#we hope that the world will be kinder to you in the future

[beggars-opera]

Hey, so we don't talk enough about A Christmas Carol as being at least a little bit about not continuing a cycle of abuse and neglect, both against others and yourself.

In the book little Scrooge is left languishing over the holidays in a boarding school for some never-explained reason, but it is made very clear that this is miserable and unfair, and that his father is doing this on purpose. His sister specifically comes to tell him that "father is so much kinder now than he used to be, that home's like heaven." This also reflects a bit of Dickens's own childhood when his father went into debtor's prison and little Charlie was forced to support his family working full time in a shoe-blacking factory at the age of 12 (which is also why so many of his books seem to have a moral of "hey, kids are people too and maybe we shouldn't make them work in the mines.")

Whatever family reunion happened after didn't work out, because Scrooge continues believing that no one is coming to save him and pulling himself up by his bootstraps at the detriment of all other social relationships is the only way forward. And the more he lives by that philosophy, the more miserable he gets, because obviously he pushes away anyone who has that hope that he lost. They threaten to break down the walls he's built and teach him that a big pile of money doesn't have to be the only thing that he can rely on, if he'd just let himself be vulnerable and have a relationship with people who care about him, because they're out there even if he's ignoring them.

There is a certain type of person still very much out there who thinks this way. "I've never been happy in my life, so no one else has a right to be either. I was abused in my childhood so it's only fair that everyone else suffer as well." We see this in parents who still try to use corporal punishment, and in wealthy people who ignore the social factors keeping others down and scream that everyone else is just entitled, that only those who suffer and scrape deserve happiness. And they especially hate the people like Fred who represent the past that could have been, who have maintained hope for the future, and seem to be rubbing their optimism in your face, when in reality they're just maintaining hope because it's the only way you can survive.

It's so important for Scrooge to actually see the impact this thinking has on both himself and multiple generations. Rich people have this weird hangup about this story because they think Scrooge is bad because he's rich. He's not, he's bad because he's a horrible person and a miser - he doesn't use his money to better anything, including himself. Salting the earth, everyone suffers here, including him. And he learns that he's going to die old and alone without ever having spent or enjoyed his money, and that his family feels sorry for him, and that the nameless masses of poor people out there that he decries so much are in fact living, breathing people, including tiny disabled kids who don't deserve to suffer just because you decided life isn't fair.

In the end he takes responsibility for actually uplifting the people in the next generation who are trying to make the world a better place and no longer punching down, because it doesn't have to be this way. So many people out there just give up hope because things are hard and they think trying to improve things is a pointless exercise that makes them look dumb. How dare you grow a year older and not an hour richer! How dare you marry for love! That's the only thing more ridiculous than a Merry Christmas! When in reality, there are plenty of people who would love to see them happy if they just had a chance.

It's really sad that, while the language used to describe it has changed, these problems still persist. That people feel so wronged and isolated that they spend their days ensuring everyone else will be as well. That they fail to see their fellow humans as fellow humans who are just as deserving of love and kindness and a roof over their heads. I don't care what time of year it is, we should all be lifting each other up rather than tearing each other down.

#long post #rant #a christmas carol #charles dickens #history #books #literature #christmas #who hurt elon musk

[heartpascal]

lock it when you leave

▹ — joel miller x platonic!f!reader + tommy miller x platonic!f!reader

▹ — summary: part three of if the door wasn’t shut — tensions rise in jackson, leaving you scrambling to find your place.

▹ — a/n: guys i’m not all that happy with this part!!! it feels kinda … filler-y. but we are getting somewhere!!! i have ideas for part 4 :’) let me know what you guys think!! (if you guys wanna be tagged in future parts let me know)

▹ — warnings: angst, guns, fire, murder, there’s a baby in this one, blood, arguments, infected + raiders, father figure miller bros

▹ — tags: @auggiesolovey @just-kaylaa @evyiione @pedropascalsrealgf @faceache111 @livvy256 @dizzyforyou @hiphopdancer101universe @aphrcdites @axionn @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @coolchick333 @hufflepuffriver @kobenio @dorothleah @moonygremlin @tomorrowseverything @martinsmomo @teenagetragediesforeveryone @dksjskx @inkiqayo @fariylixie0915 @jbcalway @ipadkidsworld @coldwcter @rhyanna6012 @gimalo135 @kimpineeeeeeee @jerseygirllll @dreamerglassesgirl @g0bble @firsttimewriter92 @coldheartedmar @cheneyq @dilfsaremyfavourite @sakurarukas @brilliantopposite187 @ilovemydinoboi @chiogarza @lockleywife @famoussuitcasepiebagel-blog @doctorliamsr @dustyroper28 @daffodil0darling @marchstrilogy @cappucinolia @xxhospital-for-soulsxx @ithoughtthiswastwitterbutfr @slut4timotheechalamet

masterlist | PART ONE | PART TWO

howl’s song association!

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Four months ago, when the wound was still fresh, you never would’ve thought that you’d be here. Stood comfortably in the Miller’s home, stirring food over the stove as Tommy and Maria fussed over the newborn of the household in their living room.

In fact, you would’ve bet against this exact scenario, certain that you’d never let yourself get close to another Miller ever again. It was the only logical thing for you to do — after all, that wound had been angry and sore, the blood still wet.

You wouldn’t say it had healed, not even close, really. It still throbbed, white hot to the touch, especially when you thought of Joel and Ellie, but you were managing. Coping. It helped, having Tommy and Maria around, far more than you had ever expected. They were kind, softened from years of sanctuary, and you hated to admit it, but you cared about them.

The feeling had snuck up on you, which was ridiculous, considering that was exactly how it had happened before. Though, perhaps you had been less apprehensive the first time around, considering the way you flinched away from their care in the beginning. You should’ve expected it, should’ve fought against it with everything in you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

This was the reminder of just how human you were. Despite all the pain, the suffering and anger and scars against your skin, you craved connection. You wanted people to care about you, wanted your life to have meaning, even though it seemed to only end in your own heartbreak.

You just hoped this would be different.

A childish thing, to hope, in a world like this one, but that’s what you were, right? You were allowed to be childish, to let that hope build back up until it was inevitably knocked down, reduced to rubble. People seemed to appear from the strangest of places, coming to help you scavenge through the debris for something to rebuild the foundations with.

That’s what Tommy and Maria had been to you — fitting, really, considering what Tommy had done in the time before cordyceps. They had spent time with you, helping you build up that hope for something better, something kinder.

You hated to do it, hated to lean back into relationships, but you trusted the two of them more than you were willing to admit to anyone — even to yourself. With their own child now in the world, you just hoped that you wouldn’t get in the way.

Maria’s drawn out sigh shook you from such thoughts, and you raised an eyebrow at her where she stood beside you, her back resting against the kitchen counter. “What’s up with you?” You ask her, turning your gaze from her slight smirk back to the food, where you started to fish on to plates. It was a good job she’d caught your attention — much longer and the three of you would’ve been eating charred scraps.

“Oh, nothing.” She responded, and looked sharply to you when you scoffed a slight laugh. “What?” She asked, grinning.

“That was the biggest sigh I’ve ever heard, and I’ve known Joel for about as long as I can remember.” You told her, almost absentmindedly, not thinking too much on the joking comment until after you’d already spoken it.

Maria’s smile got small, and she took over the garnishing part of dishing out dinner, the part that you still didn’t understand. Why put it on there if it didn’t need to be? And when Tommy was definitely going to pick it off?

“Don’t judge me,” Maria told you, saying your name in what was almost a scolding voice, “Tommy’s just putting the baby to bed, he’ll be in in one sec.” She said, after you had moved to pick up his plate, too. You raised a hand, grabbing her plate and leaving her to bring the cutlery, rolling your eyes when she scolded you.

“Calm down, Maria, it’s only been a week. Let me help.” You said to her, when she continued to lecture you on just how capable she was, despite the way she held onto the walls and doorframes with one hand as she walked, the other holding onto her now slightly flatter stomach.

“She giving you a tough time?” Tommy asked, having settled the baby, and hearing Maria’s rants.

“Isn’t she always?” The two of you shared an amused look when Maria immediately jumped on the defence, only relenting with a roll of her eyes when Tommy leant down to press a kiss to the top of her head.

“Hey, don’t forget who just got you all your new clay, kid!” Maria told you, as Tommy left to grab his own plate from the kitchen, and grinned when your shoulders sagged in defeat. “How’re the mugs coming?”

You shrugged idly, scraping food onto your fork.

“You talked my ear off about those damn mugs, and now you’re quiet?” Tommy questioned as he dropped down with a huff on the couch, stretching back slightly.

“That was just to annoy you.” You told him, fighting a grin when he sat up with something close to an incredulous expression on his face. You wouldn’t lie, though, it warmed your chest slightly that Maria was asking about such things when you knew how exhausted she was. Painfully, you realised that she reminded you more and more of Tess. “They’re… good. Kinda. Improving.” You said to Maria after a brief pause, before shoving your food into your mouth.

“Well, we could do with some more. Only got the two, and you’ll need one. Plus some for guests.” Maria said between bites of food, ignoring the look Tommy shot at her for the guests comment. You weren’t stupid — you knew that she was talking about Joel and Ellie. They didn’t really have other guests, after all. Any other socialising was done in town, even town-related meetings, usually going down early in the morning in the hall.

“I’ll see what I can do.” You responded, feeling something shiver down your spine bitterly as you thought of Joel and Ellie coming here.

Usually, you pretended they didn’t. You liked to think that Tommy and Maria’s house was untouchable, impervious to anyone who wasn’t you, them, or their new baby. You saw the remnants of their other guests, of course, like when you’d come in the morning, and there would be four plates in the sink. Or when Ellie’s coat still rested on the coat hooks. But the couple’s presence felt comforting, and you weren’t willing to give it up. Not right now, at least.

You refused to let Joel take anything else away from you. He didn’t have the right — he never did. It wasn’t like he was your father! Joel had made that much clear from the start, back when it had just been you, him and Tess.

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

“She doesn’t have anyone, Joel, what else was I meant to do?” Tess asked, her words biting as she yelled them toward her partner.

“The last thing we need is a kid to take care of. Send her to FEDRA.” Joel responded, his voice loud, but not quite a shout. He was trying to be the voice of reason here, not the asshole. Looking after some child they didn’t ask for, it could only end badly.

What if somebody came looking for you? Somebody with a vengeance? What if you turned out to be some asshole kid who killed them both? What if they couldn’t get the rations to feed you? What if—

“What? So she can get shot in the street in a few years? Joel, she should get a choice.” Tess bargained, unsure herself as to why she felt the need to defend you so much.

She knew Joel was right — knew that it wasn’t practical or realistic to keep you in their shitty apartment, but some part of her just knew. You needed the two of them, and in the middle of the apocalypse, was it really too difficult to do one good thing? Tess wasn’t saying it to be a hero — but god knows that too many kids had died already. She wasn’t trying to give Joel somebody else to look after, she was just trying to help.

Tess wanted to be able to look you in the face, and tell you that this was your chance. They didn’t turn up often in the apocalypse, and she wanted to urge you to take it. Was that too much to offer? Just an opportunity to live a bit longer, to survive in a world that strived for your death?

“Tess…” Joel sighed heavily, turning his head to look where you were sat back against their couch cushions, knees drawn to your chest as you ducked your head, clearly pretending that you hadn’t been listening the whole time. “Okay, fine. Let the kid stay.”

Tess nodded at him, the two of them moving apart as she headed towards where you were sat, something heavy and daunting resting on her shoulders as she looked at you, foolishly hoping she wouldn’t live to regret this.

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

Things were getting tense in Jackson.

You knew that things had been growing restless for a while, but it had gotten worse, somehow beginning to feel tangible in the very air you breathed.

Two separate raiding attacks had come in the past three weeks, which was definitely cause for concern. The first hadn’t gotten far enough to reach you where you had slept in your shop, and it was only the morning after as the dead were buried that you found out it happened.

The second was not so easy — waking you up in the middle of the night, which was an easy task, considering how light your sleep had become at the reminder that the walls around Jackson weren’t impenetrable. You woke up to the sounds of yelling, the roaring of flames, which sounded far too close to comfort. It was only when you rushed outside of your shop, clay carving tool clutched in your hand, that you knew for certain it was raiders.

They’d gotten deep into the town, which was a shock to the system, making it feel like cold water was running down your back. People were running on the street, gunfire sounding from further out, by the wall. The raiders seemed to be multiplying, but you knew they couldn’t be more than a party of twenty. No way would any of the guards miss a group bigger than that, right?

“Get back inside!” One of them yelled towards you, a rifle sitting stiffly in his hand, and a helmet resting on his head. He didn’t have a very commanding voice. You stayed where you were, frozen.

He approached, fingers tightening on his gun, and you could’ve sworn that your heart was beating so fast in might explode. The blood was rushing in your ears, and you felt sick for a moment, before the cold wash of reality came over you, in the form of the raider yelling so harshly in your face that you could smell his breath.

You blinked harshly at him, and swallowed down the bile in your throat as he moved to raise his gun toward your head. It felt like something had snapped in you, and you were launching yourself at him in less than a second, reminiscent of a barely-there memory back before Ellie was around.

Your clay tool hadn’t been very sharp, so it had taken force to push it into his neck when he fell down under your sudden weight. You tried not to think about the pressure you’d forced on it as you shoved his head down into the pavement when he tried to lift it in some form of defence, likely trying to smack his helmet into your face. His hands reached up, pushing you away with a burst of strength — what you hoped was the final burst of adrenaline.

Loose stones on the ground scraped up against your arm, drawing the tiniest bits of blood as you skidded across the floor where he had shoved you. When he turned his gaze to you, you bared your teeth, snatching his gun and holding it firmly away from you when he reached for it, pulling the trigger.

Glass shattered behind you, and you tugged the gun until it came away from his grasp, and he reached up, pulling the tool from where it stuck out of his neck.

The gun was firmly in your hands, aimed at him, before he could even raise the tool towards you, the sudden rush of blood from his body only rendering him weaker.

Your name had been called a second later, and you scrambled away from the raider as gunshots slowly faded out, leaving behind scared shouts and the blaze of the still-burning fire. You looked up to see Tommy, rushing towards you and tugging you up from the ground the moment he reached you.

“Shit,” He muttered, holding your arms tightly as he let his gun hang limply at his side. “Are you okay? You hurt?”

You shook your head, still grasping onto the stolen gun, and watched him sigh in something close to relief, before he turned his gaze to the shattered front of your shop.

“Come on.” Tommy urged then, nodding his head and only releasing you when you made to follow him, and he grasped onto his own gun as you began the trek to his and Maria’s home.

When you got there, Tommy shoved you inside and quickly shut the door behind him, taking the gun from your hands and resting it against the wall by the coatrack. He did the same with his own gun, a moment later.

“Maria!” You called, your voice scratchy as it left your throat. The baby was crying, you could hear it the moment you stepped inside, and you moved straight into the kitchen, finding Maria stood there, holding onto the baby and shushing, as she paced back and forth.

“Oh, thank god, you’re both okay.” She sighed out, approaching her husband and pressing a hard kiss to his lips. The worry lines on her forehead were visible, showing how stressed and anxious she truly was. “You hurt?” She asked the two of you, raising her voice to be heard over the crying baby she rocked in her arms.

“No, we’re alright.” Tommy answered, his words sounding close to relief despite the way his muscles remained tight, tense.

“Shit, Tommy,” Maria swore, looking at a gash that was trickling blood down his arm. “We gotta get you patched up. Would you mind?” She directed the last question to you, lifting her arms slightly to show off the crying baby held in them.

“Uh— sure.” You agreed, anxiously, because despite the fact it had been a few weeks since the baby was born, you had continued to keep your distance. You followed Maria into the living room, where she sat you down on the couch and placed him in your arms, as you tried to mirror the shape of her own.

He was loud, and heavier than you had expected, but you let him rest heavily in your left arm, with your right just resting gently against his side, finger running over the pyjamas he was dressed in.

“You two gonna be alright?” Tommy asked, nodding when you did, and following Maria to the upstairs bathroom, where their personal first aid kit was kept.

You rocked your arms the slightest bit, trying not to release the sigh of relief when the baby finally began to settle down, the loud sounds fading and leaving behind a tense silence over Jackson. When all the loud noises faded, you were left with a slight ring to your ears, likely from where that raider had fired his gun right beside them, aimed at your shop.

You couldn’t imagine how Maria had felt — she was a protector, and it must’ve killed her to stay behind with the baby whilst her husband left to help out the town. She was still recovering from giving birth, the event taking its toll, especially in the apocalypse, where the painkillers she’d had during her first birth weren’t available. Medical professionals were hard to come by, with only two residing in Jackson, neither specialising in things such as pregnancy or labour.

Luckily, they knew more than enough about it to give Maria the best chance at survival she could get. You don’t know how Tommy might’ve reacted if she hadn’t gotten through the birth. You didn’t want to think about it.

“Tommy? Maria?” A voice yelled, the front door banging open and causing the baby to begin his wailing once again. “Shit, sorry—” Ellie cut herself off as she entered the room, shock evident on her face when she saw you sat in there.

“They’re upstairs.” You answered stiffly, referring to her earlier yells, and you began rocking the baby boy once again, trying to settle his cries. You ran a gentle finger down his forehead, to the tip of his nose, shooting Ellie a nasty look when she just continued to stare at you.

“Joel went to find you.” She said, after a few moments, lowering her voice as you finally got the baby to begin settling, your arms tense as you tried to keep him as still as possible. You looked up at that, eyebrows creasing as you regarded her, saw the way her fingers fiddled together, pulling at the zip of her jacket.

“Why?” You questioned, confused for a moment. After all, Joel hadn’t cared much about leaving you behind when the two do them left Jackson, so why would he care about your whereabouts while you were here? “I can take care of myself.” You said, when she didn’t respond to your question, and you felt your jaw tighten when Ellie just rolled her eyes.

“Joel did what he did to take care of you. Why can’t you see that?” Ellie asked, voice hardening as she looked at you, lounged against the couch, holding Joel’s nephew in your arms, whilst he was on there searching for you.

You sat up slightly, a deep crease forming between your brows at the fire in Ellie’s words. It made somerhing uncomfortable stir in your chest, tightening and getting hotter as you looked at her expression.

“I didn’t ask him to do that. I wanted to come with you both. He took that from me, Ellie, he left me behind.” You said, feeling like you were turning in circles, beginning to feel dizzy and not getting anywhere. You strained to keep your arms somewhat relaxed, to keep your hands still where they wanted to clench into fists.

Her next words were quieter, and you struggled to hear them over the ringing still in your ears, drowning out the blazing world around you. She spoke again, her eyebrows furrowing to match your own, “You’re being unfair, you said you didn’t want to carry on!”

“I said I wanted to go home!” You said, voice raising for a moment, before you quietened your tone, only for the sake of the baby you held, who had already been disturbed enough tonight. “And in case you didn’t notice, Ellie, that was impossible. I lost everyone, don’t you get that?”

She shook her head, her cheeks going red as she grit her teeth, “Of course I fucking get that! You’re not the only one who lost people.”

“That’s not what I said!” You responded, feeling increasingly heated the longer the conversation went on, “But that trip cost me everything. So yeah, maybe I didn’t want to carry on. But I would’ve. I would’ve followed you two anywhere.”

“You got to stay here, in this actual fucking town, with actual fucking people and food and— and water!”

“People who are strangers! I was stuck here, in a town with things I don’t understand, people I don’t recognise, and the only ones I trusted left me here.” You spat back at her, wishing she could just understand what it had been like — didn’t she know how it felt to have your choice taken away from you? Why should they get to decide things for you? What happened to that control that Joel and Tess knew you valued so much?

Ellie opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off by the sound of footsteps in the hallway, and you swallowed down the anger that felt lodged in your throat, focusing on the baby who was fussing in your arms, saving his hands in the air until he caught onto one of your fingers, and held it tightly.

“Sh— There you are.” Joel’s voice came from the doorway, a heavy sigh forcing itself from his chest, and he entered the living room, his face crumpled in something like fear and relief. He opened and closed his mouth more than once, like he wanted to say something, before he finally settled on, “Tommy okay?”

“Maria’s patching him up.” You said flatly, turning your head away from where he stood beside Ellie, and keeping your gaze on the baby and where he was slowly beginning to dig his blunt nails into the skin of your finger.

Joel stared at you, his chest feeling close to hollow, and he could just remember the fear that had swallowed him whole when he saw the raider lay dead outside of the shop, the shop windows shattered against the ground. He had shoved the door open faster than he could think, his boots crunching against shattered glass loudly as he rushed to the door in the back, his heart pounding so hard he thought he might have a heart attack as his eyes scanned the ground.

When he had finally gotten the door open, a breath had left him as he realised you weren’t here, and he felt the pressure that had been pushing against his spine loosen the slightest bit, and he hurried to make his way back to Rancher Street, hoping with everything he had that you were at Tommy’s.

And now, here you were, as safe as you could possibly be, but Joel still didn’t feel relieved.

He felt dread, all consuming, and it reminded him painfully of that time, all those many months ago. Had it been a year?

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

Joel’s hand had been frozen, finger hovering over the trigger of his pistol, and he felt the air in his lungs struggling to get out. It was suffocating, making his body ache as he stared at you, where you held your breath, pressed as tightly to the wall as you could get.

Your eyes had closed, and he could see the muscles in your face twitch as you tried not to flinch away. One wrong move, wrong breath, wrong sound, and you’d be dead in a second — or worse, and Joel didn’t want to think about worse.

Tess was on the floor below, the three of you slowly making your way up, clearing the building as you went, aiming to get to the fifth floor, where the supplies were meant to be. Joel knew she wouldn’t be coming up any time soon, with the way the clicking echoed all throughout the room, likely travelling down the staircase.

It was right by your face — you could feel the breath against your cheek as it gargled and clicked, looking for you, getting so close that the shards of fungus that cracked its skull into pieces were almost brushing against your hair.

He didn’t know what to do — if he aimed wrong, he could hit you, or miss entirely, and just alert it to both yours and his own presence. He could try to kill it with the axe that rested against the nearby cabinet, one that he recognised from glass boxes labelled in case of fire, in the time before.

There was a glass bottle beside his foot, and with the slowest movements he could muster, Joel crouched low to the floor, gripping it in tense fingers, and threw it as far away from you as he could get it. He held his breath as it shattered, and the clicker let out a screech in your face, whirling away just as you had to exhale the breath you’d been holding. It hobbled away, unsteady on its feet, and you picked up the axe as you moved away from the wall.

Joel ushered you out of the room, back into the stairway, and grit his teeth as the clicker turned back at the sound of your hurried footsteps. He just about had time to slam the metal door shut, putting the deadbolt at the top back up into the concrete ceiling.

You breathed a sigh of relief, cradling your shaking hand to your chest, while the other gripped onto the axe tightly, ready to swing at a moments notice.

“Skip that floor?” You asked him, in a slightly joking way, and he nodded, face set in a dangerous expression as he glared at the door that shook slightly with the Infected clawing at it from the other side. With shaky legs, you climbed up to the next floor, waiting by the door as Tess poked her head up, hurrying up the steps to the floor you had just been on.

“Everything okay?” She asked, hands out towards Joel as if he was a feral animal, and he hadn’t quite realised just how thunderous his expression had become.

He nodded to the door, hearing the muffled bangs and scraped coming from the other side, the screech of fungal outrage. Tess placed a hand on his shoulder, nodding understandingly at him.

As they ascended the stairs to meet you where you waited for them, Joel could only grit his teeth as dread built tightly into his chest, squeezing his lungs and heart as he looked at your trembling fingers. You were fine, he knew, that Infected hadn’t even managed to touch you, but Joel couldn’t help the way that dread and fear began piling upon him, weighing his chest down so much that it became hard to inhale another breath.

You held the axe up, the thing slightly too heavy for you to carry it comfortably, but you managed, gripping tightly as you waited for Tess to open the door.

Joel exhaled through his nose, swallowing down the heavy feeling that was trying to crawl up his throat, and he swore you wouldn’t get that close to danger again. He didn’t want to lose you.

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

The council meeting hadn’t gone well — you could see it on Maria’s face, the moment she stepped through the door to your shop. The tense air in Jackson had only gotten worse, feeling thicker every time you walked past the old jewellery shop down the street, now reduced to charred remains.

“What happened?” You asked, slightly reluctantly. Clearly, this wasn’t going to be a fun conversation. Part of you was worried about what she was going to answer with, too. Could they disband the town?

“Well, nobody’s got answers for how twenty-four guys got past our lookouts. And conveniently, whoever was on lookout when they got past, seems to have been rubbed off of the rota.” Maria grumbled, looking just as miserable as she felt. You felt bad for her — she should’ve been at home, feeling happy about the new member of her family, not having to deal with a town crisis.

You didn’t say anything for a moment, letting Maria press her hands against the wooden table in your shop, and watching as she leant her chin against her chest, a deep sigh leaving her.

“They agreed on fixing up the wall yet?” You asked, feeling bad about doing so when Maria’s shoulders immediately dropped some more.

“No,” She muttered, frustration inking at the corners of her words, “Said somethin’ about conserving resources.”

“But… Jackson’s exposed with that massive hole in the wall.” You replied, eyebrows furrowed in your confusion.

“I know,” Maria replied, your name falling from her lips in a slightly disheartened tone. “That’s the trouble with politics. People lose their common sense. We got another meeting tomorrow, I’m gonna convince them, don’t worry. Got a patrol in two hours, though. You alright with Tommy cooking?”

You nodded at her, frowning when she sighed again, exhausted down to her very bones. With slight hesitation, you followed along behind her as she made her way back to her house to see her son and husband before patrol.

When you arrived, Tommy was holding the baby to his chest, shaking his head as he spoke to the kid in a baby voice. You suppressed a snicker.

Maria cooed, reaching out for the baby, and grinning tiredly when he was finally placed in her arms. With a sympathetic expression, Tommy pressed a kiss to the top of her head, before you caught his eye, nodding your head toward the kitchen.

“Everythin’ alright, kiddo?” Tommy questioned, eyebrows furrowed in concern as you paced the length of his kitchen, before stopping and turning to him, looking nervous.

“I’ve been thinkin’,” You started, your expression just about stopping Tommy from making a stupid joke, “I wanna start going on patrols.”

He stopped suddenly, his whole body going still, and you looked at him with nervous eyes. It wasn’t that you were nervous about going — though you were, a little bit — it was that you were nervous he would say no.

Despite everything that had happened with Joel and Ellie, the slight meltdown back at that cabin before Jackson, it wasn’t about being out there. It wasn’t the Infected that lingered behind corners that scared you, and it wasn’t raiders that made fear settle in your bones, it was Joel and Ellie.

They had been all that you had — everybody else had been lost to the world, and you had longed for a time before all that loss, for the home you had with Joel and Tess, where danger lingered, sure, but not in the same way. They could avoid danger back at Boston QZ, could hide out in their apartment and settle with doing shitty FEDRA-issued jobs for a while if things got too hot.

Out in the world, there was no sense of control, no sense of safety, no matter where you went. You didn’t want to watch Joel and Ellie die like you had with Tess. Didn’t want to close your eyes and still see it, see flames climbing up the building that held one of the only people you cared for. You weren’t sure you could’ve handled losing anybody else, but Joel had forced that upon you, in the end.

By removing you from the outside world, placing you behind walls once again, he had just made your very worst fears come true. You had lost them.

So when you asked to go on patrols, you didn’t feel very scared. After all, you knew the world as well as anybody else, maybe even better than some of the people in Jackson. You knew how to shoot, how to stay quiet, how to spot things that often went unnoticed.

Before losing Tess, you had been good. Despite a few slip-ups here and there, you had been allowed on their rare smuggling trips for a reason. You’d known how to shoot a gun before you had known how to read, and it came naturally to you.

“Absolutely not.” Tommy answered, after a moment, his expression hardening and turning to stone, and you frowned at him.

“‘M only asking you because I was hoping to take on some of Maria’s patrols. She’s exhausted, she needs sleep, and she’s got a meeting tomorrow. She doesn’t need to be goin’ on some patrol right now.” You responded, feeling the usual fondness that came with speaking to him fall away, leaving your voice cold, as your expression went flat at his refusal.

He stayed silent for a few moments, gritting his teeth in a way that was far too reminiscent of his older brother, and he sighed. “No, we’ll find somebody else. You’re just a kid.”

“I’m better than half of the guys you usually take out.” You argued, still trying to keep your voice down, to prevent Maria from coming in and halting any conversation on the topic. “I can handle myself, Tommy.”

“Can you?”

“Yes! Who do you think handled that raider?” You countered immediately, feeling the heat of your anger push against your chest.

“That was different.” Tommy tried, holding his hands out toward you, getting increasingly frustrated as you stepped away from him.

“How was it different?” You snapped, “It wasn’t different. Stop trying to protect me, I’m not some dumb kid, Tommy. You are just as bad as Joel.”

Your words struck hard, and Tommy’s face hardened immediately after you spoke, his frustration growing into something closer to anger.

“Why, because I’m trying to keep you safe? Just like Joel did? It’s not a crime to want you to be okay! You gotta stop treatin’ us like we’re doin’ something wrong for protecting you!” Tommy argued back, and your expression fell when he grouped himself in with Joel.

“That— That was different.” You said, repeating his words back to him, and feeling something nervous press against your neck, your hands wringing together as you stood in front of the Miller, who suddenly resembled his older brother too much.

Maria entered the kitchen then, holding the baby tightly to her chest, and frowning as she looked at where you and Tommy stood at opposite sides of the room.

“What’s going on?” She asked, almost hesitantly.

“Nothin’,” Tommy answered, still looking at you with hard eyes, nothing changing on his expression. You grit your teeth together, feeling frustration cling to the back of your throat. “Right?”

You scoffed, and made your way past him, going straight to the front door and pulling it open roughly. Your eyebrows were furrowed as you stepped out, ignoring Tommy calling your name as you slammed the door shut behind you.

When you hurried away, shoes scuffing against the pathways of Jackson, you ignored how you saw Joel sat on his porch, and just hoped he’d mind his own business.

Two hours later, when there was a knock at your shop door, your eyebrows had furrowed immediately.

You weren’t sure who could be visiting you — Maria should’ve been on patrol already, and Tommy should’ve been back at home, looking after his son. You didn’t get any other visitors, at least, ones that were welcome.

When you opened the door, you saw Joel standing there, looking nervous. Your expression immediately flattened, eyebrows creasing further, and he stopped you before you could even open your mouth. “Wait,” Joel almost pleaded, and seemed close to relieved when you grit your teeth, staying quiet. “Maria asked me to bring this over, said somethin’ about Tommy covering a patrol.”

He held out a box, looking far too nervous for such a simple request, though you could understand. With your eyebrows relaxing slightly, you reached forward and plucked the box from his waiting hands, tilting it to the side to look through the transparent sides of the box at its contents.

When you noticed Joel still stood, unmoving, your eyebrows began to crease once again. “Well, thanks for bringing this over.” You said stiffly, hating how part of you wanted to let go of all of your anger, to pretend nothing ever happened, to just hug him.

You reminded yourself that he did this, that you were allowed to be angry. You had every right to be. You were allowed to scream and cry and shout, to hold on to that anger, to that feeling of being left behind.

It felt like a betrayal to yourself, to still want to be around him, and it hurt even more that he still made you feel safe.

“No problem.” He said, hesitantly, like he wanted to say something else, to continue, to broach the subject of the elephant in the room, but he held himself back. You weren’t sure what was worse, what you preferred more. Him acting like a stranger, or him acting too familiar.

You were so conflicted, over everything. You felt fractured into hundreds of tiny pieces, each individually feeling something different, shouting for their own way. Parts of you wanted to cry and let him comfort you, whilst others screamed for you to yell at him some more, for you to beg and plead for him to feel that hollowness that you had felt when he’d left you. Part of you wanted answers, wanted an explanation that would be enough, that would justify it, but you knew Joel didn’t have one.

For him, he knew it had been the right decision. He felt some peace of mind, knowing you would be safe within the walls, at his brother’s side. But it still pained him, the way you had fractured away from him, and he had let you slip through his fingers. It left a kind of emptiness in him, knowing that you believed he had abandoned you. You believed he had failed you. Joel was scared that you might be right.

“Well,” He cleared his throat, shoving his now empty hands deep into his pockets, and he nodded at you, the action paining him. “I’ll, uh, head off, then.”

You nodded, watching him step back and turn to go before you closed the shop door, missing the way he turned back to say something, only to be faced with a closed door. He heard the lock turn.

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

It had taken three days for Tommy to crack.

He didn’t like the silence between the two of you, it made his neck feel itchy, his heart race uncomfortably. He worried about you, more than he had even realised himself.

So when you looked at him, eyebrows raised expectantly, he couldn’t help but relent. You were stubborn, even now, and you really did remind him of Joel with that expression on your face. Tommy wondered if you knew just how many mannerisms you’d picked up from his older brother, but thought better than to mention it.

“Okay, fine.” He gritted, his gaze steely even as he watched your face light up in victory, “But—”

“But?” You echoed, incredulously.

“But you’re only going on a patrol if one of us is on it, too.” Tommy continued, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes at your interruption. When he saw your annoyance, he fixed his statement slightly, “At least to start with. We’ll get you some trainin’, on the horses and guns, then we’ll see where we are.”

You smiled, and as much as Tommy hated to let you get your way in this, he was just glad to see you smiling at him again. “Thanks, Tommy.” You said, letting him reach over and pay your shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” He grumbled.

“Hey, I made you something.” You told him suddenly, face seemingly lighting up further as you thought of whatever it was. Tommy raised his eyebrows suspiciously, tapping his fingers against the wooden table in the middle of your shop. “I know how much you loved hearing about them, so.”

You held up a box, filled with five mugs, some slightly misshapen, but holding the vague shape of a regular old mug. The handles were difficult, he recalled you telling him, and he could see it reflected in your work, the handles wonky, or curved into a strange shape. He smiled nonetheless, unable to help the laugh that escaped him.

“Well, I never.” He said, amused, and picked up one of the mugs, with a sloppily painted bear on the front. “You figured out the glaze, then?”

“Kinda. Thought it was gonna be blue.” You replied, pointing at the mug with an orangey brown owl painted on. “But I like it.”

“Me too, kiddo, me too. Say, Maria’s gonna be thrilled.” Tommy grinned, putting the mug he was holding back into the box before taking it off of your hands, rolling his eyes when you cautioned him.

“Well, let me know, yeah?” You asked, despite knowing that she was going to love them no matter what they looked like, simply because you made them. You had noticed that about her. You could probably hand her a chunk of clay, which barely resembled anything other than what it was, and she’d thank you for it.

“I will do. You’re comin’ for dinner later, right?” He questioned, gripping onto the box tighter with one hand, so he could free up his other one to place his hand on the door.

“Think I’ll just eat at the hall, tonight. You guys should come, too. Maria does far too much cooking.” You suggested, shrugging his shoulders when he looked offended, as if he should cook more. “Please, do not even go in the kitchen. The baby’s too young to be subjected to the smell of your cooking.” You joked, laughing when he huffed, exiting the house while yelling about not letting you come around anymore.

You shook your head, grabbing a chunk of clay you had cut off from the slab earlier, and dumping it on the wheel.

These people would be the death of you, you were sure, as your chest warmed from the interaction.

PART FOUR

#joel miller x reader #joel miller angst #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller x you #tlou one shot #pedro pascal angst #tlou imagines #tommy miller x reader #tommy miller x you #joel miller father figure #joel miller fic #joel miller imagines #pedro pascal one shot #pedro pascal imagines #tlou imagine #tommy miller angst #tommy miller fluff #heartpascal writes

[hookhausenschips]

Whispering To The Stars

A Charles Leclerc Journal Entry

500 Follower Special!!!

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Ever since I first saw you at the Monaco Grand Prix, leaning against the pit wall with that eager glint in your eyes, I knew there was something ineffably special about you. You wore excitement like a second skin, draped over your shoulders more naturally than the azure Mediterranean hugged the shores of Monte Carlo. I was drawn to you; inexplicably, irrevocably. In that crowd, amidst the roar of engines and the fervor of the fans, there was a tranquil certainty in your eyes that spoke directly to me. 

We flourished in an ephemeral world of speed where every second counted double, both on track and in life. Time was always chasing us, and yet, it seemed we outran it often, stealing moments that were as vivid as the principality's night lights. Our love, much like racing, was intense, passionate, and invariably edged with inherent risks. You understood the stakes, the late nights, the constant travel, but you never complained. Instead, you became my solace, turning our fleeting moments into eternities.

But time, as much as it was our ally in those stolen moments, became our foe. Your dreams didn't merely dance around the peripheries of racetracks; they soared far beyond, into realms where I couldn't always follow. I watched you struggle with choices, torn between your ambitions and what we had. It pained me to see you wrestle with possibilities, and I wished then that time would be kinder to you, would slow down and allow you the breath you so desperately needed.

The season I clinched the championship, the very pinnacle of my career, was ironically when our worlds began to drift apart. My obligations increased, your studies took you to distant shores, and the time zones between us stretched wider than the Atlantic. Calls became sporadic; texts went unanswered. The silence was louder than any engine I had ever tuned.

The last time we were together was under the stars in Barcelona. You had flown in to surprise me, and the night was ours. We talked about the constellations, about your research in astrophysics, and somewhat hesitantly, about us. There was so much I wanted to tell you then, about how I envisioned our future, about how every victory was hollow if not shared with you. But I held back, shackled by an inexplicable fear that voicing these thoughts might jinx what little we were clinging to.

Weeks later, when the call came, I was testing at Fiorano. It was a crisp morning, and I could still taste the remnants of victory from the previous race. My phone rang, an unknown number, and I almost didn’t answer. But I did. The voice on the other end, somber and heavy, told me about the accident. A sudden, cruel twist of fate and just like that, you were gone.

I wish time had been kinder to you, Y/N.

Now, I find myself at many a finish line, but the thrill of victory is muted, the champagne less sweet. The podium no longer a peak, but a plateau. Every star I gaze upon, I hope you're there, watching, perhaps proud. The words I never said now slip quietly into the cool night air, hoping they find you amongst the stars. "I love you," I whisper, "and I miss you."

Every race I win, every trophy I lift, I dedicate to you. For in those fleeting moments of triumph, I am closest to you, suspended in the ephemeral joy we once shared. And as I stand there, amidst the confetti and applause, I tell the stars about my day, about the race, about the world without you. I hope, in some celestial way, they carry my words to you.

I wish I had told you all this when I had the chance. Now, all I have is the hope that wherever you are, time is finally being kind to you.

————————————————————————

Charles Leclerc Taglist: @esserenorris, @tallrock35, @yourbane, @lightdragonrayne, @really-fucking-tired, @evie-119, @asparklysoul, @dhanihamidi

F1 Taglist: @hiireadstuff, @donteventry-itdude, @spookystitchery

#charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc imagine #cl16 fluff #cl16 fic #cl16 #cl16 x reader #cl16 imagine #cl16 x you #cl16 one shot #charles leclerc #f1 charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc smut #formula one fanfiction #formula 1 fanfic #ferrari formula one #ferrari formula 1 #formula 1 #formula one #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 x female reader #f1 x black!reader #x black fem reader #x black!fem!reader #x reader #x black!reader

[headspace-hotel]

3 questions:

1. How do you carry the heavy burden of having so many correct beliefs plus the rare combination of motivation and the right approach to making the world a better place? 2. Does your back hurt?

3. What do you think about David Pearce's utopian idea that a sufficiently technologically advanced future society could and should one day abolish (or at least minimize) suffering, partly by redesigning the biosphere and its inhabitants to be kinder and gentler to each other? IMO that could involve bioengineering predation out of existence.

Sorry if I already asked you about this. You seem very smart and seem to know a lot about ecology so I want to know your thoughts

1. Half the work is fighting very hard against starting to believe this very thing (that I have correcter beliefs than many other people). I hope my posts inspire y'all to read things that are not posts.

2. Not really.

3. The term you're looking for is "life on Earth goes extinct."

But, okay, I've seen this sentiment before, and it is—not that you are, just that the idea is— a naive and arrogant approach to ethics in nature

I don't think it's wrong to change the biosphere. That's what life DOES. It evolves.

But "ending suffering" is an impossible goal because we don't, and in some ways can't, understand suffering scientifically. Suffering is an internal state that is defined only by the perceiver's experience of it. We still do not know the ins and outs of how physical pain works in humans, let alone spicy, obscure emotions like Existential Angst.

People who are concerned with the problem of suffering in nature focus on predation and pain in the animal kingdom—understandable if you have thought about it for under five minutes, but hopelessly incomplete and arbitrary if you consider that a creature's ability to feel and perceive is not determined by how humanlike it is.

There is no reason to think a plant or a mushroom is less capable of "suffering" than a lobster is. Plants and fungi are different; they are not simpler or less advanced or less alive than animals.

The corollary to this is that being marginally more humanlike doesn't mean that a creature "suffers" in the way a human does. When you think about it, living things can perceive "negative" stimuli because the ability to do so helped their ancestors survive. A solitary creature, for instance, wouldn't experience loneliness because being with others of its species isn't really necessary or beneficial for it. It's very likely that a creature that can't change its behavior to accommodate for or help heal an injury, can't experience continuous pain like we can. Does that mean they don't "suffer" as severely as we do? I'm not sure. It's impossible to say. I'm sure we all experience the world profoundly—I'm sure the perception of light by a bryozoan colony and the subsequent growth toward the light and feasting on algae "feels" as potent and spiritual as any of my complicated chordate emotions.

Long story short, stimuli like pain were adapted as responses that help a creature survive by avoiding things that are injurious to its survival. To eliminate suffering, you'd have to invent creatures that don't want to be alive, which would die out and be replaced by creatures that do.

Inventing creatures that don't want to be alive somehow sounds way more fucked up than anything that already exists.

But, hi, we are social creatures. Our survival instincts are overwhelmingly oriented toward seeking safety with other humans. PTSD is a disorder of social misplacement; it develops when the communities we live in don't properly acknowledge and care for our hurt after a distressing experience. We evolved to be able to communicate pain and distress to other humans, which means being aware of our own suffering, and that others can suffer, which explains why we are having this conversation, because wanting to relieve other creatures' suffering is a quality of our species.

I get tags on my posts sometimes referencing how nature is a brutal suffering machine—often when I'm talking about plant cognition and awareness—and it's troubling because that's not the takeaway I want people to have at all.

Because first of all, a healthy ecosystem working "as intended" does a lot to minimize suffering. People see predation as this violent and brutal thing, but for a deer, death by festering injury or starvation or parasite overload related to overcrowding or even old age is a lot more nasty and painful.

A biosphere without predators is unavoidably worse. The buffer on prey populations that predators provide creates optimal conditions for prey, because otherwise, the animals just reproduce to the point where the population can't increase any more because the animals are too sick/starving.

Predation ensures a deer with a horribly mangled broken leg will get picked off instead of limping around for months in pain (something i actually witnessed!). It's not evil. It just is.

If you really wanted to eliminate suffering, you would have to eliminate being alive, and to be completely honest, that is probably not possible. We could not render the Earth completely empty of even single celled organisms if we dumped every toxic chemical into the atmosphere and bombed ourselves with every nuclear weapon. We would still have tough bastards like Deinococcus radiodurans around, and those guys would probably eventually evolve into organisms with the capability to experience pain all over again.

Abiogenesis may be a bitch but life, once it exists, is a Pandora's box that can't be unopened. The first thing to be alive also invented death, and there's no way around that. The monkey-typewriter-room of molecules that let you understand that you exist are going to write out "WOW, THIS FUCKING SUCKS" every once in a while.

When you think about it, the ecosystem as it naturally evolved probably is one of the most low-suffering possible ecosystems, assuming that things that can be considered "suffering" evolved as survival mechanisms, and unnecessary mechanisms for suffering would be eliminated over time due to the detriment they are to survival.

Living things develop survival mechanisms, and this means the ability to distinguish good and bad stimuli. Can't get around that.

Even with the existence of predation and parasitism as important modes of survival, such overtly ""antagonistic"" relationships in nature aren't even dominant. A staggering portion of the biosphere is engaged by necessity in mutualism—most plants form mycorrhizal symbioses and flowering plants are also symbiotically joined to pollinators, not to mention that plants need each other to thrive.

You can view this positively (plants have friends!) or negatively (plants can get lonely...)

#random #ecology #life #no suffering without joy and no joy without suffering

[fairuzfan]

Fellow disabled here (chronic joint pain making moving outside my house difficult). I've participated in two protests since october, one in my hometown, the other in our capital, and both times I was so physically broken afterwards I couldn't do much for days. I've wanted to participate in many more protests, but have had to... I dunno, accept my limits. Protests feels like way too little, and the feeling of not being able to go to even those is just devastating. I've tried to share information on the internet, here, on discord, to people I meet. I've donated, but even that I can't do much of because we don't have much money and I have two kids to take care of. The feeling of helplessness and... frustration with my own limits is horrible. I always feel a bit weird writing about these things, because my stakes in this aren't personal and I worry a lot about bringing undue focus on myself when that really doesn't matter. But it's about a sense of justice, love, caring about people I have no personal connection to, and humanity. And I hope this comes across as a sign of solidarity and as a message that people do care.

this is such a great ask to receive, honest. im so so glad you feel such a connection to palestinians — everytime i get messages or comments like this i think "the people in gaza would love to see that people care for them."

the joint pain is real, me too. but i do think, to say something (which you didn't ask for validation but) genuinely, wanting to make a better world and being open to doing things is half of the battle. so many people are resistant to even that. so realize, that even the small ways help mold our future into something new. new ways for us to make the world a better place. our words and our actions are the first step.

thanks for sending this in. i hope we get to meet in a kinder and freer world.

[lauri-rosehearts]

Its been a while since I’ve actually sat down to discuss EAH lore or anything EAH related in general. I got a good amount of promps but right now I wanted to focus on one that was submitted to me by @birdbombs714 regarding my thoughts on Alistair and Lizzie’s relationship

Thank you so much for this idea! And happy birthday! (Edit: Where I live it’s already almost 1am so in my time zone, it’s technically the day after as I’m posting this so I’m a bit late. I’m so Sorry. I meant to post this sooner 😭) Thought I’d dedicate this one to you as a little gift if you will! Hope you enjoy :)

Something I find really interesting regarding Alistair and Lizzie in general is the fact that they’re one of very few “future villain and hero” duos that dont seem to have any sort of tense relationship. On the contrary, all the wonderlandians seem to have been good friends from a very young age. But as the characters destined to be the next Alice and the next Queen of Hearts, its very refreshing seeing these two just being friends with no real hard feelings towards each other. Like it honestly makes me wonder what kind of relationship their moms had.

You know I love going into the parents lore when it can provide an expansion on the children’s lore so lets talk about Alice and the Queen of Hearts real quick, both in the context of EAH and in the Alice in wonderland story. In the context of EAH, I don’t think they were ever super close friends like Alistair and Lizzie, but I do think they had a good deal of respect for each other even before committing to their stories. There never seems to be any implication that Lizzie’s mom hated Alistairs mom, which I actually find quite fitting given their characterization in the original story. What’s interesting about their dynamic in the original Alice in wonderland story is the fact that their dynamic isn’t really influenced by something personal like a good amount of fairytale hero and villain duos (for example: Snow White and the Evil Queen). Instead, it’s influenced by the fact that Alice finds herself in a place where all rules and logic work differently, hence why she runs into so many weird and frustrating misunderstandings with the characters. The Queen of Hearts is a temperamental tyrant whose bad side is very easy to get on given the amount of people she executes for petty reasons. Alice just so happens to especially gets on her bad side for the simple reason that Alice doesn’t know how to navigate the logic of the world shes in, and as a result she accidentally does and says things that go against the logic and customs of wonderland and as a result, especially piss off the Queen.

With that said, lets talk about how this translates over to Lizzie and Alistair. I’ve talked about this in the past, but I wholeheartedly subscribe to the theory that the reason Alistair’s last name is “Wonderland” instead of “Liddel” like Alice in the original story, is because during the Evil Queen’s takeover, Alice probably either disappeared or died (this is also potentially supported by the fact that we see all of the wonderlandians’ parents at some point with the exception of Alice), and so, Alistair was sort of co-parented and raised by all the other wonderlandians parents in Wonderland. And so, they renamed him from “Alistair Liddel” to “Alistair Wonderland” as a sort of tribute to both his mother and the world. We know Alistair canonically grew up in Wonderland unlike his mother, so he’s used to the logic and customs of the place despite the narrative of his story’s legacy saying otherwise. He quite literally grew up around Lizzie and the others and I actually attribute this to Lizzies relationship to her destiny. We know from her bio information that while she wants to follow her destiny, Lizzie wants to be a less villainous, kinder Queen of Hearts than her mom, and even then it’s implied her mom wasn’t actually that bad and became a lot more temperamental as a result of the wonderland curse (hence why I also think in the context of EAH, Alice and the Queen of Hearts didn’t dislike each other that much. ). Because Alistair and her were raised right alongside the other wonderlandians, Lizzie has no reason to dislike Alistair the way the Queen of Hearts does to Alice in the original story. On the contrary, she considers him one of her closest friends. Obviously, she probably has other reasons, but her friendship with Alistair is probably one reason she wants to be more lenient in her future reign.

That analysis aside, I definitely think they’re just friends, nothing romantic. I know some people ship them but I personally prefer Lizzie with Maddie and Kitty over anything. Also this is a 100% on the writers but when compared to Lizzie, Kitty, and Maddie, Alistair and especially Bunny’s characterization suffers pretty greatly, I feel. Mainly because most of their individual screentime is dedicated to their romantic feelings for each other, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing but the way their relationship is portrayed frustrates me so much so I don’t really pay much attention to it. As a result though, it makes shipping Alistair with anyone else in his friend group also really hard, because when compared to someone like Lizzie who has a lot of development, he doesn’t feel as fleshed out, yknow. This isn’t Alistair slander, its just my personal view. When thinking of the 5 wonderlandians as a group, I think of them as a sort of found family more than anything. And as far as romantic shipping goes, I mainly focus on Lizzie, Kitty, and Maddie as a sort of poly relationship. But anything is valid as long as its not illegal, obviously.

I apologize if this feels really unorganized and convoluted but I had a lot of thoughts and I was trying my best to fit them in this post in a way that felt correlated 😭. But anyway, I don’t talk about Lizzie that often even though shes my favorite wonderland and overall right up there in my top 5 favorite characters in Ever After High so this enabled me to talk about her a pretty good bunch ❤️

#ever after high #eah #lizzie hearts #alistair wonderland #eah wonderlandians #eah analysis #eah theory #eah lore

[muthaz-rapapa]

Otona Precure '23: The Sequel We ACTUALLY Deserve

Let's not mince words.

Otona Precure wasn't just fantastic, it puts every reboot or sequel of an established series to shame.

Because yea, it's primarily aimed at an older audience alright but the issues and the themes discussed in the story are relatable and relevant to everyone's interests, regardless of age.

That reality is much harsher than we think it is, more than we can comprehend. That the world will never be perfect like we want it to be.

But also that, because we're on this planet right now at this very moment, we can't just sit around and resign ourselves to not do anything as situations continue to worsen.

Pollution, climate change, toxic society, war.

The show did not shy away from addressing these topics but what's even more notable is it pointing out that people, humans, are the source of them all.

And I appreciate the honesty of that statement because yes, frankly, we are the problem.

People are selfish. We indulge too much in ourselves, our own egos, that we are blinded to the welfare of others. We are also lazy and discriminating and even those who say we'd like things to be better often give up too easily because searching for a solution is too hard and daunting.

Mankind is the shittiest species to walk upon this earth and no one's gonna argue on that.

But does that make everyone inherently bad though?

No, of course not.

We're flawed beings but we're also capable of learning. We're capable of understanding and compassion. There are many among us who do try our best to make this world a kinder and more beautiful place to live in.

But as the finale shows, it cannot only be these few people (like Precure) to do all the hauling and pushing. Everybody has to pitch in. Everybody has to contribute for a better world to be possible.

And that doesn't mean tackling a conflict that's a lot bigger than you can handle. That doesn't mean you have to go at it all alone.

It means that you have to change the way you are, change the way you do things to get the ball rolling. Only by changing yourself first that you can begin to change your surroundings, not the other way around.

It's only through the collective effort of everyone wanting to change for the better that we can protect what we love and create the future that we envision.

Precure is meant to inspire that will to act which is best exemplified in Nozomi. Cure Dream, the Precure of Hope.

Nozomi stands out among the many lead Cures we've had over the years in the quality of leadership she displays as the head of her own team.

She is not the brightest nor sharpest person in any group but damn, does that girl woman never give up.

Not even when she pushes herself to the brink that she falls unconscious from fatigue several times did she ever consider the thought of giving up.

And that's exactly what makes her such a strong and effective leader.

It's not because she's been put into that position so she's only functioning as one.

It's because she inspires everyone around her to become the leaders of their own lives which would then repeatedly bring about the butterfly effect in people beyond their own circle.

Additionally, we must applaud at how well the themes of adulthood and personal struggle have been explored. Look at the girls! Look at how much they've grown, how much they've progressed from the time they were still just middle schoolers dreaming of what they want to be in the future.

(GODDAMNIT, MILK BECAME THE PRIME MINISTER OF HER HOME COUNTRY, I'M STILL NOT OVER THAT AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!)

They've accomplished so much and you can't help but be incredibly proud of how far they've come on their individual journeys.

But now that they're adults, they also realize just how difficult it is to keep the optimism they had when they were kids. Things don't always go the way you want them to. Real life is stressful and exhausting and the accumulation of all those negative feelings of helplessness is enough to send anyone into depression.

As an adult, you're constantly asking yourself "is it really worth it?" because you don't want to betray the hopes you had as a child but sometimes, it's just too hard that all you want to do is give up.

...and that's okay if you need to for a while.

Take a break, go talk to someone you can trust if you feel you've really hit rock bottom.

Find a secure, safe space to cry it all out if you have to.

It's okay to not be okay all the time.

Because that's pretty much what adulthood is.

Being an adult is not about doing everything but knowing you can't do everything and telling yourself that's okay. Because you're already doing everything you can. Your best is good enough.

It's good enough for one person. Nobody's asking you to save the world or become a magical girl to fight off monsters or resolve a major crisis with a miracle answer.

You just need to do your part of the whole in the best way you can. That's all.

And I believe Bell knows that as well.

She knows that just because today's worst was averted, it doesn't mean we're out of the doom radar yet. Because she's right. Humans still can't be trusted as proven by that after-credits scene. There are still plenty of jerks out there who don't give a damn about how much harm they're adding to the world.

But she also knows that as long as there is someone like Precure to do their part, to yell at those jerks to pick up their trash, then maybe, maybe, not all hope is lost just yet.

And so she leaves with the words "I'll be waiting for you in the future", hoping that what the Cures have taught her to believe won't betray her when that time comes.

That said, for us longtime fans of the series, Otona Precure is also a love letter.

A project of appreciation to us for the past 20 years of love and support we've given this franchise.

And I'd say we got what we wanted because before the announcement of this spin-off, I didn't think Toei would ever care to redeem Yes! 5 Precure on how badly it performed during its two seasons run.

Yet here we are and even 100 times better than the original.

They cut out all the fillers which was the primary flaw of those two seasons and focused entirely on the characters. The girls and the expansion of their story arcs. The stuff we actually want to see.

Moreover, the writers did a very great job of showing how everyone has matured. For example, Rin and Karen outgrew their bickering and even the uncalled for vitriol that Kurumi always directed at Nozomi is nowhere to be found.

Seriously! I laughed so hard when Kurumi switched the target of her criticism from Nozomi to Coco. I don't think we've ever seen her this concerned and sympathetic towards Nozomi to the point that she didn't even hesitate to yell at her superior to "cut it with your responsibilities crap and go comfort your lonely girlfriend, you idiot king!"

🤣🤣🤣🤣

Everyone is just incredibly supportive of each other and that's so heartwarming.

I also personally loved how they dealt with Komachi's episode, which introduced a sort of sub-theme of one's love for their hometown.

Komachi has always aspired to become a writer and it would've been fine to go down the route of getting her out of her slump.

But having Komachi put in effort for her community, learn about the history of her town, and becoming determined to defend it after her strengthened appreciation fit with the overarching theme and her personality so much better.

The inclusion of Splash Star into this story was awesome, too.

If I can be honest, I don't think Saki and Mai would've done as well as Otona Precure if they had 12 episodes only to themselves (including Michiru and Kaoru, btw). So by giving them a fair amount of screentime next to the Yes!5 girls, the show just felt more complete with their conclusions.

They're still chasing their respective dreams, had their relationship troubles (and Saki got engaged to her boyfriend/fiance who seems like a very good guy judging by how he's supportive of her going to Luxembourg, ugh so happy for her!) and career doubts but are still as close as ever which allowed them to pull through in the end.

Wonderful.

Finally, let's all agree that no anniversary season is complete unless proper spotlight is given to the dai-senpai Precure, FutariWa.

Maybe that's why 10th anniversary was such a dud?

They didn't get as much screentime as they did during the 15th anniversary (which included two episodes in Hugtto and sharing the main lead role with Hana/Cure Yell in the All Stars movie) but they still made a grand entrance in the penultimate ep of Otona Precure and kicked absolute ass in the finale and that's really all that matters.

So good job, Toei!

And ok, finally finally, NozoCoco officially got 💖MARRIED💖

Romance is not a vital aspect of Precure nor does it ever have to be because focusing on friendship and teamwork is still the most important aspect when it comes to this series...

But only a stupid numbskull would say Coco is unnecessary to Nozomi's happiness because he's the biggest reason she was able to become who she is today. The fact that she even tells him, right after she woke up from her coma, that she needs him to truly be happy is a proof of how irreplaceable he is to her.

She doesn't ask him to be with her because she needs a man. She wants him to marry her because he brings out the best in her. Because he is the one person who can understand her better than anyone else can and the one person whom she wants to share the rest of her life with.

Remember that Nozomi was inspired by Coco. She became Precure, became Cure Dream, because she met him. She aspired to become a teacher because of him. The butterfly effect for her began with him.

For them to overcome all these obstacles to their relationship and promise to be there for one another, through all the good and bad...it's the fulfillment of a dream they both deserve.

And the perfect ending to Yes! 5 Precure.

So congratulations to Yes!5 and Splash Star on an amazing sequel.

Congratulations to Precure for these precious 20 years you've given us.

Here's hoping to more successful years ahead.

See you in the new year!

#my last post of 2023 so going out with a bang #otona precure #yes! 5 precure #splash star precure

[typically-untypical]

The Saint and the Manipulator

AU: Vampires

CW: Biting

WC: 1,962

Date: 12/14/2023

"Look at him Jannie, he just looks cute enough to eat," Patton cooed, watching the man at the bar mixing drinks for other people. His fingers were long, almost spider like and his shirt was wide enough at the neck to show off his warm flesh.

"Patience," Janus hissed, drawing a line from Patton's neck to his chin. For the past few months he had been talking with the bartender, slowly getting him to open up to the ideas of the occult. It hadn't been hard, Virgil was apparently an avid conspiracy theorist and so when Janus started spouting off about Vampires, the bartender had listened with rapt attention. Everything working out in their favor, Janus was enjoying Virgil's company and Virgil seemed excited by the possibility of something so macabre. It had been a long road preparing the human, but everything was going according to plan. Janus had to move one more piece into play, Patton. His husband was a joy and a sweetheart, full of wonder for the world around him. Unfortunately, as a vampire, Patton had a thirst that couldn't be satiated. Unlike most stories, vampires weren't reckless killing machines, at least not all of them. Much like humans, they had the capacity to be evil or kind and though Janus didn't believe such labels were helpful, he did hope others understood, as a human he could be far crueler than he actually was. Patton, on the other hand, was far kinder than most humans Janus met.

"Oh I hope we get his consent, I would love to have him as part of our family."

Patton was probably a big reason why Janus was the way he was. Being such a kind and open hearted man, even as a vampire he wouldn't drink from someone he didn't have permission from. The first time he had drank from Janus he had begged, pleaded in a dark alley. Janus had only been so gracious to shut him up, but when Patton had finished drinking the smile on his face had been captivating. He had complimented Janus' health and given him advice for his future. It had been such a strange encounter that Janus had gone back again and again until they were linked. Vampires could get blood from any random humans, but it wasn't nearly as fulfilling as blood from someone bound to a vampire. If a human agreed, their soul could be intertwined, giving them the life span to stay by the vampire's side while also promising their health to the vampire. This bond was a neigh unbreakable, which meant one couldn't go into it lightly. Janus had given his life to Patton over a century ago, but Patton's hunger continued to grow. This was his way of helping his husband. He had been laying the groundwork to woo the bartender. He would later take on the role of manipulative villain, but he would do anything for Patton's sake.

"Last call, you two," Virgil said, walking over to their table and leaving the bar unattended. It seemed like most of the regulars had already cleared out leaving only a few stragglers behind.

"I think we're good in terms of alcohol, but might we have a conversation once you're off work? Patton and I are curious about a few things." Not a lie, not the truth.

"Oh, so this is the infamous Patton," Virgil held out his hand. "Jay has told me a lot about you, give him a few drinks and he actually can't shut the fuck up about you. I've been curious." 

Patton giggled, covering his mouth to hide his fangs. "You are a sweet talker. He has mentioned you a lot as well. I think he and I are going to have to have a stern talking to because he undersold how pretty you are."

Virgil blushed, heat and blood rising to his face. "Well, that's good to hear. I have to start cleaning the bar, but I'll tell the others you're walking me to my car, that way they should leave you be even after we close."

"Thanks Kiddo." Virgil raised his eyebrow at that but didn't say anything as he started walking away.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Patton grabbed Janus' leg trying to control his obvious giddiness. "He's handsome, and that voice, and that smell." Patton seemed to melt a bit and Janus wrapped his arms around his husband, pulling him close. 

"Yes, I'm aware he's pretty. I figured he was just your type."

Patton giggled, "Why because I like dramatic emos who hide their true feelings with sarcastic quips?"

Janus pretended to look offended as he put his hand to his chest. Patton only laughed, leaning up to kiss Janus' chin. "I love you," he whispered.

Janus would never admit that he melted a bit too, returning Patton's kiss. "You are too saccharine for your own good." He kissed Patton's neck, desperately trying not to be obvious about their love and affection for one another. He didn't need Virgil's coworkers to think they were sketchy, lecherous, or anything of the sort. They needed to be seen as a good couple, and good tippers.

It was less than an hour before Virgil and the others had the place cleaned up and shut down. He started walking toward them and the two got out of their chairs, putting them up on the tables like they had seen the others do. 

"So, what is it you wanted to talk to me about?" Virgil asked, after walking them both out locking the door behind him. "You're not going to proposition me into your harem are you, Jay?" He asked teasingly, causing Janus to roll his eyes. That wasn't what he was planning on doing but he also understood that it almost seemed like that was exactly what he was doing. He was asking Virgil to potentially be a blood donor for Patton for the rest of his life, but all in due time.

"Actually, I wanted to tell you a secret, Pat, darling, would you like to show him your teeth?"

Patton looked to Janus for confirmation before he opened his mouth, allowing his fangs to slide out. Virgil's mouth fell, and he floundered for words. Janus let him process, making sure that he and Patton were at least 5 feet away so Virgil could feel like he could escape. No one could truly escape a vampire, but Patton also wasn't a hunter.

"Alright, so those are either really expensive, or..." He looked at Janus as if hoping to hear that it was all a lie, that Janus was playing a prank. 

"I am fully human, but my husband..." Janus allowed his sentence to taper off, allowing Virgil to fill in the rest. 

"He's a vampire, and you... you knew?"

"That's why I was so knowledgeable about them." Janus pulled Patton into him and as expected, Patton nuzzled his neck gently. "You're not in any danger from him, Patton is very sweet and never drinks from someone unless he has permission. However, it is an experience."

Janus watched as Virgil swallowed, looking over to his car before taking a step forward. "So vampires are real? You aren't just fucking with me? You do seem to like to do that." Virgil countered and Janus nodded.

"An unfortunate trait of mine, but I'm sure Patton would be happy to demonstrate as long as you don't mind watching. It can get a bit... intense." There was a bout of silence, the three of them standing there waiting for Virgil to make a move. Finally he nodded.

"Yeah, yeah, okay. I need to see this to believe it."

"Are you sure kiddo? You don't have to believe if you want. You could pretend it was a bad dream and go on with your life."

At Patton's suggestion, Virgil shook his head furiously, something Janus also expected. Virgil had anxiety and though he managed it well while he was bartending a discovery like this would haunt him for the rest of his life if he didn't verify it was fake. Then again, finding out it was real would most likely shake him to his core. He would come to them more often for comfort and Janus and Patton would both be waiting with open arms; Patton because he was kind, and Janus because he knew it would be a way to get Virgil to trust them. No other reason.

"Alright, if you're sure." Janus felt Patton shift, hands gently wrapping around his face was Patton looked at him. "May I?" He asked in the sweetest voice. He always started this the same way and it felt like a ritual at this point. 

"Always," Janus whispered in response, getting to see Patton's soft shy smile before his head was tilted to the side. Patton didn't just sink his teeth in. He kissed at Janus' neck, sucked a small bruise on the crook to bring the blood to the surface. Then he bit down. It was a brief moment of pain followed by a flood of endorphins. He felt like he was floating, like the whole world disappeared beneath his feet. Janus reached out for Patton, clinging to his arms, fighting the sounds that desperately bubbled from his chest. He was partially aware that Virgil was still here, was still watching them and that was not the thing to think about right now. He moaned out the bartender’s name softly before Patton pulled back, kissing his neck and sealing the wound. He left only a hickey behind. 

Vaguely, he could hear Patton speaking and Virgil was saying something as well. This had been the risk of going this route, letting the two of them talk alone. However, if Patton and Virgil were going to fall in love they needed to actually like each other. He was being swept off his feet, cradled in the strong arms of his husband. 

"Let me walk you to your car. If you're okay with it, we can talk more tomorrow?" Patton was doing great. He had managed to get them an invite back. Virgil wasn't running away. Janus knew he probably needed to stay awake, to do everything he could to manage the situation, but his head felt heavy. Patton's venom was still coursing through his system, desperately pulling him into a relaxed state. Elevated heart rates meant more blood, but it also meant a higher chance of someone dying and though there were enough humans now that culling the population wouldn't have a dramatic effect, that hadn't always been the case. 

Janus had done the research, Janus knew what was needed to keep Patton safe, to keep him healthy. Janus knew why things were happening, but he couldn't access it all his brain was too fuzzy. 

"This hit you hard didn't it?" Patton whispered, "Seems like you enjoyed someone else watching you feed me." He sounded more lucid and Janus felt himself falling closer and closer to sleep. "I do really like Virgil, but I think maybe you like him a bit too." Janus felt a slight kiss on his forehead and the warmth of a blanket being pulled over him. "At least I hope you do. You deserve to have a life's companion as much as I do. I'd love to build a little commune where you could have more friends, more family." Patton pushed his hair away from his face before laying down next to Janus. 

"Rest, it's okay, honey. I can take over from here. You've done such a good job but it's my turn to care for you."

Janus finally relaxed, allowing sleep to take over. This was why he loved his husband. He was too kind for his own good.

@tsspromptmonth

#TSS Rare Gifts Month 2023 #Untypical Creations #Sanders Sides #Sanders Side fic #Fanfic #Patton Sanders #Virgil Sanders #Janus Sanders #moceit #future anamoceit #Fictional Biting

[shadowkat678]

Hopepunk: A Thing Of Teeth And Claws

Hope is a thing with feathers, says a famous poem by Emily Dickinson.

But what happens to that small thing of feathers once it's caught? When the horror around it crashes down, and the song is drowned out in pain and anger and apathy at a world that doesn’t seem to be capable of, and doesn’t want, to change?

I’m tired. I’m angry. I'm afraid. I don’t remember the last time those things weren’t true about me. I don’t have control over what is happening to the world, or to the people I care about. I don’t know if I have a future.

I’m tired.

I know it isn’t just me. I’ve seen it. I’ve been in activism spaces for years now, where that same anger is everywhere. The push to want to do something. To enact some sort of meaningful change in a world that seems hellbent on turning people into nothing but variables and numbers towards goals we are not calculated into otherwise. Where those with the best of intentions burn themselves out in their rage because they feel like there’s nothing else left to be driven by. I feel it in me. It’s not unjustified. But it is exhausting.

Once you’ve gone long enough shoveling coal on the fire you’ll run out, and you can’t burn ashes. Something is close to giving.

I’m tired.

Even more than being tired at the state of the world, I’m tired of what it does to me. I’m tired of my inability to have these feelings result in something good. I’m tired of not being able to have control over my life. I’m tired of seeing the people around me being crushed under circumstances far above our ability to affect. I’m not just tired. I’m exhausted.

But Hopepunk. This term came out a few years ago, coined by Alexandria Rowland. They're the author of the Taste of Gold and Iron series, as well as the duology A Conspiracy of Truths and A Choir of Lies, among others. In 2017, they coined the term Hopepunk, positing it as the opposite of Grimdark. In the post original post on the subject Alexandra says,

“Hopepunk says that kindness and softness doesn’t equal weakness, and that in this world of brutal cynicism and nihilism, being kind is a political act. An act of rebellion. Hopepunk says that genuinely and sincerely caring about something, anything, requires bravery and strength. Hopepunk isn’t ever about submission or acceptance: It’s about standing up and fighting for what you believe in. It’s about standing up for other people. It’s about DEMANDING a better, kinder world.”

The ideology of Hopepunk was based on the time of the article’s current political landscape. Protests, civil unrest, and feelings of anger that were (still are, I’d argue) spreading like wildfire. And in a small circle, this caught on. There wasn’t much to go off of, and the ideas that spread from this post didn’t have a uniformity to it as much as other Punk genres of political and literary analysis. There were, and are, a lot of critics believing the term to be yet another line of fluffy optimism and half empty words.

A year later, Alexandria would publish an article on the subject, expanded upon additional reflection, called One Atom of Justice, One Molecule of Mercy, and the Empire of Unsheathed Knives on the blog Optimistic Indie Roleplaying. This is when I first heard of Hopepunk.

Alexandria writes in their opening:

“In July of 2017, I coined the word “Hopepunk,” initially defined very simply in a Tumblr post. I believe the purpose of this article’s commission was to have me write something uplifting. I don’t know if I can. I think it would be (I’m afraid it would be) nice. (…) Nice is an illusion, and so is the suddenness of realizing the lie.”

Alexandria goes on:

“I’m afraid. I’m losing my story, my belief in an atom of justice. I watch it happen, a little more every day, unraveling from my hands—and I’m a professional storyteller. (…) I’m afraid of who I’ll be when the last threads slip out of my fingers. I’m afraid of settling into complacency, of something in me breaking, of retreating into niceness as the last-ditch sanctuary before complete despair.

“Hopepunk says [about human nature], ‘The glass is half full,’” wrote the me who lived in mid-2017. Seems naïve now, doesn’t it? Those are the words of a person cloaked in a story that hasn’t yet been worn threadbare and ragged; a person who thinks they have a sword in their hands, a person who thinks that they as an individual can make a difference, that there is some fundamental goodness in humanity.

What do we do when our hands are empty, when our warm cloaks are gone, when we look around and see how big the world is? When we see how helpless and insignificant we are, how the rest of the world isn’t even particularly cruel or evil, just . . . mediocre? Complacent?

What’s the point?”

And as I read this now, years later in 2023, I feel this sentiment burrowing deeper inside me than ever before. This is what I see in myself. In the people around me. In the world, spinning away into what seems to be never ending disasters and war and pain.

What's the point?

It seems that day by day the hole is dug deeper. The world feels as if it’s ending. But then again, to someone, somewhere, the world has always felt as if it was on the verge of ending, hasn’t it?

I also am a storyteller. I have always believed there is power in it. In how you can create something that becomes real around you. That reflects our own reality in new ways. Things that connect us. Empower us. That’s what art is for me. That’s what it always has been, when the night is long and I need something, anything, to grab onto.

Like Alexandria, I feel my grip on the story around me slipping. The threads are frayed. And I am so tired.

I feel like a child pretending. Hoping that this will make things feel less terrifying when the lights go out and I’m alone in the dark and the day is so impossibly far away. I’m afraid. I'm terrified.

I’m not a hero, and I don’t know if I have the tools to fight monsters like this. These are not problems that can be solved with spells or swords or pretty words. The world around me is burning.

I’m burning.

So, what do we do when we find ourselves here? When hope, the thing of wings and feathers, has been shot down in front of us? When softness is not enough? When nice is just platitudes? What can I do when the world and its problems are so big and I’m so small?

“What is the point?” Alexandra asks. “How do you do it? How do you manage when the task before you is enormous and impossible? (…) How do you go on?”

Hopepunk isn’t just about the Hope part of the word. What is Punk? Not just the music. The ideology. The movement. The message? We all have a thought about what Hope is. What defines Punk?

I listen to the music, and have for a while. I have a lot of friends who are punks. I’d like to think I’m a bit of a punk myself, though I haven’t had the energy or means of connecting with the scene in person. There’s a variety to it. Subgenres of music. Differences in ideas. But let me tell you one thing I’ve noticed about all punks:

They’re goddamn stubborn bastards. And at least for the vast majority, they’re passionate goddamn stubborn bastards.

I’ve been interested in the punk movement for years. Two of my favorite books on the subject of the punk movement are “Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk” by Legs McNeil and Gillian McCain, and “Punk Rock, An Oral History” by John Robb.

There’s a long running joke in punk circles about a young punk asking an older punk that very question of what punk is. The older punk smiles, strides up to a trash can, and kicks it over before turning around, pointing, and saying “That’s punk”.

The younger punk thinks on this, then sees another trash can before going over and copying the move, turning around after punting the second can and asking, “That’s punk?”

Before the older punk shakes his head and replies, “No! You poser!”

Point of the story? What is punk? Fuck if I or anyone else actually knows! It’s not about following directions, or going down a checklist. Certainly not just copying everyone else before you. But you know it when you feel it.

Recently, Punk has been idealized a lot. People forget that Punk isn’t just about insolent people lashing out against authority and sticking it to the man. It isn’t just about individualism and loud songs.

Despite not knowing exactly WHAT punk is, never having one clear cut uniform answer, we can see it when it's in front of us. There’s a sound to it. A spirit. A vibe. And there are commonalities that run as a throughline.

In the intro to Punk Rock, and Oral History, Henry Rowlins was invited to share some of his thoughts in the volume. He says,

“Everyone had their own version of punk. Everyone decided what punk was for them. There were endless arguments about what we were fighting for, what we should be wearing (…), what we should listen to and how we were going to change the world.

Punk terrified the establishment. Punk made me get onstage and make music. Punk made me change my world. Punk…punk saved my life.”

Punk has long been considered one of the more nihilistic musical genres, having a thriving subsect of Political Punk dedicated to pointing out and raging at the wrongs of the world the artists see around them. Punk is angry. Punk is passionate. Punk is loud, and messy, and sometimes even ugly, and moreover, there’s room for all of it.

But its stereotypical image perhaps isn't one most people would default to when thinking about the mainstream idea of Hope. Hope is supposed to be something soft, isn't it?

Back to the article, Alexandria gives their answer to what they think the point is, and it is one that feels much more connected to the punk part of Hopepunk.

“Sheer, simple, bloody-minded obstinacy. That’s how you count the stars, build the Library of Alexandria, and go to the North Pole. That’s how you hold the story even when it’s unraveling in your hands. You grit your teeth, and bear the pain, and keep going: One star at a time, one brick at a time, one step at a time.

You can do a lot when you decide to be a stubborn motherfucker who refuses to die.(…) Ask it of Hopepunk, then: “What’s the point?”

And the answer is, of course, that the fight itself is the point.

I am not just tired. I am afraid. I am angry. I am furious. The idea of rage is generally thought of as very punk.

But Hope. Let’s go back to hope. Where does hope come in, that fragile thing made of feathers and song? I am not soft. Not really. I feel myself shattering, jagged edges that will cut me if I let them. That will cut others. Even those I want to help. Even those who don’t deserve it. That the anger will bleed out and burn everything around me. How does that fit with hope?

I believe in stories. That we can learn from them. Moreover, in the end, I believe that everything is a story. History is a story. People are stories. The future is a story we simply haven’t seen the ending to yet, and so can still shape the path of. And like stories, all these elements tie together. Stings whose threads make up a tapestry.

I’ve been thinking a lot about stories lately. About certain ones that have heavily impacted my own. About ones I’ve made, either by myself or with others, both real and imaginary. In Alexandria’s first post, they mentioned a certain scene from the Two Towers.

As Frodo falls to his lowest point, burdened by the influence of the One Ring, not knowing if his other friends are even still alive, carrying a burden bigger than any one person should ever have to shoulder, Sam gives his speech.

Sam: “It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn’t want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened?

But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why.

But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn’t. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something.”

And as he says this, Frodo asks what I find myself asking. What many people ask, I think. What are we holding onto? And the answer: “That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo… and it’s worth fighting for.”

In my anger, in this darkness around us, it can be hard to see anything else. But that has not been all my story is. That said, anger is important. Anger, placed properly, and aimed towards a purpose, can be righteous. It can be a driving motivation towards change. It glows in you...but it can’t be all I have. A fire on its own will eventually burn itself out. What is anger without something the anger is driving you to do in a real, meaningful, way?

“It’s about being kind merely for the sake of kindness, and because you have the means to be, and giving a fuck because the world is (somehow, mysteriously, against all evidence) worth it and we don’t have anywhere else to go anyway.

It’s about digging in your heels and believing that one single atom of justice, one molecule of mercy does exist somewhere in the mindboggling vastness of the universe—believing in that, even if for no other reason than fuck you, buddy; fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. I do what I want and this, this is what I want; this is the world I want to live in:

One where the atom of justice exists, even if I’ve never seen it myself, even if I’ll never see it.

It’s about doing the one little thing you can do, even if it’s useless: planting seeds in the midst of the apocalypse, spitting on a wildfire, bailing out the ocean with a bucket. Individual action is almost always pointless.

Hope and strength comes from our bonds with each other, from the actions we take as a community, holding hands in the dark.

What if hope isn’t just a thing of feathers and wings and song? What if punk isn’t just about anger and insolence and lashing out against the world around you? What if the world, people, and stories aren’t so simple?

I can’t answer what Hope is, what Punk is, or what Hopepunk is as an idea binding these two words together to anyone but me. I do know what my story has been. And I know the stories I’ve been told. The stories I’ve witnessed. The stories I’ve touched.

I’m tired. I’m angry. I can’t not be anymore. I don’t think it’s possible. It’s part of me. Perhaps something even greater would be wrong if they weren’t.

But I also remember the people who’ve come into my life in ways that seem so small in comparison, yet somehow, inexplicably, still changed me to the point I continue to think about them years later. The woman who approached me, sitting outside and crying after being almost fired from my first job and, with no possibility of reconciliation, bought me a sandwich and sat with me while I waited to be picked up. Friends that stayed with me during some of the worst times of my life. Strangers that turned into those friends.

In spite of it all, I’ve also seen so much love.

I have always hated false dichotomies. These truths can coexist, and like the tapestry of stories, wind together into something bigger. The softness of hope does not feel like it can survive the type of anger and force and sometimes nihilism of punk. The good in the world feels like it should be shattered under the darkness.

Maybe it all morphs into something new.

Maybe hope becomes a thing of teeth and claws, bared in defense of life’s small everyday acts of love. Friendship. Community. Of myself, and proof that the world is brighter than my own frustration makes it feel. Of all the things that exist in contrast that make these very injustices sting so very much.

Maybe it doesn’t have to be fragile. Maybe hope can be bloody and messy and stubborn and defiant, even in the face of my fear and exhaustion and pain. Maybe it can make something more balanced. Something stronger, as all these contrasting elements come together and inform each other with new perspectives.

Maybe it can be what saves me.

Near the end of the article, Alexandria says this:

Hopepunk isn’t pristine and spotless. Hopepunk is grubby, because that’s what happens when you fight. It’s hard. It’s filthy, sweaty, backbreaking work that never ends. It isn’t pretty, and it isn’t noble, and it isn’t nice, though I expect the natural inclination (and even my own instinctive inclination) is to make it so—to forget the word “radical” in the phrase “radical kindness,” to forget the “punk” part of “hopepunk,” which is really the operative half of the word. To forget the anger of it and let it soften, because softness is what we’re aching for. We want the world to be better—kinder, more just, more merciful. We still yearn toward noblebright, toward an honest and desperate belief that love conquers all.

But we forget, sometimes, that we have knives too in this empire. That we can unsheathe them, that we can turn our blades to the defense of an atom of justice and a molecule of mercy that might not even exist—except . . . except for where we make them exist, in the hands we hold out to each other, and in the shelter we offer even when we ourselves are exhausted, footsore, and filthy, with the wolves at our doors.

Maybe this doesn’t even have to be big acts. It’s something I’ve grappled with often. The feeling that where I am now is not enough. That what I do cannot change the course of the tale I find myself part of. That I can only be a passive observer as things happen around and to me. That I am so helplessly unable to make any meaningful difference in my own story.

And I want to, so desperately. But maybe those first steps can lead to more. The shelter and small words said earnestly in a time of need is just as much a part of this as life altering choices I want to be able to wield.

I've always dreamed of enacting change. Of being someone who could somehow inspire another person the way the stories of others had inspired and saved me. The books I clutched in my hands when the world was too big, and I was far too small. But it's good to remember that even the imposing might of mountains eventually wears under the passing of water.

I still feel like that child more often than not, and that everything I do in spite of it is just a mask dangerously close to slipping. But just as much as those stories, everyday people did the same in touching me, and shaping me. The right word spoken after tragedy. Encouragement from those who bothered to pay attention to things I did not speak aloud.

Maybe I should also reconsider the worth of myself in being the hand that stretches out to other people. Maybe that kindness is just as much a part of this as my anger and fear.

I’m tired of being only angry. Of being only sharp edges and fire and fear and burning myself to ashes in a way that harms none of the people doing this to us. I’m tired of missing the joy while I can have it based on the actions of a few hollow, spiteful, greedy, and selfish bastards that only care about themselves, damn the rest.

So, I will be a thing of teeth and claws when needed. And I will grow fur to keep those close to me warm. Because despite my anger, and fear, and exhaustion, the world is still, somehow, worth it. People are worth it. I am worth it. My story can impact others, and the story of humanity is not yet fully penned.

I have to believe that. If it is not so, then I have to make it so, even out of pure, stubborn, spiteful obstinance. That people are not evil at base, because I am not, and I am not special in the grand scheme of things.

I am just a person. We are all just people, grasping for things to drive and carry us day to day. And people are both kind and horrible. Messy tapestries of different things tying us together into something unique and terrifying and amazing and horrible and full of wonder and joy and anger and fear and beauty.

All of us, each and every one, desperately trying to keep hold of our stories before someone else twists them out of our hands.

Another common example of Hopepunk is a scene in Terry Pratchett's "The Hogfather", spoken by Death. A scene Alexandria discusses and also references in the name of their own original article. Here, Death explains that humanity must first learn to believe the small lies, such as Hogfathers and tooth fairies, so eventually they can come to believe the big ones.

Justice. Mercy. Duty.

Hope.

As is true of many concepts in Diskworld, when asked by the character Susan "Well we have to believe in that, or else what is the point?", Death answers back, "My point exactly. You need to believe in things that are not true. How else can they become?"

My kindness will be worth it, because it made me and those around me a little happier. Even if it hurts me in the end. I am not naive to the world around me. I am angry. I am tired. I am scared. I am just one person. And maybe in the end it's how Alexandria says:

There are no heroes and no villains. There are just people. That’s Hopepunk: Whether the glass is half full or half empty, what matters is that there’s water in that glass. And that’s something worth defending.

Stand with each other, and never let the person beside you forget that to move forward we need something to hold onto, whether knife or outstretched hand. There is still good in this world. Even if we have to fight to create it ourselves with every step we take.

No story is over until the final word has been penned…and even with all the horrors and uncertainty of the journey, we don’t have to travel through ours alone.

#hopepunk #essay

[lizzieraindrops]

idk if I've sent this before, but I just want to say there have been multiple moments playing through Lightfall & Defiance with my boyfriend where I've just say "Destiny is a story about shapes and grief" because HOLY SHIT IT'S SO TRUE.

DESTINY IS A STORY ABOUT SHAPES AND GRIEF!!

thank you anon, i'm delighted to hear it.

literally though. this is my thesis statement on destiny. it's literally All about grief told through a metaphor of shapes. dig deep enough into any storyline and you'll find that it's about the shape someone's grief takes - the shape of grief, if you will.

literally every character is experiencing a kind of grief, and their stories are about how it shapes them and what shapes they let it take.

sometimes those shapes are horrific - see Eramis, the Hive Gods, making choices that increase the suffering in the universe. other times the resulting shapes are kinder, choices made out of grief to alleviate that same suffering in others - see Zavala, Eris, Caiatl, Misraaks. some struggle to move through their grief, resisting letting it take form at all - see Ikora, Nimbus, Osiris - though Osiris is working on it, nowadays. some are destroyed by their grief, like Uldren. some struggle to balance the pain and grief of the past with the potential pain and grief of the future, like Elsie and Mara.

i really like the way destiny's overarching narrative frames your choice of how to respond to your grief as the most important thing. anyone can have terrible things happen to them, and we inevitably do. but the action you choose to take in response, whether or not it accomplishes what you hope, is the only thing we truly have control over. therefore it is the most powerful way you can shape the world. maybe it's corny, but i think that's deeply inspiring. nothing wrong with a good bit of corn if you mean it. and destiny most certainly, earnestly does and i respect that so much lmao

#shapes and grief #destiny 2 #destiny the game #lizzie taking up space #lizzie's replies #destinewt #tgtgtgtg #ikora hasn't processed a single emotion since like. a century ago. or at least since splicer lfjsld;asdkfj #i am once again ASKING. FOR BUNGIE TO LET IKORA'S EMOTIONS MATTER. #tag chatter

[aenor-llelo]

Hi there! Just wanted say, Orphan’s Path has been a major source of encouragement and wonder to me ever since I discovered it, and it has shaped the entire way I look at storytelling. I’ve been an author for over a decade and spent most of that time assuming fanfic was a waste of time. ORP was the work that really convinced me I was wrong about that. I never expected a fanfiction to be so foundational to how I write relationships, but here we are. So, thank you! Thank you for taking the time and effort to put such a testament to goodness and honor and love into the world. Thank you for taking your work so seriously, for using your awareness of the genre and the fourth-wall breaks to give it more weight and meaning, rather than less. Thank you for writing about kindness and empathy in the face of suffering. I wish you the best, and I pray you will find joy and excitement in the work you do in the future :)

i'm glad! i hope to keep writing kinder stories for a very long time.

#orp meta #aenor-llelo

[even-disco-baby]

BLOATED CORPSE OF A DRUNK — “Have you solved the case yet? Do you know who killed me?” Every word reeks of decomposition.

“It was the drink.”

“It was the job.”

“It was this city.”

“It was the leaver.”

“It was failure.”

“It was the whole world.”

BLOATED CORPSE OF A DRUNK — He laughs. It’s a terrible sound, like the final groan of air escaping dead lungs. “The world has failed us all, brother. And we are all the world. Killing each other… and ourselves.” His bulging eyes peer at you. “You know the truth, Harry. So tell me why. *Why did you do it?* Why did you try to erase me from your own mind?”

“Because I hate you.”

“Because everyone hates you.”

“Because I can’t live with you.”

“Because you can’t live with anyone.”

“I didn’t kill you! I *saved* you! This is what it took to survive!”

BLOATED CORPSE OF A DRUNK — “Is it really?” Somehow, what’s left of his face looks sad. “You know, brother, I don’t think you’re wrong. That’s the hardest part.”

EMPATHY — You made the only choice you could live with that day. He knows that. But he wishes that *he* had never become something that you had to kill to survive.

LIMBIC SYSTEM — Do you understand now? The consequence of leaving the warm dark? You have killed the animal you used to be, but you will never be truly rid of him. You are his living tomb. Is that what you want?

YOU — “What choice do I have?”

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN — Oblivion, baby. You’ve got lots of choices, actually. Doesn’t have to be the *big one.* You could go about it like that boy’s father, just check out of all your responsibilities. Get so high you can’t even hear the arrears knocking at your door.

ENDURANCE — Your body is already balanced on a knife’s edge. It probably wouldn’t take much to induce a coma like Cuno’s dad.

LIMBIC SYSTEM — It would be a kinder way to live out what little time you have left. Nothing to fear anymore. No future to dread. Just… sleep.

VOLITION — No future at all. Is that what you want? No more songs to sing, or drinks to share, or spaces to build. No helium lights or whistled harmonies. No stories. Just you, alone in the dark. The end.

“It’s easier to be alone. I can’t bear to disappoint people anymore.”

“Then let it end. I’m tired.”

“No one wants to *do* any of those things with me, anyway.”

“I want a future! But why is it so fucking hard to stay alive to see it?”

BLOATED CORPSE OF A DRUNK — “There’s no reason, brother. That’s the saddest thing. We are the world. We could make it easy.”

RHETORIC — But it’s the people who struggle the most to survive who are trying the hardest to make it easy for each other. And it is the people for whom it is already easy who make it hardest on others. And so nothing ever changes.

BLOATED CORPSE OF A DRUNK — “It was hard for me, too. But I never tried to make life easier for anyone but myself. And now here you are, knee deep in the shit I left behind. *Our* shit. Funny how that works.”

EMPATHY — He’s sorry. He would take everything back if he could, just to spare you.

INLAND EMPIRE — He can’t. No one can.

YOU — “…I’m sorry I killed you.”

BLOATED CORPSE OF A DRUNK — “I was already a dead man, Harry. You can’t be what I was and live in the world. You hear me? You can’t be what I was anymore.”

EMPATHY — No more cruelty, he begs you. No more selfishness. No more letting the world burn in hopes that you’ll go up in flames with it.

“Don’t worry. I’d sooner die than ever let you come back to life.”

“I can’t make promises like that. I barely even know who *I* am, yet. Maybe I’m even worse than you.”

“I’ll be better. I swear.”

[Reach out and touch the dead man.]

BLOATED CORPSE OF A DRUNK — The swollen eyes close as you reach up to touch his arm. You cannot reach high enough to stroke his hair like you did for the hanged man, but this is already more kindness than he ever expected from you.

EMPATHY — He knows that you will never forgive him. Nor will many people. But that you feel any tenderness at all toward him makes his face morph into something less rotten. More human.

YOU — “There, there, dead man… You were someone’s child… It’s all over now.”

INLAND EMPIRE — It’s not over for you. It never seems to be over. You will keep making corpses and tombs of yourself over and over again until the day you die.

VOLITION — So do we all. That is the price of change. But tombs are monuments of love. They are not such terrible things to be.

#disco elysium #harry du bois #suicide tw #hanging tw #thinking abt. recovery. and how sometimes it’s outside forces that kill the person u were and make you into a tomb #and sometimes you have to do it to yourself. you have to be better but you also have to carry who you were #anyway sorry for this one being darker jdgsdjhx

[runnerzero]

Zombies Run Secret Santa Update

Hello friends, comrades, and other fandom folks!

I usually keep my private life off this platform, but I don't want to leave this behind without closure. I'm not running the ZR Secret Santa this year, and it's not exactly by choice.

Earlier this year, I was arrested in Georgia for distributing flyers related to the Stop Cop City movement and the killing of environmental activist Tortuguita. I was charged with felony intimidation and held without bail for weeks. Then, I was hit with a RICO indictment, which sweeps all forms of protest, from distributing flyers to minor acts of civil disobedience, under Georgia’s anti-racketeering law.

I was forced back to jail on the RICO charges, reliving the trauma of my unlawful imprisonment. Now that I'm out, it's time to prepare for a trial. With all of my charges combined, I'm facing more than 50 years in prison — all for flyering.

To learn more about my situation, as well as the charges myself and my 60 co-defendants are facing, here are a few resources:

I started this blog almost nine years ago. Being involved in fandom shaped my early adulthood, and I will never forget that. I might not be a ZR obsessed teenager anymore, but I still have so much love for the space and community we built.

With everything going on, I'm taking a step back from organizing the Secret Santa. I'll try my best to participate, but I can't make any promises. It's going to be a long and exhausting legal battle, which will likely play out over the next 2-3 years.

I may or may not delete this account, but either way, there's a good chance I won't be back. My world has been completely overturned, and nothing will ever be the same. It might be time to leave my old life behind.

Whatever happens, know that I love you all. Even the mutuals who haven't posted about ZR in years — I appreciate you and I'll miss you. My lovely friends are taking over the Secret Santa and I hope more people will step up to keep this tradition going.

I hope that one day this world becomes kinder and more forgiving. Until then, all I can do is try to fight for our future.

Thank you and goodbye for now! <3

#zombies run #zr #zombies run secret santa #zr secret santa

[dreamersbcll]

“Samantha” - a part two to this post.

for my @dxcinhx

——————————————————————

Tara often found herself walking the streets at night ever since Sam left.

She found that the Woodsboro streets were kinder to her once dusk hit. No pitying looks, no snide comments about the sister left behind. It was just her and the pavement, and the trees swaying above her. It was peaceful, and she would walk the streets up and down, listening to the sound of her own voice in her head.

If she listened closely around her, she could hear the fall leaves whispering to her as they fell. They asked her questions about her future, her present, and her past. They wondered if Tara knew what she was doing and if she was prepared for the rest of her life.

Her answers never changed. She had no idea what the future held or if she was prepared for it. Tara used to be a conscientious person. Ever since her big sister disappeared, she stopped holding back. She took every risk she could- from skipping class to touching boiling water. The sting of pain ached, but it didn’t hurt as much as the pain in her empty heart.

Sometimes she would talk to the trees. She asked them questions as if they were a magic eight ball. But they never answered back. It was as if her sorrow was too much for their mighty trunks to handle. But she was okay with that. She kept talking out loud, letting the window take her words with them on their journey home.

Sam left four years ago—four years since Tara had the person who balanced her equilibrium.

At the beginning of her grief, Tara didn’t think she would survive. She was sure that she wouldn’t. She had two inpatient stays for attempted suicide, a psychiatric evaluation, and an official diagnosis of PTSD under her belt. There was a period where she was forced to sleep in Mindy’s bed, as the twins were afraid that if they went to bed, they would wake up in a world without Tara.

But she survived. Tara misses the morgue by the skin of her teeth, her hands still stained red with her own blood and a forever frown etched into her face. That doesn’t mean everything was okay and that she was all put back together; it just meant that Tara could live day after day knowing that she was alone in this world. It didn’t make it okay, but it was tolerable. Her psychiatrist told her that “okay” was what they aimed for.

It was the one thing that she was acing.

She didn’t try to kill herself anymore, but she didn’t mind the pain that she chased. Boiling water felt good on her skin, and a cigarette burned her, or there kept her breathing straight.

And the midnight walks she took kept her alive as well.

Each night she wondered what Sam was doing. Does her big sister have a job? Is she partying, or is she working her life away? Is Sam still trying to grow her hair out? Does she still own those blue Converse chucks?

Tara never gets an answer. But she still asks. Especially when she gets to the park they used to visit, she likes to sit on the swings and let herself push back and forth, whispering into the wind.

Do you still remember when we played at this park? Does Sam still know that Tara visits this park? Would Sam ever join her again?

Does Sam know that if she returned, Tara would accept her with open arms and a warm heart?

There’s never an answer. But she asks anyway. She hopes that the wind will carry her words to Sam and let her sister know that she’s allowed to come home.

Even if Sam didn’t love her the same or think about her anymore, she was still wanted. It was never too late to come back to Tara’s side. Sam was still needed, and she was always allowed to go home.

Tara kept walking up and down those streets, empty heart and full mind.

——

A year later, Tara was in a hospital bed instead of the midnight Woodsboro streets.

She was aching in pain, but she still felt empty. All her friends were around her, and she still felt undeniably alone.

But then the door blew open, and it was as if the wind carried back all her unanswered conversations. Sam stepped through the door, and Tara could practically feel her heart mend back together.

Despite the pain in her leg, and the fact that she felt like a baby, Tara bawled.

All the words she had cried and wished for all came true.

Sam had came back to her.

#scream #sam carpenter #tara carpenter #carpenter sisters #based on dorothea thanks ts #thank u g i love u #somber ! #ao3 author #my writing tag #AU: protect my heart

[princesscatherinemiddleton]

William and I are absolutely delighted to be with you in Birmingham, on World Mental Health Day, for our Royal Foundation Youth Forum. Mental health is something we both care deeply about. Back in 2016, we launched Heads Together, a campaign supported by so many wonderful partners, that helped break the stigma around mental health, and encouraged more people to have everyday conversations about it. Alongside the efforts of many others, we have seen real change. Today, more people feel empowered to talk about their mental health than ever before. This is a major step forward. William and I continue to be inspired to see young people, like you all here today, leading this charge - being particularly brave in having some of those conversations yourselves. As a generation, you value and talk more about your mental health than any before you - something we truly admire and applaud. It is important, however, to remind ourselves of the big picture as we meet here today. What are we trying to improve by focusing our efforts on mental health? Ultimately, we are working to build a happier, healthier world. We want to shape fairer, safer, kinder, more equal societies - societies that seek the common good and a better future together. For just as we need to restore, protect and invest in our planet, so we must also restore, protect and invest in the communities, relationships and people living on it. We believe that starts with you, our young people, but it also means all of us. Because when you think about it, we can each shape the world in which we live. So, we know, like you, that simply talking about mental health is just not enough. Because although many more conversations are now taking place, it is now vital we spend more time focusing on how we talk about our mental health - and crucially; What are we going to do, to build positive, preventative solutions to one of today's toughest challenges. Positive mental health is shaped by our ability to understand and manage ourselves as individuals, and to connect with others through our relationships, friendships, families and communities. We are living in a world, however, that is changing so fast, where social media and concerns about the threat of conflict, pandemics, climate change or the cost of living, can impact our emotional wellbeing and future hopes dramatically. On top of this, as young people, this can also be a time in your lives, when you perhaps feel the vulnerability of growing independence and self-consciousness. But, by gaining deeper insight into ourselves, we'll be better equipped, to handle the external challenges we all encounter. Today we heard the science and research that backs this up, and how crucial it is, that we develop the skills needed to navigate everything we will face in the future. William and I believe we need to do all we can as a society to help young people develop the emotional and social life skills they need for good mental health, and to thrive in the world around them. Both learning about the world and learning about how to be happy and thrive within it, should go hand-in-hand. So, if we talk about mental health with this in mind, it need not have so many negative connotations. We can choose to see our emotional worlds and mental wellbeing in a different light, we can normalise it and recognise it as something we all have, and require, as human beings. This will be a key focus for us both as we build on Heads Together. Thank you all so much for joining us today. Together, let's build a brighter, more resilient future.

The Princess of Wales | World Mental Health Day 2023

#mine #royaltyedit #kate #quotes #speech #wmhd23

[crate-of-edges]

Let's get a little bit silly shall we?

Sonne by Rammstein but it's about Germa's four princes. Jesus I feel like Vito, except I am a lot worse

I especially see a lot of Ichiji in there as he would be the leader and his powers match lyrics the best.

Obviously it would take place in 'Sanji is as fucked as his brothers' AU or 'he just never left but earned his place as the third son despite his emotional condition' AU because without him it would not be complete.

Alle warten auf das Licht Fürchtet euch, fürchtet euch nicht Die Sonne scheint mir aus den Augen Sie wird heut Nacht nicht untergeh'n Und die Welt zählt laut bis zehn

We are on some kind of battlefield. It's dark. It's messy. War. Dust is flying everywhere making it difficult to see clearly a couple of meters ahead. Two sides of the conflict are holding their breath.

Something is coming. One side is terrified, the other - hopeful.

Two small points of red light come through the fog. Then electricity cracks in the distance.

Suddenly a strong gust of wind picks up. All the debree flies back and reveals four princes in their raid suits that jump straight into attack.

Eins, hier kommt die Sonne Zwei, hier kommt die Sonne Drei, sie ist der hellste Stern von allen Vier, hier kommt die Sonne

The observer focuses on the princes, one after the other. Number three is the only one with different line because narrator knows that there is something special about Sanji even if he is not the focus. The army that is their target has no chance of retreat.

Die Sonne scheint mir aus den Händen Kann verbrennen, kann euch blenden Wenn sie aus den Fäusten bricht Legt sich heiß auf das Gesicht Sie wird heut Nacht nicht untergeh'n Und die Welt zählt laut bis zehn

Ichiji is a force to be reckoned with. He is the sun. His eyes send deathly laser beams on the enemy. His fists are the same, they emanate light and they burn. Nothing and no one can hide from him. He seems to be unstopable and unbreakable. Nothing can kill his shine and he knows that.

That's mostly it, the rest of the song doesn't change much.

They are powerful, unstoppable forces of science and killing machines, the usual stuff.

But of course it wouldn't be fun if something didn't go awry. So in the part of the song where the female siren voice starts appearing in the background we see flashes to the future to some different place where the main characters of our story are struggling in a fight.

At the end, when the siren is the only voice you can hear, they lay broken in the rain, not able to fight or move anymore. One of them is falling from the sky, maybe Ichiji, looking at the bloody mess below, parts missing from his brothers' bodies as he also falls to his death.

The sun starts to shine through the clouds. The true sun came - someone better and kinder rid the world of the Vinsmokes.

Germa 66 is no more.

The end.

#germa 66 #vinsmoke brothers #vinsmoke ichiji #vinsmoke sanji #one piece #i give up with the text editing #it fought and won this fight