#nothing has ever spoken to me so deeply and so profoundly in the way that this has | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

curiositymemes · 1 month

Text

STICK SEASON: WE'LL ALL BE HERE FOREVER.

taken from the 2023 album by noah kahan. trigger warnings for mental illness, trauma, medication, references to suicide, and the exquisite agony of life in rural new england. feel free to change wording and pronouns and provide context as necessary. do not add to this list.

northern attitude.

how you been?

you settled down?

you feelin’ right?

you feelin’ proud?

you settle in to routine.

what does it mean?

i’m not how you hoped.

you’re gettin’ lost.

scared to live, scared to die.

you’re feelin’ lost.

stick season.

you must’ve had yourself a change of heart.

now i am stuck between my anger and the blame that i can’t face.

it’s half my fault, but i just like to play the victim.

i’ll dream each night of some version of you that i might not have but i did not lose.

i thought that if i piled something good on all my bad i could cancel out the darkness i inherited from dad.

i miss the way you laugh.

you once called me forever now you still can’t call me back.

that’ll have to do.

my other half was you.

i hope this pain’s just passin’ through, but i doubt it.

all my love.

how have things been?

well, love, now that you mention it.

i’m sayin’ too much, but you know how it gets out here.

now i know your name, but not who you are.

it’s all okay, there ain’t a drop of bad blood.

you got all my love.

if you need me, dear, i’m the same as i was.

what i’d give to have you out of me.

i still recall how the leather in your car feels.

and at the end of it all, i just hope that your scars heal.

i swear i was scared to death.

i smiled stupid the whole way home.

you said, ‘i’ll never let you go.’

she calls me back.

there was heaven in your eyes.

everything’s alright.

look at me and don’t you lie.

don’t you hold your head up high.

for bullshit, i do not have time.

do you lie awake restless?

why am i so obsessive?

this town’s the same as you left it.

the radio is taunting me.

i don’t get much sleep most nights.

i’m seeing you in every dream.

if only i could fall asleep.

i’ll love you when the oceans dry.

i was too afraid of living life in your footsteps.

come over.

it was there when we got here, will be there when we leave.

you won’t have to guess who they’re speakin’ about.

i’m in the process of clearin’ out cobwebs.

i was takin’ the wrong meds; feels good to be sad.

my house is just barely big enough for my family.

my mouth was designed for my foot to fit in it.

i promise you, darlin’.

you won’t ever go back.

i know that it ain’t much.

i know that it ain’t cool.

you don’t have to tell the other kids at school.

someday i’m gonna be somebody people want.

new perspective.

makin’ me nostalgic.

we were kids; but that don’t make this less hard.

if i could fly i doubt i’d even do it.

i’d probably get high and crash or somethin’ stupid.

gave me your word.

i can’t pronounce it.

no thing so sure that i can’t learn to doubt it.

everywhere, everything.

would we survive in a horror movie?

we trust everyone we meet.

we’re littered with scars from our preteens.

i wanna love you ‘til we’re food for the worms to eat.

‘til our fingers decompose, keep my hand in yours.

i know every route in this county.

maybe that ain’t such a bad thing.

i’ll tell you where not to speed.

it’s been a long year.

orange juice.

honey, come over.

it’s yours if you want it.

we’re just glad you could visit.

feels like i’ve been ready for you to come home for so long.

i didn’t think to ask you where you’d gone.

why’d you go?

my heart has changed and my soul has changed.

you just asked me to hold you.

it made you a stranger and it filled you with anger.

my life has changed.

the world has changed.

don’t you find it strange that you just went ahead and carried on?

are we all just pullin’ you down?

strawberry wine.

darling, speak to me.

don’t you say a word.

you thought you were cursed?

i’m in love with every song you’ve ever heard.

if i could lose you, i would.

all the time we used to have.

the things i miss but know are never coming back.

no thing defines a man like love that makes him soft.

growing sideways.

finally found some middle ground.

i said, ‘i’m cured.’

i divvied up my anger into thirty separate parts.

i’m still angry at my parents for what their parents did to them.

it’s a start.

but i ignore things and i move sideways ‘til i forget what i felt in the first place.

i know there are worse ways to stay alive.

everyone’s growing and everyone’s healthy.

if my engine works perfect on empty, i guess i’ll drive.

i forgot my medication, fell into a manic high.

now i’m sufferin’ in style.

why is pain so damn impatient? ain’t like it’s got a place to be.

if all my time was wasted, i don’t mind.

i’ll watch it go.

it’s better to die numb than feel it all.

halloween.

the dawn isn’t here, the sun hasn’t rose.

they got money to make and children back home.

i worry for you, you worry for me.

the bridges have long since been burnt.

i’m leavin’ this town and i’m changin’ my address.

i know that you’ll come if you want.

i’m losin’ myself.

i’m seein’ my life on a screen.

i know that you fear that i’m wicked and weary.

i know that you’re fearin’ the end.

i only tell the truth when i’m sure that i’m lyin’.

homesick.

are you bored yet?

the weather ain’t been bad if you’re into masochistic bullshit.

this place is such great motivation for anyone tryna move the fuck away from hibernation.

time moves so damn slow i swear i feel my organs failing.

i stopped caring ‘bout a month ago, since then it’s been smooth sailing.

i would leave if only i could find a reason.

i got dreams, but i cant make myself believe them.

i’ll spend the rest of my life with what could have been.

i will die in the house that i grew up in.

i’m homesick.

still.

i don’t wanna say goodbye.

it only falls into place when you’re fallin’ to pieces.

you miss something that you can’t place but you can’t deny it.

you can’t stay here.

it’s hard to face and it feels too ugly.

it’s like i’m still here with you.

can i fix what is broken?

the view between villages (extended).

for a minute, the world seems so simple.

i am not scared of death.

i’ve got dreams again.

there is meanin’ on earth.

i feel so far from it.

it’s all washin’ over me.

i’m angry again.

the things that i lost here, the people i knew.

they got me surrounded for a mile or two.

i found a town big enough for anything i want.

i’m not a city girl, by any means.

it still has a lot of meaning to me.

i grew up there.

your needs, my needs.

you ain’t gotta tell me what it means.

i promise to be there this time. alright?

you were a work of art.

that’s the hardest part.

i’m naming the stars in the sky after you.

dial drunk.

i promised to forget you.

i ain’t takin’ any fault.

am i half the man i used to be? i doubt it.

forget about it, whatever.

it’s all the same anyways.

i ain’t proud of all the punches that i’ve thrown.

for the shame of being young, drunk, and alone.

i gave your name as my emergency phone call.

i’d die for you.

from charmin’ to alarmin’ in seconds.

i’ll let the pain metastasize.

i beg you, sir, just let me call.

let’s wait, i swear she’ll call me back.

son, are you a danger to yourself?

fuck that, sir.

son, why do you do this to yourself?

paul revere.

this place had a heartbeat in its day.

nothin’ was the same.

it just ain’t that simple, it never was.

one day i’m gonna cut it clear.

i’m not from around here.

i’ll leave before the road crew’s out.

i’ll turn up the music and i’ll forget.

i’m not ready to let go yet.

i’ll just pretend i didn’t hear.

it’s typical, i fear.

folks just disappear.

if i could leave, i would’ve already left.

no complaints.

i thought i had something and that’s the same as having something.

i get mad at nothing.

i pull no punches, then feel bad for months.

thought i was raised better, tried to fake better.

now the weight of the world ain’t so bad.

i saw the end, it looks just like the middle.

i filled the hole in my head with prescription medication.

who am i to complain?

now the pain’s different. It still exists, it just escapes different.

yes, i’m young and living dreams.

i’m in love with being noticed and afraid of being seen.

call your mom.

oh, you’re spiralin’ again.

don’t you cancel any plans.

stayed on the line with you the entire night ‘til you let it out and let it in.

don’t let this darkness fool you.

i’ll drive all night.

i’ll call your mom.

oh, dear, don’t be discouraged.

i’ve been exactly where you are.

if you could see yourself like this.

you’dve never tried it.

stayed on the line with you the entire night ‘til you told me that you had to go.

throw a punch, fall in love, give yourself a reason.

don’t wanna drive another mile wonderin’ if you’re breathin’.

won’t you stay with me?

you’re gonna go far.

this is good land, or at least it was.

it takes a strong hand and a sound mind.

it makes me smile to know when things get hard, you’ll be far from here.

pack up your car.

put a hand to your heart.

say whatever you feel.

be wherever you are.

we ain’t angry at you, love.

you’re the greatest thing we’ve lost.

the birds will still sing.

we’ll be waiting for you, love.

we’ll all be here forever.

we spent so long just getting by.

that’s the thing about survival; who the hell likes livin’ just to die?

you told me you would make a difference.

it won’t be by your own volition if you step foot outside this town.

it’s all we’ve had for always.

you’re gonna go far.

if you wanna go far, then you gotta go far.

forever.

let’s drive for no reason.

you look fine in the evening.

honey, it’s starting to storm.

used to wish i meant anything to anywhere, to anyone.

i’m glad i get forever to see where you end.

i won’t be alone for the rest of my life.

i’ll meet a girl in the heat of july.

i’ll tell her so she knows.

i’m broke, but i’m real rich in my head.

when i hold her close, i might loosen my grip, but i won’t ever let her go.

50 notes · View notes

disgruntledspacedad · 3 years

Text

The Rules of Engagement (5/5)

part of the The Better Love Series

pairing: Javier Peña x fem reader/ofc (Ears)

summary: (slow-burn, sexual tension, angst, a little bit of h/c in later chapters) He’s a DEA agent. You work for Centra Spike. Peña’s not your boss, exactly, but you’ve been fwb long enough that certain people are starting to think of you as An Item, and that just won’t do.

words: 5.7k

warnings: 18+ - drugs, violence, language, alcohol, smut.

a/n: many many notes at the end. unbeta’d as always.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

MASTERLIST

Javi clicks off the radio as soon as the car starts, and you spend the first half of the ride in silence. For a while, he seems to be focused intently on driving, but you know him well enough to see the wheels turning in his head. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but still, there’s something about that little frown that suggests that his thoughts are far from lunchtime traffic.

It doesn’t bother you - your mind really isn’t on the road, either.

“I can’t figure it out.” You’re startled to find that it’s your voice breaking the silence.

“Can’t figure out what?” Javi takes a deep drag from his cigarette. He’s still not looking at you.

“Who did this, and why.” You swallow past the emotion that wells in your throat, firmly redirecting your thoughts to facts and evidence. “It wasn’t an accident, Peña, I’m ruling that out now. Somebody planted a bomb in Emilio’s store.”

Javi purses his lips tightly.

“And call me crazy, but I can’t help but think that it has something to do with Escobar.” Your voice is rising now as you warm to the argument. “Like, this is his MO, right? Bombing civilian small business, terrorism, chaos…” you trail off, furrowing your brow as you rest your forehead against the cool window. “Just… why here? Why Bogotá?”

Why Emilio?

Javi’s face freezes. He’s quiet for a long time. You watch him warily from the corner of your eye. To the casual observer, he’s all calm stoicism, snuffing his cigarette and reaching both hands to finger the steering wheel. But you know better - you read the subtle stiffness in his shoulders, the carefully shuttered expression, the white knuckle grip that suggests that he’s far more stressed than he’s letting on.

Something wild throbs in your chest and you have a sudden, irrational suspicion that he might know more than he’s saying. The moment stretches, and just as you’re ready to panic, Javi huffs a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know,” he admits in a low voice, and the bubble of uncertainty shatters. “But I’m going to find out.”

There’s something cold in his tone, a controlled, a calculated malice that threatens vengeance, and you rest your forehead against the window, wondering at the profound sense of reassurance you draw from his words.

Out of nowhere, a truck swerves in front of you, and Javi leans hard on the horn, cursing and flipping off the driver out the window as you weave past him.

You can’t help a small smile at that - Javier Peña, taking out his worries on the unassuming drivers of Bogotá.

Again, silence stretches between you.

“I think it’s time you told me about your morning.” Javi’s voice is soft, but still, you know it’s not a request.

“There’s not much to tell,” you confess. Again, not entirely true, but you haven’t even begun to process it all, and the details are overwhelming to contemplate. “I volunteered to stay over at headquarters. They wouldn’t put me in the air two nights in a row, but still, I wanted to know what was happening.”

His lips twitch at this.

“It was quiet. I left around seven, I think. I’m not entirely sure. Figured somebody would call me with news. And then…” You pause, swallowing hard. “I was almost home. At the corner of 70.”

You remember waving to Emilio, the way his eyes had lit up when he’d spotted you, his toothy grin. He’d been so proud, introducing you to that guaro.You blink, bracing yourself against the yawning pit of grief that threatens to open in your chest. Not now. Please.

“Then the store exploded.”

You and Javi draw a deep breath at the same time. The ensuing silence is stifling.

“Then what?” he prompts you gently.

You glance up, noticing that he��s parked the car. Neither of you move.

“I stumbled back,” you continue haltingly. You just want this conversation to be over. “It’s all kind of a blur, from there. It was really weird, like… like being in a time warp, or something.”

He nods grimly, like he understands.

“I decided to go to your place…” you’re nervous, confessing this part to him. As tense as he is, as awkward as things have been, any reference of your previous liaisons feels like stirring hot shit with a stick. “I just, I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You didn’t wait for the police to arrive?”

Desperation and indignation rise in you. “Javi, I’d just witnessed my fucking apartment go up in flames, okay? Excuse me if I didn’t perform to your exacting standards!”

He presses his lips together in a firm line, and oh, fuck. You realize that you’ve just called him by his name again - something you’ve made a point not to do since that horrible morning in the shower.

Ugh.

You drop bonelessly against the passenger seat, all of the fight leaking from you. This fucking day… god, just, fuck this day.

“I’m sorry.” Javi’s voice is so whisper-quiet that it almost doesn’t register.

You take three deep breaths, in and out, in and out, in and out.

“It’s fine,” you say, once you’re grounded again. “But I’m - I’m just done talking, okay?”

“Yeah.” Javi opens his door with a deep sigh. “Okay.”

♠

Javi lets you in, and you go straight for the sofa, settling awkwardly with your hands in your lap.

God, now what? You’re right back where you started - no home, no job to do, and no answers. Exhaustion and helpless resignation swallow you whole, and you sit like that for a long moment, staring into the middle distance and fighting the urge to rest your head in your hands.

After a while - you’re not sure how long - you notice the absolute silence permeating the apartment. Javi hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken. You’d totally forgotten he was there.

You glance up.

He’s draped against the front door with his arms folded defensively across his chest, frowning fiercely at nothing.

“Hey.” You aren’t aware that you’ve moved until you’re standing in front of him.

His eyes flutter shut and he exhales, long and slow, tilting his head back against the door so that he’s facing the ceiling, and okay, now you’re seriously freaked out.

“Javi?”

“I can’t do this anymore,” he whispers.

“Can’t do what?”

He grimaces like the sound of your voice is painful. “Please don’t make me.”

You take a half step closer, alarm bells screaming in your head. You have never, ever heard this man beg, not once in all the time you’ve spent together. “Don’t make you… Javi, what?”

His gaze flicks to yours, and you suck a sharp breath.

Javi looks absolutely wrecked. His eyes are wide and dark, brow furrowed deep, and he’s staring at you with so much longing in his expression that little sparks of electricity go zipping across your skin.

“God, Ears, baby, I was there,” he rasps. He takes one quick little step forward, as if to reach for you. “I went to your place as soon as I heard, as soon as the plane landed…”

You brain skitters to a stop.

Oh, Christ. He hadn’t told you that. You don’t even have time to wonder about it, though, because Javi is still speaking, words pouring out of him as if revisiting the memory has cracked him wide open.

“And it, it was a fucking crater, okay? And nobody had seen you, nobody had heard anything, and they had the fucking - the fucking body bags -” His voice cracks, and he presses his fists to his eyes, as if to hide his face while he gathers himself.

Horror floods you. You’re starting to put it all together now. You’d been so distracted by your own terrible day that you’d not once thought to ask about Javi’s. You imagine him at the bomb site, picking his way through ash and rubble, flashing his badge at firemen and emergency responders, firing off questions, watching them load up body bags…

Oh, fuck.

Javi shakes his head sharply, as if dispersing the memories, and when he looks up, his eyes are red-rimmed and wet. “Querida,” he breathes, pinning you with an expression of open desperation. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Oh.

It takes a lot to scare Javier Peña. You know this. He’s a fearless man. He has to be.

But this morning, Javi had been terrified. You recall his voice over the phone, tense and clipped, the blustered sigh of profound relief, the clattering footsteps as he’d raced up the steps, his eyes, not quick and efficient, but frantic as he’d taken you in, alive and healthy and wearing his clothes.

“I’m right here,” you whisper, unable to articulate just how profoundly you mean that. You’re still reeling from the implications of it all.

“I know,” Javi chokes. He blinks hard, almost like he’s baffled by it. “You’ve been right here the whole time.” He hitches a breath. “And goddammit, baby, I can’t sit here and listen to you say my name without wondering what the hell else I’m losing.”

Reality shifts and realigns in an instant. Fear and disbelief give way to fierce longing, and your voice comes out as a choked whisper. “Come here.”

Javi does, haltingly at first, as if wondering if you really mean it. You fall into his arms, and he pulls you close, reverently, as if you are the most precious thing in the world. He presses his forehead carefully to yours, catching your jawline with his palms and threading his fingers through your hair.

“God, baby,” he rasps. “When I saw you… When I heard your voice…”

“I’m okay,” you remind him, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “I’m okay.”

He sighs deeply, and a bubble of tension you weren’t even aware of bursts at the sound. You melt into him, and he holds you tightly for a long, long time, swaying your bodies gently back and forth, your head tucked against his chest.

You tilt your face to him, pressing your lips to his skin, and he huffs brokenly, his body still wrapped around yours like he’s reluctant to create any space between you. He’s shaking as he takes your face in his hands, pausing just long enough to fix you with a wild-eyed, pleading glance.

“Okay?” he breathes.

“God, yes,” you gasp. “Yes.”

And just like that, Javi’s kissing you like a man without air, awkward and starving, catching the back of your neck with one hand, the other roaming beneath your shirt to stroke at your ribcage.

There’s nothing gentle about it. A month’s worth of desperation has been building in both of you, and now, Javi’s frantically mapping your body with his lips and tongue, peppering little licks and kisses and soft nips down your jaw and neck while you scramble awkwardly for the buttons of his shirt. You struggle to keep your fingers under control as one gigantic hand finds your ass and squeezes. You gasp, inadvertently popping his last button.

Damn, you liked that shirt.

Undeterred, you push it aside, finally free to explore his chest and back and belly for the first time in far too long. Javi’s skin is warm beneath your fingertips, his body smooth muscle and soft heat as he leans into you. His hands are snaking beneath your shirt now, one brushing the bare skin of your torso as it wanders up to grasp at your bra, the other gripping at the hollow of your hips. You arch into his touch, groaning low into his mouth, and he bucks in response, cock straining at his jeans, denim deliciously rough against your palm.

“What do you want, baby?” he gasps into the hollow of your throat. Those gorgeous hands have migrated back to your ass now, clutching with a greediness that leaves you panting.

“Just…” God, you can’t even think, your brain flickering in and out, overloaded with pleasure and pent up emotion and Javier Peña. “Just you, Javi. Now. Please.”

He whimpers, his erection digging rock-hard into your belly, and the sound nearly brings you to your knees - cool, collected, suave Javier Peña, keening for you.

Javi hikes you up so quickly that you yelp, hips pinning you as he drives you into the wall. You brace yourself for impact, but he’s already anticipated that - one hand cups the back of your head, cradling you protectively, the other reaching past your thighs to clench at your pussy.

You moan, rocking into him, bracing your elbows against the wall to grant him access. You shimmy your hips, and he hitches your skirt up with a fist, dragging your soaking panties to the side as he buries his fingers inside you.

“Oh,” you gasp.

Javi’s fingers pulse deep into your core, once, and then again, that come-hither curl of them driving you wild as he pumps through your juices. You scramble back, opening yourself as best you can with your limited mobility as he presses his knee beneath your leg to hold you in place.

God fucking damn, there’s something about being pinned to the wall by this man that leaves you trembling and leaking.

Groaning, Javi sinks his mouth onto yours, and you arch up to meet him, sucking sloppily on his lips, his stubbled jaw, whatever you can get to. You tug his hair hard, mostly for leverage, and he gasps, throwing his head back in a way that allows you access to his neck. You love Javi’s neck - it’s delicious, all fascinating gentle dips between tight tendons, and you relish the opportunity to explore each of its arcs and hollows with your tongue.

He shudders as you nip and suck and bite at him, grinding your body against his as you clench your legs around his waist.

You’re both panting at this point, skin slick with sweat. It’s hard to know where you end and Javi begins, but it’s so, so good, feral and desperate and heated, and somehow, he’s still managing to pulse his thumb at your clit. The motion sets a fucking fire in you, slow, deep waves of hot pressure building in your core.

“More, Javi,” you beg against his clavicle, shimmying your hips against his hand. Any other day, you’d be content to stay here, caught between him and the wall as he wrings your orgasm from you with the pads of his fingers. But there’s something else building in you, a desperation that has both nothing and everything to do with physical release, and you just need him closer. “I- I need -”

Javi growls, gently dropping you to the floor as he shucks out of his jeans. You help him along with trembling fingers, giggling incoherently as your heads brush clumsily in your haste. You take the opportunity to shrug out of your shirt and bra, and then Javi’s pinning you with a gaze that’s almost predatory, dark enough to send shivers of anticipation curling down your spine.

You back against the wall and raise a brow, daring him to come get you.

He does, hoisting you up easily - he really is stronger than he looks. One knee hikes beneath your thigh, his opposite hand clenched behind your ass, thumb digging deep into the hollow of your hip. You absently notice that he’s once again braced his opposite hand between your head and the wall, threading his fingers through your loosened braid, but you don’t have time to consider it, because he’s thrusting into you, quick, shallow pumps that leave you gasping for air.

It’s mind-blowingly amazing, and a wild, wanton part of you wonders why the hell you haven’t done this before - just kick off your clothes and go at it like animals in the hallway. You sink deeper onto him, angling your hips just-so, and oh fucking christ, he’s rubbing right against your clit, hard and fast and sloppy in the very best way.

You throw your head back, spasming around him, scrabbling at his shoulders for purchase. He’s still wearing his fucking shirt, and you cling to its open edges with enough force to rip. Javi hisses, rhythm faltering as he slips from you. For a moment, you pause like that, him holding you with shaking thighs, your lungs and skin burning, heaving breaths mingling hot on each other’s faces, but then he’s realigning himself, shifting his angle a little. You shimmy up the wall, desperate to accommodate.

The second round is even more brutal than the first, choppy and shallow. Your abs are burning; it’s a difficult position to maintain, but that familiar fullness is building achingly delicious in your core, so you hold out, gasping. Javi’s breathing raggedly, sweat dripping from his forehead as he presses it against yours, eyes wide and unfocused as he thrusts into you.

He’s trembling with exertion.

“Fuck!” He’s slipped again. You sink to the floor, reaching for his wrist. He looks at you, face twisted in a resentful snarl.

“Javi,” you gasp, kissing him before he can react. What you’re doing is hot as fuck, but it’s not working right now. You’re both too tired, too desperate and shaky, and you need release. “Take me to bed.”

“Hmm,” he moans into your mouth. It must be agreement, because pulls back - you shudder at the loss of contact - and then hoists you over his shoulder in a move that makes your head spin. You giggle a little, breathless and giddy and almost incoherent with need.

Javi carries you through the apartment like that, you clinging to him like a koala bear with your legs locked around his waist and your head draped over his shoulder. He drops you lopsided on his unmade bed. Automatically, you flop over onto your stomach and gather your knees to your chest, remembering how he loves to take you from behind.

“No,” his voice is strained. A hand, surprisingly gentle, tugs at your shoulder, and you go with it, twisting so that you’re on your back again, sideways in the bed. “I need…” Javi’s panting, dark eyes burning a hole in you. “I need to see you, baby.” His voice breaks, his expression vulnerable, almost apologetic.

A rush of affection overtakes you, and you reach for him, pulling him close for another deep kiss. Javi straddles you, palming himself in preparation, and you have the foresight to shove a pillow under your ass - if you’re going to be doing this face to face, then you want him as deep as possible.

When you glance up, he’s watching you open-mouthed, absently tugging at his leaking cock like he just can’t help it.

God, he’s beautiful.

He sucks a startled breath, looking at you in wide-eyed wonder, and oh fuck. You’d said that out loud.

“Javi,” you whine, yanking him closer. You don’t have time to feel awkward, goddammit. You just need him. For real. Inside you. Right now.

You both shudder as he sinks deep into you. He stays still for a moment, and you clench against him desperately, urging him to move, dammit, but he’s holding off.

“Baby,” he rasps, glancing down at you, red-faced. “I’m not - I’m not going to last.”

That confession alone makes something swell tightly in you, and you buck your hips in response. “It’s okay,” you rasp, trying hard be good, to hold still, to not overwhelm him. “I won’t, either.”

He rocks against you, a tiny pulse, just enough to fucking tease, but it must be an unconscious thing, because he’s still looking you in the eye like he’s afraid you’ll reject him, or condemn him.

“Javi, please,” you keen, patience thoroughly spent. You reach up, digging your fingers into his shoulder blades and tugging hard. “I don’t care. I just need you. All of you.”

That gets him moving.

Javi rocks against you, setting up an achingly slow, almost careful rhythm, his left hand still cradled around the back of your neck to brace your head as he draws himself to the hilt, then nearly all the way out again. It’s gentle and sweet, but dammit, you want more. You pull your knees to his elbows to encourage him deeper, digging your heels into his back. Javi gets the message, because he twitches and groans, curling around your body and bracing himself against your shoulders, abruptly driving into you with a force that punches the air from your lungs - hard, fast, and deliciously brutal.

It’s exactly what you need.

You curl up against his chest, abs burning as you glance past your breasts to the place where your bodies are connected. The edges of his open shirt skim the sensitive skin of your ribcage, framing the view and drowning you in more sensation. Heat is pooling in you, tension building and sparking and curling your toes. There’s something surreal and wonderful about watching yourselves work in tandem, his hips and yours, pulsing and perfect.

Javi shudders, and you drag your eyes back to his face, not daring to miss a moment. Fuck, he’s gorgeous, and that expression alone, that little purse-lipped grimace of pleasure, is enough to drive you to the edge. Controlled, careful, restrained Javier Peña coming undone for you, rattled for you, staring at you like it hurts to draw a fucking breath in your presence… goddamn, you twisted little shit, you’re really liking that.

His rhythm is faltering now, thighs clenching erratically, breath coming in ragged little pants. You know that he’s close.

You reach up to stroke his cheek. “Javi,” you whisper. His eyes find yours, glossy and wild. His mouth is open, his brow furrowed. “It’s okay, baby,” you tell him. He trembles in response, a full body shudder, his eyes flickering shut.

“It’s okay. Let go.”

His breath hitches, and he bucks wildly, collapsing against your chest with a low, broken groan. The hot heaviness of him pulsing into you releases a shockwave of pleasure down you spine. You gasp as your core clenches, spreading his heat, but it’s not quite enough, you’re not quite ready, and you grit your teeth at the loss of friction as he softens inside you.

You watch his face twitch, relief and ecstasy and something else, something fierce and sharp that you can’t possibly name.

You groan, reaching your fingers down to your core, battering against him. You tug at your clit, index finger tap-dancing in that perfect circular motion that sends you straight over the edge as Javi flops bonelessly beside you.

Desperate for contact, you sink into him, still working to salvage that orgasm, concentrating hard on the rapid rise and fall of his ribcage with each chugging breath, the heat of his body wrapped around you like a second skin. His eyes flutter open, and there’s a look of quiet desperation on his face.

“I’m sorry,” he babbles, reaching for you with wide eyes. “Babe, I -”

“Shh, shh, shh, shh,” you reassure him, batting his hand aside with your elbow before he can interfere. The waves are crescendoing now, almost painful in their intensity. You’re so fucking close, words and reason are beyond you. “S’okay, Jav, I’m close… I just need… need you to…. “

“What do you need, baby? Anything.”

“Just - just be here.”

Javi inhales sharply, then gathers you closer to him. “Yeah,” he murmurs, resting his face in the crook of your neck, peppering you with the softest of kisses. One hand rests firmly on your head, its thumb working little circles on your uninjured temple, the other trailing down your body to splay at the sensitive underside of your belly. “I’m here, baby,” he whispers raggedly into your ear. “I’m here.”

Oh god, oh god. The pressure fucking hurts, burning in your toes, clenching in your core, and just when you think that you’re useless today, that sex is absolute bullshit and you can’t possibly take anymore, that -

“You’re so… my god, baby, you’re fucking perfect.”

It’s not Javi’s tone, broken as is is. It’s the frankness of the confession, the rawness. Javier Peña is not a sweet talker, especially not in bed. He’s not pandering to you. It’s more like the words have been dragged from him at gunpoint, pulled from the very deepest recesses of his subconscious, and it’s that honesty, that awed, reverent authenticity, that drives you over the edge.

It all happens in an instant. The bubble of tension in your core bursts abruptly, and you come with a choked gasp, mind blinking in and out as you ride out wave after wave of sweet relief. Javi is with you the whole time, cradling you in his arms as you shatter.

It’s not the longest orgasm you’ve had, or even the most intense, but there’s something about him holding you, about sharing the same skin and air and listening to him murmur sweetly in your ear, that transcends any release you've ever experienced. You ride the waves of your orgasm, swearing to the heavens that you’re breaking apart, and somehow, you’re taking Javi with you like you never have before, splintering and reconverging in a way that’s intimate and vulnerable and precious beyond words.

You come back to reality, breathless and trembling, and the first thing you notice is Javi staring at you with something like reverence in his expression.

“Hey,” he breathes, running a gentle finger down your cheek.

“Mmm,” you curl into his chest, just breathing him in, all warm, sticky skin and stale cigarette and perfect man.

You stay that way for a long time.

“I missed you,” Javi whispers hoarsely, pressing soft lips against your ear.

“I know,” you choke, because you do. That rush of clarity that had effused you in the front hallway is only more potent now. You and Javi had been dancing around each other for months, each of you too stubborn and too afraid to admit to the other that your feelings ran so much deeper than you let on. It’s so obvious now, how stupid you’d both been, and how much you’d missed by being stupid.

You’re horrified to feel tears tracking down your cheeks. God, reality has caught up with you all at once, exhaustion and fear and horror and relief all snarled up with post-coital vulnerability, and you curl deeper into Javi, tucking your face down in an effort to hide.

He notices, though. He always notices. “Baby?” Javi tilts your face up, tracking over you with concerned, dark eyes. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

Exposure turns your tears to choked sobs, and it’s all you can do to speak. “I’m fine,” you gasp, and it’s both the truth and a lie. You’ve never felt safer than you feel now, or more connected to another human than you are to Javier Peña in this moment.

And that’s the thing. There’s still so much left to say. So many emotions, so many worries, so much grief. It all wars for dominance in you, everything at once, and you’re not even sure what the fuck you’re crying about until all of the sudden, you’re choking on words.

“Emilio,” you gasp. “He - he -”

Javi draws a sharp breath of understanding, wrapping strong arms around you as you cry.

“He was… he was gone… and there was nothing I could do!”

“Oh, baby,” Javi murmurs into your ear, rubbing tiny circles into the bare skin of your back. “I know. I know. I’m so, so sorry.”

“And, and…” You’re sobbing so hard that your chest burns, and it’s all you can do to breathe, but the dam has burst, and it’s all coming out now, whether you want it to or not. “Oh, god, Javi, I missed you, too.”

He chuckles a little at that, peppering your forehead with gentle kisses and thumbing the tears from your cheeks.

“Steve was right,” he confesses, tucking your head under his chin. “We’re both idiots.”

This startles a wet giggle from you. You imagine Murphy confronting Javi like he’d confronted you, red-faced and indignant and insisting that you both deserve one another. “Yeah,” you sniffle through your tears. “He was.”

“He’ll be insufferable about it, too.” Javi’s holding your hand now, the pad of his thumb rubbing back and forth, back and forth over your knuckles. You sigh breathily into his chest, crying until your sobs turn to shudders, and then finally, until you’re wrung raw and thoroughly exhausted.

Javi holds you the whole time.

You exhale raggedly, noticing for the first time just how slimy you are. “Ugh, gross,” you mutter, covering your face with your hand as you draw away from Javi, horrified.

Jesus Christ, if you’d just slung snot all over Javier Peña’s bare chest… god, you think you won’t survive the humiliation.

But Javi doesn’t seem bothered. He sits up, glancing around his bedroom for a tissue. Finding nothing, he shrugs out of his shirt, offering it to you silently.

You stare at it, then him.

“What?” he asks, incredulous. He’s still holding out the shirt, eyebrow cocked as if to question why you won’t just take it.

“Nothing,” you say. And that’s a lie. There’s something so uniquely Javi about the gesture, wanting you to wipe your nose with the shirt off his back. But that’s just him - genuine, resourceful, efficient. It’s cute and perfect and ridiculous, and it makes your chest swell and ache.

But you can’t quite put all of that into words right now, and you know he wouldn’t understand even if you tried, so you take the shirt from him with a grateful smile and blow your nose in it like a goddamn heathen.

Javi wads it in a tight ball when you’re finished, chunking it unceremoniously on the floor.

You roll your eyes, and he smirks at you, squeezing your hand as he climbs out of bed. After his cigarettes, you think. “Pretty sure you dropped them on the kitchen floor,” you call after him.

“Yup,” he verifies from the hallway.

You take the opportunity to duck into the bathroom and clean up, and by the time you’re done, Javi’s waiting for you, propped up against the headboard with his eyes shut, smoke curling from his mouth. He pats the bed beside him, not looking up, and you snuggle under his arm, sighing contentedly.

This is new, the cuddling, sharing his bed, burrowing against his side as he smokes, and you savor every detail. His skin is still slick with cooling sweat, and you can hear his heartbeat beneath his ribs where your head rests, slow and steady. Neither of you need to speak, each just drawing comfort from the presence of the other.

Afterglow, you decide, is a very good word for it.

“Javi?” you ask after a long, long time.

“Yeah?” he whispers. You wonder if he thought you were asleep.

“What is this?” You wave your hand, indicating the tiny space between his chest and yours. You know what it looks like, and you know what it is for you, but you can’t stand the thought of leaving anything uncertain between you, not after all of this.

Javi takes a deep drag of his cigarette. He holds that breath for a long time, but the silence doesn’t scare you, not anymore. That’s just Javi’s thinking face, the one you know so well.

After a while, Javi turns to face you fully. “This is me,” he starts slowly, reaching for your hands and lifting them to his chest, “deciding that I’m not going to miss any more opportunities.”

Your breath catches. That sounds - well, coming from Javier Peña, it sounds an awful lot like a vow.

“I’m all in, Ears.” Javi kisses each of your hands in turn. “If that’s okay with you.” He glances up almost hesitantly, the question burning in his eyes.

There’s something about the gravitas of the delivery that hints that his words are more than they seem. Javi’s gaze is pinned to yours, dark and serious, and a shiver runs down your spine. You might be lacking some context, but Javi’s resolve is impossible to miss.

You consider it for only half a second. You’ve known for a long time now that there’s a lot more at stake in Colombia than just your career. Hell, you’d known that from the moment you let Javi walk away from your apartment for the first time. And he’s made his position pretty clear, too. You bite back a loopy grin as you remember him blowing past Martinez at headquarters.

Yeah, there’s no salvaging this secret.

"All in," you say, gripping his hands tightly and wishing you could be half as eloquent and intense and awesome as he is. “I like the way that sounds.”

It’s the honest truth.

Javi breaks out into a soft smile that shows off that single dimple, leaning down and pressing his lips to your forehead. “Looks like we’re on the same page, then.”

“Yeah,” you try to answer, just as you are interrupted by a huge yawn.

Javi snorts. “Go to sleep, Ears,” he says fondly, pointedly throwing back the bed covers. You shoot him a petulant frown, and he rolls his eyes, undeterred. “Seriously, baby. This is just getting stupid now.”

“Whole day is stupid,” you mutter darkly as you climb under the blankets - not because he told you to, but because you want to.

“Oh really?” Javi teases. “The whole day?”

“Well,” you pretend to contemplate. “Guess the sex was alright.” You grin wolfishly at him from beneath the covers.

His response does not disappoint. “Alright?” He presses a hand to his chest, wounded. “Christ, baby, kick a man while he’s down.” He side-eyes you, frowning. “Guess I really do need to up my game, huh?”

“Your words, Jav,” you mumble. The full force of your exhaustion has hit you with a vengeance, and talking is hard.

“I will make it up to you baby,” he growls in your ear, suddenly serious. “You know I will.”

“Mmhmm,” you sigh. Any other time, that voice would have gone straight to your core, but now, not so much. “I do.”

“Good.” He drops a kiss on your nose, then slips out of the bed. The loss of his body heat is enough to draw you out of your stupor, just for a moment.

“Stay?” you call pathetically, just as the lamp flicks off.

Oh.

Javi settles back in beside you, wrapping his arms around your chest and nuzzling into the back of your neck with his nose. “Yeah, babe,” he whispers into your ear as you finally, finally drift off. “Not going anywhere.”

♠

Author notes/ confessions:

Whew, and that’s a wrap. Big, big notes here guys. I am incapable of being brief, apparently.

First, I know a lot of you are chomping at the bits to know who the fuck bombed Ears’ apartment. I tried to place a few little clues here and there, but ROE takes place sometime between 2.06 and 2.07. To summarize, Los Pepes, the vigilante group targeting Escobar, is funded by the Cali cartel. In retaliation, Escobar starts bombing Cali cartel owned business - their drug stores in particular. This really heated up in Bogotá around December 1992, which is when ROE ends.

Now, here’s the fun thing - Javi is absolutely already working with Los Pepes at this point - a relationship he initiated during the month that he and Ears were on the outs. Ears’ intuition in the car is correct - Javi does know, or suspect, more than he’s saying. This is a major plot point for a story that I have in the pipeline, but working that in here - god, guys, that’s too much, and ROE needed to end like 10k words ago, honestly.

That being said, if anybody has interest in being a beta, or just letting me scream ideas at them, hit me up. This little “one shot” has turned into a full blown universe in my brain, and these ideas are dying to get out.

The sex. Yeah, I know the sex isn’t great, but I wanted it that way. It was a strange choice on my part, both for Javi’s character and as a first foray into writing smut, but it just seemed appropriate. Sex is rarely ever as mind-blowing as depicted in fic, and besides, these two have had lots and lots of perfect sex. They’re a pretty equal match in that department, but this time is different. I wanted to put the emotions on display, rather than the physicality. It just makes sense that this time would be rushed, desperate, and messy. They are both emotionally and physically exhausted. Also, I really, really wanted to come full circle from the shower scene, where Ears never gets her completion, and also the scene on the sofa when Ears comforts Javi after a terrible day by saying, “I’m here.” There’s some sort of cathartic and earned about Ears bringing herself to completion while Javi just holds her. That being said, I know I owe Javi, and you guys, some smutty one-shots. I plan to deliver, I promise.

You’ll notice that I mention ears choking, coughing, sputtering, breathing, wheezing, feeling a tightness in the chest, aching… she’s got a small pulmonary contusion from being in such close proximity the blast zone. It’s a common injury in bombing survivors, and hers isn’t massive or life threatening, just inconvenient. Pulmonary contusion symptoms tend to develop hours or days after the injury, so she’ll steadily get worse, and when she does, the whole story of her experience with the explosion WILL come out. She’s still got a lot of trauma to process, both physically and emotionally, but Javi is gonna be there every step of the way (after he flips shit first, that is). I’ll let you guys imagine this one, though, because I have already dragged ROE out far longer than I really should have, and it’s mostly medical bs, anyway.

Last of all, if you’re still here, thank you. From the bottom of my heart. I haven’t written in years, and this story pushed me far outside of my comfort zone. Your support, comments, likes, reblogs, reaction gifs - they all mean the world to me.

@tiffdawg, you are directly responsible for this dumpster fire. I hope you’re proud. :)

Much, much love, and a happy new year to each of you.

~ Jay

486 notes · View notes

emcads · 2 years

Note

(blueblazeswildcat88) I'm responding to what you posted on your page. Ever hear of love the sinner hate the sin? I can admire your writing for the work of art that it is without being influenced by your sexuality. I've known you were gay all along, dear. Doesn't bother me. You're a very gifted writer and you really SHOULD consider writing a novel someday because I know there's others out there that would love your work as much as I do. There's nothing wrong with me being a fan of yours.

the only reason I am answering this is because by fact of you sending this ask we are clearly not on the same page and I want to be absolutely clear. I blocked you because I don’t wish to interact with you or your ideology, which I find very harmful and personally threatening to myself and my well being. I’m deeply uncomfortable with you being on my blog reading my writing, especially the more intimate writing I do with close friends, and by continuing to read it and send me messages over anonymous you are violating my boundaries, which I take very seriously.

furthermore, “love the sinner hate the sin” is so repulsive to me I cannot even properly express it to you. my experience of not being heterosexual has profoundly shaped my life, the development of who I am, the friends I have gained and the communities I find myself in. by saying “hate the sin” you are, in effect, saying you hate me, because I would not be who I am today if I had not experienced the world through this lens. there is absolutely nothing wrong with my sexuality and I won’t be spoken to as if there is. I refuse to hear my writing characterized as something you can love despite my being gay. it is not a fault. it does not detract from me in any way. and queerness is so utterly, completely entwined with how I write Esmeralda and how I engage with piracy as a concept : you are missing out on aspects of my writing if you are deliberately tuning out the queer aspects of it.

if I publish a novel someday, you are free to purchase it as you wish. however, since I do not profit from my writing here, I operate only on the basis of respect. do not engage with my work any further until you can respect me and my boundaries. thank you.

12 notes · View notes

the-chick-of-the-air · 3 years

Text

Hello my lovelies!

Wow ok I’m sorry I know it’s been a while- I kinda got into a writing slump that wouldn’t let me out, however I’m feeling like I’m getting back into things! Yay!

I want to thank all of you for your continued support in my writing adventures, I seriously can’t describe how much it means to me when I get feedback and love on my work, one of my favorite things to do is make people happy- or really just feel anything- with my writing and I love hearing about it so thank you thank you THANK YOU!!! 🥰❤️

So, now I’m back with a gift! A very long fic that took me way to long to get around to finishing but I wanna share! So here, have this!!

Sorry if the length is too, well, lengthy 😅 I do so hope you enjoy it!

Edit: have added a cut due to length, read below!🥰❤️

Some Wicked Type of Love

Cardan stared down at the vial he held carefully, the greenish liquid sparkled as it sloshed around with the subtle shakes he gave it. This. This would fix everything.

“So, he just has to drink that? Nothing else?” Rhyia asked, unnerved. That unnerved Cardan, his elder sister was hardly ever shaken, so seeing her nervous about something didn’t sit well.

The imp with golden skin smiled thinly. Despite her obvious skepticism, he was the one Rhyia had told Cardan about, the one that could fix his problem, rid him of his ailment.

“That is all.”

Rhyia’s eyes narrowed into slits, “And it won’t hurt him?” Despite how she, along with the rest of his siblings, chose to brush him off more often than not, she did care for him on a certain level. It was why Cardan had approached her in the first place. He trusted her alone to follow through with this task.

“The young Prince shall remain whole and hale. It is to my understanding that he is now indebted to me?”

Cardan was about to protest when Rhyia spoke first, “I will take on his debt to you. When you need a favor, come to me.”

The imp’s smile widened, “Oh it is not a favor I seek in return. Simply bring him back to me once the… effects of the cure have taken hold.”

Cardan didn’t like how ominous that sounded. Nonetheless he nodded to his sister and they moved to leave.

Once they had turned away, they missed how the Imp’s smile grew impossibly wider and a silent laugh fell from his lips.

~.~

“Are you sure about this?”

Her constant questioning was beginning to grate on Cardan’s nerves as they trekked back to Hallow Hall. “For the last time, yes. I am profoundly certain in my decision. Will you let it alone now?”

Rhyia hummed and stopped walking. When Cardan realized she was no longer beside him, he stopped as well and turned to face her. She was staring at him with an expression he couldn’t puzzle out.

“Having the love of a mortal is-”

Cardan turned away sharply and began walking again, “I do not have the love of a mortal! One simply plagues my thoughts, and this is the only way to cure it.”

Rhyia jogged to catch up with him. She linked her arm through his, “All I was going to say was that…being in love with, or having the love of a mortal, is no reason to feel shame. Many of us have loved them, dearly so. The General, our father. Even I have known the affections of one.”

Cardan stopped short. That couldn’t be right. Yes, there were some Folk who took mortals as consorts and lovers- they were good for cultivating many children. The General’s love, he knew, had ended in tragedy. One that produced the very person he so sorely wished to be rid of. His father had an affinity for many a thing unusual, and having Val Moren at his side was just that. Cardan had just always assumed it was out of need for a seneschal who had an undying loyalty to him. But Rhyia?

He glanced at her sideways and she held her chin up higher, “As I said. I am not ashamed of who I have come to adore. Many think them beneath us, I find that to be wholly untrue. They are born, they live vibrant, beautiful lives, and they die, just as we do.”

Cardan shook his head, “They are dirt. A fleeting thing made of dust and water, gone before they can live fully if they do not stay here. They are beneath us.” A practiced excuse, and his sister knew it.

“You feel the need to run from what you do not understand. Do not want to feel. The choice is yours but know this: You are a prince. You may love whoever you see fit to love. Mortals may be weaker than we are, but their ability to love is stronger even than our own. When they find someone fit to adore, they put their entire existence into loving them. They feel it deeply and should you find yourself the object of their affection, there will be nothing they will not do for you,” She looked at him pointedly, “It is an honor to be loved by a mortal.”

Cardan was silent for a moment as her words sank in. The vial in his pocket felt heavier, somehow.

An honor. Cardan had never been granted anything akin to honor before. And as thoughts of auburn hair and rounded ears flashed through his mind, he realized he never would be granted such a thing. He shook his head,

“Even if that were true, my issue does not stem from running from the affections of a mortal.”

Rhyia smiled carefully at her brother, “Of course not. Simply from the possibility that she will not love you as you love her.”

He balked and tugged his arm from her hold, stalking the rest of the way home on his own. He did not love a mortal. He just couldn’t get thoughts of her out of his mind. Her name played on an indestructible loop in his brain, carefully preserved memories of her every sneer and glare followed him into his dreams and emerged with him in his waking hours. She wouldn’t leave him alone.

The liquid in that vial would fix it. It would erase her very essence from each corner of his brain, every fold she inhabited, like a sprite infestation of the mind. He would be rid of every thought, every memory, every feeling he had ever had for her.

Without any further pondering, he lifted the vial from his pocket and uncorked it.

Before he even got inside Hallow Hall, he brought it to his lips.

He threw back the potion and blessedly forgot Jude Duarte.

~.~

Lessons had never been a source of joy for Cardan. In fact, he would go as far to say they were a bane of his existence. Knowledge and learning, taking precious time to become scholarly when he could have been lounging about instead.

An odd absence in his chest pulled at him. He felt as if there was something about lessons that should have- usually would have- brought him some level of entertainment, of satisfaction. Looking around, his comrades by his side as they set up their blankets and baskets on the great lawn for the day, there was nothing amiss.

And yet there was something…

“Here they come.” Locke muttered conspiratorially, looking at someone approaching over Cardan’s shoulder. Valerian leered and Nicasia glanced in that direction before scoffing and looking elsewhere.

Had they all met someone at a revel recently? Someone worthy of their torment? Surely, they would have told him had that been the case.

Either way, he wanted to be included, so he turned as well.

When he caught sight of her, he lost his right to breathe.

There were two mortal girls, they were linked at the arm and looked exactly alike. Twins, highly uncommon amongst the Folk, though it happened often enough for the term to be familiar.

Despite there being two of them, his eyes immediately caught on the one to the right.

She was gorgeous.

Her auburn hair was twisted into a knot at the top of her head, a golden net holding it in place along with a few decorative pins. She was wearing a simple tunic with a crest across her chest that he instantly recognized. The family crest of General Madoc. He had mortal charges?

She clutched her basket in one hand and clutched her sister’s arm even closer. She was whispering something to the other girl and when she glanced up, she locked gazes with him.

It felt as if time had frozen.

She stared at him for a moment, brown eyes boring into his. It was the most beautiful color he had ever had the privilege of seeing. What a shame she shared a face with the girl next to her, her beauty was so striking that it deserved to be all her own. Even so, she was- as far as he was concerned- far more breathtaking than her twin.

She was alarmingly attractive. Distressingly beautiful. The product of tortuous, glorifying nightmares. He needed to know her, needed to speak to her. What did her voice sound like? Was she bold or soft spoken? How long had she been in Elfahme and why had he never encountered her before?

This ethereal creature… he could feel his heart beating so quickly it was growing painful, he had to force himself to take a breath least he pass out from lack of oxygen.

“Who is that?” He knew his voice was little more than a strained whisper as he continued to stare at her.

As soon as his mouth moved, it seemed to shatter some hold that had settled over her. Her eyes narrowed and she gave him a glare so delightfully heated that he could feel it burning his very blood. She was a fiery one.

Her lips pulled into a sneer and he immediately wanted to know what she would taste like. Some strange, horrid concoction of bitter and sweet, no doubt. He had to know.

He could see Nicasia looking at him strangely from the corner of his eye. He couldn’t bring himself to tear his gaze from the mortal as she moved to an empty area on the grass with her twin in tow. He watched as they spread out their blankets and settled down.

“The Duarte twins? Madoc’s filthy mortal brats? Cardan, are you feeling well?” She asked, rare concern lacing her voice.

He would wager he’d never felt better in his life. He felt something in his chest- the previously empty and wounded area- light up as though something finally came to life in him, as though he were finally whole.

“What’s her name, the one on the right?” He ignored the strange looks his friends gave him, never looking away from the Duarte twin that had enraptured his attention, though she kept throwing disgusted sneers his way every time she looked up to find him still staring.

“Jude?” Locke inquired, glancing gleefully between the twins and the prince.

Something in his mind snapped into place, and he finally understood what had been missing, Jude.

Her name looped around his thoughts, over and over.

Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude…

He needed her. He felt it, he…

Cardan Greenbriar was in love.

~.~

Waiting for lessons to end was nearly unbearable, the only consolation Cardan got was from staring at the object of his affections throughout the day.

Each time she caught him staring, she would glare and turn away sharply, as though his gaze had branded her. Each time it sent a thrill through him, something he had never felt before, even with previous lovers. Even with Nicasia, who was sitting right next to him through the whole day.

It was perhaps hasty on his part, this whole bodied acceptance of his feelings, but Cardan was never one to curb his indulgences. After all, when the Folk fell in love, it was often that it happened deeply and all at once. This was nothing out of the ordinary, and the prince looked forward to trying to shower this lovely fiend in affections as soon as he could speak with her.

As soon as they were released for the day, he issued Locke to distract her twin, having seen how they stole glances at one another during their lessons. The fox like faerie was all too happy to oblige and Cardan found himself trailing his new love off the palace grounds and into the forest, glad she hadn’t bothered to wait for her twin.

It took about two minutes for her to stop, once they were out of sight of the palace behind them. She turned and her gaze locked onto him.

He continued forward until he was a mere foot away from her. He said nothing and simply stood there, watching, waiting for her to speak first.

“What do you want?” Oh, how delightfully sharp her voice was! Even drenched in irritation, it was soothing as a balm to his aching head after listening to Nicasia’s grating prattle all day. She looked momentarily surprised at herself, as though she were normally much milder. Though she quickly shook it off and continued to glare at him.

He decided to forego beating around the bush, she seemed like the type of person who enjoyed being direct, getting straight to the point. That spot in his chest she now occupied throbbed a bit, “You’ve captured my attention. You’re quite alluring, Jude. That is your name, correct?”

A completely logical question, but she looked at him as though he had two heads. Actually no- there was at least one two headed faerie out there- she looked at him as though he had just asked her to shoot him through with an arrow, like he was an idiot in need of mental help.

“Is this some kind of trick?” Her voice was dripping disgust and her hand twitched as though she wanted to reach for something but thought better of it at the last moment. Her eyes narrowed further and he found himself wishing she would look at him normally so he could see her eyes fully. They must be exquisite this close up.

He shook his head, shifting towards her, she took a step back, “No trick. I know I’m being forward, but I find you most enchanting, perhaps we can walk together?” he smirked at her. He knew how to be charming, had won a few hearts that way. However, she sneered at him as though she were completely immune to it- even better!

“’Perhaps we’… What are you doing, Cardan?” she nearly growled his name and he found he quite liked the way it sounded coming out of her mouth.

“Expressing my interest in you,” he stepped closer and grabbed one of her hands gently, tried not to laugh when she casually pulled it away and unsheathed a small dagger at her hip, “As I said, you have my attention.”

She looked confused a moment, even slightly concerned. It vanished quickly and she held the dagger a little higher. Outright threatening him. Yes, he was definitely in love!

“What has gotten into you? Some sort of sickness the Folk get? Have you been drinking already?”

Already. For some reason that stuck in his head. ‘Have you been..’ it sounded as though she knew of his habits. Granted it was no secret that he preferred various wines over most other beverages any day, but only those who paid attention to him knew that. He was under the distinct impression they had never met before.

That spot in his heart throbbed again, painfully.

“You…” He took a step towards her and she backed up several paces, her blade gleaming between them.

“If this is some new way of trying to get me to back down, you can drop it. It’s not going to work. You’ve managed to pit Taryn against me already, and as long as you leave her alone, we have an understanding but that’s it. I won’t hesitate to hurt you if you touch either one of us. Now leave me alone.”

Cardan didn’t understand half of what she was talking about. Who was Taryn? Her twin perhaps? He hadn’t bothered with her name. How did Jude figure he had pit them against one another? And how had he and Jude come to an agreement of sorts if he had never met her before?

As she backed away, dagger still held offensively as though she expected him to lunge for her, he realized he was going to need answers to his growing list of questions before he tried to pursue her further.

He held up his hands in what he hoped was a placating gesture, watching as she continued to move away before she was far enough to turn and hastily make her way from him. He gazed after her a moment, wishing that had gone differently, then turned and started to trek his way home, suddenly in a somber mood.

~.~

Jude huffed out a breath of frustration as she re-sheathed her dagger, trying to figure out what on earth had just passed between her and Cardan.

You have my attention. That was normally a bad thing, but the way he had been gazing at her…she could feel her blood heating and it wasn’t all due to hate.

So wrapped up in trying to figure out what had just happened with Cardan, Jude didn’t realize someone else was following her until it was too late.

She jumped an embarrassingly high distance into the air when Princess Rhyia appeared beside her.

“Oh! Uh, your highness.” Jude muttered, dropping into a low curtsy.

She tried to keep her wits about her when the princess gripped her arm and looped her own through it. She smiled warmly at Jude, something she found slightly disconcerting, and said, “Walk with me.”

Her tone was gentle, but Jude understood a command when she heard one, and Rhyia was all but physically dragging her by the arm, so she really had little choice in the matter.

“Tell me, young Jude. What do you think of my brother?”

Jude didn’t bother asking for clarification. If Rhyia had followed her all this way, it was likely she had just seen whatever it was that had transpired between Cardan and herself. She was about to blurt out “I hate him, as he does me” when she stopped herself. It probably wasn’t wise to badmouth him to his sibling. Not to mention it felt…odd, to say that all of a sudden.

The princess caught her hesitation and squeezed her arm gently, “Please, speak freely.”

Well then, “Um…we don’t…we don’t see eye to eye.” A huge understatement, though Rhyia simply nodded, keeping quiet as she waited for Jude to go on. “I take it you know why he was acting so strangely back there?”

For a startling moment, the princess looked upset. She schooled her features quickly, though. “Usually, I would feel it is not my place to meddle. But Cardan… it is no excuse, I know, but… he doesn’t always understand his own feelings.”

Jude bit the inside of her own cheek. She had quite a bit to say when it came to Cardan and feelings. She kept quiet as his sister went on.

“I shouldn’t be the one to reveal all the details, but I can tell you that he feels very strongly for you. So strongly in fact, that he went to extremes to stop feeling for you. It would appear his plan backfired.”

Strong feelings? Backfired? What? “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Cardan approached me yesterday, asking if I knew of a way to rid him of feelings he couldn’t stand to feel. I took him to an imp I know of, who gave him a potion, a…cure, he called it. It would erase the thing that ails one from their memory.”

Jude was putting the pieces together now. For an inexplicable reason, something tugged at her chest, dark and ugly. “He…wanted to forget me?” She asked carefully.

Rhyia smiled, obviously happy Jude was understanding, “You were haunting him. He couldn’t cease thinking of you and it was driving him quite mad. So, he sought a solution.”

“A solution?” Jude scoffed, the hurt in her chest growing, “So rather than…than talk to me, he decided to erase me from his memory?!” She couldn’t fathom why this truth hurt, why she even cared-

“Well, he tried. I’ve been watching him today. It seems that, if anything, his feelings for you are much clearer now.” She nodded to herself, as if this was a completely logical situation.

Jude felt like she couldn’t breathe. Cardan, he felt something for her? Something other than hate?

She thought back to a piece of paper, her name dashed out over and over and over, like he was trying to immortalize her, pen her down on paper so she should never be forgotten.

Suddenly, she was recounting every interaction they had ever had, every weighted look and spiteful word. Each trick and torment and barb thrown at one another. The way they relentlessly targeted one another, trading blows in every form one could think of. She recalled the way Taryn begged her to let it go, to quit this twisted game but she couldn’t. She would not forfeit. She didn’t want to stop.

And he was just as guilty. Each time they went toe to toe, he wouldn’t back down, wouldn’t leave her alone, almost as if he needed this game they played just as much as she did, just to feel... and each time, there was an air of something heavier behind it all, something unspoken and deadly and mutual.

Something like obsession. A twisted kind of heart-breaking. A tragic back and forth dance. Evil, heated, something intense, some…

Some wicked type of love.

She didn’t realize she had stopped moving until Rhyia pulled her arm from Jude’s. They were nearing Madoc’s estate, but Jude found she didn’t want to go home just yet.

“He…We, uh…” Great, at a loss for words in front of royalty. But Rhyia just smiled wider.

“I heard there is a way to bring back memory stolen by a potion, a kiss of true love or something of that nature. But you didn’t hear it from me.” The princess leaned in and placed a sisterly kiss on Jude’s cheek before she winked and walked away.

Jude stood there, stupidly staring at nothing just off the edge of Madoc’s estate for far longer than she would have liked to admit.

She… she loved him? She wanted to be wrong, but it felt like she had just discovered the answer to everything she never realized she was questioning. Her chest ached, she had to get to him. What had Rhyia said? ‘kiss of true love’? Like from a story book? Ridiculous. And exactly the kind of thing that would happen to her.

Jude squared her shoulders, resigning herself to her decision.

Without giving herself a chance to reconsider, she turned on her heel and started to backtrack to Hallow Hall.

~.~

Cardan was only slightly surprised when Jude traipsed through his open balcony doors an hour later. He wasn’t sure what she had against using the front door like a normal person but epic declarations of love were often much more, well, epic when preceded by dramatic entrances.

He liked her flair.

“Somehow I knew you would show up.” He was genuinely glad to see her, though if she was here to tell him off again, he wasn’t sure how he would manage. He would find a way, though, for her.

“Shame on me for being predictable.” She muttered, moving further into the room. She regarded him coolly, “You really don’t remember me?”

Cardan held up a finger and moved to his desk. He picked up an empty vial that was sitting atop. He held it out to her.

“I assumed I was at a revel last night and that was why I couldn’t recall anything, however today’s events are making that hard to believe.”

Jude took the vial from him, careful not to touch him as she did so. She examined the glass, rolled it over in her hands a few times. She glanced back up at him and he was happy to find her eyes open wide. He was right, a gorgeous color.

“I assume you don’t know what this is.” She shook the vial.

He shook his head, “I figure it’s the cause of my lapse in memory. Now I wonder what was in it and why I needed it,” He looked her over carefully, head to toe and back up again, “And why it seems tied to you.”

She pocketed the vial, though he wasn’t sure why she would want it, “Have you spoken with Rhyia today?”

Rhyia? “What does my sister have to do with this?”

“She accompanied me home, don’t give me that look- she snuck up on me. She told me that yesterday you asked for her assistance in acquiring something. A cure, of sorts.”

Cardan ignored the jealousy he felt against his sister-how unfair that she got to walk Jude home- and mused over Jude’s words. A cure… “I don’t recall being ill before last night.” He crossed his arms, watching her. Even the way she just stood there was astounding. He could look at her forever and it still wouldn’t be long enough to give her the attention she deserved.

“Well, you weren’t sick, exactly. You…wanted someone erased from your memory.” Her voice went quiet. Odd, from what he knew of her thus far, that seemed extremely out of character for her.

“That would explain the memory loss.” Horrible attempt at a quip, though her mouth quirked up at the corner, he got her to smile! Despite her obvious upset, his chest warmed. He wanted to see her grinning, to hear her laugh. Perhaps he would, one day.

“Yeah, well, it definitely did its job.”

It hit him, then. He had wanted to forget someone, his comrades had displayed obvious distaste for the Duarte twins even though Cardan could not recall ever meeting them. Rhyia had gone to Jude after their…talk in the woods, and Cardan hardly believed it had been Jude’s twin he had wanted to forget.

“You.” He said quietly, watching her shift her weight from one foot to the other, “I wanted to forget you?” He hardly thought it possible, she was a delight! He had never known what the missing piece of his entire existence had been until he laid eyes on her for the first time- ok, not first time, rather the first time he remembers. All the same, looking upon her beautiful countenance now, he could quite confidently declare his past self absolutely mad for attempting to purge her from his thoughts.

Jude shrugged and stepped closer, “I guess I was haunting you. And you don’t like knowing there is something out there that you can’t have.”

His heart plummeted. He wished it to soar at the obvious fact that she seemed to know him so well, however her words crushed the fragile hope that had been budding within him since he left her alone in the woods, “And I can’t? Have you?”

Her gaze was intense and piercing when it landed on his own. Again, he marveled at the color. The rich hues of brown one found upon the forest floor, the cracked deck of a mighty ship, all the copper and wood and soil of the earth blending together to solidify themselves in the alluring shade of her eyes. He couldn’t breathe.

She forewent answering his question, “Your sister told me there is a way to restore your memory, if you would have it.”

“Yes.” He found himself breathing, already enticed at the prospect of remembering this wicked girl before him. Obviously, his past self had been an idiot for trying to forget her. He cleared his throat, “What is it?”

She took another step, then another, stopping only when they were so close he had to tilt his head down to meet her eyes.

“I’m not sure it will work, but I know you’ll find it entertaining.”

Gently, he reached up to wrap a lock of her hair around his finger. She didn’t seem to mind as he asked again, “Is there a chance? That I could have you?” He’d never had anything solely his, never won affections simply because someone had cared for him. He knew if she could be that for him, he’d want for nothing more in his life ever again.

Slowly, she lifted a hand to his cheek. He found himself leaning into it readily as she pulled his face closer to hers.

She seemed to hesitate, considering something before she answered, “So long as I could have you.”

He would have answered, ‘Anything, you can have anything you want’ had she not closed the distance and pressed her lips to his.

~.~

The memories came rushing back all at once and they nearly knocked his breath out of his chest. But he only gave his history with his gorgeous villain a passing thought as more pressing matters settled themselves in the forefront of his mind.

Namely, the fact that Jude was kissing him. Jude. As everything he knew about her, about them fell into place he had to wonder if he was dreaming. But no. He’d imagined this very moment before and… It had all his hopes, his expectations paling in comparison to the actual sensation. She was warm and her mouth was soft even as she roughly slanted it against his own. Even when showing affection, she felt the need to be in control and he lent it to her willingly.

In the back of his mind, he recalled having always assumed that their first kiss would be intoxicating and drenched in delirium- why else would either of them fall into the other without a fight, if not for the moment being brought about by emotions stronger than they could contend with? And while it definitely lived up to that expectation, he had also always assumed it would be over rather quickly. That she would pull away abruptly, muttering about mistakes and small, ironic acts of vengeance.

That is where the likeness between imagination and reality broke away.

In reality, as soon as her mouth met his and she gave him a moment to feel the onslaught of memories, she stepped closer, forcing him to bend slightly to accommodate their height difference. The hand that had been resting on his face slid up, over the pointed tip of his ear and into his hair while her other arm fastened tightly around his shoulders, pulling him flush against her.

He fumbled for a moment- which was really something wasn’t it? Wasn’t he the more experienced of the two? How thoroughly she had undone him already!

Once his bearings were back intact, he slipped his arms around her waist, molding himself to her. He marveled at how seamlessly they seemed to fit together. A lock and- wait, no. No Locke. Two pieces of the same puzzle finally snapping into place.

His mind gave over to a blank sort of haze, melting along to the backdrop of her name looping around his thoughts, Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude and for a bare moment he understood again why he had forced her out of his mind, for she was the only thing in the universe that had the power to drive him into pure madness.

He would happily crash into insanity now, with her wrapped around him, teeth tugging at his bottom lip demandingly. He obliged to her wishes, would cater to her every twisted whim if she would have it. One of his hands snaked into her hair as he deepened their kiss, he felt her fingers dig into his back harshly in response. He felt that should he die now, he would leave this existence fulfilled and whole.

Once the need for oxygen became unrelenting, he pressed his mouth firmly against hers, once more, and pulled away.

Again, his imaginings of this moment ended here or before, with her pulling away, that beautiful scowl etched across her perfect face, muttering foul and soul wrenching words like mistake and useless.

And again, reality outshone even the darkest parts of his mind. As soon as he pulled back, she stayed near a moment, waiting to see if he would come back. When he didn’t, she sighed through her nose, the sound almost content and she peered up at him.

His eyes locked on hers as she let her hands explore the breadth of his shoulders, the column of his neck which she glanced at briefly before her gaze snapped back to his own, full of something like longing.

When he didn’t move, said nothing, she tilted her head to the side as she tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck. “Well?” was all she said.

It took him a moment to register what her meaning was. She wanted to know if he remembered her, their history. He blinked, “I…remember.” He stated cautiously. He couldn’t lie of course, but he almost wanted to. So terrified was he of what that knowledge would mean for them, for what had just transpired between them. His imaginings never prepared him for this.

Or for what she did next.

A smirk, more of a small smile, really, bloomed across her features. That in itself was jarring but since this was Jude and ambition was what drove her out of bed in the morning, of course she took it further than simply jarring. She leaned in again, placing a kiss to his cheek, along his jaw, his nose even, before she finally claimed his lips again. It was past shocking. Had he known memory loss would lead to this he would have sought out his sister for help much sooner.

Though really, why was she even doing this? Just yesterday she had been scowling at him every time they glanced at each other, just an hour ago she had been threating his life, warning him to back off. What had changed?

This, while thrilling, wasn’t ideal. Insecurity was not something Cardan was overly familiar with these days, not when it came to her. This information is what had him puling away gently, looking at her in earnest.

“Why the sudden interest?” He debated throwing a quip or scathing remark of some sort her way, a sudden and desperate need to get back to their malicious bantering washing over him, though he shoved the thought away. He was genuinely curious as to what changed her mind.

She shook her head as she finally left his embrace, “I had just been thinking and realized that somewhere along the way, strong feelings of hate had shifted into strong feelings of…something else.”

She looked put out at the thought that she had developed any sort of emotion for him other than contempt, but he had to agree with her sentiment. He bristled to think that that potion hadn’t done its job right, but it had done something. Before, he had been content to half-lie to himself, to convince himself so profoundly that he was not enchanted, mind and body and soul by this girl before him.

What was it Rhyia had said? It is an honor to be loved by a mortal.

Cardan felt that maybe there was honor in loving one, too.

He bit the inside of his cheek before asking, “And you meant what you said, before?”

So long as I could have you.

“Yes.” She sounded so sure. He liked to believe she wasn’t lying. She rubbed at the missing tip of her finger as she watched him, “So, where does that leave us?”

Bring him back to me when the effects of the… cure have taken hold. He’d gotten more than he had bargained for. He held out his hand to Jude.

She reached for it instantly and he tried not to let it show how deeply that affected him, his head already wanting to go fuzzy with nothing but the thought of her.

“I owe a visit to a certain imp.”

Fin

And that is that! Please let me know your thoughts! And I am so excited to be sharing again and looking forward to what I plan to write in the future☺️ (jeez it is so long I’m so sorry for everyone who has to scroll all this way😬😅)

Here is my tag list, as always please let me know if you would like to be added, I’m always excited when people ask me tag them and it is my greatest pleasure to oblige!❤️ (also- over 500 followers now? What!? You guys are amazing and I honestly don’t think I would have come this far without you guys! Sending all my love!🥰)

@maleckanejnessianjurdansolangelo @woodsbeyond1 @cardan-greenbriar-tcp @thewickedkings @aneurwin @snusbandxknifewife @jurdanhell @andromeddea @dressedindustandshadows @thesirenwashere @b00kworm @hizqueen4life @unidentifiedblackthorn @iminsanenotobsessed @df3ndyr @brittneyal @aelin-queen-of-terrasen @thefolkofthefic @yafandomsdotnet @fuzzypineapples @nahthanks @charrise @thefolkofthefic @theviolettulip @embersfromink @kittkatandbooboo

#cardan greenbriar #jude duarte #jurdan #the cruel prince #tcp #fic #long fic #a test in which I see how many times I can write Jude’s name without going insane myself

78 notes · View notes

haloud · 4 years

Text

michael guerin loves alex manes

So there’s been a narrative within the fandom ever since the s1 hiatus that Michael hasn’t been shown to love Alex like Alex loves him, that Michael never does anything for Alex, that Michael never makes himself available. I couldn’t disagree more. So here’s a list from season 1.

Michael:

Has a picture of them together and keeps it in a special box along with pictures of his family and has for 10 years

Kisses him at the reunion (after asking if Alex wants him to leave and giving him a chance to say no to the kiss.)

Gives him massive puppy eyes across a crowded bar after Isobel asks him if there’s anyone he would sacrifice everything for, which Alex sees, acknowledges with a lingering glance, then deliberately looks away.

“For me, nothing’s changed” “I never look away, not really”

Kisses him again

Literally everything about their scene in bed in 1x03, from the way he says “you stayed” to the way his mouth opens under Alex’s thumb to the reverent way he touches his leg

Wants his sister to know he and Alex are together but honors Alex’s refusal even though he’s hurt by it

Says he’d hate Max for sending Alex away in a direct comparison to Max’s fury at him and Isobel sending Liz away (aka saying he loves Alex the same way Max loves Liz)

At prom, he breaks up Alex’s fight with Kyle and, eyes only for Alex, tenderly asks if he’s okay

Opens up to Alex about how music makes him feel—the only person Michael ever seems to open up to about this part of himself

Kisses him in the UFO Emporium

“[I’ve never done this] with anyone I’ve liked as much as I like you”

Bodily defends Alex from a hammer-wielding Jesse and ends up permanently (or whatever -_-) injured from it

Tries to approach Alex in the bar in 1x09 after Alex hasn’t spoken to him for almost two months with no explanation. Tries a second time to talk to him/get him to open up until Alex shuts him down.

He says yes when Alex says Michael loved him for a long time

“We just connected like something—” “Cosmic.”

Opens up to Alex about his profoundly abusive childhood. Alex is the first person Michael is shown to trust with this part of himself in present day.

As soon as knowing about aliens doesn’t send Alex running screaming, Michael shows him his lab and everything he’s been working on even though an episode ago he was telling Liz not to touch it with Isobel’s life on the line.

“If anyone’s going to destroy me, it might as well be you.”

“Alex was the first person to make me feel like there was a place for me here.”

Loves Alex so much he leaves the mother he’s been searching for his entire life instead of staying to die beside her because Alex wouldn’t leave him otherwise.

“I love him, I probably always will.” <- the only time either of them has used love in the present tense about the other

So yeah, that’s a substantial but probably not comprehensive list of the ways Michael loves Alex and expresses it. Michael is not always nice; he’s mean when he gets defensive, and he gets defensive a lot. But throughout season 1 he also regularly puts himself out there for Alex while still respecting his space whenever Alex asks for it (which happens at least three times that I can think of—after the reunion, until Alex comes to him at the end of 1x02; after the drive in all the way until 1x09; and after the bar in 1x09 until, again, Alex changes his mind).

I’d also like to address a specific criticism I’ve seen about Michael’s feelings for Alex. No, Michael doesn’t bring up Alex to other people; but Alex specifically says he doesn’t want Isobel to know about them in 1x03 and never expresses a change of heart with regards to that. Michael talking about his relationship with Alex would be against his wishes and, frankly, really out of line and a denial of Alex’s agency. He’s not perfectly gracious about it, but it’s something that hurts him. He wants their relationship to be known, and Alex doesn’t until much, much later. As for Michael not defending Alex verbally…at what point does Alex require that verbal defense? No one ever talks bad about Alex to Michael! The only times Michael is there when Alex is under attack are at prom—and Michael intervenes—and in the shed—and Michael throws himself at Jesse screaming “don’t touch him.” Asking that Michael give the same verbal defense of Alex as Alex does for him is such a false equivalency, because their circumstances aren’t the same. It’s like saying “well if Alex really loved Michael he would tell someone that he’d hate them if they made Michael leave him.”

In season 2, Michael is pushing everyone away. He feels poisoned by hope, and explicitly, Alex represents hope in better things to Michael. Michael absolutely pushes Alex away in season 2. He’s not particularly kind about it. Especially in 2x02. But in 2x01 when he says that he doesn’t think they’re good for each other, he includes his own fault in that--he admits that he thinks he hasn’t been good for Alex either. And furthermore, the thing he says that people hate? “All our years of this, I’ve never said no to you. You come and you go and I go where you put me. This is me saying no.” Is also Michael admitting his own fault. It’s not an entirely accurate statement--we know of one instance and I think we can safely infer others where Michael said no with his actions if not his words--but it is him acknowledging that his own passivity in their relationship was half the problem and him setting a boundary to break that cycle.

I think most malex fans were dissatisfied in various ways by season 2, and I think that inconsistencies and skewed priorities in the writing damaged the arcs and characterizations of just about every character, michael and alex very much included. But I think it’s disingenuous not to accept that the show wants us to believe, and therefore will proceed with this dynamic at the base, that both michael and alex contributed equally to the ways their relationship fell apart and hurt the other. With both of them having such a long history of trauma, with both of them having so few examples of healthy relationships to draw on in their lives, it’s not surprising things went like they did.

We end the season on can we both stop keeping score. I think fandom should take a hint from that. This list isn’t meant to be Michael’s scorecard, but merely a refutation of the idea that Michael’s love for Alex is an informed attribute. The idea that Michael hasn’t been shown to love Alex so deeply that it’s a part of who he is…that the foundation hasn’t been laid…it isn’t supported by canon. He loves him a lot. He loves him to distraction, to the point of agony, to the point of peace. Even after everything in season 2, he drops everything and makes a bomb that he thinks could wipe out his species to save Alex. Michael Guerin loves Alex Manes.

But that doesn’t mean that you as a fan have to keep shipping them. Even if they’re what got you into the show. Even if you think they’re going to be endgame. Even if you think they’re the only way you’re going to get eyes on your fanwork. If you hate half the ship, I encourage you to find a ship that makes you happier instead of subjecting yourself to a character you can’t stand. Also, if you’re going to write vent fic about how insufferable you find a certain character and how much you want them to Pay for their Crimes, it’s polite to tag it thusly.

#rnm meta

97 notes · View notes

buggie-hagen · 3 years

Text

Funeral Sermon for Max (9/17/21)

Primary Text | John 8:31-36

----------------------------------------------------

Dear People of God,

Whenever we face death, especially the death of a young person, especially the death of a young person who took their own life, the temptation is only to focus on the good things, the easy things. But only focusing on what is easy to talk about is a false comfort. Silence feeds the stigma that surrounds mental illness and the circumstances of taking one’s own life. What we have here is a tragedy. We have and we will certainly take time to honor the many and great accomplishments that can be said about our sibling Max. But to minimize, sugarcoat, or ignore the darkness that hangs over this day, to minimize the darkness that enveloped Max, would be a great disservice to them and to those who mourn. It is because we have a crucified Lord, we have a God who did not turn away from the darkness, but endured it, who was put to death by it. Thus, in Christ we have a God who leads us not around the darkness, but through the darkness. (pause) In our hearts, we know we lost Max too early. It is a grievous thing for a parent to have to bury their child. Instead of turning away in shame because of Max’s mental illness, let us face it together. Let us cry together. Let us take to heart that Max endured great pain within themself, a pain that caused despair. When someone struggles with mental health it is hard, even impossible, to see beyond what the binoculars focus on. Max couldn’t see for themself how much they were loved. They were hard on themself. They felt they had to be perfect. They were in pain, and they felt there was no way out of that pain. It is the tyranny of the evil one, the one who relentlessly accuses us with his flaming arrows, as to why we don’t have Max alive.

We are gathered here today because sin, death, and the devil have had their say. They have demonstrated their power. (pause) It is especially when the darkness makes its move that I am bidden to speak on God’s behalf the words he has authorized me to speak. I must speak to you about Christ, he is the good news for our bad situation. For those of us who remain today, whether we’re family, friends, or know Max in some other way, there are questions lingering in the air. I’m sure many of us are wondering what we could have done differently to save Max. I also wonder that. A question going through your head might be, “Maybe Max would be alive if I had said or did this one thing.” “…If I had not said or did this one thing,” “If only I knew what was going on, I would have bee there.” Maybe if Max had the right treatment, the right meds, the right therapy. You must know this, for whatever way any one of us have failed, there is one truth that stands—God forgives you. For the sake of Jesus Christ, you are absolved of all your sins. Beyond the shadow of a doubt the guilt you carry does not lay on you anymore, it is laid on Jesus Christ. And that is what you must remind yourself when this question comes up and your conscience accuses you, you are forgiven. Christ is the truth that makes you free from all that burdens you. As you go on with the day, the weeks, the months, the years, you will feel grief, I’m sure of it. But know there is a peace that surpasses all understanding, it is called God’s peace. God’s peace is not something that we make from within ourselves, like if we were to sit quietly and meditate. God’s peace is something that comes to you from outside yourselves. God gives it. And this peace is also Max’s, because Max belongs to Christ, it is their inheritance. When there is no light, remember that God meets us most profoundly in darkness and in suffering. This we know because Jesus Christ came, died, and rose for all, for you, for Max.

I’ll say to you the same thing that God said to Max on the most significant day of their life—the day they were baptized. As the water was poured out on their forehead in the name of the Triune God, God spoke this truth to Max, “I make you free,” “I make you free,” “I make you free, free indeed.” Baptism, of course, is not something done by our own power and abilities, it is done by God. The Sacrament of Holy Baptism is where God creates faith, no matter how feeble or dim. In baptism, Max was clothed with Christ. And a person who has been clothed with Christ is someone who has complete and total forgiveness of sins, someone who has life and has it abundantly, and someone who is saved in such a manner that nothing can snatch them out of God’s hands. The day Max was baptized is more significant than any other because it is that day that God made a decision about Max. That God would be their God. Forever. Through it all. No matter what. Sin, death, and the devil cannot take it away from them. Nor can Max themself do something that undoes it. The promise God made to Max remains and stands, “If the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.” And so Max is free. Max is now free of all the trouble they ever faced. (pause) Max felt they were alone, but God graciously was there, keeping his promise, through the very last breath. Nothing in all creation can separate Max from God’s love in Jesus Christ. Nothing. (Pause)

I should say, it has been my privilege to know Max since June. I’m sure many of you have known Max much longer. And if you know Max, you know Max is such a gift of God, and will be deeply missed. Throughout Max’s life, we can see glimpses of the freedom God gave them—You can see the beginning of Max’s freeness in all the wonderful ways they engaged the world around them. Whatever they participated in, it was no toe-dipping or light dabble, Max would go all in! They were a driven person with great zeal and passion which impacted whoever was around them. Max was a leader and loved debate team, Max was a featured state clarinetist, Max was knowledgeable and informed in politics. Max would speak on behalf of a more inclusive society, they would stand up for the underdog, and Max was also the valedictorian of the Rudolph High School Class of 2020. Max was a person with integrity. Family and friends and teachers and babysitters and many more have spoken to me how much they valued who Max was. They were a great friend, a great student, a great child, a great sibling. (pause) Max was also a person who wanted to live true to themself. Because I had met Max in June, I had never known Max by any other name. In August, they came out to me as nonbinary and as a person who uses they/them pronouns. When they came out to me I made sure to tell them I appreciate this about them and that I affirm them. For indeed, Max is one whom God has graciously chosen to favor, and that is what I have been bidden to say unequivocally.

The last time I saw Max was before they left for college to participate in the debate team. I lent them a book to read called Word of Life. On one of those pages, the author writes to his bereaved child, “That’s all we have in the end…faith alone. Trust that God will in the end act, either in this life or at the resurrection. But in the end, the enemies, even death, will be defeated.” God will act in Jesus Christ, death will be defeated. This is not the end of Max. Through his Son God has set foot in Max’s life to free them from all that binds them. Therefore, Max is free, free indeed. Nothing can take that away now. All the wonderful accomplishments Max has under their belt, are a whisper of what is to come. Take this to heart, Max has a future much greater than their past. Max has a future much greater than their past.

#keypreaching #sermon #funeral #nonbinary #suicide #personal names and place names changed for anonymity

2 notes · View notes

kiradaxx · 4 years

Text

Year of Recovery- A J/7 fic

Hello! I’m new to the J/7 fandom, but Voyager has become one of my favorite quarantine watches. I’ve only just watched it for the first time now, and I got sucked right into this ship. I’ve got so many fanfiction ideas swirling around my brain now, and I’ve started writing one of them! This story won’t be complete for a while, but I wanted to put up a couple of snippets of what I’ve written so far to start engaging with the fandom!

This story’s current working title is Year of Recovery, and it is a slightly AU take on the Year of Hell episodes. Janeway crashes Voyager into the Krenim time ship, and successfully prevents the Year of Hell from happening. But what if the timeline wasn’t restored quite as neatly as she had hoped?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Day 226

This was the moment that would change Kathryn Janeway’s life forever.

This was the moment that would end Kathryn Janeway's life. Forever.

She inhaled deeply, staring out the massive tear in the hull of her ship where the forward viewscreen had been just moments ago, watching the ensuing battle that raged around her. Watching her enemy just beyond the gradually weakening emergency force field, the only barrier left to prevent the cold vacuum of space from extending into the bridge. She was already dead on the inside, the empty expression on her face reflecting the weight of the past year’s immense losses and traumas.

So much loss, so much pain, she could scarcely recall it all. Except she could, in terrible, excruciating detail. Every hit Voyager took, every crew member she lost, every friend gravely, even permanently, injured. Every moment of the past year was burned into her brain as indelibly as the scars from the deflector room fire had been seared into the skin of her face, arms, and hands.

The flames and weapons fire that were both battering and emanating from the time ship, perhaps the worst enemy she’d ever faced, leaped in the glassy mirror of her eyes. For the first time in months, the flames of her own internal fire surged up to meet them, and she had a moment of such pure clarity, she could almost cry at the simplicity of it all.

The voice of her chief security officer crackled in over their comm link. “All our ships have been disabled, Captain. Do you have weapons?”

“Negative, torpedo launchers are down.”

“How do you wish to proceed?”

“I’m setting a collision course.”

At first there was no response. Tuvok said nothing, but the voice of another came through, strangled by more than just the weak connection. “Kathryn, please, don’t do this.”

She allowed herself one moment, a single breath, to grieve for yet another loss. She didn’t bother arguing, there was no other course left. “I love you,” she whispered, for once not masking the pain or the depth of her emotion. She forced herself to ignore the silence that met her words; she honestly didn’t know if a response would have hurt more anyway. She broke the comm link.

Maybe she could undo this. Maybe not. But she could, and would, end this. Now.

This would be the moment that ended Kathryn Janeway, forever. She knew this profoundly. And she gave her last words, spoken as a command, enunciated with deadly precision. “Time’s up.”

So quickly, yet so slowly, Voyager’s bow careened into the hull of the Krenim time vessel, crashing with devastating brute force into the exact coordinates of the temporal core. She thought her death would be louder, scarier. Instead, her final moment was nothing. Nothing but such an abrupt halt to everything, to the momentum of everything her life had ever been building up to. The end was weightlessness and shockwave impact that stopped everything she was and would ever be in an instant so quick, she couldn’t process anything. Flames were swallowing the bridge, swallowing the blackness of space, swallowing her. So much fire filled her vision, the last thing Kathryn Janeway ever saw.

Day 1

“Something’s wrong,” Janeway spoke under her breath, low and muttered, with no real intention to be heard by any other. At a normal volume, she ordered, “Keep looking, M’Kar.”

Chakotay had been gracious with his patient curiosity, was still waiting calmly for Janeway to explain her sudden concern, and she finally attempted to release enough of her internal red alert to offer the explanation she knew she owed him.

“I’ve got a bad feeling, Commander,” she spoke with her eyes fixed to M’Kar and the electrical conduit. Her voice was low once more,; this conversation wouldn’t do to be shouted across the bridge, alarming all those on duty. Chakotay’s brow furrowed in further question, a motion caught from the corner of her eye, and she elaborated, “I don’t know what it is yet, but I can feel something is off.” Louder, she addressed the entire bridge, sitting forward in her chair. “I saw something occurring with that conduit. Some sort of malfunction. If we can’t trace it to the conduit, I want every centimeter of this bridge scanned.”

...

When she stepped back onto the bridge, her face was composed perfectly. She could not say the same for her crew. The staff of the bridge apparently had remained fixed in place when she’d disappeared into her ready room, almost as if she’d paused the characters of a holonovel. They tracked her with their eyes as she crossed the small section of the bridge that separated her from the turbolift, eyes still wide and among a few, even scared. Poor Harry seemed as though he was on the verge of tears.

One face in particular caught her attention, and she faltered minutely on the small set of steps in front of the tactical station. Seven of Nine, the newest addition to Voyager’s crew. Her stare was piercing as she followed Janeway’s path to the turbolift. Her shock was hidden in the intensity of her gaze, discernible nowhere else in her expression.

Day 3

Her head tipped back and her shoulders slumped in a posture of defeat she’d never let another witness. Staring at the ceiling, she silently asked herself now what? She still had another eleven minutes until she was due in astrometrics, and she’d planned to use those minutes to finish solidifying her composure. Whoever was at her door would simply have to wait until later that evening, she decided. There was no reason she couldn’t already be on her way down to deck 8, in theory, and by ignoring the chime her visitor would hopefully assume this and go looking for her there. She could field their question or request later.

The door chimed again, and when she still ignored the call, a third chime rang out in her quarters. Zipping up her jacket angrily, Janeway stalked into the main sitting room of her quarters and barked out, “Computer, who is outside my door?”

“Seven of Nine is outside the captain’s quarters.”

She groaned and raked her fingers through her hair. No wonder the chimes continued; Seven wasn’t one to give up easily. .

“Seven of Nine to Captain Janeway.”

�� ...

“Seven of Nine to Captain Janeway. Ignoring me is inefficient, Captain. I will not leave this spot until you open the door. Doing so now will save us both time.”

She took a sip of her coffee, lip curling in distaste when the tepid liquid met her tongue. One of these days she’d have to get that damn replicator fixed. “Computer, what time is it?”

“The time is 1753 hours.”

“I can hear your voice, Captain. I am aware you are inside. If necessary, I will continue to aggravate you until you relent.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Janeway rolled her eyes again, twice as viciously and stalked away from the replicator. She slapped her comm badge with more force than necessary, and in a low voice she asked, “What do you want, Seven?”

For a brief moment, there was no response, and she wondered if maybe Seven had not been so confident in her inevitable victory after all. She pinched the bridge of her nose, wishing she had just held out for a little longer, called Seven’s bluff.

“I wish to speak with you, Captain.”

“Can’t this wait?”

“It has waited. For forty-six hours and 32 minutes.”

Perhaps angrier than rational, Janeway took a deep breath in, and remained motionless. She stood with one hand on her hip, and the other clenched at her side, summoning the calm control she relied on to guide her through moments where her temper flared. Finally, she called to allow Seven inside her quarters.

#star trek voyager #kathryn janeway #captain janeway #captain kathryn janeway #seven of nine #j/7 #janeway x seven #fanfiction #j/7 fanfiction

25 notes · View notes

celestialholz · 4 years

Text

A Good Day To Die

Hello, dear Qcard squad - happy slightly belated Tapestry Day! <3 I’m SO SORRY this is a little late, though for once it’s absolutely not my fault! I’m visiting some family up in northern England, and there’s been a hell of a storm that’s outed several power lines locally - they’ve only just reconnected this morning, so I’m finally able to pop this up as my laptop now has some charge! I shall be reblogging all your lovely contributions with commentary tags today too. <3

Let me tell you a quick story before the actual one though, friends, of a girl on a Saturday afternoon playthrough of TNG for the first time, about six years ago now; already a huge fan obviously because we’re in series six, already very much in love with Q and the indomitable captain, but I’d wondered here and there: why was Jean-Luc so special? Sure, he was clever and wonderfully diplomatic, even a bit nuanced, and a nice change of pace from Kirk, who I also loved - but where did this spark come from? Why was he a rebel sometimes, when he seemed to play so much by the book most of the time?

... And then we get to this. A fascinating premise right from the word go of an immediately deceased/critically injured Picard, going into the fascination of a void space, a god cloaked in white with his usual wondrous enigma, and what’s always been to me the single finest piece of character exploration in the whole of the Trek canon. It’s intelligent, deeply amusing, philosophical, psychological, fascinating... we watch this man fall apart and rebuild and learn his lessons, and all the while we have this gorgeous chemistry, this blatant and beautiful homosexual coding, between our two stars, with Q’s ambiguous motives and goddamn, I was enchanted.

... Honestly, it’s my favourite fucking TV hour of all time, and it’s my pleasure to finally celebrate its anniversary properly. My great thanks to @q-card for taking my idea and running wild with it, you marvellous being you. <333

I’d planned to make something much grander and mad for this accordingly, but... well, you know how it is. Very long week, depression... eurgh. So instead, please accept something a fair bit shorter but no less lovely: a parable of ancient Egyptian culture, a delicious dose of angst and love, and the promise of forever from a man who really can’t understand the meaning of the word, but wants nothing more than to offer it anyway. Set during STP, and I for one think this would be a lovely way to end it all...

-----------------------------------------------------------------

It’s fitting, Jean-Luc, he thinks serenely as he disengages the autopilot with a pang of adrenaline, a silent resignation, stoicism etched into his weathered features. Everything has its time, dear man, and you’ve had more than most.

There’s no real other method of death he’d have been content with, if he’s being honest with himself. It’s explosions, fireworks, heat, when he’s too old for any of it physically, when he’s exhausted mentally, but can still lay claim to the most youthful and adventurous spirits, the very soul of a captain; it’s plunging into a supernova at sub-warp to take out the rejuvenated Borg fleet in the resultant fire, beings he abhors so profoundly, is still so very haunted by all these years later, still has nightmares of his time amongst their number.

The protests of his newfound crew echo through his mind, the panic of five minutes prior naturally fresh; a simple plan, ultimately, forged days after he’d discovered their real enemy. Emergency transport, patterns already established, ready for the simple verbal command of a destination within reach; his friends enveloped, incapable of escape without the certainty of scattering to atoms, horror absolute.

“Admiral, you can’t be fucking serious - ”

“This cannot be how our quest ends! I will never forgive you!”

“... No, no, I know that look - JL, you can’t , you bastard - !”

“They took you once, Captain; we’ve won, dammit! There is no need to prove it further!”

He shivers with their regrets, jaw setting in defiance of his actions - it isn’t about proving anything, and he’d imagined Seven of all people would know that good and well. It’s about setting the universe to rights, ensuring continued prosperity from a species who deserve simply to be left in peace, who had been through more than enough to last them multiple lifetimes... to perhaps finally repaying a fraction of the debt he owed to the dead, the assimilated, of Wolf 359. It will never absolve him; nothing ever could.

But he can ensure it never has to happen again - not to him, not to another living soul in this quadrant. This is their last stand, and he will eradicate them. He isn’t a threat, of course - why would he be, in his tiny vessel?

Resistance is not, and never has been, futile, he acknowledges coldly, teeth beared in disgust. You wanted me to lead you, didn’t you? Allow me to make it so.

“Warning: recommend immediate retreat. Heat shields at thirty-one percent integrity; collision course with Elphoric Supernova in three minutes, thirty seconds.”

“Computer,” he announces frostily, “cease warnings.”

“With respect, my dearest admiral, perhaps you’d do well to pay attention.”

His mechanical heart skips several beats in the same moment, frenzy racing up his spine in anger, anticipation, anguish -

He hasn’t seen the speaker in four years, but he’ll turn up for the last three and a half minutes?

The flash claims his vision, the signature ping resounds, and the air falls immediately silent as he stares at eyes that read eternity and burn solely for him.

“Would you mind explaining what the hell you’re doing?”

He takes a full ten seconds of his remaining few minutes to simply absorb his husband’s presence, the faint lines that crease his forehead, the unspoken despair and the silent love and the carvings of exhaustion, and it’s as though something snaps once more back into place in his soul; as though he’s finally returned home after a solid millennia of travelling, embraced instantly by recalled warmth and comfort and precious, precious familiarity.

... Perhaps he ought to be less furious.

“... War’s over then, I take it?” His voice cracks through the stagnant bridge, and for the briefest of moments, he forgets entirely that he’s voluntarily crashing to his own destruction.

Q’s gaze flickers, stricken, and he regards his spouse with disbelief, crouching before him.

“Hardly the moment.” He curls fingers around shaking ones, squeezes tightly. “Honestly, I leave you alone for five minutes -”

“Four years,” Picard intones, hollow, charcoal eyes ablaze. “Four, dammit.”

Q winces, digs finely manicured nails gently into aged skin with sorrow. “Bit difficult to keep track when the universe is falling apart, though I thought my dearly espoused was rather above the ultimate display of tragic hubris.”

“This isn’t arrogance,” Picard snaps in response, suddenly furious.

The god raises a brow, turns from him for a moment to consult the cosmos; he analyses the situation quietly, eyes falling shut before they wrench open in horror.

“... Oh,” he realises aloud, returning a pitying gaze to his husband. “Well, I was planning to take you for dinner, celebrate our reunion, but... it had to the Borg, of course. It was going to be magnificent, you know. All candles, oysters, Risan teal whiskey - imagine you’ve grown a little weary of the family vintage by now -”

Picard’s internal chronometer, borne of years of starship clockwork efficiency, ticks over to ninety seconds, and he’s kissing him with desperation, with the misery of parting, the anxiety of war, the coldness of a universe where no one else can ever quite understand -

It’s brief because it has to be, given the circumstances, but it’s no less intense for it, shot through on both sides with passion and need and loss and reestablished harmony; they break eventually, slipping back to rest foreheads together, and Q is breathless with pain as he whispers.

“My universe has already shattered once, Jean-Luc.”

Picard blinks against the tears that threaten, the anguish that engulfs him at the very thought.

“It’s the Borg, Q,” he explains simply, voice woven with apology.

“... And it doesn’t count for anything that I could click them to dust, I imagine, stop them threatening anyone ever again?”

He smiles warmly, bitterness rich - not at an entity who has been trying to save his people, he could never be angry at that. He’s trying to do the same, isn’t he? Always has.

No, life is merely unfair, and it has to end eventually.

“‘Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it,’” he quotes gently, and a rasp of a sob trips from Q’s tongue.

“Stupid, noble, self-sacrificing idiot,” he breathes, thumb running over the wedding ring unconsciously. “The shen ring, Jean-Luc; you’ve always admired the ancients. The symbol of eternal protection.”

A single tear slips down his cheek, a stammered exhale follows, and he locks eyes to his in true dread. “Please, darling - tell me we can still go for dinner.”

Everything in creation drowns in silence, even as the console roars at him that he’s thirty seconds from death; nothing matters but his words, his long-spoken promise - that his husband absolutely comprehends them.

“I’d be offended we didn’t, frankly,” he whispers. “Haven’t seen you in years, we’re rather overdue a catch-up.”

He kisses his brow tenderly, physically feels the permanence of the relief that bursts through the god; he has to make sure, nevertheless.

“Perhaps tomorrow, we could watch the meteor shower on Tansid VI.” He softly pulls Q’s thumb back to the wedding ring, to the tangibility of what it offers, the vow it proclaims, and runs his own preciously across it. “Croissants. Champagne. Different region, different grapes - I’m not quite bored of that one yet.”

“And the day after?” Q’s voice cracks, brittle as sand.

“Oh, moons of Tanothry Prime, I imagine. Driver’s choice. Though I’d quite enjoy a trip to the Magellanic Clouds, perhaps in a few centuries.”

Another sob, profound this time, raises, stuttered, from his immortal spouse.

“I reserve the right to make it hurt less.”

“Oh, please do, my love. My Thoth.”

Q stifles a laugh, so wondrously enamoured. “The Egyptian god of the dead, of magic and wisdom.”

“‘As for Thoth, he crosses the sky in my presence; I pass safely.’“

“Yes, you do,” the deity vows, adoration warming the severity of his features. “Nothing will ever have to hurt you again, darling.”

It’s a strange experience, dying without fear. He’d been so certain, so determined, but so very afraid.

“Ten seconds to impact,” the computer chimes, emotionless.

“I have a dog,” Picard tells his husband, eyes falling closed. “You wouldn’t much like his name.”

Q smiles tightly, clings to him.

“I do hope it isn’t mine,” he replies dryly, and the human chuckles as the ship ignites around them.

“Oh, it’s so much worse.” He beams tenderly at him, braces for impact. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Yeah,” Q breathes, caressing his ring, and together they burn.

#qcard #Jean-Luc Picard #Q #writing #tng #star trek picard #tapestry day #happy anniversary guys! <3

48 notes · View notes

whitewolfofwinterfell · 4 years

Note

(2/2) especially given that the first thing i shipped once i knew what shipping was comes from the realm of daytime soaps, where people are betraying and backstabbing each other constantly lol. for me, i think it comes down to framing. if the show frames a pairing as abusive/toxic, i can deal with it a lot better than with fandoms and shows that romanticize it or sweep it under the rug. that, and of course, chemistry, is a big part of the reason i hate ships like c$ but can enjoy a pairing (2/3)

So, Tumblr ate some of your asks again (damn this hellsite lol) but we spoke on PM’s and you explained that in your other asks, you discussed toxic/dark ships, asked me what makes a dark ship work for me and the darkest ship I’ve ever shipped. You also said that some of the toxic ships you like such as Todd/Blaor and Joker/Harley work for you because of the framing of those ships.

I want to start off by saying, thank you so much for this ask. It’s such an interesting topic to discuss and I feel like it’s very relevant in fandom. There’s this hysteria around “abusive”, “toxic” and “dark” ships with people misusing or misunderstanding those words. I briefly discussed this previously in an ask I recieved about Stelena being abusive, which you can read here if you’re interested.

Overall, I think dark ships are brilliant because when they’re done correctly they can be the most intruiging, complex, authentic and gripping relationships in television. There’s no getting around the fact that love is tricky and complicated, and it can lead people down dark paths. Also, everyone has their issues, insecurities and scars, which often bleed into their relationships. So it’s only right that these sort of relationships should be portrayed in the media.

I feel very much the same as you about what makes a dark/toxic ship work for me. It’s all about the way that it’s portrayed and written. I can’t ship a dark or toxic ship when it’s romanticised or when the toxicity is glossed over or ignored, which is the case with ships like Ross/Rachel (Friends), Damon/Elena (The Vampire Diaries), Spike/Buffy (Buffy the Vampire Slayer - although my only qualms with this ship are in season 7, I actually think they were well written in season 6), Edward/Bella (Twlight) and many more. I have a particular issue with this because I think of all the young people that watch or read about these kind of relationships and aspire to have them and it concerns me. In my opinion, nobody should aspire to have a relationship like any of the ones I’ve just named or any other like them.

Dark ships work for me when they’re authentic and realistic. These types of relationships are intense and passionate, but they’re also exhausting and very detrimental to the people involved. So when I see a ship like this I expect to see that. I expect to see the consequences, to see the people change as a result of the relationship and be pushed to the extremes. I’ve discussed this previously in response to an ask about Delena which you can read here (be warned, it is anti-Delena). In that ask, I use Jax and Tara as an example of a toxic ship that works, and I stand by that. What makes Jax and Tara work so well as a toxic ship is that it’s constantly acknowledged and we see the devastating impact their relationship has on both of them, but Tara in particular. Yet with ships such as Damon/Elena or Emma/Hook, all I ever see is their love being glorified and romanticised.

I have to admit, I don’t have a tendency to ship dark ships. I’d say the only ships that I have that could fall into this category are Cook/Effy (Skins), Damon/Katherine (The Vampire Diaries), Dexter/Debra (Dexter), Ben/Callum (Eastenders) and Henry/Anne (The Tudors). There may be others, but I can’t think of any off the top of my head. There are different reasons as to why I still ship these couples despite them being dark and/or toxic. I’m going to analyse these ships one by one. Feel free to skip over this, because it’s going to be long and I’m literally just using this as the perfect excuse to talk about some of my favourite ships lol.

Cook and Effy (Skins)

I’ve spoken pretty in-depth about Cook and Effy being toxic and bad for each other previously. However, I’ll do it again because there are little things that I missed from my previous meta. Cook and Effy are toxic for one another at points, and this stems from the fact that as individuals they have a lot of issues and they use each other as a buffer for those issues. The reason they enter into a sexual relationship in season 3 is because they both use sex as way to deal with the disconnect they feel with others, but also because Cook wants to get one over on Freddie and Effy wants to deny her feelings for Freddie. As a result, they both unintentionally hurt each other. Cook knows that Effy is using him, but he allows it to happen which feeds into Effy’s pain about Freddie, whilst simuetanously causing himself pain, because he has genuine feelings for Effy. Their communication throughout season 3 is poor and they’re rarely honest with each other. Cook knows that Effy is in love with Freddie, but neither of them address this and it causes them both a lot of hurt. They also use each other as an escape. They run away together at the end of season 3; Effy to get away from Freddie and Cook because he wants to pursue the fantasy that he and Effy are going to live happily ever after. Although Effy willingly stays with Cook during that time, he does take her away from her home and loved ones and isolates her to an extent, because he wants to pursue this fantasy by any means necessary. He knows Effy doesn’t love him the way he loves her, but he goes into denial because he’d rather live a lie than lose her.

In season 4, when Effy finally admits her feelings for Freddie and gets into a relationship with him, she continues to cause Cook pain because she never validates his love for her. Instead, she ridicules and belittles him for it and downplays their relationship. When he tells her he still loves her, she tells him to piss off and later on she tells him that he was never good for her. Instead of admitting that what they had was real, but that she simply loved Freddie more, she makes Cook feel stupid as though what they had meant nothing. This leads to Cook once again going into denial. When Effy is suffering from mental illness and appears to not remember him, he plays along with her because it enables him to be with her, even if just for a short time.

The reason I’m still able to ship Cook and Effy is because despite the toxicity, there’s an equality present in their relationship. Everything that happens between them is mutual. Cook loves Effy but he never actively manipulates, coerces or pressures her to be with him in any way. In fact, he respects and accepts that she loves Freddie even though it hurts him. Effy hurts Cook by undermining their love, but excluding the one occassion where she tells him to piss off, she respects him and treats him with kindness. Cook and Effy never purposefully hurt each other or try to keep each other harm. The hurt they do cause each other is more an extension of their individual issues which have a knock on effect when it comes to their relationship. It’s not their relationship that’s toxic, it’s them as individuals. But also, the narrative never portrays Cook and Effy as being anything other than they are. We see the detrimental impact of their relationship and we hear Effy admit that they were bad for each other and would’ve never worked.

Damon and Katherine (The Vampire Diaries)

Once again, I have discussed Damon and Katherine’s relationship in-depth over at my writing side-blog, so don’t need to go into too much detail. I don’t think any explanation is needed here as to why Damon and Katherine are toxic. From the moment Katherine meets Damon she uses him for her own amusement, she sleeps with Damon and his brother at the same time without any regard for Damon’s feelings, controls every aspect of their relationship to suit her, fakes her death and lets Damon think she’s dead for over a century, continually plays with Damon’s feelings to get the reaction she wants, is continually dismissive of his love for her and rubs the fact that she loves Stefan in Damon’s face. And that’s just the aspects of their relationship that are toxic from Katherine’s side. Damon’s love for Katherine is so consuming that he goes to terrible lengths to be with her and when she rejects him resorts to violence and cruelty.

But again, the reason I’m able to ship them is because Damon and Katherine opearate on a level playing field. At the start of their relationship when Damon is human, Katherine definitley has an upper hand, but later on it’s tit for tat. They both hurt and manipulate each other, and in fact, they almost thrive on it. It’s part of how they communicate and relate to one another. Over the years, their feelings for each other become so twisted that they can’t express their love in the correct way anymore. Most importantly, just like with Cook and Effy, the narrative never strays from what Damon and Katherine are. They’re not true love, they’re not good for each other, they’re not healthy or a love to aspire to have. They’re profoundly connected and have a dark, twisted and complex history which is underlined with love but that manifests itself in often awful ways.

Dexter and Debra (Dexter)

These two are by far the darkest and most controversial ship I’ve ever shipped. As adopted siblings, there’s an incestious nature to the relationship which immediately creates toxcity in their relationship, but as individuals Dexter and Debra are both really messed up. Dexter is a self-proclaimed psychopath and serial killer, and Debra endures a lot of trauma throughout the series which deeply impacts her. Dexter and Debra have such an unhealthy and co-dependent relationship, it’s actually kinda crazy. Dexter lies to Debra and keeps an entire aspect of himself and his life a secret, he kills for Debra, he fails to validate or understand her feelings for him and he emotionally blackmails her. Debra lies and compromises her entire identity and morals to protect Dexter’s secret of being a serial killer, she murders an innocent woman to protect him and harbours a wanted criminal for him. Dexter and Deb will quite literally do anything to protect each other, but the result is devastating. You only have to watch Deb in season 8 to see just how damaging and toxic her relationship with Dexter is to her. Dexter and her love for him quite literally destroys her.

So it begs the question how and why do I ship these two? Well, the answer is the same as always: because the narrative doesn’t portray them as anything other than exactly what they are. Their relationship and Deb’s feelings for Dexter are completely fucked up and we’re told and shown that repeatedly. They’re not romanticised in any way, if anything they’re written in a way that would make most fans and viewers despise their relationship, particularly the romantic aspect of it. The show is true to them as individual characters and the toxicity of their relationship is authentic and understandable. I’ve briefly spoke about this previously, but Dexter and Debra’s relationship is supposed to be completely messed up because it’s an extension of them. Dexter, in particular, is damaged beyond repair and destroys everything he touches. Debra is part of that. Likewise, her falling for him makes perfect sense in the context of what she endures. Deb is a naturally self-destructive and self-loathing person, and loving Dexter is the biggest act of self-destruction she could ever enter into. In my opinion, of all the dark ships I have, Dexter and Debra are the perfect example of it being done right. They’re so dark and they love each other so much, but every step of the way the toxicity of their relationship is acknowledged and explored properly.

Ben and Callum (Eastenders)

I love Ben and Callum so much, and as far as they’ve come in their relationship, I can’t help but see the toxicity of it. In the beginning, Callum was unsure of his sexuality, was extremely closeted and carried a lot of internalised homophobia and self-hatred. This impacted on his relationship with Ben who had struggled with the same issues and didn’t want to return to that sad, lonely and miserable place. Callum’s relationship with Whitney and inability to admit his feelings for Ben made Ben feel rejected, sidelined and frustrated. At the same time this was going on, Ben’s issues of being afraid to love and let someone in after his ex was murdered, meant that he was unable to be completely open to Callum. By the time Callum was ready to come out and embrace his feelings for Ben, Ben was scared and backed away from Callum. Since the two have entered into a relationship, there’s been so much hurt and so much back and fourth. Ben is so afraid of hurting Callum and bringing harm to him, that he constantly pushes him away. The issue is that whether they’re together or not, Callum and Ben get hurt simply by loving each other. When Ben breaks up with Callum or pushes him away, they’re both heartbroken and long to be together again. But when Ben and Callum are together, their differences causes issues, and Ben’s actions put Callum in awful positions. Callum’s been forced to keep an innocent man’s murder a secret (he wasn’t really dead, but Callum didn’t know that), and now Callum’s been kidnapped and beaten, his life threatened, because of Ben’s actions. Ben has gone to extremes to save Callum including holding a gun to his own dad’s head and threatening to pull the trigger.

Unlike the other ships I’ve already discussed, the reason I’m still able to ship Ben and Callum isn’t because the narrative acknowledges they’re toxic for each other. It does acknowledge it, but the main reason I’m able to ship them is because none of the hurt they bring to each other is ever intentional. The hurt that Callum caused Ben before they were together was something he couldn’t control. He couldn’t force himself to come out and break up with Whitney. He had to come to terms with it in his own time and come out when he was good and ready. Likewise, Ben never intentionally hurts Callum. He does everything he can to protect him. Sure, he makes mistakes in trying to protect him, but all he ever wants is the best for Callum. A lot like Cook and Effy, the toxicity of Ben and Callum’s relationship doesn’t come from their relationship itself, but them as individuals. More specifically, Ben. Ben’s lifestyle, choices and actions have a detrimental impact on him and everyone around him (the mother of his child was also kidnapped not too long ago), including Callum.

Henry/Anne (The Tudors)

These two are a weird pairing to analyse, since they’re technically a real-life historical couple, but I’ll obviously be discussing them purely from a fictional stand-point and how they’re portrayed on The Tudors.

Henry and Anne are toxic as hell. Their relationship develops because Anne’s father uses her as a pawn to seduce Henry for the benefit of his own political career. Henry is also married to Katherine when their romantic relationship develops, so there’s infidelity and lies involved. Henry pursues Anne and although she falls for him, she actually has little agency in the early days. She’s told to entertain Henry and play on his attraction to her by her father, and later on, she has to submit to Henry because he’s the King of England. As the King of England, Henry has more power than any person should ever have and his arrogance and self righteousnous means that he’s more than happy to play on his power and use it to his advantage, even where Anne is concerned.

In the early stages of their relationship, considering the type of person he is, Henry is reasonably generous and gentle when it comes to Anne. He respects her, he listens to her and she has a voice in the relationship to a greater extent than Katherine did. But the moment that Anne challenges him or speaks out of turn, he shuts her down and forecfully reminds her that he’s the one with the power. He tells her to shut up and endure like her betters before her and he threatens her by telling her he can bring her down as quickly as he raised her. When she miscarries, he makes her feel that she’s a failed as a wife, mother and queen. He makes her feel embarassed, ashamed, anxious and unloved; the exact opposite of how she should feel during such a traumatic and painful time. Things only get worse when he proceeds to cheat on her whilst she’s pregnant. And we all know how this relationship ends. There are a lot of toxic ships out there but very few who actually kill their significant other, so Henry and Anne take the top spot for that alone.

The question arises again, why do I ship this? And it’s because a) they have amazing chemistry b) the ups and downs in the relationship are portrayed fantastically c) you visibly see the downfall of Anne as a result of her love for Henry. Anne is destroyed, both metaphorically and literally, by her relationship with Henry. None of the bad aspects of their relationships are ever masked or ignored, they’re laid bare, but we see that despite how bad they are for each other, they have a deeply intense and passionate love which neither of them can fight against.

So if you’ve read all of that, I guess I’d say that when it comes to dark/toxic ships, they don’t always work for me. I take them on their individual merit. Sometimes they work and other times they don’t. It all depends on how they’re written and portrayed, and how their relationship develops overtime

#answered #fatimagic #my meta

3 notes · View notes

nataandreev · 4 years

Text

Fragments from “Sister Outsider” Essays & Speeches by Audre Lorde

“Sister Outsider” was probably one of the most soul-fucking-searching book I ever read in my life. It made me question what I stand for so many times, that it made me sick to my stomach. I realized that I am not that good at this self-reflective-shit.

That my efforts of doing better are not anywhere close to where they should be. Audre Lorde taught me through her works that I got a lot of work to do. Like a lot. Her truth cuts deep. She has no mercy and her opinions are raw. They are hard to swallow. There were moments when I had to pause, because I wasn’t fully understanding it and weird enought I finished to read it today, February 18, 2020, on her birthday. Audre would’ve turn today 86 yo. Here are just a few fragments from the book, but, please, if you can read the whole thing.

Biography:

Audre Lorde is an American writer, feminist, womanist, librarian, and civil rights activist. As a poet, she is best known for technical mastery and emotional expression, as well as her poems that express anger and outrage at civil and social injustices she observed throughout her life. Her poems and prose largely deal with issues related to civil rights, feminism, lesbianism, illness and disability, and the exploration of black female identity via Wikipedia.

⁃ Poetry Is Not a Luxury

We are all more blind to what we have than to what we have not. The white fathers told us: I think therefore I am. The Black mother within each of us-the poet-whispers in our dreams: I feel, therefore I can be free. ⁃ The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action For within living structures defined by profit, by linear power, by institutional dehumanization, our feelings were not meant to survive. Kept around as unavoidable adjuncts or pleasant pastimes, feelings were expected to kneel to thought as women were expect to kneel to men. But women have survived. As poets. And there are no new pains. We have felt them all already. We have hidden that fact in the same place where we have hidden our power. They surface in our dreams, and it is our dreams that point the way to freedom. In becoming forcibly and essentially aware of my mortality, and of what I wished and wanted for my life, however short it might be, priorities and omissions became strongly etched in a merciless light, and what I most regretted were my silences. And I began to recognize a source of power within myself that comes from the knowledge that while it is most desirable not to be afraid, learning to put fear into a perspective gave me great strength. “Tell them about how you’re never really a whole person if you remain silent, because there’s always that one little piece inside you that wants to be spoken out, and if you keep ignoring it, it gets madder and madder and hotter, and if you don’t speak it out one day it will punch you in the mouth from the inside.” Because the machine will try to grind you into dust anyway, whether or not we speak. We can sit in our corners mute forever while our sisters and our selves are wasted, while our children are distorted, while our earth is poisoned; we can sit in our safe corners mute as bottles, and we will still be no less afraid. ⁃ Scratching the Surface: Some Notes on Barriers to Women and Loving The above forms of human blindness (racism, sexism, heterosexism and homophobia) stem from the same root - an inability to recognize the notion of difference as a dynamic human force, one which is enriching rather than threatening to define self, when there are shared goals. This kind of action is a prevalent error among oppressed peoples. It is based upon the false notion that there is only a limited and particular amount of freedom that must be divided up between us, with the largest and juiciest pieces of liberty going as spoils to the victor or the strongest. So instead of joining together to fight for more, we quarrel between ourselves for a larger slice of the one pie. ⁃ Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power* In order to perpetuate itself, every oppression must corrupt or distort those various sources of power within the culture of oppressed that can provide energy for change. The erotic is a measure between the beginnings of our sense of self and the chaos of our strongest feelings. It is an internal sense of satisfaction to which, once we experienced it, we know we can aspire. The principal horror of any system which defines the good in terms of profit rather than in terms of human need, or which defines human need to the exclusion of the psychic and emotional components of that need - the principal horror of such a s system is that it robs our work of its erotic value, it’s erotic power and life appeal and fulfillment. Such a system reduces work to a travesty of necessities, a duty by which we earn bread or oblivion for ourselves and those we love. But this is tantamount to blinding a painter and then telling her to improve her work, and to enjoy the act of painting. It is not only next to impossible, it is also profoundly cruel. That self-connection shared is a measure of the joy which I know myself to be capable of feeling, a reminder of my capacity for feeling. And that deep and irreplaceable knowledge of my capacity for joy comes to demand from all of my life that it be lived within the knowledge that such satisfaction is possible, and does not have to be called marriage , nor god , nor an afterlife. ⁃ Sexism: An American Disease in Blackface Black feminism is not white feminism in blackface. Black women have particular and legitimate issues which affect our lives as Black women, and addressing those issues does not make us any less Black. Now I am sure there are still some Black men who marry white women because they feel a white woman can better fit the model of “femininity” set forth in this country. As Black women and men, we cannot hope to begin dialogue by denying the oppressive nature of male privilege. And if Black makes choose to assume that privilege for whatever reason- raping,brutalizing, and killing Black women- then ignoring these acts of Black male oppression within our communities can only serve our destroyers. One oppression does not justify another. As people, we most certainly must work together. It would be shortsighted to believe that Black men alone are to blame for the above situations in a society dominated by white male privilege. But the Black male consciousness must be raised to the realization that sexism and woman-hating are critically dysfunctional to his liberation as Black man because they arise out of the same constellation that engenders racism and homophobia. ⁃ Man Child: A Black Lesbian Feminist’s Response Men who are afraid to feel must keep women around to do their feeling for them while dismissing us for the same supposedly “inferior “ capacity to feel deeply. But in this way also, men deny themselves their own essential humanity, becoming trapped in dependency and fear. “The next time you come in here crying ...,” and I suddenly caught myself in horror. This is the way we allow the destruction of our sons to begin in the name of protection and to ease our own pain. My son get beaten up? I was about to demand that he buy that first lesson in the corruption of power, that might makes right I could hear my cell beginning to perpetuate the age old distortions about what strength and ready bravery really are. It is hard for our children to believe that we are not only potent as it is for us to know it, as parents. But that knowledge is necessary as the first step in the reassessment of power as something other than might, age, privilege, or the lack of fear. It is important to step for a boy, whose societal destruction begins when he’s forced to believe that he can only be strong if he doesn’t feel, or if he wins. ⁃ An interview: Audre Lorde and Adrienne Rich They were very streetwise, but they had done very little work with themselves as Black women. They had done it only in relation to, against, whitey. The enemy was always outside. I did that course in the same way I did all the others, which was learning as I went along, asking the hard questions, not knowing what was coming next. The learning process is something you can incite, literally incite, like a riot. And then, just possibly, hopefully, it goes home, or on. I knew, as I had always known, that the only way you can head people off from using who you are against you is to be honest and open first, to talk about yourself before they talk about you. It wasn’t even courage. Speaking up was a protective mechanism for myself. The Black mother who is the poet exists in everyone of us. Now when males or patriarchal thinkers (whether male or a female) reject a combination, then we are truncated. Rationality is not necessary. It serves the chaos of knowledge. It serves feeling. It servers to get from this place to that place. But if you don’t honor those places, then the road is meaningless. Because we cannot fight old power in old power terms only. The only way we can do it is by creating another whole structure that touches every aspect of our existence, at the same time as we are resisting. There are different choices facing Black and white women in life, certain specifically different pitfalls surrounding us because of our experiences, our color. Not only are some of the problems that face us dissimilate, but some of the entrapments in the weapons used to neutralizers are not the same. I wish we could explore this more , about you and me, but also in general. I think it needs to be talked about, written about it: the differences in alternatives or choices we are offered as black and white women. There is a danger of seeing it in an all or nothing way. I think it’s very complex thing done what women are constantly offer choices or the appearance of choices but also real choices that are undeniable. We don’t always perceive the difference between the two. But documentation does not help one perceive. At best it only analyzes the perception that at worst, it provides a screen by which to avoid concentrating on the court revelation, following it down to how it feels. Again, knowledge and understanding. They can function in concert, but they don’t replace each other. But I am not rejecting your need for documentation. I can document the road to Abomey for you, and true, you might not get there without that information. I can respect what you are saying. But once you get there, only you know why, what you came for, as you search for it and perhaps find it. So at certain stages that request documentation as a blinder, a questioning of my perceptions. Someone once said to me that I hadn’t documented the goddess in Africa, the woman bond that moves throughout The Black Unicorn. I had to laugh. I am a poet, not a historian. I’ve shared my knowledge, I hope. Now you go documented it, if you, if you wish. I was holding back because I had not asked myself the question: “Why is women loving women so frightening to black men unless they want to assume the white male position?” It was a question of how much I could bear, and of not realizing I could bear more than I thought I could at the time. It was also a question of how could I use that perception other than just in rage or destruction. What understanding begins to do is to make knowledge available for use, and that’s the urgency, that’s the push , that’s the drive. That you had to understand what you knew and also make it available to others. ⁃ Master’s Tools For women, the need and desire to nurture each other is not pathological but redemptive, and it is within that knowledge that our real power is rediscovered. It is this real connection which is so feared by a patriarchal world. Only within a patriarchal structure is maternity the only social power open to women. Interdependency between women is the way to a freedom which allows the I to be, not in order to be used, but in order to be creative. This is the difference between the passive be and the active being. For the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house. They may allow us temporarily to beat him at his own game, but they will never enable us to bring about genuine change. And this fact is only threatening to those women who still define the master’s house as their only source of support. If white American feminist theory need not deal with the difference in oppressions, then how do you deal with the fact that the women who clean your houses and tend your children while you attend conferences on feminist theory are, for the most part, poor women and women of color? What is the theory behind racist feminism. The failure of academic feminists to recognize difference as a crucial strength is a failure to reach beyond the first patriarchal lesson. In our world, divide and conquer must become define and empower. In academic feminist circles, the answer to these questions is often, “We did not know who to ask.” But that is the same evasion of responsibility, the same cop-out, that keeps Black women’s art out of women’s exhibitions, Black women’s work out of most feminist publications except for the occasional “Special Third World Women’s Issue,” and Black women’s texts off your reading lists. But as Adrienne Rich pointed out in a recent talk, white feminists have educated themselves about such an enormous amount over the past ten years, how come you haven’t also educated yourselves about Black women and the difference between us-white and Black-when it is key to our survival as a movement? Women of today are still being called upon to stretch across the gap of male ignorance and to educate men as to our existence and our needs. This is an old and primary tool of all oppressors to keep the oppressed occupied with the master’s concerns. Now we hear that it is the task of women of Color to educate white women-in the face of tremendous resistance-as to our existence, our differences, our relative roles in our joint survival. This is a diversion of energies and a tragical repetition of racist patriarchal thought. Simone de Beauvoir once said: “It is in the knowledge of the genuine conditions of our lives that we must draw our strength to live and our reasons for acting.” Racism and homophobia are real conditions of all our lives in this place and time. I urge each one of us here to reach down into that deep place of knowledge inside herself and touch that terror and loathing of any difference that lives there. See whose face it wears. Then the personal as the political can begin to illuminate all our choices. ⁃ Age, Race, Class, and Sex: Women Redefining Difference Black and Third World people are expected to educate white people as to our humanity. Women are expected to educate men. Lesbians and gay men are expected to educate the heterosexual world. The oppressors maintain their position and evade responsibility for their own actions. There is a constant drain of energy which might be better used in redefining ourselves and devising realistic scenarios for altering the present and constructing the future. Too often , we pour the energy needed for recognizing and exploring difference into pretending those differences are insourmountable barriers, or that they do you not exist at all. The results in a voluntary isolation or false and treacherous connections. Either way, we did not develop tools for using human difference as a springboard for a creative change within our lives. We speak not of human difference but if human deviance. By and large within the women’s movement today, white women focus upon their oppression as women and ignore differences of race, sexual preference, class, and age. There is a pretense to a homogeneity of experience covered by the world sisterhood that does not in fact exist. Unacknowledged class differences rob women of each other’s energy and creative insight. By ignoring the past, we are encouraged to repeat its mistakes. The “generation gap” is an important social tool for any repressive society. If the younger members of a community view the older members as contemptible or suspect or excess, they will never be able to join hands and examine the living memories of the community nor ask the all important question, “Why?” This gives rise to a historical amnesia that keeps us working to invent the wheel every time we have to go to the store for bread. Ignoring the differences of race between women and the implications of those differences presents the most serious threat to the mobilization of women’s joint power. As white women ignore their built-in privilege of whiteness and define and woman in terms of their own experience alone then women of color become “other,” the outsider whose experience and tradition is too “alien” to comprehend. Refusing to recognize differences makes it impossible to see the different problems and pitfalls facing us as women. The tokenism that is sometimes extended to us is not an invitation to join power; our racial “otherness” is a visible reality that makes that quite clear. For white women there is a wider range of pretended choices and rewards for identifying with patriarchical power and its tools. Today, with the defeat of ERA, the tightening economy, and increased conservatism It is easier once again for white women to believe the dangerous fantasy that if you are good enough pretty enough sweet enough quite enough teach the children to behave hate the right people and married the right man then you will be allowed to coexist with patriarchy in relative peace at least until a man needs your job or the neighborhood rapist happens along and true unless one lives in loves in the trenches it is difficult to remember that the war against dehumanization is senseless. Some problems we share as women, some we do not. You fear your children will grow up to join the patriarchy and testify against you we fear our children will be dragged from a car and shut down in the street and you turn your backs up on the reasons why they’re dying. Within black communities where racism is a living reality, differences among us often seem dangerous and suspect. The need for unity is often misnamed as a need for homogeneity, and a black feminist vision mistaken for betrayal of our common interests as people. Because of the continuous battle against a racial erasure the black women and black men share, some black women still refused to recognize that we are also opressed as women and that sexual hostility against black women as practiced not only by the white racist society but implemented within our black communities as well. It is a disease striking the heart of black nation of hood and silence will not make it disappear. Exacerbated by racism and the pressures of powerlessness, violence against black women and children often becomes a standard within our communities, one by which manliness can be measured. But this woman-hating acts are rarely discussed as crimes against black women. “As long as male domination exists, rape will exist. Only women revolting and men made conscience of their responsibility to fight sexism can collectively stop rape.” - Kalamu ya Salaam, a black male writer Black women who once insisted that lesbianism was a white woman’s problem now insist that black lesbians are a threat to black nationhood, are consorting with the enemy, are basically on un-black. These accusations, coming from the very women to whom we look for deep and real understanding, have served to keep many black lesbians in hiding, caught between the racism of white women and the homophobia of their sisters. What are the particular details within each of our lives that can be scrutinized and altered to help bring about change? How do we redefine difference for all women? It is not our differences which separate women, but our reluctance to recognize those differences and to deal effectively with the distortion which have resulted from the ignoring and misnaming of those differences. All of us have had to learn to live or work Or coexist with men from our fathers on. We have recognized and negotiated this differences, even when this recognition only continued the old dominant/subordinate mode of human relationship, where the oppressed must recognize the masters’ difference in order to survive. But our future survival predicated upon our ability to relate within equality. As women we must root our internalize patterns of oppression within ourselves if we are to move beyond the most superficial aspects of social change. Now we must recognize differences among women who are our equals, neither inferior nor superior, and devise ways to each to others’ difference to enrich our visions and our joint struggles. ⁃ The Uses of Anger: Women Responding to Racism Guilt and defensiveness are bricks in a wall against which we all flounder; they serve none of our futures. ⁃ Learning from the 60s When we disagreed with one another about the solution to a particular problem, we were often far more vicious to each other than to the originators of our common problem. We forget that the necessary ingredients needed to make the past work for the future is our energy in the present, metabolizing one into the other. Continuity does not happen automatically, nor is it a passive process. That is how I learned that if I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and eaten alive. My poetry, my life, my work, my energies for struggle were not acceptable unless I pretended to match somebody’s else’s norm. I learned that not only couldn’t I succeed at that game, but the energy needed for that masquerade would be lost to my work. We are functioning under government ready to repeat in El Salvador and Nicaragua the tragedy of Vietnam, a government which stands on the wrong side of every single battle for liberation taking place upon this globe. Decisions to cut aid for the terminally eel, for the elderly, for dependent children, for food stamps, even school lunches, are being made by men with full stomachs who live in comfortable houses with two cars and umpteen tax shelters. None of them go hungry to bed at night. Recently, it was suggested that senior citizens be hired to work in atomic plants because they’re close to the end of their lives anyway. Revolution is not a one time event. It is becoming always vigilant for the smallest opportunity to make a genuine change in established, outgrown responses; for instants, it is learning to address each other’s difference with respect. You do not have to be me in order for us to fight alongside each other.I do not have to be you to recognize that they were Warriors are the same.what we must do is commit ourselves to some future that can include each other and to work toward that future it with the particular strength of our individual identities dot and the other in an order to do this, we must allow each other our differences at the same time as we recognize our sameness. ⁃ Eye to Eye: Black Women, Hatred and Anger It is easier to deal with the external manifestations of racism and sexism then it is to deal with the results of those distortions internalized within our consciousness of ourselves and one another. Anger - a passion of displeasure that may be excessive or misplaced but not necessarily harmful. Hatred - and emotional habit or attitude of mine in which aversion is coupled with ill will. Anger, used, does not destroy. Hatred does. Growing up, metabolizing hatred like a daily bread. Because I’m black, because I’m a woman, because I’m not black enough, because I am not some particular fantasy of a woman, because I AM. On such a consistent diet one can eventually come to value the hatred of one’s enemies more than one values the love of friends, for that hatred becomes the source of anger, and anger as a powerful fuel. Anger is useful to help clarify our differences, but in the long run, strength that is bred by anger alone as a blind fours which cannot create the future. It can only demolish the past. Such strength does not focus upon what lies ahead, but up on what lies behind, upon what created it - hatred. And hatred is a deathwish for the hated, not to a lifewish for anything else. For example: At this point in time, were racism to be totally eradicated from those middle range relationships between black women and white women, those relationships might become deeper, but they would still never satisfy our particular black woman’s need for one another, given our shared knowledge and traditions and history. There are two very different struggles involved here. One is the war against racism in white people, and the other is the need for black women to confront and wade through the racist constructs underlying our deprivation of each other. and this battles are not at all the same. Most of the black women I know think I cry too much, or that I am to public about it. I’ve been told that crying makes me seem soft and therefore of little consequence. As if our softness has to be the price we pay out for power, rather than simply the one that’s paid most easily and most often. “Don’t trust white people because they mean us no good and don’t trust anyone darker than you because they are hearts are as black as their faces.” (And where did that leave me, the darkest one?) it is painful even now to write it down. How many messages like that come down to all of us, and in how many different voices, how many different ways? And how can we expunge these messages from our consciousness without first recognizing what it was they were saying, and how destructive they were? When there is no connection at all between people, then anger is a way of bringing them closer together, of making contact. but when there is a great deal of connectedness that is problematic or threatening or acknowledged, then anger is a way of keeping people separate and putting distance between us. That’s because we sometimes rise to each other‘s defense against outsiders, we do not need to look at devaluation and dismissal among ourselves. Support against outsider is very different from cherishing each other. We refused to give up the artificial distances between us, or to examine all real differences for creative exchange. I am too different for us to communicate. Meaning, I must establish myself as not you. And the road to anger is paid with our unexpressed fear of each other’s judgment. ⁃ Grenada Revisited: An Interim Report This short, undeclared, and cynical weren’t against Granada is not a new direction for American foreign policy. It is merely a blatant example of 160 year old course of action called the Monroe doctrine. In its name America has invaded small Caribbean and Central American countries over and over again since 1823, cloaking this invasion is under a variety of names. 38 such invasion secured prior to 1917 before the Soviet Union even existed. I am only a relative. I must listen long and hard and ponder the implications of what I have heard, or be guilty of the same quick arrogance of the US government in believing their external solutions to Granados future.

2 notes · View notes

z-wonderland · 5 years

Text

Pride, Love, Hunters and Vampires/4

Fanfiction

Part 4

Elijah Mikaelson x Elena Gilbert

ft. Kennett, and Klaroline

AU TVD/TO story

a/n: this is inspired by Pride, Prejudice and Zombies. Elijah is in the role of Mr Darcy in a way. LOL.

Thanks so much for reading this story. It means a lot. xoxo 😃💕💕😘

________

Elijah was left standing in the pouring rain watching Elena ride off as her Guard brought a horse for her.

The warm, dear look she gave him just before she rode off was still lingering in his mind. His heart drummed happily. She was alive and well, and even though she could not be his, he rejoiced in the fact that she was still in this world.

Eventually went into the house, strangely feeling at ease.

"Better to have loved and lost than never lived at all." words of his brother Klaus shot in now.

He went to his room, and after he had changed, he sat down writing several letters out to his siblings, as well as his Army friends.

As he finished he called his steward, finally explaining his sudden visit.

"I will need a steward for the Heathfield house, as I wish to turn it into a retreat for the wounded. Find someone suitable."

"Yes, Sir."

"I hope to have my brother arrive within days, so I will be in need of more staff. Maybe my sister will join him as well." Elijah said.

"Very good, Sir." the steward said. Though Elijah spoke in a very polite manner, there was a hint of a grim expression on his face. It was more than obvious that the unusual visit of the woman had affected him greatly. He wished he could in some way help his Master, but he would never dare address it, even though he was so much older than him.

Elijah now stood up. "Also, can you find out where Lady Lockwood is staying. I wish to invite her Ladyship and her husband for dinner."

"Of course, Sir. Will that be all?”

"Yes.Thank you, Ansel."

As the steward left, Elijah fell back in his thoughts evoking the sudden meeting with Elena earlier that afternoon.

💕

In the village Inn, as Elena settled in her room, her heart, her mind, all of her being felt like it was rattling like the storm outside her window.

She wished to run back to the house and tell him that she loved him, that she had not stopped thinking of him, that she was taking back all the harsh words she had told him on that fateful day he had proposed to her. But then she glanced at her hands that were terribly scared, same as her body. How could he now want to be with her? She could not give him anything, no family, no heir. Nothing.

She now wrote a note and got dressed. Taking only the essentials, she took off that very night. To Mystic Falls.

The next day as Elijah's steward returned with the reply from the Lockwoods, he read the following-

Dear Sir,

We thank you for your kind invitation, but unfortunately, we have to decline, as we have discovered this morning that the Dowager Countess Elena Lockwood, has left very early in the morning for Mystic Falls. We are about to leave ourselves.

With kind regards,

Count Tyler Lockwood

"Dowager," Elijah now uttered, a small smile curled up on his lips, exhaling deeply, "You are a widow."

He folded the letter. His heart was restless. He wanted to go after her, but his mind was telling him that it would be completely out of place if he now went after her. He didn't know what her situation really was. Was she still grieving? Maybe that man was her all? He ran up and down the room, not knowing what to do. And so he went on about his business. One thing that kept his soul hopeful that he would see her again, was her friend Bonnie, who now lived in New Orleans.

He was not mistaken, as his letter to his family of his meeting with Elena, made all the siblings travel, together with Bonnie to their most northern Estate.

Upon their arrival, Elijah had to divulge the news that Elena had left the area. Bonnie didn't wait a second and she and Kol made their way to the witch's hometown.

“I think you should go. You must tell her how you feel.” Kol said to Elijah.

“It would be so out of place.” Elijah said nervously playing with his fingers.

“You have waited for so long to find out something- and now that you know that she is well, and - a widow - you should go and be- close to her.” Klaus now said.

Elijah sighed, his whole being feeling wretched and at the same time all fuzzy and tingly inside.

“We are travelling to Mystic Falls, at break of dawn”- Bonnie now spoke.

“We are”- Kol said- “ and you should come with us, brother.”

“I will travel with you”- Elijah said now resolved.

“Yes!”- Rebekah cheered, now tears welling up in her eyes-”finally there will be more than one happy ending.”

“It does not mean I would win her affections- yet.”- Elijah said.

“But you will, brother. I am sure of it”- Rebekah said now wiping her tears off-”I am cheering for you.”

“We all are.”- Klaus now said.

“Thank you so much.”- Elijah said.

The morning after, Elijah was called to his Regiment, and Kol, together with Bonnie, set out for Mystic Falls. And after travelling for a long day and night, they arrived at the vampire stronghold.

As they settled in the house Elijah had procured ever since they took the town back from the hybrids, the witch and her fiance found Elena, who was staying in the Boarding House, a house owned by her friend's cousin. The meeting between the witch and the huntress was profoundly touching.

It seemed like the women would never let go of one another if it wasn't for Kol Mikaelson.

"Now, everything will be right in this world."

This now made them move out of the hug, Elena greeted the young Count. Then looked at Bonnie with a question mark in her eyes.

"We are engaged to be married." Bonnie now showed her friend the engagement ring on her finger. "A lot has happened since you've disappeared."

"I see." Elena said, tearing up a bit. She then congratulated them both saying wholeheartedly. "I am so very happy for you."

"Thank you so much. If it wasn't for you, boldly reproaching my brother, I would not be the happiest man alive." Kol said looking dearly at his wife to be.

"I am glad that my boldness served well."- Elena said with a broad smile

"Yes. Well, I will you now. I believe you have much to discuss."- Kol said making a little bow with his head and looked at Bonnie conveying this - put a good word in for my brother. He then left.

The women sat down, and Elena's long tale of all that she went through commenced.

"... after the marriage ceremony was done, Mason was found out and killed. I was captured again, but his cousin Tyler rescued me, taking me away to their ancient home in Virginia. I stayed there fighting until we pushed them all the way out. When we found a safe passage to return here, we made our way back."

"Oh my Goodness, Elena. You have been through Hell."- Bonnie said.

"I am home now, and everything will be fine, especially when I see and put my arms around Jeremy."- Elena said.

"Have you sent word that you have returned safe and sound?"

"I have. I have also spoken to his commanding officer. They have sent for him."- Elena said.

"He will be so thrilled to see you. You know, he has never left hope that you were alive, same as Elijah. They have befriended one another, well, they became more than friends, after Elijah saved Jeremy's life in the battle of Mystic Falls."- Bonnie said.

"What are you saying?"- Elena looked at her friend astonished at this revelation.

"Oh, Elena- where do I begin"- Bonnie said and then told Elena about Elijah apologizing to her for having meddled into his brother's affairs, especially regarding Kol's intentions to propose marriage to her. And then all about Elijah's desperate search for her.

"After he had heard that you were killed, he committed his life to fighting against the hybrids to honour you. That is what he wrote to Kol in a letter once. He has not stopped loving you." Bonnie said.

Elena's heart leapt up with gladness. Everything inside her was moved, and she now tried to fight the sweet tears from bursting out.

"I know that it is not my place to suggest anything. But you said once that if he was not so proud and conceited, you might have feelings for him." the witch said.

"Even if it was so, I cannot be with him."

"Why, Elena? You are now widowed for more than a year. And you said that it was not a real marriage. Why would it stop you from being with Elijah?"

"This." Elena now showed her friend part of her scared body, telling her also that she could not have any children.

"Oh, Elena, I am so sorry." Bonnie said and now hugged her friend.

"It is - all right. I made peace with it." Elena said. "I have sufficient funds. The Lockwoods have been so very good to me. I am going to teach young hunters and huntresses, and if Jeremy agrees, I will buy a house, and if he marries one day, and has children, I will be a happy aunt."

The women spoke a little more, about Kol and Bonnie's upcoming wedding.

💕

That night, as Bonnie returned to the Mikaelson house, she told her fiance about what Elena went through.

"Oh my dear Lord" Kol said. "She is a very brave woman."

"And she is still in such high spirits. Someone else in her position would have given up on life altogether." the witch said.

"Indeed."- Kol said and kissing the hand of his beloved witch, he then went to retire.

As he got to his room, he took a paper out and started writing a letter to his brother.

"My dearest brother,

He stopped, putting the pen down. For a moment there, he wrestled with his conscious asking himself if it was correct to divulge something so intimate about Elena's state.

"I hope you will forgive me-"- he muttered-"but this is for a good cause"

and continued writing the letter.

💕

A few days later

The letter had the exact desired effect Kol knew would bring.

As Elijah read it, he did not wait a minute and left for Mystic Falls. As he arrived, he went straight to the Boarding House.

"May I speak to Lady Lockwood?"- Elijah said as Zachariah Salvatore opened the doors.

"Certainly, Count Mikaelson, but her Ladyship went out with her brother. If you wish to wait, she said that she would be home by teatime.” the vampire gestured to Elijah to come in.

"Thank you, Mr Salvatore." Elijah said entering.

Zacharia showed the vampire to the Salon, keeping him company until the maid came in requesting his help.

"If you would excuse me" Zacharia said to Elijah.

"Yes. Please, do not mind me. I will be perfectly all right."- the vampire said. As Zacharia left the room, Elijah stood up, walking to the fireplace.

The vampire watched the fire dance in front of him so bright and so high, reflecting his feelings that were burning in his veins with the same intensity, as they did the day he had come to the Salvatore house in the District Garden of New Orleans, asking her hand in marriage. Now, his feelings were running much deeper than they ever had done before. He teared up as he remembered the part of the letter, in which he disclosed Elena suffering torture. He wished he could have traded places with her.

"... and despite all, her eyes shone with a spark as your name was mentioned. Bonnie is sure that she still has feelings for you. Yes, brother, she has expressed having them after your first meeting back then at the Ball, and that she would have considered you"

Elijah's thoughts cut as he now heard Elena enter the house, and the maid telling her that she had a visitor waiting for her in the Salon.

All of his being shuddered as she entered the room saying as a mode of greeting -

"Count Mikaelson"

Composing himself, Elijah bowed a little with his head saying-

"Please forgive me for have come announced."

Evidently taken by his presence, Elena gulped, but tried hard not to show she was stirred up like never before. She shook her head slightly as to say you needn't apologize.

Taking a mental breath she looked aside and then at him again uttering-

"I am glad that you have called in. I was meaning to write to you, to thank you"

"Thank me?" Elijah uttered interupting her. " What for?"

"For saving my brother's life. For sheltering him. He has told me how good you have been."- Elena said.

"Please Lady Gil- forgive me - Lady Lockwood, I can't seem to -"

"It is quite all right. I would rather if everybody just called me Elena. You know that a title is of no consequence to me."

Elijah nodded in understanding.

Elena then continued-

"As a thank you, Jeremy and I wish to invite you as our special guest at the dinner we will be hosting for the new hunters."

"It will be my pleasure and a great honour." Elijah then stopped, looking at her with half anguish and half hope."Oh, Elena, you are too generous to trifle with me- please - I - " the vampire could not but bring out all that was whirrling inside of him. "I know all that befell you, and - please do not be angry at my brother and your friend for disclosing such intimate details, but - I - I wish I could take all that pain away. Please let me"

"Count Miikaelson, please- I - cannot -"

Stepping forward, Elijah now poured his heart out."Elena- you have bewitched me, body and soul, and -" he gupled a bit uttering with deep affection in his voice- tears now escaping his eyes-

"I love you - I love you. I do not wish to be parted from you from this day on."

Elena, overwhelmed with her feelings could not hold her tears at bay anymore. She looked at the vampire with sweet daze in her eyes, telling him that her feelings towards him have indeed changed, and now said with great warmth-

"I love you"

Repeating again."I love you-so much!"

"My darling" Elijah uttered still in a slight state of shock now brushing her cheek with the fingers lightly the tear of her face. "Will you do me the great honour of taking me as your husband?"

"Yes, I will" Elena replied with a smile stretching on her face.

"Yes?" the vampire muttered in disbelief.

"Yes!!" the huntress confirmed it, making the vampire now pull her into a fervent, long awaited deep kiss.

❤❤❤

inspired by this

youtube

#Elijah Mikaelson #Elejah #ElenaxElijah #tvd fanfiction #Fanfiction #alternative universe

13 notes · View notes

mylordshesacactus · 6 years

Note

Have you ever thought about the idea of Qui-Gon training Barriss? I feel like she'd have been a lot happier with him. He's so chill.

Because of…who we are as people…me and @alexkablob have had long discussions about how different Masters and their approaches might have affected Barriss.

The tl;dr here is that the best I can say is Qui-Gon wouldn’t be the worst option.

This is gonna get long, I apologize. You prompted me about Jedi apprenticeship AND the flaws of the Code in allowing Masters and Padawans to communicate effectively AND Barriss and Luminara’s specific relationship, anon, you asked for this.

So the central Thing here is Barriss Offee as a person. She’s extremely anxious, eager to please to the point where it becomes pathological, quiet, responsible, whip-smart, a healer, and she absolutely cannot improvise; if she has a plan she’ll execute it, but she cannot plan on the fly under pressure, this is consistent.

Keeping these things in mind:

Luminara is, frankly, the perfect match for her. They have a similar, methodical approach; Luminara is a strategic analyst for the Republic, and her skill for putting together strong, well-thought-out plans is perfectly in sync with Barriss’ own preference for advance planning and anxiety about winging it. Being paired with her allows Barriss to have the intellectual challenges she needs and the ability to pursue her talents; Luminara has total faith in Barriss’ proven abilities and doesn’t hesitate to provide her with praise for those abilities and opportunities to use them. She’s also a calm, gentle, soft-spoken individual with a profoundly reassuring aura who demonstrates throughout her (few) appearances that she greatly values the lives of those under her command. She has a sense of humor that’s very present without being loud or jocular in a way that would make Barriss uncomfortable (ie, Anakin) and she has the emotional intelligence to tease Barriss only very gently, never touching her insecurities, and to nudge her into making friends.

Now, some of these things inadvertently worsen Barriss’ issues. That confident “she can do it” attitude ends up placing far too much pressure on her; Luminara’s very competence and grace end up fermenting into Barriss’ feelings of inadequacy and desperation to not disappoint her master. But that’s….almost entirely because of the war. It’s the nature of the assignments, not their difficulty, that breaks her; and in a time of peace, with more access to her master and time to process, I think they would have been lessened.

Their downfall as a master-apprentice pair wasn’t that Barriss had the wrong Master. Luminara’s own issues, namely her devotion to the Code and her own pathological fear of giving into attachment, were what tripped them up. She loves Barriss so much but is so focused on not giving in to those emotions that she rarely if ever allows herself to act on them at all, even when she should–with the result that she keeps Barriss at arm’s length and they’re too formal with each other. She’s so afraid of becoming too close that she doesn’t let herself get close enough to notice that anything’s wrong, or to make sure Barriss realizes how deeply she’s loved–and on top of that, once the war starts Barriss and Luminara are almost never together. She’s separated from her Master when she needs her most, and that was the nail in the coffin.

Basically: Luminara didn’t give her those issues. And for the most part, when they were actually able to work together as master and apprentice, Luminara mitigated a lot of Barriss’ flaws while encouraging her strengths. The war found the pressure points in their bond and pushed until they snapped, but it would do that with ANY pairing.

So if anyone hasn’t already scrolled past this long rambling bit of nonsense, under the cut please enjoy a bullet-point list of our thoughts on how Barriss would fare under different Masters.

Anakin:

Disaster.

Just….pure, unmitigated disaster. If they didn’t drive each other into a murderous rage they’d just dissolve into mutual anxiety attacks

He’s too impulsive and careless, she’s too hesitant and not nearly bold enough, he’s emotive and incapable of controlling his temper to the point he would genuinely scare her

They already don’t get along particularly well, there’s a reason Barriss is so spiteful toward him in TWJ; force her into a position where he has boundless authority over her and one of them is getting smothered to death in his sleep.

I say “he” because it would 100% be Anakin

Obi-Wan:

On the surface, this seems like it would be a much better match, maybe even ideal.

It is not

It is not remotely a good match

Here’s the thing people misunderstand all the time about Obi-Wan’s character: he and Anakin are very similar.

Obi-Wan is just as much of a cowboy Jedi as Anakin ever was; he’s impulsive, easily goaded, and frequently hypocritical about the Jedi Code, and he has all of Luminara’s flaws on top of that.

So now you have a version of Barriss whose master is equally unwilling to acknowledge his own emotions and equally incapable of showing or admitting to his padawan that he cares about her, but also is unpredictable, too controlling, swings between overprotective and seemingly uncaring, cares too much about what the Council will think of him, rarely if ever explains why he gives certain commands or thinks certain things, and occasionally loses his temper.

Above anything else, at least with Luminara, Barriss never has any uncertainty as to where she stands or what is expected of her.

Obi-Wan attempting to train Barriss would be better for exactly one person and that is Obi-Wan.

Plo Koon:

Not gonna lie, Barriss could do worse

Like, they’re not a good match, exactly? They have basically nothing in common. But I don’t think he’d do more harm than good.

Unfortunately “better than Anakin Skywalker” does not a training bond make.

Like Luminara, he has that steady and soothing presence that makes your heart rate settle just from being near him. He’s calm, he’s quiet, he’s deliberate. He values the lives of those around him. He’s firm but fair, and not so married to the Code that he lets it stop him from being kind.

In some ways, Plo would be very good for her. He is certainly not afraid of his own emotions; he’s very much from the “emotion, yet peace” school of Jedi philosophy, and we see him several times calmly, verbally assuring people he cares about of that care. That would do a world of good for Barriss’ inferiority complex.

A model of “I can feel these things without that meaning I am doomed to fall, because feelings and actions are not the same thing, and I can control how I act” could also do a lot of good…in peacetime.

In war, I think that model would fail as surely as Luminara’s attempts to do the same thing. We know she subscribes to this same philosophy, and the fact is that there was a war on and Barriss was as good as a Knight and the best model in the galaxy is no good if he’s not there.

And ultimately, in a lot of other ways, Plo Koon would be a terrible match for Barriss. He’s…too much of a “take a deep breath and take your time” mentor, for someone like her who learns quickly and thoroughly and needs mental challenges and puzzles.

She’s also still a strategist and advance planner, and Plo is a mechanic and a fighter pilot. He’d either be too “don’t think just act, improvise, split-second decisions” or she would chafe and get frustrated, and frankly be bored to tears, with Plo’s slow and steady approach. Either too intense or not intense enough; they’re a bad combination, though I do think they’d get along very well as colleagues and friends. Just not an apprenticeship.

Like honestly the main issue here is that he’s too similar to Luminara in the ways that would let him function well with Barriss and she has a lot more of those qualities than he does.

Aayla Secura:

I mean…I guess?

Aayla’s a bit of a random choice I just like her. I really don’t think they’d get along well at all.

Barriss would certainly get the mental exercise she needs with Aayla, there’d be supply challenges and tactical lessons, and those clearly-worded expectations would be there as another positive, but…

Aayla’s a good Jedi, a good leader, she’d have made an excellent Master

Just not to Barriss Offee.

She’s a little too brisk, a little too hard around the edges. In short, a little too much of a soldier and a little too close to the “okay now get over it” school of Jedi philsophy to work well with someone as insecure and anxious as Barriss.

Shaak Ti:

Look, let’s be frank here. Luminara is Barriss’ master because she’s meant to be, it’s a universal constant. Anything else is just wrong.

But if Barriss were to have a different Master, my vote would be Shaak Ti.

Again, this is because in a lot of ways she’s similar to Luminara, and there’s a REASON Barriss is Luminara Unduli’s padawan.

Shaak Ti is soft-spoken and kind. Reassuring. She speaks calmly, doesn’t raise her voice except to be heard from a distance, protects and cares for those beneath her.

She’s gentle but firm when necessary; but also more focused on the spirit of the law than the letter. She’s reasonable. She knows when and how to bend rules in the interest of doing the right thing.

She’s a little more centered and self-accepting than Luminara; she trusts her instincts as well as her judgement, rather than desperately suppressing her emotions. She doesn’t let the people around her get away with hiding their thoughts, either.

She listens, and she thinks before she speaks or acts. That would be good, for Barriss Offee The Obsessive Planner.

But again, this isn’t an ideal pairing. While I’m sure Shaak Ti would find and encourage ways for Barriss to learn and grow–and apprenticing under a Council member often stationed on Kamino would be a fantastic opportunity to solve and learn logistics and interpersonal problems, and a great chance to train as a healer properly–I think she might be a little too centered.

Barriss’ insecurities aren’t going away. Her mind works quickly, she overthinks, she doubts. While Shaak Ti is a phenomenal listener, she’s also…imposing, even more than Luminara, and she doesn’t have as easy a sense of humor. She’s very regal, very focused.

A model that encourages Barriss to be more serious, to spend even more time inside her own head, is the last thing she needs.

Qui-Gon:

Literally the only thing you asked, anon, I’m deeply sorry.

I’m also sorry to say this but I think Qui-Gon Jinn would be a TERRIBLE master for Barriss “made of insecurities” Offee

Qui-Gon Jinn has the least chill of anyone in the galaxy.

Qui-Gon is, in fact, the kind of guy who drags a nine-year-old slave from Tatooine to a desert world, plops him in front of the Jedi Council, and openly says "this is the Chosen One, he will save us all, his name’s Anakin by the way.”

Barriss feels crushing pressure to be Good Enough To Meet Her Master’s Expectations when her master is Luminara and the expectations are “fulfill this specific mission with minimal casualties and come home alive”. She does not need Qui-Gon Jinn in her life.

I don’t think his...near-dismissal of people around him worrying over the future, would be good for Barriss either? Like sure, on the one hand, someone gently telling her to focus on the present and embrace the Living Force is good. But Luminara did actually teach her how to meditate, and the problem here is that Barriss’ concerns are valid.

There is a point at which “trust in the Force, a solution will present itself” is no longer acceptable advice, and that point is probably somewhere around Umbara.

In fact, far from his chill, the only argument I can think of in favor of pairing him with Barriss is his willingness to challenge the Council. Showing her that the Council can be wrong, and that she can disagree with authority without being a Sith? That could have been incredibly valuable.

However that only works if she otherwise feels connected to him, and I don’t...think she would. Qui-Gon is kind of incredibly insensitive for someone who constantly talks about being mindful of the present; the arrogance and detachment of the Jedi is kind of a major theme of TPM. I think her timidity would frustrate him more than inspire him to compassion, and I very much think his advice about her anxieties and insecurities would be that old Jedi mainstay “well stop being anxious” ie, You Must Trust In The Force.

Ultimately I really do think that Luminara is the best option for Barriss. That’s part of what makes the failure of their bond so tragic.

#Anonymous #barriss offee #luminara unduli

107 notes · View notes

fyeahwonderbat · 6 years

Note

Can you write a fic on how you think batman#39 should've progressed. And love your fics and I truly am excitedly looking forward this WonderBat week.

WonderBat Week 2018: Theme #2 - Elseworld

Title: Take On Me

Author: MaidenOfTheWorld

Universe: DC Rebirth (Comics)

Rating: Teen / PG-13

Word Count: 1,973 words

DISCLAIMER: I fully respect Tom King’s run of Batman, including issues #39 and #40, despite not being a fan of the series personally. Given the theme for today, I have chosen this prompt as it suits the concept of ‘Elseworld’, meaning alternate universe. Thank you.

We shouldn’t have come here.

I know that now, and we’ve been damned for not realizing the error to our naturally heroic ways sooner. This place is full of monsters that stalk us in this perpetual night, but nothing could be more threatening to my sanity than the relentless gravitation there is between Diana and I.

It’s been years since I’ve seen Gotham, or my family, or my fiancee. Everything I ever knew is lost to me while I am trapped in Gehanna except for Diana, Wonder Woman, the beacon of all things righteous and true. She is the pillar of strength that keeps me fighting fit when the hordes refuse to be silenced, and by doing so, she forces a roar of temptation to bombinate inside me the longer we remain here together.

There have been many occasions in which the ravenous surge of energy after a monstrous battle dares me to grab hold of her and steal her lips with my own, celebrate what we have vanquished, revere her might and accomplishments. Anyone who knows Diana cannot help themselves from admiring her but to see her destroy demon after demon with such refined eradication can be an aphrodisiac that is unparalleled to anything I have ever known before her.

But I have my city, my family, my fiancee to think of, and those memories weigh down my desires when nothing else will.

After all, I’ve chosen my partner and… it wasn’t her.

The flickering of the campfire on Diana’s face tries to hypnotize me into thinking otherwise, but I’ve trained myself for most of my life to squash such enticement, having perfected the skill many times with her specifically.

Why that is, I can’t say I remember as soundly anymore.

Nevertheless, I look away from her bewitching face and dig into my own meal of the charred critter we captured and focus on satisfying a different hunger all together.

Then, she calls to me, and my resistance falters. “Bruce?”

“Yes?” I answer her immediately.

Taking a bite, I await her to continue her thought but she doesn’t maintain the pace of the conversation she started. It is worrying to wonder if Wonder Woman has weakened in her resolve, especially considering she is the immortal warrior addressing a mere mortal vigilante. I lift my gaze to find hers and her blue eyes are awaiting me.

There, behind such a vibrant cerulean hue, is the true Diana. The vulnerability she isn’t scared to reveal but fearful of giving into glimmers at me, catching the weary flame before us secretively. Seeing her pull down her own walls in order to address me makes me anxious, because I know that my need to save her from such frightful thoughts could compel me to reach out to her.

Easily, and yet while uttering a much more complicated question than another I can remember, she asks, “How long do you think we have been here for now?”

I pause to think, but choose not to meditate on it for too long. “Ten years.”

“Ten years?” She repeats back to me, quieter than I spoke. Beneath the tree that sat at her back, she radiates the aura of an ethereal being that wants more from this cursed fate she cannot break free from and I am reminded of her sister in arms, wondering if we are also destined to suffer for doing nothing empirically wrong.

“At least.” Is how I choose to comfort her, despite how fruitless it truly is to try.

She sits with my answer for the time span of the blink of an eye. Then, she strikes a pose in which I cannot tell if she means to merely stretch or if she is miming her intention to threaten The Gentleman who trapped us here. “We have tried… We must concede.”

No, I beg her internally not to say such things.

“We cannot open the gate without him.”

She speaks nothing but the truth, and yet…

“And he does not come.”

“Yeah.” I reply blandly, for I can concur with fact. We released the man whom we once promised to offer salvation to and he has not returned to give us the same. For all we know, he never plans to exonerate us from this hell, and Diana and I are confined to a fate of endless battles waged against the Hordes of Gehanna by each other’s side for all of this realm’s eternity.

“So then,” Diana lets her words drag on as she bows her head. It’s almost as if she’s become nervous as she speaks. “Perhaps this is everlasting. All of life, our life.”

Her voicing of my very thoughts is an easy task, however, it ropes me into her. I bow my head too as if I need time to comprehend what she is saying to me. “The hordes are… everlasting.”

Then, she dares to state the truth I had been fearing myself. “And all we have, forever, is you and me.”

The most infuriating and tantalizing words that have ever been spoken to me.

We teased, we taunted, we hinted at one another in the past and never dove into anything serious for reasons neither of us truly understand. Perhaps it was because we could lose ourselves to one another? Or perhaps our differences in mortality while living the lives that we do carries a heavy load on the possibility of a future? Or maybe it all comes down to the fact that her time would be best spent with someone who can enjoy life with her, not dampen her illustriousness with the darkness that swallows me?

The possibility of having her now was nothing if not…

If not…

“Yeah.” I foolishly answer again, carrying on this asinine conversation. What are we doing, discussing this as if there is a chance we could be something more? As if Gehanna was the place to make the planets align or cosmically bring us together?

Just as I am growing infuriated with our situation, Diana giggles. Softly, only momentarily, but she laughs before me. The tension gripping me slackens it hold and I gawk at her from under my brows as she says, “You know, even without the pointy ears, you do not look so bad.”

Such a swift change in conversation, I can’t help but to pause before I answer. It is almost sacrilegious for her to compliment my appearance as my eyes rake over her body while it is highlighted and shadowed by the campfire’s glow. The goddess before me, in whatever backhanded way she chooses to speak, tells me that she enjoys the way I look.

To ignore her beauty would be a crime, one I have committed for far too long considering my role as a man who seeks justice.

Dumbfounded and animalistic, I lean towards her, muttering for a third time the most unattractive word, “Yeah.” But I do lean in, I seek her out and she leans towards me. The heat that pools in my blood courses throughout my tired body and rejuvenates me with a promise of what is about to happen between us. Decades of working together plus the one we endured in this realm have led up to this moment, where our noses nearly touch.

I can hear her breathing deeply, and feel my chest lift and sink with the very same tempo. Rise and fall, just like my ability to resist Diana over the years. Having her sit before me now in our own perpetual corner of the realm feels like the opportune moment to stop wondering, stop fighting and let things happen.

“Bruce,” she calls to me again, making my insides churn painfully, desperately.

And it is with that awareness of desperation that my survival instincts reemerge from their restless sleep to stop me from making a catastrophic mistake.

Less than an inch away from her gorgeous lips, the words spill out of my mouth reflexively, without any sort of control. “We can’t…”

Diana stills and it instantly breaks my heart to refuse her for the umpteenth time. All those years of yearning reaching their climactic moment, now suddenly feeling wasted to know we can never be.

“No,” she too fires out words of discouragement in the hopes of appearing sane. “We can’t. Ever.”

Hearing her speak of finality strikes a chord with me, however. To recognize the insanity of our attraction is one thing, but to have Diana agree after offering herself to me is both saddening and infuriating. Why is our future never a possibility?

Why could I propose to one woman and never to this one, when I have admired her, cherished her, and loved her endlessly?

Why did I think it could never be Diana?

In that moment, I refused to let the madness of the answers sink their teeth into my desire and tear it away from me once again. For a moment, I would live in desperation for something that existed in front of me for too long. Inside of me.

Always with me.

As Diana begins to laugh again, I take it as a personal challenge to silence her, so I steal that kiss that I had been craving long before we entered Gehanna. Our lips crash and so do the worlds we keep separate from one another. She feels like the most exquisite sanctuary for a soul as worn as mine, a sob urging to spring free in my throat that I quickly stamp down. Kissing her fills me with an awareness of coming home after a lifelong war even whilst we are still trying to survive the ongoing battle against the demons around us.

It takes everything I have to await her response before I notice that her hand has found my cheek, cradling it softly. The gesture alone calms my nervousness, then unseals all of the battle-induced excitement, the ages-long resistance, the indisputable greed to have her body be with mine. I know now that I need us to be so much more than a fever dream when I grab her waist and drag her into me. “Diana.” I growl her name, daring her to pull away now that we have willfully let go.

“Mmm.” Her moan sends a shiver stomping along my spine and reminds me that our clothes are the last remaining barriers to realizing our profoundly anticipated passions.

At least, physically, in this world.

“I know,” I whisper, hoping to say more. I am aware of the lives we had been clinging to in this realm, the ones we know and want to return to. I remember what the past ten years have been like as we reminisced about what we had waiting for us if and when we make our way back to Earth.

We reminisced together, though.

About what we had before being spirited away to this god awful place.

And in both of our recollections, the constant we shared was this: each other.

“Yeah.” She whispers cheekily as her long legs carry her into my lap. The fire fueling every move that she makes is just as nervous as I am, as its flame burns too quickly in the hopes that she can savour every moment before it fizzles out. I want that as well - to pin her down or have her straddle me and feast on one another like we were always too scared to imagine. With claw-like hands, I wrap my arms around her and hold her against my body so that she can shield me from any other world that isn’t Gehanna.

Neither one of us can stop this now.

Neither one of us wants to.

I can no longer say I haven’t tasted the fruit of temptation, as her name is Diana, and all I want is for her to be by my side forever more.

#wonderbatweek2018 #wonderbat #maiden writes #Wonder Woman #batman

28 notes · View notes

everydaypanos · 3 years

Text

I have barely thought about Steve’s death.

My memories of that brutal, heartbreaking day 10 years ago are scattered and random. I cannot remember driving down to his house. I do remember a hazy October sky and shoes that were too tight. I remember afterwards Tim and I sat quietly in the garden together for a long time.

Since giving Steve’s eulogy I have not spoken publicly about our friendship, our adventures or our collaboration. I never read the flurry of cover stories, obituaries or the bizarre mischaracterizations that have slipped into folklore.

But I think about Steve every day.

Laurene and I are close. Our families have been close for nearly 30 years. We have endured deaths and celebrated births. We talk all the time, often about Steve but rarely about my work with him. Mostly, we talk about the future and her extraordinary and inspiring work with Emerson Collective.

When her brilliant and inquisitive children ask me about their dad I just cannot help myself. I can talk happily for hours describing the remarkable man I loved so deeply.

We worked together for nearly 15 years. We had lunch together most days and spent our afternoons in the sanctuary of the design studio. Those were some of the happiest, most creative and joyful times of my life.

I loved how he saw the world. The way he thought was profoundly beautiful.

He was without doubt the most inquisitive human I have ever met. His insatiable curiosity was not limited or distracted by his knowledge or expertise, nor was it casual or passive. It was ferocious, energetic and restless. His curiosity was practiced with intention and rigor.

Many of us have an innate predisposition to be curious. I believe that after a traditional education, or working in an environment with many people, curiosity is a decision requiring intent and discipline.

In larger groups our conversations gravitate towards the tangible, the measurable. It is more comfortable, far easier and more socially acceptable talking about what is known. Being curious and exploring tentative ideas were far more important to Steve than being socially acceptable.

Our curiosity begs that we learn. And for Steve, wanting to learn was far more important than wanting to be right.

Our curiosity united us. It formed the basis of our joyful and productive collaboration. I think it also tempered our fear of doing something terrifyingly new.

Steve was preoccupied with the nature and quality of his own thinking. He expected so much of himself and worked hard to think with a rare vitality, elegance and discipline. His rigor and tenacity set a dizzyingly high bar. When he could not think satisfactorily he would complain in the same way I would complain about my knees.

As thoughts grew into ideas, however tentative, however fragile, he recognized that this was hallowed ground. He had such a deep understanding and reverence for the creative process. He understood creating should be afforded rare respect—not only when the ideas were good or the circumstances convenient.

Ideas are fragile. If they were resolved, they would not be ideas, they would be products. It takes determined effort not to be consumed by the problems of a new idea. Problems are easy to articulate and understand, and they take the oxygen. Steve focused on the actual ideas, however partial and unlikely.

I had thought that by now there would be reassuring comfort in the memory of my best friend and creative partner, and of his extraordinary vision.

But of course not. Ten years on, he manages to evade a simple place in my memory. My understanding of him refuses to remain cozy or still. It grows and evolves.

Perhaps it is a comment on the daily roar of opinion and the ugly rush to judge, but now, above all else, I miss his singular and beautiful clarity. Beyond his ideas and vision, I miss his insight that brought order to chaos.

It has nothing to do with his legendary ability to communicate but everything to do with his obsession with simplicity, truth and purity.

Ultimately, I believe it speaks to the underlying motivation that drove him. He was not distracted by money or power, but driven to tangibly express his love and appreciation of our species.

He truly believed that by making something useful, empowering and beautiful, we express our love for humanity.

When Steve left Apple in the eighties, he called his new company NeXT. He was very good at names.

After nearly 30 years, I left Apple, driven by my curiosity to learn and discover new ways to make a useful contribution. It is Steve’s powerful motivation that informed the name of my next adventure, LoveFrom.

While I am absurdly fortunate that I still collaborate with my dear friends at Apple, I am also terribly lucky that I get to explore and create with some new friends.

Laurene and I at last are working together. In truth, we have been working together for decades.

Steve’s last words to me were that he would miss talking together. I was sitting on the floor next to his bed, my back against the wall.

After he died, I walked out into the garden. I remember the sound of the latch on the wooden door as I gently pulled it closed.

In the garden, I sat and thought how talking often gets in the way of listening and thinking. Perhaps that is why so much of our time together was spent quietly.

I miss Steve desperately and I will always miss not talking with him.

Jony Ive

0 notes

xcamay · 6 years

Note

EreAnju isn't exactly a ship I thought I'd ever see. If you don't mind me asking, why is it one of your OTPs? I don't mean that to be rude, by the way. It's only because it's such a rarepair that I'm asking.

Hi!Don’t worry about it! You’re not being rude at all. I totally understand that coming across someone who ships such a rarepair so bad can be quite intriguing and surprising haha! To tell you the truth, I was asked that question several times ... But I’m always happy to share my answer!Ah, before I start, let me apologize for my late reply. I saw your ask around 3AM but I’ve been sick and very tired recently, so I fell asleep again very quickly heheSo. I know it can be odd at first, to ship EreAnju, who are both background characters despite being the protagonists’ rivals. After all, they got just a few lines here and there and didn’t even have some character development —hell, we didn’t even get some insight into their backstory (how did A-RISE start, did they struggle? How are they doing at school, how do they practice, are they best friends?) into their personality, etc. (which I profoundly regrets). But for me ... This lack of everything kind of helped me ship them at first. Because hey, they are —what I like to say— drama free! Of course, every character is drama free (maybe Rin hasn’t seen her father for years or she just doesn’t know who he his and is trying to get in touch with him and be able to meet him for the first time, maybe Hanayo has a lot of video games at home and can be a geek sometimes, etc.), but I have the impression that Erena and Anju are even more drama free. Because, unlike the main characters, they don’t really need to be placed in an AU to warn the readers that, maybe, they’ll read something different —because no one expects anything from them. No one even expects them to be in a fanfic (except me! ;3). That’s partly why it’s so free when you write something about them. Plus, if you want to write a canon-compliant story, I’m sure that these two (and maybe Tsubasa, a little) are the characters you can explore the most, you know? Aside the few little details the anime (or LLSIF or the manga) gives us, you have so many possibilities with them. I mean, just with how they look, you can say that Erena seems to be the most serious one (maybe it’s because she’s A-RISE’s choreographer, and maybe she’s been dancing for ages, to the point that she won several competitions?), but maybe she’s a sweetheart almost all the time except when they’re in practice. People also picture Anju as the most soft-spoken one and the sweet, wealthy, princess-like girl : what if it’s wrong? She can just be a regular girl, who is calm and kind with the others, and who became popular thanks to A-RISE. Maybe she’s just an adorable and hyperactive dork, who has younger siblings (I think she’d be an amazing onee-chan) and who learned how to sew clothes thanks to her dear grandmother before the latter passed away. Or what if it’s true? Maybe she’s wealthy and would have loved not to be, because she met her real first friends in high school, and that she now treasures her friendship with Tsubasa and Erena.And now, speaking of EreAnju as a pairing, goodness, that’s the same thing! You can do everything with them, compared to the main characters. I mean, authors usually go with the fact that RinPana are childhood friends, or that Nozomi has always been in love with her Elicchi, and that she’s struggling with her feelings because Eli is just so damn dense. You can go with everything, concerning EreAnju : are they childhood friends? Have they been dating for years? Did it start in middle school, when they were clueless about love, and did they learn everything together? Are they the perfect couple, and do they make everyone else dream? Or are they the kind of couple which keeps breaking up and getting back together? Are they secretly dating now? Did they meet Tsubasa before or after getting together, and was Tsubasa unconsciously getting in the way because she didn’t know they were dating and, so, creating fights between them, because one of them can be madly jealous? Is it Anju? Or do they trust each other so much that they’ll never feel jealous? Or, completely different, have they always been sworn enemies but finally did their best to get along for Tsubasa’s (and A-RISE’s) sake? Or did they meet thanks to Tsubasa, when she was looking for potential school idols? Or was Erena the cool and good-looking transfer student, and so was it love at first sight for Anju? Did she struggle just to get her attention? etc, etc.I just realized ... The fact that we know nothing about them just makes me want to know more ... Maybe that’s why they inspire me so much?But oof, oh my gods! I didn’t know that part would take so long (or do I have that impression because I’m on mobile?) haha ... Sorry!But, let me tell you : what I just said? That’s gold. Why? Because first, for a writer, you can have so many things to develop in your story when it comes to them ; and it can be different in each new story! As I said, no one expects anything from them, nor do they expect to see them in a fic. And it’s gold, because, at least, you’re sure you didn’t take the wrong route. I mean, we know nothing about Erena and Anju, and we know nothing about their relationship either. And with that, I can consider them as “safe” characters. You can be sure that, whatever you write (or read), they won’t really be OOC. Because you know, a lot of readers don’t like it when characters are OOC. As a reader, I’m not fond of that either, especially when there’s no justification behind that OOCness. And, as a writer, I am deeply afraid of writing OOC characters —and I know I’m not the only one. It’s easy with Erena and Anju. Whether it be their personality, their backstory, their experiences, or even their relationship and how they act in this relationship, you’re free to write whatever you want, without scaring your readers away because they’re so much OOC that they can’t stand the whole story anymore. And I bet the readers won’t mind whatever an author planned for them (if they’re important enough for the story and its plot). That’s maybe why it’s so easy for me to find and build ideas/headcanons/new AUs around them. Hey, you know, most of my YouRiko ideas were thought of or written with EreAnju at first haha! But they’re such a rarepair, as you said it, that it would have gotten me nowhere. As much as I love this pairing, I wouldn’t have been able to have such an amazing experience with them like I had with YouRiko. If it makes sense?For people to notice EreAnju, they have to be put in a story with at least TsubaHono with them ... UNFORTUNATELY ;-; I wish I could read so many fics about them!! ;-;So, before my answer ends up in a mad rant about all that (just the lack of scenes with A-RISE (I wish the producers could make an A-RISE spin off...) and all), here are the main reasons why I ship EreAnju.Okay, who I am also wants to love them deeply, as I’m someone who cares about physical appearances (yikes, I feel like I’m going to make people mad, but it really isn’t my intention...). And I find Erena and Anju beeeaaauuutiful, whether it be as a couple (come on, they’d be such a sexy and mature couple) or just as individuals. Erena’s eyes are going to kill me (don’t mind me, I love blue eyes), and Anju is such a cutie pie, too. I also love the fact that she gives off the I’m-a-sweetheart aura. Yuri couples with two girly girls are just my thing ... That’s also maybe why I love this anime, even if it’s not supposed to be a yuri one hahaha (but let’s be honest, that’s what everyone wants in the fandom, me the first!).So here you go!I am not here to shove EreAnju down anyone’s throat, I’m sorry if it looks like that, but I’m just ... very passionate when it comes to them. If only you knew how many EreAnju WIPs I have in my Love Live! file ... They’ll eventually turn into YouRiko or something, but well, hehe ... I just hope that my answer made sense, and that maybe I made people want to give them a chance, who knows?Thank you for the ask, I’m always happy to share this kind of thing! I hope you have a lovely day/night! :3

12 notes · View notes

matildainmotion · 6 years

Text

A Post- Script: where it all began....

The first blog I ever wrote about MWM, back in 2014.

Mothers: they’re everywhere. And nowhere. On the one hand there are phenomena such as Mumsnet that have never been more prominent or more influential, with its pronouncements making TV news. On the other hand, having been a mother for two years now, my own experience and that of others with whom I have spoken is still often one of isolation and under confidence. When I travel into central London during the day with my son, Riddley, I rarely see other mothers around. There are pockets of them, in designated toddler-friendly spaces – parks, playgrounds, certain cafes – but they are not out and about at large. When I do cross paths with one, getting off a train, or standing by the pedestrian crossing waiting for the green man, where Riddley likes to press the button, we often exchange a look, a cautious smile of recognition, as if part of some dangerous underground movement, not Mumsnet, but some quieter, more diffident network.

Here is a game I play on the train, when there are no other mothers about: I look at the people in the carriage and imagine this: once upon a time – and it is mythic like a fairy tale – once upon a time each person that I see grew inside a woman’s body. They were conceived, gestated, birthed, like a great idea or piece of art, except of course the terms by which the artistic process is described come from mothering and not the other way around. As with most metaphors, they come from the matter of us, our physical forms informing how we think and dream.

Mothers make people. Not single-handedly (though some almost!). This is a big claim but not intended as an arrogant, hubristic one because of what motherhood has taught me about what ‘making’ means, which has been profoundly humbling. Right from the start it has undone me, has taught me more about the creative process than 12 years at school, a literature degree, a Circus Arts foundation course and two arts-based M.A.s. It has made it radically clear to me, what none of my academic training did, that my main task as a mother and as an artist is to get out the way, or rather not to get in the way of the creative process doing itself. When my son was growing inside me I had to make space for him in my body, house him as he came into form, but he did all the growing. So it continues now he is two years old and racketing around the living room, pushing our sliding doors back and forth, trying to climb the bookshelves. I must be patient, present, alert, keep the bookshelves from toppling down on top of him, vigilant in the true sense, keeping vigil night after night, but I cannot control or claim ownership of this most fundamental of creative processes: a person, coming into personhood.

Before becoming a mother, when I just did the work of being a trapeze artist and performer (I’ll come back to that ‘just’) I got a job with a company called Improbable to make a show called ‘Panic’ about the Great God Pan. I was touched and inspired by the rehearsal process because it was the first time that I had seen any show truly allowed to make itself, to emerge rather than be hurried, judged, disciplined into being. My experience as a performer, and maker of my own work, was that shows did this – grew themselves, had a life of their own - whether the directors and the cast liked it or not, and often they didn’t. I was excited to find a company that explicitly celebrated this ‘life-of-its-own’ ness, rather than trying to control, suppress or push it offstage. I remember Lee and Phelim telling us that there were only four things we had to do to make the show:

Turn up Pay Attention Tell the Truth Don’t be attached to the results.

(An abbreviated version of Angeles Arrien’s work, ‘The Fourfold Way’).

Riddley, along with some other children, is a result of that show - that’s the ‘life-of-its-own’ness that can happen when you make a show about the Great God Pan! Now that I am a mother those four things seem more relevant than ever: they are still all I have to do, all I can do and they are, of course, the hardest thing that has ever been required of me. Back to that ‘just’… I have been staggered since Riddley was born by the disparity between the work of mothering and how it is valued. It is the most challenging work I have ever undertaken, the longest hours, the keenest presence and resourcefulness required. It is also the most important work on every level, personal and political. No one denies these things when named. And yet. And yet…

“Are you doing any work?” “No, I’m just being a mum for now”

…is an entirely ordinary exchange which I have heard myself and others repeat in various versions, over and over again. I read briefly on a leaflet that fell through the door, and that Riddley rushed to pick up and re-post, of how the Labour party are promising subsidised childcare. This is vital for the majority of women, who have to work alongside being a mother to survive, and important for those who positively want to go back to other forms of work – a choice which I respect and admire, since it requires a monumental act of multi-tasking (even with childcare, they are still being mothers and doing another job). I, on the other hand, am in the privileged position of being able to choose to look after my son full-time. For me, handing Riddley over to someone else whilst I go out and do a ‘proper job’ would feel like handing my creative writing over to someone else to do. I don’t think this makes me a better mother, it is simply my version of this mothering experience. Deeply unfashionable and contentious I know but I would like mothers to be subsidised to look after their own children if they wish to do so (yes, there are child benefits but they are not sufficient to enable most women to afford to be full-time mothers), or at least not pressurised into not doing so. I want to mother my own child and make my own art.

Art. It’s everywhere. And nowhere. Like mothers. Like mothering, art is so fundamental to our being here, so powerful and pervasive as to be rendered, in many contexts, invisible. Here is another game I play on the train - while watching over Riddley as he rushes to the doors at every station, wanting to press the button that makes them open and lets the people on and off - I try to imagine each person at his age, playing, and their play being a serious business.

It has been well researched and established by now (see Winnicot for example) that art, by which I mean any kind of playing, image-making, story-telling, is not a dispensable luxury. It is entirely fundamental and essential to our growth, as vital as sleep to our health and development. What is less well recognised is that play is not only the province of the young – it’s not a one shot deal. It is true that we have to do it full-time and full out when we are children. It is true that mothering in the early years is especially intense, but no one ever stops having a mother, even after she has died, and no one ever stop needing to make stories, images, to play. Even something as business-like and hard-nosed as the Stock Exchange is based on soft-bellied feelings – fear, excitement – that come from stories, imaginings made in equally soft grey parts of our minds. Adverts are capitalism’s testimony to the power of art. Images work on us. They work in us. They make us work. They make us and we make them - and so the cycle goes on. Both images and mothers are fundamental to our origins, to our sense of who and how we are. I am placing these two things in parallel, but they also meet: think of the cartoon of the bird that hatches out of the egg and connects to the first creature that it sees: the image of its mother.

I am a mother and an artist: I write and I perform and I look after Riddley. I believe that these two jobs are intimately connected and that both are vital. I feel incredibly lucky to be doing them. Both are also marginalised in the current climate. So I have begun a group. It is called “Mothers who Make” and it is for people that, in any capacity, do both these jobs, of mother and artist, care about both and do not want to compromise on either (for details of the group, please see below this). I have been touched by the strength of the response so far to my announcement of the group – it has affirmed there is a need for it, for this work to be named, recognised, supported.

I do not have the answer. I do not know how to do it – how to be a mother or an artist, let alone both. I know for sure I cannot do it on my own. So far I have relied heavily on Phelim, my husband, for financial and emotional support, and my own fantastic mother for support with Riddley. They are downstairs as I write this – granny and grandson. He will be busy with his trains, making their pistons go back and forth on his steam engines, talking about the stations they are passing through – “Finchley Road and Frognal, Picallili Circus, London Waterloo only!” – he powers himself, pistons and all, into the world and the world, its images and station names chuff their way inside him – this is important work, I know of nothing more so.

You have until 1.55pm today (21/12/17) to fund Mothers Who Make to grow nation-wide: https://www.crowdfunder.co.uk/mothers-who-make

#mother motherswhomake art

1 note · View note