#it’s just very clear people don’t see the series as art or an art piece

[metallteeff]

still thinking about this tweet i saw this morning that was like guys petscop is bad bc the creator based it off a real case and like yea that was shitty. we shouldn’t let him forget he fucked up with that but then people were all like this is why i never liked petscop petscop is soooo bad and i’m just kind of like. okay.

like you guys realize really impactful art can have shitty production behind it or like be hard to consume right. idk this isn’t about what tony did or like defending him it jisy very much seemed like i’m going to hate this thing now bc of this fucked up thing in its production and it was clear the ppl saying that really had never watched petscop idk

[netherfeildren]

Someone's Wife in the Boat of Someone's Husband .6

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Joel Miller x F!Reader)

Content Warnings: Mention of disordered eating; Minor breath play; Light choking; Rough sex; Angry sex; Jealousy; Possessive behavior; Pussy slapping; ANGST!!!!!!!!!! (no one come for me!!!) 

Rating: Explicit 18+

A/N: This is my favorite chapter of the whole story :) Art is Talking it out with Bobby by Holly Warburton

Word Count: 6.2K

Read on AO3

.6

We are imperfect mortal beings, aware of that mortality even as we push it away, failed by our very complication, so wired that when we mourn our losses we also mourn, for better or for worse, ourselves. As we were. As we are no longer. As we will one day not be at all.

Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking

You call in sick to work the next day. You can’t function after that, he’s destroyed you, taken a piece of you away with him and replaced it with something of himself. He lives inside of you now, worse than before, worse than anything you could have ever imagined. You can’t say that it was a mistake, letting him fuck you last night, mainly because it was the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to you, but the accompanying guilt collapses your lungs. 

When you look at yourself in the mirror after you've gotten home from the party, all you can see is your mother’s face in your reflection. And the thought comes hammering on your mind’s door in the middle of the night, you’re just like her now, an infidel. The poison drips through. Someone that’s taken what wasn’t theirs to take, someone that’s stepped into a space that was not theirs to enter. 

You’ve been leaking a steady stream of his come all night. Your cunt, sore and puffy, aching for more. Laying face down on the edge of your bed, arm hanging off the side and gone away to numbness, staring unseeingly out the window. You watch night pass through the sheer specter of your soft, blue drapes, the silver glow of the moon brightening into dawn, and then the light of the sun, sweeping in to reflect across all of your sins. Your head aches a steady constant throb right at the center of your forehead, deep inside your brain, and tears have been a unending salty stream of shame sliding sideways down your face and dripping coldly off the tip of your nose all night long. 

You’re a pathetic sight, you’re sure. And you’re scared, frightened in a way you don’t think you’ve been since you watched your mother walk out the front door of your childhood home at ten years old and had turned to look at your father sitting unblinkingly upright on the living room sofa. He’d stayed there for hours, still and silent while you’d sat in the chair across from him, waiting for him to say something, do something. A part of him had walked out that door with your mother that day and had never returned. You remember you were wearing your pink Barbie sneakers, the light up ones that glowed  bright at the heels. The memory is very clear in your mind, but you can’t tell which figure you are now, your ten year old self, alone, confused, or your father, comatose, fractured.

You’re frightened.

You think you’re falling in love with him – that you’re already there. 

Your greatest fear had always been ending up like your mother, unable to evade her blight of selfishness, of uncaringly hurting the people around her, the people that needed her. But now, now you’re terrified in a way that you’ve never been before, terrified of turning into that sad, broken figure sitting on the couch for years, a piece of him gone away with a woman who’d never return, who’d never really been his in the first place. 

How could something you’d wanted so badly, that had felt so good, enshroud you in such desolation now, just a few short hours later? Was it because you knew you shouldn’t have done it? You could only register that peripherally, for there wasn’t any real part of you right now, in this moment, that regretted it, that felt it was a mistake. You’re riding the strange invisible line between guilt and regret, firmly on one side, not yet crossed over to the other, but just right there, balancing on the tightrope. But you can’t even really tell what it is that you might or should regret, specifically. It doesn’t even feel wrong, it can’t, you don’t think, nothing that had ever felt that right, could ever actually be wrong. It isn’t even the pillar of his marriage in your mind, you don’t think. No, what it is, at its core, the place that this pain stems from, is that you know he wants to be with you, and that you want to be with him, and yet, after what the two of you experienced together last night, you’re alone now, separated, and it’s only because of you. It’s all your fault. What hurts more than anything is that you know how he feels, and yet, he is not here, and you are not going to let him be here with you. It hurts because you cannot let yourself have him, and will not ever have him, even though now you know what he feels like inside of you and what he tastes and sounds like. You’d brushed up against something you’d never thought even existed, something perfect, and you will not have it. 

It is… it is devastating. 

You love him, and you think that there is the very high possibility that he might feel the same way about you too, and yet you will not be together. The fact of your feelings for one another does not erase your history, your fear, the reality of his current situation. 

You have to bear the shame of going to the store for the morning after pill the next day. Too stupid and desperate to even think about being careful last night, cunt still puffy and sore, leaving a trail of him in your wake. It feels like you’re walking around with a bruise inside of you in the shape of him, and some cruel and rotten part of you whispers: it was worth it, you know you’d let it happen again, you know you want it to happen again.

Swallowing that little pill is just added salt in the wound – makes your hurt flare brighter within your heart for reasons you can’t even bear to examine right now, except to say that the idea of erasing whatever’s left of what could, very well, be the only time you’ll ever be close to him in that way, makes you want to die a little bit. 

And you think: perhaps this will pass, as all things do. You’ve never been religious, but maybe you’ll pray for this – to let go of the memory of him, forget what his hands feel like running along the contours of your body, how your skin felt aflame with his gaze on you. To let go of this want for him you’re scared might send you to an early grave. And yet, at the same time, and despite all this, you also beg the universe to make you remember, to never let you forget.

Hunger gnaws at your belly, sharp and chronic, but you’re not letting yourself have anything yet. Some cruel and masochistic part of you whispers that if you can’t control your feelings, the fact that you’re in love with a married man, then you’ll control this – your body – what you’ll let yourself have. It is a bad habit from your mother that you like to indulge in sometimes. The false sense of power it gives you over yourself, the pain and discomfort it lets you inflict on yourself – it grounds you, makes you feel like if this physical suffering continues then you still belong to yourself, you’re still anchored to yourself, you still hold some sort of autonomy over your body, even if your feelings for him have taken the rest of it away. You’re still real – not something that’s been stolen away by him, that piece he’d robbed you of last night is still there. 

-

Gerri climbs into bed with you, one very bad afternoon, drapes her arm around your shoulders to pull you into her warm embrace. You’ve been existing in a haze for days; and food and sleep and you have gone on a sabbatical from each other for the foreseeable future. There is no peace or rest or comfort to be found anywhere within you. Your mind is just too filled with things too terrible to escape from. Mostly your father – you’ve been thinking about him incessantly the past few days. How much you feel for him now, how much you understand him. You think that it is very easy, you now realize, to lose yourself in the dreams of an unattainable love, to lose yourself in the depths of your own grief. You’d cast him in a weak and pathetic light in your mind for so long, and now you were being faced with the terrible guilt of coming to realize that you understood him better than you’d ever thought you would. 

With her cheek pressed against the top of your head Gerri whispers, “It’s Joel, isn’t it?” The reality of how obviously transparent you are is devastating. 

“Yes.” You think your voice sounds almost unrecognizable, even to your own ears, so jagged and marred with agony. 

“You love him,” she says plainly, and all you can do is nod as you feel your tears slide across the bridge of your nose, down your temple to drip coldly into your ear, slipping over the hand you have pressed over your mouth to hold your own terrible sounds inside. “He loves you too.” Your face crumples, your body wracked with trembling sobs. “It breaks my heart seeing you like this, honey.”

“I can’t help it,” you croak. You are so, so tired of crying. Your eyes ache and burn, your body, your mind, your very soul feels exhausted. You are exhausted of missing him and despairing for him and hurting your own self. You don’t even know why you’re doing it all anymore.

But you can’t find a way to let it all go, to move on… to forgive yourself or your parents. It’s all just too much, too heavy. You think of your mother, all the resentment you hold against her – how do you forgive someone who has no interest in your forgiveness, who’s never cared for it? It’s terribly difficult to be so magnanimous, so emotionally intelligent, you think. One can only exist as the bigger person for so long until they explode. But how can you let go or forget, if you cannot forgive? Perhaps, if it had been someone else, something else, but this was no ordinary thing. This was the crux of all your emotional turmoil, of every issue and grievance that had plagued you your entire life. Your parents, your childhood, the pain of an adolescence alone and unsure and angry. Perhaps, if it had not been all that – if it had not been the thing to shape who you were as a person, who you’d grown into as an adult, you could have just moved on, let it go and forgotten eventually, let Joel in, but the pain of your past had now become inextricably intertwined with the pain of what seemed to be a lost future – of Joel, and so you found it within yourself, now, that you would never be able to forget, if you did not forgive your parents, and then, perhaps, yourself. 

But how to do that? You’d yet to figure it out.

-

After much pleading and coaxing and convincing from both Gerri and her sister, you’d agreed to go on a date with the shiny scarecrow – doctor – who you’re reminded is named Seth. Seth, Seth, Seth. You have to repeat it over and over in your mind to make it stick. And amidst your tears and depression and the overwhelming anxiety you’ve been living with for weeks and weeks on end, you ultimately relent. Too weak and fragile to resist the girl’s onslaught of encouraging suggestions and advice.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

He picks you up one Saturday evening, seven o’clock on the dot, to take you out to dinner. Gerri had helped you pick out a pretty soft lavender wrap dress, doing your makeup and hair and wiping away the occasional escaped tear. The silk of your dress is smooth and elegant, and it feels good to wear something so pretty, after weeks of existing like some sort of cave-dwelling-creature, even if that feeling is punctuated by the painful thought that you wish you were wearing it for a different man. 

And as poor, boring Seth leads you into the restaurant, a nice Italian place you appreciate the gesture of, his palm, not broad or strong enough, hovering over the small of your back and making you slightly nauseous, you pray for a nice night. Really, you do. You can’t be miserable anymore, you don’t want to be. Maybe Seth will pull something out of you or himself or the both of you consecutively, that will miraculously force you to have a wonderful time, wipe your memory, and never miss or think about one unmentionable man ever again. 

And then you hear your name being called from across the restaurant. 

It feels, a little bit, like your heart is falling out of your body. 

And you’re turning to take in the sight of Joel and Eva, accompanied by another couple, at a table in the corner of the busy restaurant. 

You think, in that moment, that you might faint. Or vomit. Or that something, very, equally bad is going to happen to you. Because it’s the first time you’ve seen him in weeks and weeks and all you can think about is the pounding rhythm of his cock fucking into your wet cunt and the sound of your voice crying, asking him what the two of you were going to do after this? How you were going to be able to go on after that? 

You do not think that this was the answer – him seeing you out on a date with another man.

His face – his face looks like it’s about to fracture in rage. His eyes are almost glassy, but so dark – burning with anger and shock and hurt. You did that to him. You’ve put that look on his face. And your heart beats so hard and so painfully in your chest, it feels like it’s being ripped apart, like he has it clutched within the embrace of his infinitely strong hand, and he’s squeezing the very life out of you in the middle of this crowded room. You think you can hear Seth’s voice saying something in your ear, Eva, again, calling your name, saying something to you, beckoning the two of you forward, and then Seth’s palm is pressing you forward, towards them, towards this angry, fractured beast you’ve turned the man you love into. You think you might start having a panic attack any moment now, or perhaps, that you’re already there. 

The two of you reach their table. They’re with two other people, but your vision is slightly blurry, all you can see are his furious eyes. Seth nudges you and your mind suddenly snaps back into clarity for a second, “Hi, Eva.” You can’t say his name right now, you can’t, you can’t. You’ll die right here on the spot if you have to utter his name out loud right now. “How are you guys doing? This is my friend, Seth.” You introduce them, she says Joel’s name, you register it peripherally, and at the sound of it, you’re pierced with a sudden, blinding arrow of jealousy. Why, why is he here? Out on a double date with her right now? How could he fuck you the way he had, and then just gone on with his marriage as if nothing? You hate him, you hate him, you hate him. You want to scream and rage and throw a fit. You hate yourself, this is all your fault, you pushed him to this. You’ve been emaciating yourself in the infinite pool of your grief, and he’s out on a fucking date right now? It’s insane and unhinged and entirely nonsensical, you’re out on a date right now too, you have no right to these feelings, but you can’t help it. You feel a slight tremble start up in your body, and you think that Seth might be able to sense something’s amiss with you because he wraps a steadying hand around your waist as he chats, and at his contact with your body, you think that Joel’s knee must jerk violently under the table, for the glass and silverware on the table’s surface jumps and rattles, sudden and loud. You startle and turn your face away from them, try and suck in slow, calming breaths through your slightly parted mouth. You think you hear the sound of his deep, rumbling voice, muttering out an apology, and then Seth’s hand around your waist is nudging you again, and prompting you to say goodbye, and the two of you are turning and walking towards your own table. 

Away from Joel and his anger and his wife.

-

A strong hand shoots out, catching the door as you’re about to shut yourself inside the restroom, needing a moment of escape, of reprieve, to vomit or have a panic attack or cry, you can’t really tell. Your body is in overdrive, panicking and shutting down all at once, and then he’s there, pushing the rest of the way in, crowding you backwards.

He’s here, he’s here, he’s here. Everything will be okay now, he’s here.“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Joel–” you cry, trying to push the immovable wall of muscle he is, back.

You hear the flip of the lock as he reaches behind him, and then his hand comes up to gently circle your throat, and he’s pressing you backwards and up against the wall. Your entire body shakes in a violent, feverish shudder. You haven’t felt him in weeks. Weeks and weeks without his skin on yours. 

You hate yourself. You love him. 

“You are not here on a date with that little fuck. Tell me I’m seein’ things.”

“Get your damn hands off me.” You try and push him away, but he tightens his hold, fingers administering the lightest pressure to the sides of your throat so that you start to feel that delicious, lightheaded rush. Fuck, fuck, fuck. No. 

“Tell me–” he’s seethes, bringing your face closer to his, “Tell me you’re not here on a date with him. Tell me, baby.” His spitting hiss turns into a begging croon at the end. As if by making his tone sweeter, he can make the reality of what you’re doing here tonight different to what it really is. 

“I am. I am on a date, and it’s none of your business.” You try to inflect as much spine into your words as you can, but it comes out all breathy and wrong, and your hands are clutching his wrist that’s gripping you, holding on for dear life, trying to bring yourself in closer to him, knees trembling. You’re sure you’re breaking out into a fever. The back of your neck and knees flushing with a cold sweat, flashes of heat spearing through your belly. 

“None of my business? Everything to do with you is my fucking business.” And he’s spinning you suddenly, pressing you to the wall so that your breasts and cheek are smushed against the cold tile and yanking your dress up around your hips. You feel him crouch down behind you, and then his fingers are pulling your panties down to your ankles, and he’s burying his face in your cunt from behind, soaking wet already, Jesus fucking Chirst, big hands gripping the meat of your ass to spread you wide for his tongue. You arch your back to let him in deeper as tears start to fall. 

We shouldn’t, we shouldn’t, we shouldn’t. Finally, finally, finally, thank God. 

He licks from your clit all the way to your asshole, spits a glob of saliva onto your already soaked skin and rubs it in. You let out a broken, devastated moan, almost a wail. Oh, it feels so good, so good. You shouldn’t – you can’t help yourself.

“P– please, please, Joel–”

“I know, I know, baby. Gonna give you what you need.” He gets to his feet, and you hear the drag of his zipper, one hand on your hip, the other coming around to press down on your belly, deepening the bend of your spine, and then the wide head of his cock is there, right where you need him the most, where he shouldn’t be, and he’s fucking into you all the way. Deep, deep, deep, without preamble.

 He owns you. You belong to him. How could you ever have been so stupid to think that a date with another man would be a good idea?

You’re whining, stuttering his name over and over again. “We shouldn’t, we shouldn’t, Joel, please, please, please, harder.”

“Shut up. How fucking dare you?” His thrusts are brutal. He brings the hand on your hip up to your throat to yank your head to the side, tongue licking deep into your open, panting mouth. “You force me to stay away, avoid me for weeks, and now you’re here with him? You’re gonna come on my fucking cock now. Remind you who you belong to. Were you gonna let him fuck you? Were you gonna let him have my cunt?”

“Never, never. I promise. Only you.” You’re dizzy, your brain – melted out through your ears, fucked out of you by the relentless onslaught of him inside of you. His grip is almost too tight around your jaw, the palm on your belly pressing down so that you both can feel his cock ramming into you from the outside.

The excruciating pain of missing him – and now this. You hate yourself, you’ll never come back from this. His wife is right out there, but God, God, he feels so good. You’ve missed him so much. You love him. He’s so right inside of you. Tears leak from your eyes, rolling over his hand clutching your face, and he sinks his teeth into the delicate tendons connecting your neck and shoulder. You’re going to come. Now, now any second. The harder he is, the rougher he treats you, the wetter you get, the tighter your pussy gets. You’re so fucked up. 

“All this fucking time apart, just to find you here.” He slides the hand on your belly down to your clit, starts a rhythmic little circular pattern that has your eyes rolling to the back of your head and your cunt clenching down hard, sucking him deeper. 

“Please– I’m sorry.” Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.

“No you’re not.” He gives the top of your mound a quick little slap that has you mewling high and warbled for him. “If you were, you’d have answered my calls, let me see you. What the fuck’s wrong in your head to think you can send me away? To think you can leave and never come back to me? You’re mine, and I’m yours. We belong to each other. Now be my good girl, and come on my cock. Right now.”

“Your wife’s right out there, you fucking asshole!” you cry, inner muscles starting to flutter and pulse around his throbbing length. 

“I don’t give a fuck. Gonna stuff you full of my come and send you back out there dripping me.” He kisses you again, and he’s so fucking dirty, so crude and mean and your orgasm hits you full throttle. So wrong. 

“Yes–  fuck, yes – good girl, such a good girl for me. That’s it,” he presses into your ear, dips his tongue into the soft, little shell. You sob his name, again and again, telling him how much you missed him, how much you need him as he starts to fill you with the searing heat of his spend. 

He presses gentle kisses to your neck, your shoulder, your wet cheek, hugs you tight to his chest. So at odds with the savage way he just took you. Your head rolls back onto his shoulder limply. You’re trying to control your sobbing, your face is going to be all red and splotchy when you walk out of here. You probably look wrecked, just fucked. Everyone’s going to know. Poor Seth – he doesn’t deserve to be disrespected like this. His wife’s going to know. Joel’s going to tell her. You can feel it in the desperation of his movements, the tight grip of his hands. He’s reached his limit, and he’s going to tell her everything, and you won’t be able to hide this anymore, won’t be able to stop him, to hide all of your truths and shame.

“Get away from me,” you gasp, breath hitching. Get away, get away, get away. What is wrong with you? You’re just like her, just like her, just like her. You’re just like your mother. Callous and poisoned. “Get away!” you almost shriek, starting to panic now. 

“Baby, wait – wait. I’m– I’m sorry. Fuck, I shouldn’t’ve been so rough.” He pulls out and you feel the gush of his come, moaning at the feeling. You brace your hands against the wall, trying not to lose your balance on your shaky legs. You feel his hands hovering around your waist, ready to catch you if you need him. 

“Oh God, oh God– what did we do?” You turn to face him, cheeks burning and tear streaked, hands coming up to cup your own face, eyes wide. Your whole body is shaking. “There’s something wrong with us.” He steps up to press himself all along the length of you and you shut your eyes. His gaze is so concerned, swimming with desperation, and you love him so much, you want him so badly, more than anything else you’ve ever wanted in your entire life. This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you, and you can’t survive this, you can’t, you can’t. He cups his large palms over yours, completely engulfing your small hands and presses his brow to yours. 

“Please, please, baby. I’m begging you right now,” his voice cracks, and you pull your hands from beneath his and snake your arms around his neck to hug yourself closer to him. You need to breathe in his scent in these last few moments, you need to imprint the feel of him in your memory, brand it there to keep with you for the rest of your life. “Please, let me fix this. There’s a way to make this better, please.” 

“We can’t,” you whisper, rolling your brow over the hill of his shoulder in the imitation of a weakly stubborn shake. You don’t even know why you’re refusing anymore. It’s not like it feels any more right or wrong than what you’re already doing. It’s not like you’re better off for being without him, or he’s better off for staying in his marriage. It’s not like your obstinacy is helping anyone involved in this at all. And yet, you can’t help yourself, something inside of you is forcing you to continue to refuse. And at that he pulls himself away from you angrily. Ripping himself out of your hold and leaving you to stumble. 

“No, you can’t,” he spits, teeth bared at you in an almost hiss so that you have to step away from the horrible, painful look in his eyes. 

His anger incites your own, “You’re here on a date with your fucking wife,” you say, swiping your hand out in a halting gesture, “What do you care what I’m doing or who– who I’m with?”

He barks out a laugh, ugly and broken, and the sound of it makes you flinch, take another step back from him. “Wanna know something real fuckin’ funny?” No, you don’t think you do. “That’s the man she’s been having an affair with. The pregnancy scare? That’s him.” He jerks his thumb back towards the door, raises his eyebrows, a mocking gesture, a look that has you wrapping your arms around your middle protectively. He nods his head condescendingly. “Yeah…” He’s smiling, and the look in his eyes is manic and broken and full of an ugliness you hate seeing in him. Like he’s on the verge of fracture.

“Joel– What–” you bring up a hand to rub at the ache that’s starting up in your temple,  “What are you doing here with them? Why are you doing this to yourself?”

Why am I doing this to myself? He murmurs under his breath, shaking his head. He is so full of painful contempt in this moment, and you think that there is a slightly humiliating edge to this, but you don’t know who it is that’s being humiliated here right now. “You think I give a fuck about being here? About them?” His voice takes on an edge you’ve never heard in him before. No… not on the verge of fracture, you think, this is a man deep into the abyss of dissolution. His brow crumples. “I don’t – I don’t know. I can’t fucking think. I can’t function, you– you did something to me. You–” the words break in his throat, “You stole something from me,” the way you’d felt he’d stolen something from you, “My goddamn sanity or sense or something, and then you’ve refused to talk to me, to see me, and I don’t– I don’t know how to exist anymore, do you understand me? I don’t know how to do this alone – without you. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I– I just–” he squeezes his eyes shut and presses the balls of his hands harshly into his eye sockets, “I just need you to tell me how to do this. How are you doing this? Please, just tell me something that’ll help me, and I’ll do it. I swear, I will.” 

He’s breaking right in front of you, here and now, and you’re left speechless, your mind listless, and right before the words leave your mouth you think: don’t say it, don’t say it, please, don’t push him away, don’t hurt him like this again, but instead: “Joel, I can’t. I don’t–”

He cuts you off, “I know. You don’t want to… You don’t want this…” he laughs, another terrible and broken sound. “You don’t want this,” he whispers again, and his face spasms painfully, and then goes suddenly blank. All emotion melting away so that all you’re left with now is a bare, cold canvas. “You’ve never wanted this enough to fight for it… I don’t think. To let go of your fears. I’ve told you that I’d do anything for you, over and over again. And you won’t let me.”

“It’s not that fucking simple!” you cry. “Don’t– don’t say–” He was wrong, he was wrong. 

He tucks himself away, still slick and dripping your mingled come, and it registers for one immensely vulnerable second, that you’ve just had this terrible conversation with the both of you bared to each other in the most intimate of ways. He turns to face the door. A terrible curling lance of shame and disgust roils through you. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes again for one long quiet moment. You watch the broad expanse of his back suck in deep, slow breaths – trying to collect himself. His ribs flare so wide on the inhale, he’s so big. His arms fall to hang limply at his sides. “It’s fine. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that to you. I shouldn’t have been so rough… said all that. It won’t happen again. I’m sorry.” His voice sounds dead. 

He turns his head to the side slightly, giving you his profile and whispers quietly, devastating, “This–” he shakes his head a little, a frown verging on confusion crumpling his brow, “This is hurting me?” and the way it comes out, like a question, but yet, so simply, so starkly – it would have been less painful had he struck you, than hearing him say those words so plainly. But still posed so unsurely, as if he doesn’t expect you to understand, or perhaps, as if he doesn’t quite understand it himself.

You wrap your arms around yourself to keep all your blood and pain from spilling out onto this dirty restroom floor. Something has just been irreparably destroyed here. You don’t know what it is. But you can feel it happening, and it hurts. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again. 

And you want to say, no, you’re the one that’s sorry. You’re more sorry than you’ll ever be able to put into words. 

But you stay silent, and he walks out. 

-

You’d always worried that the moment of true fusion with the memory of your mother, of who she was, would come, or better yet, had come, the moment you’d become involved with a married man. You’d thought that nothing after that could enshroud you in her terrible shadow more than that. But you realize, now, as poor Seth drives you home, silent and uncomfortable as silent tears stream down your face and another mans come leaks from your sex, as the memory of Joel’s broken voice and face flashes in your memory, that this is the moment, above all others, that you’ve felt most like the woman who gave you life. Nothing else has ever been like this. 

The poison drips through.

You think of your dad. Of the way he died, the way he lived in the years after she left – if that sad excuse of an existence could even be called living. 

What a terrible thing it is to love someone so much. 

What a terrible thing it is to know someone so well. Well enough to be able to understand them to their very core, to understand what it is that causes their pain, incites their actions. It is a terrible weight to bear.

Seth clears his throat as he pulls the car to a slow stop outside your house. “Uh… are you… are you okay?” Do I look okay? You want to roll your eyes, but he doesn’t deserve your annoyance.

You sniffle, try and control your voice, “Yes,” you whisper, “I’m sorry for– for all this. I… I’m sorry I ruined your night.”

“Look…” he says your name slowly, “I don’t– I don’t know what it is that’s between you and that guy… he’s the same one from the night we met–” you say nothing, “But I don’t think– I don’t think it’s going to work out between us. I’m sorry, but I can’t have all this drama. I’m not really interested in something like that.”

An uncontainable huff of a laugh slips out as you look out the window at the dark street, you shake your head minutely. “To be honest, I’m not so interested in all the drama myself, and yet…” you turn to him now, “I really am sorry, Seth. And I wish you the best.” He nods, stoic, face pointed directly forward, he doesn’t even want to look at you. Uncomfortable and embarrassed by your breakdown and tears and obvious disorder. It’s probably pretty obvious that you’d just gotten the sense fucked out of you.

You step into the dark interior of your quiet house after he drives off. It’s lonely, almost like a shell, an abandoned carcass. None of the comfort you’ve always found here seems to still reside within its wall, and you think that there probably isn’t any place in the entire world, besides by his side, where you’d be able to find any sort of comfort anymore. 

Hot guilt churns in your belly –  a vile mix of desperation, misery, resentment, wanting. Joel was right about one thing, you don’t know what you’re doing anymore either, what all this is for. None of it makes sense, none of it has a point. 

What is the fucking point of all this suffering?

You try desperately to suppress the certainty that lives so willfully within you – that he knows you, that he sees you, that you were made only for him. Something you’ve known for a long time, since the very beginning, probably. That no one, no one will ever intertwine with you, soul fused to soul, as intrinsically as he has. That no one will ever see the muddled shadows of your own self as clearly as he does, as if he was laying his eyes upon the inside of your skin.

You’re in love with him, and you realize that you’ve made yourself into something unrecognizable. A creature out of the very depths of your worst nightmares – the mirror image of the person you never wanted to be. 

Your brain feels as though it’s swollen within the confines of your skull, your tears uncontrollable. Your longing for him a spear of fire through your heart, and you are so, so weary of fighting. 

Your life had taught you that there were no happy endings. They didn’t exist. A figment in the imaginations of desperate people in need of consolation, comfort, excuses. But there could be grateful endings. Endings that you could thank God, the universe, whatever higher power you used to delude yourself with, for. You could be grateful when a thing ended. You could be glad of it. Perhaps, if you lie to yourself hard enough now, repeat it in your mind enough times, you can feel grateful that you’ve destroyed this. That it seems you’ve finally pushed him away for good – maybe this will help you finally rest, even if the lie of it pushes heavily down on your shoulders.

Chapter .7

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

[themummersfolly]

Brotherly Art

alt. title: Love Is Stored In the Infodump

This is the first of a three part series on Thrawn's relationship to art. He's such a nerd, I love him so much.

-----

People who meet Thrawn often think he’s quiet. People who know him, at least for any length of time, often wish he was.

Thrass understands the complaint, but he doesn’t share it. When his brother gets onto certain topics, the stiff poise and awkward reserve melt away; his eyes shine with more than bioluminescence, and he lays out his opinions with the enthusiasm of a child and the earnestness of a professor. True, no one else can get a word in edgewise. But Thrass has spent enough time in university to appreciate the free dispersal of knowledge by someone passionate about the topic. And Thrawn rarely looks so alive, let alone happy. Thrass wants to see him happy.

“-but in 68 BCA, you start to see a shift in the assembly technique, as though the makers’ perspective on the physical possibilities of their craft has begun to shift. The history books say they didn’t have any contact with outsiders until at least 50 BCA, but I think we can see from the pottery alone that the date of first contact can be pushed back by almost a decade. It shows up in other artifacts, but it’s most clear here that their whole conception of their place in the universe underwent a seismic shift-” Thrawn looks up from the zoomed-in picture of a potshard on his questis and glances at Thrass. “This isn’t boring, is it?”

Someday, Thrass reflects, he’d like to meet whoever told Thrawn his interests were boring. There’ll be an assault charge, of course, but he’s fairly certain he can talk his way out of the worst of it. “Not at all. I like hearing what you think.” His own questis pings. “Delivery’s almost here.”

“Ok. I have to use the fresher anyway.” A look of urgency crosses Thrawn’s face and he practically vaults the couch on his way. Thrass shakes his head. Trust Thrawn to get so wrapped up in a topic he forgets to pee. Thrass gets up to clear the table for their meal and brings Thrawn’s questis with him. When he sets it down, the jolt causes the screen to switch back on. He blinks. Instead of the potshard, the screen is a solid, alarming blue.

“Thrawn, I think something is wrong with your questis.”

Thrawn emerges from the fresher, still drying his hands. Thrass hands him the device.

“It’s gone all blue. If I broke it, I’ll replace it-”

“Oh, no, it’s fine.” Thrawn breathes a visible sigh of relief. “That’s just the lock screen.”

“You set your lock screen to The Blue Screen of Death?” In fairness, it’s not the strangest thing his brother’s ever done. Thrawn shakes his head.

“It’s a painting by Cli’ure’akoio, one of her Color Studies. I’ve got downloads of all her older work, this one’s my favorite. Most people just see skin tone when they look at it, but a blue this saturated and even is really difficult to produce outside electronic media. And look how she applied it, it’s hard to tell here but there are no visible brushstrokes. That’s what makes this picture unique: she’s taken something absurdly simple and executed it so perfectly it’s like she’s daring people to say they could do the same thing, openly flexing on her critics-”

And just like that, he’s off on an extended explanation of the experimental paintings of Cli’ure’akoio.

Later, as Thrawn scrolls through his questis looking for a particular painting, Thrass peers over his shoulder. Most people’s image files are full of family members, tookas, or scantily clad individuals they deny any knowledge of; Thrawn’s is full of art downloads.

“Do you have any pictures you took yourself?”

“Oh, certainly.” He pauses on a blurry picture of a stack of duracrete slabs. “I took this at the sculpture festival last year. I usually stick to downloads, though. I don’t take very good pictures.”

Thrass shakes his head. “Have you ever thought about collecting any pieces yourself?”

Thrawn doesn’t look up from scrolling. “I don’t have the room; I live on a light cruiser. Besides, most of these cost more money than I’ll ever see.” There’s a wistfulness in his voice that only someone who knows him well would pick up on. An idea takes root in Thrass’s mind; he files it away for later.

Thrawn’s shore leave is over entirely too soon, in Thrass’s opinion. He hurries to the shuttle station to see him off, careful not to drop the package under his arm.

He spots his brother on the edge of a knot of CEDF personnel, waiting for the shuttle to blackdock. Thrawn stands outside the chattering conversations of his peers, hands behind his back, waiting his turn to contribute to the discussion. He turns when he sees Thrass approaching.

“I was worried you wouldn’t make it,” he says by way of greeting. Thrass envelops him in a hug.

“Had an appointment I had to keep. Besides, I have a going away present I have to give you.”

He takes the package from under his arm and presents it to Thrawn. By now the others have taken note and gathering around to watch.

“Open it.”

Thrawn strips the wrapping away and stares at the transparesteel case. Then he registers its contents and his mouth falls open. “You didn’t-”

“I told her what you said about her Color Studies. She says she’d be honored to have this piece in the hands of someone who can appreciate it.”

One of Thrawn’s peers looks over his shoulder at the painting. “I don’t get it.”

“It’s one of Cli’ure’akoio’s latest series, Studies In Color and Texture.” Thrawn looks like he’s tearing up. “Each tile is done in a different pigment and brush stroke.” He holds the painting in its case as though receiving a holy covenant. “This is for me?”

Thrass nods. “I had it mounted in a protective case. It’ll be as safe as anything on the ship- probably safer.”

Thrawn meets his eyes, a significant effort for him, Thrass knows. “I’ll treasure it forever.”

“It’s a good start to your collection.” A tone clangs over the loudspeakers, announcing the arrival of the shuttle. “There’s no time now. But when you get home, you’ll have to explain the series to me.”

Thrawn won’t be able to wait until his next shore leave, Thrass reflects as he waves goodbye. His next letter is likely to be several densely packed pages, expounding on the technical aspects and deeper meaning of the work of Cli’ure’akoio, fit more for a graduate level art history paper than a casual conversation.

Thrass can’t wait to read it.

[funhouse-mirror-barbie]

I’ve seen people on Twitter talk about how Hazbin Hotel was snubbed since it wasn’t nominated for an Emmy and talking about how people who don’t like the show are happy about it and like.

Idk I can only speak for myself, but tbh I’m kinda sad that the show, from the beginning, just…wasn’t good. Not Emmy good, at the very least. (more below)

There’s this weird expectation that, if you are at all critical or dissatisfied with what the Hazbin show ended up being, that you’re a horrible person who is obsessed with seeing everyone who worked on the project fail, and have just hated the show and its creator since the beginning of time and like…

I did not want the show to be bad!! I was really hoping that I’d be wrong, that I’d be pleasantly surprised, that the show would be entertaining and well written and paced. But, for me, it just wasn’t.

I have tried to be very forthcoming about the things I liked and what I wished the show would have focused on more. I wanted to like the show!!! I would have LOVED the show if its writing and animation were on par with other adult animated shows.

However when it came out, it had a LOT of problems, and it seems really clear to me that the National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences picked up on them, just as I did.

It’s so odd to me that a lot of Hazbin “super-fans” think that if you’re critical of the show you must hate it, because the majority of people I’ve spoken to who are very critical of the series ARE fans of the series who felt disappointed by it when it actually came out.

Switching gears a bit—It’s genuinely kind of disheartening to see so many people prop the show up as if it was the best most perfect best show ever when, in reality, Hazbin is a perfectly serviceable and fun show, but is not as deep or as well-crafted as it claims to be, and as a lot of other adult animation that’s out right now.

Recently, I’ve seen this belief develop in some fandoms that what you love needs to be somehow validated or “proven” to be good by winning an award or receiving accolades.

And while I definitely understand the desire to see something you love be recognized for the artistry that’s put into it, the truth is that sometimes there are really really good pieces of art and media that don’t get the recognition they deserve, and there are really really bad pieces of art and media that are treated like holy grails.

Like I’m saying all of this as someone who’s favorite movie is fucking Tron: Legacy. I LOVE Tron Legacy. It’s so fun and I love the characters and environment. But it’s also bad!!! It’s a very convoluted plot, and characters don’t get a lot of development and it has the “born sexy yesterday” trope which I hate and it’s one of my favorite movies of all time!!! I love it!!

But it doesn’t have to be a perfect masterpiece for it to be a masterpiece to me personally. I can recognize that while I love it, it’s not particularly amazing by any means. It’s kind of a shit show. The story and writing and cinematography don’t deserve any big awards. But I love it and that’s all that matters!

I do not think that Hazbin Hotel deserves any awards for being an excellent television show, and I can also really see why the people who decide Emmy nominations did not nominate it.

But who cares what I think!! My favorite movie is Tron Legacy! And I completely unironically love the 1993 Super Mario Bros. Movie!!!

The point I’m trying to make is that, while yes, it can be disappointing when something you love isn’t recognized, but that shouldn’t take away the value the show has to you if you love it.

Hazbin Hotel can be a bad show, and it can still be your favorite show that you love more than anything. Tron Legacy can be a bad movie and I can still love it and think it’s peak cinema. It’s okay. It’s okay to like and love media that isn’t perfect. It’s okay to criticize the media you love.

[arogustus]

Splatband Analysis - Bottom Feeders

(Disclaimer: This analysis in based on what I get out of looking into the character descriptions we have of the splatband characters. If you disagree with what I say, that is fine, we are all beheld to our opinions. Just don’t be a jerk about it.)

From my favorite band to their dedicated rivals, the Bottom Feeders. Like Ink Theory, they too got a fair amount of art to them, including a White Day art piece that shows them hanging out with other bands and shows off some character details. Be prepared to see that pop up a lot, considering the fact it contains three bands in total. 

Starting off with the band wide analysis, they’re all stated to be from outside of Inkadia, somewhere up north. The celtic rock and some of their fashion choices make it pretty clear they’re from the Splatoon equivalent of Scotland. They seem to have moved into Inkopolis at some point before their Turf War debut, as a lot of info we get from them gives the impression that they live there, or at the very least spend extensive amounts of time in the area. They also have their own record label to stay independent.

The band is a chaotic bunch. They’ve nearly broken up multiple times (mostly due to Finn), their performances vary based on their mood, and considering the White Day artwork, physical fights amongst each other is common enough that no one is really interested in stopping them. Still, they’ve toughed it out together to the point they’re evidently still together by Splatoon 3, so despite their fighting, they do try to stick together. And also have the same last name? (Bottom in Japanese, Feeder in English.) It’s most likely to be a shared pseudonym they took up for band reasons. Or, considering the Scottish influence, a clan name? Needs more research in this area.

Finn and Tangle are the stars of the show here, getting some pretty meaty descriptions compared to Jawn, Blow and Muruta. The two are clearly the driving forces behind the band, with the rest simply being along for the ride for their own entertainment. At least it seems their rivalry with Ink Theory is something they agree on, as their performance in ZAPP Square was made particularly electrifying when they performed against each other. 

Finn 

Finn is a tropical betta fish, and their description embodies much about the species to a T. They’re stubborn, they butt heads constantly with their bandmates to the point the band has nearly dissolved, is willing to outright fight them as seen in the White Day artwork (Tangle is the main victim, but Muruta is also unconscious), and is the main instigator of the Ink Theory/Bottom Feeder rivalry (Both bands use traditional instruments to bring attention to more classic genres, which they seem to view as infringement on their territory.) The betta fish is notoriously aggressive and territorial, so it all matches. Curiously, Beika’s tweets imply they’re female despite having traits of a male betta (in fact, the behavior I mentioned is specifically in regards to them). Maybe they’re trans, or fem presenting? Or maybe Beika is wrong. I’m sticking to they/them until we get some more official sounding confirmation.

Despite this aggression, they do have some positives. their motivation is to bring attention to traditional styles of music to the world, so it's something they care about deeply. Despite all the mentions of the band nearly dissolving, it still exists in Splatoon 3. In fact, they actually have a collaboration with recently debuted band Riot Act in the song No Plan Survives (Kikura seems to have stolen Beika’s idea for the collaboration), which implies that, for all their aggressive tendencies, they’re fully capable of getting along with other people. The Splatoon Twitter itself states they came together harmoniously despite mostly doing their own thing. 

Tangle

Tangle, the seaweed man himself. Currently the only sapient algae we have in the series, with everyone else being a sapient animal. He’s quite the oddity to even himself, since learning that he talks via the strings of his body rubbing together came as a surprise to him. Stuff like that isn’t focused on, but it’s not the first time a splatband character with some oddity to them went uncommented (Kagi’s skin color, Namida’s disconnected eyemask), so who knows if his nature as a sentient algae is also considered unusual in the world.

Onto personality, he’s described as a rebellious young man (does that make him younger than his fellow bandmates?) who’s dissatisfied with the state of the music scene. He thinks the music of the time has gotten voguish (read:Popular and mainstream), and wants a return to more straightforward styles. A commonality between him and Finn, it must be how the band was formed, considering they’re the two with the strong feelings about music, and him being the leader. Not that the others seem to like him that much. They consider his songwriting to be terrible and are apparently pretty harsh about it, something we will never be able to hear for ourselves since we can only hear funky squid (or seaweed in this case) sounds. At least he really enjoys singing in general, since the exciting avenue he discovered from learning how he talks is that he can sing out of his feet. What would that sound like?

Also Finn is fighting him in the White Day artwork. And judging by the others' reaction to them (read:ignoring it), this is a common occurrence. 

Blow Bottom

Blow, along with Jawn and Muruta, got stuck with the short descriptions. Finn and Tangle are clearly our main characters of this band, but it doesn’t mean there’s nothing much to pick out from what we got. Like his fellows, he doesn’t particularly care about the band’s sound, he’s just here to have fun. Considering the utterly exhausted and apathetic look he’s giving to Finn and Tangle’s little spat in the White Day artwork gives the feeling he simply finds the unnecessary drama exhausting, like it’s not at all worth his time. Being a dad must do that to a person. Speaking of, he’s a dad (DILF Material certified), specifically to an only daughter. He cares about her a lot. 

He’s also part of a rainmaker team with Ryu Chang and Kuze, Underpass Bass Drum. He plays it in his free time, though according to a little tidbit regarding the event in the Deepsea Metro called the Low Water Party, a rave where several people are implied to have died… anyway, the team showed up to the event and apparently performed (one of them played double bass, no mention who it was), so they evidently do music together too. No word outside of that on what their relationship is, but it seems they get on well enough to perform together.

Jawn Bottom

I can’t tell if the two dots are his eyes or his nostrils… anyway, Jawn doesn’t care much for the music and is more in it for the fun than anything. Likes motorcycles and meat, a real manly man here. But he’s apparently fine playing games with kids, he’s seen playing chess with Paul in the White Day artwork while completely ignoring the fight happening right next to them. Though judging by the sweating, he wasn’t expecting to be losing so hard. 

Muruta Bottom

Muruta is in it for the fun over the ideology of music Tangle and Finn espouse. He likes cute girls. Not much to pick out from that, but the White Day artwork has something interesting. See there in the corner, blurry and super close up? That’s Muruta, unconscious, implying he got involved in the fight between Finn and Tangle. Hard to say why he’d be there, but the best guess is he tried to break them up. Those two seem the most likely to be at odds with each other, so it would make sense the reason for his knockout is he tried to get involved to stop them but got knocked out.

—

That’s the Bottom Feeders done. Now, just to answer this, I’m all over the place when it comes to using their names because I have my preferences. Sometimes the english localized names are actually good in my eyes. I just pick and choose which ones I like. Anyway, see you next band!

[bullet-prooflove]

LA!Series Part Three: Legacy - Manny x Reader

Tagging: @wnbweasley @darqchilddaydreamz @theesirenteller @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @withakindheartx

Manny’s adjusting the sleeves of his suit jacket when you step out of the bathroom, he looks up and it’s like someone has stolen all of the oxygen from his lungs. You’re clad in a sleeveless mini dress, adorned with a black and white Aztec pattern, the tattoos that decorate your arms on display. You’ve paired it with Black Doc Martens and a black leather jacket that clings to your form.

His thumb runs over the silver studs in your ear, the first a set of stars, the rest three tiny pin drops that decrease in size the higher they go.

“Very pretty.” He says, feeling something stir inside of him.

The whole thing is just so unapologetically you.

It’s outside the gallery that you falter, you step up to the door, your gaze lingering on the people on the other side and you just stop. His hand comes to rest on your lower back, his thumb tracing a soothing circle as your hand grasps the door handle.

“We don’t have to do this.” He says quietly.

You tilt your head towards him, your kohl lined eyes meeting his. He sees the trepidation in them, the indecision. This is a crossroads for you, you can either step forward and tell your story or you can run, the same way you have been since you were eighteen years old and newly turned out from the care system. Your grip on the handle tightens before you take a deep breath, allowing the oxygen to flood your lungs and walk inside.

You’re a hit, Manny knew you would be. He smiles, watching from a distance and sipping from a flute of Prosecco as you talk to a group of young people who accosted you on the way back from the bathroom. They’re just like you, he thinks creatives in the making. They show you their work, explaining the concepts and you take such interest, asking questions, pointing out the features you like.

In that moment he understands what it would be like to be loved by you, and he realises how much he wants that.

His attention wanders and he finds himself in front of your photographs. They’ve got a lot of attention tonight, people in the industry, alternatives, kids from the programs the studio hosts. He stands in a rare moment of quietness surveying them.

There’s a rawness in the images, it brings out the depth of the art styles, the reverence behind each and every one of them. There’s such beauty in these pieces. They all capture a moment, a snapshot in time where the past and the present merge together. Old techniques and new ink, clashing to create something real, something visceral.

This is your legacy, this passion project of yours.

This is you in all of your glory.

He sees it as clear as day.

When he looks at you again, it’s in a different light because you’re far more to him than just the woman he fucks. You’re the one that owns a piece of him.

When you’re asked to speak, he can tell you don’t expect it. A microphone is thrust into your hand, and you take up residence alongside your artwork, your gaze lingering over each of the images before you turn your attention to the small crowd. You clear your throat before your eyes come to rest on the kid in front of you, the one that’s been vying for your attention all night.

“People don’t realise how lonely it is being in foster care.” You find yourself saying. “How isolated you become, you feel like you don’t have anything to say and when you do, it feels like no one’s listening. For me photography became a way of expressing myself when I couldn’t use my voice. My pictures showed the world how I saw it when I couldn’t speak the words.”

You think of the feel of the camera in your hands, the way things just clicked into place for you. It was a polaroid; you remember the whir as the picture was spat out of that tiny slot. You were fifteen years old at the time.

“There weren’t art programs like this when I was in care, I stole my first camera from a guy who was paying me to model for him…” You trail off and there’s an agony in Manny’s chest because he knows the kind of shoots you’re talking about, how they start and how they finish. He wishes that hadn’t happened to you, that none of this had happened to you but that’s not your reality, it’s not his either. “I’m thankful that things have changed, that there are programs to assist young people who have faced the same things that I did. I hope that seeing my work shows you that there are opportunities for you out there, that your past doesn’t have to shape who you become.”

He's there when you hand the microphone back to the host. You come to stand beside him, your spine straight and your head held high. You’re withdrawing back into yourself, shutting him out, Manny can feel it. This is the most real you’ve been with anybody, and it takes courage to do what you’ve just done, to speak your truth.

“I’m proud of you Mami.” He says, his fingers seeking out yours. He squeezes your hand lightly and you squeeze back. “I think you’ve made a difference here tonight.”

Love Manny? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[mummer]

hellooooooo smart person!!! i have two asoiaf questions to ask you. so i was reading adwd, the chapter with ellaria sand making her big speech (can i take the skull to bed with me, to give me comfort in the night?) which was literally one of the best monologues ever. but i think it frames justice in a bitter, bloodthirsty manner. the martells are completely understandably pissed off by the lannisters, is george saying in this instance, even though vengeance is good (emotionally), it’ll screw everyone over? and does this apply to the starks/boltons too? we have so many good speeches on war and justice: broken man, this one, bathe in bolton blood, the mummer’s farce is almost over, etc. but they do conflict. is that the point? justice is better not pursued? or needs to be thought out?

ALSO. your vibe is that you’re a theon enjoyer. so i was wondering where his story is. it’s about identity, yes? but who is he? he’s not a greyjoy, i don’t think, he seems so disconnected from that violent culture, but he’s no stark. i think he wants a family, but the north will never accept him as a stark. so what’s theon’s purpose? i’m so sorry for talking so much but i always love your answers

ok ok ok. anon ily. i might answer the theon one in a separate post if i have time; im gonna try to be as brief as possible but i am gonna put this under a readmore because you touched on uhhh probably the central question of the whole series lol! in fact you could probably write a phd thesis about violence and justice in asoiaf lol, but lets see if i can boil it down quickly maybe not clickbait???? (i lied, this got egregiously long)

ok ok ok some disclaimers up front. I personally am probably a bigger pacifist than most people lol, so this may colour my take somewhat. secondly spoilers but my answer is that i dont think the series actually has a solid answer to the question of retribution/vengeance. my favourite kinds of art are pieces that ask questions that can't be answered. and: is violence ever acceptable? can it be used as a means to a good/just end? <- is like, a hugely unsettled matter in the entire human experience. this is a question we all ask ourselves at some point. it's even more complicated and tangled in real life! is the death penalty ever okay? how can we wage just wars? how do we protest subversively? can people be rehabilitated? even: can we change? that's what politics are all about! the q of violence is something i am constantly thinking about and am still unsure of my answers! most people are!

what asoiaf does so well is pick at the idea of violence in about a hundred different ways and though a hundred different lenses. not all violences are equal! of course not! it is very clear about this, as well as that said violence is not always physical, is most often institutional. and justice.... well justice is completely incoherent in this world!!! the first chapter opens with the protagonist executing a man we as readers KNOW did nothing morally wrong! the thing with asoiaf is that there is always an added nuance to challenge you when you think you've made up your mind. someone shows a glimmer of humanity, or else descends into unexpected cruelty, or else complicates the narrative. there is always a 'but'.

for example: take robb's war for ned. he is trying to avenge his father, save his sister. okay, that's noble. that's just. you want to root for that. BUT: their warpath endangers hundreds of thousands of smallfolk, not to mention the thousands of innocents in their armies forced to fight one another and die for the sake of one man. how could that be worth it? BUT: tywin's army was desolating the riverlands anyway, so wouldnt it be a net good to defeat them? BUT: protecting smallfolk was never their priority; their 'justice' is only for the highborn; politically, an independent north would probably not be any better or worse for the peasantry. a tree of hanging women who lay with lions. "the north remembers", when it's first used on page, is not a joyous rally; it's robb reflecting bitterly that harrion karstark cannot openly forgive him for killing rickard, or risk losing face. rickard, who was killed for killing lannisters, because the lannisters killed his sons-- because robb waged war, because the lannisters killed ned! a poisoned cycle that can't end, an ideology defined by war, remembrance and loyalty as its own sort of sickness.

the thing about violence as justice in asoiaf is that it is never portrayed as revelatory. it's not... like... cool lol. did tywin deserve to die? idk, maybe. but this does not lift a weight off tyrion's shoulders. it doesn't feel like he won. this is something all characters must bear and grapple with. arya in particular is rich with this and that could be its own essay ofc. at its simplest, though, we have sandor. he killed her friend. a child. do child-murderers deserve to die? a lot of people in the world would say yes. but when he is at her mercy, when he is literally begging for her to kill him, she can't. it's too much. when dany orders the disembowlment of the slavers, she questions the choice internally. does torture have utility, here? what is it worth? ("But later, when she passed the men dying on the posts, when she heard their moans and smelled their bowels and blood... Dany put the glass aside, frowning. It was just. It was. I did it for the children.") again, i dont think the narrative has a straight or easy answer, which is why she's asking at all! if these answers were easy there wouldnt be a book. or things like jon's babyswap, which i consider its own kind of violence— but it is born from an unflinching desire to avoid worse violence. so... can it be just, then? theon murders the miller's boys. little kids. does he deserve to be punished? yeah, right? but then we are confronted with reek, and the empathy in the reader flinches, says: nooooo not like that!!!! and then feels bad for ever thinking it! so if he can change, did he ever deserve to die? when joffrey dies-- joffrey!!!-- there is very little catharsis to be found. ("He has Jaime's eyes. Only he had never seen Jaime look so scared. The boy's only thirteen.") the prose focuses on his purple face, his futile desperation to breathe. the way he looks like a child, because he is.

and then there are all the logistical, logical ends that need to be dealt with when seeking retribution. you got back at someone: great. now their family or allies or loved ones will get back at you, and on and on it will go forever until no one remembers the original injustice (see: the brackens and the blackwoods). now there is a power vacuum, or a counterrevolution, now the crops have burned and everyone is starving, now there are orphans. so... was it worth it? this is generally never the intent, but none of this can be sidestepped, either. a large point: no matter how justified in war you may feel, these consequences must still be borne. whether they are worth it in the end is your decision to make.

so we come to ellaria, with no clearer answer than what we started with. and i agree, it's one of my favourite quotes too. the endless question of: what do we do with what has been done to us? the violence has already been done, there is no way to bring someone back, there is no retribution. the victims are dead and so is their killer. and yet it is a hollow justice, because nothing has changed. women like elia are still bartered as political pawns and discarded. again, there is no coherent justice in westeros. it is only by chance that gregor died anyway. the systems of power are still functioning, and the aberration of that is felt. the sand snakes are grieving, but they are grieving the only way they know how. oberyn walked past obara's weeping mother when she picked up a spear. the only language in westeros is violence, the only power in blood. well, it's better than being powerless, right? .....right?

there is no good option. doran picks a side, having agonized over it for decades. this was not easy for him! the martells are understandably pissed off by the lannisters— of course— but... who is left to seek justice from? tywin is dead. robert is dead. aerys and rhaegar are dead. gregor is dead. amory lorch is dead. they could war against/kill cersei... i guess. jaime, maybe? myrcella? tommen? great, what would be the point? will their deaths feel good, emotionally, to the martells? or will they just feel hollow, like so many scenes of retribution in the series?

so i might favour ellaria's vision-- peace and submission, anything just to survive, to avoid hurting people. but this has its own very very obvious problems! pacifism is not a get out of jail free card lmao! "war will come, whether we wish it or not," obara says. it's highly possible this move would be seen as a sign of "weakness", and would only invite worse violences from the ruling power. again— the misery of this world is systemic, not individual. that's what feudalism is. that's what power is. it requires violence to maintain. but violence is also almost always required to challenge or protest it. so, ok. fuck. fuck! how can a world like this be borne? and how can we change it?

god i wish i knew!!!!!! — george rr. martin, 2011

[roboticonography]

it's getting really upsetting to see certain corners of the fandom demonize peggy. do you have any thoughts on the matter?

Oh, if only this were a new thing, anon!

I’ve been in the MCU fandom since before there was an MCU to speak of. Shitting on women characters and the actors who play them has been going on forever. People posted about how they hated Pepper Potts, saying she wasn’t a good partner to Tony because she didn’t constantly enable his erratic behaviour, or sacrifice her safety to accommodate his trauma. They posted about how Pepper should have died in Iron Man 2, for the good of Tony’s story, and when Iron Man 3 came out, they said the same thing. It was fucking exhausting.

People also posted about how they hated Natasha Romanoff, how they hated Jane Foster, how they hated Wanda Maximoff, how they hated Sharon Carter. 

And yes, there were Peggy-haters then too. They called her a “karate-kicking fucktoy” and a “vengeful feminazi” and those are the most polite terms I can recall. They complained that she was too powerful, they complained that she was too feminine, they complained that she was pointless without Steve, they complained that she talked about Steve too much. And so on, and so forth, ad infinitum.

Now, to be clear, I am not talking about some of the very valid criticisms people had about the Agent Carter series - its writing, its casting, etc. I am also not talking about the very valid criticisms people have about the larger MCU related to representation, or lack thereof, across multiple fronts. I believe it’s possible to enjoy a piece of media and still have issues with some (or even many) aspects of it, and I enjoy reading posts that grapple with those issues. I’m not even talking about venting about a popular character you can’t stand: that has its place, though I’d argue that the place is probably not in the tag for that character. (I guarantee you, your “unpopular opinion” is never as unpopular as you think.)

I’m talking about misogyny. The same tired, rehashed, played out bullshit woman-hating that has existed in fandoms, so many fandoms, for at least the 25+ years that I’ve been active in them.

And that’s still what’s happening.

Many of the posts I’ve seen that fall under this category are expressing anger that one character or relationship or storyline or interpretation of canon is getting airtime, while another one, one they like better, is not. I’m not going to argue with anyone about that. You like what you like, and you're entitled to be annoyed if you don't get it. But if your argument is sound, you should be able to make your point effectively without calling the character the grossest euphemism for vagina you can find, or speculating on the exact sex acts an actor had to do to keep her character popular.

Other posts I’ve seen are just absolute buckwild conspiracy theory nonsense. The only thing I have to say about that is, yikes. Get well soon.

Tumblr, like other social media platforms, recognizes that they get more engagement if people are forced to play in the same sandbox, which is why it probably feels like you're seeing a disproportionate number of hate posts. And anyone who writes for money on the internet knows that hate clicks are often the juiciest clicks, and so they will write articles and listicles and polls with titles and subjects designed to get your blood up. It’s become increasingly difficult to avoid seeing other people’s ridiculous opinions. But that’s still the strategy that I find best helps me enjoy fandom. 

So if “certain corners” of the fandom are not to your taste, anon, then my advice is this: block, blacklist, and just don’t engage. Don’t feed the trolls. Instead, put that energy into positive interactions. Make art. Comment on things you liked. Find your friends, and have conversations that inspire you and amuse you, instead of ones that make you angry and tired.

Thanks for the ask! Take care.

[padfootagain]

You and the King (III)

Chapter 3 : Fighting with Words

Hi lovelies! Here is a new chapter for my Caspian series! Y/N is getting fierce, and I love it. Also, troubles are coming…

I hope you like this new chapter! Let me know what you think!

****

Pairing: Caspian x reader

Warnings: None… insults? Is that worth a warning?

Summary: Sequel to The King and You – After meeting Caspian in your own world, you decide to follow him to Narnia, your love for him too strong for you to keep your old life. But as you discover the magic of Narnia, you soon realise that this extraordinary world is as dangerous as it is magnificent. Will your love for Caspian be enough to defeat your new enemies?

Word Count: 3740

Masterlist for the series – Caspian’s Masterlist – Main Masterlist

Dalia was far from stupid.

After refusing to attend your first meeting the previous day, she was expecting Caspian to call for her and ask for explanations. It was part of the plan, actually.

Caspian was an amazing man, a great king. But he was also a little naïve sometimes, a little bit blind. She blamed it on his kind heart. He had a tendency to see the good in people before he could see the bad. And that was the cause of her worry now.

She took a deep breath before opening the door of Caspian’s private office. It was barely dawn, the light still shy, golden, almost orange in a sky tainted with pink. The Castle was waking up, servants hurrying back and forth to prepare breakfast, guards sleepily walking to take their posts. A ballet she knew by heart, that she had known all her life, growing up side by side with Caspian and the royal family.

A ballet you knew nothing about, and yet…

“Come in,” Caspian’s voice was loud and clear as it answered to her knock on his door.

Her face was unreadable as she stepped inside the room, and Caspian was not surprised. She excelled in this art of pretends, of hiding emotions and thoughts. She had been raised at court, after all, she had learnt to wear a mask, just as he had.

He hated that she still used her mask when he was around though. Despite the many years of friendship between them, it felt like she still didn’t fully trust him.

“Good morning, Dalia,” Caspian politely greeted her, but she didn’t fail to notice that his tone was colder than usual. “Take a seat.”

She complied, sitting on the opposite side of the desk. The long, wooden piece of furniture was buried under parchments, documents, maps…

Caspian had been busy. She guessed that he had tried to catch up with his duties during the night, to compensate the day he had spent with you.

She hated you for the dark bags under his eyes.

“You wanted to see me,” she spoke slowly, her voice perfectly calm and polished.

But Caspian wasn’t fooled. He knew her too well for that. And he knew about the ways of the court as much as she did. He was used to tear these masks apart now.

“You know perfectly why I’ve asked you to come this morning.”

“Let me guess… it is about your new fiancée.”

He frowned at her tone. It sounded a little cruel, disrespectful, full of disdain…

He hated it. The very sound in her voice, but now more than ever because the poison was aimed at you.

“I don’t like your tone,” he answered in a cold voice, staring intensely at her.

“I’ve never really cared…”

“You should, Dalia.”

A heavy silence settled across the room. Dalia broke it with a scoff.

“I apologize, My Liege.”

But her tone was mocking still.

“We are friends. We have been for a long time,” Caspian spoke his words slowly, with a heavy frown and a weight on each of the sounds. “But that does not mean that I am not your King. And that certainly does not mean that you can so blatantly insult me and get away with it.”

“I can hardly call sarcasm an insult.”

“You did not come yesterday. How do you call that?”

“I was sick.”

“Now, Dalia, do not play that game with me. I know you are lying.”

He was angry. He was glaring at her and she hated it. She hated every second of it. She didn’t back down though.

“Do you truly want to know why I did not come?”

“Yes, I do.”

She leaned forward a bit, coming closer to him, as to try to catch his attention and put more weight into her words.

“I believe that you should reconsider your decision about Lady Y/N.”

Caspian frowned hard.

“What?”

“You barely know each other, you are going too fast.”

“I am not…”

“There is still no treaty with Lord Cirvan and his men. And you are making things worse with their lands, refusing to marry Cirvan’s daughter to announce your future wedding less than a day later. You are making a mistake.”

But Caspian narrowed his eyes at her.

“You know perfectly well that if I made an announcement about my engagement with Y/N, it is precisely because of Lord Cirvan and his men. Because I need the assurance that he will not try to marry me off again…”

“But Caspian, this wedding presents no political advantage.”

He clenched his jaw. He was beyond angry now, and Dalia knew it. She couldn’t claim she had not been expecting this, but it still hurt to see such fire in his glare aimed at her.

He didn’t say a word though, and let her continue.

“I know that it sounds cynical, but your wedding is an incredible opportunity to build lasting alliances with other kingdoms, and powerful lords, and you are endangering our borders by acting stubborn and letting a strange girl manipulate your feelings.”

“Manipulate my feelings? Do you even hear yourself?”

“I do. And I know what I am saying. You are a King, Caspian. Women try to seduce you for the throne every day.”

“Y/N is different.”

“Because she made you believe in one of the old fairy tales? The great love stories? Those are good for Doctor Cornerlius’s books, not for us who are dealing with real politics. You are making a mistake by wanting to marry this stupid girl…”

She fell instantly silent when Caspian stood up, jaw clenched and eyes glaring.

“I understand your worry about politics and Lord Cirvan,” Caspian spoke, words slow and voice deep, clearly struggling to remain calm. He was leaning over his desk, palms resting on the map splayed across the wood. “But, Dalia, I will not have you insult Y/N, do you understand?”

“You are being manipulated…”

“I am not,” Caspian answered, voice firm and decisive. “You do not know Y/N, you have spent less than an hour with her. Why do you not trust me on this?”

“Caspian… you are King. People will try to manipulate you. Does it not sound strange to you that all of a sudden this woman has fallen madly in love with you, in barely more than a month, and has decided to leave everything behind to join you here, in Narnia? Do you not think it weird that she might leave her ordinary and rather pointless life behind without thinking for a second about the fact that you are King? Do you not think that it is precisely the reason why she did this? She left because she could become a queen. And you were too foolish to see it. Blinded by… I do not even know what could have blinded you… she seems completely ordinary.”

Dalia fell silent, waiting for Caspian’s reaction. She hoped she could shake some sense into his head. She hoped she could make him see that you were not fit to be queen. What by Aslan’s name was he doing? You had worked together so hard to get him there, as a stable king on a Narnian throne, and now he was falling into such a silly trap?

He stared at her with eyes of stone, icy cold. She searched through her memories but didn’t remember him ever looking at her this way. Of course, after so many years, they had fought countless times, he had been angry against her before. But she had never seen such a rage, it was mingled with something protective that she hated, because you were the source of it.

“You know nothing of Y/N, Dalia,” Caspian repeated in this same slow tone of his. “She has given up on everything to come here…”

“That is what I am saying! If not for the throne, then why should she come?”

But he frowned, a little taken aback now.

“Because she loves me, Dalia.”

He let out a wry laugh.

“So, do you really think me such an awful man that no one could love me for who I am? That the only reason anyone has ever showed any interest in me is because I am King? Well, thank you for the compliment…”

She shook her head, her expression softening.

“That is not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Then why is it so difficult for you to imagine that Y/N has chosen to come here because she loves me? Nothing else. Dalia, do you realize what it means for her? She has left everything and everyone she has ever known, she has been thrown into another world she knows nothing about and is so different from her own… If she wanted money or power she could have tried to earn those in her world and it would have required less sacrifices from her. She came because she loves me. And I love her, Dalia. I love her more than anything. Had I not been King, I would have not come back to Narnia.”

Her eyes grew round.

“What?”

“I came back here because I am King. Because my people needs me. Because I cannot abandon Narnians. Because Aslan, Eustace, Peter, Lucy, Edmund and Susan trusted me to take care of this land, because my father died for this… But without this responsibility, without so many people I would have failed by leaving for good… I would have stayed with her in New York. I love her enough for that. I understand her choice, Dalia. I would have done the same, but I couldn’t.”

He let out a deep, worried sigh as he stood straighter again. He seemed tired more than angry now. Dalia hated seeing him like this. She wished she could take all his worry away.

Still, when he walked around his desk to stand next to her, leaning against the piece of furniture, his presence was still reassuring, strong, kingly. He ran a hand through his hair to brush the strands away from his eyes, and she wished she could have been the one to tame the rebellious strands…

She remembered how soft his hair was. She had touched the gentle strands a couple of times, always thanks to a silly excuse, always hidden behind a lie. There was something in his hair, it wasn’t tied properly… no matter the lies, they were worth it.

Did he let you touch his hair as much as you wanted?

“Dalia, I know what I am doing. I want to marry Y/N. I have never been more certain of anything in my entire life. She loves me. She loves me, for who I am. She loves me despite the crown, do you understand? She is terrified by all this. By the Narnians, by this place, by our ways, by the prospect of having so many responsibilities and power over people... She is not craving it, Dalia, she is afraid of it. And I need your help, I need you to show her our ways so this place can become her home too. And I love her, Dalia. I know that marrying her will not fit into any kind of political scheme, and I do not want it to. I love her, and that is enough. Do you understand?”

Slowly, she nodded, but she didn’t seem convinced. And indeed, she wasn’t. When he asked for her help again, she nodded anyway, promised to be more open-minded, to give you a chance.

But she had no chance to offer you. Not when Caspian looked so handsome in the early light of dawn…

“Alright, let us go through this again, shall we?”

Doctor Cornelius was kind and patient, and you felt grateful for him being your first teacher. So far though, you felt a little stupid.

You knew a few things about Narnia, because of what Agatha told you back in New York, because of Caspian’s stories… But their tales did not include any concrete information about Narnia, about their custom, about their land…

It was an awful lot to take in.

First, you were taught about Narnian currencies, basis of geography, and the current relations with other kingdoms and lands surrounding Narnia. Later on, you would be taught about Narnian laws and traditions.

“Dalia will smoothen up your manners to fit the court,” the old teacher had told you. “But I will make sure you understand what is happening around you, and that no one will make a fool of you during a conversation.”

Tough job, indeed… because as you tried to memorize the list of names set before you, you felt utterly brainless.

You had been working for almost four hours now. There was a bright sun outside, happy and inviting, but you were stuck there, in this dusty room, with a terrible headache…

And you felt like you would never make it. Never be ready…

You started as the doors of the library opened, and you recognized Ammos accompanying lord Baras and Luis towards your table. You struggled to swallow…

… they could only mean trouble.

You offered them a warm smile anyway, and they bowed before you.

You were unsure how to react, but Lord Baras spoke before you could decide what to do or say.

“My Lady. I see that you are busy this morning.”

Small talk. It called for something more important, and you assumed, less pleasant as well. You cautiously nodded.

“Yes, Professor Cornelius is helping me learn about Narnian ways.”

“It must be quite overwhelming.”

“Quite,” you admitted.

But your voice was cautious. You were new to Narnia, but you were not an idiot. Baras smelled of trouble. His smile was too sweet not to, too honeyed, as if it would turn sour soon.

“It is noon already, My Lady. Lord Luis and I wondered if you would like to join us for lunch. I am afraid our King is busy today, but we do not want you to feel too lonely for your first days in Narnia.”

You looked for an excuse to refuse, but couldn’t find any. You didn’t want to let anything slip that could compromise Caspian in any way. He had warned you that the court could be ruthless and would be filled with rumours.

But there seemed to be no way out of this, so you nodded with a smile, and followed the two Lords outside the Library after bidding the professor a good day.

They guided you throughout the fortress, and you didn’t fail to notice the annoyed glance they threw over their shoulder towards Ammos’s tall figure.

You wondered if Caspian had asked your bodyguards to remain by your side all day simply because he feared for your safety, or to have a spy…

There was small talk for a while, a rather boring exchange of questions and answers, until you reached a small room, where a table had been set for about ten people. It included three women, who looked at you with fake smiles and judging glances. You felt unbearably self-conscious under their stares.

But you were too old to be intimidated this way. Instead, you merely shot them a tight smile, and followed Baras to take a seat by his side around the table.

You noticed the stares, they were not as friendly as the day before, when Caspian was by your side. You were not surprised though…

There were a few other Lords that you recognized, but they didn’t seem friendly either.

You guessed they were all great at hiding how they felt, and make happy faces for their king.

“Oh, it is delightful to finally meet you, Lady Y/N! Or should I say… Queen Y/N,” one of the women told you after introducing herself as Velma. You didn’t fail to notice the sarcasm in her voice.

Your smile was tighter again. You weren’t sure if you ought to react or not. You wanted to snap back at her, throw a witty remark, but you didn’t want Caspian’s reputation to falter because of your behaviour. So, you merely remained silent instead, and looked down at your plate, filled with appetizing food.

“I hope your royal chambers fit your needs,” Velma went on, insisting on the word royal.

“It’s perfect,” you answered in a neutral tone, tightening your hold on your fork.

“How strange that the King has made an official announcement out of nowhere,” she went on, turning around as to not be talking to you, even if you were in the room. “I would have expected more restrain.”

“You mean, more wisdom,” one of the Lords said.

You recognized him, but couldn’t recall his name. He went on.

“A period of courting is needed, may the lady come from another world or not.”

He glanced over at you, but didn’t speak directly to you, and you hated it.

You planted your fork in your carrot with a little too much strength, but you didn’t care.

You would answer the next jab made at you, you knew you would… and you reckoned that you would be right to do so.

“The king must be eager,” Velma shrugged. “Even though… she doesn’t look like much…”

You clenched your jaw and glared at the woman.

“I am sitting right here, in case you haven’t noticed,” you spoke between gritted teeth.

“I know, my Lady. I am simply discussing a fact, that our king seems eager to marry you… for some reason.”

“Because we love each other? Is that not a good enough reason?”

But they all laughed at you. Even Barras, who had tried to remain neutral and seemed to merely study you. Except for Ammos, of course, who remained perfectly still behind you.

“You are quite naïve. Or optimistic. It is quite refreshing,” Luis chuckled.

“I don’t see how.”

“You seem to have much to learn about political alliances, then.”

You looked down at your plate at that. Of course… royal weddings… they ought to come with a political arrangement. That’s what Caspian almost did with Cirvan and his daughter…

“Emilia was a good choice. A shame he changed his mind.”

You felt a sharp pain cross your heart at that, but you didn’t let it show.

Instead, you let your anger find your next words.

“A chance you’re not in charge of the decision, then.”

“Indeed,” Luis went on. “I would have advised my king to be more cautious in his choice of wife.”

“It’s true I don’t bring lands or money to the table. Sorry about that. You’ll have to be contempt with my striking personality instead.”

He raised an eyebrow at that, surprised. You didn’t care. You were too annoyed and tired, and this headache of yours… it was getting worse.

Your nostrils were tickled by the scent of something burning, you wondered where it came from. But it wasn’t improving your painful head, that was for certain.

“My lady, I am certain your personality is delightful, of course. Why else would the king have chosen you? I can see no other argument in your favour.”

You looked down, unsure why the mean reply hurt you so much. Perhaps it was because you felt uneasy, when the ladies by your side seemed perfectly at ease… and it didn’t help that they were ridiculously beautiful, too.

“It will not, however, change the fact that we have lost a treaty so that the king could bed you.”

Your head snapped back up, feeling heat creeping over your neck and cheeks.

Had Velma truly said that?

You shouldn’t be petty, but you reckoned that she deserved it.

“Wow, that was classy, at least.”

Everyone around you frowned, but you didn’t really care. The manners you were trying to behave with were slowly leaving you, just like your patience.

“I’m sure you can do better than that,” you went on. “If you want to play the insult game, then at least make it a challenge. Or did you never find anything clever to say after you stopped being an idiotic teenager?”

Velma stared at you with wide eyes, her mouth slightly agape, and you reckoned that you had won the duel, for now.

“Now, I am grateful for the invitation to lunch, Lord Baras,” you went on, turning to the man right before you. “But if this was merely meant to spend an hour insulting me right into my face, next time, be free to let me eat on my own. I’d rather have no company at all than an awful one.”

You tried to sit as straight as you could, and with as much dignity as you could muster.

“This kind of words are not expected from a future Queen,” Baras commented, but he had a small smile tugging at his lips. “Is it how you act in your world?”

“In my world I would have thrown my plate into your face. I am mustering all my restraints to not break anyone’s nose.”

You were surprised when he laughed, but Baras did. It was hesitant at first, but when you raised an eyebrow, he let out a bright wave of laughter.

“Forgive us, my Lady. We have underestimated you, it would seem,” Baras said, and there was something a little strange in his gaze, like he kept on studying you but seemed to have detected a worthy opponent instead of an innocent sheep.

You weren’t sure you liked that look though, but for the rest of the meal, no one dared to attack you anymore, or at least, not so openly. You reckoned it was some kind of success…

It didn’t prevent the gnawing feeling in your chest to make you feel miserable as you walked out of the room. You waited until you were alone in a corridor to let your shoulders drop though, rubbing at your temples because of this bloody headache of yours. The burning smell lingered, you wondered where it came from. Perhaps from the torches?

You wondered how much time you would have before Dalia would arrive. You weren’t sure to be ready to see her, she would not try to make you feel better, that was for certain. You wondered what could be the cause of her animosity towards you, but then again, you had an idea. You just hoped you were wrong about that…

A rival was the last thing you needed.

***********************************************

Taglist : @reg-arcturus-black @sergeantbuckybarnes @intothesoul @pat-sirius @rockintensse

[scribble-kitti]

SEASON 2 HEARTSTOPPER KINDA SPOILERS!! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!!! :)

Isaac is so cupioromantic coded in this show and I as a cupioromantic person myself, have NEVER related to a character so specifically.

Cupioromanticism (for those who don’t know) are people that are on the aromantic spectrum (feel little to no romantic attraction) but these people have the want or desire for a romantic relationship. The idea of a romantic relationship is appealing to them, but they don’t feel the romantic attraction that supposedly comes with these relationships.

A tiny bit of backstory, I didn’t know about being cupioromantic until more recently. I’ve identified as aroace for a very long time, but often found myself questioning it. While I know i’ve never felt romantic or sexual attraction, the idea of a romantic relationship has always appealed to me. I desire to have that intense closeness and intimacy people only seem to get when they have a partner. I wondered if I were a lesbian for a very long time, but never pictured myself having sexual or romantic feelings for someone else, even another woman.

While doing research, I came across the terms “romance favorable” and “cupioromantic”. The concept of being cupioromantic resonated with me almost immediately. It’s as if everything I’d been feeling had been described in one singular word.

Cupioromanticism is something that not tons of people are aware of, from what I’ve noticed, especially since it is part of the aromantic spectrum (which also, is something that the world and even the queer community don’t always address)

Back to heartstopper, Isaac, exhibits so many cupioromantic traits, especially in season 2. Throughout the series you see him reading many queer books, and not only ones about asexuality. (Here’s a link to an article discussing all the books he’s read throughout the series so far)

From this and from his behaviors in season 2, it’s clear that he wants to be in love. He WANTS to have romantic feelings for James (the gay boy that has a crush on him) and Isaac goes as far as asking Charlie what it feels like to actually like someone.

When James kissed Isaac, he had anticipated for it to be magical, and fantastic, but it wasn’t. There weren’t any feelings involved on his end. When he talked to James about it later, he states that he’s been doing research so he’d know what it’s like to have feelings for another person. he wanted it to happen, he EXPECTED to have feelings for James. He genuinely thought the kiss they shared was going to be just as amazing as everyone said, but it wasn’t.

Later on, as Isaac looks at the art piece made to represent the aro/ace spectrum, he seems to relate to it a lot. As it’s been confirmed that he is on the aro/ace spec, they haven’t specified where. Regardless though, throughout the series it’s clear that Isaac does in fact have an interest in romantic relationships, he seemingly even wants to have one with James. He was excited about it, up until he realized he didn’t have the same romantic attraction James had for him.

Considering that cupioromanticism isn’t very well- known, I doubt they are going to explore the topic much. However, as a cupioromantic, I’ve decided this is some of the best representation for it that I’ve ever seen. whether it’s intentional or not, I relate to Isaac in a very cupioromantic way.

[stardustfanfare]

I’m going insane over here. Ok. Strap in. I’ve got a lot to say.

I’ve already made a couple posts about this but the thoughts are running rampant in here and I think I’ve got some more in depth topics I want to get into this time.

(really long post its like 1.5k words so dont click on it if u dont wanna scroll thru all that LOL)

First off, we’ve got the voting system. I have… a lot of gripes about the voting system. I’ll preface this statement with maybe I’m wrong, because I haven’t spent a lot of time interacting with the fandom, but it seems like a lot of people are taking the voting system at face value. The premise is simple, after all. Examine the prisoner, assess their crime, and decide whether you think it was justifiable, right? But there’s a twist, obviously. Your verdicts have a direct impact on the prisoners. And you are speaking through the audience surrogate, the warden at Milgram prison, Es. Es is very interesting to me. Despite being a clear self insert, they absolutely exhibit personality of their own, and thought processes and decisions that aren’t influenced by the audience at all. A perfect unreliable narrator. They aren’t a character at first as much as a lens to see the prison through. From the very beginning, they insist on the same thing: job first, questions later. They’re the warden after all. No time to think about the prison. Now I haven’t read the light novel so I’m sure I could go more in depth on my thoughts on the prison if I had read it, but regardless of that, it’s painfully clear how suspicious the whole situation is. However, the way it’s framed almost makes the prison itself, the warden, and Jackalope fade into the background. It’s kind of brilliant actually. Anyway, you’re voting through Es. But who says Es has the right to pass judgement? Look. No one knows what Milgram is. What their ulterior motives are. What’s ultimately going to happen at the end of the project. According to the light novel, it's happened before, so again, I’m perhaps not the most knowledgeable about this part. But why does Milgram get to decide what to do with the prisoners? It feels awfully hypocritical and potentially dangerous. But the whole project is set up so you have no other choice than to vote. It’s fascinating. You’re led towards the conclusion that Milgram wants you to reach. And your immediate thought is NOT to question it, because it’s a piece of media. Why would it lie?

Alright, bear with me for a minute. You know the original milgram experiment? The one the whole thing is supposedly based on? It's about obedience to authority. Listen to me. I am shaking you guys by the shoulders. It’s about obedience to authority. DOESN’T THAT SOUND LIKE WHAT I WAS JUST TALKING ABOUT. They had people administer shocks to “test participants”. The shocks got higher and higher till near fatal levels. The test participants weren’t actually real, but they found that “every participant [went] up to 300 volts, and 65% [went] up to the full 450 volts.” (Milgram experiment, Wikipedia). The whole video series is like this experiment. I don’t know. You get it. You get the connection. I don’t know how much better I can explain this. You can imagine me jumping up and down and flapping my hands.

Listen to me. If you aren’t looking at it from a meta perspective that’s fine. I get it. Most media I like I just passively engage with. Usually that’s more fun for me. But frankly with Milgram I feel as if not looking at it from a meta perspective makes you just another test participant. Another shock administrator. Another cog in the machine. I see people talk about Milgram’s bad writing sometimes, and, you know, fair. There are subjects not handled with the care they need. I’m not claiming that Milgram is perfect. But I haven’t seen anyone talk about how fucking cool this is. They’ve taken the art form and made it into a mechanism. I think it’s kind of brilliant.

Anyway, essentially what I’m trying to say with perhaps an excessive amount of words is that I don’t think we have the right to pass judgement on the prisoners. From a meta perspective, of course.

Apologies in advance for another interjection. This part is perhaps less relevant to the rest of the post, but it’s so cool that I kinda wanna skim over it anyway. You can skip this part if it's getting too long for you, especially since I already kind of touched on it up there. Es as not only an audience surrogate but ALSO as their own character makes them so interesting. I personally actually hated them for a little while after watching some of the voice dramas. Because they act cruel. And make bad decisions. And say insensitive things. And some of that is seeping in from the audience, but even more interesting to me is that a lot of it is just a result of their environment. They’re harsh and defensive and seem very convinced in their own righteousness, and they come off as a total asshole about it sometimes. But think about it. They’ve woken up in this prison. Fucking insane. But instead of freaking out about it, they begin to cling to their newfound authority. I mean, it’s the most rational thing to do. Like, it’s not a normal thing to do, but it’s rational. It’s easy to make yourself forget about everything else when you fixate on a certain point, so that’s what they do. They don’t seem to think there’s any way out of this besides becoming a willing participant, so they lean real hard into the whole “warden” thing. They’re just as trapped as the prisoners are. I believe there’s an empty cell in the prison. Probably Es’s; It’s not a hard conclusion to come to. Milgram has happened before and my guess is that the prisoners are picked more or less by chance. This has very interesting implications. Either Es is a totally random person, or they’re just like the other prisoners, having taken a life. This would make sense as to why they needed to have their memories erased. This makes the whole thing just that much more hypocritical. But I digress.

And so now we come to my second point. Or maybe third on account of the tangents. The parallels with the other prisoners. Specifically number 03, Fuuta. Fuuta is a really good example of taking things out of proportion. His crime is simple: something along the lines of cyberbullying someone into commiting suicide. So like, yes. Objectively? Shitty. Shitty move. He’s not a great person. 20 year old terminally online gamer. Many people off the bat are not going to like him, and therefore probably vote him guilty. But put that into scale: he did not actively kill the person, nor was his intention to cause death. Which is not to say he wasn’t in the wrong. But consider it; we’ve got this weird suspicious prison complex. And we’ve got some loser online. And then there’s the immediate consequence. Now we didn’t know Kotoko was going to go crazy, but regardless of that, that was the consequence of us voting Fuuta guilty. Now he’s literally missing an eye for the crime of… being mean online. So clearly some people started to think about this (hence his innocent vote in trial 2). He’s a crack in the facade, or something of the sort. Apply pressure, dig a little deeper, and it starts looking like, well, the stuff I’ve already said.

But more than that is the realization that Fuuta really has just been taken and put into this prison. He’s a normal person, who has behaved in a less than ideal way, but still a normal person, put into this absurd situation. And you know who else is like that? Well, everybody, but specifically Es. I genuinely do not think there will be a happy ending for anyone unless Es begins to realize this. Which means the audience beginning to realize this. The “innocent” and “guilty” votes don’t really mean anything. Or, they do, because they’ve been assigned value, but the person assigning value to them is, once again, Milgram. Or Jackalope, I suppose, assuming he is the guy behind the whole thing. Maybe I’m preaching to the choir. Maybe you guys have already considered this. But it’s been bouncing around my head all day and I was going a bit crazy over it and I had to get it out.

TLDR; I think the whole voting system is rigged in the favor of the prison itself rather than the prisoners, I don’t think that, as Es, we get to decide who is and who is not “guilty”, Milgram Project itself seems an awful lot like the experiment(not the content of the media, but the interactivity of it), and Es has probably done something bad in order to be in the prison in the first place. The key takeaway from this is that I’m actually really normal and pumping out 1.5k words in 2 hours because of this media is an average and usual thing to do.

[lorwolf-salt]

Regarding the AI art issue

Hii guys I’m Jay (#287), some of you might have seen me from time to time on the apparel discord. I just saw this whole thing about R using AI art, and I’m willing to risk putting my name here to help clear their name, that they are not using AI art at all. If you trace back their art from their DA, you’ll see pieces from 2020 and 2021 that are in a similar style to the backgrounds, and they are all 100% surely drawn by them, as AI still wasn’t a popular thing back then.Actually, one of the pieces used to “prove” they are using AI, was also done on 2021, and therefore, its actually not an AI piece. The whole style they are using is about drawing loosely and doing low detailing, which is a common style for concept art. And that style leaves ground for some weird things like trees growing from rocks. The weird birds repeating on their paintings is also proof these arent in fact AI art, it’s highly unlikely an AI was repeating the same patterns on multiple pieces, They are probably a bird brush R used.

If you want more details, feel free to send me a DM on discord, I know another person who draws on the same concept art style and they are taking their time to clear R’s name as well. if this whole thing about Rai takes off, other artists like them are in danger of being accused of crimes they did not commit.

Here is a bit of what my friend, who is also a concept artist, and has done commissions for me before, has to say about it.

“The short of it is I traced R’s art back almost four years and all of it is that style. That style is not AI style, it’s called Concept Art Illustration, and variations of it, that AI has unfortunately stolen and tries to mimic, but it can’t mimic genuine concept artist pieces that well and its very clear R’s are genuine. I even traced their skill increase each year they meticiulously practiced the style and there certainly weren’t AI in 2020 that could replicate R’s stylethat well.

The fire reflection? I have made those mistakes too.

Rocks growing out of trees? In concept art we don’t care about the logistics, the idea is to paint out a piece as quickly as possible, which means trees look a bit sketchy and so forth. The concept art style goes back to the 1800’s so its not new either and some people think it goes back further. Its a style that involves using impressions to convey an environment instead of actually painting the details. The most famous example is Claude Monet’s much loved Water Lilies series. If you walk up to this piece the whole thing falls apart into scribbles.

This style was recently slightly changed and adapted for the film and game industry where artists had to paint very fast and very quickly so they could develop films, make sets or pitch ideas to potential sponsors. It isn’t meant to be nice, artists aren’t thinking about river currents when they do it. The only thing they are thinking is ‘how do I convey the mood and feel of this scene as quickly as possible.”

R is just…that good, they are an amazing painter and can paint concept art with a maestry you don’t usually see on petsites. I understand why this made a few of you cautious, but accusing them without proof could damage their reputation and even make them lose their job, and I do believe they work on the art industry.

sorry for the long post, I hope this can clear some misconceptions

[always-coffee]

The Kind That Might Drown a Man

I have a piece of art that I love. It’s a siren, clearing drowning a man. It was painted by an artist who I considered a friend, who I spoke to nearly every day for three years. He used a rather artsy photo I had taken as a reference photo, with permission. (If we are mutuals, you may ask to see it.)

I was elated when he wanted to use my photo, to make art out of a piece of art (photos are art) I was proud of. I said yes, immediately. He was going to do a series of mythological characters, and I'd be the perfect siren.

When he showed me a photo of the finished piece and also when he posted it, I was happy. Then, he sent the original painting to me as a gift. I was over the moon. It felt cool. I felt cool. Seen, valued. It did something to combat an old wound of mine.

In the past, artists—people who I thought were friends, but who were only ever actually interested in getting into my pants (nooooope)—had asked to paint me. Reference photos were even sent. But the interest quickly fizzled when they realized that what was on offer was only friendship. It wasn't good enough, so those connections faded like sun-seared fog. No one is required to make art of someone, but when something flattering turns out to be wildly disappointing it is, at best, weird. At worst, it’s dehumanizing.

But back to the point: my friend made gorgeous art out of a photo I dearly loved of myself. It felt good, and I felt special. Fast-forward to years later, and I have severed that friendship. It turns out that, despite all the conversation and all the camaraderie and even the co-working we did together, he was a liar.

There were things he casually and purposefully lied about for no discernible reason. And when I discovered the truth, it gutted me. It felt worse than a romantic breakup in a lot of ways. I don’t like being lied to. At all. Tell me the awful truth, and I’ll deal with it. But purposefully, repeatedly, and knowingly abuse my trust? Absolutely unforgiveable.

I’ve spoken elsewhere on the internet about the details of the lies—the utter pointlessness of them. (Imagine, for instance, lying about who redid the landscaping in your backyard.) It was during the pandemic where we began talking in earnest, having entered each other’s orbit through a mutual friend in the art world. He seemed safe. We shared good news with each other, vented about the insanity of the world, swapped cute animal photos and funny memes. But the context of it all was impossibly and completely different than what I was told. The curated image I was given was a lie. Things were deliberately kept from me, information was twisted and distorted—and the kicker was that he lied to other people about me.

Again, for no reason. We’d done professional work together, and it was very public! And very fun at the time. But he apparently claimed we weren’t friends. The moment things started to feel wrong between us was easy to brush aside. Easy to explain away. Easy to understand. He was stressed, job hunting. I was dealing with myriad stresses of my own. No relationship is unmarred by life’s more than occasional weirdness. It’s easy to shrug things off. To ascribe to something banal, innocent.

Then, the truth came out. And honestly, I’m still sifting through the ramifications. The ways the deceit stuns me, even now, not just in the moment. How it felt peculiar to suddenly and wildly not know someone.

In the moment, I took the piece down. I put it away. I didn’t want to look at it. I couldn’t. It was too big of a reminder. It felt like mockery. Because what was it all about? What was the point of any of it? (These are questions that will never have answers.) I was—and still am—angry. Angry at the broken trust. The carelessness of it all. The cruelty too, so unnecessary in its articulations.

But what do I do with the art? Initially, I thought I’d burn it dramatically like Sylvia Plath and the letters. Or chuck it in the trash, as symbolic gesture of getting rid of it all, of closure. (Because there is none of that here, and that is fine. I do not want it. Nothing said could fix or mend or ease.) Getting rid of it, however, feels wrong.

It’s still beautiful. It’s still art. It’s still me.

But for now, it won’t hang where I can see it. It will not be a reminder of heartbreak and betrayal. It will not sit a monument to a lost friend, who was such a small, sad creature in the end. Because to act with such malice—and there was malice in the threads of it—is not the act of a kind or good heart. And I do not have space in my life for anything other than warmth and genuineness.

Someday—I don’t know when—I’ll put it out of the dark and either hang it up or give it away. Someday, maybe someone I love will want it, and I will want to give it to them. A moment of captured beauty, the kind that might drown a man—offered with love.

I’m glad I didn’t burn it, even as I am glad to have burnt that bridge.

[skypiea]

(I'm with you with regards to the "quite easily I like it" OP post btw! Just wanna make that clear ^^;;) I almost wonder if the gripes are like, in part people who see how the women are drawn and base All Their Opinions of the series on that. That or they got mad at the clown thing Tumblr did and just decided to hate the series for it. Or they're just a little hater, honestly anything can apply. I'm not a fan of OP, haven't seen a second of it to make a decision, but like. 5 or 6 (including you- im not just a random, im just really shy LOL) of my friends are, and the one thing keeping me off from watching it is the fact that it's one of the longest animes still going- And I almost wonder if that also has a part to play in the "lol how can u watch one piece" thing people have going on. Also, have you seen the bananawanis yet?? I don't go here but I love them.

Thanks for the message! I hope you don't mind a bit of rambling (all that I'm capable of, always).

The thing is, I think there are plenty of things to criticize about one piece. I’ve seen and had many thoughtful discussions about elements of the work that can easily be considered harmful stereotypes, as well as some well-intentioned ideas that I think were executed in a subpar and clumsy manner. Some of these are directly a result of the author being only 1 guy with 1 lived experience, some are the result of broader issues in the shonen genre.

And these discussions are great! Everyone is better off for having thought about these potentially damaging aspects deeper, and it’s incredibly important to be able to recognize that an author you respect and follow isn’t perfect and doesn’t need defending over every single thing. And at the same time, I fully respect anyone who has no interest in getting into the work because they don’t want to put up with any of the parts that are far from perfect.

Personally, what I can’t stand is the tone of condescension people are very quick to take… I do not fault anyone for not digging the show's visual style, it's not for everyone. But I don't really appreciate the implication that I'm like, stupid or misogynist or cumbrained just because I enjoy the work overall. Or even because I do enjoy Oda's art; I think he is a really talented artist, but elements of his stylization are not always my favorite, including both his general figures for both women and men. This is not even starting to mention the incredible talents of many of the individual animators who work on the one piece anime, who all put a lot of their own amazing flair into adapting the work.

On the topic of the latter thing, I've truly never understood the length being a barrier to the ability to enjoy the work. It's always really baffled me...? I don't know if it's like, people who are only interested in getting into OP specifically to interact with the fandom, but in my opinion there's no actual factor that makes you need to catch up to current as fast as possible. In my mind, having so much of a new thing is wonderful for me; I'll have a lot of great story to enjoy, I can take it at my own pace, enjoy watching a bit at a time for a long time. I guess everyone just wants to be done with something as fast as possible these days... Pretty sad... Make it last and enjoy it lots :-)

I've gone on for long enough, but basically, I couldn't care less if anyone doesn't enjoy the same thing that I enjoy a lot--that's life! I simply can't stand being treated like some sort of idiot for liking it, and I'm done basically agreeing with those kinds of people by giving them any ground. None of this is a super serious problem of course, just a pet peeve... but what is a blog for if not talking at length about my silly little pet peeves ;-)

Of course I adore the Bananawani, as well as all the other fun and silly animals of the one piece world. I hope we'll see them again one day, it's been so long... Here's one of my favorite one piece species for you, the Lapin. Love these guys.

To finish off, I'm just going to include one of my favorite recent pieces of one piece's animation. Hope everyone's havin a lovely day ^_^

[this-acuteneurosis]

Okay but it’s important to me to say that you absolutely have a right to be and write in the Star Wars fandom regardless of how much of the source material you have consumed

gatekeeping in fandom is the worst. The absolute worst. in the same way that we can love and appreciate fic written before a series finished even years after it’s no longer canon compliant, we can love and appreciate fic by someone who hasn’t consumed the entire source material. how can we say someone isn’t able to write fic until they’ve finished it?? Even if they never finish it?? Especially in something so extensive as Star Wars.

Star Wars canon is a hodge podge anyway—setting aside the Disney reboot, even the extended universe was a mess of retconning. The movies themselves were a mess of retconning. The beautiful and wonderful thing about having so much material is that you can cherry pick what you like. DLB is canon to the original 6 movies, but even if it wasn’t it’s still a fucking amazing story.

You don’t have to watch the other Star Wars stuff to belong here. You don’t even have to like the original Star Wars stuff to belong here. The fact that you have a story to tell with these characters is enough of a membership card.

Can people want to see their favorites show up? Can they be disappointed/upset at the fact that your versions of them aren’t the canon versions? Sure, but that’s their feelings. You’ve been more than clear enough that you’re working from the movies, and we’re fucking lucky to have you here, writing, in exactly the way you do.

There’s a space in this fandom for the uber nerds who have read and watched every last piece of Star Wars media and bring all those details together in ingenious ways. There’s also a space in this fandom for people who have read or watched (1) Star Wars thing and caught the bug. And there’s a space in this fandom for everyone in between.

(…that was more ranty than I intended but I cannot express to you how much my heart jolts every time I see a notification email for you in my inbox. Sometimes a new DLB chapter turns my day around. You are a gift to this fandom.)

Thank you so much! (*^_^*) I really do appreciate the support.

And I have to say that overall, I've been treated very well by people engaging with me and with DLB. My worries are often disproportionate to reality, and I knew when I started posting Like Fire that getting at least some...disgruntled(?) feedback was just guaranteed and I needed to develop a thicker skin for those moments because when you engage online, people saying something that can hurt your feelings is just...inevitable.

Regardless of canon compliance, just based on subscription numbers and how many enthusiastic comments I get per chapter, I know the reception of DLB is just overall positive for those who choose to engage with it.

And I do want to engage back with people reading my story, and even share my thoughts and feelings on why some aspects of canon make it in or don't. I'm just a worrier by nature, so I'm often careful and reticent preemptively, especially on the internet. I'm getting more comfortable in this space and I hope I can keep engaging more in spite of my old habits. But I still definitely retreat like a snail with a poked eye back into my little shell when people get...enthusiastic about correcting me. Those infrequent times it does happen.

(Really though, I am so, so glad when people talk about how DLB just brings them so much joy by existing. Like, why else do we create art but to create feelings between otherwise unreachable souls that want to harmonize so badly? What greater joy is there than to reach out and feel someone reach back?)

[rainbowchewynuggets]

Okay, change of plans.

Despite my best laid plans, my intentions to produce that Hellboy comic through October are turning out to be more unrealistic than they were before I moved. Unforeseen circumstances are going to reduce the amount of free time I have in the near future (thanks, Ian), and I straight up overestimated how quickly I’d be able to draw each page. Which happens a lot.

See, there’s kind of a bigger problem here. I routinely find myself getting excited about making a comic project, writing it all out, and then burning out repeatedly as I draw it. For the longest time, I thought that was just what it took to draw that many cool pictures on one page. It wasn’t until I started living with a friend from college that I realized there was a problem. Or, he realized it first. He’s astonishingly good at clocking me through my stubborn bullshit lol. He said that maybe I constantly burn out because I’m using 100% of my artistic capacity 100% of the time. Which sounds ideal on paper. I’m making the very best art that I can. But it’s completely unsustainable because, uh… I’m a human with limits, as I constantly forget. And comics take a lot of stamina.

Because I don’t understand comics. I read comics all the time growing up, but I didn’t draw like them. I learned to draw from making fine art pieces in school. I drew with realism and life drawing as the core of my practice because that’s what my dad had been taught back when he aspired to be an animator at Disney, and that’s what he taught me. The only thing that ever impressed art teachers and classmates was how accurately I could draw a face or a vase or a landscape. So I did that as well as I could.

Now, I should be clear here. Realism absolutely has a place in comics. Some of the most beautiful and intelligent pieces of work I’ve ever read had clear roots in realism. Life drawing is a sensible basis for any kind of representational art, in my opinion. Sequential art that’s just a series of fully-rendered paintings astound and enchant me.

It’s just that I think that level of detail and accuracy just isn’t right for me. Partly because my writing style is also super extra. I have big spiraling ideas that take a lot of time and pages to execute. My writing is actually just now reaching a point where I can whittle it down to reasonable finished scripts that I can draw with (which might be why I never realized this art problem before). And sooner or later, my brain wanders off onto something else. So being stuck with these big projects that are so exhausting to execute leads to a kaleidoscopic labyrinth of “break” projects that are supposed to be easier. They never are. Because my brain doesn’t know how to do “easier”. Like anything, I think “easier” will take practice. Study.

My plan, therefore, is to study an easier style to keep in my toolbox. Something fun and shape-based that lets me lean on the forms of abstraction and simplification that I already use in my current dominant style. Mostly, I’m looking at Scott Campbell (lead art director of Psychonauts 1) right now. And I’m gonna try working with some brushes that won’t leave me agonizing over line weight. If this works, it might give me more time to think about color dynamics, lighting, staging, and expression (since you guys seem to love that so much in TMA Encore; I love it too).

What does this mean for Hellboy and Encore, then? I think the best thing to do for Hellboy is post the pages I finished before I moved and release the remaining script in text form through October. It’s not as good as having the whole thing drawn, but I think having initial pages will at least help readers visualize the rest. (And I’d really like people to be able to experience the whole thing because I feel like it’s some of the best writing I’ve ever done.) Then, starting in November, I want to get Encore wrapped up. This will take the form of a kind of… hybrid media presentation. Encore has no complete script, but I can write a dramatic summary of what happens chapter by chapter, accompanied by drawn panels and sequences of important moments. Like a picture book. That kinda fits the dark academia vibe.

Following that, I’m going to use that Psychonauts fanfic I mentioned months ago as a study tool. I have a whole side blog for that (link), but I might crosspost them here when the time comes. And from there, hopefully, I’ll have a sustainable work ethic and can start on my own original projects. With videos. And patreon!

It’s a big weird shift all of a sudden, I know. This may just be another art blog on tumblr, but it’s important for me to try to be consistent and accountable when I make projects. And if I can’t do that, I at least want to be transparent. (Who knows–talking about this might help someone else who’s struggling, too.) I have kind of a rare opportunity in my life to sit and focus on art right now, and I don’t know when another will come again, if ever. So I want to use the limited time I have to improve and position myself for success (and wellness) going forward.

I hope you understand. But I have a feeling you will. You guys are real nice. :)

Thanks for reading.