persist. The world she lives in is strange now, each day she has a choice to make and it's nothing like what she's experienced before.

There's freedom to it but no sisters. They aren't comrades in the same way as they were in the Red Room. The rules are just different. These people haven't been raised to do this kind of work. Not like she was.

She goes and stands by the window, looking out silently. There's a whole world of gleaming lights spread out below like a spiderweb. She traces the strands and streets with her eyes, taking it all in while sleep evades her.

Clint's breathing changes slightly behind her but he doesn't wake and she looks back at him and feels a new kind of comradery. This is the kind she's chosen and while she'll bare the pain of betraying her sisters for the rest of her life she has found a new strength in him. He's been the truest friend she's ever known.

Or the truest she's ever been allowed to remember. Too many of her memories have been taken, altered or were always lies.

Clint is one of the first solid things she's ever had in her life. He's opening her eyes to a whole new world. One where she thinks she might actually be able to trust in. It's bizarre in a way because it's so simple and yet it isn't. It's so terribly complex and all of these feelings are new. The freedoms she has, even if they're the one's SHIELD is letting her have. . . they're alien experiences compared to what she's known before.

They're taking adjustments as she learns to realign her thoughts, to take what she wants and to wonder about the orders given to her.

Clint encouragers her to do so, to question things but it's limited and some of it is just hopeful thinking. He doesn't question too hard most of the time himself. He's in the same boat as her. They have things to make up for and SHIELD is how they're going to do it.

She feels sometimes like a doll that's been wound and wound until it's unable to stop moving. She never had a doll like that but she learned about them for field experience and so she could blend in with civilians. So she could pretend she was normal.

The city gleams below her and Clint sleeps behind her and she hangs in a kind of limbo between the curtains, people and cars perpetually moving at all hours of the day and night, lives that never stopped and her's that was just beginning.

The hotel is temporary, the bed and the city are only fleeting but what comes with them, what they're a part of is going to endure. She's going to make it endure as the night shines through her window in shades of black and electric light.

She looks down and sighs to herself, wondering if the people that are awake down there are anything like her. She can't sleep either. Perhaps dreams plagued their restless hours too. Perhaps they even saw visions of awfulness and horror when they closed their eyes and that was why they too were unable to sleep.

It was too bad that there were so many restless people in the world. SO many with weights on their minds and souls that couldn't sleep.

She saw an ocean of people with bad dreams. A sea of girls like her. . . no. . . there were no girls like her any more because she wasn't like them any more. She'd gotten away. They were stuck in place and she was off living a new life. It wasn't fair but just the same. . .

She's made her choices and they weren't the kind of choices that could be taken back. Once made they were set ins tone.

She tears herself from the window and the city below and looks at the digital clock on the bedside table. It's nearly three in the morning. They need to be up and out by six. She needs to sleep.

She goes back to bed and in his sleep Clint throws an arm over her and this time the heat feels good. She's cooled down and he's still warm. It's a nice. It's comfortable and it's for a brief second absolutely normal.

They're just two people, whatever they are to each other- two people who care deeply for each other and in each other's arms there's solace and comfort and the soft illusion that it's always supposed to be like this. That it always could have been like this. If nothing had ever existed outside of the room and nothing ever would.

The room is silent and not quite dark enough but Natasha is warm and comfortable and has the promise of life before her.

All things might one day be in their place and for a night she's in her's. Just for a night she can sleep as she needs to and take comfort in her bed companion.

She loves him, she thinks that as she goes to sleep and she doesn't try to figure out what kind of love it is, doesn't make it any more complicated than it needs to be.

He has an arm around her and all things are good under the blankest. They're warm an soft and all things are where they need to be, at least for a few more hours.

She can't ask for anything else.

[nightkitchentarot]

On Losing Friends As An Adult

From writer Patti Digh...

As I age, I think I’ve gotten better at recognizing my faults, owning up to them, and having conversations with myself and others about whether I am willing to change them—honest conversations about perceptions and realities and chronic misbeliefs about how the world works based on our childhoods—and perpetuated with every action and reaction throughout our lives, unless we do our own internal work to change them (or consciously decide not to).

And we get to decide whether to change them or not. Am I stubborn? I am. I recognize that and won’t be changing that anytime soon. Am I enamored of being right? Yes, that, too. I’m okay with that particular quirk of mine, but I do now open the door for others’ rightness, too. I have learned to say I was wrong. I have also learned to acknowledge that other people have a much more emotional response to life than I do, but it doesn’t mean I am joining them—because emotions are just thoughts to me—and those I can control and change. There is always a different story I can tell. Sometimes I choose not to tell a different story, but I will always ask, “What else might be true?” The answer is often empowering. I don’t believe life just happens to us, but if it does, we get to choose what we think, feel, and do about what happens in our lives. It’s the response, not the stimuli, that shows us who we are.

I have also grown much less tolerant of bullshit, of people not saying what needs saying, and of also not hearing what others need to say to me, but instead dancing around, masking the real statements we want to make as questions when there is no real curiosity, just a judgment. Judgments are fine—I know they are only your truth. Just say them. We’re out of time, people.

But when we are de-friended by people who ghost us rather than explain what is bothering them, there is a certain kind of limbo involved—and limbo is, perhaps, a younger person’s dance. Mostly, I might reach out a few times to ask what’s up, but if they don’t respond, I soon get the invisible and unspoken and unclear message, and I’m willing to go, perhaps leaving a door ajar but not waiting at home for them to reappear.

They’ll know where to find me. I’m easy to find if they want to find me. And I can’t spend my time searching for people who have decided to leave, consciously or unconsciously, but don’t have enough respect for themselves or me to tell me. There’s no meaning in that. There’s no connection or closure in that. Friends come, they go. We have friends for mere seasons, and some we have forever. It’s okay to recognize the difference and act on it. Better than okay, it is necessary. Just don’t be a coward—close the loop.

About seven years ago, two friends disappeared from my life. I still don’t know why. Maybe they think I know what was behind their sudden disappearance, but I don’t. Was it something I did or said? Maybe, but maybe not. I honestly can’t think of anything I did differently besides speaking up about things bothering me. Isn’t that what friends work through? The truth, as we both see it, to forge a shared truth and shared story. Or not.

Maybe they weren’t used to hearing any pushback from me. Maybe speaking it, finally, was fueled by the overabundance of Adderall a psychiatrist had prescribed for me that made me chatter at anyone near me like one of those little plastic wind-up toys of a monkey hitting his cymbals together. Whatever it was, there’s no learning in it for me because they didn’t offer the kind of information necessary for learning. Maybe they were just conflict-averse people. I really don’t know.

Just *poof.*

So, while I have wondered at times—far less frequently now and often never—I have too many other things happening in my life to spend time reaching out anymore. Or wondering anymore. They are just gone.

When people leave—a friendship, a relationship—there is some kind of ashy, sticky, unspoken residue on everyone you have known in common. One of the pair of you, most likely, will broadcast the story you have about what happened, and the other one will sit silent. You likely know which part you play. Both parts provide good information about how we process loss or anger, shock, disbelief, or ghosting.

I’m the silent one, just noticing what I notice about who gravitates toward their story and who checks in with me first for understanding or clarity from my perspective. That’s free data for me. I value that information. It tells me a lot about people. It tells me who I will move forward with in my life and who I will no longer walk beside.

So I watch. John and I have a running joke that if someone calls you a pig-fucker, you don’t start yelling out, “I’m NOT a pig-fucker” because you don’t need to, and it won’t do any good anyway. It will just cement the idea of “pig-fucker” with “you.” You can simply watch to see who believes—suddenly—that you are a pig fucker, when they’ve never even seen you near a pig. Or a farm, for that matter.

Sometimes, people do us a favor by leaving, and we can only recognize afterward that the friendship was not a nurturing one but one that drained us. Some friendships are toxic, and recognizing that without blame is important. You just don’t work together. Or it is the wrong time in your lives together.

During a very difficult time in my life, I ghosted a childhood friend. I was so clinically depressed that I wasn’t even showering, much less returning phone calls. There was too much to say—too much backstory—and not saying that felt like pretending everything was okay. So, instead, I said nothing. I deeply regret that lack of closure.

I wonder now: Is it so hard to talk honestly with other human beings? It evidently is, which makes me appreciate my small circle of friends in which truthiness is deeply held as a core value. We no longer have time for circling around things—let’s walk right into them and through them with grace, love, respect, and a purifying fire.

In 2011, I heard the stories being told about me by a close friend. Wild stories with no basis, but often believed; not questioned, but swallowed whole cloth. Why didn’t I speak out against what was essentially slander? Because the most powerful person in a tug of war is the person who doesn’t pick up his or her end of the rope. Because it was interesting to see who believed the stories.

And because I’m not a pig fucker.

Love,

Patti

[painsucklet]

8/25/23 - 4am mildly high thoughts

sometimes i wonder if i truly have a depressive disorder. not because im not depressed, because i certainly am, but because it feels way more complicated than "has the chemical imbalance illness." i've been getting treatments for depression ever since i was 12 but i've never "recovered." and i think thats just because there are so many other things wrong with me that depression will never be the most expansive, well fitting label for me. no one has ever succeeded at fixing my "depression" because the problem has never just been my brain chemicals. im wired completely differently than what is expected for any other person. my autism, my trauma, being a system, having a radical world view; i live an existence that borders outside of everything that surrounds me. nobodys prepared to deal with a case like me, including myself. yeah ik there are people out there who have it worse or experience the exact same things as me and thats really validating but that doesnt change the fact that i live in a system where people like me arent supposed to make it this far. and im not really sure how to cope with that? ive been thinking about this a lot and its been making me really anxious because im at the point where i have to make a decision. do i go along with everything and push myself into perpetual burnout and pain just so that i can survive? i really dont know what the other option is. even if i try to go with the less harsh option of trying to make a living off of my art, im still disabled and i always will be. do you know how hard it is to have any hope living when i feel like theres no point? that im destined to rot just by attempting the right hand path? what do i do. this anxiety about my future has me completely frozen up. im absolutely paralyzed, living in the limbo state that has been my life since i dropped out of school. i dont even know how to remedy this. i know that i desperately need therapy of some type if not multiple types but i dont know how to make that happen. its too expensive if my insurance isnt covered and the normal cbt that it does cover hasnt helped me much in the almost 8 years that ive been in and out of it. i just need help. fuck.

[artemis-corvus]

How We Learn to Love

I am not exactly sure when I decided that to love and be loved was to be consumed, to willingly feed, to surrender your identity and peace of mind for the ego of another. There is perspective now, to the marriage of my parents, that makes me realize that the dynamic went first one way then the other. My father took all of the shattered self-esteem and desperation for approval that my mother offered in the form of openness to infidelity, namely by way of prostitutes, until she couldn't take anymore. Whatever he and her life did to her, she then turned on me, and before I had the vaguest notion of my own footing I was commanded to be a life raft, a living beacon of her success and goodness, a breathing trophy that owed all of my victories to her. Now, they love me with guilt and shame. I am the broken result of a broken family of a broken marriage of a broken life. I am the revenant.

I am the cum stain on a grey t-shirt with the design of a sailing ship and glitter from a middle aged whore raping felon released into a basement alone with 15 year old me in Maryland. I am the violet and crimson of bruises from angry paternal hands that saw me as a shadow in the corner of his eye. I am the sweat of too many hands that saw me body a a proving ground because my head and heart were too broken to tell them no and I thought maybe it meant I was pretty. I am whispers and giggles and mocking stares pointed at my back because I tried to speak out and when I couldn't take the pressure, I took the fall. I am scar tissue from filthy razor blades that promised to make me feel just a little more than nothing at the low low price of wanting to hide parts of my body for decades to come. I am the fear of failure so powerful it perpetuates the paralysis that results in failure until I don't try because then it can't go wrong. I am the loneliness of desperation so deep that I sit perpetually on the precarious precipice of limbo between looking inward and outward, finding that fraction of a breath between where my skin meets the rest of the world because I don't know which will hurt more, knowing what the world thinks of me, or thinking about what the world knows of me. And if I fail and lean too far forward or back, somehow I'll still wind up at the bottom of a beer can.

Allow me to be a tragedy today, let me bleed it from my pores like I've got leeches on my flesh, and hope that tomorrow's sun will burn off just a bit more of the remnants so I can shed those hollow yesterdays.

[prying-pandora666]

The departure of the head writer mid-season (who had been the one to design both the fire sibs’ arcs to boot), the mandated rewrites by Nickelodeon because they wanted more stand alone episodes for syndication, the scrapping of Book 4 because Bryke wanted to pursue a theatrical film about the search for Ursa (which is why the storyboards they made for those scenes were also scrapped), and more production troubles are the reason Book 3 has so many cracks despite some high highs.

Azula is the biggest one. The elephant in the room. Ehasz said she was always meant to be redeemed - which explains why she originally had an entire arc planned (it was cut for time and all that remained of it was recycled into “The Beach”). Bryke, however, have never seemed to give Azula much thought outside of her being an obstacle for Zuko to over come. A “crazy” foil that exists just to take the fall at the end so Zuko can rise.

It’s as if Bryke saw Zhao 2.0 but other writers were working towards Zuko+ instead.

We see the results. Her arc is rushed and we are suddenly bombarded with reveals about who the real Azula behind the mask of perfection really is. Little details start to fall into place - like why is she so good at lying and repressing her feelings? How is she so good at having a clear and calm head to lightningbend with even when there’s so much emotional turmoil inside of her? Oh, she has mastered the art of emotional repression and disassociation? Because she herself is traumatized by how she’s been exploited and the things she’s been forced to do?

It’s a tragedy that so much of the fandom insists on perpetuating ableist stereotypes about “born evil” children rather than see Azula for the far more fascinating and complicated character she is.

And it’s really strange and a bit concerning to realize how susceptible to narrative framing we all are as human beings. Azula does nothing worse than Zuko does throughout the show. Even her killing Aang in mutual combat is not as unethical as Zuko hiring an assassin in secret to protect his own selfish interests. And yet narrative framing will have you believe Zuko is just a desperate lost boy and Azula is a monster who enjoys what she does.

Despite the fact that this isn’t so.

Iroh, too, is an interesting comparison. In his prime he was the Dragon of the West and sieged the largest civilian city in the world for nearly 2 years! We even see him laugh and joke about burning their homes to the ground. But fans bend over backwards to justify this uncomfortable reality, to make excuses, to insist Iroh was always good deep inside.

In truth, nothing Azula ever does even at her worst compares to the pain and death Iroh brought to the world before he changed his ways. Even Azula’s conquest of Ba Sing Se was virtually bloodless and no civilians were harmed in the process. And yet… Iroh is the wise uncle everyone loves and Azula is the monster.

I think it’s something the creators recognized in retrospect, which is why they haven’t known how to handle the character since. It’s clear they know she SHOULD be redeemed otherwise they’re accidentally saying something hypocritical and downright cynical for the series that doesn’t fit with its original messages. And yet they don’t seem ready to sacrifice the most interesting and compelling villain they’ve ever managed to write.

I think there’s something to be said for stories written for the sake of telling a story vs stories written to continue a franchise.

Until decisions start getting made for the purposes of completing the story rather than dragging out and milking a franchise with endless spin-offs, remakes, games, and sequels, then Azula will continue to live in this bizarre limbo with half the fandom painfully invested in seeing her suffer and the other half pleading for the writers to let the girl come to the conclusion she was always written for.

Let the girl find peace!

It would say nothing good about the heroes—especially Zuko—if they choose to use Azula as a scapegoat rather than reach out a hand to help her just as they’ve done to everyone else.

Even to Ozai.

Why did they end Azula's story on a disturbing breakdown, crying and screaming, chained to the ground like an animal, while our main characters stand there and watch passively?

They could have shown us a scene during the celebrations where she was drinking tea and observing the crowd, to reassure the audience she was okay at least. Her last scene was traumatizing, and i hate how the show tried to make it seem like it was a satisfying close to her story.

Having a light-hearted ending where everyone is happy and smiling EXCEPT her, because she is straight up snubbed by the narrative, just seems mean-spirited to me.

"There was supposed to be a fourth season focusing on Azula." Okay, but it didn't come out. It would have been so easy to show Azula at the end of season 3, just having calmed down, just her being calm. Just take ten seconds to show her awful breakdown had passed and she was somewhere safe and somewhat at peace. That's it.

The more i think about it the angrier i get.

[acearohippo]

I dunno if you've talked about this but what do you think about LiXuan being parents? Would they want kids? :3c

What do I think?? WHAT DO I THINK??? You do not know the can of worms you've just dashed onto the concrete.

Umm... Hmm... I guess there can be an mpreg warning?? *wavey hands* and, perhaps, a mild case of body dysphoria??? you'll see when you get to Tang Xuan's section.

But for now:

Li Ling ABSOLUTELY wants kids. He thought he didn't, then he was forced to volunteer at an elementary school after school program and was suddenly gripped with the intense desire to see a bunch of mini hims running around. He wants an ARMY'S WORTH of his own children.

Not babies though, man's terrified of babies. He's the type of parent that really excels at parenting once their kid enters school. Before that? Lost™, Confused™, Perpetually-in-an-Extistential-Crisis™™™. And once the kid hits the teenage years, they're practically ready and solid enough to tussle and throw hands with, so he goes from stern but nurturing and doting to "these hands rated e for everyone who don't CATCH THEY ATTITUDE". He gets along SO WELL with children, too, that while people are shocked at first on how enthusiasticly he wants to be a father, they realised rather quickly that it makes a lot of sense given how into it he gets when playing with children and how he has a permanent spot as a substitute teacher (which he did the work to get credentials for) at several local elementary schools.

As for Tang Xuan, I guess we have unlocked a Personal Backstory Headcannon. Many of you know that I have Tang Xuan's gender as intersex. What y'all don't know is I don't headcannon him as trans. It's a very long and drawn out backstory, but the gist is that Tang Xuan was raised a little boy, hit puberty, grew boobs and started getting (sporadicly) periods, which had people around him trying to "be progressive" and call him by feminine pronouns and Mei, and that caused a bit of an identity crisis. It's less that he transitioned and more that he had to really hammer it down to his folks and peers (at the time) that he wasn't a girl and the new additions didn't change his perception. And then he became an esper and that took way more precedence over trying to define who he was to others. This leaves our boy in a very strange sort of limbo. He loves his body and takes care of it. Sometimes he wears compression clothes to mask most of the curves, but that's mostly due to his active lifestyle, rather than any dysphoria or discomfort. But, growing up after reaching puberty, there were a lot of... Let's say dated remarks on his changes. Lots of "oh good, you can have babies!" And "now you'll be able to be a real woman". You know, nothing inherently wrong nor demeaning, just misplaced platitudes that didn't factor in how he might feel.

Does he want kids? Yeah, sure, it'd be nice in a decade or so. But does he want to have them? He's not sure. The idea doesn't entirely ick him, but he also doesn't feel comfortable "playing into the role" that others assigned for him. He could adopt but he knows he'd want a child or two that came from half of his genes.

All this to say, that LiXuan will be having their own kids, but not after some heavy discussion and planning. It helps that, once Tang Xuan gets pregnant, he is forced into solitude to be doted on by Li Ling and their families and closest friends. So when they do emerge in society, it causes mass confusion and the focus is more on "WHERE DID THIS BABY COME FROM???" rather than "TANG XUAN WAS PREGNANT???"

And, yes, they're both solid parents. Definitely awkward and young, making very common and- usually non life-threatening- mistakes. Yes they were those parents that shipped their toddlers off to daycare just so they can get a break from them. No shame there, they need it. Li Ling is that parent educators wish took disciplining more seriously (if no one ends up in the hospital, s'all good yeah?) and Tang Xuan is that parent educators think isn't invested enough in their kid (he's still a model, on top of being a high ranking union officer. hours are wild and free time is sporadic).

They both have to take up family counseling once their kids become teenagers because oh boy, karma is a b#tch and their kids- of course- have the worst of both of their personalities x10 due to raging teenage hormones.

But you know what? Their kids grow up well enough, knowing they are loved and will always have a safe space within their dads' arms (and extra arms) and once the hormones settle as they become adults and go through uni and enter the workforce, Li Ling and Tang Xuan are pleased to see that their kids still talk to them and seek them out for advice or randomly drop by to hang out (and steal their leftovers and tupperware). All that hard work pays off.

They, later on, decide to become foster parents so they can still impact a child's life without needing to relive the horrors of raising them from birth to graduation.