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damnesdelamer · 3 years

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Recommended reading for leftists

Introduction and disclaimer:

I believe, in leftist praxis (especially online), the sharing of resources, including information, must be foremost. I have often been asked for reading recommendations by comrades; and while I am by no means an expert in leftist theory, I am a lifelong Marxist, and painfully overeducated. This list is far from comprehensive, and each author is worth exploring beyond the individual texts I suggest here. Further, none of these need to be read in full to derive benefit; read what selections from each interest you, and the more you read the better. Many of these texts cannot truly be called leftist either, but I believe all can equip us to confront capitalist hegemony and our place within it. And if one comrade derives the smallest value or insight herefrom, we will all be better for it. After all... La raison tonne en son cratère. Alone we are naught, together may we be all. Solidarity forever.

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(I have split these into categories for ease of navigation, but there is plenty of overlap. Links included where available.)

Classics of socialist theory

Capital (vol.1) by Karl Marx Marx’s critique of political economy forms the single most significant and vital source for understanding capitalism, both in our present and throughout history. Do not let its breadth daunt you; in general I feel it’s better to read a little theory than none, but nowhere is this truer than with regards to Capital. Better to read 20 pages of Capital than 150 pages of most other leftist literature. This is not a book you need to ‘finish’ in order to benefit from, but rather (like all of Marx’s work) the backbone of theory which you will return to throughout your life. Read a chapter, leave it, read on, read again. https://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/download/pdf/Capital-Volume-I.pdf

The Prison Notebooks by Antonio Gramsci In our current epoch of global neoliberal capitalism, Gramsci’s explanation of hegemony is more valuable than much of the economic or outright revolutionary analyses of many otherwise vital theory. Particularly following the coup attempt and election in America, as well as Brexit and abusive government responses to Covid, but the state violence around the world and the advent of fascism reasserts Gramsci as being as pertinent and prophetic now as amidst the first rise of fascism. https://abahlali.org/files/gramsci.pdf

Imperialism: The Highest Stage Of Capitalism by V.I. Lenin Like Marx, for many Lenin’s work is the backbone of socialist theory, particularly in pragmatic terms. In much of his writing Lenin focuses on the practical processes of revolutionary transition from capitalism to communism via socialism and proletarian leadership (sometimes divisively among leftists). Imperialism is perhaps most valuable today for addressing the need for internationalist proletarian support and solidarity in the face of global capitalist hegemony, arguably stronger today than in Lenin’s lifetime. https://www.marxists.org/archive/lenin/works/1916/imp-hsc/imperialism.pdf

Socialism: Utopian And Scientific by Friedrich Engels Marx’s partner offers a substantial insight into the material reality of socialism in the post-industrial age, offering further practical guidance and theory to Marx and Engels’ already robust body of work. This highlights the empirical rigour of classical Marxist theory, intended as a popular text accessible to proletarian readers, in order to condense and to some extent explain the density of Capital. Perhaps even more valuable now than at the time it was first published. https://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1880/soc-utop/index.htm

In Defense Of Marxism by Leon Trotsky It has been over a decade since I have read any Trotsky, but this seems like a very good source to get to grips with both classical Marxist thought and to confront contemporary detractors. In many ways, Trotsky can be seen as an uncorrupt symbol of the Leninist dream, and in others his exile might illustrate the dangers of Leninism (Stalinism) when corrupt, so who better to defend the virtues of the system many see as his demise? https://www.marxists.org/archive/trotsky/idom/dm/dom.pdf

The Conquest Of Bread by Pyotr Kropotkin Krapotkin forms the classical backbone of anarchist theory, and emerges from similar material conditions as Marxism. In many ways, ‘the Bread book’ forms a dual attack (on capitalism and authoritarianism of the state) and defence (of the basic rights and needs of every human), the text can be seen as foundational to defining anarchism both in overlap and starkly in contrast with Marxist communism. This is a seminal and eminent text on self-determination, and like Marx, will benefit the reader regardless of orthodox alignment. https://libcom.org/files/Peter%20Kropotkin%20-%20The%20Conquest%20of%20Bread_0.pdf

Leftism of the 20th Century and beyond

Freedom Is A Constant Struggle: Ferguson, Palestine, And The Foundations Of A Movement by Angela Davis This is something of a placeholder for Davis, as everything she has ever put to paper is profoundly valuable to international(ist) struggles against capitalism and it’s highest stage. Indeed, the emphasis on the relationship between American and Israeli racialised state violence highlights the struggles Davis has continually engaged since the late 1960s, that of a united front against imperialist oppression, white supremacists, patriarchal capitalist exploitation, and the carceral state. https://www.docdroid.net/rfDRFWv/freedom-is-a-constant-struggle-pdf#page=6

Postmodernism, Or, The Cultural Logic Of Late Capitalism by Frederic Jameson A frequent criticism of Marxism is the false claim that it is decreasingly relevant. Here, Jameson presents a compelling update of Marxist theory which addresses the hegemonic nature of mass media in the postmodern epoch (how befitting a tumblr post listing leftist literature). Despite being published in the early ‘90s, this analysis of late capitalism becomes all the more pertinent in the age of social media and ‘influencers’ etc., and illustrates just how immortal a science ours really is. https://is.muni.cz/el/1423/jaro2016/SOC757/um/61816962/Jameson_The_cultural_logic.pdf

The Ecology Of Freedom: The Emergence And Dissolution Of Hierarchy by Murray Bookchin I have not read this in depth, and take issue with some of Bookchin’s ideas, but this seems like a very good jumping off point to engage with ecosocialism or red-green theory. Regardless of any schism between Marxist and anarchist thought, the importance of uniting together to stem the unsustainable growth of industrialised capitalism cannot be denied. Climate change is unquestionably a threat faced by us all, but which will disproportionately impact the most disenfranchised on the planet. https://theanarchistlibrary.org/library/murray-bookchin-the-ecology-of-freedom.pdf

Why Marx Was Right by Terry Eagleton I’ve only read excerpts of this; I know Eagleton better for his extensive work on Marxist literary criticism, postmodernity, and postcolonial literature, so I’m including this work of his as a means of introducing and engaging directly with Marxism itself, rather than the synthesis of diverse fields of analysis. But Eagleton generally does a very good job of parsing often incredibly dense concepts in an accessible way, so I trust him to explain something so obvious and self-evident as why Marx was right. https://filosoficabiblioteca.files.wordpress.com/2018/12/EAGLETON-Terry-Why-Marx-Was-Right.pdf

By Any Means Necessary by Malcolm X Malcolm X is one of the pre-eminent voices of the revolutionary black power movement, and among the greatest contributors to black/American leftist thought. This is a collection of his speeches and writings, in which he eloquently and charismaticly conveys both his righteous outrage and optimism for the future. Malcolm X’s explicitly Marxist and decolonial rhetoric is often downplayed since his assassination, but even the title and slogan is borrowed from Frantz Fanon.

Feminism and gender theory

Sister Outsider: Essays And Speeches by Audre Lorde The primary thrust of this collection is the inclusion of ‘The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle The Master’s House’, probably Lorde‘s most well known work, but all the contents are eminently worthwhile. Lorde addresses race, capitalist oppression, solidarity, sexuality and gender, in a rigourously rhetorical yet practical way that calls us to empower one another in the face of oppression. Lorde’s poetry is also great. http://images.xhbtr.com/v2/pdfs/1082/Sister_Outsider_Essays_and_Speeches_by_Audre_Lorde.pdf

Feminism Is For Everybody by bell hooks A seminal addition to Third Wave Feminist theory, emphasising the reality that the aim of feminism is to confront and dismantle patriarchal systems which oppress - you guessed it - everybody. This book approaches feminism through the lens of race and capitalism, feeding into the discourse on intersectionality which many of us now take as a central element of 21st Century feminism. https://excoradfeminisms.files.wordpress.com/2010/03/bell_hooks-feminism_is_for_everybody.pdf

Gender Trouble: Feminism And The Subversion Of Identity by Judith Butler Butler and her work form probably the single most significant (especially white) contribution to Third Wave Feminism, as well as queer theory. This may be a somewhat dense, academic work, but the primary hurdle is in deconstructing our existing perceptions of gender and identity, which we are certainly better equipped to do today specifically thanks to Butler. Vitally important stuff for dismantling hegemonic patriarchy. https://selforganizedseminar.files.wordpress.com/2011/07/butler-gender_trouble.pdf

Trans Liberation: Beyond Pink Or Blue by Leslie Feinberg Feinberg is perhaps the foundational voice in trans theory, best known for Stone Butch Blues, but this text seems like a good point to view hir push into mainstream acceptance where ze previously aligned hirself and trans groups more with gay and lesbian subcultures. A central element here is the accessibility and deconstruction of hegemonic gender and expression, but what this really expresses is a call for solidarity and support among marginalised classes, in a fight for our mutual visibility and survival, in the greatest of Marxist feminist traditions.

The Haraway Reader by Donna Haraway Haraway is perhaps better known as a post-humanist than a Marxist feminist, but in all honesty, I am not sure these can be disentangled so easily. My highest recommendation is the essay ‘A Cyborg Manifesto: Science, Technology, and Socialist-Feminism in the Late Twentieth Century‘, but it is in many ways concerned more with aesthetics and media criticism than anything practical, and Haraway’s engagement with technology has only become more significant, with the proliferation of smartphones and wifi, to understanding our bodies and ourselves as instruments of resistance. https://monoskop.org/images/5/56/Haraway_Donna_The_Haraway_Reader_2003.pdf

Postcolonialism

The Wretched Of The Earth by Frantz Fanon Perhaps my highest recommendation, this will give you better insight into late stage (postcolonial) capitalism than perhaps anything else. Fanon was a psychologist, and his analyses help us parse the internal workings of both the capitalist and racialised minds. I don’t see this work recommended nearly enough, largely because Fanon’s Black Skin, White Masks is a better source for race theory, but The Wretched Of The Earth is the best choice for understanding revolutionary, anti-capitalist, and decolonial ideas. http://abahlali.org/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/Frantz-Fanon-The-Wretched-of-the-Earth-1965.pdf

Orientalism by Edward Said This is probably the best introduction to postcolonial theory, particularly because it focuses on colonial/imperialist abuses in media and art. Said’s later work Culture And Imperialism may actually be a better source for strictly leftist analysis, but this is the groundwork for understanding the field, and will help readers confront and interpret everything from Western military interventionism to racist motifs in Disney films. https://www.eaford.org/site/assets/files/1631/said_edward1977_orientalism.pdf

Decolonisation Is Not A Metaphor by Eve Tuck and K. Wayne Yang In direct response to Fanon’s call to decolonise (the mind), Tuck and Yang present a compelling assertion that the abstraction of decolonisation paves the way for settler claims of innocence rather than practical rapatriation of land and rights. The relatively short article centres and problematises ongoing complicity in the agenda of settler-colonial hegemony and the material conditions of indigenous groups in the postcolonial epoch. Important stuff for anti-imperialist work and solidarity. https://clas.osu.edu/sites/clas.osu.edu/files/Tuck%20and%20Yang%202012%20Decolonization%20is%20not%20a%20metaphor.pdf

The Coloniser And The Colonised by Albert Memmi Often read in tandem with Fanon, as both are concerned with trauma, violence, and dehumanisation. But further, Memmi addresses both the harm inflicted on the colonised body and the colonisers’ own culture and mind, while also exploring the impetus of practical resistance and dismantling imperialist control structures. This is also of great import to confronting detractors, offering the concrete precedent of Algerian decolonisation. https://cominsitu.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/albert-memmi-the-colonizer-and-the-colonized-1.pdf

Can The Subaltern Speak? by Gayatri Spivak This relatively short (though dense) essay will ideally help us to confront the real struggles of many of the most disenfranchised people on earth, removing us from questions of bourgeois wage-slavery and focusing on the right to education and freedom from sexual assault, not to mention the legacy of colonial genocide. http://abahlali.org/files/Can_the_subaltern_speak.pdf

Wider cultural studies

No Logo by Naomi Klein I have some qualms with Klein, but she nevertheless makes important points regarding the systemic nature of neoliberal global capitalism and hegemony. No Logo addresses consumerism at a macro scale, emphasising the importance of what may be seen as internationalist solidarity and support and calling out corporate scapegoating on consumer markets. I understand that This Changes Everything is perhaps even better for addressing the unreasonable expectations of indefinite and unsustainable growth under capitalist systems, but I haven’t read it and therefore cannot recommend; regardless, this is a good starting point. https://archive.org/stream/fp_Naomi_Klein-No_Logo/Naomi_Klein-No_Logo_djvu.txt

The Black Atlantic: Modernity And Double Consciousness by Paul Gilroy This is an important source for understanding the development of diasporic (particularly black) identities in the wake of the Middle Passage between African and America, but more generally as well. This work can be related to parallel phenomena of racialised violence, genocide, and forced migration more widely, but it is especially useful for engaging with the legacy of slavery, the cultural development of blackness, and forms of everyday resistance. https://dl1.cuni.cz/pluginfile.php/756417/mod_resource/content/1/Gilroy%20Black%20Atlantic.pdf

Imagined Communities: Reflections On The Origin And Spread Of Nationalism by Benedict Anderson This text is important in understanding the nature of both high colonialism and fascism, perhaps now more than ever. Anderson examines the political manipulation and agenda of cultural production, that is the propagandised, artificial act of nation building. This analyses the development of nation states as the norm of political unity in historiographical terms, as symptomatic of old school European imperialism. Today we may see this reflected in Brexit or MAGA, but lebensraum and zionism are just as evident in the analysis. https://is.muni.cz/el/1423/jaro2016/SOC757/um/6181696/Benedict_Anderson_Imagined_Communities.pdf

Discipline And Punish: The Birth Of The Prison by Michel Foucault Honestly, I am not sure if this should be on this list; I would certainly not call it leftist. That said, it is a very important source to inform our perceptions of the nature of institutional power and abuse. It is also unquestionable that many of the pre-eminent left-leaning scholars of the past fifty years have been heavily influenced, willing or not, by Foucault and his post-structuralist ilk. A worthwhile read, especially for queer readers, but take with a liberal (zing!) helping of salt. https://monoskop.org/images/4/43/Foucault_Michel_Discipline_and_Punish_The_Birth_of_the_Prison_1977_1995.pdf

Trouble In Paradise: From The End Of History To The End Of Capitalism by Slavoj Žižek Probably just don’t read this, it amounts to self-torture. Okay but seriously, I wanted to include Žižek (perhaps against my better judgement), but he is probably best seen as a lesson in recognising theorists as fallible, requiring our criticism rather than being followed blindly. I like Žižek, but take him as a kind of clown provocateur who may lead us to explore interesting ideas. He makes good points, but he also... Doesn’t... Watch a couple youtube videos and decide if you can stomach him before diving in.

Additional highly recommended authors (with whom I am not familiar enough to give meaningful descriptions or specific recommended texts) (let me know if you find anything of significant value from among these, as I am likely unaware!):

Theodor Adorno (of the Frankfurt School, which also included Herbert Marcuse, Erich Fromm, and Walter Benjamin, all of whom I’d likewise recommend but with whom I have only passing familiarity) was a sociologist and musicologist whose aesthetic analyses are incredibly rich and insightful, and heavily influential on 20th Century Marxist theory.

Sara Ahmed is a significant voice in Third Wave Feminist criticism, engaging with queer theory, postcoloniality, intersectionality, and identity politics, of particular interest to international praxis.

Mikhail Bakhtin was a critic and scholar whose theories on semiotics, language, and literature heavily guided the development of structuralist thought as well as later Marxist philosophy.

Mikhail Bakunin is perhaps the closest thing to anarchist orthodoxy. Consistently involved with revolutionary action, he is known as a staunch critic of Marxist rhetoric, and a seminal influence on anti-authoritarian movements.

Silvia Federici is a Marxist feminist who has contributed significant work regarding women’s unpaid labour and the capitalist subversion of the commons in historiographical contexts.

Mark Fisher was a leftist critic whose writing on music, film, and pop culture was intimately engaged with postmodernity, structuralist thought, and most importantly Marxist aesthetics.

Che Guevara was a major contributor to revolutionary efforts internationally, most notably and successfully in Cuba. His writing is robustly pragmatic as well as eloquent, and offers practical insight to leftist action.

Hồ Chí Minh was a revolutionary communist leader of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam, and a significant contributor to revolutionary communist theory and anti-imperialist practice.

C.L.R. James is a significant voice in 20th Century (especially black) Marxist theory, engaging with and criticising Trotskyist principles and the role of ethnic minorities in revolutionary and democratic political movements.

Joel Kovel was a researcher known as the founder of ecosocialism. His work spans a wide array of subjects, but generally tends to return to deconstructing capitalism in its highest stage.

György Lukács was a critic who contributed heavily to the Western Marxism of the Frankfurt School and engaged with aesthetics and traditions of Marx’s philosophical ideology in contrast with Soviet policy of the time.

Rosa Luxemburg was a revolutionary socialist organiser, publisher, and economist, directly engaged in practical leftist activity internationally for a significant part of the early 20th Century.

Mao Zedong was a revolutionary communist, founder and Chairman of the People’s Republic of China, and a prolific contributor to Marxism-Leninism(-Maoism), which he adapted to the material conditions outside the Western imperial core.

Huey P. Newton was the co-founder of the Black Panther Party and a vital force in the spread and accessibility of communist thought and practical internationalism, not to mention black revolutionary tactics.

Léopold Sédar Senghor was a poet-turned-politician who served as Senegal’s first president and established the basis for African socialism. Also central to postcolonial theory, and a leader of the Négritude movement.

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I hope this list may be useful. (I would also be interested to see the recommendations of others!) Happy reading, comrades. We have nothing to lose but our chains.

#original #leftism #leftist #Marxist #Marxism #socialist #socialism #literature #reading list #critical theory

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vaspider · 2 years

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Hey so in the "his wife has filled his house with chintz" poem post (post/673087931616018432/so-all-of-this-is-true-but-also-chintz-is), I would like to offer that "chintz" is not the only word carrying oppressive baggage? The terms you repeatedly use as roughly synonymous with "chintzy" are "bougie and fake" and "cheap and poorly made" - or alternate constructions thereof.

"Cheap" is a term that most basically is used to mean "inexpensive" or "made of low quality materials" but if we're gonna talk about the oppressive legacies of our language then I think it's important to take a more complex view of "cheapness." Since money is a construct, and an object's "worth" is not innate but contextual, price is a reflection of the value placed on both the material and the labor involved in object production. So cheap objects, whether these are knockoff low-quality chint fabric or modern "cheap" textiles, are the products of labor which has been given little value in a capitalist production system. This labor is, historically and today, overwhelmingly the labor of poor workers and slaves, people of color, women and children, and colonized people outside the imperial core.

Therefore, while an object being "cheap" commonly means an object being easily financially accessible, the low price tag is created by and simultaneously obscures the racism, classism, and other oppressive forces involved in the object's production.

So, using "cheap" in a derogatory way as a partial replacement of a term with racist etymology is like ... only a half step better? I feel like if you're gonna talk about the oppressive etymologies still borne by our language, it's probably best to be careful not to reinforce those same value hierarchies in the replacement term.

When analyzing the fact that this is a stolen style of fabric which was purposefully reconstructed for bougie purposes in a fashion devoid of its cultural meaning, in a shoddy, inexpensive manner which was specifically cheap in every meaning of the word...

... I'm going to use the words that mean those things.

It is "bougie and fake" when chint was appropriated by English textile mills in order to appeal to a mass-market aspirational petit bourgeois audience, and when it was stripped of its cultural context and made into "your grandma's floral fabric patterns."

The materials made were cheap in every sense of the word, and that was on purpose. They were exploitative -- which I mentioned -- they were of poor quality, and they were inexpensive.

Even if I am assessing "cheap" under your lens, in that case it is still an appropriate term. The shoddiness, inexpensive nature, and often rip-off designs of the final product are not determined by the workers; it is determined by the capitalists who set the work, who provide the materials, the designs, and set the price. None of this has any reflection on the labor involved, and saying that we cannot discuss the cheapness, in every sense, of capitalist exploitation of culture and workers is going so far up our own leftist asses as to be useless in discussion.

tl;dr: cheap isn't oppressive, you're conflating the actions of the capitalists I was discussing with the labor of the people they employed, and... I stand by what I said.

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mistressemmedi · 3 years

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Måneskin: "Different from whom?"

Greetings from Miley Cyrus - phenomenal numbers.

The streams of Zitti e Buoni are growing by the second, and ahead of Muse, on the top of the English charts, twelfth in the Spotify Global Chart. We almost tripled followers after Rotterdam (from 1.4 to 3.3 million, ed). Contagious and universal madness: T-shirts and merchandise sold out in 10 minutes. Like records, tickets for a tour that adds dates and expands on maps. They are even looking for us in festivals where the Rolling Stones have played. - Thomas

After the whole cocaine scandal that was started against us from France, which was later denied by my drug test, in Spain there people have been making murals with my face saying "No drugs". Some tweets made us laugh: «Congratulations, Italy! I have never been so sure that four people have fucked each other ". Miley Cyrus started following us. "You are great". “You are more” . - Damiano

From rags to riches - what a story

It was only 2016, and we were playing in restaurants, on the streets, in via del Corso (famous street in Rome). Damiano without a microphone, Thomas's guitar with broken strings, Ethan drummed on a cajón. At the occupations of the high schools in Rome (Kennedy, Virgilio, Mamiani) we had our first gigs and half an hour of fame, between those who criticized us and those who said "these guys are so cool". One of the rare times in which they offered to pay us to play - 50 euros each - we offered that money to those after us, in exchange for the chance to play during their time slow, as we knew there would have been a bigger crowd. We already understood then how it worked. That visibility was worth more than the money. We still think so ». - Victoria

The intimacy of rock - Choice of a genre

Music allows is this miracle which allows one to talk about very personal and private topics, even difficult and delicate ones. They are and remain deeply yours, but at the same time they become a confession that reaches a wider audience, and in this passage which is like a delivery, they also find their place in you, their elaboration. They are overcome, they are accepted. One moment it feels aggressive, one moment later a (soft) ballad. It's very cathartic. - Damiano

Against panic - The stage as therapy

I have suffered a lot from anxiety and panic attacks, it is a problem that I have worked on thanks to a course of psychotherapy, to my friends and family. Playing has helped me not to let myself be paralyzed by my fears, not to be limited in my private and professional life. I have learned to accept, to live with this side of me. I don't hide it. I no longer feel ashamed. - Victoria

This belief that only crazy people go to the psychologist is widespread ignorance. Nobody is born learned. And it is often difficult to understand why we are here, let alone the derivation and direction of our desires. It is a long and legitimate journey towards one's clarity. - Damiano

Essere fuori di testa – Ma diversi da loro (Be out of your mind - But different from them)

Already feeling a strong passion for something that is not a 'regular' profession but an artistic language, it puts you on a level where you're an anomaly, and while you're neither superior nor inferior to others, it places you in the condition of what breaks the mold but you're also being at a loss, leaving it to you to be bold and to take risks, hoping that they will pay off and land you somewhere. "What good is it if you don't stand out on your own?". You want to give it an aesthetic to your artistic dream, but to others it boils down to " You dress differently! You must be gay! ”, I'm 22 now and it makes me laugh, but at 17 it had an effect on me too. - Damiano

The beauty of being unique - Of believing in that and defending it

After all, we are all different not because we want to be alternative but because really no one is the same. Justice is being judged on what you do and not what you are. Justice is equality, respect, beauty. - Ethan

Fluid sexuality - Pride is freedom

We appreciate heels on men, we kiss each other, we have an open, extended mind, and we are proud of it. The horizons become vast, beyond the oppression of conservative families. With information on the web, knowledge is enriched and with it the possibility that minorities will be fewer and fewer, because majorities will be fewer and fewer. This will lower the volume to insults and bullying. If social networks can reach a village of 50 souls to reveal to someone, who is afraid of the darkness, that someone has felt that same fear.. There is no longer the need to give it a name, to define that "something" to fear, to brand it with labels that only limit you. Definitions have always had this effect on me. Gender should not even be considered in a person's judgment. Let alone orientation ". - Victoria

Sexism - A culture to be dismantled

Emma (Italian singer) dropped the bomb:" When I went to Eurovision, they insulted me over a pair of shorts. Damiano - half naked and in heels - was never criticized ". The judgment against women is constant, ferocious, and demeaning (if I have a lot of sex I'm cool but Vic a whore, where I show myself strong I'm a leader she is domineering and pain in the ass, who is successful because only because of her looks [and not the hard work she puts in]). As a male I am privileged, the harassment I suffer is not comparable to that experienced by a woman, the comments on my aesthetics are focused only on my aesthetics and do not insinuate anything about my professionalism and my competence, while women are victims of this kind of thinking in a systemic way. But I did find myself in a situation, out of nowhere, with someone who, pulling close to her for a selfie, started licking my face ... "What do you want, did you ask me?" Consent exists, and it is a must ». - Damiano

To grow as a person - The only rule to follow

For me, to conform is the total opposite of educating oneself, and the asphyxiation of one's expression (of freedom). Fortunately, I did not suffer heavy bullying, to the point where I felt I needed to change to adapt to how others saw me. But the matrix of who I am and the aggression that marks me is the same. If I'm a kid who dances and loves dolls, then allow me the freedom to do so. I used to be a kid who wanted long hair and played with Barbies. My friends, as a teenager, looked my long hair and teased me: "You have to find yourself a girl with a short hair to make up for it". My grandparents took the dolls away from me and said: “Stop it, they're not for you” ». - Ethan

“I was six and I already could not tolerate the distinctions between masculine and feminine. I've always had strong ideas about how I wanted to be. I refused things typically defined as feminine as a child, and they made fun of me for skating, for playing soccer, for not wearing skirts, for giving myself the chance to be as I wanted to be. I suffered a little, as I was bullied, but I had courage to stay true to myself, and today thanks to that courage I know that I could have been much more hurt, or I would have risked leaving the most important decision to others: the one about being just me". - Victoria

Love - music and girlfriends

I've been married to music for the past 20 years. I cannot wait to celebrate our golden wedding anniversary. - Ethan

Everyone goes through their own experiences, sometimes it's good, sometimes it's bad, but it's never other people's business." - Thomas

When, for the first time, I developed feelings and attraction for a girl it was a bit disorienting because I had never had the courage to go beyond the limitations I had imposed on myself. For society, being heterosexual is the norm and therefore often one automatically pegs himself in that way, giving up the freedom to experience many different shades and facets of love. Once I got over the initial insecurity of having to question one's own certainties, I lived my sexuality in a very natural and free way, as it should be for everyone. - Victoria

I had paparazzi under my house morning and night. So, after four years of relationship, I finally revealed her name. I still have the paparazzi under my house morning and night, but at least I don't have to hide anything anymore. - Damiano

The value of the group - Protecting each other

But the real relationship, the real family, is between us. Our band. We believed in it from the first day, even before calling ourselves Måneskin (moonlight in Danish), even before Ethan drew a giant moon, on the poster for our first concert. We share everything, even the pain of the tragedy of Seid Visin, who committed suicide at 20 because he was a victim of racism. Being a group is what we should all do together: stay united and not retreat in the slightest in the face of abuses generated by a distorted vision of someone "being different|. - Thomas

Non ho l’età – like Gigliola (It references Gigliola Cinquetti who won both Sanremo and Eurovision with her song "Non ho l’età" which translates to Not old enough)

Before us, the only one to win Sanremo and Eurovision together was Gigliola Cinquetti (in 1964). Is there is something for which I feel I am not yet old enough for? No, honestly no. Maybe for kids. I'll be honest, I'm not enough to be a dad. - Damiano

Reached the sky - What fears still remain

We are more than in the dream, we have conquered the dream. To fly high this high, there is the risk is to fall and get hurt, but we will try not to end up like Icarus, who burns his wings with the sun. Everything is in our hands. And this - somewhat presumptuously - reassures us rather than frighten us ". - Damiano

(ORIGINAL INTERVIEW IN ITALIAN)

[Please note that I have changed some words or structure sentence, trying to make it so that the interview made more sense lol - I skipped the first two paragraphs, which was basically the interviewer gushing over how pretty the band is lmao (relatable).

Any mistakes in the translation are sorely mine, nothing was proofread, so apologies in advance]

#maneskin #ethan torchio #damiano david #victoria de angelis #thomas raggi #i'm off to drink some wine lol

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ailuronymy · 3 years

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Thoughts on the new discourse? Warrior cats naming conventions and rank names being straight up stolen from native American people? So many people seem to be... Straight up leaving the Fandom or changing all of their fan content and it feels very performative and, people not actually thinking critically and just being scared of getting "cancelled"? I feel like your opinions on these matters are very informed and well written so I wanted to ask given that this blog main theme is, well, warrior cat naming system and that seems to be the main issue of the new discourse.

This is probably going to get long, since there's sort of a lot to say about it in order to talk about this whole thing fairly and constructively, because from what I’ve seen there’s a lot of hyperbole happening, and panicking, and disavowing this series and fandom, and so on, like you say, and also some people genuinely trying to have complex meaningful conversations about racism in xenofiction, and also probably some bad faith actors in the mix--as well as some just... stupid actors. Kind of inevitably what happens when two equally bad platforms for having nuanced discussions--i.e., twitter and tumblr--run headlong into each other, in a fandom space with a majority demographic of basically kids and highly anxious, pretty online teens. I don’t mean that as a criticism of fans or their desire to be liked by peers and “correct” about opinions, it’s just the social landscape of Warriors and I think it’s worth pointing out from the start.

If I’m totally honest with you, if not for this ask, I wouldn’t actually be commenting on it at all, because none of this is going to impact this blog or change how I run it in any way. But since you’ve asked and frankly I do feel some responsibility to try to disentangle things a little for everyone stressed and confused at the moment, because I know a lot of people look to this blog for guidance of all sorts, I’m going to talk about what I think has happened here, and how to navigate the situation in a reasonable way.

Quick recap for anyone blissfully unaware: from what I understand, this post (migrated over from a presumably bigger twitter thread) has got a lot of people very worried about Warriors being a racist and appropriative series, and now are trying to figure out what ethically to do about this revelation. The thing I found most interesting about this screenshotted conversation is that it makes a lot of bold claims, but misses some pretty surprising details (in my opinion). If you do look critically at what is being said, here’s a few things to notice--crucially, there are two people talking.

Person 1 says that a lot of animal fantasy fiction + xenofiction (fiction about non-human/”other” beings, such as animals) is frequently built upon stereotypes of First Nations and Indigenous people, and/or appropriates elements of Indigenous culture and tradition as basically set dressing for “strange” and “alien” races/species etc., and this is a racist, deeply othering, and inappropriate practice. This person is right.

I’ve spent years researching in this field specifically, so I feel pretty confident in vouching (for whatever that’s worth) that this person is absolutely right in making this point. Not only is it frequently in animal fiction/xenofiction, but it’s insidious, which means often it’s hard to notice when it’s happening--unless you know what you’re looking for, or you are personally familiar with the details or tropes that are being appropriated. Because of the nature of racism, white and other non-First Nations people don’t always recognise this trend within texts--even texts they’re creating--but it’s important for us all, and especially white people, to be more aware, because it’s not actually First Nations’ people’s responsibility to be the sole critics of this tradition of theft and misuse. Appropriation by non-Indigenous people is in fact the problem, which means non-Indigenous people learning and changing is the solution.

Person 1 offers Warriors as a popular example of a work that has this problem. Notably, this person hasn’t given an example of how Warriors is culpable (at least in this screenshot and I haven’t found the thread itself, because the screenshot is what’s causing this conversation), only that it’s an example of a work that has these problems. And once again, this person is correct. We’ll look at that more in a moment.

Person 2 (three tweets below the first) offers, by comparison, several more specious insights. Firstly, it’s really, really not the only time anyone’s ever talked about this, academically + creatively or in the Warriors fandom specifically, and so that reveals somewhat this person’s previous engagement in the space they’re talking into re: this topic. In other words, this person doesn’t know what has already been said or what is being talked about. Secondly, this person explicitly states that they “[don’t know] much about warrior cats specifically but from what I see it just screams appropriation,” which as a statement I think says something crucial re: the critical lens this person has applied + the amount of forethought and depth of analysis of their criticism of this particular series.

I’m not saying that using twitter to talk about your personal feelings requires you to research everything you talk about before you shoot your mouth off. However, I personally don’t go into a conversation about a topic I don’t know anything about except a cursory glance to offer bold and scathing criticisms based on what it “just screams” to me. By their own admission, this person isn’t really offering good faith, thoughtful criticism of the series, in line with Person 1′s tweet. Instead, Person 2 is talking pretty condescendingly and emphatically about--as the kids say--the vibes they get from the series, and I’m afraid that just doesn’t hold up well in this court.

So now that there’s Person 1 (i.e., very reasonable, important, interesting criticism) and Person 2 (i.e., impassioned but completely vibes-based opinion from someone who hasn’t read the books) separated, we can see there’s actually several things happening in this brief snapshot, and some of them aren’t super congruent with each other.

Person 1 didn’t say “don’t read bad books,” or that you’re a bad person for being a fan of stories that are guilty of this. They suggested people should recognise the ways xenofiction uses Indigenous people and their culture inappropriately and often for profit. My understanding of this tweet is someone offering an insight that might not have occurred to many people, but that is valuable and important to consider going forward in how they view, engage with, and create xenofiction media.

Person 2 uses high modality, evocative language that appeals to the emotions. That’s not a criticism of this person: they’re allowed to talk in whatever tone they want, and to express their personal feelings and opinions. However, rhetorically, this person is using this specific language--consciously or subconsciously--to incense their audience--i.e., you. Are you feeling called to action? What action do you feel called to when you rea their words, despite the fact their claims are not based in their own actual analysis of or engagement with the text? It’s, by their own admission, not analysis at all. Everything they evoke is purely in the name of “not good” vibes.

Earlier I mentioned that Person 1 is correct that Warriors is absolutely guilty of appropriation of First Nations and Indigenous people and culture. I also mentioned that they didn’t specify how. That’s because I think the most egregious example is in fact the tribe, which in many ways plays into the exact kind of stereotyping and appropriation of First Nations Americans that Person 1 mentions, and not the clans, contrary to Person 2′s suggestion. For instance, in addition to the very loaded name of “tribe”, there’s a lot of racist tropes present in how that group of cats is introduced and how the clan cats interact with them, as well as the more North American-inspired scenery of their home. It’s very blatant as far as racism in this series.

When it comes to the clans themselves, though, I think it’s muddier and harder to draw clear distinctions of what is directly appropriative, what is coincidentally and superficially reminiscent, and what is not related at all. Part of this difficulty in drawing hard lines comes from the fact that, on a personal level, it actually doesn’t matter: if a First Nations person reads a story and feel it is appropriative or inappropriate, it’s not actually anyone’s place to “correct” them on their reading of the text. Our experiences are unique and informed by our perspectives and values, and no group of people are a monolith, which means within community, there will always be disagreement and differenting points of view. There is no one single truth or opinion, which means that First Nations people even in the same family might have very different feelings about the same text and very different perspectives on how respectful, or not, it might be.

I’m saying this because something that gets said very often when conversations of racism and similar oppressive systems present/perpetuated in texts comes up, people frequently say: “listen to x voices.” It is excellent advice. However, the less pithy but equally valuable follow-up advice is: “listen to the voices of many people of x group, gather information and perspective, and then ultimately use your own judgement to make an informed opinion for yourself.” It means that you are responsible for you. The insight you can gain by listening to people who know topics and experiences far better than you do is truly invaluable, but if your approach to the world is simply to parrot the first voice, or loudest voice, or angriest voice you come across, you will not really learn anything or be able to develop your own understanding and you certainly won’t be making well-informed judgements.

In other words, one incomplete tweet thread from two people who are each bringing quite different topics and modes of conversation (or perhaps gripes, in Person 2′s case) to the table is not really enough to go off re: making a decision to leave a fandom, in my opinion. In fact, I think in responding to anything difficult, complex, or problematic (which doesn’t mean what popular adage bandies it about to mean) by trying to distance yourself, or cleanse of it, will ultimately harm you and will not do you any good as a person. It is better, in my opinion, to enter into complex relationships with the world and media and other people in an informed, aware way and with a willingness to learn and sometimes to make mistakes and be wrong, rather than shy away from potential conflict or fear that interacting with a text will somehow taint you or define your morality in absolutes.

So. Does Warriors have racist and appropriative elements, tropes, and issues in the series? Yes, of course it does, it’s a book-packaged series produced by corporation HarperCollins and written by a handful of white British women and their myriad ghostwriters. Racism is just one part of the picture. The books are frequently also ableist, sexist, and homophobic (or heteronormative, depending how you want to slice it, I guess), just to name some of the most evident problems.

But does the presence of these issues mean it’s contaminated and shouldn’t be touched? Personally, I don’t think so. Given the nature of existing the world, it’s not possible to find perfect media that is free of any kind of bias, prejudice, or even just ideas or topics or concepts that are challenging or uncomfortable. I think it’s more meaningful to choose to engage with these elements, discuss them, criticise them, learn from them, and acknowledge also that imperfection is the ultimate destiny of all of us, especially creators.

I’m not saying that as a pass, like, “oh enjoy your media willy-nilly, nothing matters, do what you want, think about no-one else ever because we’re all flawed beings,” but rather that it’s important not to look away from the problems in the things we enjoy, rather than cut off all contact and enjoyment when we realise the problems. That doesn’t mean you have to only criticise and always be talking about how bad a thing you like is either, publicly admonishing yourself or the text, because that’s also not a constructive way to engage with media.

As I said, there’s a lot to say here, and believe it or not, this is honestly the shortest version I could manage. There’s always more to say and plenty I haven’t talked about, but pretty much tl;dr:

I don’t find Person 2′s commentary particularly compelling, personally, because I think it’s a little broad and a little specious in its conclusions and evidence, and I also suspect that this person is speaking more from their feelings than from a genuine desire to educate or meaningfully criticise, unlike Person 1. That’s not to say Warriors isn’t frequently racist and guilty of the issues Person 1 is discussing, because it is, but I don’t think this tweet thread is a great source of insight into the ongoing history of this problem in xenofiction, or Warriors specifically, on its own. I would recommend exploring further afield to learn more from a variety of sources and form your own opinions. I hope this helps.

#just in case anyone sees this post and gets the wrong idea: i'm not inviting debate on this.#i am saying that first nations people are allowed to have ANY relationship with texts because that's how subjectivity works.#they are allowed to have negative neutral or positive experiences of texts--even 'bad' ones that have a lot of problems.#the people in this tweet are just talking about their thoughts and it's their bad luck the world's a public forum and it's spiralled.#the other thing i am saying is that if your approach to media is exclusively to cut out any problematic text like it's a cancer #that's not a great strategy. just straight up. you're better off developing critical insight and your own opinions and confidence.#by most parameters i can think of warriors as a series pretty much sucks really bad and i've been saying that for nearly ten years.#despite being so phenomenally flawed it can still have value--and much of its value in my opinion is IN these conversations about it.#so yeah tl;dr 2: i'm not here to slap-fight with teens which is what much discourse devolves to after 5 mins on tumblr so don't try it.

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shinidamachu · 3 years

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yo asking someone to make a wish so half of their heritage is gone forever is fridge horror-level wtfness (thnx TV Tropes).

of course RT and Sunrise chose not to focus on it, and in mythology people do give up divinity or humanity for romantic reasons, but specifically in Inuyasha it was like ‘despite your demon half you can still live a good life’ as if he has some disease 🤨

like I get in history people have had to hide their heritage to survive war and avoid being shipped off to their death or lose their rights, but to ask someone to permanently discard half their heritage and presumably hide their origins until death is tragic as fuuuuuuuuuuu

It's not even that they chose not to focus on it, is that they deliberately portrayed it as this grand romantic gesture from Inuyasha’s part and for a part of the audience, it truly was. But then again, this backfired for people like me, because it only served to proof how desperate Inuyasha really was to fit in.

Poor guy was literally planning on using the jewel to become a full demon just the day before. Then, at Kikyo’s request, he agreed on doing the exact opposite with little to no deliberation other than “what will be made of you, Kikyo?” I can only assume he was afraid her feelings were conditional. That if he had said no, she would have called it quits.

Imagine the same situation, but this time Inuyasha has a support system to lean on. Prejudice against half demons are still a thing, however he has his parents, his friends, a place to belong. Would he still have said yes in order to live with Kikyo? I honestly doubt it.

You see, Inuyasha hates being human. Not in the sense of saying he hates it, but liking it in secret. He actively hates it. And I can’t stress enough that we don’t actually understand how rightfully entitled he is to hate it.

We know how a human body feels like, we’re used to have a human body. Inuyasha is only human once a month. The majority of time he is a half demon. That’s what he is used to. Even worse: put yourself in his shoes. If you were to lose half your strength, half your sight, half your hearing and speed every single New Moon, you'd curse that night too.

Not to mention the sheer vulnerability of being emotionally and physically exposed, of not being able to protect yourself or the ones you care about and becoming a "burden” when he takes pride of being the (un)official guardian of the group. No wonder he felt so hopeless he made a point out of staying up all night. And this is what Kikyo was asking him to feel like every single day for the rest of his existence so their life together could be easier, with the aditional quicker of forever losing the features that marked him as his father’s son. You know, the man who died saving him and his mother.

Every single character that got close enough to find out about his night of weakness quickly became aware of how much he despises it. Now, we don’t know the exact duration of Inuyasha and Kikyo’s relationship, but here are our options: Kikyo didn’t know about the New Moon and that Inuyasha hated turning into human or she did know and decided to go for it anyway.

Considering that the latter option is straight up awful, I’ll just assume she simply didn’t know. What does this say about their relationship? If they were an item for a considerable period of time, how come she didn’t know about such a fundamental thing about him? Especially when people who weren’t even his love interest were aware of that fact pretty early on? What was it worth all that time together if they didn’t use it to have meaningful interactions and get to know one another? If Inuyasha was keeping secrets from her and if she wasn’t interested in learning them?

On the other hand, if their relationship was indeed short lived, that could justify the lack of knowledge, but a different issue raises: if they didn’t have time to collect basic information about each other, how am I supposed to believe in their love? How am I supposed to view the decision to erase his demonic side and live together as anything other than reckless, impulsive and thoughtless? How am I not supposed to see it as mutual convenience, a mean to an end? How am I not supposed to think they are acting out of lonileness and desire to fit in? How am I not supposed to think that if literally anyone else had given them the same options they would have taken it?

A New Moon would have happened in at least one month, tops. That’s not love. That’s a thirty days affair. It could have grown into love, if given the chance, but the pairing seemed more interested in the life they ideolized for themselves than in each other.

I don’t think Kikyo meant it as an ultimatum or that she was disgusted by his demonic attributes. She wouldn’t have approached or kissed him as a half demon otherwise. But I think it’s hard to deny that she wasn’t necessarily fond of them either, since she jumped at the opportunity to get rid of them first chance she got, with no remorse whatsoever. As if it was a bonus. This allowed with the fact that the prejudice against half demons is an allegory for racism and that she used from false equivalence to make the point that both her and Inuyasha were in the same situation puts her in a bad light.

Inuyasha was isolated by people because of his heritage, something he couldn’t change without resorting to intrusive, traumatizing and permanent magic, which Kikyo herself suggested he did. Kikyo isolated herself. People loved her because of her status and she was a privileged woman in comparison. She could have dropped everything since she was unhappy living like that, but she spontaneously chose her duty and powers over love and an ordinary life. And as much as I disagree with her choices, I can at least respect and understand them. What I can’t do is feel sympathy for her when the consequences of said choices catch up with her.

The narrative doesn’t give this problem much focus, it treats it in a much more subtle way. For instance: the jewel only being destroyed by the right wish, paints wishing for Inuyasha to become human as wrong and selfish, with the potential to be catastrophic.

That being said, Inuyasha didn’t hate being a half demon, on the contrary. What he hated was being ostracized over it, so he decided to take matters on his own hands and, when he was free to choose between using the jewel to become a full demon or a human, he went the full demon route because he knew living as human would made him miserable. But the desire of being a full demon was a facade. What he so very clearly wanted, all along, was to be accepted the way he was. That’s why he had no trouble letting go of that goal to pursue the exact opposite: there was no attachment to it. Full demon or human, he longed for a place to belong. If Kikyo was offering that to him, of course he would have taken it, even if becoming human was far from being the first choice.

Compare that with Inuyasha finally giving up from becoming a full demon, realizing he didn’t have to change at all, that he had a place to belong and people who loved him not despite of what he was but because of it, that he could be accepted as a half demon. Compare that with Inuyasha ending up with the girl that always encouraged him to be himself, with being comfortable enough around her to follow his instincts and embracing his canine mannerisms rather than shutting them down, which he didn’t quite did with Kikyo... The message is clear:

Kikyo should never, in any circumstance, have asked that of him. The implications of it were really bad and on paper it was a win-win situation for her because getting rid of the jewel to become an ordinary woman was something she already wanted. He was the one with the short end of the stick, sacrificing everything without the same level of compromising from her part.

And Inuyasha should never, in any circumstance, have accepted this deal. As his love interest, Kikyo should have been the very first persond advocating for him not to change. If the feelings they had for each other truly were love, then she should be the one helping him getting to terms with himself while he does the same for her, not legitimizing the absurd idea that a part of his essence was less worthy of existing than the other, that he should have be the one to change in order to fit in, rather than the people who oppressed him.

Thematically, even if subtle, the narrative did a decent job out of showing the audience how fucked up the whole thing actually was. What it failed to do was making Inuyasha and the others realizing how wrong it was and holding Kikyo accountable for her actions by making them talk about it.

Because God forbid Kikyo gets vocally told she was wrong (even though she often is) and God forbid Takahashi give Inukik the tiniest bit of substance and relationship development.

#Sorry if I'm not making any sense #I apologize for my rambling #And for taking so long to reply #But as you can obviously see I got carried away #Sidmailing

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tcstu · 3 years

Text

January’s Honorable Mentions

This month’s piece generated some incredible stories. I chose this work of art believing there were numerous tales buried within it, and I was not disappointed. Each entry took a completely different perspective on what is happening in this scene. If you enjoy one of the Honorable Mentions below, please let the writer know. I’m sure they would love to hear from you.

As a reminder, I celebrated the new year by featuring one of my favorite artists, @hydraart. If you’ve been following this contest, you may remember that this artist was also featured in January of 2019 and 2020. This seems to now be a New Year’s tradition, and I am happy to be able to continue it this year. If you would like to see the pieces previously featured by this artist, you can view them here:

January 2020

May 2019

January 2019

The piece for this month was titled, “Hide and Seek.” Here it is along with the Honorable Mentions for this month:

(These entries are listed in the order they were received and do not reflect a system of ranking.)

Untitled

Written by: @emilyelizabethfowl

Ten

She couldn’t tell whether the breeze she felt came from nature or from Its wings.

Nine

At least she didn’t have to worry about the smell betraying her hiding spot.

Eight

Sound, however, was a different matter entirely.

Seven

But her legs were starting to feel numb…

Six

It certainly wouldn’t hurt to move them, just a little, would it?

Five

Just a teeny tiny little bit…

Four

Slowly, carefully, she stretched her left leg.

Three

Then, bringing it back, she stretched out her right one.

Two

But she did it too fast, too carelessly.

One

Losing balance, she fell down. Her elbow knocked into the giant sheet of metal she was hiding under, the sound carrying far.

Zero

Barely seconds later, giant talons dented the metal, ripping it away easily.

Found you!

Aw, shucks.

She stood up, turning to face the creature.

“Best three out of five?” she offered.

It’s already past your bedtime. A deal is a deal.

Ah well. It was worth a try. She climbed the creature’s back, clinging tightly to the feathers longer than she was tall.

She’d win their next game for sure!

“Eleanor And The Great Bird”

Written by: @evanthenerd83

“Do not move,” Eleanor whispers to herself, thin frame curled inward.

The flapping of wings drowns out her panicked breathing. Dust swirls around. Bits and pieces rain down, and they sound like bullet casings striking metal.

Eleanor could recognize the sound anywhere. It is as familiar as her grandfather’s wartime movies. Black and white visions of the dead.

“Do not move,” Eleanor reminds herself, eyes scanning the words scratched into the steel.

The great bird passes overhead, and the entire shard shakes with its might. She bites her lip. A moment of terrible silence.

It is circling around. Coming back.

“Do… not… move,” Eleanor repeats, unaware that it doesn’t matter.

The shelter is just a jagged piece of roof. It isn’t big enough to hide her, not all of her. Not her shadow.

And unfortunately, the sun is burning in her direction.

The great bird has locked on.

The great bird makes one last turn…

Sit Com

Created by @daalseth ( Doug Aalseth )

"Ma!!" came the anguished cry.

"What is it?" replied his mother, her voice drenched in fatigue.

"Billy smashed up my 172 scale model Medieval Human Village."

"Now Tommy..."

"It wasn't me," shouted Billy. "I wouldn't do nothing with your stupid model."

"Yes it was," shouted Tommy waving his wing at the table. "That's your feather laying right there."

"Nuh-huh."

"Uh-huh."

"Nuh-huh."

Their mother rubbed a talon against her throbbing forehead. It was going to be a long day. Maybe it was time to just kick the little bastards out of the nest? She looked at the two chicks arguing. "No," she said softly, "I'll give it one more day."

“Whatever It Takes”

Written by: @winterrose42

I dug my fingers deep into the ground as I curled tighter into myself, squeezing my eyes shut in a vain effort to concentrate. This had to work- in the end it’s all I could do, whatever God that’s left forgive me. I could feel the beast looming impossibly large behind me, breath wuffing over the ruined plains like winds before a storm. A low growl thundered from its throat and I dug harder even as my fingernails protested and bent from the dirt being shoved underneath them. I couldn’t fail. I had to find them, and to do that I needed to make it out alive. To do that…

I felt it suddenly, claws slicing easily into the dirt deep enough that I’m sure someone could make a bomb shelter of it later. The tips of its heavy wings brushed the uneven ground, dragging stone and steel along as they swayed in rest. Feeling the pull of its head was the worst; it had seen me that much I knew, darting from toppled building to ruined tower to hastily put up shelter as fast as my legs could carry me had not been fast enough. It’s great shriek had nearly deafened me as it shook the earth landing just a few yards away from where I had crouched. The few warriors who had gathered to head off the beast- they all knew in their hearts they hadn’t a chance of making it.

That’s what I kept telling myself as the beast’s arm raised and came crashing down to sweep away fallen debris and lean to steel sheets and scattered weapons, armor and men alike, leaving them to try and bury themselves yet again. Collect their wits and reorganize perhaps. I couldn’t afford to give them that chance. Setting everything in motion the wings swept back, the arms came up, the eyes focused forward, sharp beak opening wide with vocal chords straining to make its signature call- and so it was done.

All at once I severed the connection, feeling impossibly small and weak and useless once again as the ground shook like an earthquake with the speed at which the beast fell, screaming its indignation at being puppeted for as long as it had, intelligent eyes snapping forward to those running for better cover, myself sitting still and forgotten for the moment in light of more easily accessed prey. I covered my ears and closed my eyes, whispering out a prayer of forgiveness to carry on the artificial wind for those who cared to hear it.

Eventually the shaking ceased, noise quieted, beast placated if only for a moment making it possible to crawl out and stand up though I dared not turn around. Sticking to the irrational belief that my imagined carnage was worse and therefore I was absolved of blame I squared my shoulders and turned west.

I had survived and would continue to do so through whatever means necessary. I would survive. And I would find them.

Maran-do

Written by: @spoldhamindieauthor (S.P. Oldham)

Maran huddled beneath the toppled roof of a ruined dwelling, sitting now upon the ground, broken and battered. All of the buildings in this tiny hamlet told a similar story; one of destruction and wrath.

Maran heaved a silent sigh. He had sent out Maran-do, his mind partner, when the day was still bright, her task to bring down anyone he had not dispatched. Very few would be daring enough to try to evade her. It would take a remarkable being indeed to slip past Maran-do unnoticed, avoiding her wicked talons. He had never known it happen yet.

Maran-do hung in the air now like a dark, oppressive shadow. She had been the foretelling of death for so many souls, Maran had long since stopped counting.

He had never imagined she would foretell his own death, too. Maran frowned, trying to recall such a thing happening before. What could possibly cause a mind-partner to turn upon its host? It was unheard of.

He knew the tiniest movement would be enough to alert her to his whereabouts. Resisting the urge to break cover and run, Maran struggled with ordering his thoughts. That was the biggest problem. Maran-do was inside his head as well as outside it. She knew his own mind better than he knew it himself.

How could he possibly escape? Wherever he went, Maran-do would go with him. Why had she turned on him? In a rare moment of self-pity, Maran gave a sniff.

It was enough. He could feel the air outside shifting, darkness looming over his hiding place like an unstoppable, oncoming storm. For the briefest instant, Maran felt the terror and utter helplessness so many had known before.

A large talon tapped impatiently before him. Inside his head, the words ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are’ blossomed into life like clouds of puffed smoke, Maran-do taunting him with his own phrase.

“Why?” Maran breathed, “Why do you turn upon me?”

More words of smoke, ‘I am to be mind-partner to a greater one than you, little Maran,’ using the childhood endearment, ‘Your mind is weak. You take much pleasure from death and killing. I belong to a greater mind than yours,’ she repeated.

She raised her foot. Maran flinched as, above him, the beams and planks of the rough wooden roof began to splinter. Instinctively he crouched, making himself smaller, as if he could avoid being crushed.

He had just enough time to wonder how she could survive without his mind to host her. Then he was gone; snuffed out like a bare candle in a blizzard.

Maran-do stretched her wings, letting out a silent shriek as her head turned to the west. A new host awaited her, a new name forming in her mind even as she rose from the earth. A path of flight was shown to her fathomless mind, stretching like an umbilical cord across the skies.

Maran was dead.

So was Maran-do.

Tethered

Written by: @wildler

I heard the spirits before I saw them—their strangled moans carrying through the smoke-stained air. Carys whinnied beneath me, her ears twitching in all directions.

“Easy girl,” I murmured, stroking her neck. “Only a little further. Should be the next clearing.”

The sound continued, growing stronger as we pushed closer to where the village was rumoured to be. I tugged the hood of my cloak from my head, sweat sticking my hair to my neck. It seemed my limited healing skills had arrived too late to be of use—but my other skills—well, perhaps I would return to the king with something more substantial than rumours at last.

We entered the clearing, the devastation hitting me like a sword to the gut. Homes had been scalped, gutted and burned. Their charred remains left crumbling into the earth. Spirits inhabited the ruins. Flickers of human outlines that cried out as they relived their violent, final moments of existence. Their fear keeping them tethered to this plane.

I dismounted Carys and pressed my hands to the ground, shuddering as the sweat on my neck turned cold. A haze of panic blanketed the site like thick smoke, making it impossible to get a sense of the events leading to its ruin. I sank my fingers into the soil and focused my will, trying again.

Sounds and smells came rushing at me, distorted screams on a hot jet of air. My eyes sprang open to find the spirits staring in eerie silence, their gaze passing right through me to something on the horizon.

I heard the presence before I saw it—a monstrous shriek carried on a blast of flame. It was an end too terrifying and binding to escape.

And so, I relive it again.

#Honorable Mentions #January 2021 #writeblr #writing community #writing contest #ekphrastic ficiton contest #ekphrastic fiction #January writing #January 2021 Honorable Mentions

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arianalilyblack · 4 years

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Come home to me - Chapter 4

Title: Come home to me

Chapter no: Chapter 4

Author: @arianalilyblack

Pairing: Harry Wells x Reader x Eobard Thawne/Harrison Wells

Word count: 2269

Summary: The wedding of Barry Allen and Iris West is finally here. You and Harry are caught up with the wedding spirit and start to slowly realize that maybe you developed deeper feelings for each other. Everything is perfect until Nazis bust into the church ruining everything. And alongside Earth X villains guess who shows up? Your ex flame, Eobard Thawne aka the Reverse Flash, complicating everything in your lives.

At first he felt pleasure as he heard a frustrated Cisco shouting in the next cell. It was fun for a while. But then his thoughts started to drift towards Y/N, and the smug grin disappeared from his face. He cursed himself for leaving her unprotected and alone. Obviously he knew that she could protect herself, but he still felt guilty as hell. He never should have left her side, not before telling her the truth. It was frustrating that he couldn’t talk about his newly experienced feelings for her. That smile at the wedding; that was the moment when all his oppressed feelings got out of their strongly locked cage. It was a simple friendly smile, but to him it shone brighter than the sun. It made his heart beat faster, and now he will never see her again. It all ended before it could really start.

The ball resonated louder and louder throughout the Pipeline, as he became more irritated by this imprisoned state, driving Cisco crazy with every bang. Sadness took a hold on his heart. He placed his head into his hands, horrible pictures flashing before his eyes. The sight of her getting tortured or her dead body lying on the floor was maddening. The ball stopped, hitting him right in the chest.

„For the love of God, finally!” exclaimed Cisco. „Have you calmed down, Harry?”

„Shut up, Ramon” Harry sputtered. He had trouble breathing, tears stung his eyes.

„Harry, are you alright?” asked Cisco, sensing that something was off with the grumpy scientist.

„Peachy” was the short sarcastic answer.

„Don’t worry Harry. She will be fine” Caitlin encouraged him.

„Oooh, so that’s the reason why my head is splitting into million pieces” draw the conclusion the engineer. „Mister Know-it-all finally saw the light” Cisco teased him.

„Ramon!” Harry growled.

„Harry, my friend, don’t you fear for Y/N, she’s tough as a nut.” Cisco tried to raise his hopes up.

„Attention all prisoners; great news, the cavalry has arrived.”

The Legends got the message from Felicity and came to the rescue. All the prisoners were out in no time; almost all of them went to fight with Nate against Metallo, except Harry. He had better things to do. He sprinted towards the workshop, to obtain a weapon prototype he and Cisco developed for similar situation. Right before he could reach the gun, Eobard cut his way.

„Well” Harry caught his breath. „Aren’t you a handsome devil?”

„Pretty popular with the ladies, huh?” Eobard smirked implying his hypothetical relationship with Y/N. Harry was smarter then to give into this pointless mind game. „Wells, you are in real danger now. But I’m going to make you a deal.” His smile grew wider with his every word. „I can spare your life, as a man of your superior intellect has a place in our new world. Of course, with one condition” he raised his index finger. „You have to give up on Y/N. You are a clever man; you already know that she feels what she does for you just because you look just like me. You are constantly reminding her of me and that’s the only thing why she would ever look at you. Her place is by my side. I’m the only one who can satisfy her needs. She has quite a temper, that little minx. She still loves me” His devilish smile was all over his face. It disgusted Harry to the core.

„Thank you… for the offer and information.” Harry nodded in appreciation before he looked up sternly and added „I’d rather die, than to let your liar ass torture her for the rest of her life.”

„Well that…” The speedster’s smile turned into a frown and his hand started vibrating. „That can be arranged.”

„Wait, wait!” Harry raised his arms in defense as the vibrating hand got dangerously close to his heart. „Wait. Think this through. If you kill me, she will never forgive you for that, ever. She will hate you more than she already does. And besides, who knows what consequences could cause the death of your doppelganger from another Earth.”

„You’re right.” He paused. „But there’s only one way to find out” he shook his head as he contemplated his action and advanced his weaponized hand towards Harry’s chest. But instead of coursing through his heart he was shocked by something, hand bouncing back in an instant.

„Yeah, so, I forgot to mention” Harry pointed arrogantly to his chest. „I went and loaded millions of biocompatible miniature robots into my body which were programmed to attack any foreign cells speeding into my system. Just face it, Thawne; you will never get her back.”

Eobard looked anxiously to the gun, then back to Harry’s face. He could easily outrun his shadow, but then he would complicate his mission. Harry winked at the evil speedster, lips curling into a cocky smile, and jumped towards the gun, but he was to slow, Eobard had already vanished.

You were dragged away from the girls. You had no metapower left whatsoever to fight back, so you complied. Meanwhile the energy slowly started to rebuild in your system; it just needed some time to fully regenerate. You made a fool of yourself yet again, by thinking Eobard had changed. It was naïve of you to trust his words, because obviously you did believe him when he’d told you that he just wanted to come home to you. Once again you were fooled by his silver tongue, and once again he had thrown you away, like some liability.

„So how does this Nazi job paying you? Is it really worth it?” you asked, teasing the soldier beside you with a small smile, trying to cheer yourself up. No response, no reaction of any kind. „Let me go, little soldier. I promise I won’t rattle you out to the Fuhrer” you flashed your most convincing grin, but all in vain.

The muscles in your body were sore, but you figured that you could still beat the crap out of this disrespectful bastard. A loud bang came from the Cortex that was followed immediately by two another. This was your chance; you pulled your arm out of his grip and kicked him in the guts with all you physical strength. Your hands immediately clasped into his head and banged it against the wall as hard as you could manage. It did the trick so you were able to run away. You just took the right turn when you stumbled into a hard chest. Your body bounced back into a fighting position, just before you met the most beautiful ocean blue eyes you’ve ever seen.

„Y/N” Harry gasped before taking her into his arms. „I thought I’ve lost you.” He pulled you closer to his chest.

„Harry” you whispered his name taken aback by his heartfelt greeting.

It felt like your heart was about to jump out of your body, but at the same time a bitter sorrow filled it. You didn’t muster to look up to his face. Right now it would have been too haunting. Instead you stayed in his protective embrace, hiding your face from him. His body suddenly tensed which startled you. The first thing that crossed your mind was Eobard standing behind you. But then again, you wouldn’t be still standing surrounded by Harry’s warm arms if that was the truth.

„He’s back.” Your heart clenched, and you breathed in sharply. „I won’t let him hurt you.” With his right hand on your back and his left on your head, he hugged you tighter. „Not anymore.”

Finally when you looked up at him with teary eyes, there wasn’t a single thing on his features that reminded you of Eobard. It was simply Harry Wells with such loving glance that you melted into his body.

„Don’t worry, I will be alright” you raised your hand and stroked his faced.

„I will always worry for you” he admitted with a small smile.

„Why?” you urged him. You wanted him to say it out loud, to confirm that you aren’t hallucinating. This novel closeness felt surreal.

„Because I care about you, Y/N, a lot” Harry confessed and gently drew you into a sweet kiss. His lips were so soft and delicate; it made your heart flutter. „I…” his voice trembled. „I love you.”

„It was about time” shouted Cisco proudly, raising his hands as a ‘hallelujah’ motion, scaring you to death.

„Ramon” grunted Harry in annoyance, eyes darting deadly shots towards him.

„Sorry to interrupt you lovebirds, but we kinda got to go. You know, cause there’s a Nazi invasion going on and all that” he motioned a circle above his head.

The whole team was reunited on the Waverider’s deck. Flash and the others came back from Earth-X, but they paid a huge price for it. Professor Stein had been severely injured and died shortly after they came back. You wanted to be left alone, to figure out your storming thoughts, so you searched for a quiet and secluded place.

The overwhelming feelings were driving you crazy. You were sure that you will lose your mind soon, if you don’t calm down. Your frustration came out as a loud groan.

„Why is life shitting with me?” you shouted into the thin air and buried your face into your hands.

It should have been one of the best days in your life, after all the two of you finally acknowledged your feelings for each other. Well almost. Because of Cisco’s interruption you totally forgot to say those three words back to him. Life wasn’t going to make it easy for you. Eobard’s return stirred up some suppressed emotions; you’ve missed him so damn much. You hated yourself for letting him under your skin. All you wanted was to be happy with Harry, without feeling constantly guilty about it. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard; you just had to keep in mind all the sadness that the speedster caused you. Remind yourself of all the sorrow and pain he made you endure. You crossed your legs, taking a meditating position and tried to clear him out of your mind and organism.

„Why the long face, darling?” The sudden presence of another human made you jump in your seat.

„Snart! But… how?” Leo smiled at your confused facial expression.

„I’m Leo Snart, from Earth-X.” He reached out with one hand and you shook hands. „Now tell me dear, what is it that’s bothering you so much?”

„Oh, it’s complicated” you let out a big sigh accompanied by a nervous grimace.

„The matters of the heart are always complicated” he looked at you with an odd, sympathetic smile. „Eventually the things fall in their right places, trust me. Now put a smile on that pretty face and let’s kick some Nazi asses.”

„Thanks, Leo” you cracked a smile back, grateful for his encouraging words.

Harry was on the control deck with Cisco and the others. They were working on a plan to defeat the enemy but he wasn’t much of a help to them. He kept getting distracted by the earlier conversation with Y/N. He had just confessed his feelings in front of everyone to her, but she didn’t say anything back. Maybe it was because he kissed her out of the blue, or maybe it was because she didn’t felt the same way. And that’s why he couldn’t find her anywhere, because she was probably hiding from him.

Eobard’s words were ringing in his ears; “She still loves me” claimed the evil speedster. The insecurity irritated him, and when he got annoyed he usually threw stuff. He started pounding the wall nearby because of the lack of disposable objects. One thought would persistently come back to haunt him; what if she chooses that monster. “That can’t be possible, she is a rational woman. She would never go back to that bastard.”

„Harry, focus!” ordered Cisco after several minutes of calling him out.

„Not now, Ramon. I have to go” with that he was out of the room. He didn’t hear the end of Cisco’s indignant speech.

Harry was familiar with the tight relationship that was between Y/N and Eobard from the start. He knew that very well and still fell for her kind and gentle nature. Her friendship was a ray of happiness in his somber life. Even if he was just the second best thing; he would be okay with that as long as he could stay with her.

The scientist was roaming the halls, searching for Y/N. He needed to find her, to make sure she’s okay. He could only imagine how hard this could be for her after all she’d been through.

„Hey grumpy” heard a loving voice behind his back. He turned around to face Y/N.

„Who’s grumpy? I’m not grumpy” he shook his head in denial and huffed.

„Yeah, right” she waved her hand giggling.

„I will show you grumpy” he threatened and rushed towards to tickle her with a mischievous grin.

„Okay, okay” she gave herself up. „You win, but only this time” she laughed.

„I always get what I want” he smirked and attracted her into a kiss.

„If he finds out… He’ll kill you” she said in a shaky voice breaking the sugary kiss.

„He already knows. And still, here I am holding you in my arms, caressing your beautiful face and peppering it with little kisses.” He did as he said, her cheeks turning into a burning mess.

„I love you, Harry” she whispered between two kisses.

Part 5

#harrison wells #harrison wells x reader #harrison wells fanfiction #harrison wells imagine #harry wells x reader #eobard thawne #eobard thawne x reader #eobard thawne fanfiction #harry wells x reader x eowells #The Flash #the flash fanfiction #love triangle #eowells x reader

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geminimoonbeamx · 4 years

Text

Moon lit Serenades

A/N: Dedicated to the reader, may you find happiness. I am so nervous for TROS, I saw a rumor that Poe dies and lost it. That plus the fact that there is literally no Plus Sized ReaderxPoe community? I had to remedy that. This is porn.

Warnings: This is porn. Serious smut from pretty much start to finish. Please enjoy.

Summary: Poe seeks comfort after a particularly hard mission in the only way he knows how. A Poe x Plus Sized Reader story

I am a moth, who just wants to share your light.

I’m just an insect, trying to get out of the night.

I only stick with you, because there are no other’s.

You we’re all I need.

I’m in the middle of your picture.

Lying in the reeds- Radiohead

War had finally caught up with Poe Dameron.

Had finally taken it’s toll, and far more then it’s chunk of flesh. Battle wary and blaster shocked, it was hard to think of the resistance these days as just that- a resistance. No, this was more of a bloodbath.

War.

He’d never thought of it like that before, always held his head high, a defiant flame in his eyes. This was fuck the system- fuck the First Order. Fuck anyone who tried to tell him what to do. He was willed, motivated by the sheer rage that anyone would have to live their life in oppression. Under the thumb of Snoke or Phasma, dead and gone now- Hux and Ren hopefully to follow sooner rather than later.

And that fire to see them fall was still there...but it was dimmed.

Had been stomped on, choked out.

Watching people you love die for you, because of you on a daily basis...it wasnt something he’d wish upon anyone. Friends, family. Allies, brothers and sisters in arms. His fleet which had once flourished with dozens of pilot’s was down to a mere handful of lucky ones.

He was willing to breathe and bleed for the cause. It was in his blood- the sticky substance that matted his dark hair to his head as he climbed out of his X-wing. His parents had been the same.

Was he willing to keep watching others die for it though?

He couldn't stop form pondering the question as he and his unit arrive back to the makeshift base, in the middle of nowhere on a planet in the outer rim- the name of it he could barely pronounce. The shabby hut like quarters made the memory of D’quar and its green covered everything throb longingly in his gut.

That seemed so long ago, now.

No matter. No time for getting attached. They’d be on the move again within a fortnight, never staying any one place longer than a month at a time. Rey usually kept them one step ahead, connected to Ren through the force in a way that made Poe’s stomach churn, but that came in handy with them not getting caught.

Thinking about Kylo Ren always made him sour from the inside out. Muscles clenched in memory of the torture he’d endured at the hands of what used to be Leia’s son, but was now just a shell with his dead fathers nose and the mark of his dead uncles betrayal on his black soul.

Poe would kill him in an instant if he got the chance. He prays to fuck that one day he does.

Clenching his fingers into fists is painful right now- the small mission had gone awry and they’d had to punch their way out of it. Literally. He’s feeling the aftermath of it all over, aching and sore.

He doesn't have it in him to attend the debrief. Can't muster the will, not right now. Maybe after a hot shower, maybe after he gets some food in his stomach and allot’s himself a moment to wallow. He forces himself to stand straight, spine elongated in a way that has his bones and muscle screaming.

Poe tries not to limp, as he scurries away to lick his wounds. He fails.

“Poe, you need to see a medic!” Finn insists, somewhere behind him. Always worried, always caring. Poe has nightmares about the night that he eventually loses him, too.

“Don't worry, I will” Finn wonders how someone who looks like they’re going to keel over at any moment- can manage to sound so cheeky.

Rey, who stands beside Finn, bruised bleeding herself wonders if he realizes that Poe is on the verge of tears. The pilot rippling and vibrating so hard she could feel it, taste it on the air.

Neither of them say anything though. The just watch him disappear into the stormy, starless night.

----

Sleep isn't something that comes easy to you as of late.

Not only did you spend your days(and most hours of your nights, too) in the Med Bay, you had never been the kind of person that could handle big changes, sharp adjustments. This hop forts every couple of weeks trend was killing you.

Your mind couldn't relax, R.E.M. State was always just out of reach.

Especially when he was gone...which also seems to be a trend these days. The missions just kept getting longer and longer- the time that he was on base shorter and farther between.

But it was raining tonight- the soft rhythmic pitter patter of it on the roof of the hut reminding you of your home planet, you could almost pretend you were there; the smell of petrichor tricking your brain. Making it easier to curl up on the bed that was really more of a cot and cozy into the Resistance standard blanket.

For the first time in two weeks- you sleep. Hard. Like a rock. The exhaustion finally overtaking your body, and putting you out of commission. General Organa was right to send you back to your bunk, physically removing you from your post.

You feel kind of, extremely, guilty for the attitude you’d thrown at her -

“I’m fine, if I don't do my job, who’s going to?”-

aimed her way even though she didn't deserve it. She was right, of course. She tended to be most of the time. Why anyone ever doubted her, why you ever doubted her, you didn't know.

The sleep is dreamless, just the way you prefer it...you hadn't always, but nothing was better then the nightmares. Nothing is far from peace, but close to quiet. A middle ground that could be called purgatory, depending how you looked at it.

So when there's a knock at your door, the wooden one that gave you more privacy then you’d had in months, that wakes you from your much needed slumber, you can't help but feel the irritation surge through you. Your hypothetical feathers bristled as you huff and puff and pull yourself out of bed, yanking a pair of breezy sleep pants up your chubby legs and a robe over your shoulders- not wanting to answer whoever it was in the near nude.

When you pull open the door- well, it was the one person who wouldn't have minded if you had greeted him in your panties.

“Poe?” You question, because your eyes still haven't adjusted, your mind still three fourths asleep and one fourth confused.

“Yeah, it’s me, sweetheart” And oh? Sweetheart? In that gravelly voice, tired and worn and fragile...you're instantly aware of what kind of state he’s in.

When you pull him inside, flipping on the light orb, and are able to see him. Clearly now; all bloody and bruised, you inhale sharply. His eye is blackened on the same side of his face that seems to be saturated in crusted crimson.

“Stars, Poe” You whisper as you crowd him, urging him to sit on the cot that’s still warm from your body heat. Poe frowns, pretty lips pulled down as he takes it, and you in. Your hair rumpled, your robe falling off your shoulder as you gather medical supplies from what seems like all over your small “room”

The first thing you do is take out a small capsule full of neon blue liquid from a jar and hand it to him. He takes it gratefully, tossing it down the hatch before you can even offer him water. Painkillers aren't the easiest to come by since they’ve been on the move.

“I woke you up, didn't I?” He inquires, after he swallows.

“Obviously” You answer as you step back into his orbit, close enough that he can smell your skin. That his eyes can trace each of the freckles that dot across your nose, your cheeks. You put your finger under his chin and tilt his head up, and fuck, isn't that a pretty view?

“I’m sorry” He whispers, hissing between his teeth as you, gently but deftly, begin to clean his head.

“Mmm, it’s fine. I’m awake now, Kriff Poe, you look like warmed over shit. This gash in your hairline is going to need stitches” You’re focused, wiping and dabbing as you speak.

He didn't realize, until that moment, just how much he missed your voice.

“Your bedside manner is spectacular as ever” He grins as he says it, even though it hurts to do so. His busted lip is next on your itinerary.

“Well when you show up at my bedside and not the other way around, I’m pretty sure that changes up the rules”

“Didn't you miss me...at your bedside, that is?” He pushes on, he wants you soft and sweet for him but he knows from experience it takes a bit to get there. Especially since he’s been gone so long.

“Stop distracting me” You mutter. You're only half pretending to be completely focused on the task at hand, at this point you could probably stitch a wound with your eyes closed.

“M’sorry” He’s not. It’s selfish, but he really isn't. He’s not sorry for barging in on you and waking you up, or for sitting in your bed reeking of blood and days worth of dirt. How can he be, when this feels so good? Your soft little hands working at him, healing with every touch. There’s no hurt when he’s around you- only good.

The painkiller makes the edges fuzzy, makes the fact that your repeatedly pulling a needle through his skin seem mild. It’s not like it’s his first time getting sewn up, and he highly doubts it’ll be his last.

Poe can't stop staring at you, dark eyes hooded. Hungry in a way that he doesn't care to hide. Drinking you in, gulping. It’d been almost a month and he was dying to get his fill. Your round body, nothing but curves and dips that he was itching to touch, is mostly covered, but the robe is still hanging off your shoulder. Satin skin exposed, so pretty and pristine.

It’s almost out of his control when his hand skims up our arm, skin seeking out skin. His palm sears as it settles on your upper arm. The plush flesh so soft under his calloused hands that he’s almost worried that it would give if e pressed down too hard.

In the back of his mind he knows better, though. Recalls just how much you can take.

“Poe” You warn tightly, lashes fluttering as you shoot him a look. One that makes him chuckle, because you're not fooling him.

He’ll play, mostly because he wants to, but he knows you missed him as much as he missed you.

You wonder if he can feel the way that you're trembling, already shaking for him. It’s stupid, you feel stupid, and yet you cant stop it. You have healers hands, medic’s hands- and at least you can get them to stay still as you finish with his head, then his lip.

Going insane from the simplest touch, from the way that he rubs his thumb in circles over and over on your upper arm. You remember when that would have made you uncomfortable, big arms that you wanted covered at all times used to be a big no-no.

But with Poe it was different. He wasn't there to judge. He just wanted to feel.

You don't want to pull away, but you have to. Your brain is torn, but ultimately resorts back to it’s resting state: health driven. Medically inclined.

“You need to go take a shower, wash the rest of the blood out of your hair. The hot water will help to start to bring down the swelling” you instruct, and it would be how you talked to any patient. Except for the way you cradle the side of his face, your voice breathy as you touch is thick locks that are greasy. A bit tangled.

Poe nods, he knows your right. Knows he should have done that before he even came here…

“Can I come back?” It’s hopeful, he spits it quick- desperate.

It feels like someone yanked, hard, on a loose thread inside your chest.

“Always. You know that”

While he showers, forced to go a few huts over to the community bathrooms, you’re a flurry of anxious thoughts and movement. Tidying up the small space and yourself the best you can. You’d showered earlier in the evening, using the last of the last of the Obsidian Lily oil that you’d carried with you. You still smelled good, pretty.

Your hair was wild, but not untamable and you end up brushing it smooth. You hadn't shaved since before he had left and curse yourself for not doing so earlier. How were you supposed to know that he was coming back tonight? Growing up on your home planet, there was a moss based soap that everyone used that minimized body hair. But still…

You wished, like you had more than once, that you could be better for him.

You're trying to swallow that horrid ugly little thought back down when your door opens, Poe not bothering to knock this time. Barges in, and he seems a bit more like himself in that moment.

His hair has gone back to his natural curls, thick and bouncing, dripping and the navy, loose materialed sleep clothes hang on him. Dont cling to him with dirt and sweat...all and all, he looks so much better.

Or so you think. Until you see him in the right light, his top falling open and revealing his chest.

“Poe!” You exclaim and his thick brows furrow, he had been drying his hair with one of your spare towels.

“What?”

“Take off your shirt” You demand and one side of his lips pull up- a smirk that doesn't meet his eyes.

“You know if you ask me nicely, sweetheart, I’ll give you whatever you want” It’s a purr, a ploy. Many a person- male, female and Wookiee had fallen for that charm of his. Your own name thrown in that pot.

But he was hurt, had to be in pain, and that thought cut through the others that that coy tone had stirred up.

“I’m serious, that bruising looks deep- why didn't you show me this earlier? You could have internal bleeding! Something could be broken”

Poe would never let it be known, would deny it to the ends of the galaxy...but he loves the way you fret over him. It makes him feel warm.

“Okay- Okay!” He sighs as you start to reach for him demandingly, knowing that you'd pull it off yourself if he didn't. There's a handful of winces as he tugs the fabric up and over his shoulders. You’re silent the whole time, and then for a long moment after.

“Oh...baby”

It’s the first time you've called him that tonight. In weeks. The first time an affectionate name has slipped from your mouth.

You can't help it, can't help the overwhelming feeling of...horror. Of shock and worry. His tanned chest and abdomen are hard, dusted with ebony hair that matches that of which grows from his scalp...and covered in bruises.

Four huge patches of yellow, and black and purple and blue...he looks like a fucking water color painting. You’d seen him in some pretty bad states over the years, and this was up there with some of the worst. The worst? Well you didn't like to think about that particular bloody day.

You reach out, fingertips tracing the purple bloom on his left ribs.

“It’s not so bad” And that’s Poe in a nutshell. Always trying to convince not only the people around him, but himself, that things were going to be okay.

“That one’s a deep tissue bruise” You point out to him, fingers gently probing, trying to detect if anything is broken “It has to hurt like a bitch, it’s going to get worse before it feels better”

“Not so bad” He loves the way you're touching him, and his hand, that big paw, goes to our waist. Holding you. Urging you to keep going “Those painkillers are something else”

You snort through your nose. He’s something else- you tell him of that fact, often.

Poe can only be so patient, can only allow you to touch him, feather light, for so long. Eventually, his impulses win out. Just like the always do.

You’re almost done, checking his bones, when he grabs your hand, envelopes it in his large one. It’s still for a moment- the air sparkling with energy. His eyes are mahogany, dark wood. Deep forests as they stare down at you.

The want in them is raw, unbridled.

“I missed you, so fucking much. Every day. Have I told you that yet?” His words, mixed with the timbre- vehement. Honest. It makes you want to squirm.

“No- you haven't” You wish your voice at that moment wasn't so anxious, weak and almost a whisper. Something about Poe had always brought this out in you. He was so bright, beaming. Everyone around him flocked to him, in hopes of just being able to taste a fraction of his light.

Sometimes, you still couldn't believe that he let you fill your cup, that he sought you out, parted the crowd for you.

You had never been a weak woman; had never let your weight or your too loud opinions or your tendencies to be overly emotional make you feel small, or less then...but being with Poe-- the level of intimacy was suffocating.

You felt burned up. Icarus who flew too close to the sun, who willing allowed himself to be burned up just to feel its warmth for a moment...you could relate.

“I did” Poe continues “I missed the way you feel, the way you taste-”

You close your eyes at that, images of the last time you’d gotten a moment alone with him, of a head of dark curls between your legs, assaulting you. Smacking you right in the face.

“-You taste so good, Y/N. Should've bent you over when you came to say goodbye. You would've let me, huh? Let me get one more taste- you have no idea how bad I want to stick my tongue inside of you. All the time. No one else gets to taste, right?”

Poe is well on his way to being rock hard, already. It had taken all of him to not jerk off in the showers.

“No one, Poe. You know that” you’d meant to tell him to fuck off, that you didn't belong to him. That he couldn't just have you whenever he wanted you. That came out instead.

“I need you” He tells you, roughly “feel how bad I need you, Y/N, fuck” he still has your hand in his grasp, againts his chest. When he begins to slide it downward, you know where its destination will be.

That doesn't stop the thrill, the flip flop of our tummy that comes with Poe pressing your hand to his crotch, hard and hot. The thin pants the only layer between your palm and his erection.

“You’re the only one who gets me like this, I need you to make it better, Y/N”

The switch is flipped then. Hard.

You’re surging forward, and he's meeting you halfway, your mouths slotting together. Lips and tongue, so much tongue. He talks all about how you taste, but stars, the way he tastes is intoxicating. Want to suck the taste of him off his tongue, off his cock.

Its blurry and ferocious. Hands everywhere. Touching, grabbing. While you are gentle with him and his tattered body, he doesn't extend that same sentiment. He’s groping, fingertips bidding into flesh. Groaning into your mouth as he clutches your thick, dimpled thighs. Reaches around to squeeze our ample ass.

Best ass in the galaxy, he'd write fucking sonnets about it, if he was good at anything but flying.

Clothes are shed, way too fast you worn Poe who doesn't listen. Because he never does- and he ends up hissing in pain, and relenting, sitting on the cot and letting you take off his pants. Slowly. You make it up to him by standing over him, grabbing his hands and guiding them to strip you. Slow drags of fabric over supple skin.

You’re so fucking sexy, and he tells you so as he urges you into his lap, you stay on your shins to mind his middle. Poe worships with his words. His fingers and lips do their fair share of praying next.

“Fuck I missed these the most” your breasts are large, heavy globes. Puffy sweet nipples are pebbled and just begging to be sucked on. He licks them messy, wet before he does just that; sucks them into the hot cavern of his mouth.

“Oh, oh, ugh” Your hands are twined in his hair, dripping down onto his thighs already, when Poe feels the wetness drip on him, his fingers go searching, hand pressed in between your thighs. Fingers slipping through sopping, heated flesh. You grasp, a high sound as he presses up and circles your clit, firm and pointed.

It’s so good, pleasure shoots down your legs, all the way to the tips of your toes.

It’s not enough. For either of you.

“Poe, fuck. Please” He’s injured, and you know it hurts him to do, and you should scold him for it, but when he manhandles you, flips you easily onto your back to that he can climb on top and situates himself between your thighs-

It’s just as hot as it always is. You know you have to be dripping down onto the cot, can feel your slick covering your thighs, slipping down your crack.

Kiss, Kiss and Kiss and Kiss and Kiss and…

You get lost in it, caught up in the way his stubble burns. His fingers slide back inside you and he watches your face as he crooks them, pumps them fast. Finger fucks you until you’re sobbing, letting out animal sounds.

“Do you still have the implant” he pants, head swimming. He gets like this when you let him make you feel good- wants to go down on you, but wants to be inside you even more.

“No, I took it out in the last few weeks” You’re cheeky, even with his fingers burried inside you. He loves that about you, “Of course I do, Poe”

You’d be damned before you ever brought a child into this world.

Poe holds your thighs wide, staring between them, your pussy wet and clenching around nothing. You’re so vulnerable for him, it makes you dizzy. He lines himself up, clock head dipping into your slit, resting against your hole, when thrusts inside of you it’s in one fluid movement.

You mewl, so full it’s hard to breathe and Poe makes a punched out sound. Like he’d been shot by a blaster in the chest and his hips start undulating, needing to be deeper. It feels so right inside of you. Feels safe. He wants to tear into your softness, rip you open and nestle inside. Settle himself in your bones.

You let him take what he needs, how ever he needs it. On your back, on your hands and knees. You bounce on his cock when he gets to achy,letting him run his hands all over your tummy, sides, breasts.

He can have it all.

After, the two of you lay spent, cuddled tight to one and other in the small cot. Standard issue thrown over your naked bodies, the sound of the rain starting up again mixed with Poes breathing is a lullaby you hadn't known you needed.

This...thing between you might have started as a way for both of you to numb the pain. To seek support. But it was more now. You were so in love with him that it made your eyes sting if you thought about it for too long.

“You’ll always come back to me, right?” Its so, so timid that he almost doesn't catch it and you almost hope he’d miss it.

Poe does what he always does; tries to convince you both that it’s going to be okay.

“Always”

You let yourself believe him.

Well I wasn't expecting this to turn into pure porn, but here we are lmfao. I loved writing for Poe and there will definitely be more of him coming soon! If you are able- listening to All I Need by Radiohead and the Hot Like Fire cover by the XX really sets the tone for this. I actually dropped a line from hot like fire in this- who can point it out?lol

As usual, I'm going to ask that if you can please give me some feedback. I truly love interacting with my readers and would love to hear your thoughts and opinions.

#poe dameron #poe dameron x plus size reader #poe dameron smut #poe dameron x reader #star wars #oscar issac

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jenovahh · 3 years

Text

The Honey Pot - Ch. 16 - A New Home

“Again.”

You groan as you peel yourself off the floor, after unceremoniously crashing down hard on your back. “Why are we even doing this?” You growl, picking yourself up once more. “What is this even teaching me? If you’re trying to show you’re a colossal asshole trust me; I know that already.”

Zenos stands nearby, arms crossed, eyes somehow colder than usual. “What other reason do I need aside from because I said so?” Something about him has changed; has become more rigid, more closed off. Not that he was ever necessarily open with his feelings, just…

Something has changed.

It is especially noticeable on the weekends, because those have now been freed up for you. Zenos remains at home to do work while you head over to the Garlond estate.

He was mad about it, you were sure. His father was making him share his toys. You thought he'd at least get over it like three weeks ago. Instead, he refused to rise up to your banter, and he no longer fought to get a rise out of you. He had become cold and unfeeling, apathetic, barely treating you any better than any of his other lackeys.

Sighing, you wearily shake your hands in an effort to limber them up again. Carefully, you handstand, abs flexing with the effort to find your balance. Keeping your center was proving oddly difficult, your body working itself in ways it had not previously. Your arms shook momentarily as you fought to keep steady, slowly willing yourself to control your breaths. Shutting your eyes, you find your center, muscles stabilizing as you hold yourself in place. The world slowly melts away until all you can feel is the whisper of air conditioning across your stomach, hear the thrum of the mini fridge in the corner of the room…

See Zenos’ fist make a beeline straight for your abdomen…

You choke out a wheezing breath as his fist still makes a solid hit on your stomach, having made your arms go lax to drop you to the floor. The momentum of your fall has you drop onto your back, barely having the breath to roll out of the way as Zenos’ foot comes down where your head once was. “Zenos, what the fuck,” you snarl, quickly hopping to your feet, bringing your arms up in defense. He looks apathetic still, face emotionless and for a moment you feel something akin to dread as your stance weakens ever so slightly. “Zenos,”

“Do you think in a fight that an opponent won’t take the chance to strike at your most vulnerable part?” He asks in that condescending manner, sounding entirely too much like his father.

Entirely too much like when you first met.

“I thought we weren’t working on combat,”

“We are always working on combat.” He drones, and though his voice is without feeling, the weight of his words is oppressive all the same.

“Then you should be a little more fucking clear before we start!” You snap back, dropping your fighting stance. “Fuck this. I’m through here.” You don’t even bother looking him in the eye as you move to walk past him and out the door. Before you can even make it an ilm behind him his hand has whipped out and snagged your arm in a nigh deathgrip, slowing your circulation. Your eyes drop to where his hand has encircled your arm, veins sticking out in some places, before sliding up to meet ice blue eyes. “Let. Me. Go.”

“You will leave when I allow it.” He states, as if you had no choice in the matter.

“Zenos yae Galvus,” you begin as calmly as possible, “If you do not let me go within the next three seconds I will have you on your ass so fast you’d think it impossible.”

A spark flashes in his eyes; it's not fear, but something else. It's gone as fast as it came though, replaced by underlying stubbornness and sheer loftiness. “I’d like to see you try.” He scoffs, to which you narrow your eyes at him.

“You and I both know I am the better fighter. Do you want me to kick your ass?” You question with a smirk, flexing your arm in his hand. “Does the sadistic psychopath have a thing for powerful women?”

“You flatter yourself. I would--” He scoffs, but his three seconds are up and you twist yourself out of his grip to sure enough knock him flat on his back with your foot on his chest.

“I do flatter myself. Because I’m worth flattering.” Stepping off him, you make your way to the door. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a pointy eared bastard.”

The door clicks softly behind you as you make your way back to your room to shower. If Zenos wanted to act like a jealous cunt, that was good as well as long as he didn’t take it out on you like some sort of child who didn’t learn how to properly communicate his feelings.

Showering, you make sure to use that same floral scent you started using over a month ago; the bottle is nearly empty now. And even though its effects don’t last long due to you immediately going into a heavy training session not even an hour after, it's still worth the few seconds you see Estinien’s nostrils flare and his eyes glaze over with muted desire. Pouring a generous amount on the loofah, you rub it along your body, focusing on the sensation of it gliding across your skin. Your sight focuses and unfocuses as you clean yourself up, gazing at old wounds, old cuts and tears.

Such ugly, ugly skin.

You were not without your own insecurities. Who would love such imperfection? Who would ever turn your way with all the scars you have? How would he ever--

Grunting, you turn the water as cold as it will go, shocking your system as your teeth begin to chatter. It scatters your thoughts enough that you can turn off the spray and step out, yanking the towel to wrap around your chilled body. Your thoughts are formless as you dress in fresh workout clothes. Some snug yoga pants and a tank top to go over your sports bra. Picking the choker up from your dresser, you fasten it around your neck, quickly forgetting its presence. Grabbing your bag, you head to walk out the door.

Your Lalafellin driver assigned to you awaits you outside, and you give him a wave as he holds open the backseat door for you. Stepping inside, you finally relax as he starts the car and pulls off from the estate.

The ride across town is not nearly as boring anymore, or at least it feels shorter now that you have been enough times. You usually text Ardbert during these rides, where you can chat about anything and you know your conversations aren't being monitored as closely. He's been incredibly supportive besides, happy to see you hanging out with someone much nicer, even if it wasn't fully your choice to do so. You had questioned why Varis actually agreed to continue your visits, but Ardbert advised you to not look a gift horse in the mouth and be happy he let you leave at all.

That made enough sense you supposed, though a small, inner voice told you to heed Zenos' words, that his father was a man with ulterior motives…but what were they?

I'll think about it later, you thought, seeing the Garlond estate come into view. The gate was already rolling open for you to come inside, the driver pulling up beneath the awning as usual. Your car had become a familiar sight at the estate, the security guard waving with a smile as you roll by. Grabbing your bag, you step out of the car and wave to your driver who waves in return and pulls away to leave until you call for him.

Walking through the front, you feel almost like you’re here on a friendly visit, not spying on the enemy. Sweet air conditioning welcomes you as you toe your shoes off at the door, slipping into your designated guest slippers. You had been given your own personal pair, which you had refused at first, but Cid had insisted. It was weird because he acted almost fatherly, but had no known children of his own, or even siblings, nieces, nephews to spoil.

“Ah, Honey, you’ve come a bit early!”

Turning around, you halt your trek to the backyard that leads to Estinien’s quarters to instead greet Cid. Just seeing him somehow brings a smile to your face. “Good morning, Cid.” You beam, giving him a small wave. He’s dressed semi-casual, sporting some simple khaki slacks and a powder blue button down. His goggles are present as usual, situated perfectly over his third eye.

“I had to send Estinien on a bit of an errand earlier; he might be a bit. I hope you don’t have any other business and mind a little bit of a wait?” He asks, already turning down the hall. After spending enough weekends coming over, you know that is an invitation to walk and talk with him.

“No, no other plans for today. I surprisingly have a pretty free day for once.” You laugh, following just behind him. He slows his pace to match yours, walking side by side with you.

“Good, good. Otherwise I would’ve prepared lunch for nothing!” He chortles, giving you good smack on the back. You wince only slightly; while incredibly rich, Cid is a man who still isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty and as a result he’s got some mean arms.

Walking into the kitchen, the smell of what seems to be pork wafts toward you. Sure enough, you watch as he makes his way to a nearby oven in the wall and pulls out two plates of perfectly, pan seared pork chops. Your mouth waters immediately, and even though you had already eaten breakfast before your training session with Zenos, you suddenly found yourself starving.

“Please, please, take a seat.” He offers, setting the plates down on the nearby island which seems to also serve as a makeshift bar-style table. Pulling a stool out, you take a seat as you watch him pull out two wine glasses from the rack overhead. Like the rest of his home, it is very modern in design, all light, powdery colors and big windows. “I hope you can hold your liquor enough that a little wine to go with our meal won’t affect your sparring later?” he asks, reaching for what is an obviously expensive bottle of red wine.

“No, I can hold my own well enough.” You laugh, setting your change of clothes down on the kitchen floor nearby. The food looks and smells delicious. The porkchop is paired with what looks to be oven roasted popotoes and sauteed greens. Just before you can grab a fork and knife and dig in, Cid is pouring you an almost generous glass of wine and drizzling your porkchop with, “Gravy?” you fail to hide the disbelief in your voice.

“Yes of course. Tell me, why the face?”

“I haven’t had gravy in so long,” It takes great care for you not to dig into your meal like some sort of barbarian, though you are on the edge of your seat as you wait for Cid to sit down so he too may eat. “I am kept on a very...limited diet.”

His brows furrow concerningly at that. “You are not starved are you?”

“No sir, I don’t mean limited like that.” You assure him, giving a nervous laugh. “What I mean is I don’t get to eat a lot of fatty foods; my meals are strictly nutritional. However, even my chef will occasionally risk his job to sneak some extra salt or cheese into my meals even at the risk of being found out by his employers.” You giggle, already imagining Lyngsath’s boisterous laugh in your mind’s eye.

You miss the split second Cid’s expression remains worried for one second longer before easing into something more neutral. “Yes, well...tell me Honey...do you enjoy your time at Galvus enterprises? Are they a good employer?”

You prepare to open your mouth but suddenly the weight of your choker feels heavy on your neck. Unconsciously, your fingers reach up to press against the cool metal, fingering the ruby of the Garlean logo betwixt two fingers. “I enjoy my time there. Some days are harder than others--”

“Honey.”

Looking up, Cid stares back with a serious expression, sapphire eyes gazing at you deeply. “I have known for a long time Varis has sent you to spy on me, and I have long since pinpointed that your choker records our every word. It is why I have worked to formulate this device actually,” he reaches under the table and pulls out what looks to be some sort of strange, robotic beetle. “It took a lot of tinkering, but it is capable of taking the words we are saying at this very moment and fabricating them into some arbitrary nonsense. Varis has some wonderful technicians in his employ sure, but I think it's safe to say that even ten of his best could hardly hold a candle to me.” Placing the small beetle on the table, you watch as it scampers around cutely. With a smirk, he cuts into his porkchop. “You are safe here, Honey.”

You are safe here, Honey. The light of the Mother Crystal will watch over you.

Tears well up in your eyes almost immediately, your hands dropping your utensils to quickly wipe at them. “Oh bother, I hadn’t meant to make you cry,” Cid grumbles, standing immediately to grab a cloth napkin from a nearby counter.

“No, no, it's not your fault,” your voice cracks as the dam finally breaks, your shoulders sinking as you finally release months worth of unshed tears. Suddenly, the weight of your sins comes bearing down upon you in this moment, your body jolting as one of Cid’s strong arms comes to wrap around your back in a comforting embrace.

How long has it been since someone had hugged you…?

After a minute or so, you manage to get yourself together enough that you can finish your meal. “I’m so sorry,”

“No, no, it seems you needed the cry.” He assures you, chewing on a piece of his food.

“I just...I can’t even remember the last time I’ve been able to talk without worry that someone was monitoring me. Without fearing that anything I could say, be it good or bad could be used against me. It’s so...freeing.” You sniffle, once again picking up your knife and fork.

“Then I have achieved my goal.” Cid replies, giving you a warm smile. “After all, you know the Ironworks slogan don’t you?”

Meeting his smile, you think for a moment. “...Freedom through technology?”

“Thatta girl.” He resumes eating his food. “Now tell me. Just how do they treat you over there?”

“It is...less so about the way they treat me and more so what I am made to do…” You trail off, cringing as horrid memories enter your mind.

“If you do not wish to elaborate, I will understand. It would not do to dredge up anything uncomfortable for you.” He urges, quickly refilling your glass. Paying no mind, you take a large swig of it, enjoying the light burn of alcohol going down your throat.

“They are...dark things. Horrid things.” Is all you say, deciding you need another sip of your wine. “This porkchop…”

“Made it myself.” Cid beams proudly, taking a bite of his own.

“You cook?” You ask, genuinely surprised. The meat is flavorful and juicy, well seasoned though you would prefer it a little saltier for your own tastes. The potatoes are well roasted, though some have a few overly crisp edges. The greens are that little bit of extra salt you were looking for, tying the meal together.

“As a hobby. I would say even I get tired of tinkering and making gadgets, but somehow I can never stop myself from optimizing my cookware when I'm making a good roast." He laughs, pouring himself a second glass of wine. "Besides, it is much more impressive to guests."

"I'm impressed just from the fact you deign to cook your own food. Varis would never do something like this; he sees work such as this for the help…" you trail off, finishing off your popotoes.

"I'm not surprised. Varis has always looked down his nose not just at people who were not Garlean, but those in a different tax bracket as well…" Cid sighs. "I've known Varis for quite some time, when we were both younger than we are now. My father was already a renowned engineer in Garlemald; it is not as if I had more humble beginnings. No, it is because of my father I was able to meet Varis."

"You make him sound...important." You say slowly, swallowing down a piece of pork.

"That's because he is." His tone is serious now. "He couldn't hide his money, his affluence, but he could hide his lineage." He sets his fork and knife down, gently dabbing at his lips with his napkin. "He is royalty."

You nearly drop your own at that. "Royalty?"

Cid nods gravely, taking a sip of his wine. "My father was a personal engineer for the Galvus family. Varis, however, was only the third son, and therefore not entitled to the throne even if it was posturing with no real power in congress. This gave him the opportunity to play himself off as a mere distant relative despite bearing the Galvus name."

You let that sink in, staring emptily at your plate. You knew so little of foreign affairs that you never put two and two together that he shared the name of the Garlean royal family. "But why,"

"On the surface, I'm sure it is to be his own person, and also to distance himself from his homeland to pursue his ambitions." He refills your glass, but you barely take note of it, knowing another glass will edge you towards tipsy. "I understand it, in a way. I too, wanted to separate my own ambitions from my father; from the cruelty he committed in the name of the royal family."

"But how was he able to leave an entire royal legacy behind?"

"The family simply denounced him back." Cid shrugged.

You mull over that for a few seconds, thinking on his words. "And what do you mean… by...cruelty?"

Cid fixes you with a stern look, silent for many moments. "I have never shared this with anyone aside from a close circle of friends; I trust you understand the need for confidentiality?"

You nod solemnly, your mouth suddenly feeling dry, the wine feeling appealing once again.

"I will not unload a lot of information on you at once...but Varis is far crueler than you could possibly imagine." He whispers. "The majority of my fathers experiments were at Varis’ behest. I could no longer support my father's endeavors and left to start my own company." Standing to his feet he grabs your plate and moves to place it in the sink. "Somedays still, it pains me that I could never reconcile with my father…"

"Can you still not? Is he no longer in Garlemald?" you ask, fisting your hands in your lap.

Reaching for the faucet, he runs water over the dishes, staring at the water as it goes down the drain. "He was killed by one of his experiments about three years ago now."

Your heart aches for him; you never would have known. You don’t even remember seeing it on the news at all. "Cid...I'm so,"

"No, no...no need to apologize." he chuckles lamely, picking the bones from the sink to toss in the trash and activating the garbage disposal for the rest. "I have long since made my peace with my regret." Grabbing the plates, he opens the dishwasher door and stores them inside. "I know not what horrors that tyrant puts you through Honey, but know this…"

Rounding the island, he pulls your hands from your lap, and cradles them in his own. "You will always have a home here."

The sincerity of his words makes you tear up again, fresh tracks running down your face as you giggle miserably. "I have not thought of having a home for some time..." You warble, wiping your tears on your arms. Cid reaches to grab you another napkin, smiling at your small murmur of thanks. “Thank you,”

"Hey, I thought hosts were supposed to be courteous to their guests."

Both of you turn to the furthest kitchen entrance, finding Estinien standing there in a rather nice suit instead of his usual training gear. He has his usual scowl, but you can see evident concern as he stares down Cid.

"Now, now, don't look at me like that. She is crying now, but if I wanted to woo her, Hydaelyn knows you wouldn't stand a chance with your prickly self." Cid teases, seemingly unable to help himself.

"Who said I was--" Estinien bursts before taking a calming breath. "Don't you have...I don't know a company to run?" he sighs, clearly knowing that getting riled up will only serve for Cid to tease him more.

"Yes, yes, I can see when I'm unwanted. I will whisk myself away. What is the furthest place in my home, I wonder? Perhaps the sun room, or the home theater…" Cid drawls, listing off the many rooms in his large home. “Also make sure you take the omega device with you Estinien!”

Snarling, Estinien grabs your bag from the floor (and swipes the poor beetle from the counter) and storms off. Giving a quick bow and a shy wave, you leave a laughing Cid behind.

Estinien takes a minute to catch up to with his long, Elezen stride, but you are now familiar enough with the grounds that you don't have to worry about getting lost if you fall behind. "Silly man, oof," You titter to yourself, only somewhat paying attention to where you’re going.

You hit a warm and hard surface, a hand snatching you by the wrist to steady you. "Silly?" Estinien echoes, arching a winter dusted brow.

Face heating, you give him a teasing look. "Of course. Have you seen yourself?" you snort, trying not to shiver as his thumb rubs small circles on your inner wrist.

"You've been drinking." He states, gently releasing your hand. Though his tone is disproving, you’ve learned to read the truth beneath the truth and spot a hint of mirth twinkling in his eyes.

“Or...Cid is a rather generous host, you should say.” You huff, moving past him to continue down the hall. Hearing him sigh behind you, his footfalls follow your own as you exit the main house and cross the grounds to his little corner of the estate.

“In that case I think it would be fair to say you are in no state to do any kind of sparring.” He says with a click of his tongue, watching as you toe off your guest shoes at the door. Dropping your bag to the floor he does the same with his own, placing them in a nearby cubby. Despite his gruff appearance, it never ceases to amaze how homely and welcoming his place is, all warm lighting, and soft edges. There’s a slight rustic feel to it, possibly caused by how a lot of the furniture is wooden and the walls covered in stone accents, hailing to his Coerthan heritage.

“How did you come to be here? From Coerthas I mean.” You blurt out, running your hand along the wall as you follow him through to the living room.

He’s stopped moving, his hand hooked around his tie. His expression is unreadable even to you for a few moments, before it eases into veiled pain. “I wanted a fresh start.” He tugs forcefully, loosening it from around his neck.

“I’m sorry,”

“Don’t apologize.” He cuts you off, throwing you a biting look. “Stay here, I’ll change.”

Reaching out for him, you stop him in his tracks, meeting his blue eyes with your own. “Are you changing to spar?”

“Is that not what you came here for?” he questions, arching a strong brow. His hand feels so much warmer in your own, but you do not feel a chill. In fact, you feel so warm yourself, and perhaps that wine Cid gave you was a little stronger than you thought. You suppose you should’ve expected as much from rich people alcohol...

“I...don’t know.” you murmur, releasing his hand slowly. You plop down on the couch, head full of so many thoughts; too many. Why were you here? If you came to spar, by all means you should’ve never drank at all. You were no lightweight, but that didn’t mean your body was immune to the slowing effects of alcohol. It's why even if you did grab a flute of champagne or two at an event where you were escorting Zenos, you paid careful attention to how much you were consuming. Your mind was still very clear, though. You never got drunk or even tipsy if you could help it.

Why did you feel so at ease here?

“What did the old man talk to you about?” Estinien asks, seeing that you are clearly lost in thought. He starts to undo his cufflinks, placing them on the coffee table just in front of you. He shrugs out his blazer, draping it gently over the back of the couch. The distance he sits away from you brings a giggle out of you; it is just far enough to be deemed respectable, but just close enough to push the boundaries of friendship.

“Old man?” You question, throwing him a smirk, to which Estinien gives one in return.

“He hates being called that. Told him if he just went clean shaven he’d age down about a decade.” He snickers, laying his right arm on the back of the couch. You watch as he fully relaxes into it, even going as far to kick his feet up on the table.

“He...told me about how Varis is a lot worse than he seems on the surface.” You admit quietly, fiddling with your hands in your lap. A sense of foreboding came with that knowledge; you felt it in your very bones. Something much bigger than you was heading your way, and you had to wonder if you were too late to stop it. “Funnily enough, Zenos had warned me too. Said that his father is worth fearing, even if I do not fear Zenos himself. That if I ever wanted to be free of this hell, that even leaving country might not be enough.” The exhale you give is weighed down by how defeated you feel. “It's been just over a year now...I’ve not seen my friends, I have no clue if they know I’m all right. I’ve not been able to contact...my old coworkers at all. Its like I’m living a totally new life.”

You gasp as Estinien’s warm touch glances just beneath your eye, wiping at a tear before it could fall. You freeze in place as the waterworks start again, except you find you cannot sob. Both for the strange reason in that you feel unable to blubber and wail once again, and also because you could never weep openly in front of him. “I-I’m fine,”

“Like hells you are.” Estinien snarls, fixing you with a hot glare despite his cool eyes. “You’re obviously bursting at the seams, Honey, you’re hardly keeping yourself together.” His voice is soft but still harsh, his body leaning toward you more as both hands try to futilely stop your tears.

“I’m sorry,”

“Stop apologizing, idiot.” He grunts, shifting to make himself a bit more comfortable. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“But I’ve hurt so many people,” you insist, whimpering as his hands move to clutch at your face fiercely, but not painfully.

“Did you want to?” he asks, staring deep into your eyes.

“...N-No,” you stutter, lip trembling.

“Then you’ve done nothing wrong.” He sighs, the sound incredibly pained. “Gods woman-- it's a wonder you’re holding yourself together as is.” His thumbs gently swipe at still flowing tears, and the motion is soothing, your eyes drifting closed. You allow yourself this small comfort, leaning into his touch, his warmth. It is silent, nothing but white noise in the background. The light hum of his refrigerator in the kitchen nearby, the chirping of birds outside. The sound of his nearing breath.

“Honey,”

You’ve leaned forward before you’ve realized it, able to feel his breath on your face. Opening your eyes, for once the Elezen man looks a bit unsure, teeth worrying his bottom lip in a uncharacteristic show of anxiety. “Estinien.” You breathe, pushing yourself closer, but he pulls away, just barely. Frowning, you lean back slowly, looking more dejected than you feel. “I’m sorry. I thought,”

“No...it was I who made the first move was it not?” He groans, running a hand roughly through his long hair. The two of you sit in strained silence, neither one of you wanting to break it. The clock on the far wall ticks loudly, thudding in your ears until Estinien heaves a heavy sigh. “I just...not like this, Honey.” he murmurs softly. “I want you sober and willing. Not drunk and depressed.”

“I’m not drunk.” You snap back immediately, with more venom than you intend. “I will admit that the wine Cid served me certainly had more alcohol than I was expecting, but I am of a clear mind. I want to be here, I…” you swallow down a gulp of air, turning to face him slowly. “I want you.”

Estinien regards you in silence, studying you carefully. “How do I know you aren’t lying?”

“A-About wanting you?” you stammer, not resisting as he slowly takes you by your wrists and pulls you toward him. You raise to your knees with the movement, being pulled to straddle his lap as he leans back against the couch, allowing you to rest your hands where you wish.

“No. About you being sober.” He responds, his gaze turning ravenous.

Pursing your lips together, you give him the most serious look you can muster. “When have I ever lied to you Estinien?”

He opens his lips for a moment as if there’s something he wants to say, but decides against it. “Your breath smells like expensive wine.” He chooses instead.

“Blame your boss,”

And you fall into him, pressing your lips to his own and by the Twelve does it feel wonderful. He groans into your kiss, tongue skimming along your bottom lip and you take it upon yourself to deepen your kiss, but Estinien wrestles back control immediately. He sees fit to remain in control and you are fine to let him, being okay with giving up the reins for a while. His hands shift to cradle your hips, smoothing up and down your sides before resting on your behind and giving a firm squeeze.

“Halone have mercy,” he gasps for air, breaking your kiss, giving another good squeeze before bringing your hips down to grind against his own, his bulge settled right where you need most and the two of you groan in unison. Your hands get greedy, yanking his tie off him as you continue your kiss, fingers fiddling to quickly undo his buttons.

“The one time,” you huff as he trails kisses to your jawline, to your neck. “You come home wearing something I can’t just pull over your head,”

“We can worry about that later,” he growls, stopping your movements by flipping you beneath him onto the couch, hitching your legs on his hips. “Much later,” He continues ravishing your neck and you let him, raising your arms so he can get you out of your shirt. Estinien undresses you like a man possessed, reason too far gone as you do the same to him. Both of your pants are shoved downward in a rush, hands down the other’s as if you were two teenagers locked away in a closet. And in a way, aren’t you? You’re not supposed to be fraternizing with the enemy at all. You’re here to weasel information out of the Ironworks CEO and his idiot bodyguard, or at least those were your orders.

Following orders doesn't’ feel nearly as good as this though.

It doesn’t feel as good as Estinien’s long, nimble fingers stretching your core, preparing you for him, because from what you’ve felt he is certainly proportionate, and you hope he can not just feel but see how ready you are for him. His lips unexpectedly press to your lower lips hotly, his tongue delving inside to taste your sweetness that has you sobbing into the couch. He groans so wantonly, finding you ready enough to flip you over, your back to his front, both of your pants around your ankles respectively. As he looms over you you feel the tip of his cock press against your core, a tingle shooting down your spine, a trickle of anticipation racing through your veins.

Slowly, he takes his time filling you, ilm by torturous ilm. He is patient, surprisingly gentle, though that isn’t to say you thought he would take you like some sort of brute.

Like the savages you were.

Fully hilted within you, he lets you adjust to his length, his breath hot even though you both are sweating. When you finally wiggle your ass against him does he begin to slowly thrust, groaning your name into your hair, clutching your hips as if it is in the only thing grounding him in the moment. One hand of yours clutches at a stray throw pillow, the other reaches between you to feel how he fills you; to feel the glide of his cock reaching so deeply within you that you can focus on naught else.

“Estinien,” you moan, back arching like a bow beneath him, his eyes screwed shut as he increases the force of his thrusts.

“You feel…” he rasps, slamming hard into you, pulling a cry from your throat. “There are no words,”

And from then on there is no need for there to be. You come on his cock more times than you dare count, your clothes strewn all over the living room, the kitchen. Each release is as great as the last, a welcome distraction from the mess your life has become. Time does not pass as you are bent over every flat surface in his home, fucked against every wall. Each orgasm sets you free as much as it weighs you down, until you find yourself weeping silent tears as Estinien spends himself inside you one last time.

“Honey...what’s wrong?” Estinien asks, cradling your naked body to his, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I don’t,” you hiccup, feeling so small and helpless in his arms. “I don’t know. I feel so...guilty.”

You feel him frown against your head, but do not take note of it as you continue to weep. He carries you up the stairs to his bathroom, where he manages to get you both showered and clean. Too spent to bother getting dressed, he simply deposits you in his bed and tucks you under the covers, closing the blinds to block out the afternoon sun. You watch him with drowsy eyes, feeling a pain in your heart. “Estinien,”

He’s just about to leave the room but stops at the sound of his name. “Yes?” he asks, not turning around.

“Thank you.”

Saying nothing, he walks out the bedroom and closes the door behind him,

#zenos #zenos yae galvus #FFXIV #ff14 #Final Fantasy XIV #THP

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bensk · 3 years

Text

Be curious. Be humble. Be useful.

I was invited to give the annual Taub Lecture for graduating Public Policy students at the University of Chicago, my alma mater and the department from which I graduated. This is what I came up with.

---

I am incredibly grateful and honored to be here tonight. The Public Policy program literally changed my life.

My name is Ben Samuels-Kalow, my pronouns are he/him/his. I’m a 2012 Public Policy graduate, and I will permit myself one “back in my day” comment: When I was a student here, the “Taub Lecture” were actual lectures given by Professor Taub in our Implementation class. I’ve spent the last nine years teaching in the South Bronx. For the past two years, I have served as Head of School at Creo College Prep, a public charter school that opened in 2019.

I was asked tonight to tell you a bit about my journey, and the work that I do. My objection to doing this is that there is basically nothing less interesting than listening to a white man tell you how he got somewhere, so I'll keep it brief. I grew up in New York City and went to a public high school that turned out Justice Elena Kagan, Chris Hayes, Lin-Manuel Miranda, among many others…none of whom were available tonight.

We, on this Zoom, all have one thing in common — we have been very, very close to graduating from the University of Chicago. I have never sat quite where you sit. I didn’t graduate into a pandemic. But the truth is that everyone graduates into a crisis. The periods of relative ease, the so-called “ends of history”, even the end of this pandemic, are really matters of forced perspective. This crisis isn’t over. Periods of relative peace and stability paper over chasms of structural inequality.

You went to college with the people who will write the books and go on the talk shows and coin the phrases to describe our times. You could write that book. You could go into consulting and spend six weeks at a time helping a company figure out how to maximize profits from their Trademark Chasm Expanding Products.

You could also run into the chasm.

What is the chasm?

It is the distance between potential and opportunity. It is a University on the South Side of Chicago with a student body that is 10% Black and 15% Latinx, with a faculty that is 65% white.

It is eight Black students being admitted to a top high school in New York City...in a class of 749.

What is the chasm?

The chasm is that in our neighborhood in The Bronx, where I’m standing right now, 1 in 4 students can read a book on their grade level, and only 1 in 10 will ever sit in a college class.

It is maternal mortality and COVID survival rates. The chasm is generational wealth and payday loans.

It is systemic racism and misogyny.

It is the case for activism and reparations.

In my job, the chasm is the distance between the creativity, brilliance, and wit that my students possess, and the opportunities the schools in our neighborhood provide.

In the zip code in which I grew up in New York City, the median income is $122,169. In the zip code where I have spent every day working since I graduated from UChicago, the median income is $30,349. The school where I went to 7th grade and this school where next year we will have our first 7th grade are only a 15 minute drive apart.

In my first quarter at UChicago, I joined the Neighborhood Schools Program, and immediately fell in love with working in schools. I joined NSP because a friend told me how interesting she found the work. I’d done some tutoring in high school, and had taught karate since I was 15. I applied, was accepted, and worked at Hyde Park Academy on 62nd and Stony Island in a variety of capacities from 2008 to 2012.

At the time, Hyde Park Academy had one of very few International Baccalaureate programs on the South Side, and every spring, parents would line up out the door of the school to try to get their rising 9th grader in. I worked with an incredible mentor teacher and successive classes of high school seniors whose wit, creativity, and skill would've been at home in the seminars and dorm discussions we all have participated in three blocks north of their high school.

In my work at Hyde Park Academy, I learned the first lesson of three lessons that have shaped my career as a teacher. Be curious. I had been told in Orientation that there were “borders” to the UChicago experience, lines we should not cross. I am forever grateful to the people who told me to ignore that BS. Our entire department is a testimony to ignoring that BS. We ask questions like, why did parents line up for hours to get into what was considered a “failing” high school? Why had no one asked my kids to write poetry before? Why are they more creative and better at writing than most of the kids I went to high school with, but there is only one IB class and families have to literally compete to get in? I learned as much from my job three blocks south of the University as I did in my classes at the University...which is to say, I was learning a LOT, but I had a lot more to learn.

I knew I wanted to be a teacher from my first quarter here. I did my research. The Boston Teacher Residency was the top program in the country, so I applied there. I was a 21 year old white man interested in education, so...I applied to Teach for America. In the early 2010’s, I looked like the default avatar on a Teach for America profile. It was my backup option. I was all in on Boston, and was sure, with four years working in urban schools, a stint at the Urban Education Institute, and, at the time, seven years of karate teaching under my belt, I was a shoe in.

I was rejected from both programs. Which brings me to my second lesson. Be humble. We are destined for and entitled to nothing. There is an aphorism I learned from one of my favorite podcasts, Another Round: "carry yourself with the confidence of a mediocre white man." If you are a mediocre white man, like me, do as much as you can not to be. If you look like me, you live life on the "lowest difficulty setting." This means I need to question my gifts, contextualize my successes, and actively work against systems of oppression that perpetuate inequity.

Over the last two years, I have interviewed over 300 people to work at this school. There are a series of questions that I ask folks with backgrounds like myself:

Have you ever lived in a neighborhood that was majority people of color?

Have you ever worked on a team that was majority people of color?

Have you ever worked for a boss/supervisor/leader who was a person of color?

The vast majority of white folks, myself at 21 included, could not answer “yes” to these three questions. This is disappointing, but I've also lived and worked in two of the most segregated cities on this continent, so it is not surprising. By the time I sat where you’re sitting now, I had learned a lot about education policy and sociology. I'd taken every class that Chad offered at the time. I'd worked at UEI, I'd worked in a South Side high school for four years, and I still thought I was entitled to something. Unlearning doesn't usually happen in a moment, and I certainly didn't realize it at the time, but these rejections were the best thing that has happened to me in my growth as a human.

I moved back home to New York, was accepted to my last-choice teaching program, and started teaching at MS 223: The Laboratory School of Finance & Technology. I ended up teaching there for 5 years. I had incredible mentors, met some of my best friends, started a Computer Science program that’s used as a model at hundreds of schools across New York City…and most importantly, while making copies for Summer School in July of 2015, I met my wife.

All this to say — if you aren’t 100% convinced that what you’re doing next year is Your Thing, keep an open mind…and make frequent stops in the copy room.

I learned that teaching was My Thing. I didn't want to do ed policy research. I got to set education policy, conduct case studies, key informant interviews, run statistical analysis…with 12 year olds. This was the thing I couldn’t stop talking about, reading about, learning about. I really and truly did not care about the “UChicago voices” of my parents and my friends who kept asking what I was going to do next. My answer: teach.

If you look like me, and you teach Computer Science, there are opportunities that come flying your way. I was offered jobs with more prestige, jobs with more pay, jobs far away from the South Bronx. I was offered jobs I would have loved. But I’d learned a third lesson: be useful. If you have a degree from this place, people will always ask you what the next promotion or job is. They will ask "what's next for you" and they will mean it with respect and admiration.

Here’s the thing: teaching was what’s next. “But don’t you want to work in policy?” Teaching is a political act. It is hands-on activism, it is community organizing, it is high-tech optimistic problem-solving and low-tech relationship building. It is the reason we have the privilege of choosing a career, and it is a career worth choosing.

I had internalized what I like to call the Dumbledore Principle: “I had learned that I was not to be trusted with power.” This meant unlearning the very UChicago idea that if you were smart and if you think and talk like we are trained to think and talk at this place, you should be in charge. The best things in my life have come from unlearning that. Learning from mentors to never speak the way I was praised for in a seminar. Learning from veteran teachers how to be a warm demander who was my authentic best self...and more importantly brought out the authentic best self in my students. Being useful isn't the same thing as being in charge…and that is ok.

I believe this deeply. Which is why, when I was offered the opportunity to design and open a school, my first thought was absolutely the hell no. I said to my wife: “I’m a teacher. Dumbledore Principle — we’re supposed to teach, make our classrooms safe and wonderful for our kids.”

I also knew that teaching kids to code wasn’t worth a damn if they couldn’t read and write with conviction, so I started looking for schools that did both — treated kids like brilliant creatives who should learn to create the future AND met them where they were with rigorous coursework that closed opportunity gaps. In our neighborhood, there were schools that did the latter, that got incredible results for kids. Then there was my school, where kids learned eight programming languages before they graduated, but at which only 40% of our kids could read.

We were lauded for this, by the way. 40% was twice the average in our district. We were praised for the Computer Science — the mayor of New York and the CEO of Microsoft visited and met with my students. It felt great. I wasn’t convinced it was useful.

Kids in the neighborhood where I grew up didn’t have to choose between a school that was interesting and a school that equipped them with the knowledge and skills to pursue their own interests in college and beyond. Why did our students have to choose? I delivered this stressed-out existential monologue to my wife that boiled down to this: every kid deserves a school where they were always safe, and never bored. We weren’t working at a school like that. I was being offered a chance to design one. But…Dumbledore principle.

My wife took it all in, looked at me, and said: “You idiot. Dumbledore RAN a school.”

Friends, you deserve a partner like this.

The road to opening Creo College Prep, and the last two years of leading our school as we opened, closed, opened online, finished our first year, moved buildings, opened online again, opened in-person (kind of) and now head into our third year, has reinforced my lessons from teaching — be curious, be humble, be useful. These lessons are about both learning and unlearning. A white guy doing Teach for America at 21 is a stereotype. A white guy starting a charter school is a stereotype with significant capital, wading into complicated political and pedagogical waters. The lessons I learn opening a school and the unlearning I must do to be worthy of the work are not destinations, they are journeys.

Be curious

I didn’t just open a school. Schools are communities, they are institutions, and they are bureaucracies. If you work very, very hard, and with the right people, they become engines that turn coffee and human potential into joy and intellectual thriving capable of altering the trajectory of a child’s life.

First you have to find the right people. I joined a school design fellowship, spent a year visiting 50 high-performing schools across the country, recruited a founding board of smart, committed people who hold me accountable, and spent time in my community learning from families what they wanted in a school. There is studying public policy, and then there is attending Community Board meetings and Community Education Council Meetings, and standing outside of the Parkchester Macy's handing out flyers and getting petition signatures at Christmastime next to the mall Santa.

I observed in schools while writing my BA, and as a teacher, but it was in this fellowship that I learned to “thin slice,” a term we borrowed from psychology that refers to observing a small interaction and finding patterns about the emotions and values of people. In a school, it means observing small but crucial moments — how does arrival work, how are students called on, how do they ask for help in a classroom, how do they enter and leave spaces, how do they move through the hallways, where and how do teachers get their work done — and gleaning what a school values, and how that translates into impact for kids. Here’s how I look at schools:

Does every adult have an unwavering belief that students can, must, and will learn at the highest level?

Do they have realistic and urgent plans for getting every kid there? Are these beliefs and plans clear and held by kids?

Are all teachers strategic, valorizing planning and intellectual nerdery over control or power?

Is the curriculum worthy of the kids?

Can kids explain why the school does things they way they do? Can staff? Can the leader?

If I'm in the middle of teaching and I need a pen or a marker, what do I do? Is that clear?

What’s the attendance rate? How do we follow up on kids who aren’t here?

How organized and thoughtful are the physical and digital spaces?

Are kids seen by their teachers? Are their names pronounced correctly? Do their teachers look like them? Do they make them laugh, think, and revise their answers?

Would I want to work here? Would I send my own kids here?

Be humble

I learned that there are really two distinct organizations that we call “school.” One is an accumulation of talent (student and staff) that happens to be in the same place at the same time, operating on largely the same schedule.

These were the schools I attended. These are schools you got to go to if you got lucky and you were born in a zip code with high income and high opportunity. These are schools where you had teachers who were intellectually curious, and classmates whose learning deficits could be papered over by social capital…and sometimes, straight up capital.

“Accumulation of talent” also describes the schools I worked at. These were schools where if you got lucky and you were extraordinary in your intelligence, determination, support network, and teachers who’d decided to believe in you, you became one of the stories we told. “She got into Cornell.” “That whole English class got into four year colleges.”

Most schools in this country, it turns out, are run like this. I knew all about local control and the limits of federal standards on education and the battles over teacher evaluations and so much other helpful and important context I learned in my PBPL classes. But when thin-slicing a kindergarten classroom in Nashville on my first school visit of the Fellowship, I saw a whole other possibility of what “school” can be.

School can be a special place organized towards a single purpose. One team, one mission. Where the work kids do in one class directly connects to the next, and builds on the prior year. Where kids are treated like the important people they are and the important people they will be, where students and staff hold each other to a high bar, where there is rigor and joy. A place where staff train together so that instead of separate classrooms telling separate stories about how to achieve, there is one coherent language that gives kids the thing they crave and deserve above all else: consistency.

We get up every morning to build a school like that. It’s why my team starts staff training a month before the first day of school. It’s why we practice teaching our lessons so that we don’t waste a moment of our kids’ time. It’s why everyone at our school has a coach, including me, so we can be a better teacher tomorrow than we were today. It’s why we plan engaging, culturally responsive, relevant lessons. It’s how we keep a simple, crucial promise to every family: at this school, you will always be safe, and you will never be bored.

Be useful

Statistically speaking, it is not out of the realm of possibility that several of you will one day be in a position to make big sweeping policy changes. You will have the power to not only write position papers, but to Make Big Plans. I will be rooting for you, but I hope that you won’t pursue Big Plans for the sake of Big Plans.

The architect who designed the Midway reportedly said "make no little plans; they have no magic to stir men's blood." I had that quoted to me in several lectures at this school, and you know what?

It’s bullshit.

I am asking you not to care about scale. Good policy isn’t about scale, it’s about implementation, and implementation requires the right people on the ground. Implementation can scale. The right people cannot. We can Make Big Plans, but every 6th grade math class still needs an excellent math teacher. That's a job worth doing. I could dream about starting 20 schools, but every school needs a leader. That’s a job worth doing. Places like UChicago teach us to ask "what's next" for our own advancement, to do this now so we can get to that later. I learned to ask "what's next" to be as useful as possible to as many kids as I have in front of me.

I hold these two thoughts in my mind:

The educational realities of the South Bronx have a lot more to do with where highways were built in our neighborhood than with No Child Left Behind or charter schools, and require comprehensive policy change that address not only educational inequity, but environmental justice, and systemic racism.

The most useful policy changes I can make right now are to finalize the schedule for our staff work days that start on June 21, get feedback on next year’s calendar from families, and finish hiring the teachers our kids deserve.

I will follow the policy debates of #1 with great interest, but I know where I can be useful, and I’ll wake up tomorrow excited to make another draft of the calendar. I hope you get to work on making your Small Plans, and I will leave you with the secret — or at least the way that worked for me:

Find yourself people who are smarter than you and who disagree with you. Find problems you cannot shut up or stop thinking about. Do what you can’t shut up about with intellect and kindness. Use the privilege and opportunity that we have because we went to this school to make sure that opportunity for others does not require privilege. Run into the chasm.

Be curious, be humble, be useful.

Thank you.

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foursideharmony · 4 years

Text

Collateral Damage (Part 3)

Summary: Roman gets into trouble while questing in the Imagination. Rescue arrives, but will the rescuer be all right?

Word Count: 2,108

Relationship(s): Platonic LAMP, with some extra Prinxiety focus

Warnings: It's a whump/hurt/comfort fic, sooooo... hospital/clinic setting, some really disturbing imagery including fire and darkness and other unpleasantness, medical sutures, poison, illness, description of inflamed wounds, Remus mention, nightmare mention

Logan taped down the last bandage and stood back, admiring their handiwork. “There. I think we can put him to bed now.”

“He looks better already,” said Patton. “A little like a mummy, but I think he'd be okay with that. Remember that one Halloween?”

“Patton, that was Christmas Eve.”

“Oh. Right.”

Roman had begun visibly improving shortly after drinking his antidote, which made sense. His scratches remained a bit swollen, but the other two Sides had disinfected them, daubed them with ointment and patched them with gauze, and the prince was now resting peacefully and well on the road to recovery. Logan estimated thirty-six hours before his rapid recuperative powers (something they all enjoyed, as non-physical beings) brought him back to full health.

He waved the examination room away, transforming it into a small but pleasantly appointed hotel room, with Roman tucked into a full bed and a smaller cot alongside. Putting the Creative Side back in his own room would have been ideal, but they couldn't enter it from the common space without him being conscious to allow it.

“One of us should stay with him until he awakens naturally,” Logan said, “and I volunteer.”

“All right,” said Patton. “I'll look in on Virge after he's had a chance to rest up. And I'll keep an ear out for Thomas and let him know what's up if tries to call on us.”

“Excellent plan,” said Logan, changing from his medical garb into a simple combo of tee-shirt and sweatpants. He maneuvered onto the cot as Patton sank out and was soon dozing.

Fire. Fire and hot darkness and and pain, a dull yet insistent pain that was everywhere with no way to locate its source. And the fire was black fire, doing nothing to light up the oppressive, suffocating darkness. And the darkness was made of voices, too whispery quiet to be heard clearly yet at the same time so loud that they were like physical blows to his ears, inflicting more pain and more fire.

He couldn't move and he could barely breathe (the fire was somehow also water) and everything was wrong and everything hurt and he didn't understand why. There was no such thing as time—no past to remember in order to understand, no future to anticipate so he could plan—there was only an eternal present of pain and darkness. And fire.

~~~~~

Roman woke slowly, feeling unusually refreshed for a mere nap. It took him a moment to realize that no, it hadn't been a mere nap. His back was dreadfully sore at first, but the pain receded into the background as his awareness brightened, and he remembered.

He opened his eyes and glanced around as much as he could without moving just yet. A modest bedroom, furnished in subdued colors. Morning sunlight filtering in through medium-weight drapes over either a large double window or a sliding glass door. A framed piece of art on the wall, its image invisible behind the reflection of light on the glass cover. A bureau and a small television. So, a hotel room—not luxurious, but far from the worst place to be. He tried to sit up a little to take in more, but found himself hissing in pain as something twinged in the small of his back.

Suddenly Logan was there, standing up from wherever he had been and fumbling for his glasses on the bureau. “Roman? Are you awake? Is it morning?” He paused to yawn and change back into his daywear. “Don't try to get up too quickly or you'll pull on your sutures.”

“Sutures...” Roman repeated, easing himself up more carefully and reaching around his own back to feel the knobbly knots under the bandage. “Was it that bad?”

“Just in one spot. I put in two sutures to close up a laceration. I doubt you'll need them long.” He paused again, and cleared his throat. “How do you feel?”

“Well enough,” said Roman, just before his stomach rumbled. “Strike that—I'm starving. I don't suppose...I might get breakfast in bed?”

“Not from me, you won't. It should be safe for you to get up and walk as long as you're careful. Come on—Patton and Virgil will be very pleased to see you on the mend.”

“I owe Virgil, for sure,” Roman said. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and gingerly got to his feet. “These are nice pajamas; did you put me in these? I just need to make one little addition for the occasion.” He reached into the hem of his sleeve, like a magician doing a scarf trick, and drew out a swatch of gold-tinted chiffon which whipped around the shoulder opposite and knotted itself, creating an impromptu arm sling.

“Roman, that is entirely unnecessary. Your arm suffered only superficial damage.”

“It's for the 'recuperating hero' aesthetic. Let's go eat!”

~~~~~

Patton dumped an extra spoonful of sugar into his peppermint tea...yeah, it was that kind of morning. He was trying not to be morose, but it was tough going when the last he'd seen of his fellow Sides was Roman unconscious and Logan settling in for a bedside vigil. He wondered whether it was worth making breakfast, and for how many.

There came a soft sound from the stairwell, and then Logan's unmistakable imperious tones. “Descend slowly. Don't disturb your dressings.”

“I know how to walk down stairs, Logan.”

And just like that, Patton's morning was 100% better.

“KIDDO!” he bubbled, his sock-clad feet slipping on the kitchen linoleum as he hastened to meet Roman. “Look at you, almost all better! Wait, what happened to your arm? I thought...”

“Aesthetics,” Logan said flatly.

“So it's safe to hug him?” Patton said, not even waiting before sweeping Roman into a joyful embrace. “Anyway, we should have a special breakfast to celebrate your recovery! We can make it together! You two do me a favor and get out the stuff, and I'll go wake Virgil!” He all but leapt up the stairs, buoyed by relief and delight.

Patton and Virgil had an understanding. Patton was allowed to enter Virgil's room without specific permission under the following circumstances: 1) He was reasonably certain that Virgil was in there, 2) He was entering for the purpose of either gently waking him up or rescuing him from a presumed panic spiral, 3) He knocked first anyway and announced his intention to enter, giving Virgil a chance to deny him if it was a bad time.

Patton knocked on Virgil's door. “Virge? Kiddo? Roman's up and he's doing great! We're gonna make breakfast together.”

There was no response, so he rapped again, said “I'm coming in,” and did so.

And just like that, Patton's morning was 100% worse.

“Logan!” he blurted before he had even processed the entirety of the scene. “LOGAN!”

There was a crash of dropped dishes from the kitchen, followed by the rapid rhythm of someone charging up the stairs. Logan appeared in the doorway, his jaw dropping.

Virgil sprawled fully clothed on his bed—pale, trembling, panting, whimpering. His eyes, open a crack, were rolled back until only the bloodshot sclera were visible. The sheets around him were damp with perspiration. Patton repeatedly reached a shaking hand toward his face to offer comfort, but pulled back every time, unsure whether he should make contact. “What do we do?” he pleaded. “What's wrong with him?”

“I can't say without more information,” Logan confessed. “But it looks like—”

“It's the poison,” Roman said, having just arrived. “That's what it does without the antidote. It's one of my brother's favorite dirty tricks, so I know all about it. But I don't understand; he wasn't wounded! Unless...”

He shrugged out of his bogus sling and gently lifted Virgil's left hand, undid the zipper on the sleeve cuff, and turned down the fabric. Two punctures, one larger and deeper than the other, were revealed in the soft, pale skin on the underside of the Anxious Side's wrist. The flesh around them was horribly swollen and red, with inflamed blood vessels visible through the skin, radiating out from the wounds.

“The thorns penetrated after all,” Roman said. “It must have been so slight that he didn't notice at the time. The poison takes time to fully kick in.”

“Oh, Virgil,” said Patton, finally overcoming his hesitancy and ruffling Virgil's sweat-drenched hair. Virgil flinched away from the touch, his head thrashing back and forth until he finally flopped over entirely, facing away from them, and curled up into the fetal position. “He's burning up,” Patton said, following Virgil to the other side of the bed. “Roman, do you have any more of that antidote? Please say yes.”

Roman rubbed a hand over his face. “It's too late for that. There's about a two-hour window. After that, the only thing to do is ride it out. It's not going to be a good time for any of us, Virgil least of all...but he will make a full recovery. Remus doesn't go in for lethal stuff, on the grounds that dead people can't pay him attention.”

“He's not wrong in that. Roman, you have suffered the full effects of the poison before?” said Logan.

Roman nodded.

“Please tell me whatever you can about it. It may help advise a course of action for treating Virgil's symptoms until his system purges the toxin.”

“Nightmares,” Roman said softly. “He'll be knocked out for a couple days, and the fever will give him fever-dreams...bad enough, right? Now try to picture fever-dreams designed by my brother. Better yet, don't.”

Logan adjusted his glasses. “Would reducing the fever alleviate the visions?”

Roman shrugged. “Maybe? It can't hurt.”

“I'll set up some cold compresses,” said Patton, rising from his kneeling position. “And we should move him. This is no place for a sickbed. You two are already showing some under-eye smudge.”

“I do find myself becoming increasingly unsettled,” said Logan. “Thank you for spotting that, Patton.”

“I volunteer my room,” said Roman. “The atmosphere of pleasant fantasies should help to combat the nightmares.”

“You two work on that, then,” said Logan. “I will inform Thomas so that it doesn't catch him off guard if Virgil's suffering spills over onto him. In fact, he may be able to counter it from his end.”

The three of them nodded to each other, and they got to it.

~~~~~

It was a day and a half before Virgil woke up.

Roman had been watching him, as usual—it was his room, after all, and by concentrating he could modulate the atmosphere to produce only the sweetest and most beautiful of ideas, though he could only hope they were filtering through to Virgil's lowered awareness. He was changing the cold compress, which was a bit trickier than just removing one wet washcloth and replacing it with another, cooler one, because the delirium had Virgil recoiling almost violently when anything touched his head or face. The way to calm him, they (actually Patton) had discovered by accident, was to pick up his hand and gently massage the pad of his thumb.

Roman was in the midst of this process when Virgil's hand abruptly tightened on his, and then the Anxious Side's eyes flew open and he let out a brief, barking yell.

“It's all right!” Roman said on reflex. “It's just me, Virgil, I'm right here and you're safe. You're safe. You're safe, Emo the Frownfish.”

“P-Princey...?” Virgil said, his voice barely a squeak.

“Yeah,” said Roman. “We're taking care of you. You'll be okay.”

“D...d...don...”

“Don't what?”

“Leave. Don't leave. Please.”

Roman had been planning to go inform the other two that Virgil was awake, but after a plea like that, it was completely off the table. They would find out sooner or later. “I won't,” he said softly, squeezing the hand he was still holding.

There was a long pause while Virgil sank back into the pillow, whimpering.

“I know,” Roman said. “It hurts. It'll stop hurting pretty soon now that you're awake.”

Another pause, and then Virgil said, “Have you really been here this whole time?”

“We took turns, actually. But I'm glad I'm here now, so I can thank you properly for rescuing me the other day. You were my hero, Virgil. The least I can do is be yours for a little while.”

“Sap,” Virgil muttered, proving that he was going to be all right.

The End

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#sanders sides #fanfiction #lamp/calm #prinxiety #collateral damage

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edgymegatronus · 4 years

Text

The Pits of Kaon

The lights of the arena where always blinding. Searing white light that chiseled its way into your optic nerves, washing away any other surrounding colours so much that one may think they’re joining with the Allspark once they step out onto the ashy plain. This is purposeful, of course, for the arena was a stage for the barbaric, where the onlookers can see it’s actors, but the actors cannot gaze back at them. Once you have shuttered your optics several times and they begin to adjust, only spots of bright light decorating your vision for a short while, the arena comes heaving into view, stagnant and intimidating. Massive, beyond comprehension, the blackened jewel of Kaon. You’d have to squint to see the opposite end of the Energon-crusted pit. The steep, cold grey sides rocketed up towards the skies, the heavens where the audience sat to eagerly absorb the slaughter. Every brandish of a sword, every amputation of a limb, every scream or victory holler, every spark taken was feasted upon by those hunger bound optics. In the lower areas of the arena, closer to the action, there were boxes reserved for the higher caste aristocracy from great cities like Iacon and Vos. Above them, with a more strained view, sat the rest of the Cybertronain populous. It was never correctly calculated how many the arena could house- it depended on how tightly the lower class worker mechs packed themselves together to watch the entertainment. There was always shoving and drunkenness, fights began over the limited space and smaller mechs often simply got crushed under pede if they didn’t move fast enough. Very few actually from Kaon ever got to sit in the golden boxes, where quality high-grade Energon flowed like ground oil as its famed patrons gawked down into the pit. The atmosphere was always rancheros, the first death spelled out the kick-off for the day's events to begin. In the mornings there were petty fights. Weak slaves pitted against each other, unarmed mechs left to the mercy of some of the most vicious beasts Cybertron had to offer. This got the crowd vying to see more Energon spilled on the ashy floors of the pit. As the hilarity reached its crescendo into the afternoon, we were brought out.

Titled ‘Gladiators’, we were prime time entertainment. Romanticised as strong mechs each with some characterisation the media invalidated us with to entice the onlookers into made up rivalries between us, adding passion to the murder. Some mechs actually sank into this, and took signature moves and mottos played into their characters, worked to gain support from those oppressing them. Usually, this was the quickest way to die. The arena owners would only allow a Gladiator in the limelight for so many matches and killed them before they became too boring, and to make the audience more invested as each match progressed. They died deluded, for we were just slaves with swords. Brought from all over Cybertronain, but most commonly hailing from places like Kaon, Tarn, and Praxus. Sold off from our previous services because we were no longer needed, a better model had been introduced, rule-breaking, being damaged, or because our masters had taken a general disliking. Being sold to the arena was most times a death sentence, an execution in front of the masses. Gladiators were ones who had won their petty matches by some flailing chance of Primus, and in turn proven their metal, and therefore their worth as a mascot. We were not Gladiators.

Our namesake competed by choice, for fame or honour or glory. For a fractured misconception of what they believed to be justice or righteousness. We were slaves, forced to kill our peers, and stare them in the optics as we did, giving a good performance. Refusal meant immediate death, and showmanship was integral. Most of us only lasted a few months before losing a match and being offlined, the longest-reigning mech making it just over a year before the Arena Owners decided he had nothing left to give, no new tricks, and threw him in the pit unarmed with four Krystar Iron-Bears. Some audience members genuinely cried when he passed. But by the next week, he was replaced by a new favourite Gladiator to root for.

I was on my fifth month. My last match had been a near miss. Bad damages all over my frame, lost an arm and my sword-wielding servo was crushed. Inches over and my spark chamber would’ve known the cold of a blunted blade. My opponent was of a bigger build than me, but still new, he had chosen the name ‘Ignode’ for himself after the Arena Owners had given him a flashy new red paint job, replacing his basic menial grey. For some appalling reason, he’d made the mistake of choosing two weapons, rather than one and a shield. An underestimation, I suppose. The new Gladiators, nicknamed ‘Pickrings’ by the rest of us, often got too cocky and suffered the consequences. The day I was declared fit for fighting it was a ‘Winner stays on Tournament’ these often drew larger crowds due to the anticipation and tension aspect that was attached to them. Clearly my medical bills were going to be well paid for by this grotesque procession. The objective to continually kill, over and over, to vanquish spark after spark until eventually, you grew so weak from each consecutive battle that you could no longer hold your own – and you were killed, your deathbringer taking up the mantel and the cycle continued deep into the night while the crowds drank and laughed and indulged.

The bellowing winds that spun like a lifeless tornado around the arena whipped uncomfortably over the exposed cables on the back of my neck. The piece of armour plating that usually protected it had been lost last round and was therefore subject to the treatment of the blowing grit and ash that made a point of invading every crack and gap in plating. Everything felt too heavy, most notably my spark. I had just completed round fifteen, downed fifteen opponents, and somewhere I doubted if Primus would accept me into his loving cradle. My frame was ex-venting in long, drawn out drags. An attempt to cool my shot systems. Every inch of plating was dented or scarred, with slices and holes, faintly missing main Energon lines or mobility joints. I smiled. Before entering the arena, each slave got to choose two tools to utilise during the match. Almost classically, I wielded a long sword with some form of age old forgotten crest on the hilt. I had nicknamed it ‘The Pick’ and it occupied my right servo. To my left brandished a thick oval-shaped silver shield, decorated dashingly with chipped paint and emblems. These things were my trademark, my protection, my symbol, and my saviours.

The spotlight swung intricately around the arena floor once more towards the pit entrance. The thick metal gates opening with the same slow dramatism to reveal my newest combatant. The light fell on him, illuminating his thickset grey frame for the crowds to gawk at, tantalising their optics with the slick view. He smelt like blood and burnt circuitry. They were enraptured, seeing that I was weakening and that this new rival seemed finely built to deliver onto me the final blow, one of those agile miner types. I sized him up immediately; hazarding a guess the Arena Owner’s hadn’t expected much to come from him, only bothering to add spiked red paint under his optics and the larger areas of his expansive grey plating. His optics were stifling, staring directly at me as I stood blatantly forward with my shoulders rolled back, awaiting. We couldn’t yet commence as the Announcer hadn’t yet called for us to do so. Most Gladiators took this brief interval to entertain the crowd, picking up the bodies of mechs they’d killed and throwing them, giving grand victorious gestures and shouts with their weapons, lapping the arena, cheering. I stood still and stared, unwilling to give them any more than the battle.

“Welcoming! Megatronus of Tarn! A heavy-hitting ground-build from the Mines of Messatine! During his petty match earlier this week, Megatronus won against two fellow contestants and a Decopodian in record time! Let’s see how he will fare against our reigning Knight! May Round Sixteen Commence!”

Of course- I had viewed that match from my cell screen. Looking at him now, his crimson optics dimmed. He seemed like a mech who had slaughtered millions, not just two. He made the first step forward, revealing to me his weapons. A small, lightweight shield and a ridged axe. A very decent choice for a mech of his stature. A bow or daggers would’ve been suicide, he was too stocky to be properly dexterous with them, and he was clearly aware. A mech overtly aware of his own capabilities was inherently more dangerous than one who overestimated, or even underestimated themselves. I resumed my ‘defensive stance’ as his larger frame drew closer, each step meticulous and powerful and calculated. He was so self-assured, confident in his ability to wield and kill on his first ever Gladiator match. His EM’s were almost suffocating. I struck the first blow, my long sword firmly embedding itself between his thick shoulder plating. The weapon felt so leaden in my tired arms, each movement causing a low static to run through my circuits as they protested in earnest. My frame was tired, and my processor malcontent. The grey mech swooped his axe low and he raised his smaller shield, directing it precisely so my sword repelled off of it, the force driving my abused frame backwards – into the sharpened blade of his axe.

The Arena began to swirl maliciously as I opened my optics, my HUD showing severe damages to my left leg, and to my back spoilers which had taken the brunt of the hurt as I hit the engulfing floor of the pit. Through the static shock that vibrated through my audial, the faint crazed shouts and cheering from the crowd, layered over the Announcer speaking in a hurriedly excited tone. They were joyful in the revelation of my oncoming demise.

He stared down at me blankly, lifting the axe while calculating the weakest points to strike in my neck or spark chamber. The lights of the arena shone brighter than ever, searing into my optics as they flickered and faded.

He took his victory unlike any other, simply lifting his arms and throwing away his weapons in retribution. They hit the floor of the pit with an almighty clatter, and the crowd cheered and chanted his name, making members of the elite recoil.

#mtmte #mtmte megatron #maccadam #transformers #tfp

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