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biggest-stupidhead · 1 year

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Demons

A/N: I'm baaacckkkkk, I was inspired by a tik tok about how dangerous the winter solstice is, and how the veil between this world and the next is thinnest this time of year. So, in honor of my previous spooky Nat fic, I wrote this :) Hope you all enjoy! Listen to Demons by Hayley Kiyoko if you're feeling jazzy. Image is from pintrest not mine, credit goes to the creator!

Summary: The darkest night of the year harbors dangerous creatures, and you find yourself in a precarious situation when Natasha returns after a month of radio silence...

Warnings: Uhhhh lesbian sex (duh), blood (minimal), dark! Wanda & dark! Natasha (not super dark just spooky) , slight horror themes, porn w plot, fingering (r receiving, Wanda receiving), oral (r giving & receiving, nat giving). Lmk if I missed anything, this was a long one and I wouldn't be surprised if I did tbh.

Word Count: 3.5K

Autumn departed in a long drawn-out battle, temperate weather ebbed into freezing winds and biting blizzards. Bare tree branches scraped against your window, and the leaves have long fallen to be replaced with icicles and heavy snow. Dried herbs and pickled goods littered your minimal counter and cabinet space, casting strange shadows in the dark. You sat in a small armchair near your fireplace, a book splayed open on your lap. The scent of bitternut hickory logs burning filled the space, mingling with the dried herbs and the soup you’d prepared earlier.

Your cat purred as she slept by the fireplace, her paws kneading the air. Your cozy cabin felt lonelier than ever during this holiday season, your only company was the cat. This solitude had never bothered you before, but after Natasha had slipped into your life and just as easily slunk out of your life, you found yourself feeling lonely. Your nightly visitor had stopped visiting, and you found yourself missing her company. After her last visit on All Hallow’s Eve, she stopped coming, and your fears were confirmed. Natasha wasn’t a townie who was visiting your isolated home, she was something else entirely. A true creature of the night, bound by ancient laws to restrict the havoc she could bring to the secular world.

Deep down, you had always known this was the case, her glowing eyes, sharp fangs, and claws hidden under a vague disguise gave her away. You shouldn’t miss her, she was not yours to keep, and she likely hadn’t thought about you since that final encounter. But you thought of her constantly, every night you spent between cold sheets with your fingers buried in your heat you thought of her. You closed your book, eyebrows knitting together at the memory of her body slotting against yours, the chorus of your moans filling your quiet cabin. The book clattered to the ground as you stood quickly from your chair. A log in the fireplace popped loudly, but your cat continued to purr, her flank rising steadily with each tiny breath. You ground your teeth as your eyes flickered around your tiny cabin, taking stock of the herbs you had grown and gathered.

It wasn’t enough. You hadn’t been prepared for All Hallow’s which is why you felt so tormented. Mere days separated you from the Winter Solstice, a time when the veil between worlds was thinnest. It was the popular belief that Halloween or Samhain was the most dangerous night of the year. But those people would be sorely mistaken, the true danger lies in the darkest night of the year which occurs on the Winter Solstice, a time when sun deities are said to have died. You were counting on Natasha’s return on this night, but you needed boundaries this time. You flew into a frenzy, throwing open cabinets and lighting beeswax candles as you rummaged through your stores. It became apparent that you would have to run into town for mistletoe and yule logs. There was little you could do tonight, so you set about pacing your cabin as you made a mental list of what needed to be done.

________

As the first rays of sun filtered through your window, you were already dressed and stepping out the door. You hurried into your beaten pickup truck, allowing the ancient vehicle to warm up as you double-checked your list. One full day of sunlight stood between you and the darkest night, between you and Natasha meeting once more. Of course, this was all provided she wanted to see you, a thought that made your stomach swirl with anxiety. Once the truck was warm enough you slowly drove through the powdery snow, navigating your way through the precarious roads.

Once in town, you checked off each item, leaving nothing to chance. You were back in your cabin, unloading sprigs of mistletoe and hauling yule logs into your home. You tethered the mistletoe above every threshold and sprinkled some salt down for good measure. A large chunk of beef was simmering in bone broth on your stove, the aroma overpowering the scent of smoke and herbs. The berries you had preserved were bubbling in a mixture of lemon juice, water, and sugar, well on their way to becoming a fine jam. A feast for yourself would be ready by dark, which wasn’t far away, and maybe if you were feeling generous, you’d welcome a guest.

The afternoon slipped by and you watched the sun set as you placed your jam in jars, the scent of freshly baked bread threatening to overwhelm the scent of the stew. It was the proper way to fend off spirits, a warm meal, salt covering thresholds, and mistletoe dangling above every doorway. Most would surely pass you by, but you were praying that one wouldn’t. As you sat out plates and poured yourself a glass of wassail, the heady scent of cider and cloves filled your nose as you brought the steaming cup to your lips. The flames of your candles licked at the air, occasionally spitting plumes of smoke into the still air. The sky outside was like crushed black velvet with studded diamonds sprinkled across its surface. You found yourself enamored with the vision of perfect constellations, the heat of your drink seeping into your calloused palms.

Just as you began to think about sitting down to eat your meal, there was a soft yet demanding knock on your door. Any feeling of warmth or comfort left your body as gooseflesh rose to the surface of your flesh. You sat your cup down softly and carefully crossed the room, pausing in front of the door, trying not to grin like an idiot.

“Hello?” Your voice was mistreated, rough from not speaking often. Your porch creaked under the weight of whatever was on the other side of your door.

“Let me in.” The voice was unfamiliar, your smile dropped from your face, eyes widening as a cold sweat broke out all over your body. It was feminine and sultry but it certainly was not Natasha.

“No.” Your breathing picked up as you staggered backward, and a soft malicious chuckle filled your ears as if the creature was right behind you. You spun around only to find your crackling fireplace with your cat batting a ball of yarn innocently across the floor. Another slow rhythmic knock rang through the cabin.

“Come on, don’t be scared.” The creature sang between knocks, followed by a soft scratching sound.

“Little witch I know you’re home.” You struggled to maintain your breathing as the scratches grew louder.

“You must be so lonely in there. I can help you.” The scratches stopped, the porch creaked, and the hinges on your door groaned. Carefully, you stepped closer to the door, call it a morbid curiosity. You pressed your body against the door, your ear on the smooth wood as you listened intently.

“Speak to me.” A wispy voice rang through the wood, she was also pressed against the door, and the vision of a beautiful woman just on the other side filled your mind. Subconsciously, your disloyal fingers wrapped around the brass knob, turning it a quarter before a searing heat burned your palm.

You yelped loudly and laughter rang through your cabin, a sadistic sound that made your blood freeze. You stepped back again, nearly tripping over the ball of yarn as you sank into your chair.

“I won’t leave until you open this door.” The voice grew stern and you felt a tear slip past your lashes, the fear encompassing you. Between shaky breaths, you gathered yourself before throwing another yule log onto the fire. The ashes swirled as the logs popped and snapped because of the blistering heat. Your stew was growing cold, the forgotten glass of wassail sat on your counter, and the creaks of the creature outside grew louder and more impatient with each passing minute.

“Let me in.” The voice sounded tired and frustrated as it continued to plead, a pitiful scratch followed the request.

“I won’t!” You shouted into the brisk night air, and the creature hummed.

“You will.” The creature growled and the candles you’d lit flickered out, leaving you in darkness. Your cat yowled before racing into your bathroom, the clatter of things falling led you to believe she had jumped into your shower. The pounding on the door was louder now, more demanding, you covered your ears and curled into yourself, tucking your legs to your chest in fear. Suddenly the pounding stopped, the porch creaked again, and then you could discern a second set of footsteps.

“I told you to wait.” Natasha.

“I couldn’t help myself Natty.” The other voice sounded soft and playful.

“You’ll have your turn.” Natasha hissed and you nearly flew to the door to open it at the sound of her voice.

“Natasha!” You screamed and their hushed voices stopped. The darkness seemed to heighten your senses, you swore you could hear them both breathing heavily on the other side of the door.

“Let me in darling.” Natasha turned the doorknob impatiently and you paused, recalling the salt and mistletoe. You kicked the salt aside and took a deep breath, your hand resting on the brass knob as Natasha turned it once more.

“Just you.” Your voice was shaky and brimming with fear. Natasha laughed softly and turned the knob once more.

“Just me.” Little did you know, she was crossing her fingers between her back, her lips curled into a sinister grin as her friend hovered over her shoulder. You opened the door slowly, peeking through the crack to see Natasha standing innocently, alongside another beautiful woman. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of the two. Natasha looked the same, her red hair tied back in a loose braid, green eyes sparkling in the moonlight. She looked like a vixen, her white teeth shining in the soft firelight that slipped through your cracked door.

“This is Wanda, she won’t hurt you.” Natasha stepped aside, and you got your first good look at your tormentor. She had dark hair that hung loosely around her round face, her hands were locked together in front of her. But what truly caught your attention was her face, her eyes were green like Natasha’s but they were wider, more doe-eyed. She had full pink lips that curled into a grin as she noticed your prolonged stare.

“It’s freezing out here.” Natasha hinted at you to let them in, making a show of rubbing her hands together.

“Come in.” You threw all inhibitions to the wind as you let the door swing open and stepped aside. The two stepped in quickly and you shut the door behind them, Natasha paused under the mistletoe, reaching up to tap it lightly. The bundle of leaves swung with the disturbance and you watched it, swallowing thickly as Natasha turned her attention to you. Wanda stood looking into your fire, her neck craning down as she watched the flames lick the logs.

“How festive,” Natasha murmured, reaching out and cupping your face and you found yourself leaning into her touch, despite the coolness of her palms and the sharpness of her claws.

“I missed you.” You whispered as she touched her forehead to yours, red whisps of hair slipping from her braid as she did so.

“I’m here,” Natasha spoke softly, her lips brushing yours as she did so, her thumb brushing over your ear lobe tenderly. She leaned forward and sealed her lips with yours, setting a slow and sensual pace as her arms circled around you, pulling you flush against her.

“Wow get a room.” Wanda scoffed, whirling around on her heel and smirking as the two of you broke apart.

“Can we eat? I’m starving.” Wanda’s green eyes glowed in the firelight, she licked her lips and the fear that was hiding inside of you was ignited again.

“I could eat.” Natasha shrugged, her own gaze languid but lurking beneath you could sense that familiar darkness. Something told you they weren’t talking about your stew, you slipped out of Natasha’s grasp and moved through the small space to grab your drink. You gulped down a few long sips, the auburn liquid slipping past your lips and dripping down your chin. Natasha sighed loudly, walking to Wanda and rubbing her back.

“I’m famished.” You made eye contact with each of them, blinking slowly as the two broke into sly grins.

“Come here, sweet girl.” Natasha crooned and you slowly padded over to her, your confidence fading with every step. Wanda bit her lip, her sharp fangs protruding as she did so. You wouldn’t be surprised if she had a forked tongue as well, maybe even a pair of leathery wings folded behind her back. Once you were an arm's length away, Natasha grabbed your wrist and reeled you in, kissing your jaw as her hands cradled the back of your neck and wrapped around your waist. Your eyes fluttered closed as you basked in Natasha’s affections, her claws scratching your back softly.

“Give me a turn Natty.” Wanda whimpered and your eyes flew open, meeting her green ones as she placed her chin on Natasha’s shoulder. Wanda’s warm breath fanned over your lips, her long lashes batting as she watched your mouth drop open. Natasha’s lips had found your collarbone, her sharp teeth scraping against soft warm skin.

“When I’m done, you’ll never forget who you belong to.” Natasha hissed against your skin and Wanda giggled, leaning forward and pressing her lips to yours just as Natasha broke your skin. A hot trail of blood slipped down between the valley of your breasts, staining your shirt as it blazed a trail down your body. You gasped against Wanda’s open mouth, her laughter cut through the tension as she cupped the side of our face softly.

Her lips found yours again and you honed your focus in on kissing her, your tongues mingling as your heads turned to reach deeper into one another. Meanwhile, Natasha had sunk onto her knees, resting between you and Wanda as Wanda’s own hands greedily tugged at the hem of your white blouse. Natasha was busy pulling your pants down, along with your underwear, her cold hands roaming along the expanse of your thighs. Wanda broke the kiss so she could pull your shirt off, leaving you completely exposed to the women. She groaned as she cupped your breasts, smearing your own blood across your skin as she leaned in and took a pert nipple between her teeth, biting down softly. You threw your head back and arched into her, Natasha’s finger traced along your labia, smearing your arousal as she watched you and Wanda from below.

“Fuck, you look so perfect like this, covered in blood, being such a good girl for us.” Natasha groaned as she sunk a finger into your heat. You whimpered, your hand clutching the back of Wanda’s head as you struggled to meet Natasha’s gaze. Wanda switched breasts, her green eyes lidded as she savored you, her cold hands skating along your sides. Natasha’s own lips latched onto your neglected clit, suckling softly as Wanda returned to your lips, kissing you deeply. Natasha added another finger, slowly curling her digits to massage the rough spot inside of you that she knew drove you crazy. Your knees buckled and you nearly lost your balance, Natasha chuckled as Wanda steadied you, her fingers digging into your shoulders. Natasha continued her ministrations, feeling your pussy clench down on her fingers as Wanda stripped off her clothes.

“Nat, please. I need you so bad.” You whimpered as Natasha’s fingers picked up their pace, her thumb finding your clit once more. Wanda was nearly nude now, her teeth shimmering in the firelight as she leaned in to place fiery kisses along the column of your throat, your head was thrown back in ecstasy. The tight knot in your stomach was becoming unbearable, and the ache between your legs seemed insatiable. Natasha’s fingers held a brutal pace, the loud noise of her fingers sinking into your cunt spurring her on. Wanda’s fingers found your neglected clit, nearly matching the pace that Natasha had set.

“Go ahead sweet girl, come for us.” Wanda bit down on your ear lobe, her lips pressed against the side of your neck. That was all you needed to hear before tipping over the edge, your legs shaking as your eyes rolled back and a wave of pleasure washed over you. Natasha slowly let you come down from your high as Wanda peppered kisses across your collarbones, whispering praises as your heart rate returned to a normal rhythm. You felt like the room was spinning as Natasha cupped your chin in her hand, a smug grin smeared on her face.

“Let's go to the bedroom huh?” Natasha’s brow raised suggestively and you hummed in agreement, eager for what was to come next. The three of you staggered into your bedroom, crowding into the queen-sized mattress that occupied most of the room. Natasha reclined against the pillows, patting the space between her legs and pointing at Wanda, who leaped at the opportunity. Wanda laid back against Natasha’s chest, her head notching between Natasha’s neck and shoulder perfectly, the sight made you jealous. You pushed your lower lip out in a pout, unsure where you were supposed to lay, what you were supposed to do. Natasha laughed, her long slender fingers skating down to stroke Wanda’s glistening pussy, Wanda moaned, burying her face into Natasha’s neck. You watched as Natasha’s fingers slipped into Wanda’s heat effortlessly, her arousal shimmering in the moonlight.

“Come here, sweetie.” Natasha hummed and you climbed onto the bed, slowly crawling between Wanda’s legs. You rested on your elbows, watching as Natasha’s fingers slowly pumped into Wanda’s cunt.

“Go ahead, take care of her.” Natasha withdrew her fingers, a stretchy string of Wanda’s wetness still connecting them. Wanda whined at the loss of contact, her eyes screwed shut as her hips rose from the mattress eagerly. Your mouth watered as you leaned in to place a soft kiss on her clit. Wanda sighed as your tongue lapped at her aching cunt, her hands weaving into your hair to keep you close. Your eyes remained trained on Wanda’s face, which was twisted in pleasure as Natasha’s hands roamed her body and your tongue delved into her.

“‘m close Natty.” Wanda cried out, her hips grinding against your face as you looked at Natasha, trying to see what she wanted. Natasha nodded at you, a proud gleam in her eyes as you focused on bringing Wanda over the edge. Your fingers sank into her heat, slowly setting a steady rhythm.

“Tell me about it, Wanda, what’s she doing to you?” Natasha asked and your cunt throbbed, as Wanda whimpered as her fingers pulled at your hair desperately.

“S-she’s… her fingers are inside of me.” Wanda stuttered as you kept your pace, eager to bring her pleasure.

“Go on…” Natasha sighed, her hands cupping Wanda’s breasts, her fingers pinching her nipples. Wanda gasped, her hips jutting off of the bed and pressing into your mouth. You moaned into her, your mouth watering as you continued to eat her out.

“Natty please, I’m so very close, please let me come.” Wanda yelped as your teeth scraped against her sensitive bud. You felt her clench down on your fingers, her leg twitching as her orgasm built up inside her.

“Go ahead Wanda, come for us, baby.” Natasha hissed into Wanda’s ear and the woman screeched, her thighs clamping down around your head, her fingers pulling at your hair as she rode out her high. You sighed contently as her body shook with tremors, you gave her clit one last kitten lick before departing and she whimpered, at the stimulation.

“Come here,” Wanda spoke between pants and you crawled up her body, your head spinning as she reeled you in for a searing kiss.

“How did she taste (Y/n)?” Natasha’s hand rubbed your back languidly and you broke the kiss to respond.

“Like candy.” You teased and Wanda’s nose scrunched at the jest.

“You surprised me tonight sweet girl.” Natasha hummed, toying with a strand of your hair as you laid down on Wanda’s chest, your own fingers busying themselves in Wanda’s curls.

“It could be like this every night….for a price,” Natasha mumbled, and Wanda chuckled darkly.

“I might just take you up on that offer.” You sighed as Wanda’s nails traced patterns on your back.

“Think about it, we’ll be waiting.” Your eyes slipped closed, tangled in their warmth despite the cold outside. You knew you’d wake up alone, and you knew that if you agreed to their terms, your life would change. For the better? Likely not, but you found yourself weighing your odds. You might just agree if it meant you would spend every night like this.

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@natashaxwife

#natasha x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff smut #natasha smut #wandanat x y/n #dark natasha x reader #dark wanda maximoff #dark wandanat #wandanat x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x reader #smut imagine #wanda maximoff x reader smut

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jabbage · 1 year

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#Letters from Watson #lettersfromwatson

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jojaqualityheadcanons · 3 years

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SDV's 1.5 update contains content that plays into racist, colonialist, and imperialist myths and beliefs.

Disclaimer: I loved SDV (which is a given, considering I have an SDV sideblog lol?), and I'm not writing this post to get people to boycott the game or stop liking it or whatever. I just want people to understand why this content is harmful, how it might be affecting your biases and beliefs, and think of how they can engage with this media without exacerbating the harm that it does. I'm Filipino, and I don't speak for all POC or all brown people, but I felt deeply hurt and betrayed by the content update. Please keep that in mind before you interact with this post. Explanation under the cut because of 1.5 spoilers (obviously) and because this got long.

(I will block people who clown on this post. Keep your opinions to yourself unless you also have firsthand experience with the issues I describe.)

Background

I was already wary of the 1.5 content update because of how the previews featured ~tropical~ and ~exotic~ stuff, but I decided to give it a shot because maybe I was being too hasty with my judgment.

I wasn't. I made a new save to play with the 1.5 content update, and at first, I was having a great time! The new special orders made gameplay more exciting and varied! I could finally get rid of the nursery from my house without mods! The remixed junimo bundles made me change my usual game strategy. And then, I finally unlocked Ginger Island.

It seemed cool at first, but I had a sinking feeling growing in the pit of my stomach as I kept playing. It got to the point that I started nursing a stomach ache and lots of anger that took me days to shake off. I know SDV has never been a shining example of racial/ethnic diversity and sensitivity (I mean... there's a reason why mods like Diverse Stardew Valley and a bunch of other diversity mods exist lol). But while the lack of diversity in the pre-1.5 content is more of a missed opportunity, the 1.5 content is just... actively harmful and hurtful, imo. Here's a breakdown of the issues with the setting and the characters:

The Setting

Ginger Island, along with the Fern Islands in general, is a tropical island that is clearly based on islands in the Pacific. Its features include fertile soil and an abundance of natural, foragable resources. And for some unknown reason, it has no native human population.

Many islands in the world are uninhabited by humans, and there's always a good reason why. The island's environment may be too hostile, it could be too small to sustain human life, it could be sacred or otherwise culturally unacceptable to live there, or some disaster may have occurred to wipe out the local population or cause them to flee. Some uninhabited islands are nature reserves or privately owned. The point is that if an island is habitable, people are bound to call it home.

Writing Ginger Island as an uninhabited "tropical paradise" feels like a copout. It's as if the game is saying, "don't worry, you're not colonizing this land because no one really lives here! You're not stealing this land or anything because it's up for grabs and is just waiting for the right person to come along to develop it and turn it into a resort for other people who don't live here!" But that claim rings hollow when there are so many signs of civilization there, such as literal computers and ancient structures. And the canon reason for the existence of these things is that dwarves, non-human creatures, lived there once. I just think it's ridiculous and harmful that the game completely ignores and erases the existence of the people who lived and still live in the places that Ginger Island is based on and goes even further to use non-human creatures as stand-ins. I don’t think I have to explain why this isn’t good, considering that people of color have been compared to animals and treated like animals to dehumanize us and justify our oppression for ages.

To really hammer in my point about whitewashing and erasure, all the human labor on the island is done by a flock of parrots that you pay with golden walnuts (i. e., resources that you get for free from the island they live on). There's even an anthropomorphized bird who's a shopkeep! I get that creating a whole cast of human NPCs to fill a town would have been way too much work for a content update, but CA didn't need to use a bunch of animals as stand-ins for non-white human characters. There’s a troubling trend of creators prioritizing animal characters over characters of color, and CA plays right into it. He seriously chose to create more anthro characters instead of adding characters of color to the game in a setting that in real life has populations that are primarily made up of brown people. The game includes brown people's land and cultures, but it draws the line at brown people themselves.

The erasure of brown people and the portrayal of our lands as wild and untamed have been used to sanitize the narrative of colonialism for centuries. Pretending that our lands were wild tropical paradises that were ripe for the taking is pretending that colonizing forces didn't use violent, dehumanizing means to subjugate or wipe out countless peoples and cultures in order to make these lands available. Ginger Island's erasure of brown people just perpetuates this colonialist myth, and the context in which it does so disgusts me: the farmer, who already runs a successful farm that was inherited from their grandfather, goes off to a tropical island they have no personal connection to and uses its natural resources to expand their business further. They also open up a resort on the island for the enjoyment of other privileged people from their homeland, and going there is treated as a luxury. This is a classic colonizer narrative, and I cannot believe the game forces players to colonize an island in order to win.

The Characters

I'm honestly amazed that the amount of feedback about the lack of diversity in SDV didn't prompt CA to create characters of color. I'm amazed that he chose the setting he did and still didn't bother to create any characters of color. The fact that all three of the new human characters who live on this tropical island are white makes me go a little apeshit, to be honest! I hate all three of them for a variety of reasons, so I'll go over them one by one:

Birdie

My reasons for not liking Birdie are primarily related to misogyny (lady spent literal decades in isolation on this island moping over her dead husband?) and ageism (if you tell her to live her own life, she tells you that she's too old to???). Sooo they're not really related to the rest of my discussion here, and I won't get into them further. Moving on!

Professor Snail

White historians, archaeologists, and paleontologists have been stealing and plundering artifacts, relics, and fossils from colonized lands for centuries. These white scientists would send their “discoveries” back to their homelands with little regard for the people they stole from. I’ll acknowledge that Professor Snail doesn’t bring the bones and fossils off the island, so his character isn’t as awful as it could be, but he still canonically has this line:

I really just don’t understand why it was necessary to make this character white when making him a character of color could have easily prevented the uncomfortable real-world implications of a white man coming to a foreign land to plunder fossils without asking anybody for permission. If he he’d been created as someone who traced his ancestry to Ginger Island and wanted to study the island’s biological history, his character could have been so sympathetic and even admirable to me! But his character as it is just makes me think of this meme:

Here are some links for further reading about colonialism in paleontology and other social sciences: 1, 2, 3, 4.

Leo

I had a hard time figuring out how to write about this character because the way CA wrote him is arguably one of the most racist parts of SDV. So many aspects of his character left me speechless and appalled because I cannot believe people are still writing shit like this in the 2020s.

I’ll start off with his storyline: this white child gets stranded on an island and is raised by animals. When the farmer meets him, he speaks in broken English to show how “wild” he is:

As the farmer continues to interact with him, he begins to speak more “proper” English:

Wow... he’s becoming more “civilized” because of the farmer’s influence!

As his story progresses, he reveals that he’s lonely because he doesn’t fit in among the other birds. Eventually, he leaves behind his non-human family and assimilates into a primarily white, Western-coded society because that’s supposedly where he belongs.

This whole storyline is made possible by the problems with the setting that I mentioned earlier. Leo wouldn’t feel so lonely and out of place if there were people on the island. He wouldn’t be depicted as wild and animal-like if he had an adoptive family made up of humans instead of parrots. But because CA chose not to have native human characters on this island, Leo can only be around other people if he leaves his home and family behind. As a result, Leo’s story has very uncomfortable parallels with how colonizers have historically separated indigenous children from their families and cultures and forced them to assimilate into the dominant colonizer culture because they considered indigenous cultures to be savage and barbaric (1) (2).

Leo’s whole narrative unintentionally implies that a good life in a good community can only be had in civilized white Western societies. I’m honestly having trouble with further explaining why Leo’s whole character makes me feel so gross, so just read up on the White Man’s Burden, The Jungle Book and other works by Rudyard Kipling (1) (2) (3) (4) (5, PDF download link), and even Tarzan (1) (2).

Leo’s character is also used to further whitewash non-white cultures:

Poi is a Polynesian dish. Mango sticky rice, which is also a recipe that Leo teaches you in-game, is a Thai dish. In the letter, Leo says that the dish is from his home and enjoyed by his non-human family. Considering that he probably learned these recipes on Ginger Island, and that the only “people” who could have taught him this recipe are literal animals, including these recipes in the game in this way just reinforces the equation of brown people to animals. I’m not Polynesian or Thai, but I know that if CA had included a Filipino recipe in the game and not only had it taught to players by a white character, but also passed off as something from the white character’s culture, I’d be angry. I’ll repeat myself: The game features brown people's food and cultures, but it draws the line at brown people themselves.

I don’t think there’s any way to tweak or edit Leo’s character to fix the issues I described. No matter how we change things, he’s still an orphan raised by animals coded as indigenous people, and he assimilates into the dominant white Western culture. The only way to address these issues is to completely redo his character and even the setting of Ginger Island. Here are some options that I’ve thought of:

Leo is related to someone in the Valley and stays with them for part of the year.

Leo lives with his human family and community on Ginger Island.

Leo’s parents are specifically from Stardew Valley/Pelican Town and he wants to visit in order to reconnect with his heritage.

This list isn’t comprehensive, but it does show that there are so many alternatives to having yet another Mowgli story in Stardew Valley.

Conclusion

I don’t think that CA had bad intentions when he made this content, but the fact is that he did create this content. I’m not calling him a bad person. However, he does have a lot of racist, imperialist, and colonialist biases that he has yet to unlearn. Considering the setting and subject matter of the new 1.5 content, he really should have hired some sensitivity readers to avoid creating harmful content. The man’s sold over ten million copies of his game, and he certainly has the resources to put together a sensitivity team.

I can’t look at Stardew Valley the same way I did before 1.5, but I’m not going to condemn the game as a whole. I might play the game again someday, but I absolutely won’t be going back to Ginger Island. If you’ve enjoyed the Ginger Island content, then good for you! Please just keep all that I’ve written here in mind and accept that that content hurts some people like me.

If you’re a content creator, I urge you to get sensitivity readers if you’re featuring cultures that you’re not a part of to avoid making the same mistakes that I’ve discussed here. Creating from a place of understanding and respect can only make your work better and more accessible to a wider audience, especially to the people whose culture you’re borrowing.

#stardew valley #sdv #sdv leo #sdv birdie #sdv professor snail #racism cw #imperialism #colonialism #blabbering #ids for images are in alt text btw!

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vvienne · 3 years

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RANWAN FIC RECS

Absolute Zero by jitterati

Pathologically solitary academic Chu Wanning left behind a life of research to enlist with the Pan-Pacific Defense Corps Jaeger team when giant monsters began to emerge from the Pacific ocean, eager to leave his personal entanglements behind him and join humanity's collective battle against the threat of extinction.

His goal is to build an artificial intelligence that will allow a pilot to operate a Jaeger mech solo - eliminating the need for pilot compatibility and the mortifying ordeal of being totally known by another person, a "neurological handshake" known colloquially as the drift.

He didn't expect his former students to follow him all the way to front line of the war against the kaiju.

Featuring lots of side character interaction, pining, yearning, questions on the nature of personhood, friendship between jerks, people coping badly with loss, snarky AI, and giant robots. Illustrations by Saika & Daru

Husky and his White Kitten Disciple by JustAMoon123

Within a lonely heart, the seeds of hatred start to grow.

-A 2ha Age and Role-Reversal AU.-

NOTE: This Story is Now E Rated!

[Before meeting Chu Wanning, Mo Ran had drawn his power exclusively from the Wood side of his dual Spiritual Root, and his Qi had always glowed green.

Now, only when in battle did it do so, with Bugui’s blade encased in a tyrannical green light.

Outside of battle, like when he set barriers of warmth; or made Crystal Butterflies to tease golden flowers; or cast a small array to keep a box of food warm, his Qi manifested with a gentle red glow.

Mo Ran’s Wood was destructive, while his Fire was protective.

Ah, Mo Weiyu, Mo Weiyu. Even your power betrays you.]

Burn, Pine, and Perish by moonqueenmaia

It’s been two days since Taxian-Jun’s last visit, and Mo Ran hasn’t touched Chu Wanning at all, beyond gentle and fleeting caresses. Chu Wanning decides to take matters into his own hands by surprising Mo Ran when he comes back to their home after a trip down the mountain.

it's no coincidence (it's a kitty-incidence) by lanzhan (gothguk)

There’s a white cat lounging in the middle of Mo Ran's bed.

to touch you with bare hands (even if it burns) by moonqueenmaia

Chu Wanning is a renowned professor of mechanical engineering at Sisheng Peak University. Beautiful, lonely, and talented beyond belief, he has spent his 32 years mostly by himself, silently and secretly yearning for affection and companionship. Yet Chu Wanning has resolved to himself that he will spend the rest of his life alone, no matter his hidden fantasies.

Enter Taxian-jun, an unruly, arrogant, and struggling student, fiery and domineering, who comes in and shatters the calm of Chu Wanning's life. They enter into an agreement, both burying their feelings underneath a storm of lust and lies. Yet amidst it all, something deeper may be helplessly and slowly blooming.

It is up to them to cultivate it, or destroy it for good.

cursed by devilsoupe

Chu Wanning and his disciples are sent to investigate an abandoned village, and Chu Wanning is hit with a curse.

Mo Ran was determined to treat his shizun respectfully in this life, but what choice does he have?

liar liar cock on fire by lofikv

I (32M) walked in on my roommate (23M) masturbating in our living room. Ever since then I couldn't erase the image of his penis in my mind but I found a sex toy online that is almost as big as him, so I bought it and tried it on myself so that I can imagine how he would feel inside me. I have also been romantically attracted to him ever since we started living together. How can I cope with this?

UPDATE: He caught me in the middle of an emergency.

(Absolute) Unit 311 by devilsoupe

Chu Wanning doesn't have a soulmark.

Neither does Mo Ran.

ducks entering highway by Sectionladvivi

Mo Ran finds out his well-respected, MILF-coded, tears-of-angels-tight-ass robotics professor moonlights as an erotic novelist. He immediately leverages this knowledge for an opportunity to play tonsil hockey.

to yearn by devilsoupe

Chu Wanning starts to cough up flowers. Taxian-Jun is angry. Chu Wanning is not allowed to die pining for someone else.

When it starts happening again in his second life, Mo Ran knows enough to worry.

from blossom to blossom to impossible blossom by Wildehack (tyleet)

Taxian Jun is the victim of a flower curse.

sticky fingers by fakeplasticlily

The man tosses the towel unceremoniously back at Mo Ran’s chest, like he’s personally offended by it. And the fact that his hands had just been all over said chest barely minutes earlier, maybe. “Please pack a box of egg tarts with extra custard filling, a box of red bean paste buns with extra syrup, a rice pudding with extra candied fruit garnish, and a box of osmanthus cakes with extra sweet pear jam.” Mo Ran’s eyes grow progressively wider as he lists the items. It’s him. Not the suburban mother of four, not the elderly guy dealing with a midlife crisis, but quite possibly the hottest guy he’s ever seen. Who also happens to have the highest sugar tolerance Mo Ran has seen in a human being in his two years of running this bakery.

Hard to Love The Lonely Night by bloodsongs

Chu Wanning glares up at him, adjusting his women’s robes. “Still, why couldn’t you have been the wife instead?”

Coughing politely, Mo Ran looks to the side, avoiding his gaze. “Shizun’s skills with the illusion barrier far surpass this humble disciple’s, and, well…”

He doesn’t need to complete his sentence—it’s infuriating, but Mo Ran is now taller than him, broader than him, larger than him. Very much so. The young sapling he raised in Sisheng Peak is now a full-fledged tree, a man built like the mountains Chu Wanning has seen in his travels.

Chu Wanning and Mo Ran pretend to be a married couple visiting a small mountain town to investigate some suspicious disappearances. Mini Canon AU casefic. Contains spoilers up to Chapter 130 or so of the novel.

Purple Ink by jeejaschocolate

Chu Wanning is a robotics engineer who lives a life of isolation and loneliness, only partially due to his chronic illness. Eventually he gets so sick that he requires the help of a full-time medical assistant.

Of course, these days, all those jobs are given to CyberLife androids.

Chu Wanning resents the android they give him. From his fiery eyes to his long black hair, to his incomparable tenderness and consideration for Wanning’s feelings.

He resents him. All the way until he falls in love with him.

Fallen Flowers in Swallows' Nests by bloodsongs

You deserve better—I refuse to disrespect you ever again. I want to be better. I must be better.

But I don’t know how. I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know where Taxian-Jun ends and Mo-Zongshi begins.

I only know now that I cannot lie to myself: I want you so fiercely that I burn with it, I am consumed with the desire to make you mine and mine alone. To become one with you, feeling your fire twine with mine.

Or, Chu Wanning finds letters from Mo-Zongshi that were never shared with him.

These hitherto undiscovered letters cover a range of emotions that weren't present in the book he gifted his Shizun: contrition, yearning, and desire.

Counterpoint by senchafloat

Five years ago, Mo Ran was just a boy who loved playing piano—there were many things he didn't know. He didn't know how capricious and unforgiving the world of classical music could be. He didn't know just how lucky he was to have Chu Wanning as his teacher.

Five years later, Chu Wanning is now a renowned concert pianist, and Mo Ran is an upstart conducting student. When Chu Wanning shows up unannounced at his alma mater, Mo Ran has plenty of questions, along with a desire to prove his worth to his old teacher. But as it turns out, Chu Wanning isn't as invincible as he once seemed. As old secrets come up to the surface, the two of them are forced to reinvent the ways they'll make music together.

impatient to adore you by riverdanceeee

At some heartbreaking point in his life, Mo Ran accepted that Chu Wanning would never reciprocate his feelings, so he dealt with it as any other person would. He'd rid himself of his affection, respect their friendship, and learn to move on. But Mo Ran's affection runs too deep, and when any opportunity to spend time with Chu Wanning knocks on his door, he goes running to answer and accept. Even if it means he has to break up a potentially dangerous dog fighting ring.

To Bow Before A Willow Vine by bloodsongs

“I…” Mo Ran hadn’t thought that far. He shakes his head, lowering his head in deference, resting his forehead against Chu Wanning’s knuckles. "I'll do anything you want of me."

The silence stretches on for a beat too long.

"Anything?" Chu Wanning says eventually, tilting his head.

Written for 2Ha Week, Day 4: Reverse AU for the 0.5 timeline. When Chu Wanning storms Sisheng Peak and crowns himself the cultivation world's new emperor, Mo Ran trades his life for Xue Meng's. Contains spoilers for up to the end of the novel.

Call me by my name by rinsled05

When the man called Taxian-Jun arrives, years later, it’s the coming of a storm.

He sweeps into a dinner appointment between Chu Wanning and a client, clad in black, a smirk tugging at his mouth. Over the spark of irritation, Chu Wanning can’t help but admire his lean frame, the way his hair, cut rebelliously short, falls over smoldering, dark eyes. The way he towers over him, even when Chu Wanning rises to full height.

Chu Wanning’s heart races as Taxian-Jun leans in close, ignoring the shouts and gasps around them.

“Sakaki of Ran,” he purrs in their native tongue. “You’re mine.”

Chu Wanning lifts his chin. “I don’t know you.”

“You will,” Taxian-Jun says, and leaves.

In which Chu Wanning is a courtesan serving Chinese merchants in Nagasaki, Japan, and Taxian-Jun decides to make him his.

荷官牌型 ♠️ The Croupier's Hand by bloodsongs

In deep financial straits after losing his job as a teacher, a desperate Chu Wanning becomes a croupier at Sisheng's new casino.

The once sleepy town of Sisheng Peak grows busier by the day as the casino draws more and more tourists to their mountains. Consumed by his lingering regrets over the worst mistake of his life that destroyed his teaching career, Chu Wanning is too distracted to worry about anything else but his next shift, his next paycheck.

Except that's when Mo Ran, the reason Chu Wanning lost everything, returns to Sisheng Peak.

As the heir to the casino.

White Rabbit Club by minkit

Desperate to rid himself of a few pesky things called virginity and desire, Chu Wanning waltzes into a world he knows little about and right into the embrace of a mysterious stranger who reminds him of the student he's been dreaming about all year. The lust fueled dreams his student stars in are the very reason Chu Wanning applied to the sex club in the first place, and now he's desperate to get rid of these filthy impulses once and for all.

Congratulations, Chu Wanning, on your acceptance into the White Rabbit Club. We hope you enjoy your stay.

Risk and Restraint by purloinedinpetrograd

There is nobody Mo Ran works with who does not love him. He’s worked hard to cultivate this image while he climbs the corporate ladder at Sisheng, and it’s paid off in dividends. He’s in every WeChat group. He can call in favors with any division of any department. He can make even the tightest of deadlines relax their stranglehold on his team.

That is, there is nobody except, of course, Chu Wanning.

A Lingering Sweetness by theherocomplex

Chu Wanning is now all too aware of what he looks like: a dry stick of a man, never handsome, angular and cold and pale. A drab, short-tempered creature, as appealing as a splinter in one's foot. But Mo Ran looks at him as if he will never get his fill, and part of Chu Wanning thinks, What if —?

At the end of the line by PearlAquaBlue

“So … I reckon someone thought you needed to loosen up a little bit. Now that you’re here, want to try it?”

Chu Wanning hangs up. Throws her phone on her pillow with a disgusted glare after it. Stands up and paces to the kitchen in long, angry strides. Her cheeks are burning. With trembling fingers, she grabs a glass and pours herself some water, gulping it down in one go. It doesn’t help much. She grips the kitchen counter tightly, then marches back into the bedroom to glare at the phone again. Her fingertips itch, and it’s as if some kind of magnetic force draws her closer and closer to her bed until her fingertips are but an inch away from that tempting black mirror. Before she knows it, she’s unlocked it unsteadily and pressed “repeat” on the last call.

“Welcome to Sisheng Peak – ”

“And what would that entail?” she asks, a little too breathless.

Let's Fall in Love for the Night by purloinedinpetrograd

Chu Wanning could only stare in horror as a large cloud of sickeningly yellow pollen rose from the field, blanketing the place where Mo Ran stood in a heavy fog. “Um,” he said lamely.

“Fuck,” Mo Ran cursed, and Chu Wanning didn’t even have the heart to chastise him for his coarse language, because he was too preoccupied wrestling the surge of fear at seeing his disciple disappear behind the haze of that indeterminately threatening dust.

A million terrible possibilities raced through his mind, each one more dramatic and gruesome than the last. His heart hammered against his ribcage, threatening to crack the bones. “Mo Ran,” he said slowly, “I think you should tell me what that does, now.”

Xue Zhengyong sends Chu Wanning and Mo Ran on a mission to find a specific ingredient for some concoction of his wife’s. Chu Wanning is torn between rejoicing at the chance to spend time alone with Mo Ran... and grieving over the very same thing.

But, well, it’s just flowers. What could go wrong, right? (Spoiler alert: it’s sex pollen.)

the day dawns in your hues by localshabba

2ha Week 2020 Day 1 prompt - Haitang

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Schoolteacher Mo Ran is having an ordinary day until he has an awkward encounter with the notoriously rigid school librarian, which leads to the start of something new.

Also features: flowers, dinosaurs and lots of tenderness and pining.

helping hands by verity

When Mo Ran was but a young, innocent, virtuous grad student—well, one of those things—she built that couch from a flatpack box with her own two hands. Over the years, the smell of polyester and cheap foam padding has given way to an equally aromatic blend of Chu Wanning's haitang blossom perfume, spilled coffee, and white lithium grease. Chu Wanning herself is always perfectly dressed without a stain in sight. Even right now, her head tucked onto one folded arm, the other loosely gripping her tablet, she looks so formal.

Mo Ran gently rests a hand on Chu Wanning's socked ankle where it peeks out of those tailored white trousers. She really should behave herself.

She really should... behave herself...

in plain sight by localshabba

Written for a prompt fill in the 2ha Kink Meme.

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"I have a surprise," Mo Ran breathed, coming to stand so close behind him that his breath landed on Chu Wanning's nape. Not touching Chu Wanning any other way, because he likes to make Chu Wanning lean back just a little bit, to seek out that contact himself.

"I think Chu-laoshi will enjoy it."

Chu Wanning is sure he agreed to the whole idea; he's just unclear on when. Things got hazy around the point when Mo Ran turned him around by the shoulders, got down on his knees and...well. Apparently he'd skipped breakfast that morning.

When he returned to his senses, his clothes were all neatly tucked into place, not a stain on them, and a charmingly pink sexual aid was nestled comfortably up his--ahem, inside him.

---

Now available in Spanish!

casually acquainted by tagteamme

Chu Wanning knows what he is and what he isn’t. And where he lacks in pleasantries and outward appeal, he makes up for in untouchable grace and dignity.

It threatens to unravel once he meets a familiar face in an unfamiliar city.

“So quick to run away from me, Chu-laoshi,” Mo Ran says, voice gently teasing as Chu Wanning refuses to make eye contact with him. “After you came all the way from…”

He trails off, waiting for Chu Wanning to let him know, but he sees the map open on Chu Wanning’s phone and grins wider. “You want directions?”

Chu Wanning clears his throat, and shakes his head. He should say something— instead, he stays silent as he looks down at his phone and punches in the hotel name again.

Happily, his phone tells him to try again when he has signal.

The Right Hand of Light by gedsparrowhawk (FaceChanger)

Chu Wanning is asleep on the bed, clutching his hands tightly to his chest and curled in on himself. He’s still wearing the same robes he was in in the water prison. On the writing desk, a bowl of water and clean linen for bandages sit untouched, and a tub of bathwater has cooled without being used. Mo Ran sighs to himself. Wanning is truly hopeless.

He sits on the side of the bed and touches Chu Wanning’s shoulder. “Wanning,” he says. “Wanning, wake up.”

---

Rare 0.5 tenderness, after the water prison.

nothing can consume you by tagteamme

Mo Ran’s violent history has never had to catch up to him.

It’s already embedded itself into him as scars on his body, as a tattoo on his forearm, as the lingering taste of blood in his sleep and finally, as the searing brand pressed against his chest before he’s thrown into the sea as punishment. He knows that this is where all his chances come to an end.

But as the deep fathom of the water swallows him up, something else saves him and pulls him to a tiny cove tucked away off the coast of an overlooked port town. When he wakes up under the care of a mythical creature wearing a familiar face, an even older and more distant past finally finds him.

#ranwan #2ha #erha #chu wanning #mo ran #2ha recs #fic recs #2ha spoilers

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middleearthpixie · 3 years

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In Time ~ Chapter Ten

Author's Note: I am still avoiding writing because I am mature that way.

Summary: During a stroll in one of Rivendell’s courtyards, Thorin opens up to Amara about his childhood in Erebor and how isolating and lonely it could be, about his lingering guilt over what happened at Ravenhill, and offers up something she absolutely did not expect to hear...

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield/Amara of Rivendell (female OC)

Characters: Thorin, Amara,

Rating: T

Warnings: None

Word Count: 4,542

Additional Information: The scene in which Amara and Thorin talk about the fireflies was inspired by a bit I'd read where Richard Armitage spoke of a scene from the Hobbit that made it into neither the theatrical release, nor the extended cut, where Thorin speaks of his childhood in Erebor and how claustrophobic and insular it had to be for him. I thought it would be the perfect time for Thorin to show some of his vulnerability to Amara, to show how he's come to trust her enough to share something this personal. And I wish it had made it into the extended release of The Hobbit.

And as always, thank you to @lathalea for her kind words on this chapter. :)

Tagged: @i-did-not-mean-to @lathalea @tschrist1

If you'd like to be added to the tag list, let me know and I'd be happy to do it!

A full moon shone down over Rivendell, bathing everything its light touched silver. A warm breeze floated through the treetops, carrying the scents of lavender and vanilla across the courtyard. Crickets chirped, an owl hooted in the distance. So much tranquility in one magical place, and Amara loved being out in the courtyards at night. When she couldn’t sleep, she came here especially; to think, to ease her jumbled thoughts, or just to sit and savor the peace and quiet.

She guided Thorin to one of the white marble benches dotting the courtyards, this one near the series of fountains that, at one time, the dwarves of Erebor had turned into their own personal waterslides, just below the Healing Room. After their departure, Elrond couldn’t walk past those fountains without shuddering and Lindir tended to avoid the areas altogether, which Amara thought was a bit much.

The soft rush of water rose above the lilting breeze and she gazed over at Thorin. He’d come a long way since his first days in Rivendell. The wounded, broken warrior was almost whole once more. His eyes seemed fixed on the fountains, his hair almost dry now it fluttered in the wind.

In the beginning, he’d given her so much grief, she’d looked forward to the day when he took his leave of Rivendell. But, that wasn’t exactly true any longer. She’d grown fond of him, and found that perhaps not all dwarves fit their stereotype. She would miss him once he left.

The silence stretched between them, but it was a comfortable silence. There was no pressure to fill the silence with words, and as she looked over, she saw him no longer as the bleeding dwarf so very near death from stab wounds. No, in her mind, he was the dwarf rising from the tub only a short while ago—powerful and strong, with bands of thick muscle wrapped about his shoulders and upper arms, his broad chest just as muscled beneath a layer of dark hair curling away from his skin. It took every bit of will she possessed to not let her gaze drop when he’d stood, for she had the feeling those soaked small clothes would have given her an eyeful.

Elrond would be furious if he knew where her thoughts lay. Not only because she was a healer and Thorin her patient, but she was an elf and he was a dwarf. She had to keep her distance, but at the same time, doing so became far more difficult, the more time she spent with him. At one time, she’d agreed with the elf belief that dwarves were greedy and ill-tempered, that they would fight with anyone over anything and when it came to women, they took any woman they wanted, whether she was willing or not.

That simply did not fit the dwarf she’d come to know. Oh, Thorin could be bull-headed and stubborn, and proud to a fault, but he didn’t seem particularly violent (battle did not count, of course) and no matter how many times she told Bilbo Baggins Thorin did not wish to receive visitors, the hobbit refused to leave, so there was that loyalty to consider as well. Not to mention, Elrond had told her earlier that the remainder of the Company, as Gandalf referred to them, were due sometime in the next day. To hear Gandalf tell it, Thorin’s people were concerned with his well being, and it was only because Gandalf told them to wait a while before descending upon Rivendell that they hadn’t invaded prior to now.

But now, Thorin looked almost pensive, as if something heavy weighed upon him. “Is there something on your mind?” she asked finally, her hand against his shoulder.

“No, not really. I actually feel good, for the first time in what feels like a lifetime. I’d forgotten what it was like, to feel whole.”

“I told you this day would come.”

He turned to offer her a rare grin. “Aye, you did tell me.”

“So, if nothing is on your mind, why do you look so serious?”

“I’m just watching them.”

As he said them, he pointed to the small flashes of bright yellow light dotting the courtyard. She smiled at him. “Fireflies?”

“Fireflies.” He looked over at her. “It seems such a small thing to you, I suppose, as you see them all the time, but for me? This is something rare, like catching a glimpse of a shooting star.”

“Is that so? When I was a girl, my friends and I used to catch them in a jar, with air holes punched into the lid, of course. But I could never bear to keep them captive for very long, so I would catch them, admire them a moment or so, and then set them free to find the one they are supposed to find.” She turned back to the blinking lights, watching as the fireflies all searched for their perfect mate in the warm summer air. “This is early for them to appear, though. I suppose that means we will have an early summer.”

“When I was a boy, I was not permitted beyond Erebor’s walls very often and when I was, I was almost never alone.” A hint of wistfulness came into his voice. “I spent the majority of my time under the Lonely Mountain, at the knee of my father and the side of my grandfather. Other children were allowed to go and play, especially on the plains outside of Erebor. They were allowed to roam those plains and go into Dale whenever they wished.

“But for me? It simply wasn’t possible. I spent much of my time alone and although I don’t remember minding that all that much, I wonder if I always rather resented them for the freedom they had that I would never know.” He looked over at her, his smile wistful. “When I look back, I see mine was a lonely childhood. I had few friends and was almost never permitted out on the plains. I learned what I need know to one day sit on Erebor’s throne. I learned fighting skills and how wield a bow and arrow, among other weapons. But I didn’t chase fireflies. I didn’t even see many fireflies. I didn’t see any, actually, until I was grown.”

“Really?” She shifted on the bench to face him, folding her left leg under her skirts to tuck beneath her. His childhood sounded so terribly lonely to her, and yet, he didn’t seem bitter about it at all. Just… resigned…

He nodded. “My father didn’t think it wise for the future King Under the Mountain to be running about as if he was a normal boy. He and my grandfather both kept a close watch over me.”

“I suppose they felt they must, to keep you safe. I imagine your parents must have worried endlessly about you.”

“My mother died when I was young and I have very few memories of her. I suppose that also made my father that much more protective of me and my brother and sister, for there would be no spare, should something happen to us. Not all dwarves marry, but when they do, it is for life and if one should die, the one left behind still considers himself or herself married and they do not remarry.”

“I didn’t know you had siblings.”

He nodded. “Both are younger than me. Or, Frerin was younger. He was slain in battle at Moria. But, my sister still lives, In the Blue Mountains.”

“And Fili and Kili are whose sons?”

“Dis’ sons. I consider them my own as well, since I’ve been part of their lives since they were born. I am the only father figure they’ve ever known.”

“Where is their father?”

He shrugged. “I know nothing about him, if the same man is father to both of them. Dis has never said and I know better than to ask. She is a force to be reckoned with, my sister. I only know that she raised them without a father, and that is why I stepped up when she needed me to.”

She gazed over at him, “You do that often, don’t you?”

“It’s my duty. They are my kin. I didn’t even have to think about it. I love those boys as if they were my own and I can never thank you enough for bringing Fili back. There are no thanks great enough for what you did for him.” His voice softened, and he turned to stare in the direction of the fountain. “I saw him die, you know. Azog made certain to do it in front of me. And I was helpless to prevent it. I sent him and his brother to scout the tower at Ravenhill. I told them to keep low, to not engage if they could avoid it. I sent them into certain death.”

There was such pain in his voice, her heart ached for him and her instinct was to ease his conscience, to lift that terrible burden from his broad shoulders.

“You did no such thing, Thorin,” she told him softly, shaking her head. “You were being ambushed, you walked into a well-laid trap and it was not your fault.”

“Of course it was,” he turned to her, his eyes filled with sorry, regret, “I could have stopped it. I could have prevented all of it. But I chose war. I even said I chose it. I provoked Thranduíl, the people of Laketown, everyone. That entire battle would have been avoided, had I not—” his voice cracked and he looked away—“had I not gone mad.”

“Thorin,” she reached out to curve her hand against the scratchy whiskers on his chin, and gently turned him toward her, “it is not your fault. Dragon sickness is not something you can avoid, unless you avoided Erebor entirely and that isn’t fair to you. It was—it is— your home. And once it grabbed hold of you, you were helpless to avoid the consequences. That’s why it is called a sickness.

“And yet, you beat it and that is so very rare. Have you any idea how rare that is? And as a result, you have Erebor back.”

“I have it back because Bard of Laketown slaughtered Smaug. He did what I, in my infinite wisdom, failed to do.”

“Now you are just feeling sorry for yourself.”

He glanced at her. “Am I, though?”

“Yes,” she nodded, “you are. Thorin, it matters not who killed the dragon. Smaug is gone and now you and your kin can rebuild and restore Erebor. You have that second chance I’ve repeatedly told you have, and how lucky you are to have it. Do not waste time pitying yourself. Be the leader you were raised to be, the one you have always been. And regardless of what any foul orc did, Kili survived. Fili survived.”

She tightened her fingers about his jaw. “You survived.”

“But why was I spared when I’d made my peace with my decision?”

She frowned at him. “Made peace with it? What do you mean, you made peace with your decision?”

He just stared at her for a long moment, the silence stretching but not yet uncomfortable. Then, he drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and said, “I chose to let Azog run me through.”

This was the last thing she expected him to say, and she couldn’t keep the disbelief from her voice as she said, “You what?”

He nodded. “I just told you, I led them into war. I led the Iron Hills dwarves into war, to fight a battle that wasn’t even theirs from the start. Dáin had told me if I chose to go to Erebor, the battle was mine and mine alone. But, I knew better. I knew I could depend on him to back us and he showed up. And do you know what I did then?”

“Thorin?”

“I hid. I hid behind Erebor’s walls and refused to even fight alongside him. I picked the fight, I started the war, and I was too much the bloody coward to come out of my fortress to face what I’d done.”

Anger simmered along the bottom of his words and she glanced down to see his fist tighten on his thigh. She wasn’t exactly certain what to say to his confession, but now it made sense why he wanted none of his people to see him.

But anger wasn’t the only emotion she heard in his voice. There was pain, Regret. They all wove together into a braid of sorrow that he wore as easily as he wore the actually braids in his hair. She waited for him to continue, but he fell silent, staring down at something at their feet.

She laid hand on his shoulder. “But you did come out. You were on that same battlefield.”

“I told you I went mad.”

“Thorin, you are the least mad madman I have ever seen.” She managed a smile, and relief whispered through her when he almost smiled in return. “So what happened to bring you out from under the sickness?”

“I had a bit of a breakdown, I suppose.” He shrugged. “I cannot explain it, but it opened my eyes to what I’d done, and gave me the courage to face the others, to ask them… to ask…” His voice broke and his gaze fell from hers as he cleared his throat. “To ask them if they’d follow me one last time. I didn’t deserves them to, and said as much, but they did.”

“One last time.”

He looked up then, his blue eyes soft. “I’d made up my mind, Amara. I was not coming off the battlefield. I would gladly sacrifice myself, if it meant they had Erebor and peace.”

Her throat tightened unexpectedly and the backs of her eyes stung. “You let Azog run you through.”

Although she knew the answer before she even asked the question, her throat still tightened when he nodded slowly. “I did. Fili was gone. I thought Kili was. I’d failed the Company. I’d failed our burglar. The only thing I could get right was to let Azog have me.”

“No,” she shook her head, her fingers tightening about his shoulder, “you failed none of them. Don’t you see that?”

“Of course I did. And I’d made peace with my decision, as I said.”

“Perhaps you did, but no one else made such peace with it.” She released him. “Because you may think they lost their respect for you, but I promise you, not a single dwarf who was with you from the Shire, to Laketown, to Erebor, feels that way about you. You may not believe it, but I know it.”

“They are merely loyal. To a fault.”

“No.” Her fingers tightened further on him. Through the thin linen of his tunic, the muscles of his upper arm were like stone beneath his skin and heat rose from him to sink into her palm. But this wasn’t the heat of fever. Rather, this was just the heat of warm blood flowing through his veins. “That is simply not true. I know loyalty and it comes born of love for the person to whom they are loyal. And you, Thorin, are loved, whether you believe that or not as well.”

When his gaze met hers, there was no mistaking the hint of sadness in his blue eyes. “I wish I believed that as easily as you do,” he murmured, “for all I can think is how I’ve let them all down, how I have failed them. I’ve been a poor excuse for a king, you know.”

“Well, then it’s time to stop feeling so bloody sorry for yourself and be a better king, don’t you think?” She held his gaze for a minute and when he didn’t respond, she just shrugged. “But then again, what do I know? I am not a king but only an elf who happens to have skill as a healer.”

“Only an elf?” Thorin shook his head, also shifting on the bench to face her. “You have a gift, Amara. It’s more than simply skill. I’m proof that you’ve a gift, indeed.”

“That’s very kind of you to say, but, Tauriel of Mirkwood deserves some of the credit as well. Without her, you do not survive the journey here.”

“Well, if I should happen to have the misfortune of being in Mirkwood again, I’ll make certain to thank her. But you… Amara, you saved my neck three times. And I can do this—” he stood then, carefully, but without hesitation—“because of your gifts. And you are not like these other elves, the ones who think the sun rises and sets upon them.”

He sank to the bench once more and she waited for the grimace that usually accompanied such a movement. But this time, none followed, which made her happy to see.

“Oh, I used to be that way.” She gazed over at the palace, quiet and dark as everyone was either at dinner or off in their own flats. “And my arrogance came back to haunt me.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Why? I was young and foolish and thought very highly of myself, much like Kenia does now. I think that was part of what made me so angry over her carelessness. Her carelessness could have led to your death, as my carelessness led to someone’s death.”

“What?”

She nodded slowly. It was something she rarely allowed herself to think about. “I was just finishing my training and two of Elrond’s guards got into it with one another. It started with words, then tempers flared, and the next thing anyone knew, they’d drawn weapons.

“My mentor, Ilyana, insisted I wait for her, but I knew better.” She swallowed hard at the memory, as fresh in her mind as if it had happened only weeks earlier. “I thought I could treat him using feverfew and I wound up giving him too much. The correct dosage can be tricky and I knew that, and still, I did it anyway. If I had but waited… she would have walked me through it, but I arrogantly thought I knew exactly what I was doing, that I knew as much as she did.”

“You were young, though.”

“I was, but I was old enough to know better.”

“And yet, Elrond allowed you to remain here as a healer, so someone had faith in you.”

She nodded slowly. “He did. And actually, so did Ilyana. When she fell ill from an orc’s morgul arrow, she asked for me.”

“Morgul arrow.” Thorin’s eyes softened as he met her gaze. “I was fortunate to be brought here instead of Lothlórien or Mirkwood.”

“You didn’t seem to think so at the time.”

“I was an idiot.”

“You were a mule, Mr. Oakenshield. Let’s not forget that.”

To her surprise, he actually laughed. It was a beautiful sound—low and throaty—and she imagined it wasn’t a sound many people heard. He’d seen great tragedy; the loss of his home, his family, his people, and that had to cloud his spirit to the point where laughter seemed frivolous to him. She wondered what, or who, else he’d lost when Smaug came to Erebor, for she sensed a deep-seated loneliness in him that few, if any, ever saw. To the dwarves, he was their leader, a warrior, the one who could and did shoulder all the burdens so no one else had to do it. She wondered if anyone ever just asked him how he was doing, if he needed anything, even if it was only an ear to bend or a shoulder on which to lean. Somehow, she thought she knew the answer.

“I was,” he admitted, a sheepish smile playing at his lips. “And for that, I would like to apologize.”

“There is no need,” she told him, catching one of his hands between both of hers. “You were in a foreign place, in unimaginable pain, and all I did was seem to hurt you more. I am only glad that I was there and that I was able to help you. Your insults and anger were a small price to pay.”

“I am also glad. If not for you, I am not sitting here now and I would not be able to do this.”

As he spoke, he leaned in and his lips brushed hers. Soft. Gentle. Only barely a kiss, really. But then, he shifted, his lips capturing hers, moving against hers teasingly. They were soft and warm and dry, his beard was not quite so soft, but scratchy against her skin, but she didn’t care. He kissed her slowly, taking his time to explore the curve of her lips with the tip of his tongue before nudging her lips apart to glide silkily along her own. He teased her tongue with his, caressed it, and she responded in kind, her blood warming further as his breath hitched. His kiss was slow and deep, sinful and sweet, and she wanted only to melt against his chest, to feel his thick arms wrap about her, to tug him down onto the bench atop her, and feel his weight against her.

He eased his hand from hers to catch her face between his rough palms, his thumbs brushing along her cheeks as her heart sped up and her blood grew warmer as it rushed through her veins. She should pull away from him. She was a Healer and he her patient. He was a dwarf and she an elf. She should not be kissing him.

Yet, she didn’t want to stop kissing him. It felt so perfect, so right, with those huge hands cradling her face as if she was made of the most delicate crystal in existence. She would never have guessed he’d kiss so gently, almost playful as he drew back to almost nibble at her lips, then came in to nuzzle her. Her breath was so much more difficult to catch, her blood raced through her, and when he finally pulled away from her, she’d swear his eyes had darkened.

He didn’t release her, though. His thumbs still swept along her cheeks in long, lazy arcs and his voice was husky as he murmured, “I should apologize for that.”

“Why? It was lovely.”

He smiled. “It was, indeed, but…”

“I know. We both know better.”

The last thing she wanted to do was pull away from him. In fact, she wanted only to melt back into him, to let those massive hands roam over her while she let her smaller, more elegant ones do the same over him. She wanted—

It was immaterial what she wanted, for it could never be. Elrond would be furious, and rightfully so, if he ever learned of this kiss. He would be well within his rights to banish her from Rivendell on the spot if he so chose.

Still, that certainly didn’t make her happy.

Thorin didn’t look any happier as he shifted back on the bench. “I should probably return to the Healing Room.”

“I will see you back.”

He put a hand on her shoulder as she started to rise, holding her in place as he shook his head. “That isn’t necessary. I can manage on my own.” He hesitated, then bent and her eyes closed as he pressed a soft kiss into the top of her head. “Good night, Amara.”

Her throat tightened as she twisted to watch him slowly walk away. “Good night, Thorin.”

When he was out of sight, having rounded the hedgerow at the base of the staircase leading back to the Healing Room, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Never before had she wished time could simply stop for a while, to let her savor a moment, but now that was exactly what she wished.

Thorin paused at the top of the staircase. From his vantage point, he could see Amara still on the bench and he wanted only to go back down there and see where kissing her would lead. The ache in his body now had nothing to do with the wounds he’d received and everything to do with desire and arousal and anger at himself for pulling away from her.

But, it could never go any further than that one perfect kiss. It didn’t matter how much he might want it to, or how much Amara might. The fact remained that it simply would never happen.

Of course, that didn’t mean he had to like it at all and at that moment, he rather wanted to hit something to alleviate the frustration swirling through him. Only there was nothing around him to hit except marble and gold and hitting either would be terribly unwise.

So, he tried his best to swallow it all down as he limped along the colonnade and when he reached the Healing Room, it was dark and quiet and Valindra smiled from her seat at the desk in the corner. “You’re moving much better, Mr. Oakenshield.”

“That I am,” he replied, skirting his bed to carefully lift himself back into it.

Her chair scraped softly against the floor, her skirts swishing softly as she approached. “It won’t be long before you and your nephews will be leaving us. I hope it isn’t too forward of me to admit that I will miss the three of you.”

“It isn’t. It’s rather kind of you to say, actually. I cannot speak for Fili or Kili, but I know that I’ve not been the easiest patient.”

“You’ve been fine. We all understand the impatience to get back to your old self and the way you were. And now, you’re almost there. Is there anything I might fetch for you?”

“Thank you, but no. I think I’d just like to sleep now.”

“Of course.” She pointed to the desk in the corner. “If you need me, I’ll only be over there.”

“Thank you.”

She swished back toward the corner and he carefully reclined to stare up at the silly fresco once more. It would be odd, once he returned to Erebor and his own chambers under the mountain. There were no frescos of dwarves patting themselves on the backs, no pale marble, and very little natural light. Erebor was black marble and obsidian, gold and gemstones—polished and uncut. It was the opposite side of the coin in which Rivendell was light and gilt and Erebor was darkness and onyx. Erebor suited his temperament, suited his moods, and until this very evening, he’d never realized just how claustrophobic his upbringing had been. He’d never given that claustrophobia a second thought, as it was all he knew.

Erebor was his home. For so long, he’d thought of nothing but reclaiming it. But then the battle happened and Azog did his best to try to end the line of Durin, only to fail thanks to the skill of one gifted healer.

One beautiful, gifted healer.

And now he realized that he had no desire to leave Rivendell.

#The Hobbit #Thorin Oakenshield #Hobbit Fic #Hobbit Fanfic #Fan fiction #The Hobbit fan fiction #Thorin x OC #AU #AUJ #Thorin Fic #Everybody Lives AU #Hobbit Medical Drama #Hobbit ER #Is it hot in here?

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christinesficrecs · 3 years

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Hello, i hope youre having a lovely weekend/holiday so far, i was wondering if you could rec some movie aus preferably rom-coms? Thank you and i hope you're doing all good and are healthy. Lots of love!!! x

Hey! I hope you’re having a great holiday!! Here are some rom-com au’s. Since it’s New Year’s I have an excuse to rec this fic. AGAIN! 💜

Oh baby give me one more chance (to show you that I love you) by LunaCanisLupus_22 | 54.7K | Explicit

The Sweet Home Alabama AU that nobody asked for.

The Holiday by matildajones | 16.5K

It's Christmas, Stiles is alone, and he finds himself swapping Bed & Breakfasts with Cora Hale over the holidays.

Wait by cutloosemcgoose | 23.4K | Explicit

Sitting on his couch, staring at the wall, it feels like Derek is watching his whole, miserable, lonely life flash before his eyes. He’s twenty four and he’s alone. No family, no friends, no real pack. He’s six days away from spending one of the most family-oriented holidays of the year trying to avoid any human interaction. If anyone could see him right now, they would tell him he looks pathetic. If Laura could see him right now, she would probably beat the crap of him and then tell him he’s a loser.

A Walk in the Clouds by Dexterous_Sinistrous | 13.9K

The one set during WWII where Stiles is a pregnant grad student and Derek is a PTSD riddled soldier, both of them looking for a better life.

as long as the stars are above you, i will love you by ericaismeg | 14.8K

Four years ago, Stiles started working with Mr. Hale, and in that time, he's never hated another person as much. Suddenly, he's being pulled into a meeting room and being asked about their engagement or else Mr. Hale will be deported. Stiles can't afford to lose Derek now, so off to Beacon Hills they go for his grandmother's 90th birthday.

Oh boy, pretending to be engaged to the boss he's hated for years is going to be tough, especially when he realizes he doesn't hate him at all. Not one little bit.

The Rest of Your Life by paradis | 4.1K

“Seemed like a buttercream guy,” Stiles says innocently, and grabs two forks and pours two huge glasses of milk. They eat in silence and when Stiles finishes his mouth is filled with the too-sweet taste of peanut butter icing and chocolate cake, and he’s full, but he feels good, too. He stares at Derek, who’s licking his lips after his last bite of cake. “I think I’m probably not straight,” he says suddenly. And Derek says, “I ripped down the whole top floor of the house this morning thinking about Laura.”

A High School Cliché. by halelujah | 2.8K

“Are you the one that played a porno in the Principal’s office?” A gruff voice asks.

“Depends if you’re the one that threw a dumbbell through a window.” He drawls, not bothered in moving from his comfy spot.

Just Like Heaven by skargasm | 23.4K | Mature

Derek Hale is a recently widowed architect moving into a new apartment in Beacon Hills. But the apartment isn’t entirely empty: it’s haunted by the ghost of a man called Stiles. And although Stiles can’t remember much about his life, he’s convinced he isn’t really dead. While Derek recruits Kira, an absent-minded psychic, to get to the bottom of Stiles’ identity, he and Stiles begin to fall in love.

Easy Alpha by interropunct | 4.6K

Easy A/Teen Wolf AU. Wherein, Derek Hale is the high school hussy, Jackson and Scott really need to learn to use their inside voices. And, contrary to popular belief, everyone is still a virgin.

He's Just Knot That Into You by aggybird | 3.6K | Mature

Stiles doesn't have much luck finding Mr. Right, and Derek the bartender hears all about it.

Seen that wild blue yonder (let's hide under the covers) by dearericbittle (dutchmoxie) | 25.9K | Explicit

Weatherman Stiles doesn’t have time for a relationship. So when his friend and neighbor uneasily tells him that he’s thinking about dating again, but he doesn’t feel ready yet, the solution seems obvious. Friend sex. Obviously.

Or: 5 times Derek asks Stiles about the weather, and one time he doesn’t need to ask.

The Proposal by Firenation | 17.9K | Explicit

Stiles Stilinski is the long-suffering assistant of Derek Hale, editor extraordinaire. Also jackass extraordinaire.

The Proposal AU where Stiles has to get engaged to his terrifying boss Derek in order to prevent him being deported. And somehow has to persuade his family that they're really in a relationship (stop laughing, Scott). Difficult doesn't even cover it.

I See Your Face Before Me by jezziejay | 9.2K

While Stiles was studying in New York, Scott moved to LA and found a new co-bestie. Stiles can't wait to meet him. The feeling, however, is far from mutual.

AU piece, based somewhat around one of the stories in the movie Love Actually. The end especially.

tumescent by kellifer_fic | 9.3K

"I would have to want to date Derek for your plan to work," Stiles points out, secure in the knowledge that his logic is infallible and yes, he's had a pointless and soul-destroying crush on Derek for as long as he can remember but nobody knows that.

I'll Love You Still in Hell by talktowater | 10.7K | Explicit

Stiles has always had these dreams where he was drowning, they were just dreams, really fucking horrible dreams but just dreams nevertheless. Right?

Seriously, it's like you're photoshopped. by nevermetawolf | 8K

"Oh my god," Stiles squeaks out again. "You're unbelievable."

Hot Bar Guy bobs his head agreeably. "I've been told that before, though usually people are more out of breath and less clothed when they say it."

Or, the Crazy, Stupid, Love AU nobody asked for.

A Lifetime of Laughter by the_problem_with_stardust | 15.4K | Mature

“Are you serious? Who in their right mind would marry me?”

“Well, you’re – you know – you.”

“Thanks. That clears everything up.”

The Beacon Hills version of a Proposal AU

We Pick Ourselves Undone | 24K

Derek Hale has been cursed with a wolf-like face since birth, which he can only be cured of by marrying a fellow high-society blueblood. Derek has little hope of ever finding anyone he can stand, or who can stand his face, until he meets Stiles, and his carefully-maintained isolation is completely upset.

#asks #sterek fics #ficrecs #rom coms #crossovers #movie fusions #holiday rom coms #blindedbyziam

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a-lil-perspective · 3 years

Text

I have been silent for some time now. I have refrained from exhibiting any plaguing thoughts that might warrant me the label of “that person”, but I’m at the point where I’ve had my fill.

Ramble under the cut so as to not... offend or inconvenience anyone. There’s absolutely no obligation to read this. It’s Tumblr. You can block/ignore me. The option to do so is readily accessible.

I’ve been a Bad Batch fan since day one. While I didn’t start creating that very same day, it was relatively close. Point being, I’m a long-time dedicated fan. As the premiere to their series draws closer, I feel like there is going to be a great shift, rift here. That being said, I figured now is as good a time as any to make this post.

I love those boys beyond words. They’ve been the one constant in my life amidst a rapid and debilitating change. I love getting to give them life, even if my interpretations aren’t the most accurate.

Yes, I am a new Writer and yes, I am new to Tumblr, as I am sure both of those things are painfully apparent.

I get that it is impossible to please everyone. It’s something I’m learning more and more with each passing day. It’s something that gets harder to swallow, even more so.

I’d like to say that being here has been a largely positive experience, with all of these great connections and opportunities. But honestly? It’s been more isolating than anything. I’ve actually never felt more isolated than since I joined a year ago.

As a content creator or even just a general blogger, I don’t ask for much. I don’t ask for anything, in fact. I consider myself very low maintenance. I don’t demand/harass/play the martyr for reblogs. I have never mentioned it once, and never will. Some people on here are so damn passive-aggressive about it, and quite frankly, it’s embarrassing. It’s very stigmatizing. While I completely understand the frustration surrounding the like-to-reblog ratio, I think it’s neither tasteful nor reputable to threaten to call people out for not reblogging your fics. I wish I could say I was joking on that one. But I’ve seen it profoundly. Not cool.

And yet, no one says anything or raises any concern there.

Yet I make metas, harmless rambles, and I get shot down? Seriously?

—I need to “chill”, it’s “overkill”, I’m “overthinking”. I and my content are apparently just so damn arduous to interact with.

If you don’t like me, please just move on. There are plenty of other Bad Batch creators for you to enjoy. You know that. My work is absolutely not the final say, and I’ve never claimed it to be.

What is so wrong, with sharing one’s thoughts? Why do people inherently have a problem with other’s creative efforts? I see it time over again. Why do I feel like if I was making a bunch of smutty posts it wouldn’t be as much of a problem, that it in fact would be infinitely more welcome? (Absolutely NO shade to people who create smut, okay? I’ve made my own share. I admire those bold enough to do so regularly. I absolutely love them. Please teach me your ways).

This ramble really has nothing to do with the most recent event regarding my contributions. Rather, it’s a culmination of experiences over the past several months that have brewed and festered to the point where I can no longer keep downplaying it.

Social media, at its core, is one big popularity contest. It always has been, it always will be. But I’m not here to win. That’s never been my objective. That’s not what I’m about. Surprise (or not), I am not a popular blog. Not by a long shot. I’ll never claim otherwise.

I don’t ask people to view/interact with my content, I’m not an activist, I can’t even fathom exuding that kind of confidence. Even though I, admittedly, crave it. I suspect I crave interaction as much as the next creator. It’s a nice feeling. Yet there’s never been any obligation for it, especially with me, so I don’t understand what the problem is. As I’ve said, there are ample ways for you to block/avoid me. It’s the internet. In this day and age, there’s no excuse for viewing anything you don’t want to.

I came here in the hopes of finding like-minded individuals, uplifting and interacting, and exercising some otherwise stunted creativity.

All Tumblr as taught me is that creating and contributing is largely a thankless, empty endeavor. You can give and give and give and be reduced to nothing. There’s a profound imbalance between “giving” and “receiving”, and in regards to both ends of the scale, it’s became apparent to me that if you don’t cater heavily and in unreasonable degrees or get “noticed” by a popular blog, you get nothing, and your efforts are null and void.

Truthfully? I constantly feel like I walk on eggshells here, and it’s all I can do to not crack under the pressure, even though it’s my blog and my headspace. I should feel comfortable and free to express myself here, and I don’t, and I’m unsure of how to achieve that sense of stability. To be completely honestly I feel like a constant bother and a nuisance. When I post, I literally feel like there is a collective eye-roll that comes with people receiving a notification from my blog. Even though I know, rationally, that can’t be true, that’s an absurd level of thinking. I can’t say I can pinpoint exactly where it stems from.

But regardless: I hardly ever talk about/create the things I actually want. I only recently just got ballsy enough to share some metas, and we all know how well that’s going. I try not to have smut out of respect for my asexual/minor mutuals, even though the tag to blacklist is very much an option. I try not to bring up conflicting topics, Tumblr, political, or otherwise, even though with proper tagging I could. But I try not to even bring that into existence. Even though it’s my right to, I don’t.

I don’t actually feel like I fit into any narrative here, especially in the Bad Batch fandom; even though we are all basically the same steadfast group of bloggers. We all know who we are. We all coexist in the same space. It’s nearly impossible to be unaware of each other, at this point.

And yet, I’m not in a bunch of Discord servers or backed by a team of beta readers and all that jazz. It’s basically just me talking to myself out here. It’s very isolating.

Part of that—most of it—is my own crippling social anxiety, and the genuine belief that I don’t deserve to be in the same space/servers as all of these brilliant creators. Because I’m just me, and there’s not a whole lot of value there. With that mindset, it’s hard to actually feel like I belong anywhere. I know that is a mindset I have to conquer alone.

My excitement over my creations has largely dwindled into nothing. I seldom ever bounce my ideas off of others—another issue that stems from the fear of presenting as a burden—and even though I try to write for myself, even that fire has pretty much died out. I’m not even sure how or if I could even reignite it, at this point. It’s really quite sad. It makes me very sad, actually. All I wanted was to safely ramble, project all my thoughts and creativity that has otherwise been repressed through prolonged detrimental circumstances.

More than anything, I wanted to find and hold onto something that makes me feel useful, meaningful, happy. More and more I wonder if that’s even possible. I don’t think it is, not here. I often wonder if joining and sharing on Tumblr was a horrible mistake. I miss the innocent joy of when I first started creating. It was so simple. I’m trying to find that simplicity again.

But I’m burned out. I’m running on fumes. I have been for some time.

At this point it goes beyond just “taking a break” from Tumblr. It’s the fact that it all feels like this meaningless, monotonous cycle. I wonder every day if I am an isolated case in experiencing these emotions.

And yet, come tomorrow I will still be here, business as usual.

I’m not asking for sympathy or playing the victim or attacking anyone or trying to guilt-trip into more interaction. I am very aware of my shortcomings and incorrect mindsets. I’m just trying to make sense of it all. I feel very disconnected from everyone here and it’s lonely. This took a lot for me to share. I will most likely delete this because anxiety will eat me up, as it does with everything I post. Yes, everything.

#personal #lil rambles

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linkspooky · 4 years

Text

Frankenstein and the Monster

So there is loads of speculation on a connection between Dabi and Frankenstein’s monster. There are several people who have already commented on it, here, here, and even here. (These are all the ones I could dig up recently). Frankenstein is a novel that can be read in many ways, but I believe the themes of the novel parallels and helps illustrate the relationship between Ujiko, Endeavor and Dabi.

1. Endeavor and Victor Frankenstein

To very briefly touch upon the novel for those who haven’t read it, there are several differences between Boris Karloff’s movie depiction and the original novel. In the novel the creature is intelligent, well spoken, and a reflection of the Doctor Frankenstein himself. To summarize quickly, Frankenstein a very dramatic undergrad student discovers the secret to reviving the dead, uses that to create a monster, then upon seeing how ugly it is flees. The monster grows up in isolation, is spurned by every human he comes across, and then returns to his master and says he will kill everyone the Doctor Loves unless he creates him a mate. Frankenstein destroys the mate, and then the monster destroys his wife to be on the night of their wedding then they chase each other around in the arctic until both of them die. If that wasn’t a sufficient enough summary, this crash course video is a good writeup of the book and it’s themes.

Frankenstein has a lot to say about science and treading in god’s domain, but it’s also written by a woman who was a teenager at the time (Mary Shelley) who existed in a soical circle of adult men who were much older than her. Just as much as it’s a novel about mad science gone wrong, there are strong themes of feminism, parenthood, and abuse intertwined in the novel.

Another popular reading is to interpret “Frankenstein” autobigraophically, a reading that was encouraged via 1970s feminist criticism of the novel. Earlier readings along those lines centered Frankenstein as a tale of monstrous birth and look to Mary Shelley’s own experiences with birth, which were pretty terrible.

Mary Shelley’s mother died when giving birth to her, and Mary and Shelley’s own first child, a daughter, died when she was just a few weeks old. And in her journal Mary recounted an incredibly sad dream about this daughter. “Dream that my little baby came to life again; that it had only been cold and that we rubbed it before the fire and lived.” [Crash Course: Frankenstein]

This is just some background information to add context to your reading. Percey Shelley first met Mary when she was 14, and eloped with her when she was 16 and already pregnant with his child (he was around 24 at the time). Not only that but Percey was married at the time when he eloped with Mary, and his wirst wife did not take it well.

Harriet (Westbrook) Shelley was Percy Shelley's first wife. While he was still married to her, he ran off with Mary Shelley, leaving Harriet pregnant and alone with their first child. She committed suicide on November 9, 1816 by drowning herself in Serpentine. [x]

As I said these details are all to add context to Mary Shelley’s life while she was writing Frankenstein. A book in which most of the female characters are severely mistreated and harmed.

There are some pretty feminist critiques to Frankenstein. For instance, the novel clearly shows what harm comes to women (and family and relationships) when men pursue single-minded goals. In fact thanks to Victor’s lack of work life balance pretty much all of the women in this novel die. Victor’s creation of the monster leads to the hanging of the servant Justine the murder of Victor’s bride Elizabeth on their wedding night. [Crash Course: Frankenstein]

To put it as frankly as possible (Haha, get it because frankenstein) there are several points in the novel in which both Victor and Frankenstein act like fuckboys.

You could easily read the story as one of male entitlement. Victor in the first place, deliberately refers to his bride to be Elizabeth as a possession and says it as a term of affection.

And when, on the morrow, she presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I, with childish seriousness, interpreted her words literally and looked upon Elizabeth as mine—mine to protect, love, and cherish. All praises bestowed on her I received as made to a possession of my own. We called each other familiarly by the name of cousin. No word, no expression could body forth the kind of relation in which she stood to me—my more than sister, since till death she was to be mine only.

His actions towards Elizabeth in the novel are also, extremely neglectful. Elizabeth spends the novel passively waiting for him to return and marry her, but Victor has a habit of disappearing from her life for long periods at a time with no contact at all in pursuit of his endeavors. (Get it because I’m comparing Victor to Endeavor).

Elizabeth is someone he feels entitled to own, and entitled to her love (he literally thinks his parents gave him to her) and yet Victor never takes responsibility for Elizabeth and her feelings too wrapped up in his own. When Elizabeth is grieving for the losses of her family, Victor has a tendency to leave her alone to go off to sulk on his own. Elizabeth even pleads multiple times for Victor to come home, to offer some support for the rest of the family with his mere presence and Victor delays these returns home as long as possible.

“Get well—and return to us. You will find a happy, cheerful home and friends who love you dearly. Your father’s health is vigorous, and he asks but to see you, but to be assured that you are well; and not a care will ever cloud his benevolent countenance.

This treatment also extends to the rest of Victor’s family, who are people he seriously neglects throughout the novel, and also people who are the direct sufferers of the consequences of his actions. His youngest brother is killed, the maid is framed for the murder, Elizabeth dies on the wedding night, Clerval his closest friend is killed, and his father dies soon afterwards of old age / implied grief.

The monster who Victor creates is also a reflection of him. After knowing the suffering it is to be created as a creature with no family, and no place of belonging he then instructs Victor to make him a woman. A woman that will have no choice but to love him because they will be the only two alone in the world. The monster, also feels entitled to feminine love because he is lonely, with no thought to whether or not the second monster might have feelings, opinions or her own, or might not even like him.

“You must create a female for me, with whom I can live in the interchange of those sympathies necessary for my being. This you alone can do; and I demand it of you as a right which you must not refuse.”

The recurring theme is this: a sense of male entitlement, without a sense of responsibility. What do I mean by Male Entitlement?

Male entitlement is a product of traditional societal norms. It is cultivated in men as they join a society which usually favors them over the other genders in their careers, relationships, character-standing, and more. There’s more on it here, and the role of male entitlement in abuse.

Male entitlement is an attitude where men believe they are entitled to power over others, and/ or ownership of the women and children in their lives. Victor calls Elizabeth a possession given to him, and neglects her throughout most of the book. The monster believes he deserves to have a woman to love him. It’s not masculinity. Masculinity is just masculinity. It’s the belief that they are entitled to power or ownership over others simply because they are men born in a society that favors men. Male entitlement can show up in say, a father who believes he is entitled to the love of his children despite never doing any of the actual work of childrearing and pushing it all on the mother. Believing they deserved to be loved simply for being a father, while being absolutely absent for their lives. GUESS WHAT HAPPENS IN FRANKENSTEIN.

So, a lot of people interpret Frankenstein as a story of ambition gone wrong, but that interpretation feels like it’s missing something if you don’t include the feminist angle. Frankenstein when doing his mad scientist undergrad bit speculates how he would be a father of a new species. It is specifically, fatherhood accomplished without a mother. That this new species would owe him love.

A new species would bless me as its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their being to me.

An undeniable part of Victor’s motivation is that as the sole creator the child would owe him all of their love. I mean to once again connect this to abuse narratives how many real life parents believe their children have to love them no matter how poorly they treat them?

No father could claim the gratitude of his child so completely as I should deserve theirs.

Victor in the novel wants not only fatherhood, but also motherhood. He wants to create life which in victorian society at the time is the role of the woman. And yet at the same time, he doesn’t want to do any of the actual work of motherhood and the roles typically described to women.

We can read the novel as an exploration of what happens when men fear, distrust, or devalue women so much that they attempt to reeproduce without them. In some ways Victor is trying to bypass the feminine altogether. He’s creating life without recourse to egg or womb. [Crash Course: Frankenstein]

Victor creates, and then proceeds to take no responsibility for his creation. He abandons the child for the most shallow of reasons (because it was ugly and looked scary), then leaves a sentient, thinking creature with no idea who it was, or why it was alive in the middle of the mountains hoping it starves to death on his own so he doesn’t have to deal with it.

but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of the room and continued a long time traversing my bed-chamber.

Victor is the creatures parent, but takes no responsibility as a parent for raising the creature. In fact the child is punished when they are still an innocent, just for not turning out the way their creator intended.

Frankenstein is a novel which portrays consistently men who aspire to greatness as described in their society (scientific invention, and in the framing device arctic exploration) but who consistently fail everyone in their lives at the most basic levels. In other words as Lizzo said, “Why men great, till they gotta be great.”

This is where the fire comes in. The original post talks about dichotomy of fire as something that both helps and harms. Fire is a symbol in this book that can be read two different ways, and I think special context should be given to the subtitle of the story. “The Modern Prometheus”, a story which in classical times is a story of hubris where Prometheus steals fire from the heavens and is punished for it. Hubris in the classical greek sense means that a human acting like they know better than the gods. However, the story has a different interpretation in the Romantic / Enlightenment era where Prometheus is seen as a heroic figure stealing fire away from the gods to give knowledge to mankind.

Fire in the book represents both. Victor is someone who has hubris, he assumes he’s a father who deserves the love of a child and sole responsbility for the creation of another being (effectively making him god), but abandons the creature literally five minutes after finishing him and makes no real attempt to take any effort in raising what is effectively his child. It’s also a story about Victor having ambitions to be great, and to do what no man has done before him. I don’t think the story emphasizes that ambitions are bad, but rather the dual nature of ambition as something like fire, something that can either warm or harm.

He came upon a fire “which had been left” by humans (Vol. II, Ch. III), so a human tool left in nature. He was “overcome with delight” and joy, but touching it brought him pain. “How strange, [he thinks], that the same cause could produce such opposite effects!” He has learned the dichotomy of flame – to save and to hurt. [x]

Okay, now that we’re done witht hat extremely long essay on an english novel let’s actually talk about the manga where a goth stuck in his rebellious teenage phase tries to light his dad on fire.

I’m going to be comparing the novel to Dabi and Endeavor in two aspects.

Male entitlement, believing you deserve the love of a child without acting responsibly as a father.

Fire, ambition as something that both helps and burns.

Victor and Endeavor both are characters that decide to create children for very self serving reasons, and treat their families for the majority of their lives as tools to their own ambition. Endeavor wants a child that will carry out his ambitions for him, that he can live vicariously through. It’s not even an interpretation it’s directly stated text.

Endeavor’s mad science also literally has him treat the woman in his life as tools to use for his own amibition. He fores a marriage on a woman to use her as an unwilling accessory to his eugenics project.

It is not specifically a story of ambition got wrong, it’s also a story of neglect and abuse of all the women in his life. Endeavor’s ambitions all center around personal greatness for him. Shoto will prove his worth as a hero, as a mentor to him, as a great father. The fact that his motives are entirely selfish, (Endeavor is not focused on being the best hero he can be, but rather his own desire to be the strongest) is something that has an affect on his family and children.

Fuyumi, Touya, and Natsuo are literally afterthoughts to Endeavor despite being just as much his children as Shoto. He literally only thinks of Rei in the context of “I needed her to give me a family.” Not only that but he’s also an extremely bad father to the one child that he does take an active role in trying to parent, acting extremely controlling towards Shoto and getting extremely angry whenever Shoto did anything that was outside of Endeavor’s wishes for Shoto to fulfill his ambitions.

Endeavor just like Victor, inspires to greatness as a man and wants the signifiers of that as held up by society, accomplishment (Endeavor wants to be the number one rank even though he technically has far more resolved cases than All Might and the rank is literally just a number), family, and recognition despite having done none of the work. Once again why men great till they gotta be great. At the start of his arc, Endeavor feels entitled to Shoto’s love and obedience, and a role in his life, despite the fact that he’s hideously abused him for most of his life.

Endeavor like Victor, also abandons several children for failing to meet his expectations.

Part of Natsuo’s problem with Endeavor has exactly to do this sense of entitlement, Endeavor practically abandons his kids until they’re in their early twenties to the point where he wasn’t involved in their lives at all (and also separated them from their mother). Remember another point of the book is that Victor wants sole parenthood, to create life without involvement of a woman.

Endeavor does the exact same thing. He separates the children from their mother. Then while he is the only parent left in the household and effectively responsible for all of his children, he neglects most of them and completely fails to raise them.

It’s implied besides trying to teach Shoto to use his quirk, he’s literally pushed all of the housework, and actual parenting you know, labor that is involved in raising a child onto Fuyumi. Fuyumi has cooked most of Shoto’s meals, it’s Fuyumi who attends his school conference in the novels. Endeavor has effectively committed the same crime as Victor, creating life and then running away from it by failing to act in any way as the father to his own children. His sense of entitlement shows in his actions and the way he treats the people around him in his life, he uses them for his own ambitions and they get burned.

Endeavor is someone who has used all of the women in his life for his ambitions. Think Fuyumi, she grew up desperately wanting a family while having effectively no father and all contact cut off from her mother, and also had to take care of household chores and responsibility for both of her younger brothers. Think Rei, who has literally been institutionalized for ten years, and trauma from her experiences that haunts her to this day. Natsuo is someone who has no father, almost no relationship with his younger brother, and is still mourning his other dead brother. Shoto evens tates directly, he views Endeavor as someone to learn how to use his quirk from but hasn’t viewed him once as a father. Endeavor’s never been present as a father in Shoto’s life, despite controlling most of it and giving him all of the attention. He had ambition to pass his quirk from father to son, but never actually acted as a father.

Endeavor’s treatment of his family, and his reflection for his past actions is also shown using this metaphor for fire. All Might’s ambition to become the strongest hero for the sake of a more peaceful society, is also represented by fire. Especially a flame that he passes from one person to the next, that Nana passed to him, and he passed to Deku.

Endeavor is almost always associated with the more violent aspect of fire, when he thinks of the harm he’s done to his family it’s always juxtaposed to the fire on his face.

(The right side fire, the left side Rei’s suffering face.)

Whereas the more gentle associations with fire are almost made with Shoto. Once again the novel of Frankenstein doesn’t decry ambition, it merely explores the consequences of ambitions that were extremely self-interested from the start. Endeavor only wanted to be strong for his own sake. Shoto who wanted to become a hero like All Might who would never make his mother cry, and All Might who wanted to create a safer society are people with strong ambitions that are associated with gentler flames.

2. Dabi and Frankenstein’s Monster

Sins of the Father or Sins of the Fathers derives from biblical references primarily in the books Exodus, Deuteronomy, and Numbers to the sins or iniquities of one generation passing to another. Basically what it means is its a narrative trope where children are punished or suffer consequences for the action of their fathers. It can also mean that children inevitably reflect what their fathers have done to them, and even resemble their fathers.

Everything the monster does is a reflection of Frankentstein’s actions. Everything Dabi does is both a consequence and a reflection of Endeavor’s actions. They are both written as sons to be narrative foils to their creator. If anything Dabi is even more of a frankenstein’s monster than Shoto, because a key element to the narrative is that Frankenstein was abandoned for not being perfect according to his creator’s wishes, he was punished for a defect.

Touya just like frankenstein is a defective creation. One who suffers all of the consequences for what are his father’s sins. Endeavor deliberately took risks with his eugenics experiment that the child might have a quirk not compatible with their body, but it’s the child and not the parent who suffers all of the consequences. Toya literally died - whether he faked his death or not has yet to be revealed but he lost his home and family at a young age, spent most of his life homeless, and has to continually make use of a quirk that burns his entire body. Whether he wants them or not, his father’s sins are pushed onto Dabi.

The flame that Endeavor is so keen on passing to his children, has literally permanently disabled Dabi, and will negatively effect him for the rest of his life. Consequences that Endeavor ought to suffer are passed onto Dabi instead. Dabi is burned by Endeavor’s actions towards him.

This is once again something deliberately brought up by the book Frankenstein. The doctor creates life, takes absolutely no responsibility and leaves his creature to starve to death in the wilderness, and then the first time they meet again calls upon his creation to die.

“I expected this reception,” said the dæmon. “All men hate the wretched; how, then, must I be hated, who am miserable beyond all living things! Yet you, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy creature, to whom thou art bound by ties only dissoluble by the annihilation of one of us. You purpose to kill me. How dare you sport thus with life?

The decision to create life irresponsibly was Victor’s, but the person who suffers the brunt end of the consequences is not Victor, but rather the creature itself who just like Dabi has no home, and is constistently hurt by the environment around him.

Dabi is also a symbol of the worst possible aspects of Endeavor’s ambitions.

To compare Victor and the monster briefly. Victor

Has family / friends

Home / Money / Wealth

Arrogant / Well Educated

Self-Destructive

A tool

The Monster

Abandoned

Ignorant (at first)

Homeless

A tool, but a more sympathetic one.

As you can see they are societally complete opposites. This can be said for Endeavor as well, he still gets to keep his family, his place in society despite what he’s done, he’s wealthy, succesful and well-liked in his community. Dabi is permanently disabled because of something his father did, is legally dead, homeless, separated from his family, and is a villain.

While they are completely opposite in status, the monster and Victor are eerily similiar. They are both highly intelligent people who carry a strong ambition within them. The Monster basically learns speech, and reading all on his own, and as soon as he can be becomes as well-read as possible.

Fortunately the books were written in the language, the elements of which I had acquired at the cottage; they consisted of Paradise Lost, a volume of Plutarch’s Lives, and the Sorrows of Werter. The possession of these treasures gave me extreme delight; I now continually studied and exercised my mind upon these histories, whilst my friends were employed in their ordinary occupations.

The monster also shares several of his father’s sin. He repeats the sins that have been done on to him, in the name of vengeance. Frankenstein’s claim is that he was hurt when he was still an innocent, punished before he had done anything wrong, but he also does the exact same thing to VIctor’s youngest brother killing him when he was just a child.

Victor’s worst sin by far is selfish entitlement, forgetting to consider the feelings of his creation. Yet, the monster knowing how much he suffered by just being created in a world where there’s no one else like him also demands Victor create another creature. This is out of his own personal sense of entitlement, he believes he’s entitled to have someone love him, and if he had this he would be a good person again.

He believes quite literally he deserves an Eve to share his loneliness in. His own personal feelings of grief and hurt matter more than those of: one the people he kills, and two a potential woman who would be created only to love him.

But it was all a dream; no Eve soothed my sorrows nor shared my thoughts; I was alone. I remembered Adam’s supplication to his Creator. But where was mine? He had abandoned me, and in the bitterness of my heart I cursed him.

The monster also feels entitled to punish Frankenstein, but in this reccuring sins of the fathers he punishes people who are completely innocent of the crime that Frankenstein did to him and have nothing to do with his creation, just to get back at Frankenstein. Including, an innocent boy, a maid who he framed for murder, Frankenstein’s friend, and also Elizabeth.

Dabi inevitably reflects his father and the environment he was raised in, and resembles him. Dabi who was raised by a quirk supremacist and thrown out because his quirk wasn’t good enough, kills people he doesn’t find worthy. Dabi’s methods are almost entirely based around his his individual strength because he was raised to believe that was the only good part of him. The same way Dabi was thrown out like burnable trash for failing to live up to his standards, Dabi will enact harsh vigilante justice and kill minor crimminals and heroes who fail to live up to his justice.

Just like for the monster’s actions in punishing Victor, Dabi is called to consider the feelings of family’s of the people he kills. He is also punishing people completely unrelated to what happened to him, in his efforts to hold his father accountable.

Dabi reflects his father, and quirk society the same things that burned him. He continually believes he has to be the strongest individually, accomplish everything on his own, and spurn others around him. Even those who try to make genuine connections with him like the league of villains. Dabi believes that the world has to be changed with the strength of ambitions of a single person, and his ambitions are far more important than the sense of family within the league.

Dabi effectively distances himself from two families, the found family of the league, and also his original biological family. Think about how much it might save Natsuo to lean that his brother is still alive. Shoto at least, doesn’t want to see his father roasted alive on live television.

Dabi’s ambitions are as self destructive as his fathers, as he only knows how to fight by completely burning his body up. He harms himself over and over again by using his quirk to try to change things.

3. Endeavor and Ujiko

The book ultimately poses the question who is responsible for the actions of the monster, Frankenstein or the Monster itself. However, I think an element missed in a lot of analysis is that the mosnter accepts that most of what he has done is wrong, he just wants people to be held equally accountable for their actions.

“You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to have a knowledge of my crimes and his misfortunes. But in the detail which he gave you of them he could not sum up the hours and months of misery which I endured wasting in impotent passions. For while I destroyed his hopes, I did not satisfy my own desires. They were for ever ardent and craving; still I desired love and fellowship, and I was still spurned. Was there no injustice in this? Am I to be thought the only criminal, when all humankind sinned against me? Why do you not hate Felix, who drove his friend from his door with contumely? Why do you not execrate the rustic who sought to destroy the saviour of his child?

The monster’s problem is not that he shouldn’t be held accountable for his actions, but rather that he’s the only one whose ever held accountable for his actions. The Monster also spends most of the narrative being treated as a monster, whereas Frankenstein faces no real consequences for what he’s done from the people around him, never loses his standing in society, never is cast out for his wrongs. Frankenstein continually avoids any and all responsibility towards the monster up until his death, and only takes responsibility in violently trying to kill his creation.

There are also oppurtunities for Frankenstein to take responsibility, which he chooses not to do anything. An innocent maid is about to be executed for a crime that Frankenstein knows she did not commit, and instead of trying to help her by explaining to everyone his creation of the creature, and also that the creature is likely responsible for the murder he says nothing. While not responsible for the women’s death, he is culpable in that he could have taken action to save her but didn’t.

Franketnstein’s actions are again and again always to run away from the monster and avoid responsibility. From the beginning he runs away from the monster due to it simply being ugly. Both the monster (and also Toya) were punished when they were innocent children who had not committed any kind of crime, by the person who was responsible for raising them, educating them, and giving them everything they needed to become happy adults.

“Remember that I am thy creature; I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed. Everywhere I see bliss, from which I alone am irrevocably excluded. I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous.”

While Frankenstein and the Monster both entitled, their reasons for entitlement come from entirely different places. Frankenstein’s comes from his own arrogance, believing that he’s destined to do great things, and be a man of status and accomplishment. Why men great till they gotta be great.

The monster believes he’s entitled to a family, because his father abandoned him, and he’s been homeless most of his life. The monster is violent, but only after he’s endured violence from people several times over. The monster is ultimately a victim of circumstance, and Frankenstein is the one who created that circumstance.

Considering Frankenstein and the monster are foils, there’s a reason that Frankenstein fears and abhors the monster before it’s even awake. It’s because the monster reflects the ugliness of his own actions. The ugliness in himself that he is completely unable to face. He is a negative character foil in a character sense, and a shadow created by Frankenstein’s actions.

The monster shows Victor what he is, selfish, entitled, and violent. Victor can’t ever confront the monster, because he can never confront those flaws within himself.

Dabi is a reflection of Endeavor’s violent, abusive nature. He is also the direct consequence of all of Endeavor’s actions. So the question is, has Endeavor confronted the monstrous side of his actions? The answer is most likely no, because despite doing things as bad as any villain in the story he still views himself as the hero.

Shoto even tells us directly. Endeavor the hero and Endeavor the father are so different they’re almost like two different people. Endeavor continuing to be a hero on the television and coming home to his family is not taking repsonsibility for his actions, not truly, because he still hasn’t accepted the worst of what he’s done.

In the narrative Endeavor currently feels guilt, and also a desire to atone but we’re also told again and again that atoning means taking responsibility and carrying everything. No building a house where his family doesn’t have to be around him and taking steps to distance himself isn’t taking full resposnibility because Dabi is still running around. Dabi is the embodiment of the absolute worst of Endeavor’s actions, the toxic environment that literally killed Toya, burned Shoto, and hospitalized Rei. I would say Endeavor still hans’t seen the worst of his actions because he still views himself as the hero, just the hero who has made mistakes. We’re shown this in foiling, the same way Fankenstein rejects the monster, Endeavor doesn’t recognize Dabi even though he is literally his own son.

The strongest evidence of this is Endeavor and Ujiko’s foiling. They are two characters who have a lot in common, they both used children as experiments in their attempts to create stronger quirks including their own family members (Ujiko experimented on his own nephew).

They’re both men of incredible wealth and status in society, who have deliberately used their status to cover up their cimes. Endeavor used his status to hospitalize his wife for years, he used his status to marry her in the first place, Ujiko uses all of his money and resources to find people to experiment on, and deliberately takes advantage of people in need by using his orphanage and hospitals to farm for materials to make his Nomus with.

They’re both motivated by their own personal ambitions. They also feel entitled, Ujiko’s specific issue is that the scientific community failed to give him the respect and funding for his research that he thought he was owed.

The source of Endeavor’s pain is that no matter how hard he works he’ll never become the strongest. The source of Ujiko’s pain is that nobody recognizes his work and achievements in his scientific community. They both want their hard work to turn into achievement, for their efforts to pay off, which again is not a bad thing until they get angry when they’re not given what they think they’re owed.

Ujiko and Endeavor both become so desperate to accomplish their ambitions that they manipulate people to become tools to fulfill their ambitions for them. Shoto has to carry on his legacy, and learn to use his flame side like Endeavor always wanted. They both create children that they are technically the parent of, but don’t act as fathers. Endeavor is responsible for Fuyumi, Natsuo, Touya, and Todoroki but fails to live up to that responsibility. Ujiko creates the Nomu, which just like the monster in Frankenstein are new life created from the corpses of other people, and then just uses them and disposes them as tools.

Ujiko even utters a line that is incredibly similiar to Endeavor in the regards to the way they treat Shigaraki and Shoto.

However how does Endeavor react to Ujiko? Does he understand the harm that he’s done in a new light? No, he falls back on his hero narrative. I am the hero, and Ujiko is the utlimate evil.

Endeavor so far, like Frankenstein, fails to truly confront the monster. Even when he finally realizes the destructive nature of his desire to be stronger than anyone else when he fights the Nomu, his response is to burn it alive. What is Endeavor’s response? To play hero, and defeat a villain.

The thing about jungian shadow arcs is that you don’t destroy your shadow, you reintegrated it. Endeavor can’t symbolically murder his past self because that won’t make his past actions go away, he can only accept them. The question now is: will he do the same thing to Dabi?

When confronted with who Dabi is and his role in creating Dabi, what will Endeavor’s choice be? Is he going to play the hero, and destroy the villain he sees in front of him. The same way he did with the Nomu, the same way he did with Ujiko, the same way he’s trying to do with Shigaraki (who is, you know a heavy parallel to his own son Toya, and another abused child).

Will Endeavor act as a hero, or the remorseful father he also is? That choice is utlimately what Endeavor’s entire character is written around, does he want to finally be a father or does he want to keep being endeavor the hero? What is more important to him his own ambitions as a hero, or the people he’s harmed?

Just like Victor, Endeavor’s entire arc revolves around Dabi. He is a hero directly responsible for the creation of a villain. Dabi would not exist if it were not for Endeavor’s direct actions. Not only that but his future will be determined by how he chooses to interact with Dabi once he knows the truth. Endeavor cannot truly take responsibility until he takes responsibility for Dabi.

#mha meta #mha dabi #dabi is touya #dabi #enji todoroki #endeavor #frankenstein #mary shelley's frankenstein #Sometimes you gotta wake up in the morning and decide to spend your entire day writing an incredibly long essay about classic literature

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frozenartscapes · 4 years

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Promises - SS/Modern AU

Following up after Byleth brings a time-traveling Emperor back to her apartment. I was thinking some more about a name for this AU, and I believe it was @lysissisyl who one time suggested “A World Without Gods”... And I kind of like it. It’s not like the Dragon Family has disappeared, but the world has since moved past them. Magic still exists, but has grown with technology to become accessible. Possessing things like Crests or other godly gifts aren’t really valued anymore, because anyone can now do what a person with a Crest might have been once able to do. Hell, we’ve even established that getting a Crest or having one removed is about as simple as donating blood.

But being thrown into such a different world in the blink of an eye is daunting, even for someone as strong as Edelgard. But, this is Silver Snow!Edelgard. By the time she and Byleth had their final confrontation, she had effectively lost everybody that she cared about: either they had joined the enemy side and hated her, or they had died trying to protect her. And the heart can only take so much loss.

Byleth has been living with the guilt of her actions for 850 years. She finally has a chance to make things right, but the path will be a long and challenging one.

---

Byleth held a cup under the spout in the sink and filled it up. She couldn’t really sleep, and thought perhaps a glass of water might help. She chugged it back and added the cup to the small pile of dirty dishes. She really ought to do those, she thought, as she stared blankly at the mess.

She should go back to bed. But she couldn’t relax enough to sleep.

“No! Please!”

She was out of the kitchen like a shot, quickly finding the spare bedroom door in her dark apartment. She could hear the struggle inside: that bed was a cheap one, often prone to squeaking and groaning; the ruffle of blankets being fought with; pleas from someone locked deep in a nightmare.

“Please! Come back! Come back!”

Byleth knocked, hoping she wasn’t about to make things worse. “Edelgard?” she called. She could just let herself in, but given the former Emperor’s apparent state, and recent events, she decided to wait. “Edelgard? It’s me. You ok?”

There was another yelp, and frantic gasps of breath. Then: “P...Professor?” Calmer. She must be awake now.

“Can I come in?”

...

“...Yes.”

Slowly, Byleth pushed the door open. She caught Edelgard in the act of furiously wiping tears from her cheeks, the slight blush nothing compared to the dark bags under her eyes. Blankets and sheets were strewn about, indicating quite a bit of tossing and turning.

“I...I suppose I was talking in my sleep again,” she said sheepishly, refusing to make eye contact.

“I wasn’t listening for it,” Byleth told her earnestly, “I...I couldn’t sleep, myself, and I just...” She caught a quick flash of lilac, desperate and lonely. Byleth cleared her throat. “Do you...want to talk about it?”

Edelgard sat up, pulling her legs up close to her chest. “I doubt it would help,” she muttered bitterly. The way Byleth’s varsity hoodie encompassed her small frame made her seem extra vulnerable now.

Byleth carefully approached the bed. “It might, though,” she prompted carefully, “Talking helps release pent up energy and emotions.”

She scoffed. “Another medical discovery of this time, I presume?” she asked in annoyance.

“A lot of work has been done with mental health,” Byleth told her, “More still is needed, but...it is infinitely better than what you are used to, I’m sure.”

Edelgard remained silent, eyes focused on the digital clock on the bedside table.

Eventually, after a few minutes passed, Byleth grew bold. “Who were you calling to?” she asked gently, sitting down on the foot of the bed.

“I...” She looked up again, very briefly. All Byleth had time to see was unimaginable pain. “Everyone...anyone...I... I don’t know,” she whispered, “There were so many shadows. People without faces. Voices with no bodies. They all felt familiar but... They were all leaving.”

Byleth had no doubt she had been one of those faceless shadows. The thought made her heart ache with a guilt she’s lived with for eight hundred years.

“I...” she began. Hesitant. Scared. This apology was coming far too late, and perhaps at a bad time, but if she were to move forward, it had to be said. “I’m sorry,” she said, head bowed, “I’m so sorry, Edelgard. I...I didn’t know what I wanted. I didn’t know what to do. I...I should have been more sure. Confident, like you always are. I should have been there for you when you needed me the most and I wasn’t and... I’m sorry.”

Edelgard stayed quiet. She sniffled softly, and wiped away some fresh tears with the sleeve of the sweater. “You hesitated because you could see what I truly was,” she eventually murmured, pulling her sleeve down a little to trace the shackle scars along her wrist, “You all were smart to stay away from me. You said the world is the way it is because of me... But would it have been the same had I gotten my way? Or is it like this because of you?”

Byleth opened her mouth to protest, but words wouldn’t form.

“I knew my path would be a lonely one when I chose it,” Edelgard confessed, “A path of isolation and blood, one where I rid the world of monsters by becoming one myself. Someone as kind and wonderful as you should never have to dirty your feet as I did... None of you should have.”

“You aren’t a monster,” Byleth said, perhaps a little too quickly, “And I would have. I should have. I... When Rhea made me choose I just... I didn’t know...”

“I shouldn’t have made you choose, either,” Edelgard replied, “I made the decision for you in my head the moment you hesitated, and every moment since. I just... It was easier to let my heart break and stay broken than to try to keep fixing it, only for my efforts to have been for naught. Even when we met again in the Goddess Tower, I... I had become so jaded that I believed there was no way you actually cared. After all: no one else did.”

“That’s...that’s not true,” Byleth admitted, “They all came, Edelgard. All of the Eagles. They though you were the one who didn’t care. I...I should have said something. Told them that you did, but...”

She smiled sadly. “It’s in the distant past, now,” she breathed, “It doesn’t matter.”

Byleth frowned. An unpleasant lump of emotion was forming in her throat that she couldn’t swallow down. “But it does matter,” she said quietly, “It did back then, and it still does now. Maybe things would have been different if...” She stopped, shaking her head in frustration. It would do neither of them good to dwell in ‘what-ifs’. “When we first came back here, you...mentioned something,” she pressed gently, wincing as she spoke, “You said you...expected... to die by my blade.” She met Edelgard’s gaze, lilac eyes brimming with tears. “You...begged me to do it,” she whispered.

“I knew I had lost,” Edelgard uttered, “I lost, Byleth. My war. My empire. My crown... My friends... My family... I have always looked to the future, refusing to look back on the past. And every time, I was able to envision the future I strived for. But... When I lost that fight... I tried to look into the future and I saw nothing. Just darkness. I knew then that I had one of two choices: surrender, and succumb to the crushing weight of despair and guilt and failure; or die.” She paused, wiping the moisture from her eyes with a grimace. “Just...give up, fall into the void. Lay down my axe and finally, finally stop fighting. I tried. I tried so hard to fight it back, to make something of my miserable existence before death caught up with me, but... I lost.”

Byleth felt the dagger of guilt sink deeper into her un-beating heart. She wished more than anything to be able to go back to that moment, that fateful decision point where she chose wrong. But that was impossible. She could only move forward. That’s all anyone could do. She hoped. “And...what about now?” she asked hesitantly, waiting with baited breath and praying, “What do you see if you look to the future, now?”

Edelgard rested her chin on her knees, staring off into a darkened corner of the room. She sat for a few minutes, eyes vacant, before answering. “I...I don’t know,” she admitted sadly, “It’s...it’s still so dark. I...I don’t know where I can go from here.” Her eyes moved to the window, where the never-ending light of the city flowed in through cracks in the blinds. “I’m not sure how I will fit into this world, or if I even can,” she said, sounding so uncharacteristically small, “Everything’s so different from what I’m used to. At least then, when I lost everyone I cared about, I still had my belongings. My home. Or...what used to be my home. I have even less now than I did then.”

Her gaze moved again, finding Byleth’s in the dark room. She saw the deep, earnest concern on her former teacher’s face, and the faintest bit of light appeared in the void of darkness that was her envisioned future. “But...” she said slowly, carefully, “Perhaps... Perhaps I am not as alone as I think.”

“You’re not,” Byleth replied quickly, a cautious smile beginning to spread on her face, “I’m here, Edelgard. This time I promise I won’t leave you.”

Edelgard tried to mirror the careful grin, but her smile did not reach her eyes. “I...” She looked away abruptly, eyes closing tight as if wincing in pain... or bracing for the backlash. “I... Forgive me, my Teacher,” she breathed, shame practically dripping from her words, “But... I wish I could believe you.”

Byleth felt her heart drop in her chest. Those words were the slap in the face she wished Edelgard would just get on with. Byleth deserved it, after all. After everything she had done to the poor woman sitting before her. The lump in her throat was most definitely a sob, and it took everything in her to keep it down. But she couldn’t hold back the tears in her eyes.

“I’m going to help you find that belief,” Byleth said solemnly, scooting a little closer on the bed, “I know my words probably mean very little right now. You have every right to never want to listen to me or trust me ever again. You don’t even have to forgive me. Just...just know that I’m here for you now. You can stay here for as long as you need. I can teach you everything about this world and fitting into it. You don’t have to believe me, but just...know...that you’re safe here.”

It came slow, at first. Like the rain before a storm. Tears neither of them could hold back any longer began to flow. It was Edelgard who moved first, throwing herself forward and clinging with a desperation that consumed her. Byleth felt those strong hands of an Emperor now shakily grasp her shoulders, fingers digging in as if Edelgard was expecting the universe to wrench them apart.

Byleth was no longer able to hold back that sob, and it tore through the damn holding back her emotions like a wrecking ball. She hadn’t cried this much in centuries. And she forgot how much it hurt.

“I’m sorry, Edelgard,” she choked out, holding on just as fiercely, “Goddess, I’m so sorry.” She swallowed roughly. Her words felt like bile in her mouth. Like they could never fully express what she felt. Weakly, no more than a whisper, she confessed, “I thought I lost you forever. I thought I would never get to tell you... Goddess I wish things had been different.”

Edelgard sniffled, her own sobs slowly fading as Byleth’s words hit her. “I thought...five years was long,” she said softly, pulling away so their eyes could meet, “I know we fought, but... Seeing you after all that time...” She wiped the tears from her cheeks, offering a weepy smile. “I was still so happy to see you alive.”

Byleth met her with a grin of her own, her sobs breaking into gentle chuckles. “I would have waited a thousand years for you,” she breathed, “Two thousand. A million. I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am to see you here, despite...despite everything.”

“Then... Perhaps that should be what we focus on,” Edelgard said, “The past is gone. And though we both will bear the scars it left us for the rest of our lives, scars will fade. I...I should know.”

Byleth gently reached out and cupped her friend’s cheek. “You can be anything you want to be in this life, Edelgard,” she stated, “This time, the path is yours to choose. And I promise I’ll help you along the way, for as long as you want my help.”

“My Teach- ...Byleth,” Edelgard whispered, mimicking the affectionate action, “I have always wanted to walk with you. So in this life, I shall.”

“I won’t leave your side for anything, this time,” Byleth vowed.

“E...even...now?” Edelgard asked, sheepishly looking away as she nervously wrung the sheets in her hands. “I...I haven’t been able to get a good night’s rest in... I’m not sure how long. But, perhaps if you’re here, the nightmares might-”

Before she could finish, Byleth flopped comically down on the empty side of the bed, answering the request without any words spoken.

Relief washed over the former Emperor in an instant, and with a small smile, she sunk down under the covers, facing her host on the bed. Byleth reached out and carefully took her hand in hers, giving it a small, affirming squeeze.

“I’m here,” she whispered, “I promise. And if I’m not when you wake up, you can find me in the kitchen.”

Edelgard nodded in reply. “Thank you, Byleth,” she whispered back, closing her eyes as sleep slowly came back to her.

Byleth shut her eyes as well, and as she drifted off, she heard a very earnest, very grateful: “Thank you.”

---

The next morning, Edelgard awoke and Byleth’s spot was empty on the bed. A brief moment of panic seized her heart, until she remembered the rest of her promise. Carefully, she pulled the covers back and left the bed, first heading to the window. The strange, new Enbarr greeted her as she opened the blinds, with its impossibly tall buildings and endless noise. But at least the colours of dawn remained the same.

She cautiously headed through the apartment, taking in the details she had been overwhelmed by the night before. Everything seemed so strange. The furniture was oddly shaped, and far too much of something: too soft, too hard, too simple, too complex. Everything felt so bright as light from the morning sun flooded through the large windows and doors to the balcony. The colour scheme in Byleth’s apartment was mostly neutral: white walls, light grey rug, light wooden floors... Actually, was it wood? It looked like it but didn’t feel like it... She had the odd pop of colour in a cushion or a plant but otherwise it all felt so...empty and bleak compared to the deep, rich colours of the tapestries and upholstery the Imperial family kept in the palace.

She drew a deep breath as she tried to calm down her fears, and as she did, a familiar scent hit her nose: bergamot. And her worries faded as a smile formed on her face.

True to her word, she found Byleth in the kitchen. A well-used teapot sat on the small table, scented steam wafting out and filling the room with the smell of her favourite tea. Two teacups were placed on either side of the table, beside two mismatched plates. Beside the pot was a rectangular, brightly coloured box.

Byleth was rooting through a tall, silver storage unit next to the counter with the...what was it called again...microwave? She stood up, a blue carton in her hand, and smiled when she noticed her guest. “Perfect timing,” she said warmly, setting the carton down on the table, “You liked milk, yes?”

“That’s milk?” Edelgard asked, eyeing the carton with curiosity.

“Yep,” Byleth said simply, reaching into a cupboard and taking out a small jar, “And sugar, too, right?”

Edelgard merely nodded. She hadn’t missed the amount of boxes and jars of food in just that one cupboard alone, and couldn’t imagine how much more could possibly be stored in this kitchen. She reached for the carton of milk, gasping slightly to discover it was cold, and she was fairly certain that silver box was too small to hold ice blocks.

Byleth chuckled, watching as Edelgard glared at the milk carton as if she had just demanded it tell her all its secrets. “Come sit, Edelgard,” she said as she took a seat across the table, “I’ll explain more after breakfast. I got us a little treat.”

She gestured to the box. Edelgard cocked her head as she regarded the strange package. Big, ridiculous letters spelled out...something... Although she had no idea what the word was or what it meant. “Do...nuts?” she wondered, looking up at Byleth with a lost expression.

Byleth merely grinned and opened the box, revealing six decadent-looking pastries. Each one was different, and strange...but the smell alone was incredibly tempting. Five of them were shaped like rings, with a hole in the centre of the cake. The sixth one was a solid circle, covered in a copious amount of white powder.

“That one’s a jelly-filled,” Byleth said as she noticed Edelgard eyeing it, “Strawberry. Then there’s chocolate dipped, old-fashioned, honey cruller...” She pointed to a different one as she listed them, going from the one with a dark brown topping, a simple plain one, and one that was fancifully twisted and covered in white glaze. Next, she pointed to one with pink frosting, and bright, rainbow sprinkles. “Strawberry dipped,” she said, “It’s seasonal, and really good, by the way.”

“And the last one?”

“The best one,” Byleth told her confidently, “Double chocolate.”

The fact that anything was single chocolate, let alone double absolutely floored her. Chocolate had been one of the most valued delicacies that she was aware of. Much like coffee, the beans needed to produce it could only be grown in consistently warm, humid climates that only the southern-most parts of Adrestia could support. Instead, it largely came from other nations that sat further south, and as a result was often incredibly hard and expensive to procure. Being Emperor, she had had the fortune of tasting chocolate before, and had loved it. But even she could only get her hands on a small box only a few times a year.

And now here was this...donut...that was both made with chocolate, but also dipped in it.

“What...exactly is the occasion?” she asked hesitantly, “Surely this cost you greatly.”

“Nah,” Byleth said with a nonchalant shrug, “The whole box was about six bucks.”

“...Six...Bucks?”

“Never mind. That’s just slang for ‘dollars’.”

“...D...dollars?”

Byleth blinked. “Oh...right, sorry. I forgot currency changed quite a bit over time,” she said sheepishly, “It...it doesn’t matter. All the stuff that made pastries expensive back in the past is widely available now.” She then smiled shyly, and continued cautiously, “Last night was...a little rough. I know you’re going through a lot and it’s not going to change over night. It...it likely will only get harder, for a while.”

Edelgard found herself nodding at that, prompting Byleth to wince. “But I just... I thought these might help,” she said with a lopsided grin, “No matter how confusing and scary the world might seem, there are good things in it.” She gestured to the box, prompting Edelgard to take her pick. “Like donuts.”

Edelgard reached out tentatively, but rather than selecting a donut, her hand found Byleth’s resting on the other side of the table. “And...you,” she said quietly, a generous dusting of pink spreading across her cheeks.

Byleth’s heart had never moved a day in her immortal life, but in that moment, it fluttered, leapt like a bird taking to the sky. She didn’t know why or how, but in that moment, it felt right.

She chuckled softly, impressed by how smooth her former student was. She brought her other hand down over Edelgard’s, giving it a small squeeze. “I’ll always be right here,” she promised.

They held each other’s gaze far longer than either of them realized, and once they did, they broke apart, both of them blushing furiously. “Well, go one then!” Byleth coughed out awkwardly, gesturing to the box, “I’m excited to know what you think.”

Edelgard eyed the double chocolate one. “It... You said that one was your favourite...” she began slowly, “I don’t want to take it for myself...”

“It’s alright. We can split them,” Byleth offered, getting up to retrieve a knife. Upon her return, she selected the donut from the box and set it down on her plate, before cutting it in half. She then offered a half to Edelgard.

Edelgard picked it up carefully, looking over the pastry thoroughly. Byleth merely chuckled and simply took a bite out of her half, an action Edelgard hesitantly followed.

The moment the chocolaty goodness hit her tongue, her eyes widened and lit up like the sun. “Oh Goddess,” she breathed, before eagerly taking another bite.

Byleth’s chuckle turned into a mirthful laugh.

#fanfic #fe three houses #ss/modern!au #i think i finally found a name #and a direction i want to take this thing #...if i ever find the motivation #i am totally willing to accept help on this though #if people just want this to be a series of one-shots and short stories #i'm fine with that too #a world without gods

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kendrixtermina · 4 years

Text

The “Genocidal Edelgard” Shallowtake

I was not going to make a post about this because it’s most likely futile and not going to convince anyone nor do I believe in dinifying the purity police with attention, but maybe it will let some ppl know that they dont have to let themselves be shamed for liking the wrong video game character

Whatever might have been the case in the distant past when Nemesis was around, by the “present day” the Nabateans are not at all some commonly oppressed stereotyped minority - the setting is chock full of characters that fit that bill a lot better like Dedue or Cyril. Characters that are ordinary humans not magic dragons.

And even that is more founded on general purpose xenophobia than from the specific, relatively new early modernity construct of racism. (the dedue situation probably comes the closest)

Sure, Seteth and Flays have to hide from their old enemy the Agarthans, I see how some might find that relatable etc. but most of the population isn’t aware that they exist at all. They hold high status positions, are worshipped by the local religion and Rhea all but rules the entire continent (and says so herself to Byleth in that speech about how she was just “ruling this wayward country in your stead”, “you” being Sothis) - though that is mostly Rhea’s doing of which Seteth and Flayn are relatively innocent.

The interviews pretty much confirmed that the Nabateans constituted the local aristocracy and that many humans genuinely saw the Elites as liberators - though there was definitely also an element of ppl going around killing random Nabateans to gain superpowers, not to speak of Nemesis’ very obvious very unambiguous mass murder. Not wanting to be ruled over by foreign powers is understandable, though obviously killing them all down to the last civilian was just flat out evil - its certainly not a simple situation, we can all agtree Nemesis & the Agarthans were evil but there is no clear defined good guy.

There are historical conflicts you could compare this to, perhaps some conflicts in Africa or the middle eastwhere different groups took turns being the ruling class after the latest war, but it’s not at all like the modern USA or early modernity colonialism, and forcing every real or, in this case, imagined scenario inherently dependent of fantasy elements, into this one framework from the present or near past isn’t conductive to understanding at all.

And in the present day, by the time Edelgard is alive, we are talking about three specific people that she has good reason to dislike individually. Not any sort of group at all.

She calls Rhea a cruel beast because that’s all she’s ever seen Rhea to be. She’s the shadow tyrant who rules her world, who created the crappy world Edelgard grew up in. It’s no different Cubans thiking badly of the castros after suffering through famines - or, no need for such extreme examples really, ppl call their least favorite politicians monsters all the time.

She’s wrong to assume that Seteth & Flayn are wholly on board with this, but on the other hand, it’s not at all a far-fetched assumption to make: They hold high positions in the church though they ostensimbly just appreared out of nowhere one day. Do you have to be an evil bigot to assume that the brother and right hand man to the tyrannical god-queen is condoning & supporting her actions?

The truth is of course that underneath her pseudo-parental facade Rhea is sort of a scared girl, very lonely, very afraid, and ashamed, in a shallow, childish way, for “breaking the rules” just because they are rules. She says she can’t trust anyone, that she feels lonely & isolated... and while no one can blame her for distrusting humans after the slaughter of her people, but the reason she can’t trust Seteth is that she’s keeping her bad deeds secret from him. He wasn’t there the whole time, he just showed up a few decades earlier.

She sees herself only as filling out for Sothis and doesn’t quite grasp that she’s in charge, very much a follower personality bent on stasis & regularity.

Is Edelgard obliged to try & unravel the complex psychology of the tyrant who rules her home to correctly deduce why she would deceive even her own family? By all intents and purposes, Edelgard is the one getting rid of an oppressive government that doesn’t let ordinary humans let a say at all. A government where ppl of others faiths and nationalities are typically oppressed unless they work directly for the church.

It’s like having a disdain for, say, Ivanka Trump. She holds a high position in her father’s administration despite having no obvious qualifications, she appears to be profiting & making bank from her father’s atrocities, she certainly hasn’t done anything to stop him or disavow him the way that, say, her cousin Mary did - if you suffered under Trump’s regime you’d be very justified in assuming that Invanka is probably a bad person.

Flayn only looks young (She might not if we saw her in other clothes). I mean, Kronya could badly impersonate a schoolgirl. At the very least they’ve supported the regime by refusing to question their own side and they show some however benevolent belief that it is their duty to “guide” the people. Leaving her to the Agarthans is certainly questionable, but no more so than doing it with Rhea herself, under the assumption that she’s guilty and that it’s a sacrifice that will prevent larger chaos. The agarthans had their plan long before they created Edelgard as we know her, and she couldn’t stop their plots all on her own.

You could say that it’s callous, distasteful or a deal breaker - as the death knight is her direct subordinate & she makes a personal appearance in mask, I would argue that she definitely knew & sanctioned the kidnapping - but she’s no more callous towards Flayn than towards anybody else.

Of course, that doesn’t mean they’re evil, or that they deserve to die.... and Edelgard would agree with me. She doing all this to prevent death – flipping the lever on the trolley problem so it crushes one person instead of five so to speak. She always gives her enemies the chance to surrender, unwilling allies the chance to leave, and jails enemies whenever leaving them alive wouldn‘t lead to further death… even the ones she has the most personal reason to hate, like the PM.

As servants of the church who have chosed to back her enemies, she’ll certainly kill them if she has to, but not any more than any other enemy. At no point anywhere in the story does she say anything like that they need to die on principle. Nowhere at all. Indeed there is much evidence to the contrary.

The church paints her as being completely against the religion or even wanting to set herself up as a satanic godess cause it‘s good politics & they don‘t get what she‘s doing – to an extent her own credibility & messaging is compromised by her secretive and at times unscrupulous actions, no one said she was perfect. In truth all she wants is to have the church out of politics, you know, what we have in nearly every modern country outside the vatican and saudi arabia.

You can absolutely let Flayn & Seteth go on CF and there is no word, no fuss about it anywhere. No „make sure to kill em all“ which would certainly be there if the narrative wanted to portray Edelgard that way. It requires the mediation of Byleth as someone they would talk to & not immediately assume the worst of, but, they see the church as the embodymet of all that is good & fighting its enemies as their sacred duty so of course it wouldn‘t be possible for just anyone to talk them down. It‘s framed as Flayn letting Byleth go cause they saved her life once, even if we know from behind the screen that she wasn‘t going to survive a fight to the death against the player-controlled faction.

Heck, even when it comes to Rhea, the one most guilty that Edelgard has the most reason to loathe, she‘s ultimately surprisingly gracious. She gives her the option to surrender – and this is not a lie, she discusses this with Byleth in a lecture question, and seriously ponders the possibility. Here Byleth gets a range of options like „stab her in the back“ and „keep the church under imperial control“ but you know which one nets you the support points? „Strip her of her authority so she can‘t interfere in politics“. She wasn‘t gonna mess with the religious folks & their religion at all, just make it so it‘s separate from government. Rhea could even keep being pope, if she could be satisfied without having complete supreme authority (and ripping her precious artifact out of Byleth‘s chest) – even when she puts her down she‘s not 100% without pity, telling her that „Your duty is done“ (the translators mucked this up)

Couldn‘t be any further from „lets kill them all on principle“.

What really annoys me is how ppl go and twist everything Edelgard says out of context to ascribe a motive to her that just isn’t there.

Common examples:

„If you have Flayn or Seteth fight her she‘ll say they need to die because they‘re nabateans“

Actually what she says is this: „You are a child of the godess. You must not have power over the people!“ Not getting to be privileges rulers anymore =/= being opressed. Stay out of politics =/= Diediedie. Also, this is from the VW/SS boss fight, where they have literally come to get her in her own capital.

„Linhard & Leonie don‘t tell her & hubert about Indech, probably cause he expects that she‘ll go & kill him„

What he actually says is: „Lake Teutates is a place that concerns the saints of the Church of Seiros. It may become bothersome should the two of them find out...“

„It may be bothersome“ as in, „we might get in trouble“, for doing the possibly very inadvisable thing of waltzing into what could possibly be an enemy location to satisfy personal curiosity. If it‘s something related to her agenda she might take over and Linny wouldn‘t get to investigate as he pleases – at very most you might construe it as Linny fearing that they‘ll be accused of consorting with the enemy, but „bothersome“ suggest possible annoyance not imminent murder.

The whole scene ends with Linhard telling Byleth to fill her in later. Doesn‘t sound at all like he expects her to go back with a harpoon.

„She said Claude isn‘t fit to be a ruler cause he‘s a foreigner“

What she actually says: „I understand your ideals are not so far removed from my own. But without knowledge of Fodlan‘s history, I cannot entrust its rule to you“

Now without the additional contexts that Claude won‘t get until after the fight, it might easily feel a bit like the former with the raw spots he‘d have from his backstory, but what she means is that he‘s ignorant of the Agarthan threat – which he is. Edelgard is all for making peace with Almyra and sees fostering isolationism & prejudice as one of the many faults of the church.

Once Claude basically kills Edelgard for information, he winds up having to take care of the storm she had been holding back. But to his credit, he DID „finish the job“ and get the info. But he didn‘t have it at that point.

And I don‘t mean any of this in the least bit as a diss of Claude - He is the smartest character, so there would be no plot if he got easy access to the info. At this point, they both think they can probably do better, and more importantly, both their backstories have made them so that they won‘t let down their guard far enough to cooperate in this scenario.

That‘s also why the outcome in CF is contingent on Byleth‘s choice. - You‘d sort of have to trust that he will also act so as to minimize casualties.

Very disingenious since many players wouldn‘t necessarily trigger these dialogues.

I guess because Adrestia got a vaguely central-european aesthetic (partially; all the countries are hodgepodge mashups and there’s more than enough spanish or ancient roman vibes there) and central europe existed only for those 12 years of tyranny I guess, even though many other places have had similar BS happening, including the US that delights in making craptons of movies about their faraway victory because their governments haven’t added much of value to the planet as of late. -.-

Faerghus (vaguely french/ russian - not at all places where nothing bad happened ever) has actually annexed some territory from their northern neighbors in the recent past, not to speak of the whole Duscur atrocity - but no one seems to go around laying that at Dimitri’s feet, because it would be nonsensical - he was a child at the time and as an individual he is super against it and champions a policy of reconcilliation if he gets to rule. after all, there wouldn’t be much of a plot if the characters inherited three perfect faultless problem free countries.

Edelgard, too, is completely against the previous administration under Duke Aegir (which was in charge during the Bridgid war). She deposed him and is plotting to do the same with Arundel once she can politically afford to do so. For all that one can understand why she would chose the other path (depending on how much she knows about what Edelgard’s doing and why) it makes all the sense in the world for Petra to support her on CF or if not recruited, because again, she got rid of that previous administration.

#edelgard #edelgard von hresvelg #fe3h #fire emblem: three houses #fire emblem three houses

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werezmastarbucks · 4 years

Text

more like honeymoon [3]

previous part

word count: 2279

warnings: idk why I keep making Damon the butt of the joke

music: in the text

SMITHEREENS by twenty one pilots segment

You were exhausted beyond belief as you sped down the road. Soon, there’s a very familiar turn that leads towards the Salvatore mansion. And from there, the exit into the normal, moving world. You couldn’t believe you’d see them again. Even Damon, whose guts you came to hate over time, even before he threw you into prison. That’s what isolation does to a person. That’s what the illusion of freedom does to a human. Prison was prison after all.

You nearly crashed into the tree that stood lonely on the turn, the landmark Salvatore oak. It would’ve killed you, and that was unnecessary now.

There were three shadows on the lawn as you left the car. It was almost midnight. You limped across the yard, feeling ribs poke your lungs. Kai must have cracked at least one from how hard he punched back. He never held back, in anything, and for that, you respected him. Because he respected you enough to inflict real pain, like you were equal. Although you clearly weren’t.

Elena didn’t stand the tension and ran towards you, got you in her arms, and you suffocated on her Elena smell. The smell of home. You couldn’t believe you were going back now. Damon was the same. Why wouldn’t he be? Dark and ironic, a little concerned, he evaluated you with his careful glance.

“How did you get away from him?”

“I killed the motherfucker”, you grumbled. The wounds were fresh, both physical and mental. Realizing that you’ve technically been his prisoner all this time... That is something yet to digest. Here you had the honors to finally be the last of Kai’s archtypes: the victim. You had been a lover, a friend and an ally already. Like an invisible hand was dealing Tarot cards, now you had to get a mouthful of bitterness. You brushed it aside.

“So I had some time ahead”.

“How have you been?” Elena asked, without letting go of you. You eyed the third silhouette, almost blending in with the night darkness. The witch, to do the spell. It was somebody you didn’t know: a tall, dark guy, a little menacing. Who knows what changed in nine months.

“Does he know where you went?” Damon asked.

“Of course he does. But he’s there, and I’m here. Can I go sleep now? We have to do it tomorrow, or he’s going to catch up with us”.

Damon narrowed one eye. The prick didn’t trust you. Perhaps the memories of you opposing him were too fresh.

“You sure you’re ready to leave your boyfriend here?” he asked. Elena shot him a warning glance.

You lifted your shirt, wincing painfully, to show the blue bruising on your ribs. You could swear it was the shape of Kai’s loving kiss.

In the house, you were turning your head right and left as if something could change here. Virtually everything was the same, except three (!) new people inside. The witch boy was quiet. He looked like he was cautious, and you thought, he should be, in case Kai catches him.

Elena brought you a cup of coffee. You noticed a hip of winter coats in the corner of the room, piled up on the couch. The fireplace was blazing as if it was cold outside, too.

“What month is it?” you asked, dizzy with exhaustion and pain.

“It’s Christmas”, Elena said.

“Are you going to be okay? Do you need... blood?”

“I’ll be fine at midnight. The day starts again, and my body is the same as when I first came here... well, you know”.

You looked at Damon, tried to picture him here, when he was stuck here with Bonnie and Kai. He must have been going crazy in this cage with two people he found hard to tolerate. His eyes were flickering thoughtfully with the flames from the fireplace.

“Hey”, you looked at the witch guy. You realized you didn’t know his name. You reached out to him, and he accepted your hand.

“I’m Frank”, he said gloomily. Elena looked at her wristwatch.

“Oh”.

“What?”

“That’s a funny name for a witch”, you said, “all the witches I know have extra names”.

Frank shrugged like it was a punch at him.

“Frank, I’m scared Kai will come. He knows I’m going back, and he doesn’t want to let me go”.

“Yeah, what are we going to do if he comes?” Elena asked, fear in her eyes. She really was afraid of Kai. That still impressed you. You still felt like a child, amazed at something. He scared somebody like this. So that they look out the window, small shivers on the back of their necks, their eyes darting from side to side. He creeped someone out so hard their lips went dry as they sucked the air in, listening hard, listening for his steps approaching. Your Kai.

“Don’t worry, I’ll put a signal spell. It will shield the territory around the house. If someone approaches - anybody at all - we’ll know”.

The three of you looked at Frank. He looked grave, like he was taking this whole thing too seriously. You wondered how long he’s been in this Mystic Falls mess. How little he meant for the rest of them that they decided he’d be fit to go here and face you and Kai Parker.

You blinked tiredly.

“I’m blacking out. I need some sleep”, you muttered. Coffee did not energize you; quite the opposite. The soft warm liquid made you want to sleep badly. Your mortal yesterday’s body was almost collapsing.

Elena helped you come upstairs into Stefan’s room, and you nested on his bed.

This whole rapid trip over the whole country almost got you dead. It was crazy. In the morning, you were back in Hawaii, in your spacious, beautiful house on the North Shore of Oahu, and now you were back here on the edge of Virginia, trying to fight your way back into the usual world where living and traveling cost, where there were rules and people ready to stop you when you get too carried away with having fun... You wondered what you loved so much about that outer world, and it was your last thought before you fell asleep.

In the morning, everybody looked much better and more relaxed. You stretched your back, hearing the bones crack healthily, and the only pain you felt from yesterday was ghostly. It would pass soon, just like hurt from being deceived by the person you loved the most in the world. Once you get out...

The time of eclipse was coming. You felt weird, hollow as you sat at the breakfast table, and thought of all the breakfasts Kai made you. He was so inventive. Nine months is thirty days nine times. Not once you had the same breakfast. He had all the ways to cook food in his head, and it horrified you. He had spent so much time alone he has learnt literally everything one can learn. It was wrong.

You packed your bag and brought it downstairs. Damon eyed it judgingly. You reckoned he was being so cold because he felt extremely guilty. You could bet your own life that the moment they did the spell he was sorry about being harsh. He wished he could get you back. Inside, Damon was soft, but outside, he had this thick, hard skin that was almost like scar tissue.

“What’s this?”

“These are my things”.

Damon’s eyes narrowed, and he was about to say something sarcastic, but Frank rushed in between you, pushing you away and out of the house.

“We gotta go”, he said shortly. And nodded at the bag.

“Damon, you’ll get it? Let’s go”.

Elena was carrying the coats in her hands as disgruntled Damon walked side by side with her with your bag.

“The witch boy is getting too bold”, he thought out loud.

“I just want to get away from here before this guy comes here and kills us all”, Frank replied without changing the pace. He was walking through the forest, leading the way.

“We won’t get out of here before eclipse either way”, you reminded him.

“Uh-huh”.

“Is it cold there?” you asked Elena. She shook her head to throw the hair away from her face.

“This winter is very cold. Just like when we were little kids”.

You could feel excitement rise in you. Christmas. Snow. Changing days. It was good before, and was about to get even better. You almost shone from the inside.

The witch observed the forest. He was very quiet. You looked through the trees too, bringing the last look on this strange world that became not what it was supposed to be to you.

You descended into the well of the cave, Damon threw your bag on the ground right into the circle of the sun.

“What’s inside anyway?”

“Clothes”.

“Clothes?” he repeated, apalled.

“Listen, there’s things you can’t get back in 2010s. Rare things. And expensive jewelry, okay? I got diamonds there, Damon, I’m not throwing them away”.

Damon was silent for some time. He was trying to figure out, inside his brain, what life has been like for you, for the last nine months. He would never guess right, even though he must have been pretty close.

Everybody looked up at the sky and the dark ring coming to consume the sun. Palpable nervousness filled the air. You stepped towards each other. Elena pursed her lips like she was pondering something.

“Isn’t it bad we’re leaving him again?” she asked.

They all looked at you like you could give them a prognosis on Kai.

“Fuck that guy”, you said gloomily. Frank shook his hands like a surgeon before the operation. Damon was eyeing you with dark satisfaction.

“He wasn’t what you expected?”

You kept silent.

“Did he hurt you?”

You thought of all the times Kai accidentally slapped you on the head while he was cooking. His damn hands always flying all over the kitchen. After being slapped around like a junior dish girl, you learnt to stay away when he’s busy with the pans and plates. The only thing you did was chopping.

“A lot”, you replied.

Elena squeezed your hand.

“Isn’t he going to be much worse once he gets out?” Frank asked suddenly, “If you said he was that mad before... now that we’re taking away Y/N and leaving him behind. And if he has the spell and the ascendant, that means he’s going to get out on his own, and he’ll be vengeful”.

His words echoed in the cave like hammer.

“Bonnie’s destroying this world as soon as we get out”, Damon said. Your head snapped to him.

“What?”

“He won’t have time to get out. He’ll need to wait until tomorrow, and by that time, this prison world will be gone. And Parker will be gone, too”.

There wasn’t much more time for talking; the eclipse was almost full. You took the witch’s elbow as he chanted and lifted the new ascendant, letting it levitate. Elena held your hand on the other side. As Frank’s hand got free, he took your palm and squeezed it, too, and you finally realized you’re going home.

The white light shone upon you, carrying you and your bag away.

The forest was white, too. Your ankles slowly got cold and, as you looked down, you saw snow. It was closing to evening in the woods in Mystic Falls, and the light was slowly draining from the sky. From the first look it seemed like the real universe wasn’t as brilliant as the magical prison world.

You couldn’t believe you made it. You sighed to see the foggy air leaving your mouth. And saw Damon and Elena’s mutilated smiles turning into gaping mouths of anguish. The traveling spell wore out almost all magic from Kai, and he turned back into his usual self, dropping Frank skin. In the last blast of remaining magic, he threw his hand forward and sent the vampires away. The leaped through the air, Damon further and higher than Elena. She must have bought him the last second when she regretted leaving Kai behind. You told yourself once again, he was changing. There was a twisted type of rationality in him now. You stood on one leg as the cold snow pierced your feet through your Converse sneakers.

Damon was impaled on the thick outstanding branch on a tree, groaing in pain. Elena was thrown against another tree, twisting in the air, and collided with the shaft with her back, breaking her spine in half. They didn’t manage to utter a word.

Damon was now hanging there, cursing like a sailor he might have been once, many years ago.

“Cold?” Kai asked. You shrugged.

“Should’ve gotten some warm shoes, too”.

“Ah, you weakling. It’s just snow!”

“I’m just going to get sick, Kai”.

He looked at you and smiled. You knew everything would go well, and you were still happy to see him, like it was a crazy stunt he was supposed to pull. Although you knew that by the time you went to bed last night Frank had already been dead.

“Hop on”, he gave up, picking up your bag. You pushed on his shoulders and jumped on his back, clutching his sides with your knees. You pressed your face to the back of his head for a second. Soft, slightly curly hair. Your Kai.

The last things Damon heard from the tree were,

“Let’s nick his car”.

“No”.

“Why not?!”

“Because we’re not scoundrels, Kai! It’s not the magical world anymore, you can’t steal people’s cars!”

“Oh my god...”

#kai parker #kai parker imagine #kai parker x reader #damon salvatore #tvd imagine #vampire diaries imagine

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promethes · 4 years

Text

Grief is as human an emotion as joy or melancholy. To live is to grieve and be grieved. If other emotions are ponds, grief is the Mariana trench. More “common” everyday emotions (happiness, sadness, excitement) can be expressed in a myriad of slightly differing ways. With one word, we can distinguish not only an emotion but specify how that emotion is felt. The umbrella of “happy” covers everything from pure joy to cheerfulness to contentment. “Sadness” can come in forms of melancholy or sorrow. Grief, on the other hand, is such an all-encompassing experience that it can’t be boiled down into a single simple word. While that may work to describe other feelings, no one word will ever be able to come close to describing grief. No matter what, any word used will fall short of capturing the profound feelings of loss humans can experience. Grief is immeasurable and indescribable which is why it is such a powerfully poetic experience.

Just like there is no one way to experience grief, there is no one way to write a poem. Poetry has no limits or qualifications. Ten-page ballads can be just as poetic as single word expressions. As long as it has a root in something innately human, almost anything can be described as a poem. The humanity of it is what sets poetry apart from prose, which is why such a deeply human experience like grief is poetic.

Perhaps one of the best examples of the duality of grief is Yusef Komunyakaa’s “The Towers”. Though the poem is explicitly addressed to his deceased son in the first line, most Americans who read it can relate to the hopelessness conveyed in the poem. Komunyakaa’s focus is on the death of his son which was a deeply personal occurrence. No person on this planet felt his son’s death the same way he did. However, he framed his son’s death with an event so widely felt that it’s still remembered every year almost two decades later. 9/11 is so ingrained into American culture that even people who were months old when the tragedy occurred still feel the residual grief from the massive amount of deaths incurred. We can see that Komunyakaa made a deliberate choice to frame the poem this way since his son didn’t die during 9/11. If he was confined to using prose to describe his son’s death, Komunyakaa wouldn’t have been able to tap into the grief of an entire nation to compare to the grief he felt like the father of a dead child. By moving away from the literal emotional pain of losing his child and using the more abstract pain felt from a national tragedy he made his pain clearer to a wider audience. Not everyone has experienced the loss of a child, but we all feel the effects of 9/11.

Using poetry to convey his grief was a perfect choice for the audience to truly understand what he was going through. It was also a good choice for Komunyakaa himself. By tapping into his emotions and putting them into words, he must have relieved some of his grief and come closer to closure. By the end of the poem, it seems as if Komunyakaa is finally letting go of his son when he writes “No, I’m not Daedalus, but I’ve walked miles in a circle, questioning your wings of beeswax & crepe singed beyond belief.” He acknowledges that he is still mourning, comparing it to walking miles but ending up in the same place again and again because he is stuck in the cycle of grief. His use of past tense (“I’ve”) shows that he’s since stepped out of the circle, perhaps because he’s finally found the answer to his son’s singed wings of beeswax and crepe. Like Daedalus, Komunyakaa, too, had to work through his grief to keep flying. He lost his son so early that he used the poem to breathe life into him one last time. For Komunyakaa to get closure, he’d at least need to see his son thrive in some way before the child was finally laid to rest in his father’s mind. He gave his son “wings… agile & unabashedly decorous,” literally letting his son soar and thrive in poetry the way he wasn’t able to do in life before his wings turn to “beeswax & crepe singed beyond belief” and his life ends.

Poetry is so profound that even just a couple of lines detailing a simple step by step routine can be turned into a deep look into severed relationships. Robert Hayden’s “Those Winter Sundays” is really about just that: his speaker’s routine on Sunday mornings during the winter. It could be read as prose, but that would be doing an injustice to the work. Yes, the basis of the poem is the literal things he and his family would do, but the spacing of the lines combines with the tone of his poem to create the scene of an emotionally strained family. In a way, Hayden’s speaker uses the poem to mourn his relationship with his father. Though he is not literally dead, his son still grieves his father’s life, one that has been spent on labor so grueling that his “cracked hands… ached”. We know that the speaker is talking about the past, and he acknowledges that he did not have a close relationship with his father. Instead, he’d speak “indifferently to him,/ who had driven out the cold/ and polished [his] good shoes as well.” Though at the time the speaker did not mourn his father and their relationship (which we can ascertain from his indifference towards his father), we can see that he feels that he should have been mourning the relationship at the time, maybe just so he could appreciate it while he had it. Obviously, he did not understand the father who would wake so much earlier than his son simply to warm the room and polish shoes. At that time in the past, the speaker couldn’t comprehend that that was the way his father showed his love. Later in his life, he finally understands, but perhaps too late. He ends his poem by saying“What did I know, what did I know/ of love’s austere and lonely offices?” implying that he never was able to understand his father’s displays of affection in time to return the feelings. Though we don’t know that his father is dead, we can glean that he is no longer in contact with him. With the short, blunt sentences Hayden uses, he casts a bitter tone over his wasted relationship with his father. The way he ends the first stanza sets the tone for the entire poem: “No one ever thanked him”, “him” being the speaker’s father. All of these factors come together to show a man grieving not only his separation from his father but the life his father lived with a son who spoke with him coldly and didn’t consider the sacrifices that he made for him. The son mourns the relationship that could have been if only he had seen how much his father cared for him earlier. This poem is a perfect example of how poetry can be used to work through several kinds of grief, including grieving what could have been: a healthy relationship with one’s son, a life spent on the kind of love that inspires community rather than isolation, or maybe even simply a life that consists of more than hard labor and waking up early on your days off for an unappreciative son.

Poetry can even be used to grieve one’s own self. The previous two poems mentioned both showed the grieving of those who have passed away and the more abstract relationships that could have come to be. Mark Strand’s “Keeping Things Whole” is much more poetry-like than “The Towers” and “Those Winter Sundays”. The first two detailed things that actually happened and arranged them into a way where they were more poetry than prose. If a few of their words were moved around and rephrased, their poems could possibly lose the strangeness that makes them poetry and become simple prose that doesn’t come close to conveying the emotions they convey in their poetic forms. “Keeping Things Whole” is pure poetry. If there was a physical scale of the literary versus the literal, his poem would drop the literary side faster than a brick. Every poem has some sort of “strangeness”, and when it comes to this one, that “strangeness” is basically the entire poem.

“In a field

I am the absence

of field”

can’t be twisted into something that actually happens. The fact that it is untouched by the literal makes the poem so purely melancholy that it inspires weeping in some readers (including, as you know, the author of this paper). When I try to think of the thoughts that would inspire poetry like this, I picture someone who feels grief so deep that no real-world comparison will do. Though it’s never explicitly stated, Strand perfectly conveys the emotions of someone grieving themself. Technically none of it makes sense, but the second one starts thinking poetically, the lines scream that the poet feels like he is someone who is fundamentally missing. He grieves himself, and the fact that he cannot seem to find himself, and “This is/ always the case”. The final stanza is especially raw and wrought with emotion:

We all have reasons

for moving.

I move

to keep things whole.

Not only does he convey the grief that he feels, but he also makes the reader grieve him. The image of someone who feels so empty that they see themselves as what is missing is so profoundly sad that I can’t come up with words that do it justice. The reader’s mourn along with Strand for the selfless person who never lets themselves stay in one place too long and find himself for fear of being “what is missing”. Someone who keeps moving to allow the air “to fill the spaces/ where [his] body’s been” is so self-sacrificing that they would rather never find themself to keep the world whole for others rather than cure his sense of self-loss. The way that he mourns himself paints the picture of someone who could be so valuable to society if only he would allow himself the chance to find a community. It’s hard to stop one’s self from grieving along with Strand for someone who so obviously cares about others but can’t find enough of themselves to know, let alone care for.

Poetry is perhaps the best way to put grief into words. For Yusef Kamanyakaa, he was able to change his son’s death from a “sad” event to something that inspired the image of “throbbing searchlights”, conveying a hopeless tone that the literal words with the same tone (like “hopeless”) would never be able to convey the same level of loss he was experiencing. He was able to not only work through the literal grief for his son but also to put it into words. Hayden grieved his relationship with his father and Strand his relationship with himself, both leaning into the poetic to fully convey the depth of their grief. No amount of technical language would ever be able to come close to even a single line of poetry describing profound emotions, especially grief. To mourn is to tap into humanity, and to write poetry is to let that tap run.

#jfc this is actually so bad i wrote it day of #but the idea behind it was spicy #written one yr ago #og #emptying notes #essays #long post

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cassianus · 3 years

Text

Yes, here I was speaking of the Eucharist, the gift of My abiding presence to My Bride, the Church, and this until the end of time. Not one soul who belongs to Me is left friendless in this world so long as the Church continues to do what I commanded on the night before I suffered, in memory of Me. The Most Holy Eucharist is not only My Sacrifice offered to the Father, although in a bloodless manner; it is not only the sustenance of souls, nourishing them with My very Body and Blood; it is also the Sacrament of My divine friendship, the pledge of My burning desire to remain close to all who seek Me, to all who need Me, to all who would spend time in My company.

This is why it so grieves Me that churches are locked and that I am left for days on end alone in the tabernacle. I would draw souls to My open Heart, I would have them experience what it is to abide in the radiance of My Eucharistic Face, I would give Myself in intimate friendship to souls drawn to Me in the Sacrament of My love, but you priests, shepherds of souls, have forgotten that keeping open your churches is integral to your sacred ministry. I would pasture souls in My Eucharistic presence, but you, by continuing to close My churches to souls, frustrate and contradict the desires of My Eucharistic Heart. There is sorrow in heaven over this. It is not difficult to keep My churches open and to provide for the spiritual needs of those who would readily enter them in search of My friendship. The obstacles are not those of which you think; the obstacle is a lack of faith, a loss of belief in My real presence. My priests will be held responsible for the coldness and isolation that has come to surround Me in the Sacrament of My love. How I desire to see My churches open! Open the doors of My consecrated houses and trust Me to fill them with adorers in spirit and in truth!

Come to Me in the Sacrament of My love and I will fill you with the sweetness of My friendship. Know that there is no companionship on earth that can be compared with Mine. For this too did I institute the Sacrament and Sacrifice of My Body and Blood: so that souls might find Me present in My churches and, by remaining in My presence, learn from Me all that I have heard from My Father. For this reason do I call you friends. You are My friends because, from the tabernacle where I am present, and from the monstrance that exposes Me to your gaze, I will share with you the secrets of My Heart.

I am your Priest. I am your Victim, the Lamb offered in sacrifice for the sins of the world. I am your food and drink in this Sacrament of My love, but I am also your companion. The Eucharist is the Sacrament of My divine friendship. I desire that My priests should be the first to experience this for themselves. Let them come to Me and keep watch before My Eucharistic Face, close to My open Heart; then they will understand how grave an offense it is to lock My churches, placing a distance between Me and My people, those in whose midst I have chosen to dwell. I want the visit to the Blessed Sacrament to become once again a part of ordinary Catholic life, an instinct of the believing heart, an expression of gratitude and reparation to Me who am forsaken and spurned in so many places. Let My priests set the example and the faithful will follow it. Do not the sheep follow the shepherd? Where are the green pastures prophesied by the psalmist king, if not in My Eucharistic presence?

I want My priests to learn to rest in My presence. There I promise to refresh them in a way that no entertainment, no diversion, no other means can do. Let them come to Me when they are weary and lonely. I will be their rest and their dearest companion. They will leave My Eucharistic presence restored and with their joy renewed. This I promise.

I want My priests actively to encourage souls to seek Me out in the Sacrament of My love and to spend time close to My Eucharistic Heart. Nothing will bring this about more effectively than the example of My priests. There are priests who go into My church only when they have a function to perform there. The hearts of these have already grown cold and I am grieved by their indifference towards My abiding presence, often very close to them. Priests must begin to frequent their churches, not only at the hours of divine service, but at other times during the day and even during the hours of the night. Thus will they begin to allow Me to restore My priests to a shining holiness. Let them begin, one or two, here and there. The great fire will begin with these few sparks and will spread until the whole Church is set ablaze with the Eucharistic holiness of My friends, My priests.

If there are so few priests in certain places, it is above all because those that are there have forsaken Me in the Sacrament of My love and no longer live in My friendship. Let every priest present himself as a friend of Jesus, and his ministry will soon take on the efficacy and fruitfulness that characterized that of Saint John, of Saint Paul, and of My first apostles. The friend speaks with the authority that only experience can confer.

To you I say that I am pleased with these days marked by adoration. I am touching souls and pouring forth blessings here. I will reward all who have come here seeking to remain in My presence and offering Me the adoration that I desire. And you, your place is to adore Me. Your place is and will be that of Saint John, My beloved disciple and the cherished adoptive son of My Immaculate Mother. Trust in My love for you. Remain close to Me. Obey what I ask of you. And I will do wonders of mercy in your soul and in the souls of those who will be touched by your priesthood.

~ In Sinu Jesu

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ckcker · 4 years

Text

I Walk in Madness

Nobody has or can have all the information, but they have the requisite amount of information and agony in combination to believe they accurately see the entire thing. I don’t and can never have all the information, but still I must have an opinion that seems binding or confident. The information I selected and pressed into an opinion is now my special soul, and defines me. It must be released and time-stamped to show that at one point, I made this all-encompassing definition, which is a summary of my self and the window of all my beliefs hereafter. Elevate yourself to say, “I no longer wonder.”

I have made myself publicly available; all that the community asks of you is that you participate. To not participate is to disrespect those who put all of their time, effort and mental filaments into the ideal of community. Such a reclusive impulse should be modified swiftly but in the most holistic way if possible, it is not helpful for others. It is not helpful for you. It is, at heart, cowardly, as it turns away in fear from the difficulties involved in building a resilient, healthy and just community. It courts isolation as a comfort, when in fact voluntary isolation is the fortification of unhealthy habits and delusional or paranoid thought processes which precariously redirect the lost person away from the tough but rewarding civic duties necessary to building a fact-driven social network. If I am lonely at night, the solution is to participate. Though I walk in madness, I end up at the voting booth. A discussion takes place in which everyone pretends to know how recycling works; one inches towards integration. Recipes are shared, and an evening passes with an attempt to perfect avocado gazpacho.

I love traditional open-toed sandals. Making the body more vulnerable to the elements of the outside world shows a general dissipating apprehension. Though current events inevitably fade in relevance and thus sustained public attention, their emotional immediacy and rousing thrust are exceptionally good at forcing the under-opinionated to participate and commune with others. Opinions always coalesce under the pressure of current events, and since current events are established and projected much more widely and much more often in this era, it follows that one should have more opinions, and participate more. Of all the methods I’ve tried, the most effective and least artificial toner I’ve used is two tablespoons of rose water mixed with 1 cup of filtered water. The rose water I use is a brand from Lebanon and you can probably find it in a local middle eastern grocery store. Having a very public life no longer makes me uneasy!

I published the post and I was feeling satisfied, though very likely no other person would see it. My only patron appeared to be a woman in her early 40s with hard bangs and a diamond choker smiling in her icon’s bubble, with arm around a presumed husband and the suggestive text “Be Kind” pegged in lower left corner in hot pink with white outline. Miscellaneous background details in the icon, particularly a hanging silver streamer, communicated that at the time of the photo this woman had been at a New Years party. Her silent interpretation of my persistently scarce content was eager musing territory for me when her icon focused my attention in the midst of a wild scroll, or when her face and militarized endorsement of kindness intruded with the elegance of a twirling maple samara upon my mind during a bout of fear-walking. She made no effort to contact me, had no posts of her own or even personalized layout style, and yet she hypothetically watched me. Of course it was pointless on her end — my posts were designed solely for the tactical misdirection of algorithmic spectres, conceived and published only in order to convince those supra-wiggly archivists of instinct that I was overwhelmingly a different person. I did not want even the smallest gleak of truth to land online. This “lost mind” plan even extended to my video watching and digital window shopping maneuvers, though in the case of the former it was impossible to totally restrain myself from a true curiosity and craving to pursue certain videos. This lack of impulse control expanded even more robustly when porn entered an afternoon; it was insurmountable to search and watch against the specific desires and images I knew would satisfy me the most. Yet I tried in rapid toe dips, once spending eleven minutes on a video of a nude bodybuilder shot-putting a collection of corns and lettuces into a wall, and with no o-face to conjure.

“I walk in madness” was both my unorthodox phrase of meditation and most important sentence of self-parody. When walking around at night in a certain state, I would now and then repeat to myself, “I walk in madness.” After this I would laugh and say, “that’s dramatic.” Self-parody swooped in to dehydrate the potential mirages, delusions. But no other summary was as accurate — literally I walked in madness. From the habits of my mind, a complex system had emerged and, quite simply, enveloped my unhinged ass. I had strobe-nurtured my preferences for “the best way to think” over the last several years, so that now I was only sufficiently energized when mentally combining (1), an act of making fun of myself for feeling out of sorts, with (2), an earnest attempt at my own healing. This perverse combo made me feel very aware but rarely good. And when these thought commands then marinated in the head to a fully abusive gush, there was one more thing to consider. What was the source of that powerful sensation that took me over when I went walking alone and without a plan at night? What was it in the body that prodded me along that highly nummy snack trail of mini-catharses? What was the source of those tiny pecks of transcendence that scattered down the back of the neck when nearing the production of an abyss? That is, I did not only walk in madness because I had to, but also because it had become fun. It raveled me on a line leading to some other connection, a connection which was not to The World. It promised recognition of and commune with everything that did not matter or had not ever been confirmed to exist.

These areas were very important to pay attention to — I had ignored them for the majority of my, to be acutely real, goofiest years, it was important to know everything that was possible. This was my routine. I walked with glamour in circular patterns around less populated city neighborhoods at night, always listening to music that accentuated a spike in insane flavoring. I only chose music that had the strength to combine halo and blurred hole, it was always music that floored my sensation to its final speed. I knew I was so lucky to have built-in machinery that let me expand all of my reserves through music. It was my only advantage. It made me proud to turn inward. If my skill was extreme sensitivity, it could only flourish in its most insular and native format.

But I desperately needed new songs to fill me up, and over-listened as a resting state. I over-listened, and a night out, i.e. the sustained advancement of nightlife over several hours, was an exhausting condition for me. In a bar, I was penetrated by the old song I had heard over two thousand times before, but which now had been remixed in a contemporary style wherein synth stabs commanded by creatine hands had replaced what was once very clean, antiquated AOR guitar strumming. The popular song I had highly ignored for the length of my life, and which hearing did not provoke outrage (or even flashback to wedding dance floor) but instead perpetual indifference in me, had been updated using the most cutting edge technology to produce aural depths not possible with the recording equipment available when the song was originally produced, and which now plunged the emotions much further down and much harder. The original voice was now placed in a melancholy minefield of hysterically deep bass and plummeting, omnidirectional dynamics and, when the remix passed through the tequila that I was allowing to patrol my body, it replicated itself with viral menace to produce in me the extraterrestrial threat of a single tear.

In this instance of a night out, Rob had invited me to this bar and party that I had never been to before. Where I had expected to see more of his friends or even the endless hallway of acquaintances he seemed to be able to mobilize at random, instead I only saw Gail, revealing the conditions were such that Gail and I were the only people Rob had invited to the event. There I stood under the song, almost leaking with melody-induced sentimentality or globular nostalgia mucus. I looked across at Gail who was leaning on a wall, who did not seem to be able to observe me after our initial greeting when I arrived at the bar. She appeared to not take in much information when moved from location to location, and when looking in her eyes I did not ever get the sensation that enormous perspectival changes were part of her social rhythm. A common conclusion from a young person would be that she was fried, but whether as a condition of drugs/alcohol/trauma or some combo, there had not been any stories shared on which to focus a rock hard drama-horny eye. Though I yearned to know what details flanked the long road leading to her hellscape, I realized it was unjust since I wasn’t prepared to present the full set of demonic coordinates that had led to mine. How can one appeal with another story of lost sleep? “Awake all night” is not the story anyway, yes we know, please make your complaining entertaining. I was in the heart of the club, I understood it was not the moment to emerge brumal vapors in the form of uninteresting plot points excerpted from my very personal checklist of booboos. “Oops,” the convicted serial killer said when the public did not like the realistic paintings he made of his victims while in jail. Gurn: it was possible for the public to see horrifying paintings made by a serial killer.

Several screens around the bar played the same music video, which the dance floor area magnified via projection on the wall, so that, in the most emotional part of the bar, emotion was keyed up considerably by the illusion of entering the world suggested by the song. Rob and the bartender were near cheek-to-cheek, taking turns cocking their heads to the side so the voice of the other could enter the ear successfully over the newest Chicago house-derived, 80s-synthpop-infused rap song scorching the lair. Gail stayed against the wall, looking around but appearing totally comfortable, a woman in her 60s drinking a High Life surrounded by a different generation, I was moved. Being young is incredibly dangerous. The bartender poured Rob and himself shots and they downed them together.

Snippets of Gail’s circumstances had reached me, I knew she had been living with her son in Texas but now was essentially homeless, that Rob and Q.C. had met her at a goth club where she was hanging out with a much younger woman named Lillian. Lillian would often be run into at the goth club or other clubs and bars, flirting with Rob and Q.C., and though she was definitely younger than Gail, she wore enough makeup to sufficiently alter minds and, with the support of moody bar lighting that left certain preferred corners in medium darkness, had an age that was unrecognizable. “My instinct tells me she’s at least 35,” Rob had suggested after explaining to me the situation and after a long silence in which I didn’t respond or engage at all with what he had just said. The pause had felt uncomfortable and also unnatural after such bulbous gossip so he apparently felt it important to break the silence with this one more detail of her estimated age. I knew it would make both of us more comfortable if I said something in response to the story of Gail and Lillian but I didn’t, in the end, have anything to say, and so Rob told me he thought Lillian was at least 35, and I responded, “oh.” Lillian and Gail were good friends and Lillian would often bring Gail along to the goth club; Gail did not dress on theme. Eventually Rob learned she lived in her car and he invited her to stay with him for an unspecified amount of time. Inevitably this increased my estimation of Rob’s worldview. When he would decide once again it was time to throw trash from the neighborhood off the 2nd floor apartment balcony — for instance a decommissioned flatscreen or legless American Girl doll — Gail, watching through the open door from the beige velvet couch, would laugh once.

Rob concluded his interaction with the bartender, turned to me and explained the bartender was hot and straight, and when the bartender worked the weekly gay night they held at the bar, he would appropriately enhance his image in honor of the conventional gay male eye — pouring himself into a tight black tank top that demonstrated his tactful chest hair and relevant bicep gains was the respectful thing to do. “I’m going to dance now,” Rob said as a commanding female voice shook the establishment with its first notes.

I wandered over with him but stuck to the doorway that connected the bar area to the dance floor, watching as he threw himself, alone, into the writhing environs, quite clogged with personal freedoms. The mass of dancers sang the chorus of the song all together, the subject matter concerned a protagonist that felt jealous and sad to see their long pined after crush dancing with another girl. In fact the protagonist likely never had a chance with the person who was their crush but had built up a dream narrative in which their idealistic love with this person was nearing possibility. In the midst of such crushing circumstances, the protagonist, now left alone and heartbroken at some event they likely attended simply to engage further with their crush, has decided to dance through their loneliness despite it all, even if it will only enliven them for a moment, and for the length of the song. Rob danced “with” almost anyone he turned his body towards. Some people engaged, dancing back, and others stealthily maneuvered away. At some point it was discernible that he no longer had on shoes or socks. A girl very much liked that, drawing her friend’s attention to the fact, then touching Rob on the arm, saying something inaudible. All three laughed. I stood and watched, occasionally pinged by passing bodies gunning for the most emotional part of the bar. I watched the video on the projection screen. The female vocalist danced specifically, had short pink bowl cut hair, conveyed well-lit and accessible agony. Several bar dancers unmistakably entered a sub-orgasmic flehmen response. My left shoulder reflexively darted front and back — a significant space-grabber had brushed me by on their way to the dance floor. It was eventually revealed to be Gail. I watched her scream “YAHHHHHHHHHH!!!” as she launched herself into the crowd.

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