#think of this as a concept poster of sorts

[drawssj]

does the intention behind the artist's stroke give her work meaning?

[floorpancakes]

watanuki being compared to caged birds and beautiful women and cats who have sex and cats who die and witches and butterflies and ancient flirtation methods and flouncing about in his metaphorical mother's boxes of silky clothes, airily operating like a beautiful spectre who's grown into his body but stuck in the past is so ?????????

[mihai-florescu]

This really was our yumenosaki academy♡

[vaspider]

In defense of retellings & reimaginings

I'm not going to respond to the post that sparked this, because honestly, I don't really feel like getting in an argument, and because it's only vaguely even about the particular story that the other post discussed. The post in question objected to retellings of the Rape of Persephone which changed important elements of the story -- specifically, Persephone's level of agency, whether she was kidnapped, whether she ate seeds out of hunger, and so on. It is permissible, according to this thesis, to 'fill in empty spaces,' but not to change story elements, because 'those were important to the original tellers.' (These are acknowledged paraphrases, and I will launch you into the sun if you nitpick this paragraph.)

I understand why to the person writing that, that perspective is important, and why they -- especially as a self-described devotee of Persephone -- feel like they should proscribe boundaries around the myth. It's a perfectly valid perspective to use when sorting -- for example -- which things you choose to read. If you choose not to read anything which changes the elements which you feel are important, I applaud you.

However, the idea that one should only 'color in missing pieces,' especially when dealing with stories as old, multi-sourced, and fractional as ancient myths, and doing so with the argument that you shouldn't change things because those base elements were important to the people who originally crafted the stories, misses -- in my opinion -- the fundamental reason we tell stories and create myths in the first place.

Forgive me as I get super fucking nerdy about this. I've spent the last several years of my life wrestling with the concept of myths as storytelling devices, universality of myths, and why myths are even important at all as part of writing on something like a dozen books (a bunch of which aren't out yet) for a game centered around mythology. A lot of the stuff I've written has had to wrestle with exactly this concept -- that there is a Sacred Canon which cannot be disrupted, and that any disregard of [specific story elements] is an inexcusable betrayal.

Myths are stories we tell ourselves to understand who we are and what's important to us as individuals, as social groups, and as a society. The elements we utilize or change, those things we choose to include and exclude when telling and retelling a story, tell us what's important to us.

I could sit down and argue over the specific details which change over the -- at minimum -- 1700 years where Persephone/Kore/Proserpina was actively worshiped in Greek and Roman mystery cults, but I actually don't think those variations in specific are very important. What I think is important, however, is both the duration of her cults -- at minimum from 1500 BCE to 200CE -- and the concept that myths are stories we tell ourselves to understand who we are and what's important to us.

The idea that there was one, or even a small handful, of things that were most important to even a large swath of the people who 'originally' told the store of the Rape of Persephone or any other 'foundational' myth of what is broadly considered 'Western Culture,' when those myths were told and retold in active cultic worship for 1700 years... that seems kind of absurd to me on its face. Do we have the same broad cultural values as the original tellers of Beowulf, which is only (heh) between 1k-1.3k years old? How different are our marital traditions, our family traditions, and even our language? We can, at best, make broad statements, and of inclusive necessity, those statements must be broad enough as to lose incredible amounts of specificity. In order to make definitive, specific statements, we must leave out large swaths of the people to whom this story, or any like it, was important.

To move away from the specific story brought up by the poster whose words spun this off, because it really isn't about that story in particular, let's use The Matter of Britain/Arthuriana as our framing for the rest of this discussion. If you ask a random nerd on Tumblr, they'd probably cite a handful of story elements as essential -- though of course which ones they find most essential undoubtedly vary from nerd to nerd -- from the concept that Camelot Always Falls to Gawain and the Green Knight, Percival and the grail, Lancelot and Guinevere...

... but Lancelot/Guinevere and Percival are from Chrétien de Troyes in the 12th century, some ~500 years after Taliesin's first verses. Lancelot doesn't appear as a main character at all before de Troyes, and we can only potentially link him to characters from an 11th century story (Culhwch and Olwen) for which we don't have any extant manuscripts before the 15th century. Gawain's various roles in his numerous appearances are... conflicting characterizations at best.

The point here is not just that 'the things you think are essential parts of the story are not necessarily original,' or that 'there are a lot of different versions of this story over the centuries,' but also 'what you think of as essential is going to come back to that first thesis statement above.' What you find important about The Matter of Britain, and which story elements you think can be altered, filed off or filled in, will depend on what that story needs to tell you about yourself and what's important to you.

Does creating a new incarnation of Arthur in which she is a diasporic lesbian in outer space ruin a story originally about Welsh national identity and chivalric love? Does that disrespect the original stories? How about if Arthur is a 13th century Italian Jew? Does it disrespect the original stories if the author draws deliberate parallels between the seduction of Igerne and the story of David and Bathsheba?

Well. That depends on what's important to you.

Insisting that the core elements of a myth -- whichever elements you believe those to be -- must remain static essentially means 'I want this myth to stagnate and die.' Maybe it's because I am Jewish, and we constantly re-evaluate every word in Torah, over and over again, every single year, or maybe it's because I spend way, way too much time thinking about what's valuable in stories specifically because I write words about these concepts for money, but I don't find these arguments compelling at all, especially not when it comes to core, 'mainstream' mythologies. These are tools in the common toolbox, and everybody has access to them.

More important to me than the idea that these core elements of any given story must remain constant is, to paraphrase Dolly Parton, that a story knows what it is and does it on purpose. Should authors present retellings or reimaginings of the Rape of Persephone or The Matter of Britain which significantly alter historically-known story elements as 'uncovered' myths or present them as 'the real and original' story? Absolutely not. If someone handed me a book in which the new Grail was a limited edition Macklemore Taco Bell Baja Blast cup and told me this comes directly from recently-discovered 6th century writings of Taliesin, I would bonk them on the head with my hardcover The Once & Future King. Of course that's not the case, right?

But the concept of canon, historically, in these foundational myths has not been anything like our concept of canon today. Canon should function like a properly-fitted corset, in that it should support, not constrict, the breath in the story's lungs. If it does otherwise, authors should feel free to discard it in part or in whole.

Concepts of familial duty and the obligation of marriage don't necessarily resonate with modern audiences the way that the concept of self-determination, subversion of unreasonable and unjustified authority, and consent do. That is not what we, as a general society, value now. If the latter values are the values important to the author -- the story that the author needs to tell in order to express who they are individually and culturally and what values are important to them* -- then of course they should retell the story with those changed values. That is the point of myths, and always has been.

Common threads remain -- many of us move away from family support regardless of the consent involved in our relationships, and life can be terrifying when you're suddenly out of the immediate reach and support of your family -- because no matter how different some values are, essential human elements remain in every story. It's scary to be away from your mother for the first time. It's scary to live with someone new, in a new place. It's intimidating to find out that other people think you have a Purpose in life that you need to fulfill. It's hard to negotiate between the needs of your birth family and your chosen family.

None of this, to be clear, is to say that any particular person should feel that they need to read, enjoy, or appreciate any particular retelling, or that it's cool, hip and groovy to misrepresent your reworking of a myth as a 'new secret truth which has always been there.' If you're reworking a myth, be truthful about it, and if somebody told you 'hey did you know that it really -- ' and you ran with that and find out later you were wrong, well, correct the record. It's okay to not want to read or to not enjoy a retelling in which Arthur, Lancelot and Guinevere negotiate a triad and live happily ever after; it's not really okay to say 'you can't do that because you changed a story element which I feel is non-negotiable.' It's okay to say 'I don't think this works because -- ' because part of writing a story is that people are going to have opinions on it. It's kind of weird to say 'you're only allowed to color inside these lines.'

That's not true, and it never has been. Greek myths are not from a closed culture. Roman myths are not sacrosanct. There are plenty of stories which outsiders should leave the hell alone, but Greek and Roman myths are simply not on that list. There is just no world in which you can make an argument that the stories of the Greek and Roman Empires are somehow not open season to the entire English-speaking world. They are the public-est of domain.

You don't have to like what people do with it, but that doesn't make people wrong for writing it, and they certainly don't have to color within the lines you or anyone else draws. Critique how they tell the story, but they haven't committed some sort of cultural treachery by telling the stories which are important to them rather than the stories important to someone 2500 years dead.

****

*These are not the only reasons to tell a story and I am not in any way saying that an author is only permitted to retell a story to express their own values. There are as many reasons to tell a story as there are stories, and I don't really think any reason to create fiction is more or less valid than any other. I am discussing, specifically, the concept of myths as conveyors of essential cultural truths.

[dceasesd]

why juni ba’s the boy wonder has my favorite jason characterization of any contemporary comic run: a needlessly in-depth analysis (pt.3)

go check out part 1 and part 2 if you'd like! this is a long one, sorry guys.

if you haven't already i'd recommend you check out pt. 1 & pt. 2 (linked above), but if you haven't checked them out i've been going over some of the main things people have been criticizing ba's characterization for: 1. the typical boiling down of jason's character to "the angry one" 2. his lack of strategy going into the fight with the demon is out-of-character 3. the neighbor's kid interaction

alright, so this last point is purely based off of one page of the entire comic: the one where the child of one of jason's neighbors is dragged inside his home when his mother see's jason coming.

first off, i love this page. it might be my favorite page in the entire issue. everything about it is great. just thought i needed to say that.

anyway, there's some people who are seeing this page and reading it as "jason protects kids! that's one of his big things! why are they scared of him?"

here's the thing, though: the kid isn't scared of jason, the mom is. the kid is literally playing dress up as the red hood-- he's not scared of jason, if anything he's trying to replicate him. little kids dress up as their heroes all the time; why is this kid any different? it doesn't really make sense for the kid to dress up of something he's scared of (not everyone is as weird bruce wayne), especially a real person that could be a real threat rather than a concept. i doubt you see many kids in gotham dressing up as the joker or something, because that's just asking for trouble.

the dress-up honestly seems like a ploy for attention to me. the kid clearly knows that red hood lives in his building (which is honestly so funny. take off the mask jason you're giving you're position away (actually this is a really good instance for analysis but i'm determined to not go on a tangent)). if the kid knows red hood lives in his building, what better way to get his attention that dressing up as him and playing pretend? if the kid was scared of him, he wouldn't want to draw that sort of attention to himself. if he had a sort of hero-worshippy thing going on like i suspect, then he would want to get jason's attention. to sum it up,

it's the mom who pulls him away when jason nears, because she either a) perceives him as a threat, b) doesn't want her kid to try and replicate him even more, or, the most likely option, both! the kid isn't scared of him, but the mother believes they should be.

once again, we come back to the whole perception vs. reality theme i talked about in part one! we've come full circle, everyone!

when looking at the neighborhood's perspective of the red hood, ba gives us a few contradictory examples. there's the kid and the mother, obviously, but there's also a slew of other citizens who interact with him at the beginning of the issue, both in fear and camaraderie.

the unhoused man and the people outside of his building clearly have a familiarity and are comfortable with him, while the shopkeeper is terrified and literally has a banned poster on his wall featuring jason (i am so curious what he did to deserve that, if he even did anything at all). from this, it appears that jason's reputation teeters between fearful and familiar-- a sentiment that also colors jason's relationship with his family.

furthermore, this concept underscores just how lonely jason is-- one of the only good relationships he had in his current life was his fucking landlord, for gods sake, and he's dead.

i think it's important to note that jason doesn't respond to the friendly greetings from the men-- he could attempt to build camaraderie, the roots are there, but he chooses not to. he could work to try and show the mother that her son is safe with him, but he chooses not to. why? jason is obviously lonely (as ba states in the panel below) and he caves pretty easily when damian asks him for help (both of them are so desperate for human interaction its tragic). so why does he distant himself from the community?

obviously it is in part due to the vigilante lifestyle, but it is also jason's perception of himself and how he believes others perceive him, especially in regards to his family (ba is literally hitting readers in the head with that theme baseball bat).

he doesn't see that the kid with the mask looks up to him, all he sees is the mother pulling him away. he sees the banned poster in the store. and, as ba narrates, "he was sure he'd been forgotten about" by his family. utrh is jason's twisted way of attempting to reach out and connect with bruce, and obviously that doesn't work-- so he chooses loneliness over rejection.

like in part one, though, damian refutes this idea by describing bruce's perspective, showing how what jason believes differs from actuality. bruce hasn't forgotten about him and doesn't hate him, as he suspected, but instead harbors guilt over the situation and desires to make it better, which jason must come to understand to be able to open the locked door and begin to move past his trauma.

so, that's what the little kid in the red hood outfit looks like to me. i actually have a lot more i'd like to say about the boy wonder, especially in regards to the whole "door to my past life" thing and what ba does with lighting and blocking in his artwork, so i may do a little post on that as well! i was gonna try and shove it into this one, but i've run out of room! i hope you guys liked my analysis, if you'd like to chat about the boy wonder or any other comics, my dms, asks, and reblogs are happily open! thanks for reading! :)) <3

pt. 1 / pt. 2

[ohbo-ohno]

Kinktober Day 15 - Noncon

Ghost x Reader - 4.6k (on ao3)

summary: You find yourself cornered in a Maze of Mirrors. (Reader POV)

cw: noncon everything, face fucking, pussy slapping, degradation, kinda a wedgie? like a front wedgie? is that a thing?, orgasm denial

note: if you like this (or hate it but like the concept) read Halloween Haunt by Harley Laroux <3 her erotica is top tier

You’ve always loved Halloween - always been the kid with the scariest costume in class, always had the house decorated with uncomfortably realistic decorations. When your sorority sisters dressed up as black cats and sexy witches, you spent hours painting the most realistic zombie makeup you could. (Your sisters complained for months that you ruined the pictures, but the frat boys had all thought your makeup was far more interesting than theirs. God, you do not miss college.)

Regardless, you’ve always been known to love any and everything scary. There’s something about the thrill of a scare - the creeping horror as you start to realize what’s coming, the ultimate reveal - that always gets you a little squirmy in your seat. Your first crush was Skeet Ulrich in Scream - specifically the scene where he’s covered in blood, licking his fingers. 

You get all those ooey-gooey good scared feelings as your friend drags you through the decently crowded fairgrounds. The actual fair - the one that comes yearly, that no one ever calls anything but the fair - had left only two weeks ago, so this travelling fair had set things up in mostly the same arrangement and, you suspect, to trick certain people into thinking they were the same company.

You’ve already forgotten what your friend said the event was called. She hadn’t needed to give many details to convince you - you heard travelling circus, horror themed, interactive workers, and you were in. The branding isn’t very strong anyways, the only place the name was displayed was the entrance booth, and none of the workers seem to wear any sort of logo, so you don’t feel too forgetful for letting it slip your memory so easily.

You’re not very impressed with the fear factor so far. You hadn’t done too much makeup (hadn’t wanted to risk being mistaken for a cast member) but since it’s the night before Halloween you’ve got a half-done costume on - a clown. Just some white face paint, black lips, and overdrawn triangles around the eyes, a little smudged to make it look like you’ve been chasing someone down and working up a sweat. Your hoodie and tennis skirt look a bit out of place, but you’d wanted to be comfortable since you hoped you’d be spending your night running from actors.

But even a face full of makeup feels like it might’ve been too much effort for this place. Most of the costumes look like they’re from Party City at best - some of them even look very lazily hand-made - and none of the workers seem particularly interested in scaring people. Still, the crowd is easily amused and even a wave or a feint towards a customer has shrieks ringing in the air every few minutes.

You sigh a little disapointedly as you and your friend linger on the edge of the fairgrounds, off to the side and in the dark so you don’t have to deal with the crowd. She pulls out a cigarette and offers you her light.

“I’m sorry,” she says, lighting the stick between your teeth when you lean forward. “I really thought it would be scarier than this. Some of the posters…” she exagetates a shiver. “I thought they’d at least have better costumes.”

You eye a man in a werewolf mask across the pathway, pissing into the dirt. He’s got a flannel and jeans on, and the mask is a little bit crumpled like he pulled it out of a Walmart bin this morning. You’d bet money the flannel was just a happy coincidence he noticed when he showed up for work.

“Yeah,” you sigh, blowing out a lungful of smoke and watching the actor try not to get his dick stuck in his zipper. “Not really your fault, though, these things always look scarier in the ads. Wanna get out of here soon?”

You pass the cigarette to her. “In a bit,” she replies. “I want to try and find some food first. You hungry?”

You shake your head with a grunt. “I wouldn’t trust anything cooked here, honestly. Might just pick up something on the way back.”

She passes you the cigarette for one last breath. “Well I’m too hungry for that. You good on your own for a bit?”

You crouch down a moment to stub out the cigarette, leaving the butt in the gravel. “Yeah, sure. Might see if these fun houses have anything worth seeing in them.”

“You should!” She smiles over her shoulder at you as she starts off to a more well-lit section of the fair. “You never know, maybe they stick the real scares in there!”

You give her a final wave and shout, “Here’s hoping!” at her back as she leaves. 

You linger outside for a little longer, scanning the few structures nearby to decide which one you want to waste a few tickets on.

There’s a Freak Show, but you already know you’d be horribly disappointed if you went in there, something labeled a “House of Horrors” that you’re sure is as much a scam as the freak show, and a few games that have cheap prizes lined up above them.

Across from you, with no lights around it and just one attendant - slumped over, hopefully sleeping - at the front, is a House of Mirrors. Figuring it’s the least likely to be a waste of time (and knowing the kid won’t wake up to charge you), you head over to the building.

The closer you get the more you worry about if he’s asleep or dead, but his snores rattle the little tickets resting on his desk so you figure he’s just a slacker. It’s almost too easy to get by him with all your tickets safe in your pocket. There’s no one else around the darkened corner of the fairgrounds, but you’re quite sure no one would bother snitching on you this late at night. All the parents with little kids left hours ago, leaving mostly teenagers and adults of varying ages left to wander the park.

There’s music playing from speakers that you can’t see, an old clown-themed song that sounds like it’s playing on a scratched up DVD. You’re pleasantly surprised as you make your way through the dusty lobby and into the main section of the building, creatively labeled MAZE OF MIRRORS.

Their branding could definitely use some work, but you’ll give them points for ambience - the lights are turned so low that it’s nearly too dark to see, making all of the mirrors even more difficult to spot. You find yourself a little spooked as you start to make your way through the maze, grinning to yourself.

It’s a shockingly difficult maze, you quickly discover. The music is so loud in some spots that you can hardly hear your thoughts, and so faint in others that you think it might be turned off. The maze itself is a series of either tight, tiny hallways or large open rooms. Whoever designed it clearly knew how to take advantage of the space they were given, the maze feels ten times bigger than it looked on the outside as you wander through.

You know the trick to mazes - keep one hand on the right wall and eventually you’ll find your way out - but it’s fun to just wander around the place, so you let yourself get stuck wandering in circles. You’re glad your friend isn’t here to see how many times you manage to walk into a mirror fully confident that it’s not there, only to whack yourself in the face. For how low maintenance the rest of the fair is, you’re surprised that the hall of mirrors is what they focus their upkeep on.

You’ve been in the maze for about five minutes when you see him.

He scares the shit out of you at first. You spot him behind you in a mirror - one you’d just walked into, which is the only reason you can see well enough to notice him - standing at the entrance to the hallway you’d turned down. He’s clad in all black, except for the skull mask over his face. You think he’s just something taped onto the wall with the way that he blends in, but then that mask titls to the side and you’re struck with the bone-deep knowledge that you’re being watched.

“Shit!” You shout when it first registers that he’s not a piece of paper, one hand coming up to clasp at your erratically beating heart while the other steadies you against the mirror. He doesn’t move past tilting his head a bit further, and after a moment you relax.

You don’t turn around, but you study him a bit in the mirror. It’s too dark to see much more than the outline of his body, but he’s big. He looks like he’s wearing a long sleeved t-shirt and jeans with the mask, and he must be wearing gloves to cover his hands since you can’t see them.

You huff out a laugh as you let both of your hands fall to your sides.

“You got me good,” you call, glancing over your shoulder. You almost jump again - he’s closer than you’d realized, but too far away for you to touch. “I didn’t even see you follow me in here.”

He doens’t say anything. You turn around more fully, leaning back against the mirror and crossing your arms across your chest.

“You gonna start chasin’ me now?” You ask, cocking an eyebrow. You’re playing up the sass, but it’s always fun to mess with theme park employees.

The man takes a few steps forward, heavy boots thudding against the cheap wood flooring. He really is an intimidating bastard, far scarier than any of the other actors you’d seen so far.

“Well?” You call out, standing up from your spot. “Do I get a head start?”

Still no answer. He rolls his head on his neck, then steps to the side and walks into one of the connecting hallways without sparing you a glance. When you step closer to see which direction he’s chosen, he’s already gone.

You huff another laugh to yourself, shaking out your limbs and bouncing a few times on your toes.

Now that you know there’s someone in here with you, the thrill of a scare is starting to get you worked up. You hope they don’t have any rules against physical contact between actors and customers, just imagining the skeleton man tackling you has shivers running up your spine.

You don’t bother to be any quieter as you keep wandering through the maze. You bump into just as many mirrors, continue to question the speaker placement, and keep an eye out for any skeleton masks lingering behind you.

You see him a few more times, always behind you, always just out of reach. He gets progressively closer everytime you spot him. You're reminded of the Weeping Angels from Doctor Who - every time you look away, he gets closer.

It’s fun. More fun than you’ve had all night.

He finally catches up to you what you guess is about half an hour later. Youre just turning another corner, thinking about how it’s been a bit since you’ve seen your shadow, when a hand plants itself firmly between your shoulder blades and shoves.

You’re sent to the ground with a cry, palms scraping against the floor. There’s a gloved hand collaring your throat before you can think to do much more than catch your breath, hauling you up and holding you in the air.

Your eyes fly to the mirror less than a foot away, staring wide-eyed at the image reflected.

There’s you, in your messy clown makeup and hoodie, being held up by a giant swath of black behind you. He’s not ducking down at all, his feet planted on either side of your splayed legs as he towers above you. The way you’re being held up, your head doesn’t even reach his belt buckle. The contrast of your shock and discomfort to his plastic mask has your thighs clenching, just a bit.

He doesn’t duck lower, just tilts his head in that now-familiar way of his and pulls you a little further up. His hand is absolutely massive, thumb resting beneath one ear and his fingers resting below the other. You choke a bit as you’re lifted, knees scrambling beneath you.

This close to the mirror you can see his eyes - bright blue, surrounded by black paint, and staring back into yours.

He lowers his head, his free hand tugging your hair until you lean back and look straight up. The hand on your neck shifts to hold you in that position, his other hand lifting to pull the black part of his mask up.

He’s white, with thin lips and a broad jaw. You pant as you stare up at him, incapable of processing what’s going on.

His jaw works for a moment, lips twitching, and before you realize what he’s about to do you feel something wet splatter against your cheek.

He spit on you. Who the fuck does that? Being tackled and manhandled is one thing but spitting? You recoil reflixivley, lips curling as you reach up to try and wipe disgusting liquid off.

“What the fuck-” You start, but before you can even finish your sentence you’re yanked forward by your neck.

You yelp as you’re thrown from between his thighs, hips twisted awkwardly and head slamming back against the mirror. You cry out at the sharp pain at the back of your skull, but before you can think of doing anything there’s a hand around your neck again, a body crouched in front of you - over you - keeping you from doing anything.

You gape up at the actor, panting and surprised. None of the other employees even got close to touching customers - half of them didn’t even look like they wanted to be there - what the hell is this guy’s problem? Does he just take his job way too seriously

He’s far too close to you now, your nose nearly brushing where his shoulder be, his boots on either side of your thighs, his chest pressed so close that you can’t do anything with your hands.

The hand not around your neck comes up to your cheeks, grabbing them both in one hand and pinching until your lips pucker up. You squirm, letting out a noise of surprise and pain when his thumb and pointer finger dig in between your teeth to force your mouth open. One eye squeezes shut at the ache, but there’s nowhere for you to go with him caging you in.

This time when he spits, it lands right in the little hole he’s made for himself. With how close he is, you see the way his lips twitch up in the corners.

You try your best to get out from under him, hands pushing at his shoulders and legs desperately kicking. But he’s like a statute above you, hard as stone and immoveable. 

He leans so close that his lips nearly brush yours, meeting your glare with a spark of amusement. 

“Like how it tastes?” He purrs, chest rumbling against yours.

You make a noise somewhere between offended and annoyed, trying to throw yourself every which way for even an inch of freedom. All you manage is a tighter grip on your jaw and neck, leaving you wincing.

“Lots more where that came from,” he promises.

It’s insultingly easy for him to manhandle you, and you curse all the times you swore to yourself you’d finally start taking self-defense classes. You can barely manage a single blow, and when your hands or feet do make contact he doesn’t even flinch.

There’s absolutely nothing you can do as you’re wrestled to the floor. He gets you flat on your back then kneels over your head, his knees so close that you worry he’ll squeeze them together and pop your head like a berry.

He doesn’t give you a chance to sit up, planting one heavy hand in the center of your chest and leaning his weight forward, knocking the air out of you. You finally regain the ability to speak when his other hand moves to his belt, undoing it right above your face.

“What are you-? No, no, get the hell off me!” You shout, desperately pushing at his arm and trying to get enough leverage with your feet to squirm away. “Don’t you fucking dare- help! Somebody help!”

Your screams go ignored, blending right in with that stupid clown music and bouncing off the mirrors just to come straight back to your ears. Your noise doesn’t deter him at all, and he’s got his belt off and jeans yanked down despite your resistance. 

“No, no, no, don’t- stop, please, you can’t-” you gasp, eyes flying wide as you find yourself staring up at his cock above you. 

He doesn’t give you any warning, just grabs your jaw, holds it open, and sheathes himself down your throat.

Your limbs spasm, every instinct in your body screamin to get away as he slips right past your gag reflex. You’re terrified that you’ll vomit and choke on his cock, the fear dousing you in icy cold and leaving you limp for a minute. All you can think about is breathing around the intrusion in your throat, finding some way not to suffocate and die on a sticky mirror maze floor.

“Finally,” you hear him grunt from above you. He grabs both of your wrists, easily ignoring your weak pulls and tying them together with his belt. “Somethin’ to shut you up.”

You try and make a sound around his cock, yanking your hands away and panicking even more when you feel how firmly tied they are. You make another sound, insitively trying to cry out even with something stuffed in your mouth.

He moans above you, lowering himself to his elbows over your body. “Yeah, just like that,” he pants. “Mouth feel’s fuckin’ heavenly.”

You go silent, determined not to give this piece of shit anything he wants. Tears pour down your temples and across the tops of your ears, and your throat burns.

His hips move slowly against your face, grinding himself as deep as he can get before pulling out just a few inches and sliding back in. He’s got an unfairly large cock, and there’s already an ache developing in your jaw from just seconds held so wide open.

His foreskin catches on your teeth when he pulls the whole way out just to fuck back in, and you’re sharply reminded of the fact that you have teeth.

When his cock bottoms out, his balls resting against your eyes, you bite down, praying it’s enough to break skin.

It’s not. Instead of blood pouring into your mouth and a screaming man falling off of you, you hear the man snarl, pulling his dick out entirely and slamming it back down your throat so harshly that it feels almost like he’s punched you in the face.

“No fucking teeth,” he snaps above you, and you feel his weight shift back onto his knees, then his hands grab at your thighs and throw them open. He flips your skirt up and before you can think to bite down again lands a stinging slap against the gusset of your underwear.

You nearly scream around his cock, hips snapping closed to try and smother the pain. He only growls another sound, using one hand to hold you open and the other to rain down a series of progressively harder smacks.

Your breath hitches as you sob, hardly able to get any air in around his thrusts as he starts them back up again. Every time he buries himself to the hilt inside of you, he lands another hit to your poor pussy. You can’t help but wail around him.

“There it is,” he moans, the sound loud and unrestrained. “God you feel good screamin’ around my cock. Good fuckin’ hole, huh?”

He punctuates the last four words with slaps, leaving his length inside your throat and going back to that horrible grinding against your face. You go silent again, using all of your willpower to keep from screaming. What little thought is left in your head is used to figure out how best to breathe through your nose without choking on snot.

He doesn’t smack you again, but you feel his fingers trace around the edges of your panties. Your hips wiggle against your will, just trying to get away from the violation. One of your legs is pinned to the floor by the thigh, but the other oscillates between going limp and trying to get leverage and force your body up.

His fingers hook around the gusset of your underwear, but before you can even worry about him touching you there, he pulls them up towards your body.

He does it with such force that you’re left squealing, hips flying off the ground to try and lessen the pressure against your clit. His hand pulls so far up that you feel it resting nearly at your belly button. You can’t help the little gasping, gagging noises as he starts to thrust in and out of your mouth again.

You hear - you feel - him laugh, swaying his hand from left to right. Your hips try to follow naturally, just desperate to alleviate any of the pressure you can.

“Like a little puppet,” he murmurs, yanking even further up, moaning when you scream.

He lets them go only a few thrusts later, big hand smoothing the fabric down over your cunt. You can feel that it’s stretched out, a little looser around the meat of your pussy, and the thought only makes you cry harder.

But you go silent again. It’s the one thing left in your control - even pinned to the floor, hands tied, legs useless, mouth stuff, you can decide how much noise you make.

He doesn’t like that. He groans a little when you go quiet again, tapping your thigh sharply.

“No, come on, make your little noises again. Feels real nice on my cock.”

This time you’re ready for the smack against your vulva, and you remain silent. You stay silent for the next three too.

His hips work with a little more force again, balls smacking against your face and leaving you to squeeze your eyes shut. After the next slap his hand doesn’t lift again, just rubs over your vulva slowly.

It’s pure luck on his part that he happens to rub over your clit. It’s a pure lack of luck on your part that you moan at the sudden and unexpected pleasure, completely taken off guard.

He stills above you, then slowly repeats the movement. You’re helpless to the little whimpers coming from your throat, and you curse the fact that you’ve always been loud during sex. He zeros in on exactly how to rub your clit unreasonably quickly, fingers sure through the fabric of your underwear.

“That what you need?” He rumbles a laugh above you. “Pain won’t make you noisy, but pleasure will? I can work with that.”

Before you can even begin to question what that means, your underwear are tucked to the side, and there’s a face buried in your pussy.

He doesn’t bother taking any time to explore or try and learn your body, just dives tongue-first to your clit. His technique of lick first, figure out what feels good later unfortunately works on you, and you’re left writhing beneath him, eyes rolled back in pleasure and moans muffled.

He groans agaisnt you, too, lips vibrating against your clit in a horrible and delicious way. “There you go.” You can barely hear him over the sounds of your own choking, especially with his own voice muffled in your folds. “That feels good, keep going.”

You don’t want to, but the magic he works against your clit leaves you no choice. You can’t help the hitched cries spilling from your lips, even if they make you cry all that much harder as you hear them.

He doesn’t take much longer to come, and you’re torn between resenting the fact that it’s your sounds that get him off and being glad that he does so he can get off of you.

He comes with a loud groan, sent right into your cunt and dragging you far too close to an edge you do not want to see, and sends thick ropes right down your throat. It’s almost a kindness that you can’t taste him, only have to swallow as quickly as possible so you don’t choke. The movements of your throat only draw out his orgasm though, and you’re locked in a terrible cycle for what feels like an eternity.

He doesn’t get you off. You’re not sure if you’re thankful or not.

You gasp when he finally pulls out of your throat, taking uninhibited breaths for the first time in far too many minutes. You can’t shut your jaw from the pain, but you also can’t kick your legs when he kneels up more fully.

He’s silent as he takes back his belt, and no matter how much you beg your arms to move, they remain still on your stomach. He shifts off of you, and you whine wordlessly when he grabs a handful of your hair, wiping his flaccid cock off in it.

Still, you don’t move.

He stands and redoes his belt silently, the jingle loud even with the clown music still playing. You stare up at him, and he holds eye contact with you. For some reason, you can’t look away.

He crouches down again before he leaves, and you can’t help but flinch away. He doesn’t touch you sexually again, though, only reaches out and pushes your jaw closed with two firm fingers.

You hate that he still has the mask pulled up, because it means you can see his smirk.

“That was fun. Maybe we’ll do it again sometime.”

He’s gone before you manage to understand what he’s said, and the tears start all over again when you do.

—

It takes you a while to scrape yourself off of the floor. You only catch sight of yourself in one mirror before you stare at the ground.

Your makeup is ruined, teartracks running down your temples and both cheeks. There are smudges along your jaw where his hands grabbed. Your lips are swollen and red. It could not be more obvious what’s just happened to you.

You plant one hand on the wall to your right, and keep your eyes firmly planted on your sneakers as you leave the maze. You feel almost detached from yourself, unable to truly understand what happened, what it means.

The throbbing between your thighs is distracting. You worry you might chafe from how soaked your panties are.

It doesn’t take long to find your friend once you finally make it out. She takes one look at you and laughs, teases you about having fun without her. You can’t bring yourself to correct her, and she picks up on your tone quickly, dropping the subject.

The two of you walk silently to your car. You hate it, but you can’t help but scan every actor. Thankfully - or maybe not thankfully? You don’t know anymore - none of them are even close to as big as the masked man in the hall of mirrors was.

You tuck your hands beneath your armpits as you finally make it to the parking lot, walking as quickly as you can get away with without running. Your limbs go a little looser as you get to your car, mind relaxing as it recognizes how close you are to safety. 

You freeze when you finally make it to the driver’s side door, lungs going still and heart beating so quickly you worry it’ll pound right out of your chest.

There, sitting in the driver’s seat, is a skeleton mask sewed onto a balaclava.

[kerubimcrepin]

Dofus: The Production - what is left of the old movie

Originally, the movie was supposed to tie in with the game and the Welsh & Shedar series, and be a trilogy.

As we had already explored on this blog, this did not happen for a variety of reasons.

Welsh and Shedar got cannibalized by other projects due to its cancellation, and the script of the movie "Dofus Book 1: Joris Jurgen" had to be completely rewritten from its old plot;

In that movie, Joris was likely supposed to be a street urchin, who survived together with Lilotte, who was a rogue, and the trailer we have for the older version of the movie reflects that:

As we can also see from the trailer, and the poster featured earlier, proto-Kerubim is also a part of the movie, and Khan was not yet meant to be a boufbowler.

(And considering the posters, the cat that inspired Kerubim's design was also a part of the movie. I wonder if it's related to Welsh's cat from Welsh and Shedar? But maybe I'm just crazy.)

Subsequently, the movie came out at a much later date than planned originally.

(two images included because, bizarrely, there are two versions - one with Joris's tail censored, and the other with his tail uncensored. This proves that already at this point they had a draconic backstory in mind for him, though we do know that at the time of Wakfu season 1 (and, likely, the cancelled DS game, as was noted in my post about it) it was not the case.)

Also, interestingly, it is the only art of this time to include the tail. A possible error on Xa's part, or something that was considered very briefly?

In the end, Kerubim (as well as Simone) swallowed up not just the design of Welsh's cat, clothes, and Ecaflip friend;

He also got the role Julith was supposed to have, both metaphorically, and also literally.

Or not entirely — considering the fact that Joris was supposed to spend time with him anyway, since we have art of Joris on his mount from that old draft.

It's quite interesting, to think of all that could have been different in the 2009-2012 version of the movie!

But even during the making of the second draft of the movie, a lot of things have changed. From the first idea of Joris winning Kerubim back at a pachinko machine, to the concept art of Joris's non-possessed appearance.

The movie was being actively rewritten at the time of the making of Aux Tresors, so some of the early drafts were already tied in with its canon — taking place in Astrub, to be specific — but not with its ending, because the show was still ongoing.

At one point there was supposed to be a whole cast of Huppermage characters, and judging from the fact one of them is mentioned in the following text, they did play some sort of role in the plot:

It is likely that from this early draft it was decided that Joris would be a boufbowl fan, which was then worked in as a plot point in Aux Tresors.

(Stélina may be a proto-version of Bakara.)

It also seems that at this stage, it would be likely that Lilotte was reworked to be the Princess of Bonta, before eventually becoming the Ouginak we know and love.

After this Ankama once again returned to the concept of Lilotte as an orphan, though — even when the movie was still set in Astrub!

And it seems that the draft involved travel between Astrub and Bonta, judging from the usage of a Zaap to attack Luis.

And even at this point they have come up with the tragically cut "Joris and Khan go to adult industry workers and Joris (10yo boy) engages in depressed underaged drinking" scene.

(I'll never forgive Ankama for cutting this. I still argue that it's in character for Khan, our detested/beloved turbovirgin, to do this — as long as he doesn't get together with any of the women due to thinking himself "too good" for them.)

Also, at some point the gods were supposed to play a role. And personally, I am glad it was cut — it feels a bit too grand for the first movie in what was supposed to be a series.

I don't have any grand statement, or conclusion, but it is interesting to see all the ways the movie has changed.

[raayllum]

ALRIGHT, time to talk about the poster in lovely HD.

First things first, I want to talk about these two ladies (?). The upper one closer to the moon looks more like an elf, and is gazing down at the second, closer woman. I've seen people speculate Ziard due to the hair, but none of this usual clothing appendages are there, so I lean towards a new character, and possibly being the human Aaravos had a special connection to. We see what looks like the arches of the Moon Nexus framed behind them, which was the case both when Rayla went through the portal in TTM and when Lujanne used historia viventum to show Callum the way things looked before. Souls of hate and love, maybe?

We see other Moon symbols throughout the posture sure as archangel lunarises, which seek out Moon magic (1x01) and can be used in illusion spells (2x03, 3x09). We also see the enchanted lotuses from 3x03, though for what purpose is unclear (more on that later).

Moving down, we have a fully celestial, quite happy Aaravos. He's in full flourish and clearly using Moon magic for someone, as begetting the moon behind him, though whether he's constructing lotuses or channeling energy into his Key (perhaps making it able to sense Moon magic) is unknown. While the lotuses in 3x03 were occasionally different colours, the deep purple here makes me think of dark magic. If he is channeling his cube, perhaps he's taking moon energy from the lotuses (or moths) surrounding him to put inside.

I don't think I need to scream much further than I already have about the Moon rune glowing on his Key and having it displayed with his usual star symbol (rune cube foreshadowing symbolism my beloved). This bodes well for theories in which 1) Callum goes too far and does something knowingly risky to free the Moon fam for Rayla's sake or 2) does something risky to help Aaravos to protect Rayla's life, each subsequently to being possessed and/or playing into Aaravos' hands. Thank you goodnight.

Then we have the book, which is deeply fascinating. It seems like a very Moon book, the fragments framing it similar to the ones we see on the lotuses and possibly evoking one of the archangel lunaris' flying around. It wouldn't surprise me if the book contains a variant of Deep moon magic of some kind, whatever that would look like. The crescent curved moon is also similar to the symbol we see on Aaravos' poem page for the Midnight Star in show (2x08). I do wonder why each side of the book looks so different though, with no actual visible moon in sight besides the tiny gemstones and the crescent moon, the other side being entirely dark (which, to be fair, is pretty moon-y).

We also sort of but don't quite see Aaravos' famous chest piece, though it is a-glowing. Whether it glowed all the time pre-Fall we just don't know, as the only time we've seen it glow/be filled in is 2x09 when he's channeling magic through Viren, but who knows. It does mean that the cube is even older than his banishment and that if it does hold his chest piece, it was placed after (if it's tangible at all, which has always been one of the biggest questions).

This is perhaps the weirdest thing that I am the most interested in, as alongside his crown and bangles, this is the biggest design difference between Aaravos in-show and out. In show, both in his mirror and even 'pre-Fall' (aka the timeline for the 1x01 shot is probably a lie anyway), Aaravos' hip thingy is a lot more simplistic.

However, Aaravos does have all his flowery (and I mean that literally, it looks like petals) adornment in his concept art.

The fact they have a lotus flower flair to them always felt interesting but ultimately like a coincidence, but perhaps not. Either way as pictured below, it seems like he's either constructing or dismantling the lotuses, which is Eyes Emoji either way.

The most... surely metaphorical / abstract portion of the poster, though, is I'd imagine the very bottom. I hesitate to read into things too literally (one of the S5 posters had Finnegrin's ship being blasted with lightning and Domina watching the waves, and while she featured in the season and played a role in Finnegrin's aims, the scene itself as portrayed did not come fully to fruition) so I'm gonna go with a more symbolic read, just as as disclaimer.

Lastly we have these two figures. I'm assuming the one in white is an elf and betting on young Aaravos or Leola, though it could be someone else connected to the Moon arcanum (the elven daughter who vouched for exiling rather than eliminating humanity?). The red and black shadow figure feels far more sinister (blood and stardust, anyone) but if you lighten the shadows, you get something even more... interesting, shall we say.

Rather than standing up straight, this figure almost seems to swoop down with a draconic like claw and a face that reminds me the most of Sir Sparklepuff's features, honestly, perhaps boasting a similar kind of blood (Viren's) and star (Aaravos) and dark magic (the staff?). It is also clearly moving toward the more humanoid figure on the bottom right, which gives a "corruption is reaching / coming for / offering things to you" sort of vibe.

[woagopossum]

had this idea a couple weeks ago but decided to finish it up a bit for halloween. still kinda sketchy but I think its vibes. Little horror movie poster concept with the hermitgals. kinda a spoilery one, if there was actually a story/movie attached to it lol. in my head id be a typical camping trip gone wrong sort of deal with the warden as the thing in the forest. Stress would die first I'm afraid, just think that's her vibes, then Pearl, then Gem, and then I think False's status would be unclear at the end and Cleo would be the survivor.

[soulaires]

If your still taking requests then can i request a hc for Aaron Warner with a reader thats like the total opposite of him?

Here comes the sun.

pairings: grumpy!aaron warner x sunshine!reader.

summary: you were his sunshine, his light, the reason of living and his beautiful sweet girl.

warnings: grumpy x sunshine trope!!, soft aaron warner, violence and killings (🤭), you guys are in LOOOOVEEE, power couple, this is love actually, chivalry is NOT dead

notes: I actually love doing hcs

(Aaron Warner) tag list 🏷 : @ravisinghs-wife @ab-baybay @aaronwarnerobsessedmylove @cosmicswan

Everyone in the sector was mostly confused than shock that you and warner were dating

i mean everyone know that Aaron Warner Anderson, chief commander and regent of Sector 45, son of the supreme commander of The Reestablishment, has a soft spot for you. You only.

everyone sort of figured out that he was absolutely and immensely devoted and in love with you when he spoke to you with much more gentle and soft tone, looks at you like you are his entire universe (spoiler alert: you are), and of course, how he is very protective of you.

but yet it was such a foreign concept for them to grasp—Aaron Warner? The cruel monster and madman (who also appears to be devilishly handsome) is dating you?

you who is the smart, sweet, charismatic and the poster child? What on earth did you start dating him?

what a typical bad boy and good girl cliché

but of course, while everyone saw the typical cold, snarky, mysterious, commanding leader, you saw your Aaron.

your Aaron who fall first and falls harder every damn time

your Aaron warner who opens the passenger seat at you every time (there’s a rule between you guys that he should always the door for you even when mad or in the middle of the war)

your Aaron who keeps a piece of flower with him every time he gets you a bouquet of your favorite flowers so he would know when it’s dead so he can buy you a new one

he loves listening to you whether it’s something you think it’s dumb, he just encourages you to speak because he loves every little detail of you and just overall love the way you got excited to little things. He also love knowing everything about you.

you sometimes think he doesn’t really listen despite his assurance but he will just randomly say something about it and you goes “aww you remembered”

and he’s just ???? What do you mean he remembered? you and his souls are literally cosmically intertwined and destined to be together in any lifetime of course he remembers!

he is just obsessed with your existence

oh that man is in agony and suffering when you are not with him. his eyes just searching for you.

his emerald eyes lighting up and a smile creeping up to his face when he saw a sight of you

kenji said Warner has become more tolerable because of you

because every time your boyfriend said something sarcastic and insulting, you give him that look and he fixes his attitude and body language and got his shit together.

his first priority is your safety and happiness

“If anything happens to y/n I’m going to kill everyone in this room and myself”

you and Aaron got along really well and he thinks you are always right

and if you’re wrong he will simply reshape the reality so that what you said is correct

you can do no wrong In his eyes

whenever you have a new clothes (that he probably bought) he ask you to do a fashion show for him while he compliments you

“you look absolutely gorgeous, my love”

“that color suits you, love”

“you..you are so…hauntingly beautiful, angel”

he once bought a whole store for you. Literally bought everything you want. The new released book? You have the first copy and it’s signed. Want that dress? It’s yours in every color. Want that bag you saw? It’s on the desk the next day with a flower. New nails? Well, c’mon then he will with you to the appointment. Want that food? He will cook it for you.

“Whatever you want, love. It’s your world.”

aaron who cooks while you look cute on the kitchen counter.

he lets you wear whatever you want even if it’s reveling. He have his gun and machete and is not afraid to use it if someone touched you, looked at you like you are a prey, or when he feels some lust and attraction towards you, well...it wouldn’t be a good thing.

you once gave him a bracelet with a moon jewel twinning with your sun one and boy he absolutely ADORE IT.

he doesn’t let anyone touch it or he had never took it out of his wrist. (you’ll have to kill him before you got that bracelet)

he’s just very protective of his sunshine, one click on the pager and he is RUNNING.

shamelessly threatening everyone that gave you a nasty look.

“every tongue that rises against her will face a consequence of me cutting it and i will gonna make each one of you swallow it.”

“don’t even think about hurting her or I will cut your throat open like a fish.”

he let you practice your eyelining skills on him while you sit on his lap

love to match clothes with you!

he have your eye color made into a beautiful ring

he have your doodles on him tattooed actually

love hearing your thoughts about the book you are currently reading.

he anotates a book for you as a gift

reads every book you ever loved

he does not remove your lipstick stain on his cheecks, hand, lips or even in his blond hair.

after all, he hates everyone except you.

[starryhutcherson]

do you do male requests? If u do I have an idea 😄 maybe a one shot where the reader is pinning desperately over clapton, but doesn’t think he’d like someone like him since he’s a bit nerdy. But in reality clapton is also the biggest dork ever and likes him just as much:3

━━ OPPOSITES ATTRACT

author's note: i try to keep all my fanfiction gender neutral, except for smut which i write with a female reader, just because i don't really know how to write good male smut, so seeing as this is just a fluffy fic i made it gender neutral as usual thank you for your request! also i stayed up until the ungodly hours of the morning to finish this so pls dont judge if its shit i did my best

'୧ ‧₊ pairing: clapton davis x nerdy!reader warnings: swearing word count: 2500+ ⋆ ✩‧₊

After you’d reached Junior year at Grizzly Lake High, you’d accepted the plaguing reality in which you were a nerd. With your plethora of knowledge regarding random facts, active participation in the school newspaper editorial committee, and expertise in your pre-calculus class, it’s reasonable to say that you were not a typical, soulless high-school student like the rest of the Grizzly population, and it was something that you’d grown to accept.

Being sort of geeky wasn’t all that bad – you had a close knit circle of friends who shared similar interests, and you were excelling in all your classes, so there wasn’t really a reason for you to have contempt towards your social status, right?

Wrong.

You had one very strong reason, a reason adorned in obnoxiously colored clothes and a reason that you were recently paired up with for a science project. 

Clapton Davis. 

You’d had the privilege of sitting near him for nearly a year now, thanks to Ms. Hudson’s seating plan which had situated you just a few desks away from him. To state that you stared at him for the duration of most (all) lessons would be a little creepy, but it was hard not to, when the afternoon hit its peak and you were able to watch the syrupy sunlight crease right over his figure like fine silk — how are eyes that warm possible? Is that shade of brown even real?

You’re in far too deep for someone who you’ve hardly spoken a word to, sure, but could anyone blame you? You couldn’t help it– the lingering glances sent from the overcast shadows of your desk, tucked into a corner of the classroom, pining hopelessly, bouncing your knee with repeated, tense motions and scattering love-heart encircled initials all over your paper. 

Fuck. 

The real kick in the teeth was the fact that Clapton was somebody, at least at this school. He was propped up by popularity and people, effortlessly perched at the head of the social pyramid of Grizzly High, and you certainly were not. Superficial bullshit like this never bothered you in the past, but the fact that Clapton was so comically out of reach felt like a deliberate joke aimed squarely at you, and for lack of better words, it sucked. 

It was taxing labor to try and tolerate your complete lack of a chance with him at the best of times, when you were nestled in the back of classrooms, hopelessly admiring his figure, or passing him in the halls and basking in the fleeting smiles you exchanged – but seeing him up close, being a mere breath away from him, hands making contact for abiding moments that spark against your skin… you deem it the cruelest torture of all. 

The project you’d been paired up for was relatively simple – creating some predictable poster on mitochondrial DNA, but considering the prospect of working alongside Clapton, it became of far greater interest than it should be, science became a highlight of your timetable, a rarity even for you. 

And it’s where you are currently, tense against the stool you’re seated at, knuckles pulsing with a dull ache from cracking them right against the maple wood of the desk — Clapton’s complaining about the point of this whole thing and you attempt to explain the delicate concept of nucleotide composition, while trying not to sound like a complete and utter loser. You’re failing substantially. 

“No, so– the phosphate group is part of the main components which are what form the DNA, but deoxyribose–”

“De–what?”

You huff, wiping sodden palms against the plane of your denim-bound thigh. 

“It’s not—”

“I can’t focus here anyway. It’s too loud,” he grunts, opting to etch his initials onto the side of the desk with deliberate, harsh carvings of his pencil. 

Your gaze swallows up his convex figure. Boredom. Ouch. 

“I can just do it all, if you, uh, want.” 

His head cocks upwards – it’s a tempting offer. But he’s not a douchebag. No matter what people might insinuate. A gradual smirk tugs downwards at the curvature of his lips, hands stilling their previous motions as he turns up to you. 

“No, you don’t gotta do that. Just come over to my place after school or something, you can explain it there, right?”

Your throat clots as though you’ve swallowed mud— your words feel heavy on your tongue and you don’t dare glance upwards from the paper in front of you, in fear of him finding the elation that’s erupting across your guise. 

His house? His house? It feels like an elaborate prank – how how how were you supposed to resist him if he was openly inviting you over? Your nails bite into the exposed flesh of your palm, leaving raw crescent marks in their wake. You couldn’t turn down the opportunity, even if every second would be agony, having him dangled in front of you, so close yet so far. 

You croak out a weak, “Oh, sure, that sounds good—” it sounds better than good. 

But it also sounds worse than it as well. You develop a looming sense of nervousness, forcing your fingers deeper into your skin, choking back a scream of intolerance. What would you even talk about? Sports? Shoes? Or just this stupid project?

He seems to sense your displeasure, because he answers it with a chuckle. “Chill. I don’t bite. Y’know, unless you want me to.”

Cocky prick. 

✩‧₊˚

The walk to Clapton’s house went smoother than you anticipated, casual conversation playing on loop as you wind through the bends of each mundane neighborhood that Grizzly Lake has to offer – his house is the same as a thousand others, but you wear a smile and offer lousy compliments anyway, to which he rolls his eyes a little and tells you that it’s nice or whatever. 

Maybe he’s picked up on your inherent adoration, maybe he’s just toying around with you. You’re not sure– but his damn hypnotic eyes are distracting you from your purpose– mitochondrial composition. Super interesting. 

The pair of you are slumped against his bed, surrounded by sunwashed memorabilia as the afternoon begins to bleed into the evening. Your progress is limited, but you don’t care. Your proximity is the only thing settling in your mind, like dust upon your shoulders and in your throat– you can taste his breathing as it fans across your neck. 

Cedarwood seeps into every crevice of your skin – he’s too damn close. You’re not sure you can take this. 

“It’s sort of like lego.”

Your voice cuts through the incessant tide of your wandering thoughts. 

“Lego?” “Yeah. Y’know— like, okay, the phosphate is the base, and then the sugar molecule connects to that, and then the nitrogenous base is like, your unique pieces, y’know, color, size, whatever, it gives the DNA it’s unique features.”

“Sort of… following?” You grin at the achievement. 

“That’s good!” 

“I never usually get this stuff, so uh, thanks.”

Your heartstrings tangle into one unfathomably tight knot, and your nerves pulse in sharp bouts beneath the surface of your skin. He’s thanking you. And he’s smiling too, pearly whites seeming near opalescent, but maybe that’s your mind, warped with ecstasy. You wished you had more to talk about though. More to offer. But what were you supposed to bring up, your comic book collection? He’d probably laugh in your face. 

“It’s all good. I’m glad I could help you.” His grin widens fractionally. 

“I’m glad too.”

A moment’s silence flutters by. 

“So uh–”

"Should we-"

You chuckle, a smidge awkward, as your sentences overlap. 

“You first,” he tells you, and you shift timidly on his bed, accompanied by the dull squeak of his mattress.  

“Just uh… wondering if I should go.”

He appears to tense, just for a moment, as if your words had implications that you weren’t aware of, but it dissolves as quickly as it came and you can’t analyze his feelings in time. 

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you want.”

Whatever you want. You’re sure he doesn’t want the true answer to that. What you want, what you absolutely want, is mere inches away from you, looking preternatural in the first whispers of a mid-autumn sunset, splayed across his bed with a boyish grin, whatever you want is right there, waiting and daring you to try and take it. You don’t. You can’t. 

“Okay. Uh, see you tomorrow then.”

Shit.

✩‧₊˚

The aforementioned tomorrow is so inconsequentially boring that you debate coming home early. You’ve got nothing planned, no important subjects, and every time you pass Clapton in the hallways, greeted with an elusive raise of the eyebrows or a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it grin, it gets harder and harder to ignore the fiery feelings in your body. 

You can barely take the spiderwebs of angst growing across your stomach, tangled into your thoughts– Clapton. That’s all you can seem to find threaded into every fissure in your psyche. It feels like every stray thought is the gnawing reminder that Clapton isn’t yours. How are you supposed to focus on physics when those honey-sweet eyes are eternally burnt into the forefront of your mind? You’re seconds away from tearing out your own fucking hair, it’s so unlike you to get worked up by something like this. 

Yet here you are. 

Here you are, staring emptily down at your worksheet, filling in the answers with ease, wondering how much easier it would be to attract attention if you had more appealing interests. If you knew how to skateboard instead of the elements of the periodic table, if you spent your money on clothes instead of comics. Shit. Shit, you really liked him and he really probably didn’t like you. It stings like a childhood wound, like hydrogen peroxide festering amongst skinned knees. 

Fuck this.

✩‧₊˚

The day is achingly slow, boredom clinging to the air and swallowing you whole. Each class just feels like going through the motions, your thoughts are stuck on one thing and one thing only, and you hyperfixate on every previous interaction with him, sourly regretting every word you’ve ever spoken, praying he didn’t think they were as weird as you did. 

You want to scream! The schoolbell released you after what seemed like decades, and now you’re shuffling down the streets back to your house, where you can hopefully catch a break from your constant stream of deprecating thoughts, but no. 

The roll of a skateboard pounding against the graveled roads becomes audible as it slows behind you, a familiar voice cuts through the silence. 

“Going home?”

It's him.

You turn around, plastering a weak smile across your face. 

“Uh, yeah. Why?” He inches a little closer, picking up his board and tucking it under his arm. “Can I come over?”

Your stomach snags on itself, an airy sensation spreading across every tense limb. It’s a bold move, but it’s a welcome one. 

“For the project?” He shrugs. “Yeah, sure. Also just to hang out.”

You perk a smile at this, for a brief moment, before it melts directly from your face. Clapton in your house? Clapton in your room? You visualize each poster, each stupid certificate your mom made you hang up on your wall— he can’t go in there. You’d die of shame. 

“Oh, uh, I’m kinda— busy.” He frowns. “Seriously? C’mon, just for, like, an hour.”

“Clapton—”

“Please?”

It should flatter you, how desperate he comes across, but you’re too worried that after he sees you, like, the real you, presented through your room and your stuff and your interests, that he’ll be weirded out, and scamper away to some cheerleader or something. Still, those pleading eyes work wonders on you, and it becomes impossible to refuse them. 

“Okay, fine. An hour,” you mumble, and set off back on your journey home with him following close behind. 

You make it to your house, hesitantly guiding him into your bedroom– he doesn’t seem to have much of a reaction. You were definitely overthinking it. 

He makes himself welcome, collapsing on your bed with a sigh, laying sprawled on his back with his eyes trained on your ceiling, eye to eye with your collector’s edition Return of the Jedi poster, limited edition, signed. 

You tentatively join him.

“You like Star Wars?”

He asks, gesturing to the poster, no teasing present in his tone. 

“Oh, uh, yeah.”

“Seriously? What’s this one about?”

You can’t help yourself– he seems properly interested, and even if the question was merely to start conversation you attack it, spluttering eager sentences about the plot and the characters and oh fuck, you’re really going on about it. His eyes have left the poster and he’s rolled onto his side, vision stuck straight on you, he’s probably judging you. 

You cut your own sentence midway, feeling the apples of your cheeks redden with embarrassment as you shrink back down to your previously timid self. 

“Sorry. My bad,” you mumble, picking a loose thread on your duvet. He notices, faltering a little. 

“What? No, come on. I’m invested now.”

You sigh, your eyes drilling holes into your shoes, where they stay staring. “Why? Why do you keep, like, talking to me and stuff?” He sits up so he can join you, shoulder resting beside yours. “What’d you mean?”

Your body feels uncomfortably taut with the suspense of this tangible moment, and you decide that you might as well get this swollen feeling off your chest before it bursts inside of you. 

A moment’s silence. A bated breath. You harness whatever confidence you can find in yourself (though it’s pretty barren), and go for it before your thoughts can catch up to you. 

“I just– I’m not, like… I’m not like your other friends. And I… I dunno, I… look, I like you. Like, I really like you, and I know it’s stupid, but I feel like you keep on giving me, like, mixed signals– but I don’t wanna—”

“Wait, you like me?”

You let out a begrudging exhale. “I know, it’s stupid–”

“What? You’re kidding right? You’re, like, perfect.”

Your head jolts to him so quickly you’re surprised you don’t get whiplash. 

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re super pretty, but like– you’re smart, and you’re nice, and you’re funny… you seriously like me?”

You’re barely processing. It feels like you’ve swallowed rose thorns, like every grain of sand has settled in the pit of your stomach, filling you up from the inside out, drying out the cavity of your throat. 

“Y–yeah?”

He chuckles, a noise you want sewn into your memory forever. “I like you too. I totally have for ages.”

Your eyes nearly bulge out of your skull. “Are you serious?”

Again, he flaunts that grin that you’ve marveled at for far too long. And it takes you a moment to realize he’s not replying– not with words. But his face is closer than before, and suddenly you could count every freckle, you could name every color in the ring of his iris, and he’s closer still, and only your eyes are doing the talking, and then his soft lips hit yours and everything stone inside you cracks. 

He moves gently, as if you’re made of frozen sugar; his hands find your waist, he paws at it slowly, too much, not enough— and then he pulls away. 

“That serious enough for you?”

You stammer out a butchered sentence, before roping yourself together, somewhat. “You can’t do that!” You choke, though there’s no malice in your tone, because he can hear your smile, even before he can see it. 

“Just did, baby.”

“You’re unreal. This— this isn’t real,” you chuckle in awe. 

“Mmm… I’d say it’s pretty real,” he smirks, reaching for your hand and squeezing it for emphasis. 

“Why’d you like me?” If you hunt for it, you can still taste the vestige of him on your trembling lips. 

“I just said, remember? You’re really generous, and you’re, like, patient with me, when nobody else is. And you’re painfully hot.”

You snort at this. “You’re the hot one.”

“Hey, we can both be hot.”

You giggle, squeezing his hand back, you fall into a pattern. You fade into him. 

“Oh my god, I actually can’t believe this.”

He presses a chaste peck to the canvas of your cheek, spreading a ruby flush that’s all for him. 

“Believe it.”

And you start to.

masterlist

✩‧₊˚

[thethirdromana]

Some Beetle covers, assessed

This book is about a beetle

A good two-thirds of Beetle covers take this approach, including the first edition on the left. And you know what, I can't fault it. This book sure does have a beetle in it. Bonus points for the middle one that draws on the hypnosis theme by making the beetle look like a brain.

Maybe an Egyptian beetle?

This is essentially the same approach, but more Egyptian, which I think looks very stylish. Given late Victorian Egyptomania, I'm surprised there aren't more like this. I could imagine a luxury edition with lots of gold really making this concept work.

Specifically involving a woman with a beetle on her forehead

This is an arresting image that's also sort-of justified by events in the book. It took me forever to realise what it reminded me of, and it's of course the poster for the Silence of the Lambs, which postdates both of these covers by about half a century. These are two quite sulky-looking Marjories, but perhaps that's the effect of hypnosis.

The cover illustrator read the book!

Given these covers minus the title, I think I would still have a solid chance of guessing which book they were for. The blue cover is the fully illustrated version. But actually, I think my favourite on this theme is redhaired Marjorie being menaced by the Beetle while Sydney tiptoes over in evening dress, both looking they could be in the opening credits of a Bond movie.

The cover illustrator didn't read the book

A very small part of the novel takes place in a railway station. None of it takes place in a cemetery, nor does it involve a hermit studying anatomy. With the whole world of royalty-free images of beetles to choose from, how does anyone land on any of these?

The cover illustrator really, really didn't read the book

Here we have the Beetle as represented by some Taiwanese houses, as True Blood, and as a picture that I vaguely recognise but where the image is so fried I can't even google it to check. At least the previous three had semi-appropriate spooky London vibes; these appear to be entirely random.

How about a bonus subtitle?

The first one here is clearly the weakest of the three, since it just features a picture of Richard Marsh's face, but is redeemed by choosing possibly the most metal line in the novel as its subtitle. I love both of the latter two, with a special mention to the illustrator of the middle one for actually depicting the Beetle's human form as described in the Beetle while also minimising the elements of racist caricature. No mean feat.

The cover illustrator understood the assignment

When I wrote something similar to this about Dracula covers, I was quite critical of the illustrators who decided to depict it as pulp horror. But it is so much more fitting for The Beetle. If you're drawn to buy Scantily Clad Woman Is Menaced By Giant Beetle, or Weirdly Green Man is Terrified of Mural, or even Rasputin And His Giant Beetle Spell, I feel like you genuinely might be the right audience for this terrible, terrible book.

[starstruckwillows]

— fashion obsessed s/o ♡

requested by @juneberrie <3

includes: annabeth chase, frank zhang, hazel levesque, jason grace, leo valdez, percy jackson, piper mclean — gn!reader

annabeth chase 🏢

has never given fashion much thought really, but the more she sees you pouring over magazines and sketches, the more she sees how it could be interesting. it’ll probably never be a priority to her, but she thinks it’s cool, and you two can side-by-side sketch dresses and buildings. she may even ask for design opinion, as you have a trained eye for colour, style and proportion, particularly on her more modern designs. if your clothes ever get mixed up, she’ll easily separate them by what’s a variety of colour, and style, and what’s navy tank tops and denim shorts.

frank zhang 🐻

fascination. genuine fascination. he never had time to pay attention to fashion or trends or anything like that, and camp jupiter didn’t boast it’s colour co-ordination skills all that much. he’s surprised he has any clothes that aren’t armour. but as you grow closer, he might take peeks at your bookmarked magazines to see what sort of thing you find fashionable, and put in an order. he won’t tell you, he’s too shy, but will wait for you to notice his new jumper or jeans or trainers. it’s few and far between times that he is able to scrap enough money together for them, so you make sure to notice any changes and compliment them.

hazel levesque 💎

it’s a shock for her to switch time periods and see the evolution of clothing. sometimes modern fashion will make her blush and stutter and turn her head. but seeing your passion for it has her coming around on the concept. i think hazel’s love language is gift giving, and i can see her grabbing you fashion related posters, magazines, sketchpads, or even items of clothing when she’s returning from a quest.

jason grace ☁️

he was so young when he joined lupa and later camp jupiter, that he honestly remembers very little about fashion. maybe a flash memory of his mother’s hollywood style, but that’s it. to have a partner who becomes genuinely excited by clothes is something he may never feel, but he’s happy if you’re happy, and he’ll readily offer any opinions you ask him for on outfits. except the boy doesn’t have the most advanced sense of co-ordination and style effect, so it’ll mostly be “i think you look great”, “they’re both beautiful”, etc. at least he means it. also - matching clothes. not full outfits, but a jumper, a pair of custom converse, or something more subtle like a bracelet.

leo valdez 🪛

leo likes to create things, and ‘things’ isn’t limited by much. he’s constantly finding your sketches and adding things to them such as fire-proof thread, concealments for daggers and other assorted weaponry. every design you come up with, he’s turned it into a full suit of stylish armour. he loves your clothes and shoes and will make a mess if you ask him to go get something from your wardrobe.

percy jackson 🐳

indulges you if you want to talk about it - it’s not something he thinks about much before meeting you, but ever since, he’ll pass clothing stores and think of you, and pick up fashion-related items as he goes. he opens his drawers and thinks of you. he now looks at the tattered shoes he’s worn for four years and thinks maybe it’s time to upgrade. accidentally and with no thought at all, percy has a decent sense of style. he will also let you dress him up to your heart’s content.

piper mclean 🤎

fashion and style goes against a lot of what piper lived her life by. she doesn’t hate it, but she was surrounded by it too much. but upon meeting you, and discovering archetypes of street fashion, and a wider variety of styles, she finds it’s actually fun and starts to love it. she will never follow a trend of fashion, but she doesn’t mind if you do. she’s the most supportive girlfriend ever, and will happily watch/listen while you engage with your interests. will also let you customise her clothes - e.g embroidered jeans, painted shoes, etc.

🏷️ — none yet

[nyerus]

Hi! I would love to hear your thoughts about classism in TGCF, but specifically regarding XL. It surprised me to see people hating on XL for not knowing or doing better during his teenage years of luxury as the crown prince and making XL a complete villain because he didn't take down classism and restructure society despite still being a kid himself. It struck me as odd that the fandom is well aware of his 800 years in poverty but also not really addressing the fact that XL, too, is a victim of classism albeit a little different from someone like MQ.

Hi there! So sorry it's taken me this long to get to this ask, I've just been in sort of a funk for a few days haha.

But yeah, this is definitely a topic that comes up from time to time, with lots of discussion about. It surprises me that despite that, there are still people (maybe just newer fans? idk) who still hate on Xie Lian for his naive views as a 17yo. Especially since, despite being a naive 17yo, he still really wanted to help people less fortunate than himself. He didn't quite understand how to do this in the most effective ways (because he was a teenager), so it came off as somewhat patronizing as he was a person in a position of power compared to everyone else. Yet his desire to help people was genuine, and he didn't personally think of "common folk" as being any lesser than "royalty" -- even though in this case, there kind of literally was a difference. (E.g. when Lang Ying goes from being a commoner to a king, he gets a "kingly aura" that protects him!) So it's honestly kind of incredible that Xie Lian is willing to say things like "I think people are equal, even gods and humans, and if the Heavens disagree with me, then it's the Heavens that are wrong" with his entire heart.

I imagine a large part of the hate Xie Lian gets from certain fans is jealousy or resentment, due to the fact that Xie Lian was "born privileged." But on it's own, "privilege" is not "the great enemy" -- it's what said privilege means in the context of society, and what someone does/doesn't do with it that merits judgement. Xie Lian doesn't fully understand the privilege he had until he loses it (again: because he was 17!), but he still understood it enough to use it to protect and help people. That's more than many other characters can say. Him starting out as a prince doesn't automatically disqualify him from class struggles or the horrors of poverty. It's nonsensical to think so, when this is a character who literally spent almost 800 years busking for scraps, while sleeping in dirt outside and eating garbage….

On the flip side, as you mentioned Mu Qing -- yes, he was a victim of classism. But he's a very strange figure to use as the poster boy for that, though he often is by people who are critical of Xie Lian. This may be a controversial take, despite it being something I think that makes the character of Mu Qing really interesting: but he's a very "typical" guy within the concept of classism. He's someone who started off with a bad lot, but then ended up ascending to the highest point you pretty much can in that world/society. Which is great! He did that through hard work, and it paid off! But now, since he got his "happy ending," that's kind of it for him. He doesn't do anything to materially improve the lives of those less fortunate, especially those he has no personal connection with. This doesn't make him a bad person -- it's not really his job to that, even as a god. He's a martial god, so he's there to subdue threats and all that. Yet you can clearly see, that's exactly the type of person society values because such "rags to riches" stories give legitimacy to the whole system, and because they don't rock the boat once they're on top.

So then it's odd to be angry at Xie Lian but not Mu Qing (or others) for the lack of some "grand revolution" that some readers seem to want.

Ironically, Xie Lian used what power he had to try and help people -- and he was worse off for it. If he had done nothing, he would have been able to live a happy and carefree life. He would have lived and died as a rich prince/king with no troubles. Like, that's the point! The societies we live in punish those who want to broadly help others or make meaningful change, while rewarding those who quietly play the game for themselves -- because it helps keep the wheels turning. It doesn't matter at "what end" of the spectrum you start out on, the rules apply the same way. If you go against the establishment, there's a price to be paid.

Throughout Xie Lian's long journey, he learns this lesson the hard way. And the fact that in order to change it, he would somehow have to change the hearts and minds of pretty much everyone -- which is an impossible ask. How is he even supposed to that, or restructure society as a whole, without vast amounts of collateral damage? In the end, Xie Lian discovers that he was not wrong in his desire to help people, even if he cannot help everyone. He can still help people he meets in whatever ways he can, and that is still important. To show kindness, mercy, and empathy towards your fellow man is worth it. Helping your neighbors or complete strangers you meet once and then never again -- all that is still worth it.

I wish I had the time to sit down and really talk about this in a more organized way, but these disjointed thoughts are all I can manage at the moment! I hope it was still valuable to you in some way, and thank you for sending in the ask!

(Also, I recently reblogged a post that talked about something similar if you wanna check it out, Anon. It's right under the manhua highlights I think!)

[funnycreatortimetravel]

Small rant about Sans' character that no one is ever going to read and is probably kind of inaccurate, but I'm going to scream into the void nonetheless because why the hell not and I'm kind of bored.

I feel like the concept of Sans as a whole has been so utterly gutted by the fandom and not in the way you'd think. Not because of the AUs which are all so oddly Sans-focused (but at least we have Underverse which is actually pretty good) but in the sense of the people who claim to "actually understand Sans canonically" and "try to stay as canon as possible" while also equally missing the point sort of. Hence, why we have this long and overplayed image I'm sure everyone has seen a billion times:

If I could lay some groundwork down, Undertale came out in 2015, nearly a decade ago. The internet was a different time and place then and fandom creativity reached new peaks that no one had ever seen before, and as a result, a lot of Undertale was exaggerated, changed, cut up, and then put back together. Why? Because in all honesty, Undertale was a really simple game with a simple premise. Sure there were bits and pieces scattered throughout, parts like who Gaster was, who Chara was when they were alive, who Sans is in general; all the typical fandom theory shenanigans we've come to expect in the recent years. And in that excitement, Sans became the staple of Undertale pretty much, or at least everything it represented. This macabre, yet adorably misleading game with funny moments and interesting think pieces that people are still speculating about. That's pretty much the basis of Sans. So I get why Sans became the quintessential poster child for such a subversively ambitious game. I get why, then, people try to showcase Sans as this badass God character who knows and remembers all of resets and cries over Papyrus and is just an edge lord in general. It doesn't mean it's accurate in the slightest, but I get the idea of it nonetheless. In the absence of content, and there's a lot of it in Undertale, (I mean, it took me 4 hours to 100% it in the Pacifist and Neutral Routes, and 5 hours to beat Genocide, including the times it took me to beat Undyne because she thoroughly kicked my ass and Sans as well) the fans filled those gaps with what they saw fit and what they saw fit was so wide and diverse that the gap overflowed and the game pretty much became unrecognizable.

And I (except for the truly questionable and gross stuff, you know what I'm talking about) love the fandom for that, I truly do. Just the sheer number of comics, spin-off games, AUs, art, and fanfiction that answered every question I had and more was and is impressive, but even so, there's only so much that can be done with the context Undertale provides us before the content gets...stale. Hence my point on why Sans' character was so exaggerated is because Undertale as a whole had been exaggerated and oversaturated and overplayed and generally...not what the game or Sans was originally. But that was peak 2016-2019, though, a few years ago. And the interpretations and eras, like everything, have changed.

Now back to my actual point. It's now 2024. The fandom has noticeably slowed down. All of the AUs and theories and fanfictions that were popular have either been forgotten about over the years, randomly rediscovered or still ongoing, or just abandoned entirely. The game has been pretty much combed through until every file has been cracked, every document leaked, and every secret discovered. It's like a picked over turkey at this point and a lot of the old creators have indeed left behind the game in pursuit of newer things, which is understandable. It's not the center of attention it once was and in that wake, we don't really have a lot of the same pillars in the Undertale community that we used to. And in this transformed community, we have the left over children, now young adults and teenagers, to pick up the pieces. And in that, Sans' character, as well as Undertale itself, has again, been reformed.

That was a lot of words. But I hope I at least set the center stage. My issue, pretty much, is that the leftover fans deem themselves as "above the cringe" the old fandom left behind, which, is fair enough. And in doing so, a lot of the foundation of the 2016-2019 Undertale fandom was kind of overwritten. No, now Sans is no longer this edgy, overpowered God figure ready to right the wrongs of the player, no, now he's this apathetic guy who doesn't care about anyone, including himself, and is only powerful because he cheated. And to be fair, I see some merit in this interpretation. Sans is in fact, a pretty morally ambiguous guy. He doesn't even attempt to stop the player during the genocide route until there's nothing left. He threatens the player on the pacifist route even when we pose no threat. He makes so many allusions about himself not caring about anything. So I get it. Everyone is tired of everything Sans-related. I was too at one point. But in trying to counteract this fanon interpretation of Sans, I feel like this new one is also semi-inaccurate. This new interpretation of Sans is meant to be seen as "mature" and "not cringe" when in fact, Undertale is and always will be sort of cringe. And that's OK! That's why I and others love the game so much, because it's not afraid of being anything other than what it is and what it claimed to be. It had a story in mind that it wanted to tell and it did so unabashedly. The need to separate Undertale and Sans itself from the cringe is so pointless and almost a little juvenile. And imo, even ruins the character of Sans himself.

Sans does care about Papyrus, so so so much. He reads him bedtime stories. He plays along with his illusions of grandeur. He calls out the player when he's killed, despite Sans having to remain objective as a judge. I feel like Sans not intervening in Papyrus' death isn't because he doesn't care, it's because his entire job is to act as a judge and in a position where he's mostly neutral. He knows the player has powers to redo and undo things, so thus, he gives us room to make those choices, for better or worse. He's like, the anti-toriel. He refuses to hold your hand. He tells YOU to make the right choice, and by you, I mean the player. And in that sense, I feel like that's not something a completely apathetic guy would do. Someone like that wouldn't even see the point of choices, of having an option. Someone like that wouldn't care about getting out of bed in the morning, getting several jobs, or telling a person with higher power to just engage with your brother.

Like come on, don't say he doesn't put effort into anything, like he went out of his way to make sure Pap's Holiday party went perfect. He's constantly going above and beyond for his brother.

Sans has emotions and they're so complex and so well-written, but I feel like this counter-cringe culture of the fandom wants him to be this guy who's either too depressed or too lazy to engage with others, or someone who would simply shrug off the death of loved ones when we have proof that Sans does indeed try hard for Papyrus in the ending where everyone dies but his brother. It's an "oh shit" sort of moment when he realizes that Papyrus is the only person he has left and thus, he puts in the effort to be better for him. It's not that he doesn't care or see the point, he's just kind of numb at this point. If Papyrus dies in the neutral routes, you don't see Sans again until the judgment hall and he'll call you a dirty brother killer and tell you to go to hell. That's something someone who at least cares a little would do. He's not above insulting the player and he's not above getting pissed. I've never really seen him as a, "well that's that then," character when it comes to Papyrus dying, for me, it's always been, "I'm angry, but I can maintain my composure and still do what I have to do."

Even in the genocide routes, Sans wants to give up and do nothing. He wants to let himself die without much thought. But he knows that he has to stand between you and oblivion. It's another, "Oh shit" moment, but in the opposite way. He knows he's gonna die. But he still has hope. Not necessarily that you'll be a good person, but that you can try another way and make better choices. He embodies the same mentality Papyrus did at the beginning of the run, believing there's a better chance for another future where everyone can be happy.

Sans isn't a nihilist, not all the way. There's still a chance, still a part of him that has hope for everything, regardless of the route. And should the Pacifist route be completed, you'll see that he's genuinely happy. He DOES care, or at least he's beginning to know that caring about things is ok and healthy even.

Ex 1: If you go to Sans' lab after completing a True Pacifist Route, you get this bit of dialog:

Ex 2: Sans and Papyrus talking about a Christmas party they had on the Newsletter of the 5th Anniversary of Undertale.

The strongest, yet most complex example of this that we see is that he upholds his promise with Toriel and will continue to do so until the genocide route at the very end because he wants to at least give us, the player, a chance. And even if it was a cop-out for being lazy, I believe that Sans legitimately believes there's a chance for us to turn around and be a better person, or at the very least, make better choices. We know that Sans is a person who doesn't like making promises at all, and even though he said that his threatening to kill Frisk is a joke, had he not made that promise to Toriel, I can't 100% say that he still wouldn't intervened in the genocide and neutral routes.

And if you think about it, Sans upholding that promise just makes me question him even more. Like, even if you kill his brother, so long as you don't kill everyone, he won't kill you just because of that. He sticks to his promise and his morals so much, even if it costs him everything because well, what type of judge would he be if he didn't stick to his moral code?

"If you have some special power, don't you think it's your responsibility to do the right thing?"

And by that logic, if he made a promise with someone, don't you think he'd feel he'd have the responsibility to uphold it?

We also know that he makes an effort to give us updates on the Underground after we leave in the neutral routes because he still wants us to know, at least, the consequences of our actions, so it's not like he's just lazily letting us get away with anything with do (even if he does physically.) He still holds our actions above our heads. He still keeps his promise. He still knows that we can make a better outcome. And if that doesn't say anything about him, I don't know what does.

Even in the neutral route endings where things are objectively going terribly for the monsters with Frisk killing Asgore and taking the souls to leave the barrier, Sans still never gives up. Sans, of all people.

And sure, Sans isn't a saint, not by a long shot, but he does have some moral weight in the long run, and by playing the part of a judge, he has a certain level of disattachment that's necessary when it comes to doing his job. Nowadays, I don't see the "fanon" sans that everyone loves to rag on, the one that's overly emotional and jarringly out of character, more so, I see everyone ragging on that interpretation, and then coming up with an equally inaccurate interpretation of Sans just not giving a shit and letting Frisk get away with everything just because he's "not emotional and only wants to be lazy, blah, blah, blah, nihilism, existentialism, it's more canonically accurate, unlike that CRINGE FANON SANS!" /or being a total unserious prankster with no other personality traits, and that's equally as jarring for me.

So in conclusion, I feel like "Fanon" Sans, the one where he's breaking down and sobbing over Papyrus and holding his scarf is just as inaccurate as the "more canon one" where he's apathetic and simply just not caring about his death, or at the very best, says "it is what it is." Sans is a character whose emotions aren't apparent, but he still does care in his weird philosophical way. He loves Papyrus and genuinely thinks he's cool. He's a jokester character who loves a good laugh and being laid back. He doesn't like putting in effort, but he will if he has to. He wants the player to make good choices, so he generally tries to stay out of the way to give us that freedom. Not because he knows we're gonna kill Papyrus, but because he knows we have greater power and wants us to use it to do the morally right thing. He isn't above doing morally grey things either, like threatening to kill Frisk in case they pose a threat to monster kind, but I believe even then, his hesitation to just accept a human in the underground is somewhat understandable given the oppressive tension between humans and monsters. Additionally, he does put in effort when it comes to caring about monsters other than Papyrus, Toriel, and even Alphys and Asgore, he cares about them all: (it's implied that he feeds the amalgamates in Alphy's old lab as proven by the same dog food we see in the lab being in Sans' house and Alphys even calls him a good guy because he helps her in the aborted genocide route ending, him telling jokes to Toriel and genuinely trying to bring some joy in her life even though she's a stranger and doesn't have an obligation to, even staying with her in the Ruins after she's dethroned in the Queen Undyne ending, him acting as the judge before Asgore and even being in such an important position requires you to have a solid sense of morality and conviction, his respect for Undyne as a warrior/leader depending on the ending and in the Undertale Newsletter, he makes an effort to score a goal for his team in Hocky, and Undyne of all people seems proud of him, and pretty much everything that has to do with Papyrus he's at the very least involved or interested in.)

My words don't have a lot of merit. I'm simply saying how I interpret things. But as a big sister, I see Sans as a good big brother who's not too involved, but also deeply cares about his younger brother and his friends. I get that stoicism and being "logical" and "cold" is the new trend and whatnot with all these edits of badass characters and longing for a time when everything was less...emotional, but in doing that, it shuts a lot of discussion about Sans as a person and his complex emotions as a whole. I feel like it's too difficult and kind of silly to chalk him up as either one or the other. I feel like there's a nice middle ground between the "cringe" fanon sans and the "cool, apathetic" canon sans that a lot of fans either go one or the other on. Anyway, that's about it for my rant. It's kind of nonsensical and a little hard to follow, but I hope I was able to get my thoughts across nonetheless.

I guess it was a big rant after all. Oh well. It is what it is.

[genshingorlsrevengeance]

(P4/GFL/GI/H:SR) Naoto, AN-94, Rosaria, and Stelle on a burger date

Admittedly, Naoto was not used to eating these kinds of food.

She travelled quite often and if she had time she could maybe indulge in a food to treat herself, let alone have lunch with her S/O.

But she had found herself in Tokyo with S/O and decided to try something different.

(Naoto) "Big Bang Burger?"

(S/O) "Oh yeah, that's quite popular nowadays. Did they ever have one in Inaba?"

(Naoto) "To my knowledge, no. I am always willing to try something once."

The two walked into the fast food restaurant and saw a poster on the wall.

(Naoto) "The...Big Bang Burger challenge?"

A female employee greeted them and explained how the challenge worked. Naoto's eyes almost bulged out her head.

(Naoto) "P-People eat something that huge?! And I thought the Beef Bowl Challenge was intimidating."

(S/O) "Did you wanna try it?"

(Naoto) "Er, well...I think I'd prefer to start off small before attempting something of that caliber."

Watching one of the employees bring two of them out, they brought it to a table who had two blonde students in a booth.

(Blonde haired boy) "F-For real?! How the hell are we supposed to finish that in thirty friggin' minutes?!"

(Blonde haired girl) "Oh god, why did I let you convince me to do this?"

Naoto and S/O ordered themselves a more fitting meal, and Naoto felt sick even looking at the two students attempt to finish it. Her burger was barely a quarter of the size and just looking at it, she felt like she had gained thousands of calories.

S/O chuckled as they leaned next to her.

(S/O) "Lunch and a show! You sure you don't wanna give it a try?"

(Naoto) "Now that I'm looking at it in person, absolutely not."

(AN-94) "Oh, burgers are in the mess hall today? I have not had many opportunities to try them."

Truthfully, 94 had no preference on food, nor did she know any nuances that went into cooking. It was just something that never became relevant.

But she was wanting to try new things, especially if it made S/O happy.

She was quite perplexed looking at the burger, examining it like she would a new weapon.

When she bites into it, her eyes slightly widen at the variety of textures. She makes sure to take extra note of what S/O's preferences are, in the event she is ever tasked with retrieving a meal for them.

(AN-94) "Interesting...I can see why humans would like this sort of thing."

Since it's not required for her to eat, she keeps this food more as a reward after a mission than anything.

(Rosaria) "Interesting dish. These much calories are probably sinful for those on diet."

Rosaria quite likes how the meat inside the burger tastes.

If she can add some alcohol to the burger, then she's even more for it.

She didn't cook quite often, but it let her play around with different combinations to see what her and S/O enjoyed.

Though that being said, she didn't really understand the whole concept of a 'Burger Date'.

Was it really a whole new date if they just ate something a bit more exotic than usual?

Regardless, she makes sure not to eat them too often. She's not exactly watching her weight or anything, but too much of it would probably kill her.

...Now she had an idea.

Stelle enjoys food of all varieties but there is one thing that is her guilty pleasure. Junk food.

Depending on how one cooked a burger, it could be classified as just a normal meal, but Stelle was never one to sugarcoat things.

It was an indulgence food, and she loved it.

Of course considering her position as a Trailblazer, she probably shouldn't gorge herself, lest she feel sluggish during an expedition.

But that does not stop her from eating them with S/O whenever they ask.

In fact, all they have to do is give her the excuse. Homemade or takeout, it doesn't matter. She wants it.

Her stoic expression softens a little whenever she's eating with her S/O, talking about whatever really comes to mind.

That being said, she is quite picky where she gets the burgers from. If they give her or S/O a topping she didn't ask for even once, she's never coming back.

She wants to enjoy her food damn it, she doesn't want to fight gross ass toppings, on top of everything else in this galaxy that wants her dead.