This phrase has already entered my vocabulary re: media criticism where like. The viewer has a concrete view of what they expect a story to be based on the tropes and cliches they're used to seeing together, and when that doesn't happen, they judge it as a failed depiction of what they assumed it was going to be instead of judging it as what it actually is.
"This show is problematic because the hero didn't kill the villain at the end": When does he steal the bread?
"These two characters who were close friends throughout the series don't kiss at the end! What the fuck?": When does he steal the bread?
"This feels like it's missing a conclusion! Like, the protagonist does bad stuff and because of a critical decision he makes as a result of his major character flaws, meets tragedy in the end! Where's the part where he learns better and brings is love back from the dead and becomes a good guy and gets a happy ending?": When does he steal the fucking bread??
The ending of Pokopia is as sweet as it is funny, because I think if I was tragically separated from my pet and years later got a postcard that had a picture of it and a bunch of other animals rebuilding a Wal-Mart, I'd be as touched as I was completely and utterly bewildered.
staring at the dessert menu and twirling my hair and going "should I be baaaaddd" until the autistic girl I'm eating with says "there is nothing bad about eating dessert. it is a morally neutral action"
When I worked at the place selling oils and vinegars I’d sometimes get asked about food. I was, and remain, wildly unqualified to ask about food, but thankfully it was pretty rare. Usually our shoppers were fully aware they knew more than me and they were content to ignore me.
One day a woman in her fifties came in. She looked at the pretty amphora displays and the sample cups before she turned to me. “What would go well with steak?”
“Oh, some of the fruit vinegars would be a nice finisher,” I said, talking out my ass. Like, I’d eat that but whether it’s conventionally accepted to douse a steak in mango vinegar is up for debate.
“I’ve been a vegetarian for forty years, but my doctor suggested I might need more red meat. So I thought I’d get a steak tonight and I don’t know much about preparing it.”
I stared at this woman. This fully adult human woman. Who had just spoken to a doctor. And I said, “Do not buy a steak tonight.”
“What? Why?”
“You’ve been a vegetarian for forty years?”
“Yes?”
“Then your body has no idea how to process meat. You will get so sick.” It was pure luck that I knew this. I had a few hardcore vegetarian friends who had been exposed to meat at potluck dishes and told me about the ensuing horrors as their gentle veggie gut biome was overrun with flesh. And how consequently their toilet overfloweth.
“Really?!”
“Yes,” I said, emphatically. “If you want to try to incorporate meat I would start with a tiny portion of fish, and slowly work your way up, but your insides will not know what to do with steak.”
“Wow! I’m so glad I mentioned that to you.”
I was likewise glad, and ended up selling her a light vinegar that would go nicely with fish. I don’t know if she didn’t have any other vegetarian friends or if her doctor hadn’t said anything to prep her for a radical diet change but it still blows my mind that she didn’t know she couldn’t just cook up and enjoy a steak.
The Demon vs. Devil line giving Riz Gukgak so much trouble all the time is one of my favorite character bits for him, whether or not it's intentional by Brian Murphy, because it's like, for Riz, evil is evil is evil and the goals of those entities do not matter to him.
He has said he's chaotic good (and him outright executing Daybreak is evidence of that), but on a reactionary level, Riz has multiple times adhered to a lawful good frame of reference, likely because of Sklonda.
And it's such a great character point that I love for Riz.
masterpost please no editing, I know this has issues, I tried to read over most of it but I've had a migraine for days now and today learned I didn't get the jobs so--yeah not in the mood. But I hope you all enjoy this. I hammered it out in bits and spurts.
Danny doesn’t rust Gotham on its word alone. He has no doubt that what Gotham feels is real, but Gotham wouldn’t be the first parent to understand the situation with their children wrong. Wouldn’t be the first parents to go to war only to destroy their own.
While Gotham does rile against Danny’s insistence that he needs to check matters out himself, it still gives him permission to explore its streets. That permission is important. Danny could certainly hold his own, he was no mere ghost or specter, but the fight was unwanted. It iiis much easier to let Gotham open up a little tear in the fabrics of its reality and simply step through it.
He stumbles right into wall.
He clutches at his chest.
It hurts.
It all hurts.
In the caves with Dami, it doesn’t hurt so much. The pain was still there, of course it was, it was something that he could never let go of, but in the caves it was muted by the rough stone and the pool of green. Here there is none of that. Here Danny is truly alive. Or as alive as he has ever been since the…
Danny shakes his head. It feels like his brain is sloshing against the inside of his skull. Bones, they were overrated, really. At least he (or Gotham) had the forethought to make sure that Danny came out clothed. He smooths his hands over the lapels of the coat and the vest under it. Definitely Gotham’s doing. Danny didn’t think he had ever worn anything so fancy in his life.
Well, half-life.
The alleyway that he steps out of may have been next to a theater, but by the boarded up windows and smell of piss, it has obviously seen better days. He stands under the unlit marquee, looking up at the graffiti and fallen letters. There’s something beautiful about the decay of it, as much as the space is steeped in tragedy.
Danny tucks his hands in his pockets and starts off. Where? He isn’t sure, really. Danny trusts that Gotham will keep him moving in the right direction as long as he listens to it. And Gotham hums with information. Stepping onto its streets is like stepping into a bee hive. Danny follows the energy as it ebbs and flows, leads and warns. He trusts it.
Which is why it’s extra insulting for Danny to end up with a knife pointed at his throat and his hands raised.
“I told you, I really don’t have anything on me,” Danny says calmly.
“Bullshit! Who the fuck doesn’t carry at least their phone anymore?” The knife waves with the words. “Hand it the fuck over!”
“Cursing won’t make something magically appear,” Danny says. He probably should get an identity again. What year was it?
“Or I say what I fucking want to and fucking gut you so I can loot your body!”
“This body really isn’t worth that much effort,” Danny says, with as much of a shrug as he can do with his hands raised.
“Fuck y—”
Before the thug an even lunge, a mass of shadow drops between them and Danny. Fora moment, Danny is convinced that it’s Gotham, for all that Gotham is the one who led him there. It feels like Gotham, with the same deep love for the city and the same chasm where the little bird once was but… this one is alive.
Danny takes in the caped figure with no small amount of wounder. They feel like the honored dead, but they clearly live and breathe and ache. Their fist pulls back, ready to strike the cowering thug. Danny rests his hand on the arm. “I think making them piss themselves with fear is enough.”
Both the thug and whatever this creature is turn to incredulously look at Danny. He just offers a smile and a shrug. He plucks the knife delicately from the thug’s hand and flips it closed. “Now, maybe you should promise not to do this again since you’ve gotten to keep your face intact.”
“Y-yeah! S-s-shur! I, um, I’m s-sorry mister Batman, sir! I just… things have been really tight and my brother is still sick from the last fear gas—yeah. I, um, will just be going!” The thug says, jutting a thumb behind themselves. When neither Danny nor ‘Batman’ move, they turn tail and run.
After watching them disappear behind a corner, Danny turned and smiled at the looming specter. (He tucks the knife into his pocket.) “Thank you, Batman, for your gallant rescue.”
“Hn,” the Batman utters. He pauses a long time before saying, “You shouldn’t be out here this late.”
“Absolutely not. I believe I will be heading right home,” Danny says. The Batman looks at Danny’s hand, pale and slender against the dark, still on his arm. Danny holds up his hands and steps back. As the Batman aims some sort of gadget at the grungy architecture, Danny adds, “and I am sorry for your loss.”
There’s another long look before the Batman flees like the hounds of hell are on their heels, rather than just standing on a random street corner in Gotham. Danny watches until they vanish and then slip into the shadows himself.
He has a great deal to talk with Gotham about. He hadn’t understood that this about a little specterling. That changed things. Complicated them. Made them clearer.
Sinking into the green is a relief. Something in Danny loosens the further that he submerges himself. Something calls like home.
It would be easy to lose himself in it.
He had, before.
How long had it been?
Focus.
Dami.
Damian needs him to focus.
Damian is waiting for him to come… not home. Danny doesn’t have a home anymore, not since— but Damian is important to Danny and he needs Danny to protect him. He needs Danny’s help. He needs Danny’s care.
Danny blinks into the green. It swirls into focus around him, or as in focus as the green ever gets. The blur between the ever shifting shades never truly settles, but it’s easier to pick out the objects floating in the void. The stones. The doors. The bones.
It’s too much. Danny isn’t sure if he can navigate it anymore. That part of him that was meant to be a normal ghost… never mind. The present mattered more than the past. Damian mattered more than the past. The broken bird too. Apparently his name was Robin.
A Robin from Gotham.
Danny had never been to Gotham. He had heard of it, of course he had, who hadn’t? But he never traveled much while he was alive. As a half ghost it had been easier, but never just because he wanted to. His world had been Amity Park, Aunt Alicia’s homestead, Vlad’s mansion, and the haunted places in between.
It is fortunate for Danny that Gotham has quite a presence in the green, as certain cities do. After taking a deep breath that does nothing for him here, Danny lets his senses extend into the green. The pool he came from swirls just above his senses. Further there is Paris with its mound of carefully stacked bones. London and its tunnels. Stonehenge. The vast, deep sea, still so out of reach by humans.
Gotham.
The city sits heavily in the green. Chunks of gothic architecture pierce through the veil like ribs through skin. After the blood red of Paris and the kaleidoscope of Barcelona, Gotham’s aura is startling dark. It hangs like a heavy shadow, the sort that that gently wraps one up as night settles. Jagged lines of curses cut though the dark like lightning.
He’ll have to take care not to get struck by one.
Danny sinks into the dark. His eyes hang around him, keeping careful watch on as Danny digs claws into footholds. The dark shifts around him, defensive and resistant like a dog with its fangs bared. Danny tries to say he means no harm, but oh how Gotham wails!
A son lost.
A protector untethered.
Oh how Gotham tried!
Oh how Gotham gave so that the son could live!
But it moved the pieces too early. The son, so vibrant with new life, moved too early. Gotham hadn’t the time to make him whole. To give him back his spark!
And then the son had been taken.
Gotham roiled, the darkness frothing around Danny. No!, he soothed, The son yet lives. He is without his spark but he lives! Danny has seen him, touched him, felt where the soul is missing like a weeping wound. But Danny needs to understand what happened to know what he should do.
Gotham’s moods shift swiftly between anguish and hope, pain and joy, anger. Gotham bristles. The dark becomes different—menacing shadows that stretch across a midnight street. The shadows close in, oppressively tight.
Danny lets his powers flair. Not fully, no, never, but just enough. Just enough to let Gotham know he is no pup to be threatened like that. He is Phantom! He has been broken and remade by the green itself time and time again! He has been fused with it! Saved by it! Doomed by it.
He is not to be threatened.
Gotham flairs. Its grip eases. Its wary now, but still stays on the aggressive despite what it must feel now from Danny. Danny can appreciate how dictated to its people Gotham is.
Explain it to me, Danny asks gently. Explain him to me. Your son. Your prince of a prince.
Gotham ripples: doubt, pain, acceptance. The desire to see its son safe and whole wins, and so it begins to explain to Danny about its Prince and those he made his sons. Gotham’s sons.
@amaralie, @crystalshard
Key, a room that holds the smell of smoke in the curtains, and the warmth of long evenings spent in good company.
Yellow, the smell of rosemary
cw for basic dirty talk and fade to black at the endt. It is Constantine, atfer all. (I am very, very migrained today. Please no editing or concrit, I know there are issues <3)
John wakes up in that room again. It’s been enough times now that he doesn’t panic about it. Hell, he even lets himself linger in the bed for awhile. The sheets are that over washed sort of starchy, but the pillow is soft enough. The curtains are still drawn. Light peaks around the edges of the heavy fabric enough though John knows that there’s nothing but endless void behind them.
He had made the mistake of looking the first time that he had ended up in this place.
John throws the sheets off and sits up. His long limbs feel endless for a moment as he stretches before he snaps back into his aching, (mostly) mortal body. The smell of the room, of endless visitors and days, has him craving a cigarette. Sometimes he’s lucky enough that there’s a pack on the bedside table. Today is one of them. He peels the seal open and taps out a fag from the pack. The first inhale makes him wistful; this brand went out of business twenty years ago.
He sits there long enough that he has to tap a solid bit of ash into the soot stained ashtray. He wants to stay longer. Schrodinger’s cat and all that.
Maybe he should just go look.
He grabs the pack and the room key from the bedside. The key has a battered plastic tag that feels right in his hand. He thinks the room is number twenty-one, but it hurts to look too long at it. The key itself is different with each glance.
The cigarette is just balanced between John’s lips, stuck there so that he can toss on the robe over the boxer briefs that he has on. He wears it mostly to have a pocket to stash things in. It also helps stave off the chill of the halls.
Every door looks exactly the same—yellowed oak wood set into even more yellow wallpaper. There’s no decoration other than the hall sconces. The way the light pours out of them is fragmented and shifting. Every so often a door is cracked open, held tight by the chain. There’s something there behind those doors. Other ones too, sometimes, when John knows he’s being watched from behind a peephole. John’s careful to never look back.
He just smokes his cigarette, lighting the next off the old butt of the last, and keeps walking down the hall. He’ll get to where he’s going eventually, wherever that may be.
There’s one place he’s hoping for more than the other.
He just keeps walking.
Finally, suddenly, he’s come to a set of brass and glass doors. The thick fog of condensataion on the doors make it impossible to see through. It doesn’t matter, John knows what will greet him as he pushed both doors open. A smile plays on his lips and in his voice. “Hello, handsome, how’s the water?”
“Just about the same as always. Too fucking green and weirdly warm.”
John eyes the pool as he walks around the outside of it. His steps sound sacrilegiously loud against the tiles, but what is his whole fucking life but being sacrilegiously loud?
“It is very green,” John settles for saying.
The other makes a noise that manages to sound sarcastic as he sets his book aside. “Green is sorta its most defining trait.”
“Hum… nah, mate,” John says. He braces his arms on either side of the plastic pool chair as he leans down. “I would go with other worldly first.”
“Everything is other worldly here, Hellblazer.” Those sea-glass green eyes meet John’s steadily. “Including you and me.”
“Yet you won’t tell me your secrets,” John points out. The words are a whisper and nearly cut off by the kiss that follows. It’s as much a kiss John starts as one that John meets in the middle. He lets himself enjoy the taste of it before he pulls back just enough to get a look. “What are your secrets, Dan?”
Dan rolls his eyes, but it’s mostly an excuse to look away. “I’ve told you, you really don’t want to know.”
“Oh but I do, lovely. I’m curious,” John cajoles as he straddles the chair and Dan. Dan is likewise in a robe, but only with swim trunks on underneath.
Tiny, yellow swim trunks.
Dan runs his hands up under John’s robes. He has the calloused hands of of a craftsman, and his thumbs are rough where they rub against John’s hip bones.
“Curiosity killed the cat,” Dan says.
“But boredom killed it quicker,” John sings back.
“Oh, well, if boredom is what you wanted to avoid…” Dan purrs. His grip tightens, keeping John held down as he arches up.
John hums happily. He would rather understand what Dan is, but ever visit he learns a little more. What’s so wrong about having some fun at the same time? “I’ll learn your secrets.”
“Not if you want me to keep fucking you.”
John laughs. His cigarette is tossed somewhere over his back in the direction of the pool and his robe to the side after. Just some fun, first. Other worldly messes after.
I absolutely blame Facebook for this shift. Words cannot describe how freaking WEIRD it was in the mid-00s when there was suddenly this popular website where you were required to use your real, brickspace name and encouraged to post photos of yourself. Every single bit of Standard Internet Safety prior to then said that you should never ever ever do either of those.
i like when you can tell a screenwriter thinks that being good at computers is all about how fast you type. you need to out-computer your enemies with your superior wpm. whoever types the fastest is the most elite hacker in the cyberspace. its all up to you, johnny quickfingers. we're counting on you.
When I was a teenager and still on Neopets I was part of a pretty big Star Trek guild and eventually became part of its council, with the solemn duty of creating weekly polls. Well one day I created the poll "Which would win in a fight? Borg Cube or Death Star?". Naturally, since this was a Star Trek guild, the answer was overwhelmingly "Borg Cube", but someone did have the rationality to point out we were biased.
So I look up a pretty prominent Star Wars guild and message one of their council and ask them to poll the same question and get back to me in a week. They do, and naturally the fuckin geeks said "Death Star".
So then I look up a Stargate guild and messaged the lead council member, saying the same thing, and they get back to me almost immediately saying that the Death Star would immediately one-shot a Borg Cube but they would never be able to do it again to another Cube. And I took that wisdom back to my guild and we were mollified, and for one moment the Nerd World was peaceful.
For the uninitiated, you write [sic]—literally "this" or "so" in latin—to indicate that you haven't altered the wording or spelling. While it can be used to preserve a joke misspelling (aminals) or indicate that you know it looks weird (the Toronto Maple Leafs), it is also the most biting three letters that you can throw at a motherfucker who should know better.
abortion clicker early game : you click the belly 50 times in order to perform one abortion. this lets you buy a doctor who performs 0.1 abortions a second.
abortion clicker mid game: you own hundreds of clinics as well as think-tanks which dismantle sex ed courses as well as politicians which strengthen pro choice institutions
abortion clicker late game: the solar system’s resources have been stripped to build a dyson sphere which incubates trillions of humans for the sole purpose of performing abortions on them. once we achieve hyperspace travel, other stars will power superintelligent machines which will simulate octillions of abortion a second
Was driving with my grandmother and in broken English she says “no eyes… no nose… no face. Don’t trust.” To which I looked around wildly in search of this omen of ill portend.
Cybertruck. It was a cybertruck.
Certified Freak Since November Of 2015 @introvert2society - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
