dead metaphors

an incomplete list of taz characters ranked by most to least goth

Barry Bluejeans — necromancer, acts Spooky at Every Opportunity, offers to kill himself to hold his spectral gf, murders a bunch of gerblins in cold blood, becomes a reaper, wears jeans constantly despite everyones judgment and defying everyones judgment is the most goth thing of all. 

Kravitz — dramatic, reaper, wears Slick Suits, a bone man. Carries raven feathers in his pockets. Very Goth. 

Lup — literally a lich. makes a vore umbrella. i dont know whether that counts for or against her. 

John Vore — Nihilism is pretty goth but he gets points off for the vore. This is the only reason he’s below lup. also being a motivational speaker is un-goth. 

Sloane — not really all that goth but going by “the raven” is pretty goth. so is robbing banks. and having a girlfriend is VERY goth. unfortunately, becoming a druid is not goth at all although that is sick as hell. 

Julia Burnsides — rises from the depth of fridgedom to become Completely Fuckin Beloved, and i’d argue that sorta resurrection from the Metaphorical Dead is Pretty Goth. also lives in a cabin above a sea of dead souls. very goth. 

Lucretia — Very Dramatic, nearly dramatic enough to be Goth. Most of her actions aren’t goth but ARE goth adjacent. 

Taako — having an umbrella that holds the soul of ur spectral sister is pretty goth and so is dating a reaper but tbh other than that he’s not goth at all. he only gets a little bit of goth by association. 

Johann — not goth but kind of emo. so, goth adjacent. 

Merle Highchurch — doubting your religion is sort of goth and so is getting killed a bunch while talking to a vore man but teaching teens is very not goth and also plant fetish is so not goth that merle isn’t any higher on this list 

Ango Mcdango — calling ur mentor out on his bullshit? very goth. being a sweet young man? very very very un-goth. too pure to be any higher on this list. 

Magnus Burnsides — literally nothing about this man is goth at all. 

anonymous asked:

What are your thoughts on the granade launcher as a metaphor for bisexuality now that Dean finally used it?

Hi Anon! Lovely to hear from you!

Well, given that the bunker is lit with pink and blue lights (the colours of the bisexual pride flag, as Tink so kindly and immediately pointed out) and the brothers are first attacking that wall (representing someone’s internal wall in need of breaking down) with pickaxes together, barely making a dent in said wall, sitting down in defeat, Dean talking about how they saved the world, got Cas and Mary back and thought they had it made, talking about it as though maybe they didn’t, and maybe they’ll die now, and maybe it’s time to just give up.

Only for him to then go and get that grenade launcher and blowing that mother fucking wall to fucking dust!! 

And this STARTS an episode where Dean later tells Sam to go and lead the hunters storming the BMoL threat and to lead them alone, without Dean, because Sam is ready and parenting!Dean is ready to let him go. WALL COMING DOWN. And Dean gets to confront his mother and tell her he hates her, and loves her, and forgives her, for everything. WALL COMING DOWN. And the episode ends with Dean, Sam and Mary locked in a family hug of pure love - Dean FINALLY embracing Mary, which he’s been avoiding all season since that first hug they shared in 12x01. WALL COMING DOWN

And what is this internal wall Dean is tearing down? It is all the self-doubt, all the self-loathing, all the worthlessness and lack of faith in himself, it is all the toxic masculinity bullshit he’s used as a personality shield because he’s modelled himself on the strongest person he’s ever known in order to protect Sammy: John Winchester. 

And once this internal wall has been completely torn down? 

Rainbows, people. Rainbows all over.

With all of this before us I am going to say yes, the grenade launcher absolutely, definitively underlined the theme of 12x22, which was performing!Dean beginning to understand that he doesn’t need to perform anymore, he’s beginning to let down his guard, he’s beginning to have faith in others, which will lead him to have faith in himself, because he’ll realise the weight of the world isn’t his alone to carry, and once he realises this he’ll be able to open up fully to all the possibilities before him and reject the idea of going out in a blaze of glory. He’ll understand he doesn’t have to do anything alone. And he will finally tell that goddamn angel (who is SO not dead, btw) that he fucking loves him and will he STOP GETTING KILLED ALL THE TIME FOR FUCK’S SAKE. 

*eye roll* *shrug* *I will never quite forgive them for glancing over such a huge character death* *Robert Singer I am looking at you* *but 13x01 will determine the fallout* *oh joy*

In short: grenade launcher -> wall down -> bisexuality accepted -> rainbows.

Are we all reasonably firm that:

“You see but do not observe” and 13-9-16 is referring to Matthew 13:9-16

Matthew 13:9-16, English Standard Version (ESV)

9 He who has ears, let him hear.”

The Purpose of the Parables

10 Then the disciples came and said to him, “Why do you speak to them in parables?” 11 And he answered them, “To you it has been given to know the secrets of the kingdom of heaven, but to them it has not been given. 12 For to the one who has, more will be given, and he will have an abundance, but from the one who has not, even what he has will be taken away. 13 This is why I speak to them in parables, because seeing they do not see, and hearing they do not hear, nor do they understand. 14 Indeed, in their case the prophecy of Isaiah is fulfilled that says:

“‘“You will indeed hear but never understand,
   and you will indeed see but never perceive.”

15 For this people’s heart has grown dull,
   and with their ears they can barely hear,
   and their eyes they have closed,
lest they should see with their eyes
   and hear with their ears
and understand with their heart
   and turn, and I would heal them.’

16 But blessed are your eyes, for they see, and your ears, for they hear.

Demon Politics 101

Last week, I was at the library, and did 5 hours worth of research on Japanese folklore and youkai, because writing. Fast forward to today. First day of class, you’d think I’d be too busy to write fanfiction? Guess what I fucking did. Here’s a snippet of ANOTHER WIP, strike me down.

(Yamato is a Kodama, basically like a dryad. He’s a spirit that inhabits a tree. Sakura is an empath getting a crash course on conflicts. General warning for tree puns and excessive worldbuilding.)

Keep reading


(Lavellan and Solas’ second kiss after Haven. Excerpted from the most recent chapter of my ongoing fic, updated 9/25/17)

At that, he pulled away; she did not follow him, fingertips left behind to hover in the air, bereft of their perch. Solas hunched over, curled inward on himself—a rare display of poor posture—his elbows perched on his knees, his hands laced together. They were clasped tightly, as though he were physically restraining himself from reaching out to her again. He swallowed. The amber firelight followed the rise and fall of his throat.

“When they brought you to me…” he began, “you could have been anyone. You were a mystery. And though I believed you innocent—blameless for the destruction of the Temple—still I knew not what to expect. Would you assist us in closing the Breach willingly? Would you be capable of providing such assistance? And then you…” a smile twitched, before molding itself into a troubled frown, “… exceeded all possible expectations, proved to be beyond what any of us could have hoped you would be.”

He looked at her, matter-of-factly. “That is why they wish to believe you are chosen. Because they cannot believe the depth of your virtue, your integrity, your… incorruptibility. They cannot explain it; therefore, it must be an expression of Divinity. The will of their Maker.” He sneered the word, voicing the disdain she often felt but rarely voiced. Then his voice softened.  “But I see it. And though I know it is no act of God, that makes it no less remarkable. You possess a subtlety and a wisdom I have not seen since my deepest journeys into ancient memories of the Fade.”

“And when you tell me I inspire you…” and Solas looked very much like he wanted to touch her again, then; he clasped his hands tighter, turned his gaze back to the fire. “It frightens me. Even before we grew close you were a far better person than I have ever been. You are more than I ever could have dreamt you might be….” He turned his head away from her, pushed her from her peripheral vision. Softly, barely audible, “More dear to me than I fear is wise.”

Wise or not, she could not help but be warmed by Solas’ confession that she was dear to him. She smiled. Hummed thoughtfully. “That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, though I’m not sure it’s true.” He turned towards her; already he looked prepared to protest. “Oh, I am sure you believe it is. But…”  and her voice trailed off. She shrugged her shoulders, turned her face up to the moon through the bare branches, just as fat as it had been the night they had walked across the silvery Dirth.  

“But who cares?” she asked, her tone easy, carefree. “What you are, what I am: kind or cruel, wise or foolish. I know this is true: when I am with you, my spirit is free. Not buckled under the weight of the Inquisition, or—”

warm, and close, the moon eclipsed: his mouth closed around hers and her thought left unfinished. He had bridged the space between them in the span of a heartbeat. His hand lifted, lighted on the side of her neck, thumb nestled in the notch behind her jaw to turn her face, softly, towards his. And she surrendered: yielded to the ardor of his kiss as surely as the sea yields to the pull of the heavens.

(Endeavoring to put words to the emotions, to describe fully what he meant to her, she had not seen: she had not seen the way his gaze had followed her, hardly moving, hardly breathing. She did not see the subtle wrinkle between his brows, the sole indication of his despair as he began to understand: it was too late for restraint. Aghast at his own imminent surrender, and what it meant—what was to come, and what must inevitably follow, how terribly this would end—torn just as his face was halved between firelight and shadows as he watched her speak of what she did not—could not—know.

He shouldn’t—but this was merely the most recent in a long line of things he should not have done. He never should have danced with her. He should not have returned her kiss. He should have better controlled himself, been cold and unmovable as stone….

He never should have come to love her.

Perhaps the most prideful folly since waking from all those long years of slumber was to think he could protect himself from this.

With her face upturned to the silver light of the moon, she did not see the fleeting twitch at the corner of his jaw: the flicker that heralded the defeat of his discipline. The last remaining walls he had built to defend himself against this catastrophe crumbled as though they were castles of sand, swept out to sea.

With her face upturned to the moon, she did not see the way his face softened, lunged—the way he closed the space between them when she spoke of how he had freed her.)

And as she sealed her lips around his in return she could hear the way he breathed: the shaking exhale that avalanched through him at her consent. Solas pressed closer; she could feel the tip of his nose against her cheek as the kiss deepened. The hand at her neck gently guided her towards him; the hand beneath her winter cloak (when it had slipped into her cloak she could not say) was upon her waist, teasing upwards the hem of her shirt, seeking the radiant warmth of bare flesh. She moved closer. His hand slipped under the shirt and found purchase at the small of her back.

And still, still—even with his tongue daring to trace along her bottom lip, begging permission (despite the shudder that ran through her at that lick)—she felt within her the responsibility to resist. To be certain this was what he wanted, and that she, with her influence and position (her titles) was not taking advantage; the last thing she wanted was to make him feel used.

But his kiss stirred something within her, as ephemeral and formless as the miasma of the Fade that had unsettled in her wake as she crossed that haunted space, searching for him. And perhaps it was all those months of waiting, or the gentleness of his touch, as if he couldn’t quite believe he could (or had given himself permission to) hold her like this. Again. A longing she had denied for too long: she let it swallow her.

She brought her hand to the back of his neck, cradled. Opened her mouth and closed her teeth gently along his bottom lip, tugged; they came together like a rolling ocean wave and his tongue crossed the threshold of her mouth to taste her, and at once she felt all tension and resistance go out of her. A ship tossed in a storm, or the way a river surges and sings along its path to meet the sea; the way it froths on approach, pooling and pouring. She grasped at his strong shoulders, and when she followed his tongue with her own, his mouth hummed against hers—resonance of pleasure—his hand wandering down her waist to grip at her thigh.

Diminished, receding (as before the next tidal swell): he pulled away from her, breathing heavily (she could feel the rise and fall of his shoulders with each breath) but glistening in the light of the fire like a strand of the finest silk, she saw the line of saliva that still bridged the space between them. Mouth cornering into a smile as she raised a hand to his face, swiped the offending link away with her thumb so she could better look at him. She could count each crease of his swollen lips deepened in the flickering firelight. Each freckle.

The hand he had kept at her jaw to cradle her face ventured a descent, fingertips tracing along the exposed flesh of her neck, across her collar, downward, hesitant at the swell of her breast: she breathed in, an exaggerated motion (how a river swells with the rain that dapples its surface) ribs pushing outward as lungs filled with air made sweeter by his proximity, and pushed her into his open palm. He squeezed; she wished the weather warmer, the climate more agreeable, for the leather of her vest barely yielded to the touch but she groaned into the feeling of it all the same, leaning into him.

The effect on him was tremendous: he quavered, a hungry and stippled sound riding on his exhale as his hand circled her breast once more. Then he leaned forward and pressed his forehead against hers raised, his lips as if he meant to kiss her—thought better of it. Lowered his hand from her breast to her lower back, his opposite hand from her thigh to the hollow behind her knee, and pulled; not gentle, but demanding. A command for closer contact.

She obeyed, thrilled at the order, stifled a laugh (did not want to wake the others) [to the side in the periphery of her vision a log collapsed into itself; a flurry of cinders ascended on a pillar of smoke, giddy as she felt] and allowed herself to be hoisted, guided, her legs straddling his until she was settled in his lap. As he pressed his face against her neck, planting ardent kisses along the column of her throat, she lifted her face to the stars and the bare branches above, smiled at the hottest of the wild sparks that lifted from their fire and disappeared into the sky above.

And then, she could have been anywhere, anyone. Everything of consequence—her burdens, her responsibilities—fallen away to make room for this, this heat pooling in her gut (reciprocated, at last) and this flickering, the fluttering of her heart each time his mouth pressed against her flesh, sowing a blush in its wake, a warmth to guard against the cold of winter. And when his lips found their way back to hers she met them: closed the seam of her mouth around his bottom lip in a languid kiss as her fingertips lifted to his face, traced along the side of his cheek.

When they broke apart again she bowed her head to him, kept their foreheads pressed. As she stroked the lines of his face, she could not help but laugh. Tamed her mirth, or tried. Smile still playing about her lips when she asked him: “Solas, are you sure?”

She could not see his face—with her back to the fire he was obscured in deep shadow—but she could feel him: feel the hand that rose to comb through her hair, feel the kiss he pressed to the corner of her mouth, and when he pulled away it was only to leave enough space to speak. With each word his lips brushed against hers. “I have thought on this long enough.”

Ar lath ma vhenan. I am yours.”

The rock never really leaves the sea.
It stands and bears its rage,
for it loves too much the sea’s serenity.