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serenailith · 1 year

Text

i’m saying more right now than i ever said

for @dreamlingbingo

Square: c3, free space Rating: e Word Count: 2978 Ship(s): dream of the endless/hob gadling Warnings: none Additional Tags: alternate universe - human, alternate universe - no powers, porn with a sprinkle of plot, (actually a fair bit of plot), unrequited love, maybe not so unrequited love, nothing to lovers - freeform, one (1) idiot in love with another idiot Summary:

Really, after two years, it was inevitable that one of them would stupidly fall in love.

Link: on ao3 masterlist

He’s a pretentious, self-righteous, arrogant, pompous arse, or so Hob has heard, but damn, does Hob love the way Dream looks right now. His wild, sable hair plastered to his forehead, blue eyes narrowed, a bead of sweat sliding along his temple as he fucks into Hob with a determination that Hob imagines is reserved for Olympic sports. It would be amusing, how focused Dream is right now on something like sex–something that should be fun and full of more emotion than this–but all thoughts flee Hob’s mind at the next rough thrust.

Well, the thoughts that don’t revolve around Dream’s cock, anyway.

As it is, Hob finds himself infatuated with the beautiful creature that is Morpheus “Dream” Emrys.

Not that Hob would ever dare say as much. He and Dream aren’t exactly what one would call “friends”. Not even enemies, either. They just… are, yet are not. They’re two people who met at a pub two years ago who occasionally sleep together (except ‘occasionally’ has become ‘nearly every weekend’, which Hob is certainly not complaining about). They don’t speak to each other outside of the texts; tonight’s had only said “I’ll be there in 15”, from Hob to Dream as he’d stormed to his car. Dream hadn’t even responded, but Hob found the door to Dream’s flat unlocked and the man himself sprawled naked across his bed when Hob entered the bedroom.

Now it’s nearing four o’clock in the morning and Hob is groaning as his release splatters across his belly, as Dream continues fucking him with ruthless vigour. It’s almost too much, but that’s Dream. He pushes the boundaries but never crosses them. Hob knows if he says something, Dream would stop. He would apologise and ask if Hob wants to continue. Hob would very much like to continue: Sex with Dream is some of the best sex Hob has ever had.

Eventually, it’s over, and Hob is unceremoniously pointed toward the door once they’ve both cleaned up. He exits the building hiding a smile, despite the way the evening ended. It isn’t unexpected, anyway. In fact, it’s almost comical how Dream still walks him to the door after so long of their trysts. Hob could walk around the flat with his eyes closed and never so much as stumble.

Two years of this. If it were anyone else, Hob is certain he would have long grown tired of it all—the journey back to his own empty home, the lack of talking, the lack of caring. Sure, Dream is considerate and respectful, even giving to a fault, but he doesn’t give a damn about Hob outside of the bedroom. He’s made that quite clear with the utter refusal to ever acknowledge Hob’s texts.

Hob knows it’s ridiculous, how hung up he is on Dream, but he wouldn’t change it for the world.

The next week passes in a long, slow crawl. He hardly pays attention to the lectures he gives, and poor Richard, the teaching assistant, receives more essays to mark than he normally does. Hob prefers to take the brunt of the workload–it is his job, after all–but his mind continuously strays from his tasks. He even burns dinner three nights of seven, which is especially frustrating when all he wants is the homemade curry he planned for Friday that only ends up in the garbage, charred and inedible.

But Saturday… Saturday brings with it a firm knock on the door before the sun is even fully up. Hob scrambles for his phone on the nightstand, peering blearily at the screen. His lips tug down into a frown at the time, at the texts that wait to be read:

D 10 D 5 D I am outside

As he reads the last text, another knock sounds from the living room. Hob rolls his eyes and stretches out the kinks in his back. Dream can wait just a moment, can’t he? Except the timestamp on the latest message says he’s been waiting for, at the very least, five minutes. Hob still takes a moment to stop in the bathroom and use the toilet, wash his hands, do the normal ‘first woken up’ thing.

“Good morning,” he all but chirps when he pulls open the door.

Dream glowers in response but doesn’t speak as he brushes past Hob. Hob pulls a face behind his back and closes the door as his whatever-Dream-really-is heads straight for the bedroom. So this is how Dream wants it, then. Hob stifles a sigh but dutifully follows. It may be half-six in the morning, but he isn’t about to turn down an hour or two in bed with Dream.

To his surprise, Dream allows the reverence Hob feels he’s always owed, especially with his pale, smooth skin and sharp angles on display. Dream lies there, one hand tucked under his head and the other at his side. His lips are quirked upward in one corner, the slightest hint of a smirk on his face, as Hob’s hands slide along the flat planes of his abdomen.

Beautiful, he is. His hair is just as wild as ever, and his skin is soft beneath the rough drag of Hob’s palms. His thighs are narrow and strong between Hob’s own, and he lets out a slow breath when Hob slides one hand along the solid line of hip. The steadiness of inhale-exhale breaks as Hob wraps his fingers around Dream’s cock, and Hob grins to himself as he gives a tantalising stroke.

“What brings you by so early in the morning?” he asks before leaning down to nip at Dream’s clavicle.

“Do not ruin this already, Gadling.”

“I would never.”

And it’s true. Hob will do anything he possibly can to keep this arrangement going. So he shuts up and tightens his grip as he bites down on smooth skin. Dream finally cracks–he grits his teeth against the moan that even Hob can hear struggling to escape. His hips jerk up toward the ring of Hob’s fist.

By the time Dream pushes into him in one, slick slide, Hob can scarcely breathe for the lust. He always suffers from this effect, the one only Dream can cause. Hob has had other partners in bed–Hell, he has three others who are willing and completely informed of each other’s presence. Hob is perfectly content with his sex life.

But Dream? Dream is the sole lover who can send Hob’s head spinning, his body yearning even while getting what it wants, his mind constantly fixating on what has happened between them from the start.

‘Lover’. Hob knows that’s a poor word for what they are. There is no love between them, though he can’t deny there’s something there on his end. It’s silly, but he can’t stop himself from… From falling for the enigmatic man currently pleasing him in ways no one else can.

Dream leaves two hours later, both of them sated, if a little disappointed (on Hob’s part). At least, Hob hopes Dream is as satisfied as he is, or else it would be a very awkward encounter next time.

If there even is a next time.

God, does Hob hope.

With a sigh, he rolls over in bed and reaches for his phone. Johanna has texted, a simple “Bar tonight, NO no allowed.” As if Hob will refuse; he needs it after this morning. It was fun, it was more than that, really. But Hob knows that each time, every single time he spends any amount of hours–minutes–seconds in Dream’s presence, he falls even more in love.

And it hurts. It aches in his bones to know he’s given so much of himself to Dream without the man reciprocating. Hob isn’t sure Dream even realises. They’re nothing but two men who sleep together every weekend.

That fact would kill Hob if he let it.

Drinking with Johanna is, as ever, a veritable rollercoaster ride that ends in regret the next morning. He isn’t sure what he says to her after the fifth (or was it the seventh?) shot of whisky, but judging by her texts the following day, it was a lot more than he ever had before. She’s surprisingly supportive in her own acerbic, crude way.

Jo If the idiot doesn’t realise what he has in you, then fuck him. You’re not a bad bloke, not really. A bit of a prick at times, though. Jo Can’t believe I’m saying this but talk to him. Worst that happens is he fucks off.

Yeah, that’s definitely the worst. Hob replies with nothing more than a ‘Thanks’ and an emoji of a kissing face. He knows she’ll make some sort of snide comment about it, but he also knows it’ll make her giggle though she would deny it. One thing about Johanna Constantine is that she is sharper around the edges than most, and she wears that fact like armour. However, she is oddly soft and gooey inside. And he loves her for everything she is.

At one point, he thought maybe it was actual love, the kind that something could have grown from. Then she’d soundly put that notion to a cold, abrupt rest when she started waxing poetic about her girlfriend Rachel while completely intoxicated. It’s the only time he’s ever seen her so drunk.

Hob hesitates then sends another message. There’s no response, though he expected it. He still sits up, pausing when his head spins and the world goes wobbly at the edges, then rises to his feet. After dressing as quickly as possible, he hurries out of the flat and down the stairs. Mrs Callisto from across the hall glances up at him from where she stands by the postboxes.

“Ah, Robert! You are in a rush this morning.”

He only smiles in return then steps out the door. The brisk air clears the fog from his mind, but it doesn’t make him falter. It almost seems to invigorate him, further persuade him to do what needs to be done. And this? This needs to be done.

It’s been a long time coming, really.

So Hob swallows down any doubts he might have and ambles down the street. He could drive–it would certainly be faster–but he really doesn’t think it’s safe enough to do so. Not with his mind so full of thoughts that drive him to distraction. Yeah, walking is definitely the safer option.

Dream opens the door moments after Hob knocks. His hair is messier than usual; Hob recognises the style, though he’s never seen it before. The man he loves has just woken up. Hob wonders if it was his text or the knocking. Forcing his thoughts back to the task at hand, he draws in a steadying breath.

“I need to say something, and I need you to hear me out, okay?”

Dream gives him an indecipherable look then steps out of the way for Hob to enter the flat. He still says nothing, and if Hob ‘accidentally’ lets his hand slide along Dream’s stomach, he will never admit it. Though he does relish the way Dream shivers subtly at the touch.

As soon as Hob comes to a stop in the living room, he turns to face Dream. “Look. We’ve been doing this for, what, two years now? And I have zero complaints, really. It’s been fun in ways I can’t put into words. Because you are… You are incredible in bed. Has anyone told you that before?”

Dream stays silent, but there’s a smirk playing on his lips. Of course he’s cocky about this, Hob thinks.

“But–” And here, the smirk fades away. Dream’s brows draw together, lips pressing thin, and Hob swallows thickly. This is it. “But I can’t keep doing this. Not without you knowing that–that I love you. I have for a while, I just didn’t realise it. And honestly? It’s really starting to suck. It hurts to feel this way knowing you don’t feel the same. It hurts, Dream. Can you say something?” he asks, pleads, when Dream only stares.

“You love me,” Dream whispers after a long moment, and Hob nearly collapses to his knees at the sound. It’s been so long since he actually heard anything from Dream other than his moans; he never even spoke to tell Hob whether to fuck him harder or take it slow or anything.

“I do.”

“That is… That is quite ridiculous of you.”

“What?”

Dream shrugs, mouth opening and closing, before: “I am the worst person you could choose to love, Hob.”

“Not from where I’m at.”

“So not only are you ridiculous, you are a fool, as well.”

Hob blows out a breath. He should have known that Dream would be stubborn about this; he’s been stubborn about maintaining their status quo for two damned years, after all. Forgoing words, Hob strides closer. Dream stays still as Hob cradles his face and brings their faces closer together.

“You are insufferable,” he murmurs before kissing Dream. Their lips brush with each word: “Frustrating. Demanding, commanding. Amazing.”

“You know nothing about me.”

Hob pulls back just enough to look Dream in the eye. Unwavering. Serious. “I know how you like to be touched, how you sound when you’re kissed thoroughly, how you feel when I slide into you. I know I want to know how you like your coffee and your favourite foods and how it feels to just cuddle with you at night as we fall asleep.”

“I…”

“Please, please, let me find out.”

Dream is the one who closes the distance this time. His arms loops around Hob’s neck, and he tugs until Hob follows where he leads. The back of Hob’s knees hit the couch; he falls to the cushions with a severe lack of grace. His confusion vanishes when Dream straddles his lap, lips never separating from Hob’s even when their breathing grows strained.

After a moment, Dream finally yanks away, eyes alit with something Hob can’t name, and slithers off of Hob’s lap. His slender hands work deftly at the button on Hob’s jeans; Hob finally catches up, lifts his hips so that Dream can tug his jeans and underwear down. Dream grins up at him–God, that smile does something to Hob’s heart–before swallowing him down to the root without hesitation. Hob groans at the wet heat and melts further into the cushions as Dream sets up a brutal pace.

He slides a hand through Dream’s hair, fingers wrapping around the locks, and gasps when Dream hums around the length in his mouth. Hob can’t stop himself: He thrusts shallowly, just a tiny bit, and Dream’s hands rest on his knees. His nails dig into the skin there, and he remains still as Hob continues pushing and pulling into his mouth. Hob’s head falls back as heat sizzles in his veins.

This conversation has taken a turn that he hadn’t expected–couldn’t have seen coming–but he can’t complain. He can only allow Dream to pull off, to mouth teasingly at the tip of his cock, before pulling away completely. Hob all but whines at the lack of contact. Dream smirks, strips off his pyjamas with efficiency, and Hob reaches for him. Shaking his head, Dream disappears down the hall.

He comes back within seconds, a black bottle in his hand. Hob gives him a sloppy smile at the sight of the lube. Dream settles back on Hob’s lap and cracks the lid open. He glares at Hob when he goes to take the bottle; Hob huffs out a laugh and raises his hands in surrender. Seemingly appeased, Dream coats his fingers and reaches behind himself.

It takes less time than Hob expects, but then Dream is lowering himself onto his cock, grimacing before his expression smooths out, jaw drops open. Hob is just as affected by the sensations. Once Dream has stilled, Hob surges forward to kiss him again. His hands find Dream’s narrow waist, clinging to him tightly, as he fucks up into the tight warmth surrounding his dick.

It’s not what Hob wanted when he came over this morning. He wanted a discussion, to tell the truth and hear it back, but instead, he’s getting this. It feels amazing. Dream always does. But Hob knows it won’t be as satisfying as it normally is. Sex being used as a distraction rarely is a pleasant thing.

He feels strangely empty as Dream clambers off his lap a few minutes later.

Once they’ve cleaned themselves up, Dream gracefully lowers himself to sit beside Hob. Neither man has deigned to put on their clothes again, so Hob is nearly distracted to want by the pale skin stretched out next to him.

“It… It is not love,” Dream says, his voice quiet in the silence, and Hob flinches as if the words are a physical blow. “You wanted honesty, I presume? This is me being honest. It is not love that I feel, Hob.” Dream’s head turns, and he pins Hob with a steady gaze, steel-blue eyes gentle like he’s trying to let Hob down easily. Hob resigns himself to leaving behind something that could have been fantastic. “But it very well could be, should I allow it.”

It takes a long handful of seconds for the words to register in Hob’s brain. When they do, his lips part. His heart lurches beneath his ribs, and his throat tightens. Could this mean–?

Dream nods slowly, decisively, pointedly. Hob loses his composure. He launches himself at the man he loves, the one who doesn’t yet love him back but could in the future, but that’s okay. As he kisses Dream within an inch of their lives, he vows to be patient. He can wait.

He’s already waited two years, after all. He'd wait a hundred more.

#the sandman #dream of the endless #hob gadling #dream of the endless x hob gadling #dream x hob #dreamling #human!au #my writing #dreamling bingo

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louwhose · 1 year

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louwhose art masterlist

Instagram | Drawing tag

Commissions

STUPIDLY PRETENTIOUS

The Legend of Zelda

Fable/Legend DTIYS, Idiot hair Link, Heaven's DTIYS, Twi's Skyrim AU, Minish Cap Beginnings, ALBW Rumors, ghost link/ witch zelda, LU camping, ladye’s daybreak, lively bunch, LOZ sketch dump

Breath of the Wild

Zelda in Shining Armor (my comic)

Zelink Week 2022: One Last Look, Age, Rainy Day, Statue, Sparring, Rituals, Healing

Swords and Storms Cosmere Inktober: Puppet, Weapon, Glass, Chains, Flame, Miscreant, Lantern

Link, Link but in a cool pose, March of the Koroks, Zelink Reunion, Zelink braids, Divine Zelda, Champions meme, Zelink in Gerudo outfits, Calvin and Hobbes Zelda and Link, Zelink kiss comic, Tebasaki Tackle, You are my Sunshine, "Pure" friends, Stained glass monster, Speedrunning a century meme, Anne AU, Swords and Storms AU, S&S incognito, Zelda pixie cut, Zelink reunion redraw, Witch Zelda, Fall Under Your Spell, Battle & Overgrown, Halloween Scholomance AU, I’m Not That Girl, Link would be best dad, Christmas zinc, link_inofficial, The Fallback Plan DTIYS, Physical Touch for Keik, Redraw, Loftwing Letters Zelink, Down Bad Christmas Link, OoT Parallels, Written in the Stars, chrsmsmsmss, Redraw (again)

Tears of the Kingdom

"BotW 2" with BACKGROUND, Dramatic BoTW 2 Link, Feral Link BoTW 2 prediction, BotW 2/ LOTR animation, After the announcement, Ghost, After February Trailer, Journey, Save Him, B’s DTIYS, fond goodbye

Ocarina of Time

Starting struggles, Zelink meet CUTE

Play-by-play sketchdumps: first, second, third + Shink, fourth, final

Expression meme: Link, Sheik, Golden Trio

smol zelink, Ending sad, OoT/ Stormlight, OoT 24th anniversary, 100% cannon secret marriage mistletoe kiss, Skipping Stones | Zelinktines Day 20: Meet Cute, OoT Zelink flangst, Zelink/Deku Mountain Greek inspired, Impertinence, BoTW Parallels, butch impa, wedding shink, magical girl, shink kiss, 200 DTIYS, masks, Sheik-xedo mask, fireboy and water girl

Skyward Sword

Zelink at the start of the game, Groose on the surface hehe, Link with Nightblood, Loftwing Sunset, Sky sandals, Zelink hug, Play with Me, angy link, sweet DTIYS entry

Wind Waker

telink redesign, ocean adventures, Watery Smile, fancy goth vibes telink, recruit uniforms

Spirit Tracks

Hand holding, birds

Dwight in Shining Armor

Expression memes: 1, 2, 3, 4

Shining Smooch Week 2023: Yesterday, Marigold, Crown, Gothic, Heart, Wanderlust, Hero

Dwetta, A kiss like fireworks, Dwetta christmas, Baldric’s Koi fish, Sir Dwight, gotta kill this guy meme, Cow Advocate

Cosmere

Swords and Storms Cosmere Inktober: Puppet, Weapon, Glass, Chains, Flame, Miscreant, Lantern

Rithmatist characters, Vin, Fancy Vin, Vin and Elend flirting, Melody + Icecream, Link with Nightblood, Miraculous / Stormlight Crossover, Swords and Storms AU, S&S incognito, OoT/ Stormlight, Soaring through the mists

Other

Hamin's Flower (Seasons of Blossom), Totally not a king Hesho (Starsight), That dallymart scene in turning red, Yona and Shirayuki, The spy family!!, Anya Smirk/punch (SPY x FAMILY), Anya Peanuts (SPY x FAMILY), Scholomance The Last Graduate vibes, Sesshomaru, TwiYor snuggles, Goblin, El and Orion <3 (Scholomance), FMAB Expression meme, Cecil (Answer Me, My Prince), Edwin, Defiant, slugs and delvers, Wonka, Volo and Akari, Ides of March, Apothecary diaries, Normal jk mafuyu, sketch dump

My Stuff

Fantasy OC???, Witch, Villainess Idiots (OCs), Mermaid Unicorn, Villainess Expression Meme OCs, sky island dragon

#masterlist #lou draws #for the record my distinction between botw 2 and totk is whether it was drawn before the trailer or not #you may laugh at some of these names but believe it or not I put more effort into these than my file names #note to self: last updated 04/12/2024

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yetanothercomicbook · 9 months

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Legion of Vengeance

Iron Fist [Marvel Comics Presents #113-118]

Pretentious claptrap.

Danny works with Ghost Rider to battle 4 new super-villains.

What a load of codswallop! 48 pages of aimless storytelling and dialogue that sounds nothing like anything a real person would ever say.

The villains are punishing normal people for supposed transgressions. "Hypocrisy was rampant! I was living in a world of lies!" So, litter bugs and lusty teenagers come under fire.

The heroes battle each other. Then ride to the graveyard together. Then leave the graveyard, but promptly return to it a few pages later. Huh?! The story is going nowhere until a demon joins the narrative, somewhat randomly, and invites them to "The Pit." Stupidly, they accept his invitation. Guess what? It's a trap! "We have been... sorely deceived!" Man, if you can't trust demons, who can you trust?

The fun of reading this is that the writer clearly thinks it's profound in some way. Offering a commentary or something. But, actually, it's just a steaming pile of manure. The art is nice.

2/10

#Iron Fist #November 1992

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the-desolated-quill · 2 years

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Once I finish this assignment due on Wednesday, I think I may write something about The Batman and how stupidly pretentious it looks. The Riddler in particular looks like he’s trying so hard to be dark and edgy, it’s laughable. And a certain section of the fanbase need to take their heads out of their arses I think. Like… someone photoshopped Jim Carrey into The Batman and asked if the ‘haters’ would prefer him over Bin Bag Man. What? You mean do I want the Riddler to actually look and act like the character from the comics? Yes please! Seriously guys, have we not grown out of our Christopher Nolan phases by now? Why does it need to be so serious and po-faced? IT’S FUCKING BATMAN! 🤣🤣🤣

#the batman #dc #quill takes the piss

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yerawizardjulia · 3 years

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Too Rich for a McNugget (Wolfstar)

A university student enters an antique shop in a panic. How do you buy a wedding gift for a cousin you hate?

Sirius wouldn’t have looked twice at the dusty shop if he wasn’t stupidly, desperately late. The high street itself was laughing at him and he was uncomfortably aware of the scrubby guy on the bench that had definitely seen him walk past the same shop window three times in a desperate attempt to see anything other than tea towels and obnoxiously cheerful decorated mugs with ‘World’s best dad’ printed on the sides in Comic Sans. His fingers were slippery in anxious sweat as he pressed the home button on his phone, his iPhone six, another reason his presence would be scorned at this godforsaken gathering. The smudgy screen blinked into life and displayed, seemingly smugly after Sirius’ growing resentment towards the device, 12:42.

Twenty fucking minutes. If he didn’t show up with a gift he might as well not show up at all, an option he would have embraced wholeheartedly if his mother hadn’t pincered him into a corner at their last, regularly depressing routine coffee catch up and told him the deeds to his inheritance were under considerable threat if he did not attend. He wouldn’t have minded, but being twenty grand in debt to an English degree in a rented apartment with black mould creeping onto the ceiling made him reconsider his options.

Fucking Narcissa.

He wouldn’t have been looking forward to the wedding even if she wasn’t marrying a right wing, Eton-educated, ‘can’t control these blasted immigrants’ CEO of whateverthefuck that looked as though he’d never even touched an item of clothing that didn’t come from Armani. It was so typical of his cousin to find a man who deferred so minimally from their shared families’ frankly alarmingly consistent Tory heritage that Sirius had had to do some extensive Googling to confirm that Lucius Malfoy was not in fact, a not-so-distant relative.

A text buzzed in his hand, the little green notification welcome on the screen. At least it was an excuse to loiter outside this shop window for another minute or so without looking like a genuine psychopath.

‘Just get her a toaster or something idk.’

Sirius hadn’t really expected James’ solution to his predicament to be helpful, but his flatmate’s response nevertheless sent the hopeless feeling in his stomach a few inches lower. He had never expected for his future to be balanced on the purchase of a wedding gift, but he would almost prefer to sit his first-year exams, which he had taken with a hangover so severe it felt like he was going to vomit out of his eyeballs, all over again than have to look at this shop window for a second longer. He pictured sitting in a gutter in London, like the tramps that his mother refused to make eye contact with during their trips out during his childhood, drinking from a bottle wrapped in brown paper and thinking; if only I had gone with the luxury jam set. He had discarded the idea after noticing the Tesco’s Finest logo above the barcode, but it was beginning to look like his best option.

Another text. No, a call. Sirius shoved the phone back into his hoodie he was using to mask the aristocratic wedding attire beneath. Keepers of pretentious little shops such as the ones lining this dusty high street tended to bump their prices through the roof if they saw someone of his blood walk in. Old blood. Old money. It was unfair, really, because Sirius didn’t actually have any. If he did, he probably wouldn’t mind paying the exorbitant prices; James spent half his life agonising over how independent businesses were being suffocated by Amazon. But Sirius had nothing to his name until his dear grandparents decided to snuff it. The phone ceased buzzing waspishly in his pocket, and he decided he had better check who he was ignoring.

Typical fucking Regulus.

Probably the only human being under twenty that actually went out of his way to call people, rather than text. He would be there already, exchanging pleasantries in the foyer of the Malfoy’s third manor home. Checking to see whether the Black family disappointment was showing his face, or if he’d have to rely on his six predicted A* grades and brand new Porsche that probably cost more to insure than it did to buy to present himself as the golden child. He’d probably have a stupid little flower in his stupid little button hole. Being a cousin of the bride and a groomsman of the groom, Regulus had firmly nestled himself already into this hideous conjunction of families. He had a job lined up for him in Malfoy’s London branch. In six months, he’d probably have his own office.

Sirius had diluted his shampoo with water for the second time this morning.

He scowled and kicked a bottle cap along the pavement as he stumped, once again, down the row of shops. The circular metal projectile skittered across the tarmac and bounced off a door frame. He stopped, staring suddenly at the sign swinging on a pair of metal hooks like it was a medieval fucking tavern.

Fletcher’s Quality Gifts and Trinkets.

Somehow, inexplicably, Sirius’ eyes had slid over this shop four times as he’d panicked his way up and down this stretch of pavement. There was no window display, that was why. The door fit seamlessly between Bobbin’s Haberdashery and a derelict Cafe Nero. Sirius felt his phone buzz again and suppressed the urge to throw it into the path of the lazy, midday traffic crawling its way up the high street. He stared at the chipped paint and begged silently, to whatever entities may have been listening, that he would find something, anything to take to this fucking wedding.

The door jammed awkwardly on the floor as Sirius pushed it open. It made a juddering, dry squeak, scuffing on the splintery wood. Sirius winced, and half thought about just turning tail and walking out again, going back to pick up that cheap-as-shit jam set. Narcissa probably didn’t even eat jam. Was jam vegan?

He had to push his way in sideways, and as he did so, the door unstuck, swinging open and leaving him standing, pointlessly squashed back against the door frame. Sirius closed his eyes and wondered whether anything was going to go right today.

When he opened them, a guy was blinking at him from behind a checkout desk. A book was open on the surface before him and his long legs with too short trousers that showed a few inches of garishly coloured socks were rested upon the desk next to the till. He removed them hastily to the floor as Sirius stared.

“Sorry, the door- It gets stuck- you have to like-“ He mimed something that Sirius couldn’t even begin to relate to unsticking a door. “Sorry,” he finished, lamely. He bent over his book. Sirius peeled himself from the frame, not taking in the low beams that he would probably hit his head on or the items grouped together in nonsensical piles on the shelves and stacked on the floor.

This guy was gorgeous. He had an odd collection of features that were nothing special, when you looked at them individually- a nose that listed to the left, a thin top lip, a smattering of pigmentation on his cheeks that suggested acne that had been grown out of- but together... Sirius couldn’t stop staring at him. That tawny hair- fucking tawny, who am I, William pissing Wordsworth?- That sharp chin, those long fingers that teased the edge of the paper as he finished reading his page.

He was absolutely, fundamentally, not Sirius’ type. Any romantic entanglements he had had- and granted, it was not a long list (he and James had one sellotaped to the fridge)- involved men so deep in the closet they were practically choking on mothballs. They were footballers, mostly, insecure, ‘just experimenting’. Sirius didn’t know why his gaydar was sounding off so strongly. Was it the deeply uncool granddad jumper that somehow looked like it belonged in Men’s Vogue when draped over his long torso? Sirius was hardly modest about his own looks, but if he tried that jumper on he would look like the kid that forgot his P.E. kit. The same went for the not-skinny, not-baggy jeans that looked as though they were made for literally anyone other than him but somehow, looked really cool and why did Sirius love those hideous socks so much? Did they have pineapples on them?

The guy, seemingly unaware of Sirius lurking behind the shelf closest to the door, propped the book up in his hands, and Sirius read the title- The Picture of Dorian Grey.

Well, there it is.

“IneedapresentforacousinIhatewho’smarryingaguythathasprobablynevereatenaMcDonald’schickennugget.” Sirius was hardly more aware of the words projectile vomiting from his mouth than he was of the way he was sidling towards the checkout desk with his hands wringing in front of him like he was expecting this guy to stand up and shout at him.

Brown eyes emerged from behind the finest work of Oscar Wilde, carrying a look of mild alarm.

“Because, he’s rich, not a vegetarian.” Sirius finished. His mouth seemed a long way behind his brain, but perhaps that was a good thing, because his brain was currently screaming FUCK ME and Sirius was not willing to be barred from any more establishments for hedonistic behaviour.

“A wedding present?” His voice was mild, like Sirius had just asked a perfectly normal question for a stranger to ask a shop employee.

“Uh, yeah.” Why was he blushing? He never blushed. He stepped back needlessly as the guy rose from behind the desk. He was tall. Proportionately tall, with long limbs and a long neck and long god knows what else. Sirius nearly fell to his knees in reverence when the guy cracked a smile that caused a dimple to poke in his cheek and exposed sharp canines that Sirius never considered worth noticing in anyone before but holy fuck he would be now.

“You know what, I think I’ve got something.” He was walking away down one of the dark-ish isles, stooping considerably to avoid the beams and Sirius was trailing after him, awkward and out of place and acting so drastically not like himself he wondered if he had sustained a concussion at some point. Maybe when he was forcing his way through that rude fucking door. The hair at the nape of this guy’s neck curled slightly like he was due a haircut. His trainers were really beat up and old, and Sirius was sure he could see one of the laces fraying and considered whether he should warn him he was about to trip.

“When is this wedding?” His voice was still mild and almost disconcertingly polite; he had stopped and was rummaging among a pile of objects on a shelf-seriously, how was anyone supposed to find anything in here?- and Sirius was still staring at his trailing shoelace.

“Well, sort of now.”

He stood up a bit straighter as the brown eyes widened, and he was looking at him, properly, for the first time and Jesus Christ, how were you supposed to stand normally? Where were your arms supposed to go? Eyebrows, light brown and shapeless and a bit sparse at the ends, furrowed and he let out a small huff of amusement. It was the politest expression of ‘this dude’s a complete disaster’ that Sirius had ever seen. “I’ve been putting it off,” he added needlessly. Something about the way this guy was now looking him up and down as if he could read his life story just from Sirius’ tailored trousers that he’d forgotten to get dry cleaned and his hoodie that was actually James’ and his shoes that looked expensive but were actually from TKMaxx was making him need to offer increasingly poor explanations for his shambles of a life. “I don’t want to go, but I have to, and I hate weddings anyway, but especially this one, and I-‘

The look of curious amusement on the guy’s face- god, Sirius really wanted to know his name- halted his rambling. “Sorry,” he mumbled, “I’m not normally this stressed.”

“That’s okay,” he replied, as if it was his job to tolerate a load of garbled nonsense from strangers, like he did it regularly, in fact, which made him wonder what kind of people actually came into this shop that you could barely tell existed. He was still rummaging through the shelves, Sirius was pretty sure a couple of things had fallen off the back and were now in the dark recesses of the between-shelf-and-wall space where things went to die. God, did anyone ever actually buy anything in here? He found it easier to control himself when the guy stopped x-raying him with his eyes, so he said “er, how long’s this shop been here?”

“Oh, I’ve only worked here six weeks. No idea, ages, probably.” He picked up a remarkably creepy porcelain figure of a shepherdess that was covered with so much dust that at first glance, Sirius thought it was some kind of radioactively-deformed elephant.

“I see what you mean,” said Sirius, staring at the figurine reproachfully. “How does anyone find anything in here?” The questions were not what he actually wanted to ask, which involved something along the lines of are you gay-are you single-are you safe from asbestos in this shop and do you think I’m a complete weirdo. He perked up when the guy let out another polite huff of laughter.

“Most customers have been coming in here for years,” he said, “I don’t see a lot of new people.” His eyes flickered to Sirius and back again and Sirius felt as if he was preparing to dive from a very large boat into a sea that was very cold.

“What’s your name?” Sirius asked, louder than he had meant to. He cringed inwardly and for the second time, considered legging it out of the door when he was once again regarded by a pair of searching brown eyes.

“Remus,” he said. Sirius could tell he was waiting for him to laugh. When he didn’t, because how the fuck could this man get any more attractive, and somehow the name Remus suited him down to his shredded laces, he turned to face him, as if in defiance.

“Hilarious, I know. Remus Lupin, which makes it even better.” Sirius’ resolve cracked at this.

“What?” He squawked, dragging his eyes over Remus again, because he looked like any novelist's wet dream and his name was Remus fucking Lupin... “Mine’s worse.” Sirius said, straightening again. Remus Lupin was rolling his eyes as if in grim acceptance of the barrage of snide jibes that had yet to tumble from Sirius’ mouth, but his eyebrows had disappeared into his hair at Sirius’ response and his arms were folded across his chest, which pulled the loose neck of his jumper down and exposed a few inches of pale sternum.

“I don’t believe you.”

Sirius grinned at this. He cleared his throat and pulled his hand out of the pouch/pocket/thing on the front of his hoodie which was definitely not a secure place for his phone, wallet and keys, and held it out.

“Sirius Black. Pleasure to meet you.” Remus’ mouth had fallen slightly open and a smile was touching at the corners of his lips as he took Sirius’ hand. Sirius was almost surprised that there was no jolt of electricity from all the built up static in his woollen jumper, but his skin was cool and his fingers were thin and twiggy and the knuckles were surprisingly big, and he didn’t drop it straight away, which made Sirius wonder if it was intentional, like a sort of gay signal, and then he remembered the Oscar Wilde book on the checkout desk and stopped trying to look for gay signals.

“Holy shit,” Remus spluttered. The profanity rolled masterfully from his lips; Sirius had never quite got the hang of swearing after his stuffy, conservative upbringing. Remus made it sound graceful.

“What a pair, eh?” said Sirius, and then cringed inwardly again because they weren’t a pair, they were complete strangers but somehow it felt like they’d known each other forever and fuck when did it get so hot in here? He looked at the shelves where Remus’ other hand still rested, and tried to ignore the eyes that were sliding up and down his body as Remus Lupin gave him what Sirius recognised as ‘the gay once-over.’ Dressed in the odd assortment of James’ secondary school football hoodie that had been surpassed by the frankly unnatural growth of James’ shoulders, pretentious shoes and crinkled dress trousers, Sirius was acutely aware that he was not looking his whole and considerable best. Christ, he might even look straight.

“There’s um-you said you might have something?” Sirius said, after another twenty five seconds in which Remus’ gaze had lingered on the rings Sirius had forgotten to take off (his mum would kill him if he turned up to a wedding looking like anything other than a Conservative Straight Man) and then drifted to his hair which was probably fried from all the sweating and running about and cheap shampoo. Remus blinked at these words, and whipped his head back to the shelves as if startled he had been caught in the act.

“Yes! Sorry, it’s-erm-can you hold this?” He plonked a cast iron sewing machine into Sirius’ arms who sagged beneath the weight, wheezing as he tried to lock his knees without Remus noticing. What the hell kind of Hulk body was hiding under that jumper? Eyes streaming, he balanced it on top of a pile of ancient National Geographic magazines and prayed it would not succumb to the inevitable force of gravity. Remus was deep into the recesses of the shelf, standing on tiptoe to reach the very back. His socks were visible again and Sirius could see now that they were not pineapples, but durians. Cute. His jumper was riding up as he stretched to whatever unknown artefacts lurked at the very rear and now it was Sirius’ turn to stare, because there was some pale midriff exposed above the waist of his jeans and he was skinny, but not skinny, kind of-lean? Was that the word? He had that vee of muscle above his hip and Sirius was suddenly struggling not to choke on his own tongue.

"Here it is!", came Remus' muffled voice, and Sirius took a step back hurriedly. He was pretty certain he had been gazing glassy eyed at the shop-keeper's navel where a delicate line of dark brown hair descended below his belt, and pinched his own wrist hard behind his back as Remus' head emerged, and he shook some cobwebs out of his curly hair. He was holding a small box, and Sirius’ first thought was that if something covered in that much dust came within eight feet of Narcissa, her immune system would likely spontaneously combust due to overexposure. People like her didn’t have immune systems, they just loaded themselves up with fucking multivitamins and avoided any establishments without at least two Michelin stars.

“Sorry it’s a bit-“ Remus blew a cloud of dust off the top of the box, coughed, and wiped it off on the back of his jeans, muttering ‘need to stop smoking.’

Sirius almost went feral at the image of his lips pursed around a Marlboro, but managed to pull his face into a socially acceptable frame in time for Remus to pass the box to him. “What do you think?”

Squatting in a bed of midnight blue velvet, sat a pair of silver napkin rings. They were ornate, and completely hideous. Sirius started to grin. He picked one up to examine it. It was decorated with a stag, and the other with a doe. It was likely the engraver had never seen these animals in the flesh, which would account for their mildly horrifying humanoid faces.

“Perfect,” muttered Sirius, turning the ugly silver object over in his hand. It was heavy and looked antique, and Sirius knew it would fit right in with the future Mrs. Malfoy’s entirely tasteless kitchen decor. He looked up at Remus, disbelieving in the way he had absolutely nailed Sirius’ mission. “Absolutely bloody perfect.”

Remus grinned back, a wondrous sight, his hands half in the pockets of his faded jeans. Sirius returned the napkin ring to its box, and then thought of something that made his smile falter.

“Are these solid silver?”

“Yep,” Remus said happily. “Nineteenth century antiques, I believe.” But Sirius was pushing the box back into his hands, shaking his head.

“I can’t afford that, sorry I-“

“Five quid.” The box flew back into Sirius’ hands before he could blink.

“Come again?”

The shopkeeper shrugged. “I’m the only person who knew they were there, and I doubt anyone else would want to bestow something that vile on a newly wedded couple.”

Was this guy even real? Sirius couldn’t quite fathom what he had done to deserve this act of kindness, but he wasn’t about to turn it down.

“Thank you,” he said, earnestly. Remus shrugged again, but the smile remained. He took Sirius back to the counter, where he took the box back from him and, while Sirius dug in his pocket for some change, produced some silvery wrapping paper and parcelled it. Sirius stole a surreptitious glance at him as he tied it off with a navy ribbon. His eyelashes were sandy like his eyebrows, but they were thick and almost touched his cheeks when his eyes were cast down on his work.

Sirius was having a crisis. He had never asked for anyone’s number before, but the thought of walking out of this shop and never seeing this god-sent individual again was criminal. His mouth felt dry. What if he had misread this interaction completely, and Remus was just a friendly, helpful guy? He glanced at the book, now balanced on top of the till while Remus rang up, and took a breath.

“Good book, that” he said, indicating The Picture of Dorian Grey awkwardly. Remus looked from him, to the book, and back again. While Sirius experienced a burning sensation in the base of his chest, Remus nodded non commitantly, and swept the stack of pound coins Sirius had placed on the desk into the till. He looked away, agonising, kicking himself internally at his own ineptness, as he pulled a receipt from the till and passed it and the neatly-wrapped box across the table.

“All done.”

“Thanks.” Sirius could feel his cheeks burning, and decided a clean getaway was well overdue. He had picked up the items and had half turned away when he heard- “I wrote my number on that receipt, you know.”

The burning in his chest now felt like a slowly inflating balloon. He looked down at the smooth piece of paper and saw a number scribbled in biro on its surface. Eleven numbers. Definitely a phone number. He turned hastily back to Remus, who was- Sirius was pleased to see- also looking slightly bashful.

“Thought my gaydar had malfunctioned for a minute there,” Sirius said. Remus laughed.

“It was really great to meet you.” He said, placing his feet up on the desk again.

“And you,” Sirius replied. Elated, he headed for the door before Remus could change his mind. He dreaded to think how late he was now, but he couldn’t think of a situation more worth a bollocking from his mother than this one. He had yanked the reluctant door open when-

“Hey, Sirius?”

“Yeah?” He looked over his shoulder. Remus was peering over the top of his book at him again.

“Let me know how the wedding goes.”

#wolfstar #Wolfstar fanfiction #muggle au #Marauders #Sirius Black #Remus Lupin #Harry Potter #harry potter fanfiction #wolfstar au #remus x sirius #remus is a little shit and i love him

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biomic · 3 years

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Kinda leading from your Lupat posts, do you think some of that is the fandom expecting a little much from Sentai (or toku in general, really). Like, do you think some people are looking for a kids superhero show primarily made to sell toys to do a lot more than its fair to expect it to do? Not saying it can't tell interesting stories (it definitely does), but that some people hold it to a standard of adult tv/film?

i think there’s definitely some truth to that among certain fan circles, but it’s really a case-by-case basis thing

because sometimes i see people who are just so unrelentingly negative about shows that are otherwise harmless, especially the “toku was way better back in (insert time period here)” types, and it’s like. maybe this isn’t for you anymore man. and then you’ve got the hot takes where someone takes a show’s misstep and blows it so out of proportion it becomes comical, like how build’s endgame not being as smooth as the rest of the show had some people saying the whole thing was shit and sento was a genocidal maniac Actually™. like yeah if you want to be as pretentious and obtuse as possible you can read resetting the world as “killing” people but you’re obviously not meant to think about it in those terms bc this is a children’s superhero show and it wasn’t built (heh) for that kind of stupidly specific scrutiny

but on the other end of things you’ve got people who go so far in the other direction that they look at any kind of criticisms lobbied at these shows and throw their hands up going “well it’s just a stupid kid’s show, what’d you expect?!”, which is such a disservice to the creators who put their heart and soul into this stuff. it’s disingenuous and comes from an insecurity about watching stuff aimed at children so you have to qualify with a bunch of “oh trust me i know this stuff is dumb baby shit haha” nonsense. we can enjoy, praise, and criticize these shows as genuine pieces of art while still recognizing that it is a show aimed at children meant to sell toys on a budget and shot on an incredibly tight time schedule that other television shows don’t have to deal with

so basically i want more people to use a little nuance when talking about the stuff they like on the internet but i know that will never happen <3

#asks #kendrix morgan died for our sins #super sentai for ts #kamen rider for ts #Anonymous

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inheritorofmemories-archive · 3 years

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TOG immortals and vices

Been thinking about the way half the guards smoke like chimneys in the comics, the consumption of alcohol shown in the movie, and what bad habits they would have picked up and never let go of throughout their lives.

So here, my little headcanons about which vices each of the immortals have:

(vices used loosely, more like bad habits or things they like that they cannot help or do without)

Andy and food. And sweet stuff.

She has known hunger and plain, out of necessity, food for so long she’ll indulge gods help her she will ingest as much sugar as she can get her hands on. Absolutely demolished Yusuf’s stash of sweets when they met her. She doesn’t like cooking, or baking, because it takes too much time and investment and feeding herself was a chore for most of her life but she loves to go out to eat. She absolutely hates the snobby michelin type restaurants with no food on the plate and stupidly long name and she’ll take a good meal from the corner food truck or that family held recipe over that pretentious crap any time of the day. Can only feel alive when eating food with enough spice in it to burn off anyone’s tongue but she also likes the greasy and filling stuff that sticks to your throat for hours. Food as a bonding experience for friends and family, she believes in the power of bread, good wine, sweet dessert and a full stomach. But mostly the desert to satisfy her huge sweet tooth.

Quynh and fashion.

That woman wouldn’t be caught dead in clothes that don’t fit or look ridiculous, you and I both know that. She’s reasonable most time and keeps their money in check but more than once she gave too many coins for a dress/tunic/shirt or a fabric that caught her eyes. In general she loves to take care of appearance, clean and combed hair styled nicely, clean and good clothes, makeup and jewelry that doesn’t look too bling but bring just enough class and bring attention. She likes beautiful things in general (aka her wife Andy but also that collection of knives she has that is centuries old, there’s some Damascus steel in there Joe found for her). Was definitely the one to dress the team and the one who took to new trends the fastest, even when she had Opinions on said trends. Would also be the type that would rather be overdressed than underdressed at an event, as opposed to Andy which makes for the funniest couple ever.

Nile and physical activity (not just sport, anything physical).

I see her as the kind of person who cannot relax and needs to be doing something at all times. She’s the eldest daughter in her family and in comics canon she had like 5 jobs before going into the army, tell me this isn’t the behavior of someone who hates to be idle because it makes her feel useless. She’s working out to process her emotions in the military base, and when Andy leaves to fight in the church she’s walking in circles trying to find something to do, go help Andy or pack or anything really. She’s absolutely the type to go for a run because she has nothing else planned and it clears her head, or the one to stress bake in the middle of the night to keep her hand busy, or who would learn to knit because reading isn’t enough to keep her brain in track she has to do something concrete with her hands. People telling her to calm down, stop jerking her legs or just take a day off awake strong murder urges in her. It’s not like she can help it so let her tear this piece of paper into smaller pieces of paper because she hasn’t been on run in days and she’s going crazy with pent up energy. Patience is vertue that never bothered to visit her.

Joe and arguing.

He loves to pick arguments. He’s the cerebral guy in the team and he will get into heated debates even if it pisses off him, the other person talking, everyone else around the table and the neighbors on the other side of the room. He can’t help it, that’s just in his genes to argue and share his opinions and confront the way other people’s brain work. The best kind of arguments are about the most pointless and petty things like how to drink your coffee, the best time to nap, which citrus is the best or the correct way to store books. The haggling falls under that category too, Yusuf “son of a merchant” al-Kaysani was raised right by his baba and he knows a scam when he sees one, no he will not calm down that price is twice it’s value, you thief.

Nicky and gambling.

He just likes it. Knows he shouldn’t but he enjoys the excitation of a bet and the risk involved and the thrill of winning too much to stop. As soon as an opportunity to bet arise it’s like a switch in his brain cut off all common sense coursing through him. He can hold back if the situation is dire but with enough teasing and ribbing he will take part even into the most stupid and useless bets, yeah, 20 bucks that chicken gets to the barn before the goat does. I have to thank @polarcell for this one, wouldn’t have thought of it without her posting about it and the image of calm and collected Nicky going feral over bets and just running headfirst into them is an incredibly humanizing quality that I appreciate.

Booker and alcohol.

Goes into the unhealthy side in the movie but I truly believe he’s the kind of man who would sell his kidney to get that bottle of good liquor he’s been eyeing all week, if not dying in the process, simply because he likes the taste of this one. The kind of man to be a snobby asshole over wine and good whiskey from time to time but mostly he wants to share it with his friends (ie. the small family that gets all the best alcohol he can find to drink with them). A bit of a social drinker I think too, like Andy with food: it’s best when it’s shared.

+ Bonus:

Lykon and adrenaline.

Have you seen the way that man smiled at Andy when he was almost gutted by a spear in a fight? You can’t tell me Lykon wasn’t the og Jackass back in BCE time. He can be calm and collected but present him with the opportunity to ride a wild beast or jump off a cliff/waterfall/ravine and he will do it. A bit of a thrill-seeker, often getting himself, and then Andy and Quynh too, into trouble because he just couldn’t help it, it seemed too fun. He’s here for a good time not a long one and a long one too. If he was still alive he would 100% be the kind to discover motorcycle, promptly dies about 10 times riding it too fast, and then enroll in a circus just to jump through on fire hoops every night. He would have been so thrilled when humanity started to invent stuff to fly too, just imagine him grinning as he jumps off a plane with the first-ever parachute strapped on his back.

#me over analyzing fictional characters for fun #the old guard #the old guard headcanon #tog headcanons #the old guard meta #tog meta #andromache the scythian #quynh #andromaquynh #nile freeman #yusuf al kaysani #nicolo di genova #kaysanova #sebastien le livre #lykon #tog #em speaks #tog hcs

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veryvincible · 4 years

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I‘m pretty sure Ty was supposed to be Tonys ex. We all know they low-key dated/hooked up without Howard noticing. I really hope writers remember Ty, I know he showed up at SpiderMan comics but it doesn’t seem like the same Ty AT ALL.

Give us more Ty content, maybe dissect his feelings towards Tony. The obsession was crazy asf

Totally agree! This new Ty is so, uh... fucking weird? Like, they copy+pasted the “brunette genius with spiky hair” thing, which is just a straight up tragedy. Vol. 3 Ty’s character design was flawless. The beard with no mustache? The long, blond hair like Owen Wilson? The fucking outfit choices? Impeccable. Words can’t describe what a stupidly fashionable (and fashionably stupid) villain he was.

Also, I’m so bitter about the tattoos. So bitter. They spent so much time making sure we know what a sucker for theatrics this man was, and they put red tentacles on his arms??? They’re telling us that he wouldn’t go for something terribly pretentious and symbolic? I don’t buy it.

I hope Ty’s brought back the right way at some point in the future, but unfortunately, I can’t find the hope in my heart to hold my breath for it. If nothing else, he lives on in our hearts-- that tiny, blackened part of our hearts that’s solely reserved for the “love-to-hate-them” bastards.

#cassks #tiberius stone #every ty ask i receive adds power to my life force

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vinca-majors · 3 years

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Michaela Brown, ScaryMommy:

Upon graduating college with my hard-earned degree to teach high school English, I almost immediately began planning for my graduate studies. Lots of high schools around the country require their teachers to have a masters degree, so that was a motivator. Plus, it came with a pay raise. And, I truly enjoyed going to school. In fact, at the time, I hadn’t ruled out going on and earning my doctorate as well.

I did end up graduating with my M.A. in secondary education, after writing a thesis I’m damn proud of. My path changed a bit and I never went on for my doctorate, but you can be sure as hell if I had that I’d claim that Dr. title. That my students—even the grumpiest of teenagers whose eyes shot daggers at me as I made them read Shakespearean sonnets—would be calling me Dr. and not Mrs. or Miss.

And as I’ve encountered other professionals with that Dr. title, I’ve never hesitated to refer to them that way. My children’s formal principal went by Dr. Matthews. No one questioned it. I’ve had professors at the undergraduate and graduate level use the title. Again, that’s what we all called them. With respect. And without hesitation. Just as we refer to famous figures like a man we’ve all heard of—Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.— because each of these people put in the work, the years, the money, the commitment, and the dedication. Each of them earned their Dr. title.

So yeah, when Dr. Jill Biden completed her education and earned her Doctor of Education (Ed.D) from the University of Delaware, she rightfully earned the title “Dr.” and deserves to be referred to as such. Just as any other professional with that level of expertise does as well. Is she a medical doctor? No. Does she claim to be? No. Have professionals in academia added Dr. to their titles once they’ve earned their doctorate for centuries? Yes.

However, because some ignorant asswipes remain stuck in 1950, or don’t understand how higher education works, or simply are bound and determined to hate on the Bidens as they hated on the Obamas even though they are kind and supportive of others—regardless of political party, her title is under scrutiny.

The Wall Street Journal stupidly published an op-ed, which has now gone viral, that was moronically entitled, “Is There a Doctor in the White House? Not if You Need an M.D.” And, of course, this piece of trash essay included a byline that reads, “Jill Biden should think about dropping the honorific, which feels fraudulent, even comic.”

Joseph Epstein, the “writer” of this ignorant word vomit, opens by condescendingly calling Dr. Biden “kiddo” and offering her advice, as if he is in any position to advise the First Lady of the United States on literally anything. “Madame First Lady—Mrs. Biden—Jill—kiddo: a bit of advice on what may seem like a small but I think is a not unimportant matter,” Epstein mansplains.

He then goes on to insult her dissertation on student retention at community colleges, calling it “unpromising” and, in the same paragraph, refers to the idiotic but commonly used quip that no one can call themselves “doctor” unless they’ve delivered a child.

Let’s break this bullshittery down, shall we? First of all, Mr. Epstein, your piece reeks of envy. We’re sorry you didn’t have the… guts? courage? stamina? intelligence level? (who knows) to actually ever earn a doctorate, but you sound bitter. It’s not a good look. Also, it’s clear that you don’t respect the value of community colleges, which is where Dr. Biden has spent a large portion of her career. And, finally, the world now knows that you are threatened by smart women. Bravo.

Also, we’ll be sure to let all the medical doctors out there who’ve tirelessly fought COVID-19 this year, holding the hands of dying patients, and also those brilliant scientists who thankfully have brought us a vaccine that offers a beacon of hope, that they don’t get to call themselves “doctor” because they’ve never caught a newborn baby. I’m sure they’ll appreciate that tidbit of info from you—*checks notes*—a man with one single undergraduate degree, no earned doctorate, and zero medical expertise.

Basically, Mr. Epstein, it’s obvious that you have some personal issues you need to unpack. Maybe take some time over the holidays to do a little self-reflection? Like, why do you even care what title Dr. Biden goes by? Why are you so scared of women who are more successful than you?

Your piece then goes on a long, barely coherent rant about “honorary doctorates,” which is not what Dr. Biden has. If you’d like to blast the validity or point of bestowing honorary doctorates on celebrities like Stephen Colbert and Seth Meyers, for example, go right ahead, but that has nothing to do with Dr. Biden. This lack of cohesive argument is why I’ve referred to you as a “writer” a few paragraphs up, because it seems apparent that you don’t understand the need for basic textual support.

(Calling you a jealous asswipe, well, that’s just a reflection of your character.)

Finally, your last “supporting argument” (again, use of quotes intentional here) as to why Dr. Biden should drop her title is because apparently doctorates don’t count anymore. Back in the day, you explain, doctoral exams were far more grueling, but today’s candidates get off way too easy.

“One had to pass examinations in two foreign languages, one of them Greek or Latin, defend one’s thesis, and take an oral examination on general knowledge in one’s field,” your op-ed states. “At Columbia University of an earlier day, a secretary sat outside the room where these examinations were administered, a pitcher of water and a glass on her desk. The water and glass were there for the candidates who fainted. A far cry, this, from the few doctoral examinations I sat in on during my teaching days, where candidates and teachers addressed one another by first names and the general atmosphere more resembled a kaffeeklatsch.”

(I had to look up what kaffeeklatsch meant—it’s an informal social gathering at which coffee is served. Excuse my lack of knowledge there. I’m just a silly woman with a higher degree than you.)

And, as you end with, “Dr. Jill, I note you acquired your Ed.D. as recently as 15 years ago at age 55, or long after the terror had departed,” you not only insult her by addressing her as “Dr. Jill”, but you also imply that because she likely didn’t faint while taking her exams or defending her dissertation, that somehow her degree isn’t real.

That’s the crazy thing about education—it evolves. Today, kids even use these neat little things called computers! You wouldn’t believe it. Another way we’ve evolved is to realize that shockingly, our doctoral candidates don’t have to become physically ill to prove they are smart and worthy of their degree!

(I mean, you never even tried, Mr. Epstein, so I guess even today, doctoral programs are only for the toughest among us, like Dr. Jill Biden.)

Also, it seems that Northwestern University, where you were previously listed as “emeritus lecturer of English,” has scrubbed you entirely from their website, stating that it is “firmly committed to equity, diversity and inclusion, and strongly disagrees with Epstein’s misogynistic views.” Again, evolution! Change is good.

Hmmm. So one of you is a misogynist with no teaching history to even brag about as your previous employer has disassociated with you, and another is a successful educator committing to helping all Americans have access to a proper education. Oh, and the second one goes by Dr.

Looks like the real “comical fraud” is you, bruh.

And just so we’re clear, Dr. Biden has always been committed to ensuring that everyone (not just pretentious twats like you, Joseph Epstein) has access to a fair education. Earlier in her career, she worked in a psychiatric hospital where she taught English to adolescents with emotional disabilities. During that same time she also earned two (yes, TWO) master’s degrees, one from Villanova University and one from West Chester University. In 2009, after earning her doctorate, she began teaching English at Northern Virginia Community College, and advocating for community college education has since been her passion. “Dr. Biden has always said that community colleges are ‘one of America’s best-kept secrets.’ As a teacher, she sees how community colleges have changed the lives of so many of her students for the better,” explains former president Barack Obama’s White House website.

Sorry, Mr. Epstein, but not everyone can afford to enroll in an English class at Northwestern taught by a raging sexist who gets his balls in a bunch when women succeed. For many, community college is a better fit, and Dr. Biden is a big part of that.

“In 2012, she traveled across the country as part of the ‘Community College to Career’ tour to highlight successful industry partnerships between community colleges and employers,” the website goes on to say. “In the fall of 2010, she hosted the first-ever White House Summit on Community Colleges with President Obama, and she continues to work on this outreach on behalf of the Administration – frequently visiting campuses, meeting with students and teachers, as well as industry representatives around the country.”

Imagine all of the hard-working Americans Dr. Biden has helped by supporting community colleges. Future teachers just like her often get their degree while working full time, raising a family, and going to college at night. Who knows, some of them may even—gasp—go to grad school too. High school kids who choose to forego going away to a full-time university and instead, take classes at a community college closer to home, are given that option because of people like Dr. Biden. Kids who go on to be EMTs, police officers, technicians in trade industries, engineers, and find success in the business world. Or, they transfer those college credits to a larger university down the road when they have the means to do so. Single moms doing their best to give their children a good life often attend community college classes online, after their children are asleep, proving that they have the drive and determination to do more and be more.

So, what it all boils down to, Mr. Epstein, is that you really, really hate that there’s about to a woman in the White House who’s smarter than you. And not only that, but she inspires women everywhere to work hard, earn their degrees, and then they’ll be smarter than you too. Yikes. That’s a tough pickle to be in, Mr. Epstein. We’re sorry that you are so insecure and unhappy with your own lack of success.

At least you can still wrote those stellar op-eds though! Good luck with your “writing” career, kiddo.

#dr. jill biden #michaela brown #scarymommy #op ed #joseph epstein #current events #SO fired up right now #gimme that feminism #my country tis of thee #long post

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stupidly-pretentious · 4 months

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Stupidly Pretentious Comic | Lesson One

Next Lesson

First part of my webcomic! If you like the villainess genre, or anything any flavor of ridiculous, I hope you'll check out the character profiles and consider following this blog dedicated to the comic!

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calitraditionalism · 4 years

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Arc One: Chapter Six

The crowd applauded the conclusion of the story with cheers and yelled compliments to the actors, who bowed their heads to each kind word. Mistface did not speak, but he nodded in approval and slowly slid down from his branch to the trunk of the tree, clambering to the ground with less grace than he would have liked. Greyleaf, Littlepaw and Laurelclaw followed after him, each of them struggling a little to land without stumbling. That was a small comfort.

Littlepaw’s tail jumped about in a muffled sort of delight and her fur was fluffed out in excitement. Her eyes were on the Margays, who were talking with members of the dissipating crowd that had chosen to linger and offer personal words.

“That was fun, wasn’t it?” Laurelclaw said to her, grinning. “Good spot, too, right?”

Littlepaw nodded and looked at him. “Thank you for helping me up. I’m not used to climbing.”

“Oh, me neither.” Laurelclaw did one of those sorry-sounding laughs again, like he had to apologize for laughing at all. “I mean, cliffs, sometimes, but not trees. Anyway-“ He looked at Mistface and Greyleaf. “Did you like it? I thought they did a great job. I love hearing about Mona’s halo shards. They’re so mystical!”

“Yeah, real mysterious,” Mistface said, tilting his head back slowly towards the Magpie’s circle. “’Specially considerin’ they’re sellin’ supposed shards right over there.”

“Oh, lucky!” Laurelclaw perked up even more than he already had and looked over Mistface’s head (not a difficult task for him) to the collection of white stones. “I should see if I can bring one home. My father would love one.”

“Not a bad idea,” Mistface said, and made a silent note to himself to get one for Nettlecloud. He added, “Well, real nice talkin’ with you.” To his surprise, he almost entirely meant it.

“Oh, for sure!” Laurelclaw turned back to him and nodded. “It was nice to meet you, Mistface. You and your brother, though I didn’t get to talk to him much. See you around, maybe!”

“Maybe so.” Mistface waved his tail and watched the massive tom trot off towards the Magpies, occasionally jumping out of someone’s way as if he was a tiny kit needing to avoid being squashed.

“Funny,” Mistface said aloud, and looked sideways towards the Margays’ members. They were finishing up with the last of the audience as Littlepaw trotted up, weaving around leaving cats with the grace and certainty Laurelclaw should have had.

“Excuse me,” she said to the white molly who had played the Runagate, and with much more enthusiasm than she had shown with her mother, “but I was amazed at the voice you used during the story! It was perfect for the role and really eerie.”

The molly purred and spoke in a voice not too different from the one she had used in the show, only lighter and smoother. “I’m glad you liked it. I practiced it on my crew when they were trying to sleep. They hated it.”

Littlepaw looked like she was laughing, but it was too quiet to tell for sure, combined with the noise of the crowd overwhelming it. She said much more clearly, “Do you practice the part a lot?”

“Tens of times before each act,” the molly said. “Even when we’re walking to our next temp-den, we preform as we move.”

Littlepaw’s eyes shined. “That’s a lot of dedication.”

“It’s worth it.” The molly nodded with satisfaction. “And I wouldn’t want to be doing anything else.”

Mistface was mildly impressed. Littlepaw was much more so, which was obvious from the awe on her face. She opened her mouth to presumably ask another question, but that pretentious voice called out, “Littlepaw, where are you?”

Littlepaw immediately deflated, down to the fur on her tail drooping and touching the ground. She looked back to her approaching mother.

“There,” Morningsky said, and looked at the white molly as one would regard an oversized bug that had been almost entirely squashed but was still feebly kicking its legs. “That was…very well-acted. Very theatrical story.”

It could not have been plainer that she didn’t hold the acting or the story in any regard below rock-bottom. Littlepaw’s face was immediately washed over with embarrassment again. She looked at the ground in shame.

To her credit, the white molly’s offense was well-hidden – Mistface could only see it because he was watching her profile, and her tail tapped the ground testily straight behind her. “I’m glad you liked it.”

She looked down at Littlepaw, but before she could say anything, Morningsky turned and curled her tail around her daughter, guiding her away from the Margays’ circle with a half-hearted farewell. She had a pinched look of scorn about her face.

“Come along,” she said. “There’s a few seer apprentices here that you should meet.”

Mistface didn’t like most cats, but he had a new, special animosity towards this queen bee. Littlepaw passed by him and nodded morosely before following along after her mother. Mistface was tempted to offer some words of kindness, such as “your mother is a shrew”. He doubted she would disagree.

He turned to mention his thoughts to his brother, but Greyleaf was gone. Mistface blinked and looked around. He was nowhere in the sea of cats, and since they were all constantly moving around, Mistface had to sit up on his hind legs to get a better view.

Nothing. Mistface frowned.

He stood up properly and started for the tree they had all sat in. He knew tracking his brother with scent would be impossible in an area with so many other cats, and he did not want to start yelling Greyleaf’s name. It would cause too much attention to shine on him, which Mistface knew would stress him out. A higher position and a silent approach would work best.

Mistface was glad no one was looking at him, because his scramble up the trunk was, he knew, quite clumsy and comical to watch. He got just high enough to hit where the oak’s trunk split into many branches and scanned the grove for his brother.

Sure enough, he caught sight of Greyleaf within a few moments… but Mistface frowned again, confused. His brother wasn’t walking around looking for him, or huddled on the side of the crowd awkwardly, or even speaking with the loudly laughing Sealstar over there in the sun.

He was in the shade of the thickest part of the grove, where everyone had meandered away from to lounge in the light. He stood unusually straight and stiff, ears alert, mouth thin and still instead of twitching nervously as it sometimes did. In fact, every part of his body was motionless. Mistface couldn’t quite catch the expression in his eyes from this distance, but the rest of his posture was focused and serious.

Across from him was a rather striking molly – she was tall and fairly muscled, red-brown and roan-shaded, with a darker back and paler underside and neck. She almost loomed over Greyleaf, but at the same time her posture allowed for deference (though not much). Her mouth was moving very fast and her ears were slicked back, her tail straight out and not budging an inch. Her bright orange eyes were wide, but, like with Greyleaf, Mistface couldn’t see specifically what she was saying with them.

Curious, Mistface skidded down the tree again and started for the pair, moving as quietly and quickly as he could. The many cats around him made it difficult to go in a straight line, but he managed to get to the edge of the cluster.

He paused. The molly was leaning forward now, and he could see that her eyes were wild with an intense mix of emotions. Her voice was still inaudible, and, unfortunately, Mistface had never learned how to read lips. He stood still, waiting for his brother’s reaction as the molly stopped talking.

Greyleaf didn’t do anything for a moment. His face was just as intense now, but, for once, Mistface couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He slowly shut his eyes, took in a deep breath, and said something to the molly. His eyes flickered away for just a moment and they caught sight of Mistface.

“I better go,” he said, loud enough for Mistface to hear. “My brother’s…”

At once, the molly’s posture straightened and her face calmed. She looked like an entirely different cat in an instant...but Mistface wondered why her eyes were suddenly so exhausted.

“Consider it,” she said, her voice low and yet ringing clear. “Just consider it.”

Without glancing at Mistface, she turned sharply and walked away, each step regal, yet with a patroller’s directness. Mistface watched her move towards a small group of cats, who looked up as she approached and greeted her cheerfully.

Greyleaf stared after her, too, and his face was still unreadable. Slowly, his eyes drifted down to the ground ahead of him, eyelids slightly lowered. He said nothing as Mistface walked up to him; didn’t even look over or twitch his ear.

Mistface felt a sudden need to break the tension, so he gently nudged Greyleaf with a smile. “You didn’t tell me you had a girl, my brother.”

Greyleaf jolted and the tension left his body. He blinked stupidly at Mistface. “Huh? I d- what?”

Mistface jerked his head at the molly, who was now leaving the grove with that small group. “Who was that chickadee you were talkin’ to?”

“Th-“ Greyleaf followed his line of sight and jolted again. “Oh- no, she-“ He inhaled sharply. “She’s a deputy, that’s all. She was, uh- she was asking some advice about healing. Wanted to see if I was, uh, interested in helping out in her area.”

“Hm.” Mistface looked at his brother slyly. “You sound real certain about that.”

“It was just an offer, is all,” Greyleaf said uncomfortably. “She needed help.”

Mistface knew something was off, but he didn’t want to make his brother more uneasy, so he simply replied, “Don’t you take that job. You’ve got it good where you are.”

“Yeah.” Greyleaf sighed and nodded with an incredible lack of enthusiasm. “Yeah, I do.”

“Now, come along.” Mistface turned around and tapped him with his tail. “I wanna get one of those rocks for Mama.”

He started off, not sure how to feel that Greyleaf took a long moment to follow after him.

#warrior cats #steorra #mistface #greyleaf #laurelclaw #littlepaw #morningsky #laureldawn #redheart #chapter #chapter six #arc one #sorry for the delay #i forgot to post here that i was traveling for two weeks #dullard

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bigskydreaming · 5 years

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gingerjab replied to your post “ANYWAY. The petition/prayer circle for Michael Trevino to be cast as...”

I’m forever an asshole obsessed with fire/ice ships so Thunderbird or Sunfire, fuck the inhumans one off and St. John. Also, Rahul Kohli as Neal Shaara/Thunderbird/Agni. Also I’m sposed to be asleep so ignore if this is a shit idea.

For the record, I actually kinda like the Inhuman guy, cuz I mean, its not his fault he’s part of a trash franchise. I think it probably helps that I’ve only ever read one issue with him, so as to render it absolutely impossible for his writing to piss me off. I like to just close my eyes and pretend he’s a mutant. Y’know. Like I do with Kamala!

Who is obviously a mutant.

(And like.....let’s be real. The dude is a pyrokinetic with a demon form, the codename INFERNO, and his REAL name is DANTE Pertuz. DANTE. INFERNO. Like, that’s the on-the-nose-fuck-your-subtlety-we-came-here-to-be-pretentious-as-fuck-with-our-literary-references-look-how-dignified-it-makes-our-character balls to the wall character concept I am HERE for. I’m like OH HAI I SEE WHAT U DID THAR. And they’re like “oh yeah? You got it? Hahaha, we were worried nobody would, phew, good job tho. Totally adds to the character right? Pretty clever of us.” And then I’d be like Hahahaha no, not even a little bit, but ‘scool, I like him anyway cuz I’m easy like that. I put out for puns.” And then they’d be like awwwww, dammit, we worked so hard on that. And I’d be like....well, that doesn’t speak highly of your abilities, I mean it was a super obvious joke. And then I stopped making up conversations with hypothetical people in my head.)

Also, in defense of comic book St. John Allerdyce and absolutely NO OTHER VERSIONS EVER because agreed, they all suck....

Comic book St. John is a snarky Australian asshole who in between acts of mutant mass destruction, has a side career as a successful romance novelist under a pen name.

(I’m not even joking. Comic book St. John, in canon, writes romance novels in his spare time as a hobby. LOLOLOL c’mon, how is that not a great character beat for a supervillain slash occasional kinda-if-you-squint-superhero).

Anyway.

I too am also trash for fire/ice ships because SCREW SUBTLETY, WE SHIP THEMATICALLY. But like, its gotta be the RIGHT fire/ice ship. I weirdly have standards with my fire/ice ships? Probably just because I’m obsessed with Bobby Drake but whatever, who cares, how is that relevant.

I mean, OBVIOUSLY, you have your proto-fire/ice ship, the one, the original, the Word I came out of the womb prepared to preach and ship and like, spread to the masses....Bobby Drake/Johnny Storm. Because like. They are elemental dorks whose competitiveness is only matched by their dumbness, how can you not love them, I DEFY YOU TO SAY.

I’m kinda meh on Iceman/Pyro, because like, original comic book Pyro and Bobby never even interacted I think? And in cartoons they’re always totally different generations/age groups, and in the movies they’re like....boring and stale and not even all that attractive and also did I mention boring, omg no offense to whomever wrote them, but I tried reading Bobby/Pyro movie fanfic years ago because like, that’s the only movie Bobby fic there is, unless you want to read about him being an asshole to Rogue and/or cheating with Kitty and just generally driving Rogue into the arms of the much (much much much much, like ewww) older Logan or Gambit. Because srsly, so appealing. So obviously, I caved and tried reading Bobby/Pyro fics because like, they had the word ‘Bobby’ in them, and the bar is too low in my X-Men fic reading habits. And omg I fell asleep. I just. It was all just the standard m/m cookie cutter generic ‘good boy plus bad boy uwu yaoi-zowey’ bleh starring two not at all deeply written or well-acted meh-looking white dudes, and just. Why.

But that’s what I mean when I say I’m wary of fire/ice ships, because sometimes with powered characters like, authors think oh hey, LOOK ONE IS FIRE AND ONE IS ICE, THIS TOTALLY COUNTS AS THEM HAVING OPPOSITES ATTRACT PERSONALITIES AND THUS I DONT NEED TO GIVE THEM A PERSONALITY, RIGHT? Like. They’re just very boring and unimaginative in execution, just because they expect the basic premise of fire and ice/’obvious opposites attract, obviously’ to do all the work for them.

(Katey if you’re reading this I’m super for sure not talking about YOUR superpowered romances, because you are wonderful and GOOD at writing and imaginative, and thus none of this applies to you. Requisite disclaimer.)

So, when they did this random Bobby/’New Pyro Dude like where did he even come from I still dont know’ hook-up, I was prepared to like, yawn endlessly, because I figured it would be more boring imaginationless ‘ooh look what an obvious pair they are and yet still praise me for how clever I am for pairing them’ crap.

And I was absolutely right!

(But I mean, it was written by Marc Guggenheim, the odds of it sucking were totally in my favor. Betting against them being well-written under his pen might feasibly be construed as cheating. Whatever).

And also, the art did them ZERO favors, like I know they’re both generic blond dudes in their twenties, but I LITERALLY COULD NOT TELL WHICH WAS SUPPOSED TO BE WHICH in any of the panels that they were like, in bed together or dressing or talking or literally anything until they started using their powers to fight bad guys. It was soooooooo bad. Like the art just manifested every ‘look at the white gay date his mirror reflection lol what is variety even’ cliche and beat you over the head with it.

(Also Bobby is supposed to have brown hair, which at least would’ve helped a LITTLE bit. Meh. Still was gonna suck because like, nobody had any intention of WRITING them together, like, developing their characters and laying the groundwork for a possible relationship. It was just ‘oh look, the fire and ice dude got drunk at a wedding and hooked up, cool deal, now on with the story.’)

Anyway, the ONLY redeeming potential for a Bobby/Simon relationship in my opinion is ENTIRELY due to a fic I read with them. Its probably the only fic written about Simon ever, lmfao, so its not like the writer’s characterization of him has any competition among either canon or other fans’ renditions of him. But it was pretty well written, I actually liked their portrayal of Bobby, which I’m SUPER picky about in fanfics, and they actually invested time in developing Simon and his POV and giving him an actual personality and shit, that wasn’t half bad. So if Simon was written like that in the comics and their relationship progressed in similar ways, I could feasibly be on board with them.

But it won’t, so I’m not. Meh. Anyway.

I actually really REALLY like both Shiro AND Neal, with the caveat that I hate Neal’s stupid offensive-ass codename, I know Claremont only named him Thunderbird because he introduced him in an anniversary issue that was supposed to be a call-back to the original Giant Size lineup, and he needed a stand-in for John Proudstar, but like....wtf Claremont, just use your brain and save Neal to introduce a whole issue later and stick Jamie in John’s place the way everyone else does. He literally went by Thunderbird in the comics already in his Hellion days, which YOU wrote, so why the fuck did you feel the need to be stupidly offensive and act like Native American people and traditions are interchangeable with those of a guy from India? Ugh he’s so....gah.

Anyway. So I actually like both Shiro and Neal, though pretty much only when people other than Claremont are writing them, lololol. Which is admittedly...rare. Because of all his pet characters, they’re both at the top of the list of ones nobody else has any interest in touching. Bizarrely, my favorite run involving Shiro was when he was randomly shoe-horned into that Alpha Flight relaunch in the late 90s, that only lasted a couple years? Dunno if you know what I’m talking about, the team with Radius, Flex, Murmur, Heather as Vindicator and Mac was a robot or some weird shit.

I have no real thoughts on either of them with Bobby though, for a fire and ice pairing. Tbh I can’t really see Bobby/Shiro like, at ALL lmfao. For one, Shiro’s always felt written as though he’s a good ten years older than Bobby at least. Like they’re not really compatible dialogue-wise lol. And he’s pretty much never had any patience for Bobby in the comics, which has a lot to do with most of their interactions being written by Claremont himself, and Claremont infamously haaaaaaates Bobby’s character and trashes him any chance he gets, aka the few times editorial makes him actually use Bobby in a script. But I also think even under other writers, like....Shiro honestly is not the type to have any patience for Bobby’s antics or brand of humor, like.....he’s like JP but without the superficial crush JP used in canon to view Bobby’s idiosyncrasies as endearing instead of migraine inducing. I don’t think any readers would buy someone of JP or Shiro’s personality-type crushing on Bobby twice, lololol.

I DO however kinda like the idea of Neal/Bobby? If someone ever actually brought Neal back and gave him a new codename and stuck him on a team with Bobby? They’ve also barely interacted in canon, and the only time I can think of, Neal was super rude and dismissive of Bobby, because like, Claremont was writing it of course, so it made total sense for him to have the dude who’s literally been an X-Man for two issues talk down to the X-Man of several decades like the latter had no clue what he was doing, lol. Oops, still slightly salty there.

But honestly, I doubt anyone who didn’t have hyperfixation fueled grudges on a fictional fave’s behalf would ever even remember that one canon interaction, and tbh Neal’s pretty much a blank slate character wise. His only defining traits from what little he’s been used are that he’s fairly young, in his early to mid-twenties, from a wealthy family, a little full of himself but in a ‘really wants to impress people and prove himself’ kinda way instead of an overly entitled ‘i genuinely believe I am superior to all you buffoons’ kinda way. And he was always endearingly enthusiastic and eager about new stuff he encountered from being with the X-Men.

(He was also randomly obsessed with Psylocke, but I truly think Claremont was like, well I’m just gonna write him like I would Warren Worthington because why not. So yeah, obvsly he’s super obsessed with Betsy. Duh.)

Anyway - I would like someone to do something interesting with Neal, and I think his and Bobby’s chemistry has a lot of potential and they could bounce off each other well.

Also, I like Rahul, but I was randomly fancasting some of the more obscure X-Men awhile back for Reasons (I forget what they were tbh, but I’m sure I had them. I usually do). I came across this Indian actor named Karan Tacker and was like ohhhhhhh he totally looks like he could be Neal Shaara.

I mean, I’ve literally never seen him act, so who knows what his acting is like, but since we’ve established Neal’s character is essentially whatever the person to actually use him next wants it to be, I don’t think that’s a big deal lol.

So this is totally superficially based casting, like I think this guy looks and ‘feels’ the way Neal’s typically been drawn and the kinda vibe he gives off.

Also, incidentally, having absolutely nothing to do with anything, let alone my selection process, by pure coincidence the dude just so happens to have abs for daaaaaaays.

But I mean. Like I said, that is neither here nor there. Obviously.

Of no relevance whatsoever. I didn’t even notice, tbh. Don’t even know who hijacked my body and ghost wrote these last few sentences, quick, call an exorcist.

....oh noes, is this one of the consequences of being an ‘anti’? IS THIS MY COMEUPPANCE? *flees*

#gingerjab

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