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bumblingbabooshka · 28 days

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What I Say: I'm fine. What I Mean: There was a Star Trek Novel in which Tuvok and Jack Crusher (Beverely's Husband) have to go undercover in a bathhouse that they think is a brothel to get information out of a potential lead and because of a series of hijinks at one point must come to terms with the fact that they're definitely going to have to go into the boss's private room completely naked and might have to go even further than that to get the info they truly need. They were ready to go all in on that "I'm not gay but a mission's a mission" life.

Transcripts under the cut

[Image 1:

“We’re here to meet someone,” he said. “I was told that a Melacron named Pudris Barrh enjoyed visiting this establishment.” The alien smiled. “Oh, I see…you’re one of Barrh’s boys,” she remarked with a knowing lilt. Barrh’s boys? Crusher asked himself. What did she mean by that? He experienced a moment of alarm but kept his composure.

“If you can get past Old Scowly there,” the female continued, “you can join Barrh at his pleasures if you like." She raised a long slender arm and pointed to a gilded door to her right.] [Image 2:

“I don’t know for certain what kind of establishment this is,” said the commander, “but I can make a pretty good guess.”

“Unfortunately,” the Vulcan whispered back with sincere and undisguised revulsion, “so can I.”

"Still, we may have to go along with it.” Crusher regarded Tuvok. “Would that…pose a problem?” “Naturally,” the Vulcan replied.

The commander grunted. “I was afraid you would say that.”

“And knowing what I do of human marriage customs,” said Tuvok, “I would imagine it would pose a problem for you as well.”

Crusher looked lost “Maybe we could just play along for some of it…for the sake of-”

“My master will see you now,” said Old Scowly. He had reappeared before the Vulcan knew it. “You may enter through the changing room, remove your clothes, and join Pudris Barrh at his pleasures.”] [Image 3:

As it happened, Tuvok wasn’t happy either. If he didn’t know better, he would have said that the uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his stomach was apprehension. Of course, that was impossible. His control over his emotions was impeccable. And yet the sensation remained.

“There must be another way,” said Crusher. “There is no other way,” the Vulcan told him. “This is the situation in which your plan has placed us.” He knew his words sounded biting, but he didn’t wish any of them back.

The human ran his hands through his thick, dark hair. “Damn it,” he said, “If Beverely ever…” “Find out about this?” the ensign suggested.

Frowning, Crusher nodded. “But as you say, there’s no other option open to us. I guess we’ll just deal with whatever comes as best we can.” He grunted. “The things we do for king and country.”] [Image 4:

When the air cleared for a moment - a byproduct of their entrance - the Vulcan was able to get a better look at their host. He was rather corpulent for a Melacron, it seemed, and more pale-looking than most.

As thick, sludgy ripples made their slow way outward from Barrh’s generous torso, he waved to Tuvok and Crusher. “Please, gentlemen, join me. We’ve not met yet, but there are few better places to get to know someone than in The House of Comfort!”

[Crusher] and Tuvok exchanged a quick glance. Taking a deep breath, the human walked up to the carpeted stairs and placed first one foot, then the other, into the hot, liquid muck.

The ensign had little choice but to follow suit. He assured himself, as he sank up to his chest in the thick, surprisingly pleasant-smelling stuff, that there was realy no logical reason T’Pel ever had to become acquainted with this misadventure.

Besides, he reflected, there was quite a good chance that the majority of his and Crusher’s actions would be classified. He had to confess that he found some comfort in the prospect.]

Bonus:

Tuvok and Crusher apparently both go home and tell their wives about this experience. I don't know if we learn of T'Pel's reaction but Beverely apparently thinks its hilarious!

#novel experiences #TUVOK. HEY.#-POINTS-#HE CAN'T KEEP GETTING AWAY WITH THIS #Tuvok CANNOT keep getting into dubiously moral but incredibly gay scenarios he just can't I'm gonna start howling at the moon #The fact that he has a wife is so funny #GOD there was an old post I LOVED that was like #'I know Tuvok has a wife and kids and I'm so happy for him but he has sex with men.'#<- VERY paraphrased by me #st voyager #tng #Jack Crusher #Tuvok #st voy #star trek #Is he....you know? -gestures- One of Barrh's boys?#Crusher: We might have to suck this guy's dick Tuvok. / Tuvok: Tch.#I love that Tuvok's like 'he knew his words sounded harsh....and he meant it<3 He meant every syllable <3'#him being so devoted to his wife just makes the whole thing more lascivious /positive

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dear-galileo · 2 years

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the way he loves you

here is my piece for the jaskier mini bang! thank you @jaskierminibang mods for putting this together!

and a huge thank you to @spielzeugkaiser for your lovely lovely art, check it out on ao3!!! <3

read on ao3

the five times geralt didn't understand jaskier's relationships, and the one time he did.

Jaskier was a sparkling gem, dancing across the marbled floor. He shone brightly, nearly blinding every person who dared to look at him in the face. At the same time, he was magnetic, attracting crowds of smiling people who he doted on as if he knew them all personally.

He also had the annoying trait of making Geralt get poetic, whenever he was near. Not that Geralt would even indulge and reveal his thoughts to the bard (that might make him unbearable), but it was an unfortunate byproduct of spending too much time with him.

Jaskier finished his last song, graciously bowing out of the crowd before bounding over to where Geralt was waiting on the outskirts of the ballroom.

“Like my show?” Jaskier asked, snatching Geralt’s wine glass from him and taking a sip. “Damn, this is good. I need to get invited to more of these, they don’t skimp out here.”

“You finished earlier than I thought,” Geralt commented. He held out his plate full of finger foods for Jaskier to pick through. “They asked you to cut your set?”

“Yes,” Jaskier said, crinkling his nose. He picked up a chunk of cheese and took a bite, continuing to talk. “They hired multiple bards, so the guests don’t get tired. I told them that I once successfully entertained a crowd for two entire days back in Oxenfurt, but they didn’t believe me.”

“Their loss,” Geralt said.

“So, they hired a up-comer from Cintra, she’s alright, I’ve heard her before. Nothing to write home about.”

“Mm.”

“I’ve seen this sort of thing happen at festivals, or competitions, but never like this, at a banquet. Even if they do bring out quite good wine-” another sip of Geralt’s glass to accentuate his point, “I must say I’m not a fan.”

As if on a cue, the hall broke out into music once again, a young black haired woman in a colorful dress belting out.

“They are lucky I didn’t stretch out The Fishmonger’s Daughter any longer than I did.”

“We are all lucky,” Geralt remarked, stealing back his wine glass to take the last sip. Jaskier glared at him, but it seemed to be more directed at the comment than the wine being gone.

“We will have to stay for the rest of the night, though. I refuse to allow for any missed opportunities to hop back into the fray.”

Geralt just grunted, and waved down a servant holding a tray of wine glasses.

“But now is the time that I need you to be on your guard. I caught wind that they also hired my greatest enemy to perform tonight.” Geralt tilted the wine glass all the way back before responding.

“Miriam Wintersons?”

“No!” Jaskier sputtered. “Good lord man, how many years have we known each other? My arch nemesis-”

“The alderman from Lyria, the one who you swore you would-”

“Wish death upon at every sunrise? Well, yes, but not him,” Jaskier tried to cut in.

“What was it that he did to anger you so?” Geralt couldn’t resist asking. Jaskier, to Geralt’s surprise, broke Geralt’s gaze for a moment, looking to the side.

“If you must know,” Jaskier eventually said, chest puffing up. “He tried to short you. You were stabling Roach, and I went ahead to get you your coin, and I overheard him speaking about not paying you all that was promised on account of your-” Jaskier waved his hand at Geralt’s chest.

That was not the answer that Geralt had anticipated, but thankfully Jaskier didn’t give him the chance to blunder.

“My arch nemesis-” Jaskier lowered his voice and leaned in, regardless of the fact that they were tucked away in an isolated corner in an already noisy hall. “ Valdo Marx. ”

“Valdo Marx?” Geralt repeated, frowning. “I thought he wasn’t real.” Jaskier reared back, sputtering once again.

“Of course he is real! Why would you think that?”

“You once told me that he as the Devil’s Apprentice, and that flowers died in the place he stepped.”

“That was just a metaphor!” Jaskier insisted, as if that was obvious. “No, he’s quite real, and the bane of my existence. He stole the Bardic Inspiration award from me two years ago, and still hasn’t let me forget it. Not to mention the atrocities to this world that he claims is his music.”

“Hm.”

“And do not forget!” Jaskier stuck his finger in the air pointedly. “He called Toss A Coin fictionalized. Can you believe that? Fictionalized! As a bard, it is my purpose to enlighten the masses of the true stories of the world, as unbelievable as they might seem.”

“That song is fictionalized. All of your songs are, in fact.” Geralt countered. Jaskier gasped, a hand flying to his chest, as if Geralt had just admitted to burning down a library instead of stating a fact that he had reminded Jaskier of multiple times over the years they had known each other.

“Why you-” Jaskier quickly cut himself off, shaking his head. “No matter- the only thing you need to understand is that this man is no friend of ours, as charismatic as he may seem.”

“Want me to chase him off for you?”

Jaskier looked almost touched for a moment before shaking his head. “I appreciate the offer dear heart, but no. This is a battle that I must fight on my own- no, a battle that I want to, I need to fight on my own!” Jaskier stole Geralt’s new glass of wine.

read the rest on ao3!

#jmb2022 #geraskier #geraskier fics #em posts #my fics #ill come back and fill in more tags later

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impulsea · 1 year

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How do you feel about how the Disney Princess franchise has treated Ariel's character? This is a question that sparked upon a debate about how the franchise portraits the princesses vs how they are in the movies - ie, all the princesses are resolute and brave and kind in their own ways yet the franchise during the 2000s used to focus more in giving them sparkling dresses (not saying sparlking dresses are bad though!) and I remember back the Disney Princess magazine had lots of stories featuring the princesses and while some were good, others were kinda OOC (I remember a story where Ariel found out a note of a little human girl she saved wishing she could be a mermaid and Ariel was like "Yeah, being a mermaid is amazing!"...which really contradicts her canon characterization in the movie in how she didn't liked to be a mermaid!). I have noticed in recent times the Disney Princess franchise is now focusing more in the more empowering themes surrounding the princesses and their stories (their new "Dream big princess" slogan for example), but overall how do you feel Ariel has been handled?

PS: If you wish you can also comment on how the franchise has treated your other princess muses! (Snow, Cindy and Aurora).

This is such an interesting question- thanks for sending this in, friend! My relationship with the princess line is very layered. On one hand, I was a very feminine child who worshipped pink and believed the bigger the ballgown, the closer to God. I totally benefited from them glamourizing Ariel, as a child, to an extent but I also think there's a huge difference between what happened in the beginning of the line and what's been happening for the past fifteen years.

The conceit of the Disney Princess line was an exciting premise- they sought to reunite strong female leads from the most iconic Disney films, almost in the same manner as those screen legend documentaries centered around the top actresses of Old Hollywood. They wanted to maintain who the characters were from the films (Ariel's clipart, for instance, was mostly reused from the 1997 rerelease of the film in the beginning of the Disney Princess line) and, while they attempted to provide a cohesion to the characters, I feel like they still succeeded in allowing their individual voices, appearances, and temperaments be shown. Disney really did want to keep each princess separate, to the point where they famously weren't allowed to interact or exchange eye contact and even when Glen Keane proposed a film based on The Twelve Dancing Princesses, he was told that would be too many princesses in one film to keep separate and unique. However, as the line went on, they began to homogenize them and, unfortunately, aim them toward a younger base which is where a huge dip in quality started. As I mentioned previously, there was always a cohesion to the line, but the late 2000s and 2010s took it to a whole new level. It was the byproduct of Disney becoming increasingly commercialized and making the princesses in the films, themselves, more similar to one another and infantilized.

The older princesses were very mature, and we can see that in their fine art merchandise and the elevated discourse surrounding them. The newer princesses, we all meet as children and just seem more made for an audience under twelve. We can observe this in their design, their character treatments, and the writing of their films. Also, we saw this strange phenomenon where the later princesses were seemingly made to rebel against the line itself, like when Moana famously proclaimed she wasn't a princess in her film...yet was still inducted into the princess line? It's very confusing to me, and I feel like there's no reason why anyone is or isn't a princess anymore. The very mold of the line has become breaking the mold, in a sense, as a delayed response to battling the patriarchy but I feel like it's only succeeding in coming across as belittling femininity. I have so many more things to say about this...like the fact that the princesses are one of the most successful franchise in the world but never get their dues (they're the only reason Ralph Breaks the Internet had any buzz around it, sorry) or that they wouldn't even face a fraction of the criticism they do if they were comprised of male characters or that the line is being led of misogynists parading around as feminists that are meanspirited and want to pit the princesses against one around.

In terms of how the princesses were handled, it definitely depends on the era of the line we're discussing. The 2010s were by far the worst and their horrific redesigns still plague the parks costumes. Take Cinderella, for instance. She's such a lovely character that's drawn with a realistic body type, sensible features, and nothing about her is overtly ornate or unnecessary. The clipart from the 2010s slimmed her down considerably and even went as far as airbrushing bones into her upper chest to make her look more thin. They did that for a lot of princesses and it was honestly disturbing, reducing them to an archetype. In this era, Ariel pretty much had no function outside of the "resident mermaid", Cinderella represented the power of makeovers, Aurora was "nap queen", and Snow White was largely omitted/forgotten about. I think Ariel was more true to herself in the beginning, and despite the fact that the newer artwork that has surfaced is hideous, I think with the biographies and shift in marketing, it seems like a change in the right direction? Ariel's about, for instance, on the princess website is very similar to the character description Jodi received for Ariel all the way back in '85. So, I definitely think that it's getting better than what it devolved to in the 2010s, but I think they're still missing that princess energy that made so much of the princesses special. You felt enchanted by them, that it was magical to be in their presence or to just see them. Now, it's very mundane and I feel like anyone could churn out the content that's being produced- nothing's unique about it.

I definitely see the value in maintaining the line, as I think putting certain characters that have dwindled in popular against the "new, cool ones" keep them relevant, to an extent and prevent them from being forgotten about. But I genuinely do wish that they returned to marketing the movies as individual franchises and The Little Mermaid had easily the best franchise in all of Disneydom! The comics, the read along storybooks, the chapter books, the television show, the magazine line- there was so much and it was mostly great! I also think it will allow us to start seeing them as individual characters, as opposed to viewing each princess as a mascot for the Disney Princess line, and then lobbying criticisms against that. If we took the approach I just described, we'd also get to further explore their universes and use characters that are in dire need of new life that never get to see the light of day! For instance, focusing on Sleeping Beauty's universe would allow us to see more of Flora, Fauna, Merryweather and Phillip! Snow White has sadly been parted from the Dwarfs, as they have no place in the princess line, and I wish we would get to see Ariel's sisters as they originally were and not how the prequel made them out to be.

How I feel each individual princess was handled is as follows:

Snow White: She had beautiful merchandise when the line began, and it was right around the time her film was released on DVD first, so I really adored how she was marketed in the beginning! However, as the line went on, she was largely neglected and forgotten so there isn't much to say in the way of a depiction so she wasn't really depicted. I remember one of the voice replacements for Snow White was even told, "You're not Cinderella. You're not going to be making a living off of Snow White or be able to buy a home from this job- we'll probably only use you once a quarter."

Cinderella: I thought her likeness is the beginning of the line was appropriately mature, appealing, and comforting. I liked that they used her as the representative of the line, but I felt that often led to them making her character too general and they were very quick to exchange her personality for more popular renditions of the character (post the third film, they changed her to reflect that Cinderella and then after the live action, they used her interchangeably with the 2015 Cinderella which is a huge mistake that never should've happened). Also, while Jennifer Hale isn’t horrible, her take on the character isn’t really the character and she’s said things recently that leave a bad taste in my mouth about Cinderella.

Aurora: I think Aurora maintained charm in the beginning with her likeness, but as the line progressed, they never really saw her as anything but a pretty girl in a pretty dress and it kind of shows. I think she probably get shortchanged the most for having to be infantilized because she is among the most mature of the princesses in her sensibilities, temperament, and design.

Ariel: Ariel has always been one of the most popular princesses, so they never messed with her too badly, but they did sometimes make her empty-headed and her sole purpose to be: "let me tell you about my exciting life under the sea!" Which, I guess I understand because many children do want to be mermaids and like Ariel because she is one, but as you mentioned it's counterintuitive to her character. Ariel, and all the princesses, fair better or worse depending on what age range the line is being marketed to. When it was wider and more inclusive to adults in the early 2000s, I felt like they kept her intact pretty well, but as it progressed, she got more and more glittery and interchangeable and it makes me sad.

My personal recommendation is from to begin splitting the marketing up! I think Snow White, Cinderella, and Sleeping Beauty should be marketed together as "Walt's Princesses." Aimed for an older audience of art lovers that are collectors, the line would feature authentic items and continue the tradition of hand drawn animation. A lot of integration about Walt would be abundant here, as his hand was paramount to their creation. I want them to be marketed as the women they are, instead of the weird baby hybrids they sometimes become. I think this move would be able to retain Aurora's operative quality, Cinderella's soft jazz voice, and Snow White's coloratura that is eradicated so often for a generic "pop" feel. They'd also just be able to feel like themselves and they, with the aim of this franchise being marketed to a 30-90+ age base, would help animation be seen as a category of film, as opposed to kids' stuff, the way Walt intended. Another line- "Ready to Stand" would feature Ariel, Belle, Jasmine, Esmeralda, Meg, Mulan, Tiana, and Pocahontas! So much great diversity, and keeping them with one another would really allow them to continue looking like products of the 90s, as opposed to whatever they're currently turning into. They're also all Broadway girls! It'd be aimed to a base that's in the 20-40ish age range. It's fancy, has sing along values, and the nostalgia, but also the adult factor with characters like Esmeralda, Pocahontas, and Meg bringing a more serious tone. Lastly, the 3D girls: Rapunzel, Frozen sisters, Moana, Merida, and Raya. They're all 3D and should be aimed toward like a preK-early 20s audience because I feel like they mostly cater to that age range? Part of me almost wants to spilt them up into Rapunzel, Frozen sisters, Giselle, and Merida and then have Raya, Moana, Kida...maybe a grown up Eilowny and Nakoma too???

#- message in a bottle <#anonymous #ask

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328-loop-street · 2 years

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Entry 1: Excitement - The feeling, the attribute, and the waste of time.

Even the slightest modification to a thought can corrupt it, like a virus in the body or an unexpected number in a premeditated sequence. I get bored and then I get tired of being unbored and become bored again and somehow this cycle of events has never worked to achieve whatever it is my mind would seek to achieve to achieve what I am very well-versed with seeking, but it also seems to make up the core of my very being. A reprogramming of my fundamentals is obviously in order. What I fear is that I have friends - I do not want to lose these friends. I very much disagree with these friends, I oftentimes dislike these friends, and yet I could not want to lose these friends. Nevertheless, this is not the point, and let it be known that friends come and go - such is the end to a useless argument. Cohesion has never been a talent of mine.

Excitement is a byproduct of a stimulated mind - a mind that seeks the things unseeken will acquire it while on the way of achieving whatever its goal, both as an attribute and a feeling. People seek excitement in dull things, and this is maddening, which unfortunately is an unsavoury feeling. I’ve grown to appreciate it over the years. From the state of being maddened, I believe one can challenge themselves and become excited and useful, or accept the thoughts as an objective entity, and become wise. If you are truly worth anyone’s time you’d learn to do both. Of course, most people do not wish to be maddened and avoid the feeling entirely. These people have most likely never been gifted the privilege of an elementary classroom, in which boys smack their lips and girls smack their lips and everyone is the same, yet different, and loud, yet empty. (One of those necessary wastes of time.) If you are indeed in elementary, I encourage your madness, if only it in turn encourages your thirst to cure it. This is obviously found in books, science, and observations of the world. In other words, I encourage you to learn to require to learn, if only to satisfy the nonsense around you.

Again, off topic, and so back we get to excitement, the curious thing. A feeling or a thought or something to describe, I’ve been, felt and thought all three, as well as their absence. Without them - a blessing to a tired mind and a curse to a trapped one. What is it that fascinates me? Dried food? Moisture in the air? Molecules or bugs or plants or the feeble composition of cracked hair? No poetry is needed to see everything around you.

If I was an exciting person at the moment, I’d drive to my friend’s. He lives atop our small mountain and I’d ask him questions and talk excitedly; he'd feign a sort of redundant, mildly apathetic care to mask fear, amusement, and of course, excitement. I care for him, so I’d grow quiet very quickly, for I care for his opinion - another unsavoury state. I will not visit him because I have not rested and I most likely need to do that more than I do to be perceived (resulting in the fleeting feeling of excitement). I asked him not long ago if he found me exciting, which he said he did, and he most likely did not lie. Nevermind it would make no sense to, as humans rarely do the sensible thing, I knew he did not lie because we are friends, not acquaintances, and he appreciates a measure of honesty in our unspoken agreement to be more to each other than a man is to a woman in a blank, unwritten tale. He is my friend. He would most likely not mind if I visited him in the dark hours of select mornings. I think I would mind if he did the same me. Whether this makes us different people, or this is sign of my blatant assery, I don’t care to deduce. He is my friend.

Today’s later morning I shall wake up and speak with him. I will most likely ask him dull things, like how his sleep played out or whether he’s come to any new conclusions about the world. He will answer no, and we will drink warm water, and then most likely play a game. I’ve to clean my room so I do hope I decide to do that instead because we’re going to build a robot and my room is to be our base. I won’t bore you with the details. I’m rather tired actually. The point is that excitement requires honesty and curiosity.

Goodnight and good morning.

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trulyhumblenarcissist · 3 years

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Well... Shit

I've just finished Jujutsu kaisen, both anime and manga, it was a beautiful marathon like the old ones I used to have when my life didn't get in the way of my passions (but that's another story). I must say the experience was incredibly refreshing and I'm glad I've decided to finally give jjk a try. First and foremost, it definitely has its own problems: the power system is not so clear and easy to understand at times (or maybe I'm just dumb) and some characters suffer from a severe case of plot armor that gives them the edge to win fights that should be out of their league. The premise isn't original at all, but I don't think Akutami wanted to create something ground breaking. There are a lot of references to well established shonen mangas, such as Bleach and Naruto (duh). Curses born from humans' bad emotions are definitely similar the hollows that terrorized Karakura in Bleach. I'm not going to point out the obvious resemblance between Gojo and Kakashi because I guess it's already a meme at this point, but Itadori and Naruto are definitely quite similar: sunny types with a demon trapped inside their bodies. With this derivative kind of setting, you would expect jjk to be quite simple and boring, but here's the catch: this manga manages to embrace stereotypical shonen tropes while at the same time painting them in a different light. Let's talk about Itadori and Fushiguro's relationship, for example: they are basically Naruto and Sasuke on a surface level and it would've been so easy writing them as sour rivals, at least in the beginning. The industry loves this type of relationship, but Akutami said "screw that" and actually made these two boys the best of friends. Itadori saved Fushiguro's life and Fushiguro saved Itadori's in return. They are very different people and their ideologies are bound to clash: Fushiguro doesn't want to be a "hero", he's a sorcerer, whose duty is to exorcise curses, not to save every single person he meets. He has a strong moral compass and he judges things on his own, avoiding to be influenced by others if possible. To him, saving lives is not an obligation, it's something he decides to do only if he thinks it's worth it. This may appear extremely selfish and arrogant, but in reality, Fushiguro's choices don't stem from an exaggerated ego. He despises injustices, to him the world is inherently unfair, so there isn't proper way to make things "right". It's impossible saving everyone and it isn't even something worth pursuing, especially because someone's safety could easily become someone else's demise. Fushiguro came to the conclusion that, since fairness really doesn't exist, the only thing that he can do to make the world a better place is basically starting from his own world, helping only the people he really wants to help (a similar concept is expressed by Nobara, who doesn't concern herself with the problems of people she doesn't know or care about, because she understands that doing it would be the fastest way to become miserable). Itadori, on the other hand, finds humanity inherently worthy of salvation, no matter what. That's because he is strong and his strength is definitely his curse, metaphorically speaking. The strong must protect the weak because it is the moral thing to do.

If you're strong, you are gifted with something more in comparison to the average person; since nothing is given for nothing, you must return to the world at least a part of the luck you have received by birth. Things get even more complicated for Itadori the moment he realizes that Sukuna could destroy (and he almost did it) everything he cares about in an instant, forcing him to make amends for crimes he didn't even commit. That's a very tragic situation for our MC and I really, really appreciate the fact that Sukuna isn't just another Kurama, ready to become Itadori's pet friend and help him whenever it fits the plot. To this day, Sukuna intervened in Itadori's fights only when he wanted to, for a whim or because the situation could benefit him. So refreshing! Itadori is definitely cursed from both Sukuna and himself, which is a very interesting plot point and it makes you wonder who will be faster in making Itadori's life a nightmare: Itadori himself or Sukuna?

Itadori's objective to save as much people as possible is also liked to his visceral desire to be accepted and loved, to have people around him even at his death bed. But, unfortunately, his merging with Sukuna definitely suggests he will be soon forced to isolate himself, in some way, basically depriving him of the only thing he really wanted. Besides, his desire to have friends and comrades is probably the byproduct of his upbringing... He wasn't alone, he had his grandpa, but he never met his parents and this is definitely a huge gap in his life, even though he seems to not care.

This rambling is already too long as it is, sorry... The last thing I'd like to point out is that, finally, we have some pretty good female characters! No Sakuras or Hinatas and that's really nice. Nobara, the heroine, is unhinged, badass and also extremely feminine in her passions and desires. She's not the typical tomboy nor the typical girly boy obsessed princess in distress. She can defend herself without sacrificing the softer sides of her personality. She is Kugisaki Nobara and no one can tell she must be different in order to fullfil her role as a shaman woman. I really like her (sobs). Maki makes tingle my little bi heart so I will not say anything about her. I'm not gonna show my simping shameful self, not now at least.

Honorable mentions:

Call me main stream and basic, but I fucking adore Gojo... He's hot, a little sadistic and completely childsh. For once, he is a teacher that doesn't get obscured by his pupils. He is so broken and op that Akutami needed to... Well you know. Another element that gives me a bit of sadness is the fact that Gojo is basically my age... And the fandom calls him a "dilf"... A dilf! He's just 28, don't call me out like that.

Suguru's story was pretty sad, I wish we could've seen more of his descent into madness.

Mahito... Cute, but nothing special. I find him kinda boring sometimes, he doesn't tickle my imagination neither my speculative instinct, while Suguru is definitely more interesting, especially in his relationship with Gojo.

That's it for now, I can't wait this week's chapter.

#jjk #jujustu kaisen #fushiguro megumi #itadori yūji #nobara kugisaki #maki zenin #jjk spoilers

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spacedlexi · 3 years

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hey! what's ur opinion on season 2? i saw you stream some of it but not for long bc i forgot my twitch password. fav characters? fav ending? any way you wished the story played out instead?

ok im gonna answer this in like a bulleted way to avoid rambling too much (THIS DID GET LONG THO...). i answered some of this during my stream so i'll be repeating myself a little bit from there. i’ll put it under a read more for everyones sanity

general opinion:

- i dont think its great (or even all that good) but ive played/watched much worse so *shrug* it couldve been worse. playing it with a group makes it way more bearable and even funny aha so i definitely had more fun streaming it than i did playing it on my own

- wouldve been better JUST by handling clem as the player character differently. it wouldnt have solved All of its problems but it wouldve been less...annoying.... clem needed to have more agency. she was always being ordered around by dumb adults who didnt seem to care for her safety. the adults needed to take more initiative and clem (as the PC) couldve just defied orders/interjected into convos/done her own thing. this wouldve 1) given the player more agency 2) wouldve been a contrast to everyone relying on lee in s1 (couldve had everyone telling clem to stay out of the way since shes just a kid) and 3) made the adults of the group seem less...useless...since they instead are just constantly relying on an 11 year old to do everything. like do more stuff like the "clem locked in a shed and escapes into the house to steal supplies to patch herself up" thing. even tho it was ridiculous that they locked her in a shed it still gave her agency and was an opportunity to rebel and prove her resiliency/smarts/ability against the poor decisions made by the adults around her who think they know whats best

fave characters:

-none lol

- ok im joking but like only half joking. i liked sarita!! if i had to pick a non-clem character (and thats what youre asking) itd be sarita. she had a strong will/didnt take shit and was also very sweet (and cute i think shes cute hehe especially with her little nose stud)

- my dislike for most of the cast really derives from weak writing and ties back into all these adults constantly relying on an 11 year old to do everything for them

- alvin was ok and i warmed up to rebecca after she stopped being mean to clem for no reason. luke was....Fine after the first episode or 2 but gets way too much credit from people for some reason. sarah was also fine she mainly suffered from weak writing. jane was ok at first but she progressively pissed me off...

- ttg has a problem with giving determinate characters really...Any development at all which is a shame but is unfortunately a byproduct of having a budget and a deadline. if you dont know if a character will be around or not, its not wise to spend time/resources on them when it can go towards characters you know Will be around. they handle this better in s4 by saving determinate routes for the final ep. a bit underwhelming to save it for the end but at least they used it to focus on determinant endings instead in s4. its hard so i try to cut game studios a little slack with that stuff. but unfortunately it made nick and sarah pretty underwhelming characters who lacked really any arc or relevancy at all...

favorite ending:

- wellington ending i GUESS??? ive chosen all of them at least once (except for clem alone ending just because i dont want her to have to be on her own with a newborn baby at 11 years old). honestly the choice at the end of s2 is a little difficult for me to make but usually comes down to the fact that jane risked ajs life to prove a point we already knew. which was that kenny was a man on the edge holding on by the universes thinnest thread. i cant trust jane to put clem first and by her flashback scene in s3 i was right not to trust her lol. i do love that aj tattoo clem gets from the jane route tho...ive literally chosen that ending Just for the tattoo before lol

- also the wellington ending keeps clem from hugging or kissing gabe SHDSHHSJ so that really seals the deal for me lmaooooooo youre too good for him bby

play out differently?:

- honestly not..really?? but thats mainly because i dont think or care enough about s2 to think up whole other plotlines...

- someone in the stream chat mentioned that s2 went through rewrites after some scripts/episodes got leaked or something which ALWAYS IS A BAD DECISION and makes me so so disappointed and frustrated. it always negatively impacts a story to put it through rewrites just to counter "spoilers". so i definitely think s2 suffered from that decision. the question is just how much did they rewrite? was s2 always weak or did it mainly suffer due to unnecessary rewrites? what a shame.

- the kenny/luke showdown wouldve had more of a natural buildup than the kenny/jane showdown did. and the arvo stuff was soooooo duuuumbbb and annoying. someone in chat made the point that it wouldve been more interesting if the group that attacks them was the 400 days crew looking for revenge from howes and i definitely agree!! wouldve given that group more relevancy instead of just seeing them as like little easter eggs....

- sarah also had a lot of wasted potential. im assuming they were trying to make some "shes how clem would be if lee never taught her to defend herself" point but i dont agree with it?? because clem was already protecting herself in her treehouse with that hammer before lee even found her. they just didnt know how to handle a character with anxiety very well and it shows. at least they do a better job with brody in s4 (i love brody 💕). they also try to pull another weird character foil "this is how clem would be if she was brainwashed" with minnie in s4 but i dont agree with that one either (clem would be the sophie who dies fighting in that scenario lets be honest with ourselves clem could never be brainwashed shes too smart and strong willed "you gave up minerva. i never will")(they needed to stop with the character foils because they even tried to pull it with FUCKING C A R VE R “we’re not so different” sir im 11)

OK I THINK thats all i have to say. im sure i made other points throughout the stream but yeah these are the ones that stand out to me enough to talk about here

#replies with lexi #incognito #the walking dead game #i wrote this as a draft on my phone and this whole answer almost got lost ohhhhhhh my god that gave me a heart attack #sorry im late to responding to this anon i forgot abt mothers day hsfjsd

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mudwingpropaganda · 4 years

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Queen Glory of the RainWings

Ye of terrible governmental implications! The replacement Dragonet of Destiny, her Majesty of the Rain Forest, and who knows what else. There’s a lot to be said about Glory, a victim of abuse, a part in the cycle of violence, and the child who knew better than an entire queendom of dragons. Glory is an unfortunate character, both personally and in the story as a whole.

I have a lot of opinions about Glory. Bless yourself upon them if you deserve so.

Design Headcanon

Despite appearing colorful and bright, especially among her fellow dull scaled siblings, her scales are much plainer than a traditional RainWing’s. Most of which tend to have terribly neon scales correlating with their emotions. Glory tends to have disgusted green and irritable red scales reflecting her mood. The yellow is simply an accent, but mistaken by her subjects as muted amusement. Her scales easily flinch along to her emotions, but she finds that showing these colors gains the respect of her subjects, rather than lose it like she did with the guardians, who never truly did pick up on what these colors meant.

Glory has inspiration from a few different animals. Chameleons are out of the way. She also has a similar “beak” to a swan, a dark area on her face that she simply can’t change the color of. She also has dexterous claw talons, excellent for gripping onto trees or delicate dexterity. And the oddest thing about RainWings is that they initially appear wingless, similar to a draco lizard. RainWing ribs expand and and glide rather than the intense flying that most dragons do, which made her appear weaker than her fellow dragonets of destiny. She always keeps her wings flared, which is risky and makes her underside vulnerable, but it was better than being called a wingless serpent by her guardians.

Glory is a very cautious individual. She doesn’t walk until she knows where she’s going. She won’t begin to walk until she’s sure she can get there confidently. Glory is surprisingly prideful and avoids not to waste her breath, even if she chooses the wrong battles to fight.

Implication of Heritage

If I were to write Glory, I would completely boot out the idea that Glory was biologically destined for the throne. The whole moment where Grandeur spills her guts and explains the whole narrow-minded royal blood idea, that was stupid. Because it implies that all overcoming of adversity will be rewarded with the fact that all those who deserve it will be rewarded with their desires, not for hard work they used to achieve those goals, but simply because they’re supposed to.

Instead, I would make Kinkajou a convenient character in the scene to have a moment of importance, but it doesn’t mean she’ll be the new queen. But I’ll get to that later on. Grandeur will recognize Glory’s selfless and initiative as the prime reason she is more deserving to be queen. The idea that she’s fighting so desperately to help the NightWing prisoners, and that’s reflected by how she puts away the chance to win the Queen Competition for the life of this little dragonet.

Glory should have been Queen through initiative and new perspective, not the idea that she was “smarter” than the RainWings or that the RainWings were too “lazy” to have a functioning leader. She should have been a respectable character who overcomes her biting remarks to be truly selfless, put aside her needs and desires to help this tribe. Be the leader that Sunny would look up to.

Miscellaneous Thoughts

Glory doesn’t honestly get the proper respect as a grumpy character considering the trauma she’s went through and considering her entire life has been ruined as those who raised her repeatedly told her she shouldn’t exist and that they ought to kill her. Not as an empty threat! The acceptance of her situation seemed so understated (until it was revealed she had a plan) and no one really respects that she had the shortest end of the stick compared to the other Dragonets of Destiny.

Along with that, I feel like it’d be interesting if Glory had an innate distrust or fear or SOMETHING of SkyWings. After being berated by a SkyWing guardian, being meant to be a SkyWing her whole life, Clay unintentionally claiming Peril as the missing SkyWing, and being prisoner and biggest prize of Queen Scarlet of the SkyWings, I don’t see why she wouldn’t be a little more afraid or hostile in a scenario with one.

One headcanon of mine is that Glory has narcolepsy, a byproduct of not getting enough sun as a sun dependent tribe. She frequently lost control of her muscles during sparring practice with Kestrel, leading her to slither helplessly and worsen her image. She pardoned her sleepiness through consistent naps Under the Mountain, but it became harder to excuse after they left the mountain. Once the sun hit her scales on the marble tree in Scarlet’s clutches, she finally gave in and slept for a majority of that time, otherwise overwhelmed and unable to move. Unfortunately, along with classic form of narcolepsy, Glory also has hallucinations. She often interprets her hallucinations as Kestrel or Queen Scarlet, long after their deaths. Despite denying special treatment as the RainWing Queen, she does give into sun times to satiate the urge in her to rest.

Narcolepsy is also described as being triggered by high surges of emotion. Another reason why Glory does her best to suppress her emotions, to stay in control of her consciousness.

It can negatively affect relationships with other people by being triggered during these surges of emotion and as a result, Glory is not quite as emotionally connected to her siblings as the others are. As the consequences of the war subsides, she wishes to try making up for lost time and finally respond to her narcolepsy instead of be frustrated and angry with it.

Glory’s reign of the Rain Forest Queendom is characterized not by her inherent intelligence over the other RainWings. In fact, a majority of the beginning of her rule is learning the rich history and important traditions of RainWings from Duke Handsome. Due to her unfamiliarity with oral history, her first order is to try and record as much history and as many orders as possible to keep the RainWings’ respect and learn about her own culture.

As well as that, Glory steels herself, with the sympathy of her siblings, Prince Jambu, Duke Handsome, and the other Queens, when ruling the NightWings. So easily could she take out her anger on these innocent victims of their own actions. But in the end, she learns it’s more important to be the bigger person and move forward in peace, not dwell in hatred.

Despite that, Glory is still apprehensive before directly meeting with SkyWing figures such as Queen Ruby.

Glory and Tsunami probably have the closest relationship out of any of the other Dragonets of Destiny. Tsunami looks up to Glory as a queen and Glory makes fun of her lack of royal blood for it. Tsunami, after apprenticing with General Shark, also assists in the disciplining and order in the Rain Forest Queendom. Tsunami, Sunny, and Glory are the main royalty figures establishing a fairer justice system in the Rain Forest so there are no more Chameleons and that individuals like Mastermind have a place to go.

LGBT+ Headcanons

Glory, for a large part of the story we see her, is probably questioning her orientation. She’s never felt the right to be loved and never been able to emotionally connect with anyone enough to feel worthy of affection. Eventually, she comes out as a lesbian! Proudly leading her two tribes with acceptance and understanding. The Rain Forest proudly leads the largest Pride Parades with the SandWing queendom following closely behind. (Which means Deathbringer x Glory is not canon in my headcanons! He can ROT.)

Glory is also a trans woman! She did not embrace it easily with the role models she had growing up. She had always been told she was born incorrectly (for OTHER reasons, but it’s for the metaphor), but with the unconditional support from her siblings, especially her solidarity with Starflight, she was able to come to terms with her identity and be even more prideful because of it. Fully taking her destiny and her life into her own talons has empowered her more than anything after the events of the SandWing War of Succession.

#wings of fire #wingsoffire #wof #glory wof #wof glory #queen glory #rainwing #rainwings #wof rainwing #wof redesign #sebastiowu #enigmew

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etirabys · 4 years

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I have been thinking of the nature of my confusion about ethics and what an answer that resolved it would look like. I have a hard time reading about ethics, or hearing ethical statements, because I frequently get a distressed ‘statement is badly formatted, throw it out’ reaction. I’m trying to think my way out of this confusion.

I. Motivation

One core dissatisfaction I have, which is my motivation for trying to articulate thoughts about this, is:

People talk about morality using descriptive language, and have moral disagreements in the same way they have factual disagreements, when in fact a ‘moral descriptive statement’ such as “Water is a human right” is primarily a social act to influence norms. A disagreement about morality, as it plays out in day to day life in a way visible to me, wears the coat of a factual disagreement but is a conflict of intuition and value, waged with social pressure.

I am capable of having a moral disagreement in this way – in fact, it seems to be the only way I know of having one – but it makes me queasy and confused and I usually stop quickly. Something is wrong, I think. We are using language incorrectly. How would I know, upon changing my mind, that I had been ‘right’ to change my mind? What is to be my compass? My preexisting moral intuitions are the only thing I have. And yet that is precisely where the disagreement lies, usually – if it is not there, then the disagreement lies in e.g. a difference of prediction about whether some policy will be good, and that is a factual disagreement.

If we are having a true moral disagreement, then we are having a values conflict, where our primary method of winning is to pressure the other person into adopting our values by convincing them our values are dominant in society and they will be punished if they have differing moral intuitions or rulesets. I do not wish to participate in such a disagreement.

But is there a way to have a ‘good’ moral disagreement? Yes. I can find one possibility, which is trade. Two people who have a really good understanding of their own moral intuitions, and trust each other completely to stick to bargains, can trade values. “I see that you really care about animal suffering. I don’t care, but I wouldn’t mind that much if I acted the rest of my life as if I did care half as strongly as you do. In exchange: I see that you don’t care a lot about racial gaps in growing economies, as long as all groups are benefiting from the trend. I care a lot about whether a country’s growing economy is evenly benefiting everyone. Can you care half as much as I do in the future?”

...obviously, this is impossible in practice.

Another acceptable-to-me way to discuss morality is through aesthetics, where you convert someone into finding something beautiful and desirable where they had not before, by showing them an instance – fictional or real – of the thing you find good that they don’t. Note that this is distinct from showing them an instance of the thing you find good and demonstrating that it has benefits re: the value they already find good. A work of fiction that depicts a utopian monastery whose members’ sole aim is simply to know more about the world and discuss their findings amicably, which makes the reader feel it is good to know and seek truth even if it has no practical value, is the first thing – ‘aesthetic conversion’. A report that an authoritarian country was able to bring millions out of poverty when similar non-authoritarian countries had failed, which is read by an anti-authoritarian person who changes their mind upon learning that authoritarianism sometimes has benefits for their preexisting ‘people living longer and having more food’ value, is in the second category. I could wordily name the second category ‘conversion of instrumental value to most closely align with terminal values’.

(I think the best way to define ‘value’ is any belief that’s shaped like ‘X is good’ or ‘X is bad’. They can range from terminal to instrumental, simple to complex, etc.)

II. End goals

Okay. So what is my end goal for a piece of writing untangling this matter for myself? What do I need to articulate to unconfuse myself?

A descriptive framework, whose use for me would be a translator that I can use to describe everyday ethical language into statements that seem ‘correctly formatted’ to me, so I can actually digest them instead of throwing parse errors and failing to think about it.

A prescriptive framework, whose use for me would be a practice guide on how to resolve moral disagreements. Given that I am encountering someone who disagrees with me about morality – not merely an instance of disagreeing about what means might be most effective at achieving the ends we agree are good, but a true moral disagreement – what kind of productive conversation can we possibly have, and how do I need to speak to them to have one?

Stretch goal: Oh yeah, it would be nice if on the way I generated a sketch of a prescriptive moral framework for myself, which I would use to live. Okay, realistically I won’t do this, but it would be nice to have a prescriptive meta-ethical framework that I can use to parse and look at new moral statements and decide whether my existing intuitions say I should discard it or not.

Super stretch goal: Describe such frameworks that satisfy me without ever invoking the verb ‘choose’ or the adjective ‘free’, which make me seasick to use in a sentence I’m really thinking about.

III. Some starter thoughts

Intuition and feeling are prior to ethics and form the basis for them. What you believe in and think is right is not something you discover about the world – you are not exploring ‘moral reality’ – but something you discover about yourself. You discover what you already believe.

We construct ‘moral concepts’, which are mental objects that tend to look pretty similar from person to person in the same culture. That is, I and a random friend will largely agree on what situations are fair or unfair. This is not because reality is tagged with traits ‘fair’ or ‘unfair’ and we both have decent accuracy at parsing them; this is because we have similar mental algorithms, developed on very similar biological substrates and very similar cultural influences.

Moral concepts are invoked in ‘rules’, which are the elements of rulesets. Each person can be said to have one. I could provide my ruleset, which would be a text list of the things that form the core of my moral convictions. Day to day the exact list I would output would be different, but similar over time. (Obviously, there is no such thing as a ‘fundamental’ ruleset – the ruleset I produce on any given day is not an approximation of any ‘true’ ‘etirabys’s ruleset’. But we can speak, approximately, of a person as having ‘a ruleset’, and harmlessly treat it as a constant object.)

‘Rulesets’ are the formalization of an individual’s ethics. You can think of them as being the ‘basis’ of individual’s ethical thoughts and actions, but usually they’re the post-hoc, legibilized product of what is already happening.

Moral concepts are flexible. I suspect they’re more flexible than rules. When someone discovers that something in their ruleset contradicts an intuition about good, the thing that gives way, I suspect, is the concept. When someone thinks “fairness is good” and runs into a situation that is ‘fair’ by their old definition, but they intuit the situation is bad, they will change ‘fair’ such that the situation no longer fits the bill.

Here’s a stripped down ruleset I produced, of things I ‘find that I already believe’:

1. Suffering is bad, flourishing is good, for all beings. 2. Truth is good. It is good to seek, know, and transmit. Norms that promote telling the truth and converse in a way that more often brings you to know true things are good. Falsehoods are bad to know and transmit. Norms that promote lying are bad. 3. When you enter a bargain with someone, it is 'allowed' to benefit much more from the bargain as long as it is mutually beneficial. (Really, ‘allowed’ means I won’t punish myself or anyone else for doing ) However, it is good to split the benefits as evenly as you can. 4. If two entities are experiencing the same kind and degree of suffering, but one of them has knowingly caused others to suffer and links their own suffering to their past action, their suffering is in some way good.

IV. Recent example of frustrating disagreement

One precipitating event for my diving into this issue again was arguing with my fiance the giant – he has a ruleset where 1 is the core rule, and any other rule, or intuition-that-drives-the-rule, should be eradicated from his personal values file. He finds it appalling that I have 4 and endorse not deleting it. Our argument looked a lot like:

the giant: But you agree that [1]! How can you keep around a rule that makes you less effective at bringing about [1]? If you accept [1] as ‘true’, then [4] is ‘false’. (Also, [1] underpins all correct morality.) (Also, your having [4] in your ruleset is a bad thing about the world, and I am going to try to fix it by pointing out that ‘suffering is bad, therefore you shouldn’t want people to suffer – punishment should be a thing for utilitarian reasons, but the suffering is an unfortunate byproduct, not a terminal goal!’

what I would have wanted to say but couldn’t until I built it up in this post after sitting quietly with my thoughts: Okay, hang on, there’s no such thing as correct morality, intuitions are prior to rulesets, there is nothing in my head that tells me that [1] takes precedence over [4] to the degree that I should ditch [4] entirely (although [4] is in fact a much weaker intuition), and you keep doing the thing everyone else does where you discuss [4] as if it’s a factual disagreement that I ‘believe’ it and you don’t, when in fact the primary function of the language you’re using is social and not fact-communicating, in that you’re simply trying to drill your own values into me.

what I actually say, usually: Argh, do you see what you’re doing with language right now – argh – brain hurty –

V. Am I going to follow up on this?

Hell no. I don’t have the sustained willpower to do anything like this. I seem to return to this project every 2~3 years though, so maybe future me can pick up where I left off. I’m glad I articulated all this, though. The natural way people seem to argue about right and wrong in everyday life seems insane and terrible to me, including when I do it. It’s nice to get off my chest.

#rambl #ethics

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septic-skele · 3 years

Text

US - Heed The Signs (Part 8)

[Part 7]

Though she had none of her own, Muffet had always liked little hatchlings. Not only were they cute, they were good for business; she rarely ever had trouble selling her wares and making loyal customers out of them. She loved the days when a brood of boisterous bunnies would come storming in, each with their meticulously counted coins to clean out her display case. All of their lively clamoring and chatter amused her. It reminded her of better days.

She would mentally swat herself whenever that thought arose. These were her better days, here and now! She was a working woman, making a living for herself and her family. She was making herself useful! Why would she even bother to think back on the days when her brothers showed her the best places to chase and tease whimsuns? When her sisters taught her how to make vast, intricate art out of her webs? When her mother would pet her head as she did up her hair with ribbons and bows and told her how lovely she was?

Yes, these days, alone in Snowdin, were…better for everyone.

Muffet ought to send them another telegram soon so she could put these things out of her mind.

The bone hatchlings served as a pleasant distraction. Now that the ugly concoction he drank was finally purging from his body, little Papyrus was on the mend.

Muffet’s soul still burned and her hands curled in fury at the thought of that old monster who had done this to him—no matter how accidental. When her cousins in Waterfall had received her news about a poisoned hatchling, they had wasted no time. They had surrounded and cornered the brute with threats and demands.

“I never saw them well enough! T-These old eyes are almost blind!” he had stammered. “I thought they were wild animals, an infestation waiting to happen, so I poured out some bottled bait! It was expired, it—it shouldn’t have done too much harm! Just enough to drive them off.” Swallowing hard at their low hisses of disdain, he shrank in on himself. “How was I to suspect? No children should be the ones rooting through my trash, right? They s-should be at home, safe, with their parents! H-How was I to know?!”

Spiders had no incredible fondness for baiters, poisoners or pest control. Muffet didn’t truly believe that her cousins would kill a monster for that slight unless it was against their own kind…but deep down, she wouldn’t have felt particularly sorry if they had.

Regardless, they had sent back the specifications of the bait he had used. Unfortunately it was one Muffet had plenty of familiarity with, though it came with the helpful byproduct of knowing precisely which medicine could combat it.

It was a medicine intended for spiders; she was unsure how it would affect bone hatchlings but Papyrus was already as frail as a fly. Could a remedy endowed with healing magic make him any sicker? In the end she simply added a splash of milk and gave it over.

Sans was more than happy to assist when Papyrus groaned and refused to take it. ��Come on, champ! It may taste bad on the way down but it’s got a lot of good things for you. It’s going to make you better! Stronger!” His smile didn’t wane but it certainly changed. “That’s what you want, isn’t it, to be strong and capable like me? This will do that.”

Muffet sensed she was missing something important between them when Papyrus’ hands shot out for the cup with no more hesitation. His expression of disgust was wrenching as he gagged it down but nevertheless he persisted, spurred on by his brother’s cheers of relief and delight. Of course, he brought about half of it back up just a few minutes later; it was meant to be sipped, not guzzled.

“The next cup will come with a little digestif, sweetling—a spoonful of honey should smooth things over,” Muffet promised, patting his cheek. At first contact he flinched and kept his mouth shut until Sans lightly nudged him, prompting.

“…Papy?”

“Um. Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am. M’sorry for the mess,” he murmured, eye sockets falling dim and soft as he rested his skull against her palm.

Stars. The sight brought on a rush of affectionate warmth, followed by the instinct not to pull away, followed by confusion. Had she called him “sweetling”? She couldn’t recall saying that to any of the other children before. Her hand was uncertain as she ran a thumb over his cheekbone. Beside him, Sans looked on with a distant, wistful glow in his eyes, leaning his head into his own hand as if by instinct.

Did your parents ever spare you a kindness? Did they remind you that you were loved? If they did, do you even remember it?

Shame, shame on them for misplacing you.

The honey was magic in and of itself; in fact, Papyrus was completely enamored with it now. Within three days he was drinking more honey than milk, much to Sans’ dismay. Milk was being treated with almost the same base prejudice as medicine!

“He needs calcium, not this unhealthy, unwholesome sugar rot; his magic will crystalize!” Sans exclaimed, only to flounder at the pointed stare Muffet gave him. “I—It isn’t—What I mean to say is that—Thank you very much for our tasteful dessert, Miss Muffet! But…um…”

“I’ll whisk the honey into the milk, dearie.”

“Yes! Yes, that would be wonderful. T-Thank you kindly!”

If Muffet set Sans’ opinions on “sugar rot” aside, she could admit that he was great for business. Once Papyrus started noticeably improving, able to sit up in the hammock and hold a plate on his own, Sans became a little more willing to stray from his side and mingle with the customers—and they with him. Whenever a new child was born in the Underground, it was the word around town. Now this, a strange skeleton child appearing out of nowhere? An attraction, a novelty! The shop had more visitors in the last week than she had the three weeks prior.

Sans reveled in the attention. It seemed he had craved a listening ear for a long, long time and now he had them in abundance. He would chatter at the visitors from the moment they opened the door to the moment they closed it behind them, though he cheerfully and blatantly dodged any questions about home or his parents—and the moment he overheard so much as a ragged cough from the backroom, away he went, leaving Muffet to fend off the rest of their questions.

“Is there someone else back there?”

“How long are they staying with you, Muffet?”

“Where did they really come from?”

“Are they, um, yours…somehow?”

That last question both irritated and flustered her. Oh, of course, of course they were hers because it made such savvy sense that a spider could somehow breed bone brothers! Perfectly preposterous. But there was a little buzz in the back of her head, niggling, and it stung.

Children belonged to or with someone…and if Sans’ and Papyrus’ someone(s) were unsuitable, where did they belong?

Together, first and foremost. The first day that Papyrus could move from the hammock to one of the padded booths in the front, his presence was like honey to the flies. It turned to vinegar as soon as a group crowded around him and he shrank, wheezing, into the corner, bones rattling like Muffet’s tip jar. It was the first and only time she saw Sans’ eyes black out as he shouldered through them to sit and gather Papyrus against his side.

“You see, brother? They love you, they all want to be your friends!” he cooed, staring fixedly up at the curious onlookers. “And friends should all care, share and take their turn, so my brother can appreciate every single one of you on your own!” His cheery tone didn’t falter, but his eyelights didn’t rekindle right away either.

No, that was a web that couldn’t be unraveled. As Sans affectionately ran a hand over Papyrus’ skull, Muffet examined a particularly shiny piece of gold and pretended not to wish on it for her mother.

She wasn’t resting well in her hammock this night. Since Papyrus joined Sans now, sleeping in one of the corner booths, she had stripped the old one she had lent him and spun a fresh one. It was comfortable enough to serve, so why were her thoughts tangled up this way?

“We had a house but…we lost it.”

“It would be better to make a new home here.”

It wouldn’t be long before they left her to fend for themselves. How had that turned out for them in the first place? Pain, illness, panic. Make a new home, they said. Did they have any idea what that would truly entail?

“Hatchlings don’t know, so they don’t think until they are taught…and you don’t have any teachers, do you?”

Muffet had enough trouble on her own when she came to town. Scraping up the gold to make it through the first six months had nearly broken her back.

“We don’t have that kind of money!”

Though he should be in school, Sans could probably…hopefully work. His infectious charm could win people over to give him odd jobs, Muffet was sure. But where would that leave Papyrus? Not old enough, not strong enough, waiting somewhere for his brother to return. Muffet would have to be blind in three of her eyes to miss how he reacted whenever Sans was gone too long. The separation anxiety he felt was crushing.

“Just one brother to keep me company is better in my mind than having none.”

Muffet heaved a shaky breath. She could feel it crushing her now, in ways she thought she had trained herself to ignore. She missed her family awfully, yes, but if everything here came crashing down, she always had the last resort of returning to the nest. The family would welcome her back with open arms and legs. Where could the bone brothers go in the wild? They had no nest to scurry back to.

Hers was the first safe refuge they had found. They knew they were safe here in ways they couldn’t be out there. Odd jobs wouldn’t be enough for a table, much less for food to put on it. If they had to go back to scavenging and Papyrus came down sick again—Arachne forbid Sans falling ill—it could be over for them in a matter of months.

No, they…they’ve managed this long, only one and two. They could keep on. Somehow.

But no child should have to.

“My mother carries me on her back until I’m grown and ready, and your mother goes unbothered?”

Shame.

Muffet didn’t end up finding any rest. Instead she rolled out of her hammock, put her hair up and scuttled to her desk, spreading her meticulous finance logs out in front of her.

It didn’t take long to see that with the new boom the boys’ mere existence gave to her business, it was workable. Projecting for the next…decade?

“Two bone hatchlings. Tsk,” she muttered, fangs tugging into a slight smile. “Mother’s carried ten, twenty, fifty and some. What are one and two?”

That’s if the one and two say yes.

___________________________________

“Miss Muffet, I didn’t know you sold clothes here too!” Sans laughed as he poked his hand through the sleeve of a blue-striped shirt. “Though I don’t think this would fit many of the adults who shop here—mweheheh, especially not after eating your sweets!”

“Blue? This one’s…kind of my size,” Papyrus piped up cautiously, though he held it away from his body so as not to assume. Sans’ smile waned slightly as his eyes darted between the tatty shirt hanging from his brother’s back to the vibrant comparison in his hands.

“Well, um…I’m sure it’d look great on you, Papy, but it—it’d be rude! Yeah! Trying on her merchandise would be like taking a bite out of a donut and then putting it back! We can’t do that.”

“It’s not merchandise, dearie, but…mmm, yes. You will pay me for it regardless.” Both of them cringed, Sans hurriedly flinging the blue one back at the bag, but before he could form a protest, Muffet sighed with exasperated fondness. “Pay me by wearing them down, would you? So I know I didn’t deal for it as a laughing matter but as a gift instead.”

For once, Sans was silent.

“A…gift?” Papyrus echoed, voice cracking as his fingers curled tighter into the soft cloth. Little by little it was bunched into small, possessive folds in his lap. “A gift…for us?”

“Would I be such a poor host, inviting you into my parlor for all this time without presenting party favors? Don’t think so small of me,” she tutted.

“Ma’am.” Sans’ shoulders were sagging and his voice was softer than Muffet had ever heard it. “You’ve already done too much for us. Helping me get Papy better is more than I can thank you for. I…” Something like guilt seemed to sting him. “I…can’t repay you. Ever.”

“My, oh, my. If that’s what you think, let me make an easy barter with you: for all that I have done for you, you do a small something for me. You stay safe by staying here.” She ignored their stunned gasps, pressing on surely. “You learn from me. I’ll not have the shame of misplacing any hatchlings before their time and teaching.”

“Miss Muffet…”

“You’ll make a new home here, just as you planned, but you and only you aren’t always enough. Don’t say you don’t know. You were lost; now you’re found.” Her eyes softened as she glanced between them. “Aren’t your little feet tired of walking alone?”

Papyrus squeaked, lifting the new shirt to bury his face in it, and Sans’ tiny nod came with a quiver in his jaw.

“I’m not your mother, sweetlings. But if she isn’t going to stand on her two measly feet, it’s the job of a working woman with eight to make herself useful. Let me carry you for a while. Stay.”

#undertale #underswap #fanfiction #sans #sans undertale #swap sans #papyrus #papyrus undertale #swap papyrus #muffet #babybones #sickfic #caretaking #angst #feels #hurt comfort #taken in #brotherly love #motherly love

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phandom-phriend · 4 years

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Phic Phight 2020 - Unrequited Love

“Reveal fic--Danny, Valerie, Vlad, or Dani gets outed in the most inconvenient way.” | Prompt by @pesky-poltergeist

Word count: 2,181

A lot has happened since Fenton became Phantom.

It’s only been a year and so far the teen has fought countless ghosts, was cloned, has constant targets on his back from both ghosts and humans, lost his sleep schedule entirely, saved the world (a few times), found out that the only other half ghost that could possible help him adjust is kind of crazy and infatuated with his mom, became a town icon, ect..

Oh! And he died. So there’s that.

But recently, maybe the most horrific event to date had occurred. After a long battle with a ghost who-shall-not-be-named, he came home tired. Clumsy. A little out of his element. And may have...sort of...transformed back in front of his parents whom he didn’t even notice were in the kitchen with him.

Typical Danny luck if you ask him.

And since then things have been weird between them. Weirder than normal, at least. Neither one of them brought up the incident. Danny chalked it up to them not believing what they saw, or maybe thinking the illusion was a byproduct of handling so many chemicals in the lab for long periods of time. But they were quieter now. As if listening for his footsteps and breathing. And watching him more closely, closer than they ever paid attention to him before. They smiled, but their eyes. Their eyes held fear and apprehension. A dangerous combo for anyone with as great of an artillery as they had.

So Danny wasn’t exactly keen on the idea of bringing up the topic himself.

But when Jaz left for a study date with her friends on some random Friday evening, Danny had the unfortunate luck to be caught by his parents in the kitchen. Not literally! But they were set up with serious faces at the table just… waiting for him. Like they used to do when he got in trouble at school but now the air felt darker. It wasn’t sufficateing, no. They were still his parents after all. Even with all their blasters and ghost-hating ideals Danny wasn’t scared of them. Something just felt off. A little uneasy.

He sat at the table across from them anyway.

“What’s up? You guys are usually in the lab around now. Got a new breakthrough?”

“Not quite, Danny.” Maddie began, voice even. “Your father and I have something to talk about with you.”

“Alright, shoot.” The teen noticed the way his mother's hand flinched from its spot on the table. He ignored it.

“In the kitchen, a few nights ago. Phantom came in.”

“Oh, uh, really? What did he say?”

Jack sighed. “Danny, he transformed. Into you.”

“Oh, well-”

“Are you an imposter? Answer honestly, and don’t think for a second I won’t know if you are lying.”

“Mom?!”

“She’s just a little spooked, son. We just want to know what’s going on.”

Danny froze. Did they know so little about him that they thought he was some...fake? Not knowing him apart from Phantom was one thing. But not telling him from himself…? He shook his head to clear those thoughts. He’s seen stranger things. And he has been impersonated before. There’s good reason to be wary, it’s fine. “No, mom. I’m not some fake. I’m Danny.” he spoke calmly.

She stood from the table, eyes blocked by the red of her goggles, expression flat. It’s always bothered Danny that no matter how she moves, her suit is always silent. How can such a material rubbing against each other as she walks, as she moves, stay so silent? Well, his parents were always on the odd side. Maybe it was nothing. It is probably nothing.

“How can we be so sure?” her voice is as flat as her lips. He can’t tell what she’s thinking. No, he doesn't want to know.

“Well, what are some questions only I would know the answers to?”

Jack took this opportunity to jump in. “What’s your least favorite holiday?”

“Christmas.”

“Who are your best friends?”

“Sam and Tucker.”

Maddie clicked her tongue. “These questions are too obvious Jack. What if the ghost was able to take his memories?”

“Then how am I supposed to prove anything to you?”

“What is something you know that we don’t?”

Well, that was a tough one. Danny knew a lot that they didn’t know. But most of it was centered around his ghost half or the ghost zone, and that felt like dangerous territory to tred in without his parents leading the conversation there. That leaves his school life, which is a mess. And his time that he spends with his friends. But that, unfortunately, is typically one of three things recently. Ghost fighting, the Nasty Burger, and other illegal activities as a result of ghost fighting. Not exactly the best idea, but he’s certainly had worse.

“Uh, well. I snuck into the lab yesterday and took one of your in-progress projectors and may have sort of broken it. But it’s okay! Tucker is helping me fix it!”

“What?! How didn’t I notice!” Jack yelled from where he still sat, shock clear in both his face and tone. Danny didn’t bother to tell him that a lot of things happened without his notice, although his mom seemed to have the same thought with the side-eye she gave her husband.

“Mabe because he was a ghost when he snuck in.” she supplied with snide.

Well, she wasn’t wrong.

“Then how am I supposed to have you believe me? No matter what I say, you’ll just throw that “he’s been replaced” or “he’s being possessed” nonsense back in my face. I just want to go to my room and take a nap. What do I have to do to make that happen sooner?”

“We could take blood samples.” Maddie nodded to herself as if that had all the answers.

For the first time that night, Danny felt his blood run cold. That was a bad, bad idea. Not only would it look more suspicious for how his DNA has so drastically changed and morphed, but being down in the lab… it does things to him. Makes him paranoid, mostly. But sometimes, when certain gadgets are left about on their work benches, it hurts. Leaves him dazed. Has the air left his lungs so forcefully it feels as if it were stolen.

Confession time, it is. A horrible, very bad time. But he’s so tired. He just wants this to be over, for things to be okay again. He was going to tell them eventually anyway, he just wishes he never had to. But he still can’t bring himself to just blurt it out, so he’ll have to twist his parents into that direction.

Danny can’t help but wish for Jazz to be here with him.

“Well, there could be other possibilities for what you saw.” Danny shrugs, hiding the panic he feels about the tests she wishes to conduct. Divert, divert, divert.

“Annd what would that be?”

“Wellllll…. Dad! You have a theory, right? The one you told me about last week?”

Almost as if there was a buffer symbol where his brain should be, Jack froze, leaving the room in a stiff, still silence as the older man tried to recall whatever it was from a week ago. Right before Maddie could break it herself, Jack shot up with a grin. “That’s right! Ghost molding!”

“Ghost...molding? Jack, honey, what are you talking about?”

“There are ghosts that look a lot like things, right? That one that looks like a tornado, or that other one that looks like some cartoon mad scientist.”

“Yes, dear. What are you getting at?”

“What if some ghosts mold how they look based on things they have a strong connection to. Like a family member, what killed them, or something like that. That’s why some ghosts look similar to one thing or another but have their own traits.”

Maddie seemed to think for a moment before turning back to her son with an eyebrow raised. “I suppose it would explain why Danny and Phantom look so similar. But what connection does our son have to a ghost?”

Man, where does he even start? What connections doesn't he have?

“He could be related to us?” Jack asked, thoughtful.

“No, no one who knew us has died that young. Even if they took their looks after our Danny, they would still have an age to them.”

“Well, there’s no way Danny killed them!” Jack said thoughtfully.

Well, that was only half true. They were getting closer.

“Do you think he was… there? When he died? Or when he came back?”

Danny snapped his fingers with a smirk. Both proud that they got as close to the truth as they did. “Bingo!”

Instead of a smile, Maddie just glared at him, causing him to shrink in his seat. “Explain.”

“I was there when he… died. And when he came back.”

“That’s not possible. Ghosts take time to manifest. Even then it’s in the ghost zone before they make their way back.”

“True, true. Unless…”

“I’m not playing these games with...you.”

“Alright! Unless… they died in the Ghost Zone, right? Or, more likely, at the portal.”

“How is that even possible. We would have discovered a body in our lab.” Maddie sneered with distrust at her son's words. Before he could say anything, his father jumped in.

“What if there was no body?!” Jack jumped up, hands accidentally hitting the table and making the whole thing shake. “Danny!” But then his tone changed. Quieter, reserved. A tone that didn’t belong on the vibrant man. “What… happened to you?”

“Don’t be crazy, Jack! What are you even thinking?! Nothing happened to our son. If this isn’t him, then he’s somewhere else.”

“He’s right.” Danny cut in shyly, hating the new dynamic. This had to change, and he had to change it. “Something did… happen.”

“No…”

“It was the day the portal turned on, two years ago.”

“Danny…” there was a warning edge in her voice, but he pressed on. He was too far now. They needed to know.

“I went inside to check it out. I tripped on some wire…”

“Danny, stop.”

“And pressed the ON switch by accident. A strange place to put it, really.” Danny chuckled awkwardly, trying to lift the mood. It didn’t work. “The portal turned on when I was inside.”

“Danny!”

“It hurt, a lot. But only for a moment. When I woke up again, I was Phantom. Well, a ghost at the time. I didn’t really choose a name until later.”

Maddie pulled out her blaster and pointed it at him, armed and ready. Thankfully, Jack leapt from his seat as Danny did the same, although Jack took a hold of his wife's wrist and forced her to aim upwards. She didn’t pull the trigger, but Jack didn’t let go.

“Mom!”

“Don’t call me that!” she spat out through clenched teeth as my heart seemed to fall through the floor. This isn’t how it was supposed to go.

“I’m not a ghost!” he pleaded, although he began to back away from his parents in case things went more south. “I didn’t die, not fully!”

“Don’t lie! Don’t use my son's form to lie to me!”

“I have a pulse!” the teen cried out desperately, tears threatening to spill. “I need to eat, drink, sleep! I’m still human. I’m just different now, don’t you see that?”

“Maddie.” Jack sighed out.

“Don’t be fooled! Either our son is dead or this thing is an imposter, honey! You can’t seriously believe it!”

“I mean, -I” Danny felt his throat close up. Was being half-ghost so bad? Sure, he didn’t think this talk would go well. But a blaster?! Was it really so hard to believe he wasn’t the monster they were making him out to be?

Was she right?

Danny shook his head and stood straighter. “I’m only half dead if you want to get technical. Even then, I consider it more as having powers than being dead.” He could see she wanted to say something but cut her off anyway. “Is it so bad? I help people! I-I fought a king, saved the world! What will it take for me to please you?! For things to, to be okay again?”

To his surprise, she dropped the blaster from her grasp, Jack slowly letting her arm go and taking the blaster for himself. But he did not point it at Danny, instead he set it on a far counter. Now looking at him, Danny could see how… sad his usually vibrant eyes looked. What was he supposed to do now? What had he already done?

His mother slowly walked to him, lips pressed in a frown. Danny stood his ground even as she leaned over him and whispered, no amount of affection in her tone. Only a stone coldness he’s never had directed to him before. “You may not be fully dead, but you are not my son.”

Mind clouded and fuzzy, Danny ran from the mother he loved, but no longer loved him.

#phic phight #angst #family troubles #i tried #needs edits #but i wont do them #2020

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ar-aquxtic-hxrbingcr · 4 years

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@cryoregis Asks: ❛ you can’t change the world without getting your hands dirty. ❜

Change.

Tartaglia knew all too well that change could not be accomplished without bloodshed. It was a fools errand to even attempt such. Rebellions', Coups, Revolutions. All have seemed to rise up at one point or another throughout history, most fading away into obscurity. Crumbling apart as their leaders didn’t possess the will to use bloodshed, thinking that peace could be attainable without sullying their hands and names. They were devoured, crushed under the boots of the establishment they tried so hard to overthrow.

Those who had been successful within their war for change, used underhanded means to gain what they wished, the desired outcome was theirs to grasp. Guerilla warfare, sieges, assassinations, sabotage, the souls of the innocent those who were the unfortunate byproducts of the war, yet, it all had to be done, in order for change to take root and to flourish, for what was a couple hundred lives for the thousands if not millions to live on, have a better chance to thrive under their victory?

The end always justified the means.

“ Hmm, I suppose so... “ came the idle response, voice nor features betraying any emotions, lifeless blue glance to the side towards the cryo user. The Harbinger knew all about change, and the sacrifices necessary to achieve the freedom for his people, his country he had always dreamed of. “ I wonder...just what brought this philosophical comment on, Mr. Knight? I thought you didn’t like talking to me more than you absolutely needed to. “ He wondered if the knight besides him truly knows the meaning, the weight of his words. “ Funny how that works, I doubt you’re just here for idle chatter, however. “

#〆 IC 〆 #〆 CRYOREGIS 〆 #〆 HOME VERSE || REBELLION BREWS BENEATH THE MASK 〆 #〆 ASKS 〆 #|{ I hope this is alright! asdfghjk }|

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forvalor-blog · 5 years

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❛❛ So, yeah… I failed the course. ❜❜

The look his parents share is one of bewildered shock. It only drives home the fact that he failed them, as unintentional as it may be. Unable to meet their gaze, the young man drops his eyes to the floor, wishing it would open up and swallow him whole.

He hasn’t really stopped crying since his meltdown on stage during his final piece. There have been moments where the tears have stopped ( namely when he’s sleeping, which he does a lot of nowadays ), but the vacancy in his chest has never since been filled. In comparison to the crippling loneliness he’s now plagued with, his failing grade does little to upset him. He doesn’t care that much that he couldn’t graduate; he cares that he couldn’t take his graduation piece to his best friend’s doorstep.

His mother’s hands on his face bring him out of his thoughts, warm and gentle, and he feels his throat threatening to close. Had he not felt so devoid of emotion, so deliriously drained of tears, he may very well have started crying again. Instead, he stares at her blankly, tiredly, soul aching so profoundly that he feels fit to die in her arms.

❛❛ You didn’t fail, honey, ❜❜ she chimes softly, thumbs swiping gently over the heavy bags beneath his eyes-- as if she’s trying to lessen the cumbersome luggage with her tender touch. Murr feels his mouth open but no sound comes out. He’s left frustratingly quiet, like a pipe that desperately needs unclogging. It’s only when she pulls him into a hug that he feels something heavy settle atop his lungs, as if a thick layer of tarmac has suddenly blocked the road to his heart. Despite it all, he feels his eyes growing warm all over again. How many times am I going to burden the people around me with this frivolous misery? It isn’t as if it matters. ❛❛ You just didn’t do it this time. And that’s okay. ❜❜

❛❛ I’m sorry, mama… ❜❜

When his father embraces the pair of them, big arms wrapped around them like an oversized scarf, Murr is unable to keep himself together any longer. Again, he breaks.

* * *

He’s been sleeping a lot lately, the months rolling by in flippant little flashes of lucidity before he promptly drops off again. It seems to be about the only thing he can do without screwing anything up, so he takes refuge in the pointless activity. At the very least, while he’s dead to the world, he isn’t bothering anybody; isn’t wasting people’s time with his vapid uselessness; isn’t embarrassing himself in front of people who put their faith in him. Dear Raku, that scene haunts his dreams sometimes. He kills it with cough medicine. In large doses, the syrupy concoction is enough to lull him into undisturbed sleep for long blissful hours at a time, a blurry feeling filling his body as he dozes off. He’s unsure if his mother knows about it for he always makes sure to hide the bottles. If she has noticed, she certainly hasn’t said a word about it. He doesn’t even have a reason for why he chose cough medicine over other medicines than the fact that it tastes better than most What had started as an occasional dose-up in order to cope with the scratchy feeling in his throat ( most likely a byproduct of so much crying ) has turned into somewhat of a dependence.

❛❛ Li’l Murph…? ❜❜

Dead Autumn eyes slowly open to gaze upon the concerned face of his mother. Only she calls him that. His father is ‘’Big Murph’’. Despite the fact that he’s a little bit woozy, he feels his heart twist in his chest at the sight of her. Even just by laying in bed, he’s somehow proving himself to be a total embarrassment. He’s filled with so much self-loathing he feels fit to burst; as if that inky blackness is going to start leaking from the pads of his fingers and into the bed. It feels very much like that’s all his ‘’work’’ ever was: an unfortunate stain on otherwise worthwhile parchment.

❛❛ How’re you doing…? ❜❜ She knows it’s a frivolous question, but she can’t help but ask. As she perches on the edge of the bed, a gentle hand sweeps over his forehead, brushing unkempt curls aside. Her little guy has always had such thick hair. She’s learned over time that there’s no point in trying to tame it. ❛❛ It’s… been a while since you got out of bed. Yer father ‘n’ I’re really worried about you. Are you… sick? ❜❜

Sick in the heart, mama. Sick in the brain. ❛❛ … no. I’m just tired. ❜❜

❛❛ Tired? ❜❜

❛❛ Yeah. Really tired. ❜❜

He watches numbly as his mother moves to lay beside him. His bed is small, singular, and even though he doesn’t really desire company he feels himself shuffling backwards in order to give her more room, his back snugly against the wall. She’s a small woman, so it isn’t as if he’s struggling to breathe. When he entered his tens, he’d dwarfed her almost immediately. It had become a running joke, constantly measuring himself up with her and asking, ’’how much longer are you gonna be bigger than me?’’

❛❛ Maybe it would help to get out of bed? ❜❜ The small smile that curls onto her face is safe. While he may have told someone else saying something similar to him to fuck off, never his mother. Never her. She’s only ever tried to do the things that make him happy. ❛❛ I know that you think you’re a failure, Alé, but yer not. You’re not. Okay? You’re. Not. ❜❜

❛❛ Mama-- ❜❜ ❛❛ Please stop-- ❜❜

His lips press tightly together as he watches her eyes fill with tears. It’s now that he realises just how much he’s worrying her. It hits him with the startling weight of a truck, hard and fast, and all at once it’s difficult to keep his eyes on her. It’s even worse when she brings her hands to his face, pulling him closer and closer until she can press a gentle kiss to his forehead. Tender fingers reach up, card through his hair even in spite of its nightmarish tangles, his head drawn to her chest.

❛❛ … you’re my son. I know you better than anybody. Yer smart, ‘n’ funny, ‘n’ talented, ‘n’ yer ideas are out of this world. The crowd loves you. That hasn’t changed just because you failed once. It’ll never change. So long as you keep making things, it’ll never change. So please, keep making things. ❜❜

Though it by no means fixes the battered state of his heart, it soothes the ache just a little, and ‘just a little’ makes it bearable. Though he doesn’t suddenly believe in himself, he tells convinces him to tell her that she’s right, that he’s being too hard on himself ( no you’re not no you’re not no you’re not ) and at some point drags himself from the warm cocoon of his sheets with her help. He showers for the first time in forever, tends to himself properly, and then goes downstairs to eat. His mother is allowed to feed him a whole meal after months of him starving himself and living on scraps. It hadn’t all been intentional. He’d simply had no desire to eat at all. When his father enters the house after tending the fields all day, he all but double-takes when he sees his son somewhere other than buried in his bed.

❛❛ By Gods… it’s him. ❜❜ ❛❛ Ha-Ha, dad. Maybe the real stage presence in this family is you. Total knockout. ❜❜

The small ‘smack’ delivered to the back of his head is filled with nothing but affection. For just one night, they feel like they have their son back.

* * *

For a while, he thought he was going to be okay.

For a while, waking up every morning at the crack of dawn and helping his father with fruit-picking and orchard-watering had been enough to motivate him. For a while, peeling their harvest in the cellar with his mother and stuffing it into kegs had been enough to distract him. For a while, Murr really thought that the quiet family life could salvage his wounded pride, his shattered self-image, his exhausted brain-- but it couldn’t. None of it can.

His parents have started to notice the bad habits creeping back in. They’re mysteriously out of cough syrup when hay season comes and irritates their throats. His notebook remains as empty as it did the day after he bought it. As soon as he’s done with work, he goes straight to bed, most of the time not even stopping to eat before collapsing out of sheer exhaustion. His mother tries to make sure he has some sort of breakfast before he goes out to work; most of the time he picks at it, clearly disinterested. His father tries to talk to him about re-applying for school. On the surface, he meets them both with a vague sense of cooperation; a deceitful amicability, almost, before retiring to bed and letting his deep sense of apathy take over.

The longer he thinks about it, the more disconnected from himself that he feels. He’s no longer a student, or a best friend, or an on-and-off-maybe-crush. At this point, he barely even feels like a son. He’s just a lost man in a void sea, floating wherever the grief takes him, the little paper boat that’s been crudely folded for him out of playwright notes and fantastical plots beginning to grow soggy and sink. At the end of the day, when all is said and done, he can do nothing to stop the overwhelming emptiness from taking over.

And Kuro… God, he hates him. The more he thinks about the other, the more twisted up he becomes. He’s always had an explosive temper, since he was a young child, but the outbursts have been getting so much worse lately. He knocked a plate out of his mother’s hand a few days ago when she tried to feed him. He threw an empty pail at his father when he’d tried to insist that he should give school another go. Though he’d apologised both times, blaming his current moodiness, he hadn’t felt any guilt-- just more anger, sick and hateful, and somewhere along the way it had turned into an anguish so raw that it was difficult to remain upright.

This is your fault. You can’t do anything right. If you had tried to reach him more, he wouldn’t have turned his back on you. He did you a service, not attending your piss-poor performance. It would probably have been a huge embarrassment to the both of you. God, you suck… you know that Kuro isn’t the only one, right? It isn’t just Kuro that thinks you’re worthless, even if it’s his opinion that hurts you the most. Your mom thinks you’re moody and mean. Your dad thinks you flopped on purpose so you could have an easy life as the spoiled rich kid in the Murphy household. They both think you failed them, and you did. Your peers at school haven’t tried to reach out to you since you left. Not one of them. You know why? Because they’re all embarrassed by you too. They hate you, Murr. Everyone hates you. Kuro hates you. Kuro has hated you for a long time. Kuro never liked you. Kuro despised you all along and you fell for it. You fell for it, Murphy. You fell for him. How does that feel?

It feels overwhelmingly painful. It’s why he dulls the ache with copious amounts of medication. In a way, whenever that concoction slides down his throat he feels a sense of relief. Not because he’s immediately high or he feels a sudden disconnect from the strain, but because it feels as if this feeling can really be cured; as if he’s able to reach inside of himself and apply medicine to the places that hurt the most.

When he stumbles out of his house early one morning in the midst of a storm, it’s with the pitiful gait of a man so intoxicated he can barely make progress. Nevertheless, his dose propels him down the hill, all but tumbling down the steep incline and into the field below. The floaty feeling that spreads through his body as he lays face-up in the sunshine field ( as he and Kuro had so eloquently dubbed it after observing that the weeds had looked much like tiny suns ) is pleasant. It doesn’t last, but while it does he’s happy, glazed eyes staring up into the endless sky, rain spattering heavily against his face. Normally, he hates getting his hair wet, but in this state he’s unaware-- doesn’t possess the motor function to be irritated by it.

At some point, he clambers to his feet again, slipping and sliding his way up the second hill as if caught on ice, entangled in the throes of a drug-induced dizziness, and somehow, he manages to wedge his foot into the footholes of the Big Tree and begin climbing. Only Raku knows how he manages, arms shaking with the effort it takes to even lift himself from the base of the trunk.

Me and Kuro used to do this all the time. Now that I’m grown, it’s easier to climb. Maybe if I climb I can reach that state of happiness again. If I keep going, higher and higher, maybe I can leave my life behind and live in my memory, the place where nothing hurts and everything is right and I was happy and I had a life ahead of me--

Somewhere along the way, the high begins to die down, a dead weight in his chest as he starts his mindless ascent. What replaces it is a sorrow so dreary that he starts crying, tears mixing with the rain. Air that crackles with static becomes hot and heavy to his aching lungs, the sadness that spreads itself across them like butter so thick that his breaths rattle like chains. His climbing is frantic, as if he’s really trying to reach somewhere beyond the stretches of his imagination; as if he truly believes that a different world is waiting for him beyond the barrier of leaves.

It doesn’t take him long to reach the surface. In fact, so surprised by his fast mount of the giant monument is he that he very nearly falls while searching for a further footfall, only to realise there isn’t one. With his elevated height, it’s now easy for his face to push itself through the thick foliage - something he couldn’t do as a child - features exposed to the sky. To his turbulent sense of grief, there is no light, ethereal plane above. The storm is the same, the night thick with cloud and and dreary headaches. He feels his expression falling until he’s left with the same apathetic arrangement as usual.

What was I thinking? Of course there’s nothing above this threshold. Of course there’s no memory palace, no safe havens, no pleasant things-- just rot, and rain, and dark. Just vapid emptiness. Just nothing. Dear Gods… my life means nothing. I mean nothing. There’s nothing for me here. What I thought was mine was snatched from my hands.

Sobbing at the top of the tree feels right somehow. Hunched there in the leaves, tight and balled, as invisible now as he’s felt for the past few months, it brings him some amount of solace to wring himself dry of feeling. He cries until his throat begins to hurt; until his hoodie has been soaked through; until his boots become slick and slippery. Everything just hurts so much. And there’s nothing I can do to escape it. There’s nothing I can do to--

His thoughts are interrupted by his shoe slipping badly as he begins to squirm his way down. He slides along branches, some snapping with the force, and falls a short way down until his arms are able to wrap around a thick branch that is capable of hosting his weight. Even in the heavy rain, he can hear the bark groaning, as if it too is expressing a deep discontentment with him. Check that, Murphy - not even trees like you.

With his face momentarily buried into his shoulder, trying to clear his vision of tears and water, he gets a glance at the ground. He really didn’t fall that far; he’s left suspended a great ways off the ground still, his legs dangling like nooses. Somewhere inside of him is a fight pulling through, legs swinging in an attempt to lock around the tree and continue his descent. His boots continue to slip, unable to find purchase.

God-fucking-damnit. I can’t get up.

Why’re you fighting so hard though?

The thought brings with it an alarming amount of clarity. When he really settles down to tackle it, why is he struggling so vehemently to remain aloft? His family is disappointed in him; his best friend has suddenly decided he hates his guts; his college career went down the drain; he’s stuck working on a farm that reminds him of all the dear things he once had but no longer does. Is this all there is? Haunted memories and half-people? A safe, average existence that risks absolutely nothing? Betrayal from those you trusted with your soul? Was this really all he had to look forward to after leaving his fluffy childhood behind?

Oh, you’re crying again. Big surprise. Shut up. Stop whining. This is your fault. ❛❛ I know… I know… so pleeease... ❜❜

You don’t seem like you want to get back up.

Does he? Even though he knows that this voice has a tendency to say the worst things, is it wrong? He feels the strength leaving his arms slowly, though he wriggles desperately in an attempt to remain hanging there. If I can just wait until dawn, my dad’ll find me--

You KNOW you have the strength to pull yourself up. You just don’t want to.

❛❛ ... ❜❜

It’s this thought that is the final nail in the coffin. Really, these thoughts are right. Why is he trying so much? All he ever does is fail. No matter how much effort he puts into things, he always comes up short. Everything that he touches dies in some way. He’s incredibly unstable and makes his mother cry. He can’t do anything right… but he could let go right. He could do that. Even a complete idiot like him could do that, couldn’t he?

Sure you could, kid. You know you could. Think of it as a service. Besides, you’re so high up, it’d be relatively painless. Relatively.

It isn’t painless. It hurts as if hell has opened up inside of him, a torn scream escaping his raw throat before he falls still and quiet in a heap on the ground. Unable to move, blood pooling around his head, he feels his vision swim and give out.

Hey…! HEY!! … yer cryin’... Screw off… I thought ya died.

His eyes open halfway, as if he expects to see his dearest friend scrabbling his way down the tree, just like he had all those years ago. There’s nobody there. Of course there isn’t. Why would there be? Nobody’s coming to get me. Even when I came to get them, they’re not going to come and get me.

A slideshow of mismatched memories play through his head at the speed of sound, a sensory overload that ultimately leaves his ears ringing and his eyes stinging. Kuro… I miss you… I could never hate you… I need you here… don’t you see that you’re the reason for all of this pain…? All I want is for you to come back… please come back. I’ll try harder! I’ll reach further! I just need you to come back please come back please please PLEASE COME AND GET ME I FUCKED UP REALLY BAD--

He doesn’t.

#🞮 ┋ ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴍᴀᴋᴇs ᴏᴜʀ ʟɪɢʜᴛ sᴇᴇᴍ ᴄᴏʟᴅ. ❜ ( murr // main. )#🞮 ┋ ᴀʀᴛɪᴄᴜʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴏɴᴇʟʏ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴏꜰ ᴜs. ❜ ( murr // ic. )#drabble *#/ dear god i know i'm the only who cares about murr but this makes me wanna fucking die bro #also blockquotes don't wanna work at the moment pfft #but i'll add em in later when tumblr stops being a dumbfuck i guess #also 'ale' is a short nickname for his name which u can maybe tell :3c

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soartfullydone · 5 years

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May I put it in, little Kurta?

under the cut because whoops my hand slipped

She is a shaking, quivering mess and has been for some time. Her breaths come out in pants as she tries to re-center herself—to get some semblance of control—but that’s absurd. What about this situation is in her control?

The mattress beneath her is soft, and she rests on her side because that’s where he has positioned her after drawing her towards the brink and denying her for a third time. He has free reign to do whatever he wishes, and his whims are vast; her arms are bound behind her, locked parallel against her spine, her back forced into an arch. To the naked eye, she would look insane, as if she was doing this to herself willingly. A Nen perspective reveals something different. Pink aura is wrapped around her arms, and it isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

Oh, that’s right. You can’t burn my Elastic Love away until I hurt you. How much pain will it take? he asked her so long ago, or so it seems. Maybe tonight we’ll find out together, but… You already hate my Nen so much. I think I want you to show me how much.

She supposes she’s still in the process of doing that. She barely sees past the red in her vision, barely remembers who she is or why she agreed to do this with him, if she fully agreed to it at all. If her body is a bow pulled taut, that string snapped long ago; she unfortunately has yet to follow. She wants, more than anything, to bring her thighs together and roll her hips, knowing that if she could apply just the slightest bit of friction, she’d tip over the edge at last, and the pleasure wouldn’t be so agonizing.

Instead, he has her legs spread apart, fingers digging into one inner thigh as he licks a slow, teasing trail down the other. Her body is slick with sweat and desire, but it’s also been ravaged by his mouth as he’s traced and marked new paths along her skin. She feels him toying with her with acute precision, each nerve a slave to sensation.

She’s pretty sure he is actually killing her, that she’s somehow reached his elusive, secretive benchmark. Her death by his hands is just taking a lot longer than she thought it would… And it’s being done by much more than his hands.

Reflexively, she struggles against his Nen and feels the immediate retaliation of his teeth scraping the inside of her leg. That sharp graze sends a violent shudder coursing through her body, and her mind screams, Finally, but she still doesn’t come. A sound of angry desperation rips from her throat, and his laugh ghosts over her skin, adding another layer of sensual torture.

“That was an amusing try, but you need much more than that, don’t you?” When she doesn’t answer, he shifts her body. Her weight falls heavy on her left arm, but the drag of his nails from her waist down to the swell of her hips distracts her. “Don’t you?”

Whether he means more pain to dispel the Nen or more pleasure to make her climax, the answer is—

“Yes,” she says, her voice higher and strained. Some might refer to it as begging. It’s all she can get out as another shudder hits; at this point, even the sound of her own aching need has consequences for her, but it still—isn’t—enough.

The bed shifts, his presence nearing. He brushes back the hair that’s fallen over her face, and there is nothing tender in the gesture. It is inspired by pure selfishness and vanity. He wants to see everything. The rapture on her face. The disgust twisting her lips. The hatred caught in her eyes. He wants to watch every minute play of emotion and reaction, knowing that he alone is the cause.

The thing about toys is you experience phases of obsession with them, and right now, he is in the eye of that particular storm, its god and its willing victim. And as both god and victim, he wants to inflict his obsession on this particular toy, wants to watch the contagion spread, and spread it has. She looks up at him now with those fascinating red eyes that abhor and distrust him, and they show how very little those reservations matter because they also say, More. She wants him, and he’s happy to give but also to take and take and take. In the end, he is chasing his own pleasure; hers is merely a byproduct.

Hisoka.

She remembers his name, not because her eyes find his but because of what she finds in them. Wide-eyed eagerness completely lacking in anything resembling innocence. His eyes absorb her like she’s a tapestry, and he is unraveling every thread that makes her a masterpiece, the last person who will ever take in all her perfections and imperfections before he tugs the last thread loose and destroys her. The hunger to see what becomes of her after is stark on his face, too, making his high cheekbones appear sharper against his pale skin. Her attention snags on the blue teardrop drawn on his left cheek, nearly smeared beyond recognition, and she wonders when she’d tried to ruin his canvas and destroy him in turn.

Her mind quiets as he braces a hand by her head, strands of her dark hair still trapped between his fingers. He leans over her, his chest brushing against her sensitive breasts, and she whimpers. That’s when she feels him press against her entrance—but he goes no further.

Instead, Hisoka smiles against her ear and asks coyly, “May I put it in, little Kurta?”

I’m going to fucking kill you, is what Melody Kurta wants to say, but her blood is boiling too hot, her arms are tingling with sleep against her back, and her entire body is shaking. The words simply will not come, but goddammit, she is going to.

Almost blindly, she strikes, her teeth latching onto flesh—an earlobe—and playfully nip it, she does not.

Of course, he loves her attempt to nearly tug off his ear, his moan hot and loud against her. “You’re so mean, darling. I thought you’d like it if I asked you nicely, but if you insist---”

With one, hard stroke, he’s buried completely inside her. Melody’s vision goes white, her orgasm cleaving through her as Hisoka’s pace doesn’t at all relent. She doesn’t know what she says, what she cries. She can’t even hear what sick and twisted praises he’s giving her, but it doesn’t matter. She’ll hear them, eventually, whenever she comes back down; he’s nowhere close to done.

Behind her back and unknown to both of them, the Elastic Love binding her arms starts to burn away piece by piece, like paper catching fire in spots as it’s held mockingly above a flickering candle.

#oooops #otp: strangelove #ca: observe my sins

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canchewread · 5 years

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Editor’s note: earlier this afternoon I managed to smash my foot into a coffee table and I’m increasingly starting to suspect that I broke at least one toe. As a result I haven’t had time to write a full edition of “The Skinny” today; in the meantime here’s a short essay on history, propaganda and the CIA.

In a recent essay about changing mainstream attitudes towards Edward Snowden and the national security state, I talked a little bit how the business of recording and analyzing history is riddled with class-based structural barriers that largely serve to protect and support establishment power and as such, elite capital. Obviously where I deal with this most in my writing is in the real-time record of history reported and analyzed by the media - after all, this type of orthodox, pro-establishment propagandizing happens every day on the evening news.

Today I'm going to switch gears and talk about books, specifically actual history books about war, foreign policy and espionage. After finishing Edward Snowden's new biography “Permanent Record” I went back to my shelf and pulled down Tim Weiner's 2007 book "Legacy of Ashes: A History of the CIA" - a volume I've reference many times in my writing but have never sat down to read from cover to cover until a couple of days ago.

While this isn't exactly a normal book review, I like to note up front that I’m not here to explicitly trash Legacy of Ashes - it's not like Weiner's tome is an objectively bad or horrifyingly inaccurate history book; it did after all win a Pulitzer Prize.

Based on hundreds of direct interviews and massive hordes of (then) recently declassified documents, Legacy of Ashes is mostly what it purports to be - a complete history of the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency from its formation up until roughly 2006. Obviously different scholars have different primary sources but if you're in mainstream liberal media or military scholarship and you write about national security, this is a book you'll be expected by most informed observers to be familiar with; as I said, I've referenced it quite often in my work as well.

Of course, in light of the fact that the book was released right around the same time as the full exposure of CIA's staggering failure in the lead up to and aftermath of 9/11 and its complicity in Bush's secret prisons hiding America's torture program, the author understandably takes an overall "dim" view of the CIA. From cowboy covert operations in the fifties and sixties, up on through to the horrifying failures that lead to the invasion of Iraq in search of weapons of mass destruction our government knew they couldn’t find (because they didn’t exist), Legacy of Ashes tells the tale of a wayward, out of control intelligence agency that has never been capable of its supposed primary function – keeping the President informed of what is happening beyond America’s borders.

In the general sense then, it’s fair to say that for the average reader the book almost certainly comes off as a shocking indictment of the Central Intelligence Agency and many of the men who have had leadership roles inside the agency - so what's the problem? It almost sounds like I'm recommending it - doesn’t it?

Unfortunately however Tim Weiner is an affluent former New York Times journalist with a Journalism degree from Colombia and a career's worth of contact with minions of the national security state; in other words Weiner is about as "establishment" as they come and the effect that has on both his overall worldview and his study of the CIA's history, screams off virtually every single page in Legacy of Ashes.

Like all too many national security "muckrakers" Weiner starts with the basic hypothesis that the CIA and U.S. intelligence agencies in general are good, justified and necessary for the defense of the country - the whole mom and apple pie American feel good story. The repeated abuses and failures of the agency, from the author’s perspective, are simply an obvious byproduct of the arrogance, incompetence and personal failings of individual leaders - failings that are often magnified by the byzantine bureaucratic structures inherent to a "free" and "open liberal democracy” like the United States.

In Weiner's account the CIA itself is not the problem, but rather the faulty individuals entrusted with its sacred task. Catastrophic failures in intelligence that have all too tragic consequences are a result of individual hubris, mission drift and plain old American cultural arrogance; the question of whether or not there should have even been a Cold War for example, simply doesn’t come up - even as the author openly admits that everything the CIA and the US government thought it knew about the Soviet Union turned out to be wrong and was based on lies produced to order by, yes the CIA. Leader after leader and planner after planner are revealed to be flawed human beings consumed by petty emotions or false assumptions and thus wholly unsuited for the job. Every U.S. president is a poor helpless dupe, grasping to extend his power to protect America from harm without realizing what he's now empowered the wayward CIA, lead by "the wrong men", to do next – even as those same men continually empower the CIA to do more and more damage in the “service” of protecting American interests abroad. In this worldview American “cloak and dagger” imperialism comes off as a sort of tragic accident; rather than a purposeful activity designed to bolster American power not just in a military sense, but in a global economic sense on behalf of American corporations as well.

In particular, Weiner's curious assessment of Allen Dulles as a bumbling incompetent obsessed with reckless covert military actions and derisive of the CIA's real work, gathering intelligence, paints a very different and somehow less harmful picture of the former CIA director than previously released accounts that delve deeper into the control Dulles exhibited over American media and the ruthlessness with which he marched men to their deaths in the dubious service of the Cold War on communism. While anyone who has read Dave Talbot’s “The Devil’s Chessboard” will have no real problem accepting that Allen Dulles was an unhinged psychopath whose vision was clouded by myopic hatred of the Soviet Union (and anti-capitalism as a whole), Weiner’s portrait of a gout-ridden dilettante withdrawing into a world of public relations and spy-novel trickery doesn’t line up very well with Dulles’s staggering level of (malignant and xenophobic) influence over multiple U.S. presidents and American foreign policy. We are after all talking about a man who might have had a hand in assassinating an American head of state to not only save the CIA but also prolong the Cold War in the wake of the Cuban Missile Crisis.

Another good example of how the author’s proximity to his subject influences the way he presents the history of the CIA can be found in the way Weiner's suggestive prose repeatedly implies, but does not directly state, that Fidel Castro killed John F Kennedy; an extremely unlikely if not almost impossible scenario in light of the secret peace talks the Kennedy administration has since been revealed to have been trying to conduct with both Castro and Nikita Khrushchev.

It would be one thing if Weiner were just repeating information from CIA interviewees who believed Castro had Kennedy assassinated, but the problem is that Weiner himself is clearly purposely leaving a trail of clues towards his own belief that Fidel Castro had John F. Kennedy killed in retaliation for the CIA's botched plots to assassinate Castro; clues that are scattered throughout the entire book - it comes up at least a dozen times in the first 250 pages for example.

Naturally this theory has the benefit of not only indirectly absolving the CIA itself (and shifting the blame to Robert Kennedy) but also supporting the author’s primary thesis – namely that the CIA is horribly run and has at times been completely out of control but ultimately the agency is worth salvaging; a position that undoubtedly makes Weiner’s ex-CIA friends and sources happy no matter how much they protest otherwise.

In the author’s worldview, even the existence of the CIA is an unfortunate compromise for the pure as snow “democratic” Pig Empire, a result of America’s desperate need to fight the more talented, sophisticated and ruthless Soviet intelligence machine - an admission of inferiority that may seem scandalous on its face, but likely serves the CIA and its efforts to obscure the real, decidedly imperialist purpose of the agency just fine on the whole. Weiner could have and quite probably should have named the book “Legacy of Ashes: Confessions of the real CIA” or something similar because this feels like a confessional, or perhaps national therapy more than it feels like excoriation and condemnation.

Legacy of Ashes uses the agency’s own records and officers to gleefully point out all of the CIA’s already admitted mistakes, but the larger questions of how and why the world’s only superpower keeps letting dangerous cowboy intelligence officials “lead it” by the nose into “accidental” atrocity after “accidental” atrocity is left wholly unasked and unanswered. In the end you’re left with a book that largely consists of a full and detailed chronicle of the CIA’s known public history from the perspective of an exasperated but ultimately sympathetic parent who just wishes the agency would stick with the important work of gathering intelligence.

So that simply leaves one question; did Tim Weiner sit down to write a limited hangout for the CIA at the time of its greatest need? I can’t definitively answer that question but truthfully, I doubt it. The lens through which Legacy of Ashes views the CIA seems to me wholly a product of who the author is, or rather who he’d simply have to be to end up a world renowned national security reporter for the New York Times; an influential media figure with the resources, time and gravitas to speak to hundreds of former CIA employees.

Weiner comes from a lived experience and professional environment where American imperialism is a dirty foreign smear, the CIA’s purpose is purely defensive and questioning whether or not the problem is American global hegemony itself, as opposed to rogue cowboys running an unsupervised spy shop, is strictly verboten. If the author were the kind of guy who thought the CIA deserved to be shattered into a thousand pieces and American imperialism is a source of global suffering, not global stability - well I highly doubt you’d have ever heard of his book.

All of which isn’t to say that Legacy of Ashes is a worthless book; if like myself you’ve read dozens and dozens of other books on not only the CIA but also U.S. imperialism, it’s fairly easy to tease out the facts from Weiner’s strictly liberal orthodox opinions and desire to ultimately preserve the agency. Unfortunately however if you are not an accomplished history student or largely unfamiliar with the minutiae of CIA’s history as a whole, it’s safe to say that Legacy of Ashes is only going to tell you part of the story - the what, and not the why.

This is because if you ever did figure out the real reasons why, you’d see no justifiable reason for America to even have a CIA.

- nina illingworth

Independent writer, critic and analyst with a left focus. You can find my work at ninaillingworth.com, Can’t You Read, Media Madness and my Patreon Blog. Updates available on Twitter, Mastodon and Facebook. Chat with fellow readers online at Anarcho Nina Writes on Discord!

#Books #Legacy of Ashes #Tim Weiner #propaganda #CIA #Central Intelligence Agency #Allen Dulles #lies #establishment power #imperialism #pig empire #Kennedy #Castro #Media #New York Times #US government

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getoffthesoapbox · 6 years

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[VK/VKM] Meaningful Deaths Spring From Meaningful Lives

I’ve been pondering for a while now about the “pureblood dilemma” of the despair spiral. Purebloods all seem to fixate on death and the idea of death and finding a meaningful death, to the point where they become dangerously destructive toward the wider community around them. I had the opportunity to tackle this topic a bit via an anon ask I received some time ago, but I have more to say on the topic and I want to approach it differently in an official post.

This post isn’t a speculation per se; rather, it’s probably more accurate to call it a collection of my own chaotic thoughts on the matter.

What is a Meaningful Life?

Most people believe meaning is found in happiness, and this appears to be what the purebloods believe as well. The problem with this is that that’s not where meaning is to be found for anyone--most “meaningful” experiences aren’t necessarily happy ones. (An example would be a trying project at work that ends successfully--the experience is meaningful because it helped one grow and expand as a person, but the actual experience was harrowing and tense and full of pressure.)

Chasing happiness is ultimately a pipe dream because happiness is something that happens to you, it’s not something you can create. This is evident even in the purebloods who attain some form of happiness--Haruka and Juri get tired, Kaname admits that sometimes true loves aren’t enough to keep purebloods alive. And if you make happiness your life, what do you do when you’re not happy? Because a time will inevitably come when you are unhappy--even if you never get sick, a friend will, or you’ll lose something dear to you, or a tragedy will befall you. Suffering is an inextricable part of living. Pursuing happiness and pretending suffering away doesn’t alleviate any of the existential burden of suffering.

So how do you live a meaningful life if pursuing happiness isn’t the answer? One way is to simply live your life by trying to avoid or minimize suffering at all costs. We see this very clearly with Isaya’s way of life--he minimizes his desires and tries to stay uncommitted to anything in order to erase any attachment to things or people that might cause him to enter the despair spiral. The problem with this way of life, as we can see from Isaya’s example, is that it is ultimately (as Kaname himself would say) “colorless.” There is no passion in Isaya’s life, no joy, no light. There’s not much suffering either, other than the suffering of living through long, neverending days. He has neither light, nor darkness.

But most people can’t live such a zenlike existence, and even Isaya is searching for a way to die. This is an indication that neither pursuing happiness at all cost nor working to minimize suffering only is enough to give a life meaning.

Another option we have for gaining meaning is one that actually does leave room for both minimizing suffering and “discovering” (or receiving) happiness along the way: purpose.

Purpose, at its core, is what purebloods should be seeking. But most of them get stuck at “pursuit of happiness” or “minimization of suffering.” Only one pureblood as far as I can tell ever found “purpose.” So, let’s figure out what purpose even is. Purpose is actually really simple and it’s very personal, unique, and individual to each person. The simplest way to boil it down is this: to have a purpose is to aim for the highest good you can conceive of and work tirelessly to achieve that good in spite of the obstacles and suffering you will face. Another way to look at this is the idea of “wishing on a star”--aiming for the highest point you can see in the sky and living your life to reach that point.

Now, that may sound very similar to “pursuing happiness” but it’s actually not. Working toward “the good” isn’t necessarily something that will make you happy because it’s not easy. The way you craft a purpose actually requires being willing to bear your suffering and the suffering of others and do what you can to alleviate the suffering within your reach. Purpose begins with the simple acknowledgement of life being suffering, and that no matter which way you turn, you will suffer, so you must pick the path of suffering you think most worthwhile. And how is the worth of the path determined? By the “height” of the ultimate goal you select--and it doesn’t matter what that goal is, as long as it’s something that does the following for you: it makes you feel that all your suffering (that you’re inevitably going to go through) will be worthwhile.

In other words, “purpose” has nothing to do with happiness. Happiness happens incidentally when one is pursuing purpose. The truth of life is that even if you do nothing (as Isaya does), you will suffer. Suffering is the only true fact of life--everything is either some form of suffering, or death. (Even happiness itself or love come with suffering--the converse, the fear of loss, always accompanies happiness.) It’s incumbent upon each person to look at the paths of suffering available to them and select the option that will ultimately do the most good, not just for themselves, but for others as well. In more mythological terms, the point of purpose is the selection of the cross (weight) one will bear in the world (suffer) and WILLINGLY lifting it up and bearing it without complaint.

The longer your lifespan, the bigger your purpose needs to be to accommodate the suffering you’ll encounter (because to live is to suffer). So purebloods have it really hard, because they have to account for eternal suffering. Admittedly, that’s a pretty tough thing to wrap one’s head around, but they do have a few tools available to help them achieve a meaningful life via a purpose. The problem is, only one of them ever figured it out, and she figured it out mostly by accident.

The tools are as follows (in no particular order):

Think of what would be good for you now, 10 years from now, 100 years from now, etc.

Think of what would be good for you and good for your family now, 10 years from now, 100 years from now, etc.

Think of what would be good for you, your family, and your community now, 10 years from now, 100 years from now, etc.

Think of what would be good for you, your family, your community, and the world now, 10 years from now, 100 years from now, etc.

There are actually only a finite number of answers one can come up with using this method, because it does a few interesting things. First, it separates “you” into you, future you, eternal you. Therefore you’re not planning for just “you,” you’re planning for all the “yous” that will ever exist in the future as if they are different and distinct people. But you don’t stop there--once you’ve figured things out for yourself, you look outside yourself to your family, community, and world now, in the future, and into eternity. (Obviously humans would just do now and in the future, but purebloods need the eternity factor.) Then you orient your life around fulfilling the best possible way of living that accounts for every single one of these variables (obviously making adjustments as necessary and as you grow). If purebloods spent more time thinking about this than whining about how unfortunate they are, they’d probably be in better shape.

TL;DR - Purebloods focus on the wrong thing--happiness or minimizing suffering--in their lives. They should be focusing on finding “purpose” to their eternal suffering and steering their lives by the course of that purpose. Purpose should include more than just the pureblood’s own selfish interests--it should include the benefits to their future selves, their families, their friends, their communities, and their world. Only when they find a purpose that accounts for all these facets of their lives and strive willingly to bear the burden of their own suffering without complaint and try their best to alleviate suffering of their own and others’ will they find the meaningful lives they truly seek.

When one has a meaningful life, one does not need a meaningful death nor does one fear death. And when the end does come (whether by the cure, or by sacrifice, or by the sword for purebloods), the meaningful life will produce a meaningful death as a natural byproduct.

Why Purebloods Fail at Living Meaningful Lives

If humanity’s natural state is suffering, with only death to rescue us, how much worse is it for purebloods who can’t even escape the hell of living and have no death to comfort them when they are tired? Pureblood existence is by nature as hellish an existence as one could get--when they’re dissatisfied and nihilistic, they become bloodthirsty monsters like Rido or they can’t even bear the weight of living and take long naps and lose their hope in life like Ouri or Isaya.

Naturally, the purebloods’ obsession turns not to life, but to death, because it is the one thing nature has denied them. The grim reaper wants no pureblood at his side. They’ll have to go through hoops to reach him. Over time since their inception, purebloods must have doe all sorts of things to try to kill themselves--surely they fought wars over it and tried to commit suicide in all manner of ways. Eventually they found at least one option that seemed to work--turning other purebloods into humans via the sacrifice of their lives. And while this is certainly a meaningful death in some sense (giving a loved one the opportunity to live in the light), it’s not a one-size-fits-all solution for the remainder of the purebloods.

Because purebloods are so fixated on eternity and death, they become naval-gazers who can only see their own suffering and fail to see the damage they cause those around them via their destructive temper tantrums. A great example is Kaname in Yuuki’s memory from Night 51--Yuuki is a tiny child sitting with Kaname, and he’s unloading his eternal suffering onto her shoulders and naval-gazing about how sad eternity is. He’s not thinking or caring about the burden he’s placing on her, nor is he taking responsibility for his life--he’s only concerned about his own suffering. This is how purebloods pass on suffering to everyone they know--they don’t know how to serve.

Kaname’s a great example here too. During his ancestor days, he would “help” the villagers--but rather than his help being from his heart and out of a desire to serve the greater good he was looking to create for himself, what he was actually seeking was something as petty as “acceptance.” He was placing the burden of his suffering on the villagers, while at the same time stealing from them behind the scenes. When they (rightfully) became angry at his duplicity, he closed himself off from service (which he’d never truly done to begin with) and began the path of wallowing in his pain and licking his wounds that he continues throughout the remainder of his 10K+ lifespan. Not even the Hooded Woman’s clear example helps him see how he should be living his life.

Complicating the purebloods’ self-centered tendencies is another problem--their charisma. Charismamones mean nobody but other purebloods can be “trusted” because all other beings are “prey” to purebloods and thus are affected by their charismamones. Purebloods cannot have friends among other variants of vampire or human because they can’t know for sure if the bonds are manipulated by their charismamones or not. (This is compounded by master/servant bonding.) However, the reason this is a problem is not actually due to the charismamones--it’s due to the purebloods placing a higher value on themselves than on the ones who are affected by their charismamones. This, again, is something the Hooded Woman is the only one of the purebloods not to do--she never once holds any resentment toward humans or lower vampires for falling for charismamones, nor does she seem to hold any disdain for such bonds. Thus, she doesn’t suffer over it like Kaname, Sara, and the other younger purebloods seem to.

So purebloods have a double punch here on the suffering front--they’re already inclined to be myopically obsessed with themselves and their own immortality and they can’t trust the bonds they form with anyone but other purebloods. On top of this, they become insanely attached to their romantic partners at the expense of all else, which can be a problem (see Shizuka) if that partner is not also a pureblood. These factors all lead to faster despair descents and deep nosedives into nihilism, on top of placing the “burden for happiness” on the shoulders of one person (see what Kaname does to Yuuki--he expects her to fill his world with color for all eternity, a heavy burden to place on anyone).

Fundamentally, purebloods have a misunderstanding of existence and how they should interact with the world because they have so many complexes--they believe themselves superior and inferior simultaneously, they’re obsessed with death and themselves but are also afraid of life and losing their lives, they’re afraid of manufactured bonds but are unable to let go of control, and even when they do form bonds, they’re often with lower level vampires or humans who have finite lifespans and die.

It’s really strange that a philosopher never rose out of the purebloods, though maybe this is because Hino isn’t any good at philosophy. But as far as I can tell, a philosopher might have been of use to the purebloods--someone to help them reorient themselves toward living. Rather than being obsessed with death, they should have become obsessed with life--or, rather, how to live a good life for all eternity in a world full of suffering.

The Pureblood Who Got The Balance Right

The Hooded Woman is definitely the most remarkable of the purebloods. None of the others, not even Yuuki, ever surpass her. She was the first and the last, a symbol of greatness that was lost in time. I often wonder if Kaname was right--he should have been the forge, because the purebloods needed this woman far more than they needed him. Had she lived, perhaps the chaos the purebloods carried with them would have been mitigated.

Still, this is a woman who had her priorities straight. She lived with purpose and did not sit around merely trying to find personal happiness or minimize her own suffering. She chose her goals and aimed for them no matter the cost. In life, she was fearless but also compassionate and had a huge heart--not only did she love humans, but she also loved vampires! Her “high aim” was to find a way for both of them to exist in the world without bloodshed or animosity. Of course, her first solution was to merely gather all the purebloods and sequester them on an island. But this proved difficult because there were obviously purebloods who just wanted to abuse their predator abilities, and she couldn’t convince everyone to join her. The plan had to be abandoned.

But did this woman fall into despair and boo hoo over her fate? No, she merely changed directions and began fighting the purebloods abusing their power. She still continued to face suffering head on and shoulder the burden because she knew she was strong enough to bear it. I love the way she calls her parents fragile, and humans fragile. It shows how much she’s thought about the difference between herself and humans, and also how she values her own strength and ability to carry those fragile beings on her shoulders.

And when the time came to face her death (or let Kaname die), she chose to face death courageously in order to protect everyone and still allow Kaname a chance to find his own purpose in life--a purpose that couldn’t be found in death. She offers her life to the hunters and becomes a weapon for 10,000 years. A tireless, unflagging weapon burning eternally on her own. The only pureblood in history to do so. Even Kaname only burns for 1000 years, and he gets to live again. Only the Hooded Woman saw it through to the end.

Even so, she never once complains. She never once despairs. She carries on with a bold, brazen attitude and an unflagging, unwavering smile. I mean, heck, just look at that smile on her up there in the header image for this post--of all the major “deaths” in this series, only this woman truly lived and died in peace. I doubt she ever regretted a day in her life, unlike everyone else in this series. ;)

Had the purebloods followed her example, instead of burying her in time and forgetting her, how much happier would they all have been? How much better would their world and society have been, if they’d cheerfully carried the world on their shoulders as she did?

Meaningful Deaths Spring From Meaningful Lives

When the Hooded Woman died, she was smiling. When Kaname cast his heart into the forge, he was suffering and in pain. Zero and Yuuki both smile when they die, but clearly they both still have regrets as they go--Zero, because he has to leave Yuuki alone, and Yuuki because she’s lost Zero and failed Kaname.

We haven’t yet seen Kaname’s true death, but I hope he finally achieves what the Hooded Woman wanted for him--a meaningful life which leads to a meaningful death. But he’ll only find that if he can ever find a legitimate purpose for his life, and maybe as a human he can finally discover a purpose worth living 80 or so odd years for.

But even Zero and Yuuki don’t achieve what the Hooded Woman achieved. Neither of them managed to find happiness for eternity. Still, they obviously get much closer to it than Kaname did before Yuuki turned him. We don’t know the road they take yet, or how difficult the suffering is, or how they choose to bear it. All we can say for certain is that Zero and Yuuki had meaningful enough lives that they could smile at the end of them, though clearly they still had some regrets as their smiles aren’t nearly Hooded Woman quality.

Now it’s Kaname’s turn to find purpose and, through purpose, meaning. Whether Hino’s going to show that or not, I don’t know. All I can say is, it’s clear to me these characters need to stop focusing on only themselves and their significant others and start looking at a wider picture in order to find the happiness they seek--which is really just purpose to make life worth living, with happiness as an incidental perk. Only when they find this can they face death without fear--something Yuuki’s clearly still struggling with even now in VKM.

Time will tell, I suppose.

#vampire knight #vampire knight memories

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