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livethinking · 3 years

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«Poetry is not a luxury»: Maya Angelou, Gwendolyn Brooks, Margaret Walker and poetry as resistance

«Poetry is not a luxury»[1], Audre Lorde said. Poetry is not a game, another amusement to dampen the boredom of a humdrum life but it’s a need, a necessity as instrument to the battle against oppression, to self-determination and to identitary resistance because «poetry is power»[2]. And this is as much true and confirmed when poetry becomes activism, when lyricism expresses, and thus bears witness, a discomfort and makes it universal, fathomable through the poetic language; when writing in verse is the only way to express ideas and makes sure they’re recognised in their own dignity, thus it’s necessary in order to save and let respected the existence of that human being who has thought it, in order to this existence can be recognised as such, can arise from oppression and systematic hate, can give voices to those whose lips were ripped off, such as women, for whom «[…] poetry […] is a vital necessity of our existence. It forms the quality of the light within which we [women] predicate our hopes and dreams towards survival and change, first made into language, then into idea, then into more tangible action. Poetry is the way we help give name to the nameless so it can be thought»[3], so, poetry’s place where they can expresses opinions, needs, dreams, hope, in other words themselves, where the cultural system gives preference to other voices, wherein censorship is not official, i.e. perpetrated by an organisation or a law, but it’s cultural because it’s the culture that systematically chooses (a given social class) what creative expressions are more or less are in line with its own values or strengthen them. That’s why for centuries poetry (but also the whole literature) has been place wherein affirm ourselves and the individuality of our own identity, or express pride for a communitarian identity; as it was for women, who found in poetry an instruments they can express their real self through, getting out of the patriarchal control and out of the role they were bonded to by society and came less to the expectations of this one. In this way, women could so analyse her being woman, dreaming to choose who are and what to do, self-determinising and exploring their femininity beyond believes given by a certain historical moment; as it was for black community, wherein black poets could express the a beauty, the varieties, the complexity of their subculture, their traditions, history and so express the pride of being part of this ethnicity, fighting against racism and networking against the oppression perpetrated by a system that privileges white citizens (and more often men). These two concepts converge into the poetic experience of black women poets, for whom poetry became a place wherein speaking of their experience as women and black citizens, wherein they can exist and affirm their existence, «The white father told us: I think, therefore I am. The Black mother within each of us – the poet – whispers in our dreams: I feel, therefore I can be free. Poetry coins the language to express and charter this revolutionary demand, the implementation of that freedom»[4]. Let think of great poets like Maya Angelou, whose poems «often respond to matters like race and sex on a larger social and psychological scale»[5], or like Gwendolyn Brooks, whose poetry, especially the latest, is a political and civil poetry, taking as cultural reference heroes and subjects of the battle for liberation of black people (such as Winnie Mandela, wife to the anti-apartheid activist), but also like Margaret Walker who «through her work, she “[sang] a song for [her] people”, capturing their symbolic quest for liberation. When asked how she viewed her work, she responded, “The body of my work… springs from my interest in a historical point of view that is central to the development of black people as we approach the twenty first century”»[6].

1. Maya Angelou: I know why the caged bird sings

«The poignant beauty of Angelou’s writing enhances rather than masks the candid with which she addresses the racial crisis through which America was passing»[7]. That of Maya Angelou is a lively and melodic voice, her poems can talk even when there’s no human voice to give them sound, they have as mode,s the language of the intense, brave speeches of the great activist of the battle for black people’s rights like Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr. Angelou was able to bring together all temporal planes in her writing: both in her poetry and autobiographies, she managed to give voice to the last, to make it a new present, part of the hic te nunc of the existence in action and not anymore as something disappeared with time, but as something that is still here partly, that is still a being. A past that is personal, her life, her youth, her terrible traumas, the beauty of growing before as a girl than as a woman; a pat that is of her community, the troubled story of afroamericana and who that the lyrical I becomes a We, the collectivity becomes a person. The personal experience is thus an exemplum for the common one and becomes even global. The present meets the past, that of when a given poems was born, that of readers, of the poet, it’s the daily battle which becomes memory, it’s the journey to the self-determination in a place where is hostility but also the future, it’s the caged bird that sings and whose song is heard by the free birds, the future is a song overcoming its own time: «The caged bird sings/with a fearful trill/of things unknown/but longed for still/and his tune is heard/on the distant hill/for the caged bird/sings of freedom»[8]. “The caged bird”, dr, Maya Angelou’s favourite metaphor, taken from Paul Laurence Dunbar, famous afroamerican author, is a symbol for the inner freedom that wins ones the oppression of the external, is an eternal song that’s heard until now and if it’s clearly listened, one can hear the thousand of voice from the past and here we can find the beauty in Maya Angelou’s writing: the ability to speak through not one but a thousand of voices, voices of both the present and the past, giving relevance to the last ones, and consequently she was able to tell the future, to be understood by who’ll be after her.

2. Gwendolyn Brooks: writing poetry that will be meaningful

The poetic voice of Gwendolyn Brooks, the first afroamerican woman to win the Pulitzer Prize, is raw, bitter when the language gets filled with political and cultural meaning, when brings a message without forgetting the sweetness, the beauty of a poised, refined style. Worked, studied poems, perfect verse and rhymes, but also intense, hard, which don’t take away to be tough, to tell the truth on oppression, pain, on the battle to re-humanise her own identity in a culture where it was deprived of its otherness, of being an Other Ego, an Other Truth. This happens especially with the her most famous poem collection, In The Mecca, a turning point for Brooks’s poetics. «I want to write poems that will be non compromising. I don’t want to stop a concern with words doing good jobs, which has always been a concern of mine, but I want to write poems that will be meaningful […]»[9] and this was so. Brooks managed to delineate a world, give multiple meanings to the words she used, to the poems, to speak with the voice of her great gallery of characters. In her poems, there’s her Lyric I, but also her characters. Such a polyphony that only few, even among novelists, can make it in such little verbal marks. «The words, lines, and arrangements have been worked and worked and worked again into poised exactness: the unexpected apt metaphor, the mock-colloquial asides amid jewelled phrases, the half-ironic repetition – she knows it all»[10]. A poetry that can speak to its people, community, that hopes, fights for a future where Gwendolyn Brooks «[…] envisioned “the profound and frequent shaking of hands, which in Africa in so important. The shaking of hands in warmth and strength and union”»[11].

3. Margaret Walker: poetry as hope, poetry for the people

Margaret Walker’s poetics is the voice of a whole people, is culture that becomes creative work of a lonely person for the universality and becomes bringer of values. It’s the song of a choir, a choir for the last, of the story of slavery, of that community that still fights for the right to exist; it’s a choir that still sings and never stops to sing the lines of this wonderful poet.

One of the most loved and praised poem of Margaret Walker is “For My People”, which contains all the characteristics that made unique Walker’s poetry and it’s an excursus through the past and more recent history of US Black community, from the tragedy of slavery, to civil battles still fought nowadays in the heart of the New World; «poems in which the body and spirit of a great group of people are revealed with vigour and undeviating integrity»[12]. She uses as reference cultural elements of her community, recalls heroes, events that form that culture as vast as unheard by those who spit poison to not lose the position of privilege, and if this culture isn’t heard, then Margaret Walker addresses also to the deaf. She speaks to them as well, making universal a history that’s particular. Walker speak to everyone through her rhymes, she speaks to the humanity; her poetry talks about tragedies but is full of hope because she knows there will be always someone who still listen, fight, defend, doesn’t forget, «[…] the power of resilience presented in the poem is a hope Walker holds out not only to black people, but to all people […] “After all, it is the business of all writes to write about the human condition, and all humanity must be involved in both the writing and in the reading”»[13]

Viviana Rizzo

References

[1] LORDE, A., “Poetry Is Not a Luxury”, in Audre Lorde, Sister outsider, Trumansburg N.Y., Crossing Press, 1984, p. 371

[2] TODOROV, L’arte nella tempesta. L’avventura di poeti, scrittori e pittori nella Rivoluzione Russa, trans. ita. by Emanuele Lana, Milano, Garzanti S.r.l., 2017, p. 120 (iBooks)

[3] LORDE, A., “Poetry Is Not a Luxury”, in Audre Lorde, Sister outsider, p. 372

[4] Ibidem

[5] EDITORS, “Maya Angelou”, in Poetry Foundation, web, 2021, (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/maya-angelou, retrieved on 24th February 2021)

[6] EDITORS, “Margaret Walker”, in Poetry Foundation, web, 2021 (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/margaret-walker, retrieved on 24th February 2020).

[7] HOLST, W.A., “Review of A song Flung up to Heaven”, in Christian Century (giugno 2002), pp. 35-36, cit. in EDITORS, “Maya Angelou” in Poetry Foundation

[8] ANGELOU, M., The Complete Collected Poems of Maya Angelou, New Work, Random House Inc., 1994, p. 194

[9] EDI TORS, “Gwendolyn Brooks”, Poetry Foundation, web, 2021 (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/gwendolyn-brooks consultato il 24 febbraio 2021)

[10] LITTLEJOHN, D., Black on White: A Critical Survey of Writing by American Negroes, New York, Grossman, 1966, p. 91, cit. in EDITORS, “Gwendolyn Brooks”, in Poetry Foundation

[11] EDITORS, “Gwendolyn Brooks”, in Poetry Foundation

[12] UNTERMEYER, L. “New Books in Review” in Yake Review, vol. XXXII, n. 2 (inverno 1934), p.371, cit. in EDITORS, “Margaret Walker”, in Poetry Foundation

[13] EDITORS, “Margaret Walker”, in Poetry Foundation

#Black women #literature #poetry as resistance #Maya Angelou #ethnicity #resistance #black history month #Margaret Walker #poetry #Black community #Gwendolyn Brooks #activism #people #Black people #battle for civil rights #black lives matter

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hamliet · 3 years

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The Girl Who Gets to Have It All: Buffy Summers

So with @linkspooky‘s encouragement, I have binged Buffy the Vampire Slayer and relived my childhood culture. And, it's a 10/10 for me. Not that it doesn't have flaws, but it's genuinely one of the best stories I've seen, with consistent character arcs, powerful themes, and a beautiful message. It's also like... purportedly about vampires and demons and superpowered chosen ones, but it's actually all about humanity.

Buffy was able to be a teenage girl, allowed to like the things teen girls are scorned for (boys, shopping, etc), to be insecure about the thing teenage girls are insecure about (future careers, dating, school, parents), and to be a superhero with its good and its bad aspects. The story wasn’t afraid to call Buffy on her flaws (sometimes she got in a very ‘I am the righteous chosen one’ mode) and to respect and honor each of her desires (to be a good person, to be loved, and more). The story listened to what she wanted and respected her desires, giving her the challenges needed to overcome her flaws while also never teaching her a lesson about wanting bad boys or romance is silly or any manner of dark warnings stories like to throw at teenage girls.

It respected teenage girls--nerdy girls like Willow, jocks like Buffy, lonely wallflowers with trauma like Dawn, and popular/snobby ones like Cordelia, girls gone wild like Faith. It never once reduced them to the stereotypes that were lurking right there: each character was fully rounded, human, flawed and yet with respected interests and goals. This is so rare for a story that I’m still in awe.

The story as a whole follows Buffy from 15 to 21, of her as she grows from teenager to adult. She acts like a teenager and grows to act like a young adult, wrestling with loneliness and duty. The adults, like Giles, Joyce, and Jenny, are not perfect either, but neither are they “bad parents” or “bad mentors” necessarily. Joyce in particular says something terrible to Buffy, but she tries to do better, and it’s rare to see a parent in YA stories shown with such nuance. Basically, it wrote the long-lasting adult characters as human beings, too.

Speaking of growing up, I appreciated how Buffy’s love interests mirrored this. Angel was someone Buffy loved and admired, wanted to be like, but who was always either extreme good or extreme bad, and combined with Buffy’s own tendencies towards black-white thinking, made for a beautiful relationship to help her grow, but didn’t necessarily form a foundation for a long-term partner. Spike, on the other hand... they both saw each other at their worst and were drawn to each other even then, and were inspired to become better because they couldn’t bear to be a person who treated the other person so wrongly. They pushed each other to become the best them they could be, and believed in each other. Also, Spuffy is an enemies to lovers ship for the ages.

(Also, most of the other ships were well-done or at least can be understood. Riley was very obviously wrong for Buffy which paralleled Harmony and Spike in being 100% wrong for each other. Cordelia and Xander were a fun ship even if we all knew it would never last, and Willow and Oz were beautiful and cute. But Xander and Anya and Willow and Tara? OTPs. As were Giles and Jenny, the librarian and the computer teacher.)

That said, it’s not a perfect series. No story is. All of the characters and ships had problematic aspects to them worthy of critique, and the writing is very 90s in a lot of ways. It’s a product of its time, and in many ways it’s good society has progressed beyond some of the tropes/metaphors used in the show. In other way, though, the show was ahead of its time, and in a good way it wasn’t bound by the fear of purity policing with its takes on redemption (many characters would never fly today).

So, in order of seasons ranked from my very favorite to my “still enjoyed it very much” (no season was actually bad, imo), here’s my review. I’ll also review my top 10 villains in the show, because Buffy does villains very well in terms of the redeemable and irredeemable.

Season 7: Yep, the final season was my favorite.

Overall Opinion: Buffy's finale is literally "f*ck them men, our power is ours" and while it seems cheesy it actually works (also, f*ck in both a literal and figurative sense). The series strongly hit all the themes: love as strength, and redemption. Buffy consistently shows love as her strength--*all* kinds of love. Friendship w Willow/Xander, familial with Joyce/Dawn, romantic with Spike/Angel. These types of love are also never pitted against each other as is so often the case in current-day media. It's beautiful. Also, Spike’s confrontation with Wood was so powerful in terms of exploring forgiveness, redemption, and reconciliation: where they overlap and where they don't, and what it means to move forward.

Unpopular Opinion: I have seen a lot didn’t like the inclusion of Potential Slayers, and while I agree they could have been better incorporated/characterized, it was a great way to show Buffy’s final stage of growing up to be ending her chosen one status and projecting/multiplying her powers over the world.

Biggest Critique: Kennedy was female Riley--the anti-Tara to Riley’s anti-Angel (by ‘anti’ I mean opposite in every way). Kennedy was annoying and immature. Her role, like Riley’s, was less about exploring her as a character and more about her just being stamped as “love interest: lesbian.”

Favorite Episodes: Beneath You, Lies My Parents Told Me, Touched, Chosen

Season 6:

Overall Opinion: I said this on Twitter, but I felt like this was Buffy’s The Last Jedi or Empire Strikes Back moment. It is polarizing and dark, deconstructing the tropes it stands on--but by digging to the core of these tropes, it actually makes what’s good about them shine brighter. Everyone’s enemy was the worst versions of themselves. Giles left Buffy, Willow's struggle to relate to the world led to her trying to destroy it, Buffy hurt everyone through her anger, Xander abandoned Anya at the altar, Spike... yeah. It ages well as an integral part of the story, and the Trio were eerily prophetic.

Unpopular Opinion: Dawn is a great character with a good arc. A traumatized teen acting out and struggling to come to terms with loss and identity? She wasn’t whiny; she was realistic.

Biggest Critique: Willow’s addiction coding (I’ll discuss this below) and Seeing Red as an episode. I see the argument for both of its controversial scenes from a narrative perspective: Willow starts the season not grieving Buffy but instead being determined to fix it with magic and needs to learn to grieve, but. Still. Bury your gays is not a good look. For the Spike scene... he conflates sex/passion and violence (”love is blood, children” is something he said way back in season 3), but like Tara’s death, it had more to do with Spike (as Tara’s death did for Willow) than with Buffy’s arc, and as for the actual execution... they really botched that. Did it like... have to go on that long or go that far? No. Also, the framing was good, but inconsistent with the rest of the series (Xander to Buffy in the hyena episode, Faith to Xander and to Riley, etc.)

Favorite Episodes: Once More With Feeling, Smashed, Grave

Season 3 (tied with Season 5):

Overall Opinion: The opening continuity of Buffy meeting Lily/Anne after saving her life in Season 2 was sweet. The Witchhunt episode had really powerful subtext: stories of deaths that aren’t even true are actually demons that possess the town and convince them to turn against their children in the name of protecting the children. It’s a good commentary on, oh, everything in society. Faith’s character arc was fantastic, and her chemistry with Buffy was off the charts (look, I may be Spuffy all the way, but Fuffy has rights). The finale was satisfying in so many ways, seeing the entire graduating class unite to destroy the Mayor and the school with it, symbolizing Buffy et al’s readiness to move on to college. Oz's relationship with Willow was very sweet and meaningful for a first romance for Willow.

Unpopular Opinion: I actually don’t really have one. Maybe that the miracle in Amends was earned? I think you can make a decent case that Season 3 is the best written of the seasons, but can only truly be thematically appreciated to its full potential in the light of subsequent seasons (which finish Faith’s arc and deconstruct Buffy’s).

Biggest Critique: It forgot Buffy killed the hyena guy in Season 1, making her continual insistence that she can’t kill people very ?????

Favorite Episodes: Lovers Walk, Amends, Graduation Day Part 2

Season 5, which ties with Season 3:

Overall Opinion: The entire season is about family and what it means, from Tara’s to Buffy’s to the Scoobies. I loved Glory aka Enoshima Junko as the Big Bad, I loved Dawn’s interesting meta commentary on retconning (like, the fact that she’s retconned in matters), and most of my ships are still alive. Joyce’s relationship with Spike is one of the most heartwarming aspects, and Spike’s arc’s desire is clearly highlighted: he wants to be seen as a person. The episodes after Joyce’s death are the most honest portrayals of grief I’ve ever seen, and absolutely brutal to watch.

Unpopular Opinion: Buffy’s choice at the end seems a deliberate inversion of her choice at the end of Season 2 (sacrifice a loved one to save the world), but it actually isn’t: much like at the end of Season 2 where Buffy skips town because she’s devastated after killing Angel and doesn’t want to sort out being expelled, her mom knowing she’s the slayer, and her own trauma, Buffy’s sacrifice here was as much about her wanting the easy way out of relationships, family, college, etc. as it was about saving Dawn. Buffy’s death is coded as a suicide, which Season 6 emphasizes as well.

Biggest Critique: Like Season 3, I don’t have a lot to critique here. I wish the suicidal coding had been a little more obvious in Season 5 itself, but also I’m not sure it could have been more obvious; it’s pretty apparent if you pay attention. Maybe also that Buffy and Riley’s relationship failing should have been more squarely blamed on Riley, you know, being insecure and cheating.

Favorite Episodes: Family, Fool for Love, Intervention.

Season 2:

Overall Opinion: Heartbreakingly tragic but exciting and revealing at the same time. It asked the viewer interesting questions about redemption and forgiveness and atonement through Angel being honest about his past, and then decided to show us his past now reenacted, challenging us. And still, we saw them save him in a parallel to saving Willow in Season 6 (but Season 2 was tragic because it wasn’t enough, while Season 6 was not). Jenny’s death was agonizing, and the scene were Angel watches Buffy, Willow, and Joyce get the news through the window was powerful. We didn’t have to hear them to get the grief.

Unpopular Opinion: Jenny’s death isn’t a fridging; it works for her arc too when you consider her history. She worked to save the person whose life she was tasked to ruin, and it cost her her own--yet she still succeeded, because Jenny brought joy and wisdom to the show. Kendra’s death, on the other hand... was because they needed the stakes to be high--but we already knew that before she died. So, her death was useless.

Biggest Critique: The subtext was Not It. It was essentially “do not have sex. Your older boyfriend will lose his soul, kill your friends, you’ll lose your family, your school, your home, and have to kill your true love or else hell will literally swallow earth.”

Favorite Episodes: School Hard, Passion, Becoming Part 2.

Season 1:

Overall Opinion: I really liked it; it’s just lower on this list because the others are just better. It’s a great introduction to the series and to its characters, from Giles to Buffy to Willow to Jenny to Cordelia. It has great subtext a lot of the time (for example, Natalie French as She-Mantis is a literal predatory bug who engages in predatory behavior with students). Additionally, it subverts the typical YA trope of two guys and a girl, in which the girl is usually the least interesting character. Buffy and Willow were both fully fledged characters from the beginning with distinct strengths (even before Willow became a witch, as she wasn’t one in season 1 yet), while Xander was the more ordinary of the group.

Unpopular Opinion/Biggest Critique: Xander’s arc showed its first flaws that unfortunately continued throughout the series: his writing was either very good or very indulgent in ways it never was for other characters. (cough, the hyena episode, cough, in which he gets to skirt responsibility--and acknowledges that he is skirting it--for something the show will later hold others to account for). Xander’s just kind of inconsistent, which weakened his character over all. (Which is why both his love interests--Cordelia and then ultimately Anya--were good for him: they did not indulge him.)

Favorite Episode: Witch, Nightmares.

Season 4:

Overall Opinion: it’s still a good season. It’s a good portrayal of college and the growing pains of branching out, the strains of college growth on relationships (romantic and platonic). It shows us the first hints of Spuffy, giving us some serious Jungian symbolism between Spike and Buffy early on, and does well in establishing Xander/Anya and Willow/Tara as beautiful OTPs. Faith and Buffy’s foiling is fantastic. The Halloween episode was very fun as well. However, it suffers because its Big Bad, Adam, is not all that compelling thematically--yet, he could have been. See, the final battle pulls off the Power of Friendship in a really strong way but notably the season does not end there. Instead, it ends on dreams of each character’s worst fears, continuing what we saw in Nightmares in Season 1. Why? Because it shows us that the characters’ wars aren’t against monsters, but monsters of their own making: their flaws. Adam, as a literal Frankenstein, exemplifies this, but it wasn’t capitalized on as well as it could have been.

Unpopular Opinion: Beer Bad isn’t a bad episode, at the very least because Buffy gets to punch Parker. It’s not one of the series’ best, obviously, but it does give Buffy an arc in that she gets her daydream of Parker begging her to come back, but she has overcome that desire and her desire for revenge. If we wanna talk about bad subtext in Season 4, Season 2′s Not It sex subtext continues in the Where the Wild Things Are episode in this season; it’s a powerful callout of abusive purity-culture churches, until the fact that the shame creates a literal curse undermines the progressive message it’s supposed to send. Also, the Thanksgiving episode (Pangs) is a nightmare of white guilt and Oh God Shut Up White People.

Biggest Critique: Riley is awful. Like Kennedy, he had “love interest:normal” stamped on him and that was it. The thing is, he could have worked as an Angel foil, representative of the normal-life aspect of Buffy to Angel’s vampire/supernatural aspect, but the writers never explore this and seemed to even try to back away from that later on. They threw all the romantic cliches at the wall to see what sticks, from klutzy “I dropped my schoolbooks, that’s how we met” to cliché lines that had me rolling my eyes. Do you know how bad a romance has to be to make me dislike romantic tropes?

Favorite Episodes: Fear Itself, Hush, Restless

Villain rankings:

Dark Willow, the only villain to be truly sympathetic. While the addiction coding was insensitive and, while unsurprising for its time, aged extremely poorly. That said, Willow’s turn to the dark side after Tara’s death worked well for her character and the story: it was believable and paid off what had been building since Season 1's “Nightmares” episode (Willow’s inferiority complex).

Glory managed to be genuinely terrifying, and humorous/enjoyable too. Her minions and their numerous nicknames for Glorificus were hilarious, as was her intense vanity. Her merging with Ben--a human being who genuinely wanted to be kind and good--added complexity and tragedy to her role.

The First. A really good take on Satan. The seventh season as well as the First’s first appearance in season 3′s “Amends” had kind of blatant Christian symbolism, and so the First being essentially Satan works. Their disguising themselves as dead loved ones and the subtle manipulation they used to alienate people was really disturbing and well done.

The Mayor, who was a terrible person but a truly good father. He provided an interesting contrast to the normal ‘bad dad’ bad guy character, in that he provided Faith exactly what the other characters refused to: he saw the best in her and offered her parental support, while the heroes didn’t and wound up pushing her away.

The Trio, who were villains ahead of their time: whiny fanboy reddit dudebros, basically. The stakes seemed so much lower than fighting Glory, a literal god, the previous season. But that’s why they worked so well for Season 6′s human themes, and were especially disturbing because we all know people like them. I also appreciated the surprisingly sensitive takes on Jonathan and Andrew, who got to redeem themselves, but Warren did not, and I don’t think he should have either.

Angelus + Drusilla. I’m ranking them below the Trio because Angelus was just sooooo different from Angel that it was difficult for me to feel the same way for him. He was still Angel, so it wasn’t possible to enjoy his villainy, but he also wasn’t nearly as sympathetic as Dark Willow, had no redeeming qualities like the Mayor, and wasn’t as disturbingly realistic as the Trio. However, the emotional stakes were excellently executed with him as the Big Bad, in that you were never quite sure how to feel and it just plain hurt. Also, Drusilla was a favorite recurring character. She was sympathetic and yet batsh*t enough to be enjoyable as a villain at the same time.

The Master, who was just completely camp and really worked as an introductory villain. He was scary enough to believe he was a threat, and was funny enough to introduce the series’ humor as well. He was, like Glory, an enjoyable Big Bad.

The Gentlemen, the one-off villains of Season 4′s Hush who were genuinely terrifying. It’s not as if they got a lot of explanation or any backstory, but they didn’t need it.

Caleb, the misogynist priest. Fitting with the First’s Christian symbolism, Caleb serving as a spokesperson of all bad religious beliefs felt appropriate. He was also a good foil to Warren--being actually supernaturally powered instead of a wannabe--and to Tara’s family in being full-out evil. I despised him.

Snyder. Okay Snyder is not a Big Bad like Adam is, but let’s face it: Adam is lame compared to the other villains. But Snyder as a principal? He was so irritating and yet really well used in the series to critique overly strict, hypocritical teachers. Like, we all know teachers like him. I loved to hate him, and his ending was so satisfying.

#buffy the vampire slayer #btvs #spuffy #buffy summers #dawn summers #spike #angel #cordelia chase #btvs giles #willow rosenberg #tillow #tara maclay #anya jenkins #xanya #xander harris #jenny calendar #kendra young #faith lehane #hamliet reviews

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annabethisterrified · 4 years

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Book Review: THE TOWER OF NERO (The Trials of Apollo #5)

***No spoilers until you go under the cut!***

After months in the human form of Lester Papadopoulos, the former god Apollo is nearing the end of his trials alongside the young Meg McCaffrey. All their adventures and misfortunes have landed them back in the place it started-- New York. Meg and Apollo must defeat the final, most powerful emperor of the Triumvirate, who also happens to be Meg’s manipulative stepfather. Meanwhile, Nico, Will, and Rachel have important roles to play as the final battle looms. Even if they can defeat Nero, a more terrible enemy awaits in the form of Python, Apollo’s nemesis. Still, if they can succeed, Apollo will finally be restored to godhood. But after everything he’s been through, going back to the way things were doesn’t sound so great anymore. Apollo and his friends will have to find a new way to make all the sacrifices and pain they’ve experienced and witnessed worth it. That is, if they can survive their final trial.

As both the culmination of The Trials of Apollo series and the Camp Half-Blood Chronicles, The Tower of Nero excels at bringing the complicated, moving themes of the saga into final, meaningful reckonings. Nero proves to be a chilling and impressive enemy who forces Apollo and Meg to put everything they’ve learned through their journey together to the ultimate test. New and old characters combine to see the story to its end, and long-time readers are rewarded with actualized development and a bittersweet farewell. The Tower of Nero is a fitting and robust conclusion that shines with all the heart, humor, and growth that makes this saga a worthy frontrunner in children’s literature.

SPOILER SECTIONS BELOW

Welcome!!!!!!!!! Y’all. Y’ALL. I am REELING. If you’ve been around here a while, you probably know I’ve been online here since 2012 (?????!!!!!) where I subjected by followers to weird takes and frantic excitement about the upcoming installments of Heroes of Olympus, then Trials of Apollo. Since I was ten years old, this story has been such a huge part of my life. Now I’m 22 (?????!!!!). So. How am I feeling? I’m feeling like I need to flip over every piece of furniture in my house. In a good way. Look. I gotta break this down into three parts because I’m the worst!

I. TRIALS & TRIBULATION

The Trials of Apollo, to me, felt like the inevitable conclusion to Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Heroes of Olympus. We went through two series where we intimately followed the lives of young demigods growing up through two brutal wars, dangerous quests, and personal reckonings. Gods certainly made appearances, and some were more helpful than others, but the message was always clear-- the demigods were on their own. Two wars fought, two wars won, and at what cost? For what change?

Bringing a god down to earth (both literally and metaphorically) is really the only way a story like this could be rounded out. Especially when the god in question is Apollo. He’s the son of Zeus, who punishes him by turning him mortal. This family set-up already has enormous implications in reference to the previous chain of mythological events: Zeus killed his father Kronos, Kronos killed his father Ouranos, etc.

Prophecy is also the scaffolding of this entire saga. Everything is dictated by it-- every quest relies on it, most of the demigods we meet are led by it, and the whole Greek/Roman world seems to build their lives around it. My point is, Apollo was a great character to use as the mouthpiece of this last series. He’s been present throughout the previous two series, and he’s relatively unaffected by the Greek/Roman divide. The enemy, the Triumvirate, is also an exciting antagonist-- they’ve fueled and funded the previous two wars, and their obsession with becoming “gods” is loaded with implications as Apollo races to return to his own status as a god.

Apollo himself is also a completely terrible being. From the first pages through his perspective, there’s certainly little sympathy or commiseration with our narrator. Apollo is many things: spoiled, petulant, selfish, and arrogant. He is not good, and now, he is no longer a god. Still, his voice and struggle remained compelling and engaging throughout the series.

His bond with Meg McCaffrey is, without a doubt, the emotional heart of the whole series. I think they both see aspects of themselves in each other, and it was a genius move to make her the stepdaughter of the enemy. Nero literally sent Meg to be Apollo’s controller and thought that she would easily bring him down; the fact that both these very troubled people cling to each other in the face of such manipulation and frightening circumstances-- and then repeatedly choose to fight their ways back to each other time and again-- is really what makes this series work so well.

With Meg and Apollo at the forefront, after The Hidden Oracle the series takes on something of a “tour” format. We discover new places and revisit old characters across the country, which was definitely exciting for long-time readers to see familiar faces undergo even more development. (This might just be me, but I don’t think ToA can really stand on its own without the worldbuilding/establishment of the first two series-- that’s not a knock on it, but so much of it picks up where the previous series left off, which might make it a disorienting read for someone new to the world.)

Of course, the obvious midpoint reversal of the series is the death of Jason Grace in The Burning Maze. A flip switches completely-- not just for Apollo, but for the whole cast. This is not an incident that just “happens” and is swept aside. In the final two installments, Jason is threaded throughout the story, showing how grief is never truly over. But his sacrifice saved everyone he loved, and had profound impacts on everyone he knew. As brutal as it was, I appreciated how Jason really changed everything through his choice.

By the time Apollo and Meg return to New York in The Tower of Nero, they are better, stronger versions of themselves. The things they once wanted-- godhood restored, or a father’s approval-- are no longer appealing. Their development (both individually and as friends) is utterly believable and hard-won. We see characters from The Hidden Oracle return changed, too. Losing Jason has dredged up dark feelings within Nico, Rachel is warding off the influence of Python in her mind, and Will’s healer heart is put to the test in yet another final battle. (Listen, this kid played instrumental roles in The Last Olympian, The Blood of Olympus, AND The Tower of Nero. The fate of the world really is in his capable, glow-in-the-dark hands.)

Together, Apollo and team venture into Manhattan for a very intense, exciting, and profound final reckoning with Nero. (CHAPTER 20, ANYONE????) Both Apollo and Meg, once and for all, come into their own and reclaim their power and independence. The pay-off is immaculate, and it’s jarring to remember the Apollo we once knew-- the easygoing one from The Titan’s Curse, the snobbish one from The Blood of Olympus, and the self-pitying one from The Hidden Oracle. His development throughout ToA is seamless and incredibly moving, and we’re left with a protagonist that we can truly, unequivocally root for and love.

II. HAVE YOU LEARNED?

When Nero is defeated, the real enemy still lurks. Apollo’s age-old nemesis, Python, has long haunted him. Their final reckoning is one-on-one, and after everything Apollo’s learned and been through, he goes into his last battle not necessarily caring whether he lives or dies-- he just knows Python must be defeated, no matter the cost. Don’t get me STARTED on his last conversation with Meg!!!!?????? (”Just come back to me, dummy.” I LOVE THEM)

So, yeah, I’m already crying at that point. Apollo (slowly regaining his godhood) goes into this completely by himself, assuming all risk and responsibility. He’s forced to sacrifice the Arrow of Dodona, and eventually chooses to sacrifice himself by flinging them both down to Tartarus. But we don’t stop there! Oh, no, we go all the way down to Chaos. The primordial soup of all the pantheons, all of existence. Python crumbles, and Apollo clings to the edge-- he clings to life.

This is it. This is the literal rock-bottom moment of the saga, and I’m completely unsure of how he’s getting out of this one. Who’s going to rescue him? What can he even do at this point? Genuinely, I had no idea where this was going-- and I never would have guessed that it would be the goddess Styx who shows up. She’s played an important, but also very minor, role in ToA. I was baffled at first-- I thought, what does she have to do with any of this? But then it ended up playing out in like the most breathtaking, moving way possible. It’s one of the most defining scenes of the entire 15 books to me.

She only asks him: “Have you learned?”

This is the goddess of promises and oaths. Since The Lightning Thief, we’ve seen how oaths are tossed around like confetti. Percy’s very existence (not to mention Thalia and Jason’s) is because of a broken promise. An oath to keep with a final breath is one of the revisited elements throughout the Heroes of Olympus series. Apollo makes willy-nilly promises in The Hidden Oracle, which he later regrets.

Then, at the end of everything, Styx only asks Apollo if he’s learned. All the talk of promises and oaths in this story doesn’t actually have anything to do with “keeping promises”-- certainly, so many promises are broken we can’t keep track. It all boils down to whether we learn from what we experience and use that to become better people moving forward. It’s about making sure we mean what we say and what we do. It’s about commitment and devotion to the people we love and the things we care about. Promises don’t matter. Only action does.

I can’t understate how thoroughly pleased I was that this was the final reckoning of the saga. It was an unexpected and completely profound moment, and such an important scene to use as the emotional climax of the book.

III. WHERE WE GO FROM HERE

After 15 years and 15 books, The Tower of Nero had to find a way to bring the saga to a close without nailing the coffin shut. More standalone novels are surely on the horizon (I’m looking at you, Nico and Will), but as a whole, this saga did need to come to a satisfying end.

Let’s pick up after Apollo is restored to godhood. He wakes up to his sister Artemis, and the very first thing he does? After finally returning to his true form, the thing he’s relentlessly yearned for the whole series? He just breaks down sobbing. He’s miserable. There’s no relief or joy in the realization that he’s once again an Olympian.

I’m always a sucker for the trope of “Character does everything possible to reach Goal only to realize that Goal isn’t actually what they want or need at all”, so of course, I was moved to see Apollo learn that he doesn’t actually care much about whether he’s a god or a human anymore. (In fact, he later remarks that he envies Lu’s new ability to grow old and age alongside Meg and her foster siblings.)

I was doubly-moved that Apollo’s restoration to godhood was not an action on Zeus’s part. From what little context we get (a lot happens “off screen” and even Apollo isn’t sure), it appears that Apollo either reclaimed his own godhood through sheer force of will to return from Chaos and reunite with his friends, and/or Styx aided him. But it seems obvious Zeus wasn’t involved, which has HUGE implications for the power structure of the Olympians moving forward.

A lot of us, myself included, had certain expectations for how Apollo’s inevitable reunion with Zeus and the rest of the Olympians would go. I, for one, was excited to see Apollo either tell off his father, or possibly assume a position as the new Camp Half-Blood director or New Rome’s pontifex maximus. Instead, we got a somewhat quiet, but incredibly tense interaction between all the Olympians. The closest thing to an outburst is actually between Hera and Zeus, as she tells him off for not mourning his son Jason, as Apollo did. (Dare I say....I liked Hera for a moment?) (ALSO, I’m fully on-board with the theory that Zeus did not intervene in Jason’s death as a punishment for Jason publicly calling him “unwise” in The Blood of Olympus.)

The whole scene reads as a powder keg. Already, it’s established that Apollo, Artemis, and Dionysus (and possibly even Athena and Hera) have no illusions of Zeus’s grandeur. They do not view him as family, or even as a leader. He’s simply just the one with enough power to punish the rest of them when they get “out of line”.

Apollo began naming Zeus as his abuser fairly early on in the series. Perhaps witnessing the way Meg thinks and speaks about her stepfather Nero made this clear for him. In either case, he begins to explicitly mirror the very same advice he gives Meg in dealing with her abuser: distance yourself from the abusive person/situation, and accept that tyrants do not change and it is not your responsibility to attempt to make them “see the light”. Thus, Apollo makes no appeal or argument to Zeus– he understands by then that it’d be fruitless. Instead, he’s concentrating his energy on doing everything he can do with what he has; he’s committed to being a protector and friend of demigods, and he sees that other gods are beginning to (if not already) see Zeus’s wrongness. (More on this here.)

Was it what I expected going into the book? Nope. But I have to admit that it was really exciting to see Zeus try to hide the very real fear of realizing that his son Apollo is no longer afraid of him, and is quite possibly more powerful than him, too. Apollo switches gears entirely away from Zeus, and focuses his energy back on the friends he’s made and the children he has. It’s a refreshing reminder that it’s often more productive to concentrate on helping others instead of harming those who harm us.

That being said, I would have liked a few paragraphs or pages discussing what practical differences there will be for the lives of young demigods in the wake of this change. I understand that might not have worked given the very condensed timeline post-returning-to-godhood (the story ends literally the same day or day after), but I do hope and believe that Apollo’s transformation is going to change the way demigods perceive gods-- and what they will expect of gods in the future. Just look at how Apollo is received by the campers at CHB. They’re ecstatic to see him. They think of him as a hero. Apollo is coming back just to help and spend time with his kids, his friends, and the campers, and he’s going to keep coming back. The other gods are certainly going to feel some pressure to follow suit.

Speaking of Apollo’s reunions...shall we?

I loved that we got to see all the main-players one last time. Mimicking the “tour format” of the series, we get to watch Apollo catch up with his loved ones, who helped him learn how to be a better person throughout his trials.

It was sad, but reassuring, to watch Nico come to terms with Jason’s death. I like how he outlined the differences between Hazel’s and Jason’s deaths, and why he isn’t interfering out of respect for Jason. Watching Jason appear to Apollo (ambiguously as a ghost or as a figment of Apollo’s dream-imagination) was another moving reminder of the stark differences in the ways that different demigods prioritize and think about what it is to be a hero. Jason’s idea and Percy’s idea, for instance, are super different because of the way they were raised. Percy would put anything on the line for his family and friends; so would Jason, of course, but he also has a much broader view of what’s worth sacrificing your life for...which is admirable in ways, but also painfully sad, since a lot has to change in order for Jason’s death to carry weight. Over the course of the last two books, I think it’s very safe to say Jason’s death did change just about everything for the people who knew and loved him, and even those who didn’t.

Whew. Okay, back to Camp Half-Blood. Nico and Will are clearly now very comfortable with each other, and it’s refreshing to see how they both watch out for each other and bring out the best in one another. I’m excited for their inevitable solo book, but regardless, it’s good to see Nico getting the help he needs (from his own experiences, from Dionysus, Will, etc), and for Rachel to get some distance from her terrible parents by living out her art student dreams in Paris.

Then, we drop by the Waystation. I simply cannot get over the fact that Calypso is at BAND CAMP. Anyway, it’s unsurprising to find out that she and Leo are still “complicated”, but I’m glad she’s experiencing the highs and lows of mortal life, and that Leo is working on helping out vulnerable youth (and has two mom figures in his life!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!). Glad we get to see Thalia and Reyna both happy and healthy, too.

Next up, Camp Jupiter and New Rome. LOVE that Hazel and Frank have both reclaimed the curses that haunted them since The Son of Neptune. They really both did just...like...basically die to bring down the Big Bad and then come back better than ever. (Side note: I still obviously have issues with the fact that Hazel is SO YOUNG! There was no reason for her not to be 15/16 like the rest of the Argo 2 crew! Ugh.)

Anyway, then we say goodbye to Percy and Annabeth. Except for the annoying continuity error in terms of the timeline of them learning about Jason, I really really really loved this parting moment with them. I know some readers wanted Percy and Annabeth to stay in New York, but it always felt very natural and meaningful for me that they’d want to relocate to New Rome. That was always the Big Dream for most of Heroes of Olympus, and it makes sense to me that they’d choose to live somewhere designed for demigods to actually live and grow old and raise families. Besides, I’m quite certain they’ll frequently be visiting New York. I digress.

It was super bittersweet to see these two finally off on their own (and basically living together, as Apollo teasingly implies) going to college! Definitely a huge sigh of relief and satisfaction after following all their exploits since they were twelve. I’m so glad we get to see them (all things considered) happy and excited for their new life together. They certainly stepped back in this series, as they deserved. But they still lose Jason, and that’s something that weighs heavily on them and likely always will. Apollo calls Jason “the best of us”, and I don’t think that use of “us” is lost on Percy, Annabeth, or anyone-- Apollo’s identity and alignment is with them now, which will hopefully lead to positive change.

Then, simultaneously the saddest and happiest (?) reunion-- with Piper. This was obviously really heavy, since the last time Apollo sees her is in the wake of Jason’s death. For me, I’m very proud and excited by the fact that Piper is the only character who basically forges a whole new life (outside of the sphere of the Olympians) for herself. She’s far from other demigods and gods, and is committed to reconnecting with her mortal family and making a beautiful life. She has a new friend, too, which is absolutely awesome. (I mean, we all KNEW, right? But it’s really great to see this confirmed on-page.) When Piper told Apollo that he did right by Jason, I definitely lost it. And I also just really loved the final beat with her-- Apollo’s stammering a goodbye, but Piper’s already turned around to walk back to her new friend and her new life.

The final farewell, of course, went to Meg McCaffrey. She’s reclaimed Aeithales, and is now foster-sibling-extraordinaire by rescuing Nero’s other adopted demigods and giving them a new chance. Meg’s really matured and grown into such a kind and strong leader, but it was super bittersweet to see how much she still values Apollo. Their reunion just about broke me. They share a bond that no one else will ever understand, and they brought each other out of darkness that nearly ended them both. I literally can’t think of a better final dialogue than what they share:

You’ll come back?

Always. The sun always comes back.

I’m fine!!!

Anyway, this brings me to the closing lines of the story. Just as Percy opens The Lightning Thief by directly addressing the reader, Apollo closes The Tower of Nero by bidding farewell to us.

Call on me. I will be there for you.

On so many levels, this line works really well as the ending. For me, and I imagine for you too if you’re reading this, these 15 books are a pillar of our childhoods. We grew up alongside these characters, and found enormous excitement and identity and magic in these pages. The story may have come to a close, but it lives on within us-- it’s something we can return to time and again for enjoyment and understanding.

More than anything, this story pulled off something I didn’t really know was possible: it makes me feel genuinely and enthusiastically glad to be human, no matter how strange or hard it gets.

____________

My fifth-grade teacher assigned The Lightning Thief as mandatory reading when I was ten years old. I picked it up reluctantly, but from the first lines, I just completely fell into this story. Twelve years since that assignment, I’m now a traditionally-published author myself...writing about what else but mythology, of course. These books saw me from elementary school all the way to post-college life. It’s hard to imagine where I’d be without them-- certainly, I’d never have achieved my lifelong dream of becoming an author, nor would I have found such an incredible online community like the one I’ve found here. I consider myself extremely lucky to have grown up alongside these characters and their incredible story.

I know we’ve likely got more standalones in this world to come, but this is still the end of the saga. I’m sad to see it come to a close, but I’m so ecstatic with the send-off we got, and I’m excited to let the story settle and become a part of me-- something that will always affect how I see the world, something that reminds me of why I write, and something that’s always there to welcome me home.

#review #tower of nero #trials of apollo #the tower of nero #the trials of apollo

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deniigi · 4 years

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bro, work made me depressed that I literally left my seat to regain any resemblance of joy or something equivalent before breaking down again. Do you think you can provide a ficlet I involving Peter and Sam to cheer me up?

FUCK CAPITALISM

TAKE THIS

Title: Calibrating

Summary: Sam and Peter talk themselves towards a meaningful discussion.

---------

Peter did this thing—this infuriating thing where he texted shit like ‘come over’ and then Sam had to bend over backwards to be flirty and coy.

It was imperative that he came across as flirty and coy.

Im-fucking-perative, regardless of what Leilani said or Matt’s annoyance at what he called the ‘jungle of depravity’ that overtook the group chat pretty much daily.

Sam didn’t care.

If Peter texted the group or sent any message that might be construed upside-down as something romantic or sexual, Sam not only had to catch it, but he had to volley it back.

This, he told Leilani, sealed their No-Homo contract.

She stared at him.

He decided to demonstrate.

“See, here, look, I’ll show you,” he said, dragging out his phone. “Exhibit A. There he is, see? Asking about the strength of PVC pipe in pounds per meter like a fuckin’ tease. Now I can’t just let him think that I saw that and didn’t think of it as a metaphor, alright? So I say—”

“Sam, why does he need to know the strength of PVC pipe?” Leilani interrupted.

It didn’t matter. That wasn’t the point of this discussion.

“I’m sending a winky-face,” Sam informed her as he did that very thing.

Leilani stared harder than before.

But look, skepticism was unrewarded. Peter texted a kiss right back and said ‘oh boo, you always know just want to say.’

How could she not see the No-Homo? Sam could do this all day. He could and there would be absolutely no problems and he wouldn’t want to suffocate himself in his pillow at the end of it all.

It was fine.

“Samuel,” Leilani said, “I’m going to tell you something and I want you to hear it with an open heart. Will you open your heart for me?”

Sam spun around in his chair and arranged his arms and legs so that they were as open as they could feasibly be without being obscene.

“I am more open than a boiled clam,” he informed her.

Leilani blinked slowly, then shook her head and checked over her shoulders. She waved him in closer. Then closer. And then close enough that he could smell her perfume on her neck.

“You’re the tease,” she said.

Then she left the backroom. And Sam could only stare after her, frozen in horror as his wide-open heart wrinkled in on itself, picking up mass and gravity until it was naught but a black hole.

“I’m the tease?” he whispered to himself in shock.

Oh no.

OH NO.

“SENSEI.”

Matt dropped his collection of folders and swore, clutching at his chest.

“We have discussed volume, Sam,” he said, bending down to collect his paper children.

Sam took the opportunity to throw both arms around his neck from behind as a threat.

“Don’t lie,” he warned. “Swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, amen.”

Matt stood up and Sam felt his toes leave the floor. He hadn’t planned this far ahead.

“Or what?” Matt asked, 110% unfazed.

Sam wished that his feet weren’t kicking around in air here. It really put a dent in his intimidation factor.

“Am I a tease?” he asked.

Matt faced front with heavy eyebrows. Sam couldn’t see his face from this angle, but he knew that aura of irritation.

“If you have to ask the question, then you already know the answer,” Matt said. “Does that help?”

“No, I hate you now, actually,” Sam told him.

Matt dropped him right on his ass.

There had to be a way to attain proof. To determine once and for all that it was Sam who was in the wrong here, misinterpreting things like the genius that he was.

Thankfully, Sam’s experience of growing up as a non-only child for the last two decades had prepared him exactly for this type of conversation.

SC: HANNAH AM I A TEASE???

HC: yes

HC: next question

SC: FUCK.

SC: WHAT IF ITS NOT NO-HOMO?

HC: my dear brother, the only options if something is not no-homo is for it to be no-no or homo-homo.

SC: Murder me

HC: gladly

SC: I’m in possible homo-homo with spiderman

HC: are you sure it’s not no-no?

SC: MURDER ME

HC: okay but like if it’s no-no then this is not a problem, right?

SC: If it’s no-no then I’ve read every sign wrong and I deserve to become a partially eaten tadpole awash in an indifferent boiling sea

HC: okay so we’re leaning INTO the drama today I gotcha. Alright but like, just for the sake of arguing, what if it was homo-homo?

SC: then I need you to bury my body somewhere no one will ever find it because my heart can’t stand requited love you know this about me.

HC: give me your login

SC: thank you I love you you’re the only person who matters

BT: Spiderman.

SM: Blindspot. DMing? You okay?

BT: this is Hannah.

SM: OH

SM: hi Hannah are you okay? Did you need something?

BT: My brother never got tested for reading comprehension but would have failed anyways. Can you arbitrate an arbitrary argument for us?

SM: I’m positive that there is a link between those two ideas that I am missing, but sure?

BT: okay are you ready?

SM: my loins have been girded.

BT: gross. you two are made for each other. Okay: what are your opinions on 24yo Chinese dudes with bad vision who are 5’7” tall, with terrible hair and brains as big and gaseous as Jupiter?

SM: positive

BT: you’re so romantic spidey.

SM: I know

BT: I’m going to tell him now

SM: WAIT DON’T TELL HIM

BT: byeeeeeee

Sam was going to have a heart attack. He couldn’t look at his phone. He was just going to lay here until he wasted away into a fossil.

Mm, yes, what a wonderful way to escape any and all feelings. That was—

His phone chirped and he nearly fell out of his chair in a hurry to answer it.

HC: [image] [image]

HC: you owe me your bones

SC: AFASDFADFAS:FJaf’asdfjahsdlfihasdl’fas

SC: TAKE THEM

HC: if you fuck spiderman you have to get pregnant and demand alimony for your beautiful mixed babies Samuel

SC: Darling sister, we’ve talked about this. it isn’t going to happen I still have yet to steal a womb

HC: try harder

HC: ttyl

Okay, this was fine.

Everything was fine.

Spidey liked Sam back, it was no big deal. Spidey liked everyone back. Even the teases.

Even.

The.

Teases.

Fuck, Sam had to move.

Foggy caught him biting his nails to pieces over the copy machine and asked him if he was okay. He was not. Foggy could read this off him. He didn’t ask again, but he did say that if Sam was feeling particularly anxious about something he was welcome to go have his breakdown upstairs in Kirsten’s kitchen instead of downstairs among the files.

Sam appreciated his offer. He hiked up the stairs, and halfway up, his phone chirped.

His heart stopped.

It chirped again, and then again. By the time he got to the top of the stairs, it was chirping every couple of seconds with messages being typed and sent at mach speed.

He kicked off his shoes and went to go stand over Kirsten’s sink to open the first one.

PP: Sam it’s peter hey listen your sister messaged me

PP: and was asking some pretty invasive questions and I replied to her. I don’t know if you saw them but I just wanted to say that if that makes you uncomfortable in any way know that I absolutely don’t mind and I’ll stop

PP: you can tell me to fuck off if that crossed your boundaries. I shouldn’t have even messaged her back without asking you

PP: and obviously in future I won’t talk to her until I’ve cleared it with you I just wasn’t thinking I’m never thinking it’s a little hard to think sometimes

PP: especially when you message me back and I get caught up in the games and the emojis and stuff and like I’m sure that sometimes I overstep but I don’t mean to and you can tell me at any point if you want me to stop

PP: I guess I just really like to talk to you sometimes and it’s fun to have someone to banter with who actually banters back like not in a mean way but in a really nice and funny way. you’re an easy guy to talk to is what I’m saying

PP: which I’m sure you get a lot. I don’t mean that I want to like tell you all my problems I swear it’s not that it’s just more of a AHHHHH I don’t even know what I’m saying I think it’s sorry???

PP: I’m sorry??? I don’t mean to imply anything that isn’t there and I don’t want to make you feel like you have to either. Ar e you mad? Please don’t be mad okay wait no I’ve sent like seven fucking messages I’m being a creep oh my god IM SORRY ILL SHUT UP NOW OKAY SORRY BYE

Oh nooooo.

The panic-induced infodump was not only familiar but horrendously endearing.

Sam had to explode now.

Man. Bummer.

SC: it’s okay Peter

PP: OH THANK GOD

PP: is it tho??? Are you sure?

SC: I have positive feelings towards people like you too

Sam’s heart pounded. He almost locked his phone and threw it in the sink, but another text came in just as that thought finished crossing his mind.

PP: you do?

SC: yes of course I do

PP: oh nice

SC: yeah

Annnnnnnd cue mutual nerd awkwardness. Great. Well done, Sam, you’ve done it again.

He sighed and turned away from the sink and sunk down onto the floor with his back against it.

Such a loser, Chung. So painfully awkward. Would it kill you to, just for once, slow down and chill for a minute?

God.

PP: hey sam?

No, Sam just wanted to sit on this floor and wallow.

PP: hello? Are you still there?

Sam let his head fall back against the sink. He closed his eyes.

His phone rang in his hand and he nearly had a heart attack. His fingers scrabbled over its face and the caller ID read ‘Peter Parker.’

Oh god.

Oh no.

Be cool. Be cool. Be cool.

“Hello?” he answered to the scratchy phone silence on the other side of the line.

He frowned.

“Hello?” he tried again, a smidge less desperate.

“Hi.”

There he was.

“Hey,” Sam said. “Sorry, just got awkward.”

Peter laughed through the line.

“Me too,” he said. “That was awkward.”

Yeah.

“Yeah.”

A long pause.

“I’m doing it again,” Sam moaned into his hand.

“No, no. Hey, you’re good,” Peter said. “I was just uh. Calling because.” He trailed off.

Sam waited.

“Sam? You still there?”

He startled and cleared his throat.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he said. “Sorry, zoning out a little bit. You know, busy day.”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “Yeah, I know.”

Sam breathed as quietly as he could. He could almost hear Peter doing the same on his end.

“Sorry, I’ve gotta g—” Sam started.

“Hey, do you like me?”

HNG.

“No?” Sam answered and then punched himself in the leg. “Sorry. Uh. I didn’t—I mean, uh. Yes. Of course I like you. You’re a really good person. I admire you a lot.”

Hannah, oh Hannah, where is thine shovel? Sam needed it to dig this grave deeper, please.

“Oh. Okay, I just—I guess I uh, have a hard time reading the tone of your texts sometimes,” Peter said.

“It’s okay, I get that a lot,” Sam said. “I’ll try harder to be more direct.”

“No,” Peter said. “No, no, you don’t have to change anything.”

“Oh? Okay, well. Maybe I still will, though,” Sam said.

If Peter wouldn’t have heard him, he would have started to try to fit his whole fist in his mouth.

Five minutes of conversation and they were still saying nothing.

“Sam?”

He swallowed.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Next time you’re in the city, would you, uh, maybe want to go out somewhere? With me?”

Out? What like, to a movie or something?

“Yeah, just like that,” Peter said. “’Cause I uh. Would like to. Do that, I mean. With you.”

“With me?” Sam asked. “Oh right, and your other friends, uh, names—sorry, I’m bad with names. N-ned?”

“No,” Peter said oddly abruptly. “Well, I mean—I don’t mean it like that. I just—just with you. For now. That’s what I mean.”

“Oh. Uh. Kinda like a date?” Sam asked through the forcefield of self-hatred that felt like it spanned the entire continental US.

There was a pause. Sam held his breath.

“Yeah,” Peter said. “Exactly like a date. If you don’t mind—you know, doing that with me.”

AHAHAHAHAHAHA.

“Are you trying to lure me to a secondary location, Mr. Parker?” Sam asked seriously.

The laugh that met him made all the muscles in his shoulders relax.

“Maybe if the bit at the first location goes well,” Peter said. Then added hurriedly, “If you’re down for that.”

Sam was down for it right now.

Actually, maybe not in Kirsten’s kitchen. But like, right now in a different location.

“If it’s a movie date, we can do it through Netflix Party,” he pointed out faux-lightly. “It wouldn’t be the same, but we could do it this weekend, even. Saturday—I’m off Saturday.”

Peter said nothing for a long time.

“Okay. Saturday,” he finally agreed, “I can do Saturday. Kinda hard to hold your hand through a screen, but I can give it my best shot?”

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFfffffff.

“Oh, I bet you will,” Sam nearly choked.

“You’re really cute, Sam.”

NO. SHUT UP. YOU ARE.

“Thanks.”

“I wanted to kiss you last time you were here, but I was too, uh. Shy. Embarrassed. One of them.”

Sam was going to puke, but in like, the happiest kind of way.

“I like you a lot too, Peter,” he whispered.

“Are you crying?”

“What? No.”

“Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.”

“Shut up, I’m not. I—the old man’s downstairs, his ears aren’t as good through ceilings, but I just want to make sure—”

“Uh-huh,” Peter said. “I’m sure that’s what it is. So I’ll see you Saturday? Maybe Facetime or something?”

“Yeah, Saturday,” Sam said. “I’ll send you a time when I know. I’ve gotta go. Meltdown-alloted-breaktime is over.”

Peter laughed.

“Alright, man, I’ll talk to you later. Bye now.”

“Bye,” Sam said lamely.

He hung up the phone. He did not scream. But he did fist pump and then fall onto his side.

---------

Here’s to hoping things get easier for you anon!!

#fic #ficlet #btsm #samuel chung #peter parker #I just love them being awkward nerds with each other #I JUST WANT THEM TO KISS AND THEN CRY A LITTLE ABOUT IT ITS FINE

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sadiestolemyfire · 2 years

Text

This book is a guide for all the Elohim who still remain here, and a record of all of us who have gone to wait in the next room.

Our children. They do not deserve us.

The night is ours.

Chapter 1

The Masses " Each unit knows it must work or it will die soon. Unlike an animal, once its basic utilities are fulfilled the unit wants more. More of what? More stuff too do. Or it resorts to violence and masturbation. Sometimes alone, sometimes with a friend. Sometimes at the same time. The wheel of civilization turns by the attempted regulation of its apparent need to fuck and kill everything. Like its ancestor the animal, the unit fills the world with literal cum, blood and shit. Unlike the animal, the unit makes metaphorical use of them in its daily life, through the choices it makes. Strangely the unit despises immorality when it can see it, and will definitely tell you about it, or whomever might listen. But when it’s not in direct proximity to whatever terrible thing is happening over there, to those people, is not happening to it. The unit pretty much forgets that those people over there are it, given enough time. And when the unit finally realizes that morality is not a buffet to pick, choose and quaff, depending on its age, mood, or beliefs, it usually dies, leaving behind other confused and upset units who do not understand what is happening, so they box or burn them, saving us the trouble. We call these units cattle. Because they behave with that like mind. One cow moves and the others follow. We move them up and down and around. Without us they would still be covered in cum, blood and shit. Even more so. So let them eat cake " - Marie Antoinette, 1789

They are born into it. A mass of lost meat wandering from stick huts to stone towers. They eat each other for little profit and use creation as their own personal toilet bowl.

As they scrambled from the mud into caves we gave it tools to use, weapons to defend itself with. Whispering in their ears that they needed sharp pointy things to protect themselves from each other. What little it took for them to turn so quickly on their brothers and sisters. How easy it was to make it our pet.

Rules for our children. Rule 1 - Distract and Pander Give the people what they want.

Some boring philosopher once said: ”The mob rules Rome. Emperors only appease the appetite and direct it “. People want messiahs, give them messiahs. Or the next best thing. You can secure a low level of political and religious conditioning within the population if you just give the mass of meat what it wants. Nearly everyone loves a Jesus persona. Sell their likeness, merchandise them while promoting their serious political and philosophical strides. This creates cognitive dissonance for the sea of people following whatever makeshift messiah you can cook up or hijack, as the messiah is supposed to be equal to all men and women, but the people can buy and sell the messiahs likeness to take home with them to put on their walls and shelves and other rubbish. Jesus is not equal to them if they can buy his face. This ignorance can be exploited in any century. The everyday Joe saying: ”I like this person. They tell me what I want to hear“. Got them by the throat now. The essence of this rule. You don’t need to come up with ideas for distracting the population, they will do it for you. You can fling their own faeces back at them and they’ll buy it. Rule 2 - Provide Purpose and Meaning Humans are attracted to meaning and purpose. Provide it for them. As cynical as the population likes to believe itself, they’re not. Their human brains are wired to find meaning even if its not there. Ever seen one of them on drugs? The secrets of the universe unfolding from a spiders web they’ve been drooling at for half an hour. You can give them that meaning and purpose they so desperately lack, and at the same time mold their minds into your preferred philosophy. Want people to spend more money and work for less? Show them their civilization, country, family, thrives as a race and only the winners' lives have value.

" Being successful here in this place is like being a prized cow " - Buddy Holly, February 2nd 1959

Promote the lives of mankinds elite who surround themselves in excess. Celebrities, athletes, politicians, etc. This solidifies the philosophy that only the rich lead happy lives in the minds of the working classes, while keeping the prized cows happy under the impression they matter. Patriotism is a prime example of conditioning meaning into a population over generations. People can distort their conscience because they believe it’s their dirt they walk on, and their ancestors' dirt. That they have a right over others to this dirt. They will kill over it again and again until we run out of countries to divide them with. Doing our work for us. A flag is just material but perpetuate the idea the people are represented by it, and under its name you can shape public consensus. Sports can cultivate emotional attachments to the working classes, where an inane game can take on an emotional and spiritual meaning for the brainwashed fans. Aggression is the most common expression of this fanaticism. Its not a coincidence that humans get their sports teams and countries mixed up when hurling abuse at strangers. Its how it works, lumping any meaning it can find in it's dreadful life together into a conglomerate of repressed rage and sexual frustration.

If you use Rule 1 in conjunction with this, the masses will tell you what they want meaning and purpose from. Then you can exploit that. Rule 3 - Invented Reality and Morality They love stories and will take morals from them.

Whether it’s just the boredom of being an average lifeform or their tiny capacity for intelligence, they love stories. Anything to pull them away from the deafening monotony of their insignificant lives. Popular narratives in the consciousness of the population can be exploited. Are more weapons for children a bad thing? Not if shy Billy and his big brother defend the house from a home invasion, learning a moral lesson about courage and friendship in the process.

A world wide media frenzy saturated with glamorizing violence under the guise of moral authority, and the populations unconscious blood-lust is exploited through gladiatorial programming.

”I don’t think it's wrong to teach my toddler to use throwing knives. God gives me the right to defend my property.“, the average Joe will say. It will latch on to a story and rile themselves up about it. Use a humans basic emotion of compassion to fool them into accepting your narrative and morality. A brave war hero is in fact a trained killer, but because he was morally justified by popular opinion, the population will pray for them and even idolize them. Many of the population will have a completely non-violent philosophy on life, and yet still support violence overseas in the name of whatever faeces you're throwing back at them. (See Rule 1) Stories shape the populations feeble minds. Use their weaknesses for escapism and condition your morality and philosophy onto them.

Applied correctly these rules render the human like butter to our will. Their ambitions and achievements a play thing for us use as we see fit. Used incorrectly and they will turn you into a famous celebrity for the humans to gawk at.

As any half decent Anti Christ, Demonic baby, Mormon, will tell you, it is always better to have more than one. Part of our philosophy is that mankind needs more than one impossible goal that they think they can achieve, but never actually will. World peace, ending world hunger, universal medicine, free energy, all farts in the wind.

Stories that provide hope also provide despair because they do not come true.

Paired with conditioning the masses with political memes, stories of horrific brutality, and what items to launch their faces into, while pitting them against each other in an endless cycle of who is happy and who is right, is how this farm continues to prosper while simultaneously burning.

We dissolve and coagulate life. We burn them while we build them.

Chapter 2

The Farm

" While I'm drinking, I'm thinking, this party sucks and I'm leaving, all my friends have had too much. Smoked half the earth and drunk half the sun. More wine, more sex, more fun. If you believe what they tell you. No Mary, she's gone " - Judas, at The Last Supper

A higher lifeform farms lower lifeforms by getting them to farm themselves, saving it the trouble. This entire civilization is a farm that mankind unwittingly lives on, and cannot leave even while dead.

The agricultural systems and calendars they live their little lives by we gave them, from the holiday celebrations for harvest to the currency based on prostitution.

" It's ashes and bones fill the earth. They stand on all of those who have already learnt this lesson. They grow crops from soil scattered with their dead. The humans will never leave this place " - Mary Todd Lincoln, November 4th 1842

#writercommunity #writerslife #writercorner

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snlhostharry · 3 years

Text

to be determined / one

harry styles x reader friends with benefits au

soon after moving to new york, you meet harry styles at a party. you convince yourself that there’s nothing between the two of you until it becomes too intense to ignore. if you keep telling yourself that he doesn’t mean anything to you, does that make it true?

a/n: hi everyone! welcome to my first harry styles series. This originally started as a challenge for myself to try and write a harry fic inspired by taylor swift songs so that’s where the chapter titles come from, it’s kind of become something bigger than that but I figured I would keep the theme anyway

chapter 1: welcome to new york

The story starts in New York City.

A place written about in countless stories, about love, about heartbreak, about giving up, about standing tall, and about putting broken hearts into drawers and slamming them shut. It’s easy to say that writing another story about New York is beating a dead horse, throwing characters into the same tired old setting and letting them live out the writer's wildest daydream. But it’s never been about the city itself, it’s always been about the people. Something about the city always manages to be the perfect stomping ground for people, for characters to find each other in a whirlwind of A list parties and harsh billboard lights.

Speaking of which you are suddenly very sick of said harsh billboard lights in the middle of times square. As someone who has read (and written) countless articles describing times square as a flurry of activity but also with some kind of inherent magical appeal, the center of everything it’s own small utopia, you know that everyone who wrote that had to be aware of their own bullshit. It’s a nuanced way of tourist trapping, smart, albeit annoying on a variety of levels. A gimmick to get wide eyed little girls to stand in the middle of chaos and think that maybe they could carve out a place for themselves here.

You’re not trying to carve out a place for yourself, you’re trying to get to a stupid party. That and manage to not get any mud or other stains on this very nice dress you’re wearing. After what seems like forever of looking around and then suddenly looking back down at your phone just in case anyone wanted to even try to make eye contact with you, familiar faces appear out of the sea of people.

You greet them with a look of disappointment, “Two questions: why did you want to meet here-” a tourist elbows there way past you mid sentence, inadvertently proving your point, “-and why aren’t we just taking an uber?”

Molly, a tall black woman with objectively perfect hair (which is somehow gorgeous at all times), smiles and pats your shoulder like a kindergarten teacher, “I thought you would want to see Times Square.”

“I’ve seen it,” You shoot back, squinting again at the bright light coming from directly behind her head, and adjusting your jacket over your shoulders.

She squeezes your shoulder quickly, “And also to teach you that any time someone asks you to meet them in Times Square they’re fucking with you.”

“I figured you were fucking with me,” You tell her, “But thank you, god forbid the midwestern girl gets lost in Times Square waiting for someone to meet her who is obviously not coming.”

Molly laughs, and so do you. She looks down at her phone briefly, and then back at you, “To answer your question, why would anyone ever try to get an uber in the city at seven?”

You shrug, “What kind of self respecting party starts at eight?”

Fletcher, who’s name admittedly sounds like it should belong to anyone but him, finally stops staring at the large elmo mascot a few feet away and jumps into the conversation. “The kind with an age range, twenty somethings to late thirty somethings, who no longer have the energy to go from nine to six am.”

You sigh, “So boring then or-?”

“It’s about networking,” Molly says, “And also drinking, but mostly networking.”

“One of those unique business opportunities where you get free food, and possibly run into celebrities, singers mostly.”

You roll your eyes, “Wow you had me at various singers.”

“Says the woman who did an interview series with Tik Tok kids who all live in the same house,” Molly snips, half joking.

You shiver, half from the memories of that objectively terrible experience and half from a sudden breeze. Needless to say a significant portion of the reason why you’d left LA, was because their entertainment section was suddenly drifting away from profiles on actors and towards compilations of one minute videos made by sun tanned twenty somethings that somehow made them millions a year. That and after you’d spent two weeks semi living with ten of said twenty somethings for a story that had gotten a lot of buzz you never wanted to see anyone connected to the app ever again.

You give Molly your best ‘I’ll kill you’ smile, “You have to decide what you’re going to make fun of me for, is it the midwestern thing or is it the Tik Tok thing because one of those involves you admitting that I lived in Los Angeles for a year which means I’m perfectly capable of handling Times Square in all of it’s elmo public urinating glory.”

Fletcher looks again at the mascot who is not in fact publicly urinating, but honestly if it did suddenly start none of you would be surprised.

Molly looks at you for a second and says, “Both,” She looks at Fletcher.

He looks at you then back and Molly and nods, “Yeah. Both.”

You roll your eyes, “So can we get going now or-?”

The ride to the location Molly had all but refused to tell you was filled with talks of the impending deadlines on Monday for pieces that were anywhere from fifty to seventy percent finished. (your’s is at the lower end of the spectrum because there is only so much one person can write about an art installation that you found less insightful and more literal in the sense that the sculpture was literally just large amounts of clay pressed together in something that shouldn’t even be considered a shape with no metaphor or meaning behind it).

Soon enough you’re standing in what looks like mostly a residential neighborhood, with one precariously nice building in the middle of the block. You turn to Molly, “What the-?”

“Don’t finish that, just be patient,“ She interrupts as a response. “You are very impatient, you know that?”

“I’m a journalist,” You say, “I need to know all of the facts, including what the-” You take a breath, “-heck we’re doing in the middle of a nice little neighborhood, I was expecting something more Gossip Girland Brooklyn Nine-Nine.”

“You’re definition of journalist is a lot looser than mine,” Molly says.

“Have you ever watched Gossip Girl? And isn’t Brooklyn Nine-Nine set in a precinct?” Fletcher adds.

“No, and Jake and Amy live in an apartment.”

“Beyond the fact that you’re a TV writer who has never watched Gossip Girl-” Fletcher sighs, even though you know he hasn’t watched it either beyond random snippets for a hit piece he wrote on it a few months back (not received well by the way), “The top floor of that building-” He points to the precariously nice building, “isn’t apartments its a loft, the floor is huge and only one house.”

You squint your eyes, “You’re kidding.”

“And the rest are offices?”

“How did they get zoning for that?”

They both shrug at the same time.

“Guys I want to know that if the police bust up this party, speaking of loose terms, I’m going to say that you dragged me here against my will.”

“I always knew you had good survival instincts.”

Molly turns to you, “Look when you’re getting special press access to the inside of the met gala you will be saying thank you Molly for bringing me here to catapult my career.”

“I have catapulted my own career thank you, the Tik Tok thing-” You shake your head, “Nevermind can we go in and stop loitering, then we’ll really get arrested.”

Party is a loose term but you learn that's not necessarily a bad thing. It’s not a rager with strobe lights and pumping bass but there is music playing albeit classical. People mill around at tables talking to one another, both twenty somethings and thirty somethings, you recognize a few faces from the media mostly. Fletcher was right about the food, and Molly was right about the drinks. You talk to a few people just to introduce yourself, a couple of them have heard of you, if only because your sudden cross country move to newspapers that aren’t necessarily competitors but might have a bit of a rivalry was something that people talked about. You’d made a couple thirty under thirty lists (no not the Forbes one) while in LA, which meant nothing to you if you were being completely honest but apparently meant things to other people which is fine.

When you’re finally exhausted at putting on a smile and nodding like you’re actively engaged in conversation and not thinking about something completely you hang out by the bar, not even drinking, just watching the room and all of the people there. You never wanted to get a reputation for being the quiet girl in the corner who just watched and listened because those kinds of people are always seen as weird or doormats or both but if you’re being honest this is where you’re the most comfortable. Making small talk just to get some opportunity down the road has never quite been your style.

You turn to go and find Molly when you suddenly come face to face with someone you recognise right away.

In that moment you realize that Taylor Swift was in fact onto something when she said, “Didn’t you flash your green eyes at me?” As weird as it is, the first thing you think when you meet Harry Styles is how that song is definitely about him, because those green eyes are striking and they are staring right at you.

“Hi,” He says, quick to the draw.

You take a step back just because of how close you are and say, “Hello.”

He looks at you like he’s thinking about something, and then holds out his hand, “Harry.”

“y/n,” You shake his hand. You recover from your initial shock quickly, and plaster on that fake conversation smile again, ready for whatever it is he wants to say, if anything. You came here to ‘network’ and you’re not sure what kind of advantage talking to Harry Styles could possibly give you, but for some reason you want to talk to him.

“What brings you here?” He asks you.

“My co-workers,” You shrug, “I would much rather be at home watching Succession on HBO and listening to the Beatles on my record player, like true people of culture would.”

He looks at you for a second, as you try to keep a straight face. Then he laughs, “Seriously?”

“Fuck no,” You say, “That’s my impression of the girl who meets Harry Styles at a party and has to convince him that she is not like all the other girls, she is the one for him.” You smile, “Was that good? Or should I try again?”

He thinks about it, “I think you should try again.”

“Because you think it’s wrong or because you think I’m funny?”

“What do you think?”

“Well if you think I’m funny, then I’ve already won, I’ve tricked you into thinking that I’m not like all the other girls with reverse psychology .”

“Are you screwing with me?”

“Of course I’m screwing with you,” You take a sip of your drink. “If I were home right now I would be playing Lizzo on my record player, and drinking something with a medically unsafe level of caffeine.” You pause, “What brings you here?”

“Honestly,” He looks out over the room, “I thought that this was going to be a much cooler party. Instead it’s just a bunch of reporters, and editors and media people.”

“Who are inherent mood killers?” You ask.

He narrows his eyes at you, “Am I allowed to say yes to that?”

“You can do whatever you want,” You tease him, “You’re Harry Styles, who am I to tell you what to say?”

“I feel like it was a trick question, which means that you are also a reporter.”

You laugh again, “That was funny, I’m going to write that down for my story. ‘Harry is genuinely funny which he tries to use to make up for the lack of small talk abilities’.”

“You’re screwing with me again.”

“Of course I am,” You say, “I work in the arts section of the Times, well not the actual art anymore but the movies and television.”

“TV critic?” He says, “So you’re harsh.”

“TV critics are just harsh for attention, I don’t need to be because no movie snob or well meaning director is going to go to the Times to see what we thought of any given movie. I write honestly, sometimes under the influence of caffeine and try to contain my excitement at narratively unnecessary plot twists.” You explain, “That and I get paid to watch TV, and usually private screenings of movies.”

He leans against the bar a sign that he doesn’t plan on moving anytime soon. You’re not going to say that you’re so awestruck by a celebrity that you have no idea what to say, or that he’s intimidating you but your hand shakes just a little as you clutch your fingers around the glass because he’s objectively attractive. Objectively attractive in the way that if he were on a dating app you would swipe yes and then put a lot of pressure on yourself to be funny and relatable even though you know that you don’t need him.

“What did you think of Dunkirk?”

“Oh!” You forgot that he acted, “That was before my time. I was working at the LA Times doing the music section then I think.” You know what he’s going to say next, “And before you ask yes there is a piece still posted of me reviewing your debut album. I think I reached out to get an interview with you, but I was suspiciously declined.” He looks embarrassed, “I was like under five years out of college I would’ve declined me too. They only gave me the story because it was the time where people weren’t sure that ex boyband members could make objectively good albums that meant something.”

He tilts his head to the side for a second, “And? Can they?”

“I’m in no place to make a generalization,” You say, “But I think you did. Admittedly that album was something, very intimate.”

“I don’t know if I should be taking that as a compliment.”

“I don’t want to give you a compliment because some people have a hard time with them, and this will get very awkward very fast. No shame, personally I have no mechanism to take compliments on my writing.”

He laughs, “I think I can take it.”

“Hmm.. okay,” You take another step back, “Okay are you sure you're ready?”

“Yes.”

“I think the entire album was very good, very unexpectedly good or at least I didn’t expect it to be. It was very open in that way that songs are vulnerable but still leave enough mystery that your fans don’t think you're a shitty person and I really like meet me in the hallway,” You say quickly, “In fact I listened to it just yesterday when I was working.”

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, and then fake sighs, “See I don’t think that counts because it was more of a backhanded compliment.”

“What?”

“You said you didn’t expect it to be good, that’s not really a compliment then-”

“I was saying it pleasantly surprised me,” You say, throwing your hands in the air in mock annoyance. “You surprise me, Harry.” He doesn’t say anything, and for a minute neither do you, but you snap back to life just in time to say, “Is that compliment enough to embarrass you?”

He shrugs, but you know he’s messing with you. “It’s something but I don’t know if it’s really doing it for me.”

“You are impossible, just another out of touch celebrity, is nothing ever good enough for you people?” It’s by now that you realize that you inadvertently closed the gap between the two of you, and you’re standing very close.

He seems to realize this at the same time as you, “I-”

“Are you going to ask me to have sex with you?” You deadpan.

“What?” He looks offended for a second, “No.”

“I had to ask,” You tell him, “It’s happened before.”

“I was going to ask you for your number.”

“See usually when a guy asks me that they’re asking so-”

“It’s not for that.”

“Then what’s it for?”

He looks at you with something in his eyes that you don’t know the meaning of, “In case you want to do an interview, so that they don’t reject you this time.”

You know that’s not it, but you give it to him anyway because he’s Harry Styles (which yes is not a valid reason but this ‘party’ is very boring and this is the most interesting thing to happen to you in at least the past week). It takes you a minute to remember which one is your real number and which one is the fake number you give off if a guy is asking because he wants a booty call, but you eventually give it to him. Then you scurry off with a quick goodbye when you realize how late it is, and how you do have work to do. There’s a new episode of Big Little Lies out tomorrow and you don’t understand why but people are very into the show, and very into your episode recaps.

You corner Molly away from some guy you think might have actually been able to get her press access to the Met Gala and remind her that she also has a deadline tomorrow. The two of you go off to look for Fletcher and find him very close to sealing the deal with an objectively pretty girl, but you politely remind him that he has work to do and is very busy. The girl looks sad but let’s him go without much whining. You would’ve understood if she tried to get him to stay with her, he’s a little bit shorter than Molly but to be fair Molly is above averagely tall, and is nice and fit and has brown curly hair which you know from personal experience is sometimes just kryptonite. (you’ve kissed Fletcher before, long story, and can also say he’s on your top list of good kissers as well right up there with a guy you hooked up with in LA only to realize later that he was Robert Pattinson).

Somehow the three of you are only able to make it back to your apartment. So the night ends with Molly and Fletcher in the living room on the couch and in a sleeping bag respectively, and you are comfortably in your bed. Your phone sits on your nightstand, suspiciously silent. You’re not waiting for Harry Styles to call you, nope, definitely not.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #harry styles au #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles series #harry styles one shot #my writing

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muertawrites · 4 years

Text

Aphrodite Kallipygos (Zuko x Plus Size Reader) [Modern AU]

Summary: Zuko takes up an art class as part of his therapy and ends up falling in love with a woman who’s a work of art in her own right.

Word Count: 3,500

Disclaimer: There’s a scene in this fic where a couple of thin girls engage in some rude behavior and are criticized in a few none-too-kind words. I want to make it very clear that this scene does not reflect my views of thin people or body positivity - these characters are meant to be a metaphor for greater culture and its strict, unrealistic views of what women should look like.

Author’s Note: I hate rom coms but after writing this fic it dawned on me that I would be excellent at writing them. Also, this one goes out to all my art hoes out there. I geek out pretty hard about art history in this one.

Speaking of which, I reference real-world cultures within the structure of the Avatar universe in this one as well. Something I like to do when I zone out is think about which actual countries would belong to which bending nations; my heritage is primarily from the British Isles, and what with liths like Stonehenge and the hella castles hanging around out there, I think we’d be earth benders - same with cultures like the ancient Egyptians and the Pueblos. I also love the idea of Pacific Islanders who can bend both water and lava, and Incan air benders, and I really wish the idea of global cultures as benders were explored more in the Avatar universe.

Have I mentioned that I’m a massive fucking nerd?

~ Muerta

Zuko never considered himself much of a creative. When he thought about it, he realized that that part of his life had never really been explored; his father always pushed him to focus solely on his bending and combat skills, never allowing even the consideration of other practices or hobbies. As much as Zuko was passionate about the martial arts he'd mastered, he also came to learn that he never had a choice in being passionate about anything else.

“I think you should take an art class,” his therapist suggested. “It would be a good outlet for you, and one that isn't directly influenced by your family.”

“I don't think I've ever drawn anything, though,” Zuko admitted. “I wouldn't be any good.”

“It's not about being good,” his therapist explained, “it's about exploring things that weren't available to you in your youth, freedom of expression. Consider it - there's a shop in this neighborhood that offers classes.”

She handed him a business card adorned with an array of different art styles, from delicate watercolors to bright, bold cartoons; it read, “classes for everything” in a cheerful, clearface font.

Zuko shrugged and pocketed the card. A week later, he was enrolled in a basic studio art course.

He arrived for his first class embarrassingly early, passing under the bell of the shop’s front door twenty minutes before it was scheduled to begin.

The building that housed the shop looked to be older than the rest of the neighborhood around it; the storefront was tiny, with crowded shelves lining each wall and tables and racks wound throughout the center of the space, creating a maze that led to the checkout counter. The room’s ceilings were high, supported by beams in a dark stained wood that matched the floor below. Paper mache sculptures and handmade lanterns hung from the rafters, and the simple, antique plaster walls were decorated with paintings and sketches, likely given by the shop’s clientele. From somewhere in the back, a radio sang folk music, accompanied by the hum of an electric fan.

Zuko wandered through the labyrinthine merchandise displays until he reached the register, where he was met with the single most beautiful sight he may have ever laid eyes on.

You stood behind the counter, leaned over a textbook with a pencil in hand, tapping it back and forth over the pages; you bit your lip in concentration, a few strands of your hair falling loose from the messy knot atop your head and over your cheeks, though you were too focused on your reading to care. An apron bearing the shop’s logo was tied around your waist, emphasizing your body's dramatic curves.

To Zuko, you were gorgeous. He couldn't place what exactly about you allured him; all he knew was that his pulse had quickened to a near dangerous pace.

You looked up at him when you noticed you were no longer alone, flashing him a kind, somewhat distracted smile. He nodded curtly, too nervous to do anything but stare.

“Can I help you?” you greeted him politely.

He cleared his throat, his voice coming out a pitch higher than normal as he spoke.

“I'm here for the art class,” he told you.

You smirked a little, peering down to check the time on your phone.

“It's a little early,” you said. “I was just about to start setting up. You could help me if you want? So you're not so bored while you wait?”

“Yeah,” Zuko mumbled, “yeah, sure.”

You grinned, waving him behind the counter and through a door to the back room. To his surprise, what he expected to be a minuscule stockroom turned out to be a space larger than the actual shop, lined on one wall with massive warehouse windows that poured late afternoon sunlight into the room. Metal shelves and boxes lay haphazardly about, mixed in with a scattering of easels, pottery spinners, canvases, and other art supplies. You directed your guest to a stack of chairs in the corner, instructing him to line them in a half circle in an empty portion of the room while you placed the easels.

“So, do you have a name?” you asked, attempting to make conversation that could drown out the repetitive radio drone.

“Zuko,” he introduced himself.

You stopped what you were doing, fixing him with an awed, slightly amused gape.

“Firelord Zuko?” you wondered.

He blushed, nodding.

“Oh spirits, I'm sorry I didn't bow!” you exclaimed, dropping into a low curtsy. The gesture was mixed with equal parts mirth and genuine respect; Zuko was unsure how to respond, his heart flickering as he watched you.

“I heard you were living somewhere in the city,” you continued after making your own introduction, setting an easel in front of each chair he positioned. “Not into the whole royalty thing?”

Zuko shrugged. He focused on his work, too nervous to look you in the eye.

“Just weird going back there,” he told you. “I don't really want taxpayer money going to making sure I live above my means.”

You leaned against the last chair he set down, smiling warmly at him.

“That's very respectable,” you responded. “Thank you. Y’know, as someone who pays taxes.”

Zuko chuckled softly as you handed him a bin of art supplies, instructing him to set one of each item at every station. He did as he was told, stealing glances at you whenever he was sure you weren’t looking.

“So, uh… do you own this place?” he asked, fumbling over his words.

“Oh, no, this is my professor’s shop,” you replied. “I just work here part time.”

“You’re a student?”

You shook your head.

“Nope. Graduated last year. I work days at the history museum downtown. I also give art history classes here, and help out with the ones Professor Cong teaches.”

“Oh.”

Zuko paused, unsure of what else to say.

“... They teach a different type of history just for art?” he asked after a moment.

You laughed, covering your mouth to muffle the sound and apologizing, giving him a little nod as you collected yourself.

“Yes. Some people even get whole degrees in it,” you giggled. “Not that it’s a useful field to learn anything about.”

Zuko shrugged, trying to shake off the embarrassment of sounding stupid in front of such a cute girl; little did he know, you found the question beyond endearing.

“It sounds important,” he contested. “I’ve been meeting historians from all over the world to correct all the propaganda from the past hundred years. It never occurred to me that I would need different historians for art.”

You smiled at him, meeting him where he stood and handing him one of the sketch pads from your bin. His cheeks pinkened, his eyes darting away from yours as he took it and mumbled a “thank you”.

“I like you, Firelord Zuko,” you decided aloud. “My classes are on Wednesdays. You can come if you want - free of charge.”

Zuko nodded, swallowing heavily as he met your gaze once again.

“Thank you,” he replied. “I appreciate it.”

You laughed a little bit, taking his now empty bin and returning both to their place on a nearby shelf. The shop’s bell rang from beyond the threshold and you went back to the front counter, telling Zuko to take a spot wherever he liked. He sat in the front row; wherever he thought he could be closest to you.

For the next five weeks, Zuko attended not only his studio art class, but your art history class, showing up early to each lesson so he could spend time alone with you. Despite the fact that you invited him to sit in, he paid the fee for the second course, not wanting you to go without the extra pay for your work - he found a doodle of a turtle duck on his seat the next time he showed up, the fuzzy little penciled duckling telling him he was a terrible listener, but thanking him anyway (with a heart scribbled in beside the words).

With your guidance, Zuko learned that there was much more to art than just vibrant colors and pretty decoration. Everything in art, it turned out, had significance, each piece and work holding insight into the people and cultures who created it; you spoke passionately about the art of the Egyptians, who used specific shapes and colors in their imagery to tell stories beyond the written word, about the mysteries of prehistoric structures that revealed how early humanity was much more sophisticated and interconnected than considered at a glance, about the symbols that translated and influenced across centuries to shape how each nation, each culture, portrayed themselves into the modern world. He found himself hanging on every word, falling even more deeply enamored with you with each moment he spent with you.

It didn’t take you long - what with the easy, pleasant conversations you shared before classes - to discover that Zuko lived relatively close to you, only two stops away on the local metro. Knowing this, you often saw each other on the days you weren't at the shop, meeting at the station between each of your respective neighborhoods and having coffee or dinner in one of its many cafes, talking about anything and everything and managing to pass several hours together in what seemed like the blink of an eye. You loved being with Zuko, finding the more you did it, the less you wanted your rendezvous to end; you thought about him all the time, getting all kinds of giddy whenever he crossed your mind.

On one of your extracurricular excursions, you and Zuko wandered around the local high street, marveling at the different streetside vendors and dreamily window shopping behind the glass of the upscale boutiques, doing little more than enjoying each other’s company. It was a hot day, and along your way, Zuko stopped at a coffee stand to get you each something cold to drink.

A pretty young woman in line in front of you eyed you up and down, her gaze flicking from between you and Zuko with disgust. She jabbed her slim, graceful elbow into her equally as flawless friend’s side, whispering something in the other woman’s ear as they both glared at you, sniggering cruelly behind flat stomachs and angular, willowy frames.

You sneered at them, making a point of hooking your arm within Zuko’s and pressing your much wider hip against his, the poison of the encounter sinking into your skin and infecting your thoughts. Zuko noticed your change in demeanor immediately, steering you away from the scene as soon as your drinks were served.

“You okay?” he asked, still holding tight to your arm.

“Fine,” you quipped, biting back tears. “Just a couple of pretty bitches proving how fucking hideous they are on the inside.”

“Wait, seriously?”

Zuko halted, pulling you to the side of the street and out of the way of traffic. He lay a hand on your shoulder, the firm, able grasp of his palm somehow making you feel even worse.

“Someone would really make fun of you?” he wondered, outraged and incredulous. “Why?”

You shook your head, smiling defeatedly as your lower lip quivered.

“People have made fun of me since I was a kid, Zu,” you told him, speaking as if he should’ve just assumed it. “I’m fat. You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

“So?” Zuko replied. You were so shocked, you physically leaned away from him, raising your eyebrows. “Yeah, you’re fat. That doesn’t mean you’re not pretty. I… I think you’re really pretty. Gorgeous, even. You’re beautiful.”

You blinked at him, taken aback. He gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze, his eyes never once leaving yours.

“... Did I break you?” he tried after a moment, sounding concerned that it was a genuine possibility.

You laughed, shaking your head in feverish disbelief, attempting to clear the confusion that fogged your battered brain.

“No, I just… Nobody’s ever called me pretty and fat before.”

Zuko shrugged.

“Both are true,” he told you. “I like your body. You look like one of those Greek sculptures. Of the goddesses.”

You stared at him, searching his eyes for any sign of dishonesty or patronization; all you found looking back at you was the clumsily genuine man you were quickly falling in love with.

“... Have I ever told you about Aphrodite Kallipygos?” you asked.

Zuko shook his head, as confused as you had been a few seconds ago.

“She’s a statue of Venus,” you explained. “She’s got her dress raised up over her backside, and when they found her originally, she didn’t have her head; the guy who restored her sculpted it so that she was looking back at herself, admiring her body. There’s even a whole folktale about a pair of brothers who fell in love with two women because they had, like, beautifully fat asses and the town built a temple dedicated to Venus and her butt. The name literally translates to ‘Aphrodite of the Beautiful Buttocks’.”

Zuko chuckled, raising the hand at your shoulder to cup your cheek.

“See?” he said. “Men have worshiped thick, juicy butts since the dawn of time!”

You laughed, your cheeks turning bright red as you buried your face in your hands, leaning forward to rest your forehead on his chest and further hide yourself.

“Zuko, oh my god,” you breathed. “Promise me you’ll never say that out loud in a public setting ever again, please. You’re the fucking Firelord for Tui’s sake.”

Zuko chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist and hugging you tightly.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, still grinning. “Made you feel better, though.”

You pulled away from him, affectionately punching him in the shoulder. He laughed, gasping at you in mock reproach before pressing a finger into your side, shocking you with a burst of static electricity; you cackled as you jumped away, sticking your tongue out at him.

Zuko felt a rush of lightheadedness as he watched you, savoring the sound of your laugh and the radiance of your smile. It was then he realized he was in love with you.

The next studio art class focused on model drawing - more specifically, a nude model. Zuko, having been raised in what was arguably the most reserved family in the world, was nervous about the idea of having to sit in front of a stranger for an hour, not only staring at their naked body, but immortalizing it in graphite on a page.

He was mortified when he arrived at the class and found you sitting in the corner, wrapped in nothing but a silk dressing gown.

As you climbed the platform you were meant to model on, your limbs rattled. You began to question your sanity, wondering what you thought you were doing offering to pose for the class, what kind of statement you thought it would make. You faced enough judgement from others about your weight with your clothes on - what the hell did you think they would do when you stood before them completely naked, every bump and crevice on full display for them to gawk at and criticize?

You glanced to the side at Professor Cong, seeking some sort of assurance or comfort from him; he, being the seasoned professional in his mid-sixties that he was, sat reclined in a chair in his Hawaiian shirt and flip flops, scrolling totally undisturbed through Pinterest on his phone. Honestly, you expected no less - his obtuse reactions in the face of the awkward and uncomfortable were basically a superpower.

Taking a deep breath, you untied the knot holding your dressing gown together and let it fall, slipping gracefully from your shoulders and to the floor. You assumed a comfortable, classic pose, purposely facing yourself away from the man whose eyes you could feel searing into your back.

Zuko’s breath hitched as he watched you undress. Though he only saw the full of your body for a moment, he was captivated. The swell of your breasts and curve of your stomach sent him into a dizzy spell, his mouth going dry and his skin heating with a noticeable flush. The rolls of your back, the ripples and divots along your thighs and rump, the stripes etched into your skin like the veins through a granite block, he drank in every part of you, moulding every detail with a focused hand as he sketched. He made note every scar and beauty mark. Once or twice, his mind drifted towards the salacious, imagining how your body would feel beneath his, soft and supple, releasing exalted breaths and enraptured moans, your nails dragging down his back as he drove you closer and closer to infinity…

He inhaled sharply, snapping himself back to his work. You were Venus, Minerva, Diana - a goddess among men. He would gladly spend the rest of his life worshiping you.

The moment the class ended, you gathered your dressing gown and made a beeline for the employee bathroom, getting back into your clothes as quickly as you could physically manage. The experience of nude modeling wasn’t nearly as harrowing as you expected it to be; you actually found it kind of freeing, being able to show yourself to a room full of other people and come out of it unscathed, in fact feeling quite beautiful - what had you nervous was the fact that you’d have to face Zuko immediately after the fact, seeing as you took the train home together after classes. His was the only opinion you cared about, and you wanted nothing more than to convince yourself that he hadn’t judged you as harshly as the self-hatred brainwashed into you made you believe.

When you emerged from the bathroom, Professor Cong stood in front of one of the empty easels in the back, smirking at the drawing the student had left there.

“Your boyfriend left you his piece,” he teased.

You blushed, glaring at him as you approached and snatched the sketch from his hands.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you tried in vain to defend yourself.

Professor Cong just chuckled.

“I’ll believe that when I see evidence to the contrary,” he replied.

You looked down at the paper in your hand and felt the breath drain from your lungs, your heart and stomach soaring into your throat.

Zuko had drawn you in the image of Venus, your body draped in gossamer fabric and your head turned over your shoulder, eyes cast downward and lips slightly parted in a blissful, ethereal expression. In the corner of the page, he’d written “Aphrodite Kallipygos” in his sweeping handsome script, beneath which was his signature and the date. You’d never once seen yourself look so beautiful, let alone in the eyes of someone you loved so fiercely.

You swallowed hard, rolling the drawing and securing it with a hair tie from your bag before exiting the shop through the back, knowing Zuko would be in the alley waiting for you.

“Hey,” he greeted you when you appeared through the storeroom door. “Are you okay? You looked really ner-”

You interrupted him by throwing your arms around his neck, slamming your lips into his in a desirous kiss. It took him less than a second to recover himself from the shock of the action and curl his arms around your waist, pressing his body against yours and lifting you every so slightly off the ground, kissing you just as hard as you kissed him. When you parted, you were breathless, your cheeks fiery red and your lips swollen the color of vermilion. Zuko smiled at you, one side of his mouth curling up slightly higher than the other.

“So you liked it?” he asked.

You laughed, nodding.

“Zuko, I loved it,” you gasped. “I love you. I think I loved you as soon as I met you but that sort of thing is really cliche and stupid to admit.”

Zuko chuckled, raising his hand to your cheek and kissing you again, his lips soft and tender this time around. You sighed happily into his mouth, closing your eyes and losing yourself in the feeling of his body sharing the same space as yours.

“I think I loved you the moment I met you, too,” Zuko confessed, his nose grazing against yours as he pulled away. “But you’re right. That sort of thing is really stupid and cliche.”

You giggled, tugging gently on the collar of his jacket.

“Come on,” you prompted him. “Let’s go back to my apartment. You’ve already seen me naked; we need to make it even.”

Zuko laughed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and leading you out of the alley, his side pressed firmly against yours.

“Fair,” he agreed. “But if you want me to pose for any art, you’ll have to sign some paperwork. I’m still Firelord, you know.”

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senseandaccountability · 4 years

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If you'll take another one from the poetry prompts, how about #50 (“With a memory all fragmented but inclined to miracles”)?

Small secret spaces Iron Bull’s Tamassran reflects on the boy she raised. Also on AO3: here

This is soft, okay? I’m soft for tiny babies and their not-mothers. * * *

They call her Aqun, a nickname that sticks through the years, though to all the children in her care, her flock of imekari, she is Tama. Tama with the stories, with the stern reprimands, with the cool hands in the middle of a sweaty nightmare. Some of the women work with paper and quill, some with breeding administration, yet some can be found in the temples and the hospital wings tending to those with the broken minds that qamak leaves behind. She has friends that re-educate and friends that deal with nothing but death, its final stages, its remains, its practical matters. Aqun considers herself lucky that her place is to work at the other end of things. Imekari are life, messy, brutal life that shakes her up every day, at every turn. It keeps her awake, it smashes her heart open. She will lose them. She will lose them all, but some will carry pieces of her with them as they go; it’s a thought that sits well with her, a flash of pride that she allows herself. A Tamassran’s job is to evaluate and educate; she isn’t meant to have favourites but she always has. She considers it a rebellion, a reward, or both. * Ashkaari is a big baby, arrives loud and dark-haired and screams for half a day when they place him in her arms. He’s the genealogical product of a Sten, now lost to glorious battle, asit tal-eb, and a re-educator nicknamed Asta though Aqun does not know this. The Tamassrans in charge of recording never show her the notes of the children given to her house. It would cloud her judgement, upset the scales. Aptitude triumphs over inheritance, as it must in any civilized society. Because he will not settle at night she rubs his back and stomach, sings to him to drown the screaming. He is meant to cry it out, they all are; infancy is a test, one of her old instructors echoes in her memory. But Aqun’s head hurts from listening, so she sings. A made-up song of a made-up nug, the king of all nugs, living in a cave. She feeds him another bottle of milk, mutters a rhyme she vaguely recalls from her own childhood and places her mouth against the crown of his head. A snug little nug, small as a bug. The baby looks at her, blinks, and falls asleep. The warm weight of him in her arms, the softness to his mouth, his tiny fists against her palm. That swelling in her chest, its terrible gentleness. The Qunari don’t have motherhood; she understands why.

* The streets boil in the afternoon heat but the heart of the classroom is cooled by heavy stone and clever architecture. Some of the smaller children shiver as they huddle over the letters, painstakingly forming them with mouth and quills. Baqo sits near Ashkaari and Vasaad, one head shorter than the boys but her mind is sharper, her feet faster, her capacity for mischief endless. They love her, magnificently; Vasaad and Ashkaari would both lay down their lives for the troublemaker with the red eyes. Words have always wielded themselves easily out of her, her mind is strong and supple and she makes up stories where the Qun ends, follows its logical conclusions into tales of dragons and war, of ancient times and endless knowledge. “Tell me about the green dragons in the desert again,” Ashkaari implores, big and towering but gentle, his hands shields rather than weapons. He’s apt at storytelling himself, prone to the fantastic and the untrue. Vasaad heeds them both, moving around them like a protector.

Tama allows them slices of freedom when she can. Moments of play, of pretends. Soon enough they reach their true calling and get scattered across the North but days like today, there are green dragons and friendship, willfully blind eyes and make-believe. *

The Arvaarad comes for Baqo only months later, in the middle of the day, as the other children make equations and build models. Four men march in and lift her up, without a word. Her eyes are wide with fear, her mouth open in a silent scream and Vasaad holds Ashkaari back - or perhaps it’s the other way around, perhaps it will never truly matter. They are two now where they used to be three. Aqun shoves the children back into the classroom, hands on their shoulders, their backs. Herding them like cattle. It’s not a bad metaphor; cattle, too, are meant to serve. “She will serve the Qun with honour,” she tells Ashkaari; his eyes are narrow and dark. “She has found her purpose,” she tells Vasaad who stares back at her, his lower lip trembling. They do not cry over saarebas, she reminds them. They do not cry over finding one’s place, wherever and however that place may appear. The one who was called Baqo takes the chains, takes the stitches and Aqun thinks she can feel them, every single one.

The one who was called Ashkaari becomes Hissrad, becomes a grown man so tall and broad of shoulder that Aqun ages a decade just looking at him. He still calls her Tama, still comes by to see her though he has no reason for it anymore. She tells him this once and he scoffs. They share a mindset, she knows, a flair for the inappropriate, a disregard for the brutality of absolute truths. Some days she thinks that it is her greatest failing that she has allowed it to slip into him, a poison in his soul.

* She learns that Hissrad has been given command. That he’s tracking down Tal-Vashoth. That he’s transferred to Seheron. What an honour, she says to everyone who needs to hear it. Basks in the knowledge that she had been right, that she had seen the boy’s cleverness behind those fists, the sharp wit inside the body of a warrior. The other Tamassrans nod and tut, the way they do. All of them know there is also regret, unspoken, treacherous regret for every name they put down on the lists for the positions that will take their imekari far away, into danger and death. The one that was called Ashkaari, who slept soft-faced and defenseless in her arms when no one was looking, takes the orders he is given and Aqun thinks she can feel them, every single one, the devastation of them rattling inside her chest. * Once, he comes to visit. He’s in Par Vollen, temporarily liberated of the burdens of Seheron, his face cut in stone but his embrace is tight and warm and Aqun smiles into the crook of his neck when he lifts her up from the ground. He’s brought cocoa beans and spices; she makes supper and refrains from staring at him like an overbearing old Tama. They don’t speak much at all; he stays the rest of the day. * Once, in the Viddathlok of Qunandar, she sees him when he has returned. He’s shipped from the island of asala-taar like a caged beast, rumour has it; he arrives in chains and is accompanied by soldiers on each side of him. The gossip is unremorseful, crisp, but it tastes of ashes. They had found him surrounded by so many dead they had lost count. That’s a lie, Aqun knows, they always count. The Qun is nothing if not a balance. Ashkaari who used to fear demons, his teeth clattering in the dark, his hands tugging at hers. They get inside your mind, he says. I don’t know how to hit things that live in my head. Hissrad who spends two months with the re-educators but they refuse his request for qamak. It’s partly her fault that they send him off, his faith broken and his mind all fragmented but inclined to miracles. The one that got away. * The one who was called Hissrad becomes the Iron Bull and Aqun first hears it in the queue outside the baker, waiting for her daily bread, then from an agent with red eyes and a hoarse voice.

She hears it and all the way home, her heart hammers the rhythm of the words. He got away, he got away. The Ben-Hassrath agents frown over her, towering like conquerors before a bas and Aqun looks them in the eyes and says: “yes, I failed. I should have seen. He was unfit for the job. I will do better, allow me to make amends.” Says it, while she thinks run, Ashkaari, there is much to struggle against, you always knew. There’s a note, deep and low, singing of her own defiance and she thinks one of the agents can hear it because he holds her gaze for so long Aqun begins to prepare for her own re-education. Then he lets her go. She’s old, she’s beginning to lose her rough edges and her patience shrinks with every passing day, they don’t count on her to rectify her mistake; they let her go. They will go after him instead. * Years later, she hears the news in the streets outside the market. This time, no one deems her in a position to have the reports so she has to make do with gossip. They tell her the attack that Par Vollen loudly condemns while sending resources to Orlais, sneaking ships and coin past all boundaries, has been a failure. That the Inquisition still has the Tal-Vashoth in their midst, that he had not listened to reason or respected the chain of command. They tell her the Viddasala’s direct orders had been refused by the one they once called Hissrad. Nothing but a savage now. His soul is dust. He’s lost. The words sound like curses but they fall like relief in Aqun’s chest, fall like tears on her aging hands that used to hold him. She has educated her last flock of imekari, told her last batch of night time stories. They have been so many, her body is full of their voices, their faces, their nicknames. She has been theirs. Some of them, like Ashkaari, have been hers. She will lose them all but some will carry pieces of her as they go and she has given him her heart, as much of it as he has ever dared to give and loved him in all the small, secret spaces she was never allowed.

#prompt fic #brightoncemore #the iron bull #iron bull #dragon age

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wardencommanderrodimiss · 4 years

Text

So when it comes to FE: Awakening I said once I hoped that Pokemon Mystery Dungeon time travel mechanics were in play - averting the bad future means that everyone from that future world disappears from existence - so that the game could emotionally ruin me as much as Explorers of Time did. That did not happen - I should have expected that from my experience with Three Houses, Fire Emblem games end quick and there’s not much time for wrapping things up, so they couldn’t/wouldn’t take the time to explain that and unpack that. Because that would kind of be a huge thing to deal with.

But I had these tags on that post

#you know that if this isn't how the game works itself out then an AU of that will be the first thing i do #bc man. pmd explorers. few games have ruined me more than i was playing Explorers of Time

and now that I know that the game doesn’t work itself out that way, I just said to myself "listen how fucked up would this concept be. And also how thematically interesting and complicated!” and then I wrote 2000 words thinking about it.

Naga told them that Robin was going to disappear with Grima’s death. Okay, fine - I mean, not fine, but they know that. Robin and Chrom are fighting over who makes the final strike against Grima because of that. Everyone is anticipating that.

What they’re not anticipating is when Lucina, Morgan, and the other kids to start fading away the same as Robin did, like the way the Risen crumble into dust, dissipating in bright light

“What’s happening?!” Chrom demands of Naga, because again, obviously, not expecting this.

“They are children born of a future that no longer happened,” Naga explains. “How can they continue to exist when the world that they came from, the times that bore them and shaped them, no longer happen?”

The cost of victory is this: Robin’s life (it is unlikely she will return, Naga says, but Chrom has faith, he always does in Robin), and these particular lives of the children of Shepherds, children who wrote themselves out of existence so that another self would have a better future.

The cost of victory is this: Chrom has seen almost all of his family fall away from him. His wife, and his son and daughter, his nephew, and other comrades-in-arms and friends, are gone.

He still has a daughter, Lucina, back at the palace in Ylisstol, Lucina who is a child who has grown without her parents around - how old is she now? How long has this war in Valm and with the Grimleal lasted? Has Lucina learned how to walk and speak her first word while her father and mother were away at war? She was two months old when they left her; does she recognize Chrom when he returns?

This is Lucina and it is not Lucina and it will be Lucina and it will never be that Lucina. Chrom had a grown daughter who was strong and clever and beautiful and determined, who saved his life and saved the world, who inherited a Brand and a sword and the deepest grief of loss from him. Chrom has a baby daughter who will grow up with a Brand and someday a sword and never that grief from his death at her mother’s hand. She will have the life and the world that her other self fought for. Is this the same Lucina, or is it not? Did Lucina who went by Marth die just as she achieved everything she fought for? Or is there only one Lucina, one who will be happy now for never needing to fight a war and lose her parents, one who assured herself a better future and now gets to grow up in it?

Chrom is a firm believer in the future never being written in stone, in destiny being thwartable.

But what does it mean to write a new future when there are parts of the old that you miss so dearly and want back?

The Shepherds’ children from the future were their children and also, because of the unnatural time-travel-wrought closeness in age, their friends and comrades. And the Shepherds will someday have children again, but they will not be friends or allies in a war that was already fought.

What does it mean to miss a version of someone who will not truly exist like that again?

Miriel works on her experiments, refining techniques that she developed with help from Laurent, and she misses her son even though he is toddling around at her heels, chubby little hands turning pages of her notebooks. She can teach Laurent all that she knows and all that she learned from a him that no longer exists, but it will be decades before she can consult with him in the same way.

Sully knows why her future self, the self that she is becoming, stopped training Kjelle in mounted combat. Sully’s recent past self continued training Kjelle as the closeness in age meant Sully could always be right there in battle to protect her daughter - that she wouldn’t grow old enough to be sidelined while Kjelle was still fighting. “We can fight side-by-side for the rest of our lives,” Sully told a Kjelle that no longer exists, because she didn’t know or expect then, none of them did, that these children of the future would write themselves out of history. And the Kjelle who now exists is too small to put on horseback, and Sully wonders if someday there will come a war that Kjelle fights without Sully at her side, and she wonders if or when she would stop training Kjelle to fight on horseback.

Cherche has to explain to a confused wyvern what has happened to her “twin” and her other new, dear friend - dear family, in fact. But there’s a spark of familiarity in Minerva’s eyes when she sniffs newborn Gerome for the first time, like she knows before Cherche says it who this is, like they both know that one day this will come full-circle. Wyverns live for a long time. Perhaps one day Gerome will inherit Minerva as his mount, without Cherche’s death as the catalyst.

These children of a terrible future were precious and cherished comrades-in-arms, friends, and of course beloved children. It feels wrong to act as if they never existed. It feels wrong to try to keep them a secret talked about only among the adults behind closed doors. But does telling the children of the Shepherds when they are young about the people they in a different timeline became cast a long shadow?

What is it like to grow up in a shadow, trying to live up to someone else, when the shadow is that of your own self, and the someone else is you, but from a darker future that will never be?

How do their parents balance dwelling on a future that will never be, when they knew its inhabitants in the past that was.

Chrom carries his baby girl around the grounds of the palace at Ylisstol, showing her the hole he years ago broke in the wall where a Lady Marth once made her entrance. He shows her where she saved him from assassins, where he saw her face for the first time, not knowing then, of course, who she was to him. Not knowing then who she was to Robin, who was with him. (Not knowing then who Robin would be to him.) And then he wonders if he shouldn’t. If it will hurt Lucina down the road to be compared to a different version of herself. If it’s better that she’s so young that she won’t remember what he’s telling her now.

In averting the future that Lucina knew was written, Chrom and Robin were still following a sort of script. They knew what they needed to do, or not do. The future is open now, an empty expanse. Chrom does not believe in the strength of destiny; Chrom believes in the strength of people and the love that ties them together. Love, not destiny. Morgan is not destined to exist. Chrom wants Morgan to exist, because he loves him, because Lucina loved him and will love him again when he exists again for her to.

But there’s a certain fear that dwells within the blank slate of the future. Chrom believes in Robin, always and forever, and he will search the world over for her if she does not return to him first, because they are two halves of a whole and they will not let each other go. Robin will come back to him. He believes in that with his whole heart and everything he is, but it creeps up on him in the dark of some sleepless nights, with his young daughter cradled close, of what it would be like for Lucina to grow up without a little brother. For Chrom to never see his wife and son again.

Robin does return. Of course she does.

But how long was she gone? A week, a month, a year?

She destroyed herself and Grima for the sake of everyone’s future. But the children of that future in some way destroyed themselves, too, for the sake of their own futures already past. To change their pasts in the future.

What it means is that Robin returns to a smaller family than she left. To no son at all, and a young daughter who looks at her and sees not her mother but a total stranger. And Robin barely knows her own daughter, either. The Lucina she knows was an adult, and is gone, and a memory.

The Shepherds’ children might grow up beneath the shadow of memories. And not just their parents’ memories of the person they were in a future that will never come to pass.

Robin dreamed memories of her other self, because they shared the same heart.

And maybe that was because it was Grima’s heart, the heart of a nigh-godly creature, but hearts are strange things. Robin’s heart is made up of pieces of everyone she loves, now; it isn’t Grima’s.

Maybe human hearts share memories - dreams - of a life that is past and future and will never be.

Robin doesn’t dream of new memories, anymore, because Grima is dead and her other self no longer exists. But the memories she saw before still haunt her in her nightmares. She saw them enough to remember them, burned into her mind like they are her own memories. Of a life that could’ve been and almost was and already was and is no longer where she killed Chrom. She herself knows the feeling of what it was like to strike at him; she pulled the (metaphorical) punch, but it would’ve been all to easy not to. Whether she made a mistake, or whether Validar made her.

All the Shepherds have nightmares about the war. That happens, because of a war. But Robin alone knows what it was like to have someone else’s memories as dreams.

Robin alone can realize why it might be that Lucina wakes up crying so often in the night. Lucina doesn’t yet have all the words necessary to explain, not yet, still too young to comprehend the horrors that she lived in another time, but it becomes clear to Robin after she observes on several occasions that if Chrom wakes Lucina and sits with her, she’ll immediately calm down and drift back to sleep. But if Robin is the parent that she first sees upon waking, she’ll only continue to scream and cry.

“One of her last memories from her future self was of someone who looks like me possessed by Grima and trying to kill us all,” Robin says quietly, when Chrom has finally gotten their little girl back to sleep, held safely in his arms and her head against his chest so that she never saw that Robin was here, behind him. “And who knows if Grima in my body ever attacked her in her future. Of course she’s scared; she has those memories, and she’s too young again now to truly understand any of that.”

“To understand that it isn’t you she’s seeing,” Chrom says.

“But it was me,” Robin says. “I was her. She was me. I killed you. I was Grima. I killed Grima. It’s always me.”

“Not this you,” Chrom says. “Not this life. Not this time.”

Robin, too, knows what it’s like to be haunted by the shadow and memory of someone you could have been and once were and never will be.

#roddy plays fe:a #fire emblem chatter tag #this is 2000 words of me just spitballing BUT WHAT IF AND WHAT IF AND WHAT IF--#i know that morgan is from another alternate timeline and not lucina's future so like technically he doesn't have to disappear?#but nothing is done with that 'morgan came from an alternate timeline' plot and it doesn't really. serve anything thematically #and doesn't really build on anything so i'm just not going to concern myself with that one #and i'm just gonna have morgan be like the rest of the kids here #anyway i'm just really fascinated by the thought of what it would be like to raise your children having already met their adult selves #but knowing that they won't/can't become those exact adult selves because of such different circumstances #what is it like to miss someone who is still with you but it will be decades before they are almost the person that you miss #almost but never that person exactly. and what's it like growing up knowing that your parents love you with their whole hearts #even while missing a you that they knew and loved first who you will never quite be #i tend to hate time travel plots bc they bend my brain and i hate tripping over paradoxes when i think too long #and so i present this AU as me getting rid of the 'there's going to be two of the same people running around just 20 years apart in age'#'that's weird as hell honestly. that's super fucking weird what the fuck the writers just let that happen'#i loved the game but that's super fucking weird right??? i don't like that.#so thus i am thinking about a situation that would do away with that while also just being. weird but in a good interesting way to me #i might mess around and write something set in this AU today. or maybe one of the 12 other fea story ideas i have

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scribbleb-red · 4 years

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Animal Whisperer - a Morning AU

They say that magic isn’t dead- that you can see fairy in the dancers whose leaps seem like flight, glimpse dryads in those who are never lost, spot nymphs in those who dive deeper and faster without fear or hesitation.

Magic isn’t dead - it’s diluted.

It’s why some people are drawn to lonely places, old places.

It’s why the full moon calls to people who look up.

It’s why some say Neil Josten isn’t completely human - that he has an uncanny knack, an unseelie gift.

The way he helps animals, after all, can be nothing but magic. No one can sooth a horse like him, help a beaten dog back on its paws, understand why a cat is so anxious or why wild animals keep ruining your flowerbeds.

For the Foxhole Sanctuary, a wild life sanctuary run by David Wymack, the arrival of this strange boy is a boon. Starting as a recovery centre for injured animals found on the roads, it quickly became a place where people dropped off abused and broken ‘exotic’ pets.

There are fennec foxes and savannah cats, caracals and toucans, sugar gliders and wolf dogs, a collection of hedgehogs and chinchillas, snakes upon snakes. There’s a tiger that some asshole declawed and a family of rejected monkeys from the nearby zoo.

Doesn’t matter what the animal is, Neil whispers to all of them and they apparently whisper back.

No one knows where Neil came from - one day he was just there, knelt down by one of the sick foxes, making strange little crooning noises that the fox nosed up to almost instantly.

And after that he stayed.

When the other workers of the Foxhole asked, Wymack shrugged and said they had an understanding.

The boy would stay until he needed to go.

He always seemed to need to go. He was edgy and strange - uncomfortable around humans and skittish as some of the animals.

When Matt and Dan tried to befriend him, their overtures were met with sharp words and a sharp grin and a twitchy, nervous Neil for the rest of the day. Later that night they would talk about it - would agree that they needed to help Neil, if only he’d let them.

Not everyone was so easy to appease. And the wild animals weren’t the only beasts at the Foxhole.

Andrew Minyard is a veterinarian by training and a specialist in rehabilitation.

He's often found in pools helping animals to get their strength back up, making sure that wild animals remember how to be wild.

He doesn't trust Neil Josten.

He doesn't like how the stranger just wove his way into the fabric of the Foxhole. He doesn't like that he speaks on behalf of animals. He doesn't like that no one seems to challenge him, or doubt him, or question him.

Consent is everything to Andrew and he's wary of anyone who claims to know what an animal is trying to say. He knows how animals express "yes" and "no", aversion - attraction, fight, flee, freeze, fawn, collapse, submit - that they can make informed choices.

But Neil Josten's way of working seems to circle around that - soothing them into submission, nudging them into affection, coaxing them into agreement.

It doesn't sit well with Andrew. So he watches. Tries to understand.

Neil and Andrew clash like two ibexes - stubborn and furious and crown with their own horns. Their dislike of each other cools every room, crushes every laugh or smile. Only the animals seem immune - sensing that these humans are looking out for them in their own way.

It’s the small moments that slowly ease Andrew’s misgivings.

There’s the time with an ocelot where he finds Neil sat, cooing about, “what pretty eyes you have, and what magnificent paws, so good for trees right? Do you like trees? Me too. Shall we hang upside down together?”

And they do. Neil and the ocelot clamber up a tree and dangle together.

Neil is not a good climber - he’s graceless and ridiculous, his hair a wild tangle of red around his face and getting stuck in his mouth. His face goes pink when he lets his arms hang about his head.

The ocelot looks... concerned? Playful?

“Yeah yeah you’re a natural, no need to judge,” says Neil.

But this is a cat who refused to climb until recently and it’s the first time Andrew has seen her try to act like ocelots naturally do.

There’s another time with an old dog that they just can’t help. Andrew is alone with Neil and as he has to put the sad, broken creature to sleep, Neil strokes its ragged ears and gentles it into rest. There’s heartbreak in Neil’s eyes and the usual heaviness in Andrew - he begins to see that maybe Neil isn’t so terrible and untrustworthy after all.

There’s not a single moment where the world shifts.

Like coaxing a wild animal, it’s gradual, slow. They learn to work around each other and accept each other and finally, Andrew realises, he’s choosing Neil first for any case where he’s relevant.

Not Renee or Abby or Kevin, always Neil.

But Neil still has secrets, still has a nervous habit of looking over his shoulder, still shrinks when Wymack gets too close.

Andrew asks him about it one evening when they're locking up.

They do this sometimes - share truths the way honey badgers and honeyguides share their hunt (Andrew likes to think of himself as the vicious badger in this metaphor, obviously). Neil's eyes are blue and frozen.

"Why are you asking now?" Neil asks. "Do you still want me to leave?"

Andrew doesn't know how to answer that. "You're always looking over your shoulder,” he starts. “The animals act like they want to keep you as some kind of hatchling, a cub to protect. If it's going to endanger you..."

"What? You'll try to protect me too?" Neil smiles but it's sad. "You can't protect me, Andrew. It's all up here."

Andrew understands. His ghosts haunt the grey matter of his brain too.

"Stay, you don't have to be Bambi."

"I relate more to rabbits actually."

"Of course you fucking do," says Andrew. "But you're not one. You have far sharper teeth. You're a fox."

Neil's smile is just a bit brighter when he disappears into the dark.

Andrew has scars on his arms and scars on his thighs and scars where no one can see them. Sometimes a warm muzzle or a soft ear will press against his chest and he imagines the animals he works with can feel those scars beneath his skin, hidden inside his ribs.

Neil is the same.

His hands, his face, his arms, his shoulders, his chest and back - there are scars there that he doesn't (can't) hide. But the worst are those the wild cats try to knead away, that the mice try to fix, the dogs try to love, the foxes chitter and paw at.

There's a pregnant fennec and that's the first time Neil and Andrew's hand brush.

There's a beaten kinkajou and that's the first time Neil and Andrew fall asleep on the same sofa at work.

There's a slow lorris that won't detach from Neil's head and that's the first time Andrew smiles at Neil.

Over time Matt and Dan manage to persuade Neil to come for dinner. Later, they invite themselves to his flat - it's kind of shitty and empty and they end up doing a drive for furniture.

Andrew visits during the official house warming. He ends up sleeping on the new couch.

Photos go up on walls at work and slowly Neil's face is as frequent as everyone else's.

Andrew's favourite is of him finally coaxing the slow lorris to let got of Neil's hair - because Neil is looking at them both like they've hung the moon.

Andrew isn't sure when it happened, but Wymack makes a comment about how Neil's whispering magic works on humans as much as animals.

It's true - he guesses - the whole team is more of a team now.

But the lesson isn't that Neil is magic. That he's fae or fiction or false. It's that Neil lets animals in - he listens to them by opening himself up to them. And finally he's doing that with them - the humans of the Foxhole - as well.

Andrew feels a painful thrum of warmth - he's been rehabilitating Neil, they all have.

But he never asked permission.

Guilt, hot and aching, wrecks through his chest. He has to speak to Neil. But doing so also throws into light a thousand other feelings he's been trying so hard to ignore.

He's not surprised when Neil's face goes blank when he explains what's happened.

He is surprised when Neil's mouth tips downwards.

He is downright stunned when Neil says, "So we're not courting?"

"What?" It's Andrew's turn to be frozen.

"Matt and Dan told me that's what we were doing. I told them it was nonsense but then I guess a lot of it has been similar to the mating rituals of various mammals --"

"Neil, we've not been courting. And who calls it courting?"

"Matt and Dan did, when I told them I hadn't kissed you yet."

Andrew's eyes grow wide.

"I would quite like to kiss you though, I think," says Neil.

"You think," says Andrew.

"Well I've only done it twice before and I didn't really want to kiss them. But it would be nice to kiss you, I think."

Andrew looks at this man - this ridiculous, skittish, useless, impossible, brilliant, man - and steps a little closer.

He lifts his hand, holds Neil's chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Yes or no, Neil? To me kissing you."

Neil frowns. "So we were courting?"

"We can court from now," Andrew says.

"Then yes."

And Andrew closes the gap until the only whispers are those in their chests.

The kiss tastes a lot like magic.

-The end-

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galadrieljones · 4 years

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writer’s review

tagged by @ma-sulevin and @a-shakespearean-in-paris. thank you! i’ve never done this one before.

I will tag @thevikingwoman @shallow-gravy @littleblue-eyedbirdchirps @roguelioness @pikapeppa and anyone who’d like to do this. Please tag me if you do!!

Rules: Post two snippets of your writing. The first should be one of the oldest examples of your work that you can find (the older the better!), and the other has to be an excerpt from something more recent. Compare the two side by side to see the difference between what your writing looks like now and how it did then.

Since I have way too much old writing from my life, I am just going to stick with my fanfiction. I chose to compare an excerpt from my older Solavellan work The Dead Season (2016) to my current The Last of Us fic As You Were (2020).

I put this under a cut, as it’s a little long!!

From The Dead Season - Chapter 8: The Emprise du Lion

For the first three nights, they’d had to camp in a quarry surrounded by the dead lit veins of red lyrium. The lyrium glowed through the fire, illuminating the snow, keeping everyone awake, bandaged and bruised, all four of them piled into the Inquisitor’s tent where nobody wanted to be alone. Death was too nearby, they decided. Things were better together. Exhausted, hardened, dirty, cold to the bone. Drinking warm ale brought in by Scout Harding’s people, gnawing pieces of rabbit Sene had hunted herself and then cooked on a spit. Iron Bull tried entertaining with mad stories from his stranger youth. He and Solas played whole games of chess through the power of memory alone, and Sera braided Sene’s hair, and asked her all kinds of questions about her childhood and her love for the elven man. She told her about Dagna, that the two had started a quiet affair, and she had such stories of Red Jenny and her foreign life as an elf of the city. Sene listened eagerly, all the time, finding Solas with her eyes, and he would give a small touch. Security in a place of death and blood in the snow.

Despite Sene’s dreams, whenever they slept in the Emprise du Lion, Solas held her with serious possession. He slept deeply when he drifted, without stirring, and his arms hardened around her as stone. A carefulness and new severity imbued them, each movement guessed and exchanged as mind-reading. Somehow, it felt new. Sera noticed one morning, as Solas helped Sene into her jacket: “You do that like it’s all you’ve ever done,” she said to him.

“Perhaps it is,” said Solas. “Perhaps each night I help Sene out of her jacket, and then each morning, I help her back in again. Would that shock you?”

“The two of you,” said Sera. “Like green on sky. Eggs on toast.”

“Interesting perspective,” he said.

From As You Were - Chapter 6: La Crosse (Pt. 1) / The Lapp Farm (Pt. 1)

Joel and Noah drove until they hit what looked to be the town. They parked at an O’Reilly’s Auto Parts, hauled their backpacks onto their backs, and loaded their guns. The signs continued, most of them nailed to other kinds of signs: COTHS, they read. C.O.T.H.S.

C O T H S.

La Crosse had never been a big city. Joel didn’t know a lot, but he could gather as much. It wasn’t big, but it was a college town, and that college was big enough to have a football team. It would have been home to a lot of people during the initial Outbreak, probably forty or fifty thousand, and it was probably a metro-hub for these little Driftless, farming towns, too, with a good hospital, warehouses, factories, and some semblance of a retail industry. It would have been a lot of meth, he thought. Maybe not so much in the city proper, but in the outskirts, in the tin cans and the trailer parks. As a city on the banks of the Mississippi, it would have pretty pockets but mostly, it was just franchises and mini-malls, like anything else.

But this was strange, thought Joel. The goddam of it was, it seemed empty. Really empty. Like, god no longer smiled upon this place, as if something evil had given up on this place, gone on its way. There was nothing. Nothing bad, nothing good. Just the trees, and the nature noises, the grasses, which had grown so tall, they engulfed the cars abandoned at the side of the road. There was a McDonalds sign, growing out of a massive, twisted heap of vines and bramble and it made Joel think of small things that still broke his heart from childhood. He pushed it down.

“This is fucking weird,” said Noah. The air smelled ripe in some places. Rotten. Like an overgrowth of mold in the washing machine. “What the fuck is that smell?”

“Something bad happened here,” said Joel.

“Hey, look,” said Noah. He was headed toward another one of the signs. It said: COTHS.

“Yep, another sign,” said Joel.

“No, look,” said Noah. He got closer. He had to snap a couple saplings to get to it. This sign was on the ground, leaning against a tree. He pushed back the tall grass, and the milkweed to reveal the rest.

Comparison: I settled on these excerpts because they are both descriptions of places and situations that are new to the characters involved. The biggest difference between my writing in 2016 and my writing now, as shown here, is that I have hugely simplified my prose and my approach to descriptive writing. Four years ago, I was still very flowery, and the dark, magical setting of Dragon Age only encouraged my dreamy, expansive sensibility. I used a lot of adjectives, figurative language, and fragments, and I tended to write big, sweeping descriptions of situations, rather than setting simple scenes. Tbh, I hadn’t really figured out scene-writing yet, at that point. It took me a while to realize how to make scenes do a lot of work in a short amount of time. Notice how I barely enter the scene in that first excerpt. It’s vague. It’s all happening at once. There is not really a specific scene being set in a specific setting at a specific time. I try to avoid that sort of thing now. While I don’t hate my old writing, and I think sometimes I do a nice job of hitting on the right atmosphere, my unwillingness to just enter the scene concretely is a little sophomoric and noncommittal here. Setting scenes is actually hard as hell. In doing this, I was avoiding the hard stuff without even realizing.

Now, I will say that while I am still improving, my writing has become much more concrete and to the point. I use figurative language, but I am much more judicious with my metaphors and similes. I prefer realism, it turns out. I want to describe true things, not ideas. Most of what I describe is there to build setting, whether it be through concrete description of place or a character’s actions in a place. Sometimes I will use my language to evoke a certain kind of atmosphere, but I try not to go overboard. I want my language to be practical, not tricky and overblown. I like strong, complete sentences (with the occasional fragment) and descriptions of specific actions and scenes in real time, rather than fragmented, dreamy language or a style that is overly stream-of-consciousness. I still use Free Indirect Style at times, and I will narrate thought, because I like going into my character’s heads, but I now practice much more stoicism. I do not let my readers know too much directly about what my characters are feeling. I find that this is much more true to what I want to evince with my writing. I now try to imply thought and emotion via what my characters do, what they don’t do, what they say, and what they see. Moving away from Solas, a very “talky” and intellectual character has helped me do this. While I love Solas, writing Joel and Arthur really improved me tenfold, as they tend to speak very little. They are not terribly ponderous in all they decide. They choose their words wisely and let their actions speak most of the time, helping me do the same.

In the past, my focus was almost always on language, ideas, and atmosphere. I wanted to evoke bigness at every turn. Drama, beauty, unfolding abstract ideas and feelings made of synesthesia, using my language to elevate simple feelings and ideas into something epic. But now, and maybe it’s just because I’m getting older or I have less time, idk, but I just want things to be what they are. I want to reveal feelings and themes, not evoke them through force. I want the scenes to speak for themselves. I let the reader do a little more work. I withhold much more. In fact, I rarely write interiority these days. Inner-monologue and emotions come sparingly. One sentence here and there. Never in rambling, abstract, unfurling paragraphs, which The Dead Season is full of. I am always reaching for economy now, and efficiency. It is better for me! Though I do play around still, from time to time, with my language. I will always be a little playful.

#on writing #my writing #the dead season #as you were #writer's review

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theholycovenantrpg · 3 years

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CONGRATULATIONS, CLAUDIA! YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED FOR THE ROLE OF GABRIEL.

Admin Rosey: Wow - this was a terribly difficult decision to make. All the applications for Gabriel were so beautiful. But Claudia, have you no mercy? Gabriel has always held a rather special place within my heart simply because he is so unique unto himself, even among the entire legion of angels. You said it so aptly, but so cruelly: take an angel, give him everything but leave one thing missing. It’s a rather wicked script that one has to follow, isn’t it? But there is something terribly delicious about how this application doesn’t hold back on reading him right to his bones. You saw him for what he was: hunger, hunger, hunger. And you let us know that as well. The details, the small -isms that you gave him granted him such life that I couldn’t say no. Please create and send in your account, review the information on our CHECKLIST, and follow everyone on the FOLLOW LIST. Welcome to the Holy Land!

Alias

claudia

Age

Personal Pronouns

she / her

Activity Level

i work full-time but i’m always checking the dash or else staying up to date with plotting in the dms in between replies. and of course weekends are my most active times.

Timezone

gmt+10

Triggers

REMOVED

How did you find the group?

following a bunch of the wonderful people who were involved in its creation

Current/Past RP Accounts

here

IN CHARACTER

Character

gabriel

What drew you to this character?

so gabriel was not the first character that sparked my interest and the aesthete in me is very much compelled to justify in metaphor (you know, the whole “there’s this japanese phrase i like: koi no yokan. not love at first sight but second sight. the feeling that when you meet someone that you’re going to fall in love with them. maybe not right away, but it’s inevitable that you will.”). the truth is, i came into thc very much wanting to play a sexy morally ambiguous antagonist and agent of chaos that could wreak havoc and plot death and destruction. admittedly, i had only skimmed gabriel’s bio when it was released.

there’s an ancient roman crying out for blood in the colosseum in everyone that will always be drawn to the dark and the delicious possibility of amorality, because good and evil lies on a spectrum and exploring the shades of grey in between is so much more interesting than delving into a character who positions themselves so firmly at either end and says no, this is me, this is what i am and my conviction will not waver. or, to quote another beloved symbol, idol, champion of the people, that believed so fervently in a cause that the martyrdom nearly killed him, “when the mob and the press and the whole world tell you to move, your job is to plant yourself like a tree beside the river of truth, and tell the whole world — “no, you move.””

it is hard to write good. it is hard to take a character that is so infinitely good and compassionate, someone who is motivated by these enormous, intangible concepts like love and justice and peace, and capture them in words.

how do you explain why gabriel loves humans? how do you explain how he still loves them, fights for them, protects them, when everything his brothers and sisters did to him was because the humans dared to love him back? it’d be like asking the question of god himself — why? you claimed to love humans above all and yet you gave the strength, grace and majesty of immortality and wisdom to the angels. they were your firstborn, and humans were the spoiled youngest child. the unruly, overindulged creatures that got away with everything, that sinned and yet were still worthy of salvation.

for most people, gabriel is the first angel they ever learn about. gabriel coming to nazareth, gabriel saying be not afraid as he explains how a human woman will be the genesis of the son of god. he is the first. and understanding why gabriel loves humans, as god did, perhaps even more, comes back to the beginning, too.

gabriel was created the incarnation of hunger. and i am literally obsessed with the concept of ‘hunger’ in it all its forms, literary, cinematically, poetically. it’s fascinating because it’s not a concept that belongs to either good or evil, it’s simply a force, a manifestation of pure instinct. but we so often associate it with evil, and even in the bible, too much hunger is condemned. you could argue that the seven deadly sins are simply just an extrapolation of hunger in its myriad guises. the idea that you could be made perfect — as all angels are — and yet be left with this gaping chasm inside you, this endless hunger, a hunger that demands to be fed and nurtured, sated with divine higher purpose, is like, my literary achilles’ heel. why does gabriel love humans? how could he not? he was made in their image, and they in his.

What future plots do you have in mind for the character?

THE SUN NEVER SETS ON THE HOLY LAND.

that thing i said about wanting to play a sexy character? well gabriel being the sun and the third arm of the governing body that rules over the holy land is extremely sexy. it’s a shame he doesn’t much care for it. oh, he likes the concept of being a key guardian of freedom and peace across the new world but power holds no sway over him. and ironically that’s what makes him so inherently powerful. gabriel was the natural choice for the sun — beloved by humans, martyred for his love and sacrifices for them — he’d already burned for so long, so quietly, in service of bringing justice to the world. but gabriel has never needed a title to serve. he was born a messenger, a soldier, he has never needed a crown.

and despite what they say, heavy is the head, it is a crown perfectly made for him. the sun — illuminating and all-consuming, the source of all life and light in the world — is all-seeing. all-powerful. gabriel learned at god’s side what it means to rule. and a messenger is not so different from a prophet, from an orator. when he speaks, the world listens.

gabriel is well aware that michael sees the tridium power as child’s play, and their brotherhood as a means to influence the tridium, and thus the entirety of the holy land. power feeds and power corrupts and the lack of it will drive people like his brothers to insatiable madness. gabriel used to play peacemaker amongst his brothers, always defending the mortals or softening the aftermath of their fathers’ worst outbursts. now, as the sun, he stands above them. it is not a position he ever campaigned for but he’d won it all the same by democracy. the angel of the people, the sun of the holy land. he’s never pressed his influence over his brothers, always careful to tread the line of how his title benefits them and advances caelum’s purposes — celestial beings have always done things in three, after all. do i want to see him flex that power and unleash the full weight of his influence and majesty and just go absolutely supernova ham? of course. but it will take more that some sibling bickering and infighting to spark that wildfire. i don’t know yet what that spark would be, whether it’s demons meddling in tridium business or some political shift in the paradigm, but gabriel is not someone you want to cross.

do not mistake his kindness for weakness. the sun gives life as easily as it can set it ablaze.

LOYALTY WILL BE THE LAST BASTION TO CRUMBLE.

now this is entirely dependent on the dynamic of the three, in particular whoever is elected as the stars, but i see the tridium as a wildcard amidst all the vacillating allegiances and power plays of the holy land.

gabriel believes in the true purpose of the tridium, he believes each faction is entitled to equal authority over protecting the peace and future of the holy land. a true system of checks and balances, a democracy that amplifies the voices of the weak and powerless and upholds the cause of the vulnerable and the oppressed. whether that’s in the political interests of azazel and the future stars remains to be seen.

from the very beginning, gabriel would have been vitally curious about azazel. his former sister, a fallen angel. it is not his place to forgive, but he forgives nonetheless, as god would have. if he was not a thing made of hunger, the way she was a thing made of desire, maybe he would have fallen, too. he, more than anyone, had the right to fall. but he didn’t, and she did, and she’s done quite well for herself in the millennia since. finding herself a new throne, new family, even a new brother to dote upon her. in spite of his instincts and the holiness that riots in his veins against the thought of colluding with demons, even under the new testament, he understands. he doesn’t blame her. so, i will leave this entirely tbd for plotting but i could see either a strange, inexplicable friendship between them or a playful, vicious dynamic with an underlying current of empathy.

in many ways the moon and the stars will be the closest people gabriel has to true equals. he is no longer purely archangel, he is other. he must represent the interests of all of the holy land. trusting them would be folly, but unlike the ages of old, the name of the game is no longer a zero-sum winner takes all scenario. if the peace fails, the world will crumble into bedlam. is it a doomed act, attempting to balance the three factions upon the scales of peace? perhaps. perhaps they are playing a losing game, betting against the house, delaying the inevitable. it would be one thing to manipulate the balance of power between them, feeding the poison of their faction into their governance. it would be another if any one of their factions actually won.

why did they call themselves the sun, the moon, the stars? because they are figureheads, above all. symbols of caelum, infernum, the holy land. their factions all believe them to be puppets, leverage for their own political hunger and thirst for power. they are not blind. if either of their sides emerges from an inevitable all out war situation, what will happen to them? crownless, purposeless, no kingdom left to rule. certainly not a kingdom that will be theirs.

azazel wants to be worshipped. gabriel wants to burn until righteousness has scoured all evil from the holy land. the stars will inevitably be someone equally chaotic. they’re all that stands between the holy land and desolation. it’s like the perfect office workplace drama set-up. i would like to see it.

HUNGER IS THE MOST HUMAN THING OF ALL

throughout time, gabriel has had his favourites. he’s his father’s son, after all. zacharias, mary, noah. if these were the ages of old, he might have counted revna among those ranks. if gabriel were not an immortal angel, this would be called having a friend. but because gabriel is who he is, he considers them more like wards. like he’s taken it upon himself to be their self-appointed guardian angel.

it’s lonely being an instrument of god, and now the sun of the holy land, like what do you imagine he does after a long day of work? relax? of course not. so having a friend is nice. and having someone he can talk to, free of all the baggage and weight of being who they are, is like a glimpse of the peace he hasn’t known since before he had wings.

with revna, as with every mortal he had ever taken under his golden wings, he swallows any thought of just how mortal they are. how short-lived. in a blink, she will die. in another, her name will be forgotten, nothing more than a memory imprinted in a lonely angel’s mind. he tries not to think too much about mortality, or the whims and follies of mortals, the lengths they will go to in the name of survival that he has never dreamed. their freedom is predicated on living long enough to taste it. is it such a crime to want to live? for all their limitless powers and immortality, no angel and demon will ever know what that feels like — the sheer, visceral incandescence of burning so fleeting but so brilliant that to die is nothing. to live is the ultimate choice.

also… their powers are literally antithetical to each other. revna creates reality for all the senses, and gabriel deadens them. hello, let’s talk about that!

i’ll keep this brief or else i’ll spend days spiralling into interesting tangents and possibilities but other than the archangels and select few higher-ranking angels are aware of his powers. they think he doesn’t have any. to reveal this aspect of himself, a bearing of something like his true self or maybe even a soul, would be very spicy. in case anyone needs a reminder that all angels are terrifying and just because gabriel is pretty and warm like the sun, you shouldn’t believe he is anything less than terror carved into the sublime.

SO THIS IS HOW LIBERTY DIES. WITH THUNDEROUS APPLAUSE.

this is the darkest timeline plot where i throw a dice just to see where it lands. i don’t see gabriel deviating too much from his course, because he is the tree (planted by the river, if you remember the earlier quote), and he will destroy himself before he has to bend or break beneath the whims of external chaos.

of course, it’s fun to the think about the hypotheticals so i’m going to do that. if the tridium falls, where does that leave gabriel? and to whom will his allegiances lie? if michael or raphael are the cause, would he stand beside caelum all the same? gabriel loves humans because he wants to; he loves his siblings because they are his blood and bone. rip to the angels but you and the mortals are not the same.

he’s also seen how the holiness of the angels have been twisted and warped over time, through countless wars and inimitable suffering, yes. but they’ve changed nonetheless. some amongst them are closer to their fallen brethren than anyone would ever dare to admit but gabriel sees all. he was the angel they left to rot in the farthest corners of heaven, he was the one whose wings were torn, not by enemies of heaven but by his own brothers. and he did not fall. so either gabriel is made of stronger stuff than all the angels or he is the dumbest of them all. it’s very likely both. his faith in the existence of the angels is resolute, unwavering after all this time. his righteousness has burned for a thousand years and it will burn a thousand more until the sun swallows everything and all things cease to exist. if he has to turn against brother and sister, as they did with him, and unquestioningly at that, then he will.

he has sworn to smite any creature that will strike down an innocent before him, and whether angel or demon, it’s a quest that he will pursue to its ruinous end.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character?

yes, preferably by going supernova in a blaze of gory and carnage.

IN DEPTH

Driving Character Motivation

it all comes back to hunger, baby. let’s do this as a thought exercise. imagine god in his build-a-bear workshop for angels creating gabriel like he’s pandora’s box:

take an angel, give him everything but leave one thing missing.

don’t tell him what it is.

teach him the hole inside him is called hunger and that hunger is love, hunger is sacrifice, hunger is knowing that the kingdom of heaven is empty and god is not enough.

take an angel, give him hunger, and then wonder why he becomes more human than human.

gabriel is driven by the insatiable wanting in him to do good. i will note that it is, in a fact, a want and not a need because this in itself is the thing that distinguishes him from his brothers. in a way, falling in love with humanity was an act of free will, and thus an act of defiance. god wanted him to protect his children, yes, but he had never intended for him to enjoy it. he had never foreseen that gabriel, filled with compassion and thirst for justice, would come to empathise with the humans. he never could have imagined that creating an angel out of pure hunger could make him more akin to human than divine. and that was god’s mistake. it’s the mistake of anyone that looks at him and sees weakness — why would a creature so powerful deign to care for humanity? why should he care if they live or die, or wage war or hurt each other? — they imagine that his relentless pursuit of a better world is because he was made for it. no, gabriel chose this world. he chose to strike down god and tear his throne down with his teeth. he chose remake the world better, brighter, braver.

and as god will tell you, beware any that dare stand in his way.

Character Traits

INCANDESCENT — there isn’t really a word that captures gabriel’s essence other than in terms of sunlight and burning. being near him is like turning skywards and feeling of the sun on your face. he is radiant, and charismatic and magnetic, and it ignites a sort of hunger in you to be close to him, to listen to him speak, to tell him everything about you and answer any question he asks, if only to be in his presence for a little longer. to be under the shade of his attention is like being pinpointed at the center of the universe. it’s gratifying, and incredibly intoxicating, being given the sole focus of one of the most powerful beings in the holy land. for a moment, you are the one, and everything else falls away into shadow. but of course, reality snaps back and everything and everyone is simply whirling around in orbit of gabriel, the sun.

COMPASSIONATE — before he was the sun, he was the archangel of the people, the guardian of humans and the champion of god’s most beloved children. out of all the angels, gabriel was the one who took pains to mean it when he said be not afraid. he wore their skin and learned to smile like humans — with the eyes, not just with the mouth — because it would comfort them instead of scare them. as a former messenger, gabriel’s also an excellent listener. he gives excellent advice, too, being naturally sympathetic to the plights and suffering of anyone he meets. he hates injustice and wrongdoing and if it’s in his power, he’ll do anything to help you rectify your circumstances. he’s a very giving person, and despite his various duties and responsibilities, he’s willing to go to the ends of the earth for someone if he believes it’s a cause worth serving.

SELF-RIGHTEOUS — the other side of the embodiment righteousness coin. because when you have a creature as all-powerful and driven as gabriel is, his morality is absolute. there is no room for grey or doubt in the eyes of the self-proclaimed moral compass of the holy land. good and evil lie on a spectrum but gabriel will play the trinity himself if that’s what it takes: judge, jury and executioner.

GRACIOUS. UNYIELDING. SPITEFUL.

In-Character Para Sample

Heaven is cold, if you could believe it. There are places in the kingdom of God where the sun holds no dominion. No, everything here is ruled by and under Him. His omniscience and omnipotence is all. His kingdom is coldest where light shies from the darkness, held at bay by the divine liminality of here and nothingness. You cannot define a space that is simply nothing, simply an absence. An abyss would be too poetic a word for it, this black hole spinning ad infinitum into the dark, soaking up every molecule of anything that could be constituted as being. It is a nothingness. It is a forever of nothingness.

This is where they keep their prisoners.

If you imagine God to be cruel, consider for a moment what he does to his own children.

It could be a month, it could be a millennia, that has passed since they cast him into the shadows of Heaven and left him here. Not to rot, or decay, but to exist; the cruellest punishment of all. Suspended in a vacuum of seeing, feeling, hearing, touching, tasting, a mockery of his own abilities. In the realms of hell, they might call this purgatory. The architects of Heaven would never deign to give a place like this a name.

Gabriel counts seconds and minutes here and there to pass time. A mindless, thoughtless exercise that intrudes upon the endless, desolate stretch of infinity. It keeps him from thinking about his wings and how he might never fly again.

There is no air here to fly, to surge up and taste wind between his feathers. He’s thankful for it — perhaps the only godforsaken grace he’s been granted, a pitiful stroke of thoughtless mercy — if only because it means he cannot attempt it. He thinks if he were to try, wings screaming for clemency, searing fire along his back and down his chest, and fall, that would be the last of him. And if there is nothing left of Gabriel, what would that make him? A creature of divine agony and writhing torment. A monster better suited to hell. If he could claw his way out of the unseeable and untouchable bars of this prison, perhaps he would see that Lucifer had been right.

God was weak. He deserved to be struck down. He deserved to have everything taken from him, as he had taken everything from them.

In the embrace of the void, Gabriel oscillates through every emotion at his disposal. Humanity taught him a great deal about feeling. How hatred and loathing simmered like poison in the blood; how the blaze of fury clawing up your throat could incinerate reason and logic; how love was a form of magic, a trace of stolen divinity pressed between the lips of mortals, enveloped in bodies and hands and kisses. Gabriel did not understand love the way humans did. His love was a consuming thing, a devotion like worship. Like self-immolation. He loved God because that was what he was made for. He loved his brothers because he fought and bled for them, because they were carved from the same grace and streak of lightning crackling through the heavens.

He did not know if he loved God the way humans loved him. They had never seen him, never felt his magnanimous smile or the great vastness of his presence, and yet they believed. They believed so fully, so viscerally, they would die for him anyway. They lived their tiny, fleeting lives grasping for the sky, dreaming and hoping of one day seeing him.

Gabriel saw God all the time, but his love was a necessity to him like existence. It was not a choice.

Did that make it lesser? Was it less true because humans chose and he did not?

Sometimes, he sits here, floating in the forgotten recesses of Heaven’s prison, and wonders if maybe God had truly made a mistake. Why give the angels everything, but free will? Why give the humans nothing and only free will? It was inexplicable, the ultimate riddle wrapped in an enigma, obscured by God’s will and word, that the angels had been asking since Adam and Eve and the garden.

In the time he floats, wavering between ire and despondence, rage and bitterness, he thinks he finds the answer. — The reason why God loved humans above all. The reason why he’d chosen them, blessed them, forgiven them.

Humanity was given the choice. And they had chosen God, in spite of everything.

If he had granted the angels the same freedom, would they have chosen Him?

Extras

PINTEREST.

#accepted #accepted: gabriel

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alchemist-shizun · 5 years

Text

So close feels so afar

Inspired by this post by @draw-your-perfect-world

Word Count: 2,777

Taglist: @ragingdumpsterfiremess

Characters: Roman, Deceit, Remus, Patton (briefly), Logan (briefly), Thomas (briefly) and Virgil

Pairing(s): Let’s say if you squint in one way it could be Roceit, if you squint in another way it could be Prinxiety, but it can all be interpreted as platonic

Warning(s): (Characters are all sympathetic), negative thinking, self-deprecation, self-doubt, swearing (once)

Summary: Thomas is having trouble with his content, it’s gone on for so long that the sides themselves are starting to overwork so much they get overly stressed. Roman has a thought. A bad myriad of thoughts.

A/N: Before you read, let me warn you that this is written in second person from Roman’s point of view. Soooo, two angsty Roman fics in a row huh? I feel the need to write one in which he only gets all the cuddles and gets appreciated aah pardon me for breaking your hearts, but the opportunity was too good to be passed up. Hope you enjoy!

✾

❝ My heart is twisted, heavy, wrong.It's like it knows I don't belong.

The world is big, lovely to be.And yet, there is no place for me. ❞

It wasn't the first time for you, was it?

« I don't know, guys ... I think we should just discard this whole video. »

The heavy feeling on your chest as you realized that, in the long run, your contribution didn't matter anyway, that your motivation was starting to fade away, letting the hopelessness take its place instead.

That everything you did or tried to do didn't matter or was useless, in any case.

You tried to speak, and god all those eyes on you, the attention you once sought now felt like the unbearable weight of a thousand people's judgment. You felt uneasy in front of the four people you knew and that knew you best.

When Thomas sighed and looked away, no longer paying attention to your words, you began to stagger as you tried to rescue the pieces of your confidence that had started to inevitably break and fall into the pit of your chest, pushing and pulling you towards the heavy void.

Your voice died down and your argument lost its meaning along with its importance.

« Great. This was a complete and utter failure. » Logan sank down faster than any other day. You wondered what had happened to his problem-solving nature and his constant willingness to help in critic situations.

You believed he was ... better at this than you. In fact, you had no idea why you even bothered to give your own input on the topic.

Well, there was always this urge to prove yourself in the eyes of Thomas you'd been having for quite a while, maybe even too long, so much that you grew accustomed to it.

Maybe the problem with that was that, unlike Logan, you felt. You thought that was what was wrong with you all along.

Sure, Patton felt too, but he had dealt with that for such a long time that he knew how to handle it and how to still be reasonable through his thinking process.

Virgil, despite having to manage some of the worst feelings, was also cautious thanks to them, analyzing every possible outcome.

And you? You had your passion. Sure, that was a big part for Thomas's interests, but beyond that?

You felt.

You felt ... like something wasn't right.

Because when Logan disappeared, leaving a somewhat irritated expression as the last image of him, you blamed yourself.

When Virgil shrank in his hoodie and shook his head before sinking down, you blamed yourself.

And when Patton excused himself with a pained look on his face, you blamed yourself yet again.

You grimaced and ignored the knot forming in your throat.

« I'm sorry. » an apology that felt as useful as your ability to solve the situation that same day.

The blaming didn't stop when you sank down before you could hear Thomas's response.

Did you even want to hear it?

You traced the little drawings you had carved on your door years earlier, refusing to get into a room that seemed so foreign; did "Creativity" even fit you anymore? You couldn't remember the last time someone didn't shoot down one of your unreachable ideas.

Like a thunder in the middle of a quiet evening, a memory appeared on your mind and flashed before your eyes: it had happened little after Virgil had fully joined your part of the mindscape. You had agreed that, in any circumstance and for any issue, you would've been there for each other. Always.

You went to Logan first: as we already mentioned before, problem-solving, right? Wrong. Or, at least, in that particular moment.

You were met with a terribly stressed logical side, that you were pretty sure was trying very hard to keep the "logical" part as he paced around his room almost literally shaking with nervousness.

« Not a good time, Roman. » was all you heard when you opened his door with caution. Before you could justify your visit, he excused himself and went back to look like the same messy state his room was in.

Patton was your second choice, but how much of an appropriate idea could it possibly be, when you saw him lying on his bed feeling even worse than you? Your selfless nature rushed over your body and you ended up comforting him instead of trying to open up on your own feelings.

Why did it always have to end up like this? Why couldn't you just talk for once? Patton would have returned all the favors you gave him, you were sure, then why was it so difficult to admit you felt sick of yourself?

You closed the door of his room behind yourself, your heartbeat increasing. You were almost there. But you just couldn't find it in yourself to worsen Patton's already precarious condition with useless musings that would have only broken his heart.

No, you were completely wrong. There was nothing to be concerned about, the only problem was Thomas's enormous lack of content and you had to shove away whatever problem you had.

Now didn't that feel absolutely horrible to think that, Roman? There was no escaping it.

While trying to understand why you were doing this to yourself, you came across Virgil's door.

Your hand hovered over the handle. One twist and it would've been it.

You backed away and decided against it. If Logan and Patton were already feeling horrendous, who knows what you might have encountered.

You looked to your left and your eyes met the dark sides' rooms.

And you wondered, just for a split second, you reflected on that thing. Something you were so afraid to name but that came into your mind so often you almost believed it.

It had started in the imagination, when Remus playfully once insulted you and you hadn't found the will to deny anything.

Then, while by yourself, you started being more critical of your own ideas and works, you sat for hours with a blank stare coming up with nothing but blatant banalities.

Eventually, you slipped up. That one game night, when you agreed when someone called you an idiot. You knew they didn't mean it, but you still felt like you needed to point out that yes, you thought that too, deeply and every single painful moment of your existence.

It was the way Virgil called that.

Self-deprecating.

He said it was his job and Patton insisted both of you should have stopped saying terrible things about yourselves.

Neither of you did.

That term stuck with you and you weren't able not to wonder if perhaps there was a possibility you could identify with it.

And when the other came, right then, with you staring at the dark sides aisle, that feeling of wrongness increased to the point you couldn't bear staying in the "light" sides corridor anymore.

In a matter of seconds you rushed over to the door of their common room.

When he opened up, expression neutral but just that slight bit surprised, Deceit raised his eyebrows. « Well? »

« Self-doubt. » there it was.

« What? »

« There's been a mistake. » you tried again, you couldn't follow your breathing pace anymore. « We need to switch places. »

« Switch- I'm not following you. »

« I am self-doubt.»

« Huh? »

« You're self preservance. »

« I'm flattered and all by this enchanting game of words, but I really think you should get some rest. Did Remus hit your head again? I told him to refrain from that. »

You shook your head visibly and a heavy sensation rose in your chest. Your shaky hands gently pushed him back and you let yourself into the room. « You don't understand. »

Your eyes searched for one thing only. One person only.

Remus had propped himself up on his elbows, previously lying on the couch in the, you believed, most normal position you had ever seen him.

You approached him, all the eyes were on you just like moments before, and you were sure you were also metaphorically reconnecting with his dark nature. Or was it really dark? Didn't you make that up?

While Remus's face showed veiled concern, you sat on the floor in front of the armrest. He sat up and looked down on your bleak self, an eyebrow slightly raised.

With your chin buried in your crossed arms on the armrest, you felt the urge to break down to anyone that would just finally, finally and simply listen.

And you didn't even know where to start.

« You were right. » Deceit cautiously came close as you spoke. You noticed him, with the corner of your eye, take a seat on a chair next to you, leaning toward the scene. « I'm just like you. Not worlds apart, nowhere on opposite spectrums. »

Remus shook his head. « What are you talking about? » he whispered, more like a reprimand than a question.

You couldn't help but insist, your eyes started to burn and you realized you were blinking back tears. « You know what I mean. »

Oh, but when did anyone, actually? So gone and lost, so miserable you refrained from ever believing in the others' understanding.

« It just took me longer to come to terms with it. Too long. And now I've messed it up because it's too late to fix this, to fix me. »

« Ro- »

« No! » you buried your face in your arms, nose pressing on soft material. Deep inside, you knew you did that only to suppress the fact that you were on the verge of crying, of showing yourself weak and incapable to get back up on your own. « I am not Creativity! » but you knew hiding it didn't have a meaning anymore.

Your head shot back up and you stared at your brother with a tear-stained face. « You are. More than me. »

« You're saying I should replace you? » Remus's voice sounded offended. No, almost ... hurt.

You nodded, holding your breath to refrain the flood of seemingly nonsensical words from flowing out of your mouth. Or, at least, you tried to do that.

« It's that- » you shuddered. « I haven't been productive in forever, and you're always here having different ideas every single day. »

« My ideas are- »

« It's obvious you're better at this than I am. » you looked down and allowed one terrible thought in your mind. You believed, clouded by your own insecurities, that maybe he should have taken your place. « I should just stay here with you. »

« Don't say that. » Remus got up, his voice a mixture of mortification and annoyance. As he made his way to his room, you couldn't have known how the thought actually completed his sentence. Don't get my hopes up.

You slumped back from the armrest and lowered your head so that you couldn't notice Deceit finally standing in front of you and offering you a hand to get back on your feet.

You looked up.

« I know everyone tells you to be wary of me, but can you trust me this once at least? »

You took his hand.

In a matter of seconds, both of you were sitting on the couch, trying to sort out the thoughts that were piling up in your head.

« I don't think I belong with them. » Deceit had asked you to give voice to your troubles. « I've been the least useful and now Thomas is barely creating content or having ideas. I should be the confident one, I should be comforting him while all I do is ditch everything that comes to my mind. »

« And how does that make you feel? »

« Worthless. » you immediately blurted out. « Futile. Stupid. A waste of space. » the words kept coming in an overflowing self-deprecating chaos. « And the others see it, too. »

Deceit gave you a questioning look and you immediately felt like you said something wrong. « You haven't confronted them about this? »

« It's unimportant. It's simply a fact. They're all too stressed over the issue Thomas is having. »

« They're? You're not including yourself, why? »

« How can I be stressed over something when I'm doing nothing for it? »

The look came again, but this time you felt like he was trying to scan your soul by solely staring in your eyes. You didn't know how much time had passed before he spoke again, but you could have sworn that, for a moment, nothing else around you existed.

« Roman, have you ever thought that you feeling this way might be the cause of Thomas not being productive? »

This time, the confused expression landed on your face. How could that be? No, definitely not. That was not the case. He probably meant that they should get rid of him since he was causing so much trouble, he-

« You've already seen how our behaviour can affect him drastically. If you feel like that, you might be preventing yourself from using your powers fully, thinking it's useless to even try, and thus you're limiting yourself. »

« ... And in doing so I'm limiting Thomas. »

Deceit nodded with the same energy of a person that finally got their point across, the relief and satisfaction of someone that was able to make their interlocutor understand an important topic after hundreds of tries at explaining.

« You are a terrible liar, and I can't believe they haven't realized this yet, but I can't also change the fact that you're an astounding actor. » he sighed, but that line left a sad smile on your lips.

« I'm a man of multiple talents. »

« Also, you don't have to belong anywhere, Roman. Having you here, on a rough time for Thomas, though, I don't believe it would be ideal. » his gaze had fallen to the floor before his voice turned lower. « We're all trying to look out for him, you know. »

That was when your look turned softer and you understood. You started wondering things that weren't meant to be brought up just yet, but that might have been troubling him for a while.

As you were looking for the right thing to say, Deceit gestured for you to follow him to the door he then opened as soon as he was close enough. Out of it, the corridor to the others' and your own rooms.

« Go and tell them. You might spare us some more agonizing days before they figure it out on their own. »

One step out of the room, and you didn't even get the chance to thank him. The door closed behind yourself so quickly you almost believed you had dreamt the entire conversation.

With no time to process it all at once, another figure poke out of a door and pulled you into yet another dialogue.

« Ro? » Virgil rubbed at his eyes sleepily. « What are you doing over there? » there was no accusing undertone, just genuine curiosity. Then again, it might have been the sleepiness, you told yourself.

You approached him. « Just venting. »

« To Deceit? » still no complaining.

« He seemed to be the only one available. »

Virgil nodded, then you could have sworn you had seen a faint nostalgic smile curve his lips. « Good choice. »

« Huh- »

« Why didn't you come to me, again? »

« You were sleeping. »

His mouth, this time, twisted into something more somber. « Roman,» he called, lifting up his gaze. « When I said you could come to me when you needed it, I meant I could make an exception on executing you if you were to wake me up. »

And you didn't know if it was for Deceit's comfort earlier, for Virgil's softer voice or for the general hopefulness you finally regained after seeing a flicker of light coming from the end of the tunnel of your insecurities, but you found yourself with your arms wrapped around his chest.

« Oof- alright. » he patted your shoulders a couple of times. « Come on, big guy, let's get the others. I woke up from a three-hour nap and apparently all my problems haven't been solved by some kind of deity yet, so I think we deserve a fucking break. »

You allowed yourself to smile and, this time, you meant it.

« We truly do. »

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shieldslinger-a · 4 years

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give me your side of stevetony too thank you

Who asks the other on dates: both. they’re both grossly romantic people and have a tendency to want to indulge and show that to each other by taking the time to do things they know the other likes. now granted--these dates are unfortunately few and far between, because both of them are horribly busy and tend to put work first. but, you know, if after a mission they end up staying an extra few hours in england or france or italy-- Who is the bigger cuddler: tony. lbr it’s always tony. they both have a huge thing about touch, i mean they’re constantly rubbing shoulders or reaching a hand out to touch each other, but the second--and i mean the second--steve’s lap is available tony is there, like a little lap sniper, just claiming the empty space with his feet or his head or his whole body. like if steve’s lap is empty, tony is just not in the area, must be out of town, not in the state not in the country, because otherwise tony is there, right there in steve’s space. and honestly steve loves it, he likes idly playing with tony’s hair and giving absentminded back rubs Who initiates holding hands more often: steve. i’ll go in on this more later but holding hands is the best thing for steve because it’s intimate but it’s not... like, he’s comfortable doing it. and it’s natural and it feels good, and it’s not glaringly in your face kind of affection. so it means he gets to do this one little thing that was super unheard of in his day and age (two men holding hands) and it’s not a lot, but he doesn’t take it for granted at all, and it feels good to be able to hold tony’s hand casually when they’re out and about, just being normal people, or when they’re in meetings, just reaching over to hold tony’s hand under the table, or just holding hands at a party, nothing claiming, nothing extravagant, just a pleasant bit of touch tethering him to tony

Who remembers anniversaries: tony. ok look, the only reason this is tony and not a neither is because tony has friday, which is kind of cheating tbh, because friday is not tony or steve. but, friday wants her dumb, very-much-in-love dad to be very successful in his relationship, so she reminds him frequently about the anniversaries and special occasions. thing is tho--still doesn’t mean steve shows up because he remembers. again, just because he knows its his anniversary doesn’t mean he’s gonna show because that means he has to stop what he’s doing (fighting baddies, most likely) and hurry on home, and 9/10 he’s gonna get waylaid or distracted or shoved into a universe for the next 12 years. Who is more possessive: steve. it’s not your typical kind of possessive, it’s not like he’s obsessive in it, he’s just... tony’s his person, right? arguably, tony’s been his person since almost day one, and there’s just... steve feels his most normal and most valued as steve when he’s with tony. he likes the way tony makes him feel, likes the way tony looks at him and just wants to feel that good all the time. and it’s not like he wants tony to only spend time with him ever but... like tony can spend time with anyone and he should!! he should have more friends, steve isn’t going to begrudge him that at all. just so long as tony loves him bestest. and comes home to him. and seeks his comfort and advice first on the important stuff, not someone else’s. because to steve, that’s intimacy--sharing thoughts and feelings and dreams and nightmares, with one person who is his Person. and like yeah, again, he should have friends he talks to and relies on, it’s not that steve wants tony all to himself, he just wants to be first. which, if he was less oblivious, he’d realize that he’s pretty much always first, but he wants to feel like the most important thing to tony (next to superhero-ing, they both know this, they both know that being the hero and saving lives is first, is #1, is the most important thing they’ll ever do with their lives) and get all those good tony thoughts first. everyone else just has to wait to be second Who gets more jealous: steve. arguably the whole blowup over the whole illuminati is because steve rogers got really fucking jealous (and felt betrayed) that tony had friends that he trusted more than steve. steve absolutely gets jealous--not in the physical way, mind you, he doesn’t think tony’s going to cheat on him and have sex with someone else. but he’s intensely afraid that tony will lose interest in him and find someone else new and fascinating and want to spend all his time with that person. and he gets very jealous if he thinks that’s happening, because while he doesn’t think that tony would cheat--in any meaning of the word, physically or mentally--it’s a fear that he’ll... lose tony’s interest and he’ll look for someone else to be that challenging force in his life, the kind that makes him want to be and do better. he likes being tony’s person and likes being the one tony goes to with his thoughts and ideas--no matter how dumb or big or small or over his head they are. that’s just what you do with your person. you go to them with whatever’s on your mind so they can know you best, as well as they know themselves. and he so desperately wants to be that for tony and wants tony to be that for him Who is more protective: both. they’re the worst. the absolute worst. if one of them looks like they’re in trouble? the other one is right there, even if that’s like, the worst possible move. they’re that meme of one jumping in front of the other and then the other one bends over to protect them and then the other one bends and-- yeah they’re just the worst ok. like it’s even more terrible now that they’re in love and the last thing they want is to live in the world without each other. i mean, steve’s symbol is a fucking shield, for gods sake, he’s going to do his best to protect the people he loves because that’s just who he is as a person Who is more likely to cheat: neither. listen they’re both one-and-done people. they commit, 100%, to whoever they’re dating at the time, and honestly, it only gets worse when they’re dating each other. everyone thought they were already dating and/or married before, and now it’s just worse because now they’re making heart eyes at each other purposefully. like look, they just. they’re very dedicated people and now that steve’s found his person he’s settling hard and already thinking of happily ever after and it’s got tony solidly in the middle of that picture Who initiates sexy times the most: steve. it’s... complicated for steve. he loves tony, he does, that’s the foundation everything else is built on. but this is a very complicated relationship for him--it’s tony, who has been his best friend and anchor from day one, and a man, which is not in his usual wheelhouse of relationships. and it means he has to confront some things he’s internalized and repressed over the years, and it means he has to take it slow because he desperately doesn’t want to fuck this up. so it’s really at steve’s pace and he’s very very interested in exploring it all with tony, but he’s also very much in love and they’re intense so he wants to make sure they both have fun and are comfortable Who dislikes PDA the most: steve. it’s less that he doesn’t like PDA but more that he’s nervous of showing that affection, knowing that they’re nearly always under public scrutiny. he’s not really... 100% ready to be out to the world, because he knows what kind of support and lashback there will be, and he’s afraid that while he can handle it, with how fresh and fragile this new relationship is, he doesn’t want to burden it with press and interviews and tabloids. but at the same time, he wants to do right by tony and he doesn’t want him to think that steve’s ashamed of them, because he’s not?? he’s just afraid of what his knee-jerk reactions could be if he reads some of the more negative things and internalizes it, because he has a horrible tendency of doing that. so a lot of the PDA stuff goes at steve’s pace, and he pushes boundaries as he’s comfortable. at most, he tends to want to hold Tony’s hand in public, but otherwise it’s fairly chaste. however, it should be noted that around avengers tower, when there’s no one or not a lot of people around, they’re a lot more relaxed about it, and are frequently caught cuddling on the sofa, with maybe some light making out. it’s not that common to see them kissing though, as they’re (steve) actually pretty mindful of not wanting to be caught with their pants down. literally and metaphorically. the penthouse tho? you better be knockin. Who kills the spider: neither. there are spider people in this family that would object to the murder of their spider kin. also, maybe that spider is actually ant-man ok, or the wasp, it’s just too dangerous to try and smack small things, it’s just better to catch and release Who asks the the other to marry them: steve. he’s kind of already broached the subject? and like, when he asked, it was just a quick question, like a conversation normal couples have, because he knows that... like the deal breaker for a lot of his past relationships has been his inability to settle down. it’s not lack of commitment, steve’s a very dedicated partner, it’s always the fact that he’s fine with the status quo and very easily gets wrapped up in his job of being captain america. which is nothing new, btw, it’s always like this, it’s steve’s worst struggle in life, keeping steve rogers alive. but he’s learned from past relationships and he’s grown and he’s aware that marriage is a thing a lot of people--himself included--desire, and tony’s been engaged before so--yeah. he asked, if tony wanted to get married, tony freaked, and steve hasn’t figured out a way to ask gently again. on the one hand, it was probably a little early in the relationship to consider the question, so you know, he’s gonna give it a while, let them settle, get comfortable, be in love and be themselves. because the other half of it is--if they get married, it’s gotta be big and public. and that means they’re not really privately dating anymore, it’s all public and it’s all for people to meddle and mess in and he’s sure that people are gonna try to mess them up and--he doesn’t doubt tony, he doesn’t, but he’s selfish and he wants tony and this relationship for himself for as long as they can. marriage will come, eventually, and it won’t change a single thing between them, it’ll just mean they’re Official™ and out in the open. and steve, the romantic sap, will likely be the one to ask, on bended knee, with ring and all Who buys the other flowers or gifts: tony. it’s not that steve doesn’t do this at all--he does, actually! he usually comes home with some little trinket he saw while on a trip, or a bouquet of flowers, or he’ll knit a hat or scarf or sock (not socks, he’s too frequently interrupted to really complete more than like, 5 pairs), and when he’s really getting back into it, he’ll paint or draw something specifically for tony. it’s all little stuff and heartfelt stuff, but definitely in the range of normal. tony’s the extravagant one--new suits, new robots, new training rooms, new mansions, new teams, new planes--listen, if steve wanted it or even hinted at wanting it, tony is right there, ready to buy it or figure out how to make it. and also, if i’m honest? all the money in steve’s account is basically tony’s originally. steve... pretty much lives off the avengers stipend at this point, having cut ties with the government and shield, meaning he’s down to his paycheck for essentially being a full-time avenger. and you know, it’s not like he’s paying rent or utilities either, he doesn’t really have a lot of things he’s paying for himself, it’s just little ol’ steve on his pretty decent stipend and any little thing he finds that he might think tony would appreciate, he’s happy to spend his money on. but again--tony’s the big spender here. he’ll buy out restaurants just so he and steve can have a quiet night out for once, or rent an entire mansion in italy so they can have a nice retreat. really, i think now that steve’s dating tony and they’re in love, i think he feels a little better about tony spending money, because in his mind, it’s not just for him, but for them, and it’s a lot easier to swallow that price tag when he knows tony deserves the world Who would bring up possibly having kids: steve. he’s literally already done this. steve rogers is just painfully family driven. he loves kids. loves them. he loves to teach and to pass on what knowledge he has and he loves the future and seeing those kids grow and learn. and it really doesn’t matter if steve is the biological father or not? just any baby or kid in his general vicinity, the man locks on and makes a b-line for because he gotta hold the baby. so yeah, steve’s definitely the one to bring it up first, because there’s already a baby in their care without parents and he could be a parent, and he’s dating tony, and in his mind tony would be an even better parent than he would be, so yeah. they should take the ultra powerful starbrand baby, name her haley, and be a little super family, he thinks it’s a great idea Who is more nervous to meet the parents: neither. nervous? no. i mean if parents were alive there might be some nerves, but they’re dead on both sides. furious, however--listen. steve “i yelled at the all-father for being terrible to thor” rogers, don’t think that saves howard fucking stark from the same treatment. he’s got some opinions to share with howard, and they might be his fists and he might be very excited to use them. Who sleeps on the couch when the other is angry: neither. they both don’t sleep when they’re arguing. fighting with each other--which lbr, having sex and pillow talk definitely cuts down on the fighting and overall miscommunication and trust issues, but it’s not steve and tony if they never have fights ever. so when they fight, they both end up staying up late and they both throw themselves into their work, avoiding all the usual stomping grounds for as long as they can before they need sleep and can begin to really make up. Who tries to make up first after arguments: tony. listen neither of them are very good at communicating and both of them can get worked up and have tempers, which means 90% of the time when they argue it’s because one or both of them are hurt and don’t know how to effectively communicate it. the problem with that is--steve’s not good with feelings. his gut reaction tends to be anger, even when his real feeling is closer to something else (sadness, hurt, betrayal, etc). and he tends to avoid examining his emotions unless he’s prompted... which means he usually sits and simmers and stews until tony comes back to try to talk to him again. usually by that point, he’s calmed down enough (tho a steve rogers grudge is mighty) that he can listen to tony and not get riled again, and actually will attempt to express his feelings in a more reasonable manner. especially because there’s time for the steve rogers empathy to kick in, which means by this time there’s a good chance his guilt has made a home and had kids, which makes him just that much more amenable to compromise and apologies Who tells the other they love them more often: both. god they’re gross about it. the pda might be something they keep to a minimum, but the ‘i love you’s are pretty much constant. every time they see each other, every time they part, every time they think of each other (they think of each other a lot). i mean ‘i love you’ is practically as common as their shoulder touches--which now they get to do shoulder touches and i love yous at the same time, gee, aren’t they unbearable?

@shellheadtm | send me a ship and i’ll rant

#shellheadtm #general :: answers.#shellheadtm :: so deep in my heart that you're really a part of me.#verse :: main ( 616 ).#[ hey look what i finally finished ]#[ holy fucking SHIT this took forever ]#[ also this.... is a lot to take in ]#[ shoves this at u ]#[ it's urs now ]

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legobiwan · 4 years

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I was the one who asked that last question about the light vs dark and i loved the answer you gave. I hope you don’t mind me asking another. What do you think makes the darkside so difficult to turn back from? Speaking from my own personal experience with mental illness (depression, anxiety, diagnosed anger issues. All of this from birth) in know that all those things can send a person to a very dark place. 1/

Not literally like with the force, but it can do that to anyone and it’s like doing a muscle man marathon to get out of it. It takes incredible strenth to dig yourself out of it and sometimes it’s easy to NOT want to get out of that suffering, painful state because you get so used to it. 2/

I subscribe to the idea that force sensitives constantly have enotions being filtered back at them, even their own which is why they all have to be in control of their their emotions, because if they let emotions like rage and hate and fear and pain and grief and all those things you frequently feel when dealing with those kinds of things, it gets reverted back at you and you are stuck in a cycle of all these negative things the dark side feeds on. 3/

Imagine dealing with all of that as a normal person and then having this echo chamber of it directed back at you and some, i’m guessing, semi-sentient dark side that feeds on that and tries to bring you down deeper. I think another part of it is 1.) Sunk Cost Fallacy and 2.) as you said about Anakin fir example: “well, i ate two cookies, might as well eat the whole bag”. 4/5

I’m sorry this turned out WAYY linger than i originally intended. I’d like to hear your thoughts (i always do) about maybe why the dark side is so hard to pull away from. 5/5

Oh hello again, friend! You ask such intriguing questions, thank you for stopping by!

First off, mental illness sucks and I am sorry that it is something you have had to contend with. I won’t profess to know exactly what you have gone through, but when I was a younger Lego, things got pretty dark for a while, so I do know of that bottomless pit to which you refer and the absolute wrenching struggle it is to dig one’s self out, tooth and nail.

Now, there are a few ideas at play in this question so I want to start with the idea you float about how Jedi feel emotions in the Force as a kind of feedback loop, make one or two detours before getting around to why it is so difficult to come back from the dark side.

“The Force is what gives a Jedi his power. It’s an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us and penetrates us. It binds the galaxy together.”

Yoda basically lays out the Force for us in ESB, describing as an invisible energy field that for me, resembles the way we describe the energy between (and in-between) molecules. And subscribe to the theory that all sentient are at least a little Force-sensitive, if they are able to lower their own barriers enough to listen for that heartbeat, that rhythm and song of the universe (music of the spheres, in a way.) But for the Jedi, well, they are on a whole other level, and to my mind, that barrier I just referred to is a whole lot more permeable, no longer a dense, velvet curtain, but a gauzy, diaphanous veil separating two planes of existence - the one we know and some unseen dimension of energies made, if not visible in the strictest terms, visible to the mind’s eye by metaphor.

In this little scenario I have set up, then, let’s say our Jedi is happy. Simple happiness. If our reality is a glass of water, this one emotion is a drop of food coloring, let’s say green, which, when dripped into the water is coalesced around the focal point of the droplet (the droplet being the emotion within the Jedi) and then branching outwards with its tendrils, beyond the Jedi themselves. In this way, the Jedi can almost see their own emotion outside of themselves. But, of course, at some point, the food coloring will overtake the water and turn the entire glass green, in which case the Jedi has been subsumed by their own emotion unless they can erect some particular carriers around themselves. This, in Yoda’s words, would be control. (A vaguely problematic term that I will get to in a little bit.)

But without that barrier, it does become a bit of a feedback loop, the Jedi (or Sith) broadcasting an emotion which then clouds (aha!) everything around the Force-sensitive who can then feed off that cloud and repeat the entire cycle ad nauseum. And well, we know where that can lead. And so, in a way, that semi-sentient voice that is whispering poems of power, words draped in seductive scarlet into our Jedi’s ear is really their own voice, turned back on them, taking this outside form as a separate being because of this strange feedback loop.

The seeds of our own destruction - and salvation - lie wholly within us.

And so to escape the dark side’s pull, its suffocating cloud, one must, in a way, come out of themselves. Which is what leads us to the Jedi idea of detachment and control, to build that barrier which I referred to earlier, that space of nothingness where our green dye is repelled by that shadow of oxidation, where it can exist on the outside without feeding back, so one might be able to look at it as a scientist might - without passion.

Now, the thing is - and if I may go on a tangent for a moment - the Jedi, especially the Jedi we know during the Republic, refer to this too often for my taste as control, and prefer to totally bleach out any of the dye rather than observe from the outside. To my mind, the Order had become a bit polarized in the wake of Ruusaan Reformation, eager to stamp out any bit of dark side rather than to acknowledge each being’s duality - something Yoda himself rally only came to when he had his adventures with the Force priestesses. It also explains, to a degree, why he is so laissez-faire in The Last Jedi - finally, he has come to true balance, and knows that the universe swings on a pendulum of energy, that light and dark will settle and unsettle again. I know TLJ gets a bad rap in some circles, but I personally adore the way they approached Force philosophy and the Jedi, because balance, to the Republic Jedi - was good, good only. Which is why it was referred to as control.

But seeking control in a universe where we can never control, ultimately, is an of fear, which leads to anger, and etc.

However, your question is not about the foibles of the Jedi Order, but rather the dark side. Let’s take Anakin as an example. Anakin falls prey to his worst tendencies (and he is powerful in the Force, his connection with that other plane perhaps too strong, his ability to influence it unprecedented but also that open conduit making him more susceptible to everything I mentioned above.) He’s angry, he’s upset, and he turns that first on himself and then takes that fear and turns it on others, burning down the outer world with his inner. But he saves Luke. A fantastic act, but only a single act. Does one life saved balance out the atrocities of the previous twenty years?

To my mind, no. It’s like those studies they’ve done on reform, where it is often found that behavior changes before mindset. Meaning Anakin has to go through the motions before he is truly redeemed. That, to my mind, is one of the hardest parts, because you can’t just flip a switch and say, hey, I’m light now! Look at Ventress - it took her a while just to get to morally grey and she wasn’t nearly as full-fledged dark as Anakin got. Look at Dooku, who started out grey and through his actions, through his own need for control, fell further and further until he walked right into his own demise. (And this is astounding for a man so intelligent.)

Note, I’m not even touching on that unearthly drug, adrenaline, that anger can unleash, sparking up all those dopamine receptors and as a Force-sensitive, this is only going to be multiplied by a thousand. It’s probably like doing hard drugs and there’s a reason they say the dark side is addictive. And we all know addiction is one hell of a beast to fight, that even in the throes of anger, the hangover must be brutal, emotionally and to give that up to turn light?

Not easy. Not easy to do alone and the problem is as a Sith you have basically pushed everyone else away so who going to be your support if you even want to recover? (Note how Dooku was always trying to connect with his students. It says something.) And you know, if Anakin hadn’t died on the Death Star, despite everything, I think he would have had the best chance at redemption because Luke would have been there. It would have been a terrible, exhausting experience for all involved (not to mention Leia, who did not have Luke’s soft spot for her biological father, and for very good reason.)

Although after going on about all of this, I will say that from an author’s perspective, exploring a character’s fall and struggle is such an opportunity, narratively. But then again, I love to joke that writing is cheaper than therapy :D

#Anonymous #hello there #ask legobiwan #i could go on about force shenanigans #but i'll call it here because i have some real life lego things to do before it's extended naptime #the force #meta #jedi #sith #legobiwan and their weirdass metaphors

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