#okay he's not wrong though

[stincorrect]

Will: You believe me? Mike: Will, you’re like the last good person in the world. Mike: I’d believe cartoon birds braided your hair this morning.

[egophiliac]

GREAT GOOGLY MOOGLY, THE NEXT BOOK 7 UPDATE FOR THE JP SERVER IS SET FOR MARCH 1ST.

HOW WE FEELIN LADS!?!?!

AHHHHHHHH NOOO I'M NOT READY, I thought we'd be getting the fourth anniversary first and then Sebek's birthday and then maybe some more episode 7, I didn't -- I didn't think it'd be Friday --

oh god and they're rerunning the story cards, they didn't say this was the final part but it feels like...maybe the penultimate chapter? could the end of episode 7 finally be looming in the distance?! WHAT AM I GOING TO DO

[tesco-finest-aromantics]

i feel like the queer community lost when we started policing labels and making sure everyone used the Correct™ labels instead of letting a person decide what feels right for them

[theaviatorthatcouldnotfly]

about simon’s social media plotline

instead of deleting it, why didn’t simon just temporarily deactivate his instagram/make a private account?

all season, simon has been trying to find workarounds to his worsening situation when it comes to outside pressures and an increasingly stifling environment. he tries to find ways to still be himself and have some sense of freedom, even with all the criticism and negativity being hurled his way.

he’s hit with a barrage of hate comments everywhere? fine. he’ll reply to some of them, just to make sure that everyone gets a sense of who he really is. but he soon finds that when he does so, he’s only met with even more hatred and people coming for his throat. and wille himself tells him replying will only make things worse, so he should try to refrain from doing so.

okay, then. he might not be able to directly comment and tell the world who he is and how all of this is making him feel, but he can show them. so he uploads the video of him singing, the thing he loves most in the world, and he expresses himself through that original song. but that doesn’t work either, and wille tells that simon shouldn’t be posting those things on social media because they can easily be misinterpreted and cause harmful speculations and media attention. and to make things worse, there’s a whole new barrage of hate comments, this time leaning into more sinister territory.

but simon is not going to give up so easily— even if tons of people online are telling him that he’s a golddigger and pathetic and chasing fame, he knows that those aren’t his intentions. he’s with wille because he loves him, and he’s not looking for fame or wealth out of it. and all simon wants out of life is to make some positive change in the world. so of course he can’t help himself when he adds himself to the post of the picture he took with the younger boy who looks up to him. he’s hopeful and a little giddy about it all, because he is making a change. he is helping and inspiring others. he wants to share that with others.

and then simon goes home to find that an anonymous stranger has thrown a rock through his window, into his house.

simon loves his family dearly. he would do anything for them. and someone he likely doesn’t even know hated him enough to threaten his family’s safety, his mother’s safety, by finding his house and breaking the window with the rock. being harassed on social media and in person by reporters fucking sucks, but in simon’s mind, at least that’s only affecting him. but this? this is too far. this is his family, and they’re unintentional targets now, too. they aren’t even safe in their own home anymore, where they’ve lived in the last fourteen years.

so when jan olof and farima come by and tell simon to delete his social media accounts for his own safety— not temporarily deactivate, not make private, specifically delete— simon does it. because private accounts and deactivations are workarounds, and to simon, workarounds have only made things worse. it’s not just him on the line anymore, it’s his family and safety and his relationship with wille altogether, so he does exactly what the royal court says and deletes his accounts. workarounds just aren’t worth it.

okay, but why is deleting his instagram account such a big deal? he can always make a new one, so why does it matter?

one of the first times that we get a deeper look into who simon is, not coincidentally, through the contents of his instagram account! when wille is lurking on simon’s profile, we get a solid introduction into the key aspects and people in simon’s life. he he has two best friends who he adores, he loves his sister and his mother, and even his bio says “music makes my world go round”.

but looking past that aspect for now, we also get to see who simon is outside of social media and these close relationships: he’s very outspoken, doesn’t let others silence him (even in his very first scene, he sings louder when vincent makes fun of him), is unafraid to call others out on their bullshit and has strong values that he’s quick to share.

but throughout season three, as simon is faced with more and more pressure and cruelty on behalf of the public and royal court, he starts losing himself. he finds that singing isn’t as enjoyable anymore, he becomes quieter and quieter. he initially fights back when he feels that the royal court is being unreasonable, like when he was first told by wille about being careful on social media, but eventually just reaches a point where he stops and just takes it. he ends up going against his own values just for the sake of not fighting with wille during the sit-in, despite clearly being bothered by it. and of course, this isn’t helped by the fact that he’s not on speaking terms with sara again until much later and his relationship with his mom is strained until mid-season, so a integral part of his support system isn’t able to help him until he was a little too deep into all this.

so looking back at the social media aspect, simon deleting his instagram accounts is the nail in the coffin. he publicly displays his unabashed love for his family, friends, and music through his posts, all of which are essential to his sense of self and who he is as a person, and we see him literally delete it all. this drives home the point that simon is deleting himself, and marks one of his lowest points in terms of losing and changing himself to try and fit into a space that will never be made for someone like him. square peg in a circular hole.

so yes, realistically, simon deleting instagram is a sad thing to see, although not necessarily earth-shattering. but metaphorically? it’s everything.

why were there only hate comments? sweden is very progressive in terms of queer rights and social acceptance, so it couldn’t have been that bad.

of course, i can’t speak for lisa and the rest of the team, but i feel that this was an intentional detail. because the truth is, there probably weren’t only hate comments! we even see the initial response after simon posts the clip of him singing, and it’s positive.

but as an overall society, we tend to take criticism harder than we do compliments. you likely don’t remember that one time last week where a stranger complimented your hair or outfit or handwriting, whatever it may be, but you probably do remember the last time someone told you that your efforts weren’t enough. you probably remember the last time you got a bad review or a bad grade on something you tried hard on, or when someone made fun of your interests. and speaking as a teenager, i can confirm that this is a huge thing to us as well— we want to be accepted and complimented, we want to be wanted, and when we aren’t, it feels like it’s the end of the world.

so of course simon would take all those disgusting comments to heart. anyone would, especially when they haven’t had any time to prepare for it. so as more and more hate comments roll in, it’s harder to pay attention to the positivity that may also be there. from simon’s point of view, the hate is everywhere and too much to ignore, so that’s what we get to see. we see criticism and threats and people being mean, because those are the responses and the view that affect simon the most.

tldr; simon deleted his instagram because he felt that using another workaround in deactivation/private acc would be a risk, it’s a big deal because by literally deleting his social media the writers show that simon is deleting himself, and there’s mostly hate comments because through simon’s pov those are the ones that are the most impactful.

[quatregats]

Something I've been thinking about is how Patrick O'Brian manages so skillfully to write characters whose actions contradict their beliefs, which I think is honestly a big part of why his characters feel so real. Mostly with Stephen and Jack—e.g., and perhaps most notably, Stephen has notably leftist sympathies (honestly I have no idea how to characterize his politics in period terms) who nonetheless becomes very comfortable with his rise to the landed gentry, while Jack is a card-carrying Tory who much of the time sympathizes far more with working class sailors and farmers than with the upper classes—but I'm sure he does it to a lesser degree with some of his minor characters (James Dillon, while perhaps not precisely minor, comes to mind), and I love that he's able to do that, especially the way in which he embeds it in the narrative. We see how they're all unreliable narrators of themselves; we understand how they want to be seen and how that does and doesn't coincide with the reality, but most importantly, this isn't presented as something reprehensible, just as a part of their own humanity. They are not their expectations for themselves, but they don't need to be those expectations to be beloved.

[chuthulhu-reads]

[ID: Two panels from Dungeon Meshi. The first scows Senshi clutching his face as tears start to spill out of his eyes, saying, "I've always... always wanted to have this soup one more time." He's not wearing his helmet in this panel, so his face is unusually visible, detailed and vulnerable. The second panel shows himself as a youngster, surrounded by his old mining team, all smiling at each other, one of them rubbing Senshi's head. Modern-day Senshi continues, "Thank you. All of you. Thank you." End ID.]

Holy shit. I anticipated some tragic backstory from the "I must feed the young ones" panels, but what I'd guessed was that Senshi might have become so devoted to cooking and eating literally whatever because he'd previously survived a famine and had seen children starve to death. I did not expect him to have been the child who was the sole survivor of a doomed travel party, one of whom was determined to feed Senshi first because he was the youngest, and that Senshi has lived with the fear of having inadvertently committed cannibalism by eating stew that he'd never quite known the contents of. I'm happy for him that Laios deduced and confirmed for him that it was griffin meat, that he was able to taste the meal that saved his life once more and remember the friends he lost. Seriously, I'm crying, and also earnestly relieved that while his backstory is pretty dark, it's not the type of fucked up I'd been preparing myself mentally for.

[3-aem]

i also don’t want to portray myself as faultless. my work isn’t ai and it isn’t copied. but nk will say i Had old pieces that were copied and referenced ai. Yet it isn’t good faith when i apologize, state how i took accountability, and explain thats definitely not the case today because i learned my lessons- to respond with well you made these mistakes in the past so how can i believe you, you are lying, and have not changed.

so i quit. how can i prove myself then besides what i mentioned in the last post. my question is will you even ALLOW me to prove myself. each time i must explain, i place a spotlight on something that was resolved agreeably with the artists, resolved by removing the works, and resolved within myself by learning from it. but by not saying something i also allow You to concoct narratives and have to watch people spread them around and come to me demanding apologies. it is a very uncomfortable very distressing process that has worn me down completely.

never mind that other artists who have copied have not nearly been requested to apologize as much as i have been. never mind that they were forgiven when they removed the works or even when they just say sorry and don’t remove the work at all. But you still choose to hound me afterwards for doing just that?

nk has stated that i have not fixed this. and that i must address it. how many times though? for how long also? who on this planet starts the conversation by recounting all their mistakes, especially when they know they are resolved.

i have had to learn my lessons through cruelty like yours. trust me its a trauma i have to bear and they are not lessons you then forget.

my anger and my feelings of defeat come from the fact that even after nk was still talking like i had not even attempted to make progress. just look at your tone here.

[shannonsketches]

Why is the anime so weird, it's not even the same series dude?? It's like,

Anime:

GOKU: I have a great idea to bring peace to the universe, and my leadership and compassion alone will unite us all. I have No Flaws and am A True Relatable Everyman :)

VEGETA: NO! I AM THE BEST AND I WILL CAUSE PROBLEMS UNTIL I AM RECOGNIZED AS SUCH!!!!

Manga:

GOKU: Vegeta what's cornmeal made of? I know it's what the corn eats, but what's it made of? VEGETA: Hey Kakarot let's play the quiet game until one of us dies.

[iratusmus]

scourge unleashed aus mean nothing to me unless he is a catboy

[queenlucythevaliant]

Tell Your Dad You Love Him

A retelling of "Meat Loves Salt"/"Cap O'Rushes" for the @inklings-challenge Four Loves event

An old king had three daughters. When his health began to fail, he summoned them, and they came.

Gordonia and Rowan were already waiting in the hallway when Coriander arrived. They were leaned up against the wall opposite the king’s office with an air of affected casualness. “I wonder what the old war horse wants today?” Rowan was saying. “More about next year’s political appointments, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“The older he gets, the more he micromanages,” Gordonia groused fondly. “A thousand dollars says this meeting could’ve been an email.”

They filed in single-file like they’d so often done as children: Gordonia first, then Rowan, and Coriander last of all. The king had placed three chairs in front of his desk all in a row. His daughters murmured their greetings, and one by one they sat down. 

“I have divided everything I have in three,” the king said. “I am old now, and it’s time. Today, I will pass my kingdom on to you, my daughters.”

A short gasp came from Gordonia. None of them could have imagined that their father would give up running his kingdom while he still lived. 

The king went on. “I know you will deal wisely with that which I leave in your care. But before we begin, I have one request.”

“Yes father?” said Rowan.

“Tell me how much you love me.”

An awkward silence fell. Although there was no shortage of love between the king and his daughters, theirs was not a family which spoke of such things. They were rich and blue-blooded: a soldier and the daughters of a soldier, a king and his three court-reared princesses. The royal family had always shown their affection through double meanings and hot cups of coffee.

Gordonia recovered herself first. She leaned forward over the desk and clasped her father’s hands in her own. “Father,” she said, “I love you more than I can say.” A pause. “I don’t think there’s ever been a family so happy in love as we have been. You’re a good dad.”

The old king smiled and patted her hand. “Thank you, Gordonia. We have been very happy, haven’t we? Here is your inheritance. Cherish it, as I cherish you.”

Rowan spoke next; the words came tumbling out.  “Father! There’s not a thing in my life which you didn’t give me, and all the joy in the world beside. Come now, Gordonia, there’s no need to understate the matter. I love you more than—why, more than life itself!”

The king laughed, and rose to embrace his second daughter. “How you delight me, Rowan. All of this will be yours.”

Only Coriander remained. As her sisters had spoken, she’d wrung her hands in her lap, unsure of what to say. Did her father really mean for flattery to be the price of her inheritance? That just wasn’t like him. For all that he was a politician, he’d been a soldier first. He liked it when people told the truth.

When the king’s eyes came to rest on her, Coriander raised her own to meet them. “Do you really want to hear what you already know?” 

“I do.”

She searched for a metaphor that could carry the weight of her love without unnecessary adornment. At last she found one, and nodded, satisfied. “Dad, you’re like—like salt in my food.”

“Like salt?”

“Well—yes.”

The king’s broad shoulders seemed to droop. For a moment, Coriander almost took back her words. Her father was the strongest man in the world, even now, at eighty. She’d watched him argue with foreign rulers and wage wars all her life. Nothing could hurt him. Could he really be upset? 

But no. Coriander held her father’s gaze. She had spoken true. What harm could be in that?

“I don’t know why you’re even here, Cor,” her father said.

Now, Coriander shifted slightly in her seat, unnerved. “What? Father—”

“It would be best if—you should go,” said the old king.

“Father, you can’t really mean–”

“Leave us, Coriander.”

So she left the king’s court that very hour.

 .

It had been a long time since she’d gone anywhere without a chauffeur to drive her, but Coriander’s thoughts were flying apart too fast for her to be afraid. She didn’t know where she would go, but she would make do, and maybe someday her father would puzzle out her metaphor and call her home to him. Coriander had to hope for that, at least. The loss of her inheritance didn’t feel real yet, but her father—how could he not know that she loved him? She’d said it every day.

She’d played in the hall outside that same office as a child. She’d told him her secrets and her fears and sent him pictures on random Tuesdays when they were in different cities just because. She had watched him triumph in conference rooms and on the battlefield and she’d wanted so badly to be like him. 

If her father doubted her love, then maybe he’d never noticed any of it. Maybe the love had been an unnoticed phantasm, a shadow, a song sung to a deaf man. Maybe all that love had been nothing at all.  

A storm was on the horizon, and it reached her just as she made it onto the highway. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled. Rain poured down and flooded the road. Before long, Coriander was hydroplaning. Frantically, she tried to remember what you were supposed to do when that happened. Pump the brakes? She tried. No use. Wasn’t there something different you did if the car had antilock brakes? Or was that for snow? What else, what else–

With a sickening crunch, her car hit the guardrail. No matter. Coriander’s thoughts were all frenzied and distant. She climbed out of the car and just started walking.

Coriander wandered beneath an angry sky on the great white plains of her father’s kingdom. The rain beat down hard, and within seconds she was soaked to the skin. The storm buffeted her long hair around her head. It tangled together into long, matted cords that hung limp down her back. Mud soiled her fine dress and splattered onto her face and hands. There was water in her lungs and it hurt to breathe. Oh, let me die here, Coriander thought. There’s nothing left for me, nothing at all. She kept walking.

 .

When she opened her eyes, Coriander found herself in a dank gray loft. She was lying on a strange feather mattress.

She remained there a while, looking up at the rafters and wondering where she could be. She thought and felt, as it seemed, through a heavy and impenetrable mist; she was aware only of hunger and weakness and a dreadful chill (though she was all wrapped in blankets). She knew that a long time must have passed since she was fully aware, though she had a confused memory of wandering beside the highway in a thunderstorm, slowly going mad because—because— oh, there’d been something terrible in her dreams. Her father, shoulders drooping at his desk, and her sisters happily come into their inheritance, and she cast into exile—

She shuddered and sat up dizzily. “Oh, mercy,” she murmured. She hadn’t been dreaming.

She stumbled out of the loft down a narrow flight of stairs and came into a strange little room with a single window and a few shabby chairs. Still clinging to the rail, she heard a ruckus from nearby and then footsteps. A plump woman came running to her from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron and softly clucking at the state of her guest’s matted, tangled hair.

“Dear, dear,” said the woman. “Here’s my hand, if you’re still unsteady. That’s good, good. Don’t be afraid, child. I’m Katherine, and my husband is Folke. He found you collapsed by the goose-pond night before last. I’m she who dressed you—your fine gown was ruined, I’m afraid. Would you like some breakfast? There’s coffee on the counter, and we’ll have porridge in a minute if you’re patient.”

“Thank you,” Coriander rasped.

“Will you tell me your name, my dear?”

“I have no name. There’s nothing to tell.”

Katherine clicked her tongue. “That’s alright, no need to worry. Folke and I’ve been calling you Rush on account of your poor hair. I don’t know if you’ve seen yourself, but it looks a lot like river rushes. No, don’t get up. Here’s your breakfast, dear.”

There was indeed porridge, as Katherine had promised, served with cream and berries from the garden. Coriander ate hungrily and tasted very little. Then, when she was finished, the goodwife ushered her over to a sofa by the window and put a pillow beneath her head. Coriander thanked her, and promptly fell asleep.

 .

She woke again around noon, with the pounding in her head much subsided. She woke feeling herself again, to visions of her father inches away and the sound of his voice cracking across her name.

Katherine was outside in the garden; Coriander could see her through the clouded window above her. She rose and, upon finding herself still in a borrowed nightgown, wrapped herself in a blanket to venture outside.

“Feeling better?” Katherine was kneeling in a patch of lavender, but she half rose when she heard the cottage door open.

“Much. Thank you, ma’am.

“No thanks necessary. Folke and I are ministers, of a kind. We keep this cottage for lost and wandering souls. You’re free to remain here with us for as long as you need.”

“Oh,” was all Coriander could think to say. 

“You’ve been through a tempest, haven’t you? Are you well enough to tell me where you came from?”

Coriander shifted uncomfortably. “I’m from nowhere,” she said. “I have nothing.”

“You don’t owe me your story, child. I should like to hear it, but it will keep till you’re ready. Now, why don’t you put on some proper clothes and come help me with this weeding.”

 .

Coriander remained at the cottage with Katherine and her husband Folke for a week, then a fortnight. She slept in the loft and rose with the sun to help Folke herd the geese to the pond. After, Coriander would return and see what needed doing around the cottage. She liked helping Katherine in the garden.

The grass turned gold and the geese’s thick winter down began to come in. Coriander’s river-rush hair proved itself unsalvageable. She spent hours trying to untangle it, first with a hairbrush, then with a fine-tooth comb and a bottle of conditioner, and eventually even with honey and olive oil (a home remedy that Folke said his mother used to use). So, at last, Coriander surrendered to the inevitable and gave Katherine permission to cut it off. One night, by the yellow light of the bare bulb that hung over the kitchen table, Katherine draped a towel over Coriander’s shoulders and tufts of gold went falling to the floor all round her.

“I’m here because I failed at love,” she managed to tell the couple at last, when her sorrows began to feel more distant. “I loved my father, and he knew it not.”

Folke and Katherine still called her Rush. She didn’t correct them. Coriander was the name her parents gave her. It was the name her father had called her when she was six and racing down the stairs to meet him when he came home from Europe, and at ten when she showed him the new song she’d learned to play on the harp. She’d been Cor when she brought her first boyfriend home and Cori the first time she shadowed him at court. Coriander, Coriander, when she came home from college the first time and he’d hugged her with bruising strength. Her strong, powerful father.

As she seasoned a pot of soup for supper, she wondered if he understood yet what she’d meant when she called him salt in her food. 

 .

Coriander had been living with Katherine and Folke for two years, and it was a morning just like any other. She was in the kitchen brewing a pot of coffee when Folke tossed the newspaper on the table and started rummaging in the fridge for his orange juice. “Looks like the old king’s sick again,” he commented casually. Coriander froze.

She raced to the table and seized hold of the paper. There, above the fold, big black letters said, KING ADMITTED TO HOSPITAL FOR EMERGENCY TREATMENT. There was a picture of her father, looking older than she’d ever seen him. Her knees went wobbly and then suddenly the room was sideways.

Strong arms caught her and hauled her upright. “What’s wrong, Rush?”

“What if he dies,” she choked out. “What if he dies and I never got to tell him?”

She looked up into Folke’s puzzled face, and then the whole sorry story came tumbling out.

When she was through, Katherine (who had come downstairs sometime between salt and the storm) took hold of her hand and kissed it. “Bless you, dear,” she said. “I never would have guessed. Maybe it’s best that you’ve both had some time to think things over.”

Katherine shook her head. “But don’t you think…?”

“Yes?”

“Well, don’t you think he should have known that I loved him? I shouldn’t have needed to say it. He’s my father. He’s the king.”

Katherine replied briskly, as though the answer should have been obvious. “He’s only human, child, for all that he might wear a crown; he’s not omniscient. Why didn’t you tell your father what he wanted to hear?”

“I didn’t want to flatter him,” said Coriander. “That was all. I wanted to be right in what I said.”

The goodwife clucked softly. “Oh dear. Don’t you know that sometimes, it’s more important to be kind than to be right?”

.

In her leave-taking, Coriander tried to tell Katherine and Folke how grateful she was to them, but they wouldn’t let her. They bought her a bus ticket and sent her on her way towards King’s City with plenty of provisions. Two days later, Coriander stood on the back steps of one of the palace outbuildings with her little carpetbag clutched in her hands. 

Stuffing down the fear of being recognized, Coriander squared her shoulders and hoped they looked as strong as her father’s. She rapped on the door, and presently a maid came and opened it. The maid glanced Coriander up and down, but after a moment it was clear that her disguise held. With all her long hair shorn off, she must have looked like any other girl come in off the street.

“I’m here about a job,” said Coriander. “My name’s Rush.”

 .

The king's chambers were half-lit when Coriander brought him his supper, dressed in her servants’ apparel. He grunted when she knocked and gestured with a cane towards his bedside table. His hair was snow-white and he was sitting in bed with his work spread across a lap-desk. His motions were very slow.

Coriander wanted to cry, seeing her father like that. Yet somehow, she managed to school her face. Like he would, she kept telling herself. Stoically, she put down the supper tray, then stepped back out into the hallway. 

It was several minutes more before the king was ready to eat. Coriander heard papers being shuffled, probably filed in those same manilla folders her father had always used. In the hall, Coriander felt the seconds lengthen. She steeled herself for the moment she knew was coming, when the king would call out in irritation, “Girl! What's the matter with my food? Why hasn’t it got any taste?”

When that moment came, all would be made right. Coriander would go into the room and taste his food. “Why,” she would say, with a look of complete innocence, “It seems the kitchen forgot to salt it!” She imagined how her father’s face would change when he finally understood. My daughter always loved me, he would say. 

Soon, soon. It would happen soon. Any second now. 

The moment never came. Instead, the floor creaked, followed by the rough sound of a cane striking the floor. The door opened, and then the king was there, his mighty shoulders shaking. “Coriander,” he whispered.��

“Dad. You know me?”

“Of course.”

“Then you understand now?”

The king’s wrinkled brow knit. “Understand about the salt? Of course, I do. It wasn't such a clever riddle. There was surely no need to ruin my supper with a demonstration.”

Coriander gaped at him. She'd expected questions, explanations, maybe apologies for sending her away. She'd never imagined this.

She wanted very badly to seize her father and demand answers, but then she looked, really looked, at the way he was leaning on his cane. The king was barely upright; his white head was bent low. Her questions would hold until she'd helped her father back into his room. 

“If you knew what I meant–by saying you were like salt in my food– then why did you tell me to go?” she asked once they were situated back in the royal quarters. 

Idly, the king picked at his unseasoned food. “I shouldn’t have done that. Forgive me, Coriander. My anger and hurt got the better of me, and it has brought me much grief. I never expected you to stay away for so long.”

Coriander nodded slowly. Her father's words had always carried such fierce authority. She'd never thought to question if he really meant what he’d said to her. 

“As for the salt,” continued the king, "Is it so wrong that an old man should want to hear his daughters say ‘I love you' before he dies?” 

Coriander rolled the words around in her head, trying to make sense of them. Then, with a sudden mewling sound from her throat, she managed to say, “That's really all you wanted?”  

“That's all. I am old, Cor, and we've spoken too little of love in our house.” He took another bite of his unsalted supper. His hand shook. “That was my failing, I suppose. Perhaps if I’d said it, you girls would have thought to say it back.”

“But father!” gasped Coriander, “That’s not right. We've always known we loved one another! We've shown it a thousand ways. Why, I've spent the last year cataloging them in my head, and I've still not even scratched the surface!”

The king sighed. “Perhaps you will understand when your time comes. I knew, and yet I didn't. What can you really call a thing you’ve never named? How do you know it exists? Perhaps all the love I thought I knew was only a figment.”

“But that’s what I’ve been afraid of all this time,” Coriander bit back. “How could you doubt? If it was real at all– how could you doubt?”

The king’s weathered face grew still. His eyes fell shut and he squeezed them. “Death is close to me, child. A small measure of reassurance is not so very much to ask.”

.

Coriander slept in her old rooms that night. None of it had changed. When she woke the next morning, for a moment she remembered nothing of the last two years. 

She breakfasted in the garden with her father, who came down the steps in a chair-lift. “Coriander,” he murmured. “I half-thought I dreamed you last night.”

“I’m here, Dad,” she replied. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Slowly, the king reached out with one withered hand and caressed Coriander's cheek. Then, his fingers drifted up to what remained of her hair. He ruffled it, then gently tugged on a tuft the way he'd used to playfully tug her long braid when she was a girl. 

“I love you,” he said.

“That was always an I love you, wasn’t it?” replied Coriander. “My hair.”

The king nodded. “Yes, I think it was.”

So Coriander reached out and gently tugged the white hairs of his beard. “You too,” she whispered.

.

“Why salt?” The king was sitting by the fire in his rooms wrapped in two blankets. Coriander was with him, enduring the sweltering heat of the room without complaint. 

She frowned. “You like honesty. We have that in common. I was trying to be honest–accurate–to avoid false flattery.”

The king tugged at the outer blanket, saying nothing. His lips thinned and his eyes dropped to his lap. Coriander wished they wouldn’t. She wished they would hold to hers, steely and ready for combat as they always used to be.

“Would it really have been false?” the king said at last. “Was there no other honest way to say it? Only salt?”

Coriander wanted to deny it, to give speech to the depth and breadth of her love, but once again words failed her. “It was my fault,” she said. “I didn’t know how to heave my heart into my throat.” She still didn’t, for all she wanted to. 

.

When the doctor left, the king was almost too tired to talk. His words came slowly, slurred at the edges and disconnected, like drops of water from a leaky faucet. 

Still, Coriander could tell that he had something to say. She waited patiently as his lips and tongue struggled to form the words. “Love you… so… much… You… and… your sisters… Don’t… worry… if you… can’t…say…how…much. I… know.” 

It was all effort. The king sat back when he was finished. Something was still spasming in his throat, and Coriander wanted to cry.

“I’m glad you know,” she said. “I’m glad. But I still want to tell you.”

Love was effort. If her father wanted words, she would give him words. True words. Kind words. She would try… 

“I love you like salt in my food. You're desperately important to me, and you've always been there, and I don't know what I'll do without you. I don’t want to lose you. And I love you like the soil in a garden. Like rain in the spring. Like a hero. You have the strongest shoulders of anyone I know, and all I ever wanted was to be like you…”

A warm smile spread across the old king’s face. His eyes drifted shut.

[frogs-in3-hills]

watching yyh and i’m not very far but i am feeling a little insane about how casually self sacrificing yusuke is, how he’s literally incapable of seeing his own worth or thinking ahead for one second to realize that the people around him do actually love him. he knows they do, he’s been shown that multiple times, but it’s like he can’t believe it. and how he keeps thoughtlessly throwing his life away for other people and the universe keeps going, okay kid, that was really good of you so we’re gonna give you One More Chance so take it seriously alright? but he can’t. HE CAN’T take his own life seriously. he’s such a wonderful kind boy but he can’t recognize that within himself. he’s just a thug, he’s a burden, he’s a bother, he’s not worth anyone’s time and these are ideas are so internalized that he doesn’t even realize the problem with constantly using his own life as a bargaining chip.

[bleue-flora]

Ya know, it's occurred to me from watching the way c!Dream talks about c!Tommy being trapped in there with him. He sounds not just glad to have company, but also like optimistic, if that makes sense. Like the "We have tons of time to bond," [46:17], "You're stuck in here with me, whether you like it or not. Okay? Whether you like it or not you're in here with me for a while. We're gonna talk. We're gonna have lots of fun. We’re gonna have lots of fun. Remember–remember when we had fun together, c!Tommy? Remember when we had fun together?–” [46:45], and the "I've changed. I’ve changed. I’ve changed–" [47:19]. He doesn’t say it in a malicious, threatening way, which certainly would be expected of him. I mean, the person who imprisoned you is now imprisoned with you, as the big bad guy that seems like some torture opportunity to me (it is the torture box after all lol ;D), but that’s not what he’s suggesting. No, he sounds adamant about change, about bonding, about talking things through. And given that the TNT Ranboo sets off to get c!Tommy trapped was a part of c!Dream’s plan, it’s very interesting that that would be his response. In fact, it’s almost as if he trapped c!Tommy in order to force them to reconcile, which very much aligns with a theory I’ve actually had for a while - what if the plan to put himself in the prison was about restoring his image.

He was renowned as the villain and everyone was after him and anyone associated with him. They all wanted his head, either because of fear or to be seen as some powerful hero who slayed the big monster. Even in the time of peace, they were plotting to kill him. All while he really just wanted peace and friendship, but he can’t exactly have that when everyone hates him and wants to kill him. Sure, he could seclude himself like Techno, but he didn’t want that. He wanted to be back in the fold.

And he doesn’t want to die, but clearly, they were never going to be satisfied until they destroy him. So, he lets them, and he forms a plan for him to be redeemed in the eyes of the server. He makes a prison so they can defeat him and he gets to live. And he makes the conditions horrible so they a) don’t suspect it was his plan and b) so they feel satisfied with his punishment. He makes it super secure so a) people can’t just get in to kill him, b) so they won’t suspect he’s there willingly (he’s very powerful after all), and everyone can feel safe from him. But he implements an extensive visitor system ("I just don’t want to ever be alone.") so now people can feel safe enough to visit him, and without weapons being involved, work through their issues. The idea being that everyone can come talk to him (which they were too scared or angry to do before) and see how he’s not so scary after all. So, that they then can ultimately release him and he can be a part of society again, now that he’s changed. The prison than was a way to de-villainize himself, so he was no longer the enemy.

Meaning, his favor with c!Techno was a backup plan, and that’s why he didn’t set up a system to get the message to c!Techno sooner, he planned on being let out. He just didn’t plan for things to go so wrong and for people to be so cold…

[jettorii]

whenever i feel a little sad i just draw my sona aggressively making out w one of my favs and laugh so hard until i shit myself

[shentunans]

Where is my Hua Hua X

[gio-cosmo]

P3 spoilers below!

When I first played p3 I knew something was up with Ikutsuki the second he pulled up with an elementary school child like “hey guys let’s have this kid fight with us against horrible awful creatures that are incredibly dangerous!! ☺️” bc genuinely WHAT the hell is going through your mind to think that’s an acceptable thing to do 😭😭

[timbeon]

Rain Code has been living rent-free in my head since I finished it, especially my short purple gremlin husband Makoto. The horrors persist, stay silly.