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red-riding-wood · 1 year

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OC: Charlotte Griffin

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Summary: Charlotte Griffin, on a quest to emerge from her family's dark shadow, becomes a spy in a gang war that puts her loyalties and desires into question as she grows closer to the man who is meant to be her enemy.

WARNINGS for whole story: eventual explicit sexual content and references, explicit violence and gore, mentions of physical abuse, language, ethnic slurs (mainly because of Alfie)

A.N. So the piano scene I was on about in one of those ask games is finally here!

I stood on the curb for so long that I found myself questioning what outcome I really sought from this whole ordeal. Whose blood I wished would shed, if any at all.

I watched as Arthur exchanged pleasantries and good wishes with his brothers, Thomas and Finn, watched as he opened the door to the black car and pumped an already triumphant fist out the window.

I had no idea how many Italians would be crawling in the abandoned greenhouse, though I also knew that Thomas and his men would be surrounding the area and protecting Arthur.

But before the car could pull away, perhaps the better part of my heart drew me forward, heels clicking along the pavement of the road as I hurried to catch up.

“Arthur,” I called. Thomas looked to me in surprise, and his older brother turned his head to me, elbow lax out the window.

“If you’re here to wish me luck, Charlotte, I don’t need it,” Arthur said, a gleam in his eye that, if I had not already been acquainted with men of his nature, would have sent a chill through me.

“Remember, Luca intends to kill you,” I told him. “Please be careful.”

Arthur scoffed. “I don’t bloody need it. You know why?”

I shook my head. “No.”

I tensed as he drew his gun from his waistcoat, and unloaded a single, silver bullet. He wedged it between his thumb and his forefinger and held it up to the light, just outside the window.

Etched into the bullet was the name Luca.

“See this?” he said. “This here is what I’m gonna pop that prick’s skull with. I’ve done it to his daddy. I’ll do it again. It is written. And it’ll be done.”

I knew of the practice, had once seen a bullet with my father’s name carved on his desk and had asked so many questions. But my father was still alive, the bullet long since discarded.

“Take this,” I told him, and procured a rosary I had purchased that morning. I held out the string of beads to him, which he eyed almost sorrowfully, before accepting it in calloused fingers.

“Thank you, Charlotte,” he said, and I nodded to him.

And as the car pulled away from the curb, and Arthur drew his arm back in, the silver of the bullet winked at me in the dying light of the evening, and my gut clenched. Strangely, disturbingly, more for the man whose name was written.

---

The quiet was, at times, unbearable.

The quiet, at times, was deceiving.

That was why, as I waited for my chauffeur, I poured music into the quiet. The rich notes of the piano filled the room and, in turn, a part of my soul. With my hands clammy with anticipation in my lace gloves and my limbs bare from the white dress I donned, I was almost transported to the abandoned greenhouse, where Thomas’ men would surely be anxiously waiting on a signal by now to attack.

I played something dark, something haunting. Something that resonated down through the slightest fibres of my being. A song that spoke of tragedy but of power. It was a song that danced with both the bright and dark of my soul.

To my left, I glanced at the mirror I had propped up on the piano, the one that my father had gifted me. I checked to see if my makeup hadn’t smudged. Checked to see if there was still life behind those cold, grey eyes.

To my right was the white spool of ribbon and the photographs of my brother, for comfort. For company, as I sat alone in my hotel room.

My fingertips stilled on the keys as a wrong note played, not from the piano but from the lock shifting at the door. My spine went rigid, goosebumps raising along my arms. The doorknob twisted, and my hands instinctively went to my lap as if guilty for playing.

His hat was tilted just enough to obscure his eyes, and a ringed hand shut the door behind him with a low creak. A black overcoat swung at his heels as he stepped forward, and this time he shifted a matchstick in his teeth.

I rose from my bench, only to find him even taller without my heels, his green eyes impaling my soul as he tipped his head up and closed the gap between us. He didn’t need to speak, didn’t need to fill the silence to tell me everything in that smug grin and mischievous gaze.

“Don’t you think this is getting a little redundant?” I said from a knotted throat.

Luca’s eyes twinkled, and he stopped only when my senses were inundated by the allure of the cologne that stoked that fire in my gut.

“Not if I get to see that look on your face, piccola spia.”

I felt my cheeks warm, but I wasn’t sure if it was from his shameless gaze or my vexation with the man. Just when I was starting to think he might have the slightest respect for me, he went and did this, crashed our own dinner plans. Had this been the real plan from the start?

I averted my gaze so he wouldn’t see the clench of my jaw and the flush of my cheeks, but as if unsated by this, as if he were a predator moving in on unassuming prey, he drew closer. His inked fingers curled around my shoulder; I only knew this because I could not feel the indents of the rings from his right. He leaned in real close, so close that his cologne was almost as overpowering as the touch that seemed to chain me, like the ink of his fingers, to the bench. His hat was offset in such a fashion that it only barely grazed the back of my scalp as he admired the piano.

I wondered if he could feel my heartbeat against his hand, for it seemed to be pounding at my ribs. Each finger lit a trail of fire along the bare of my shoulder, and while I felt trapped beneath them, I couldn’t necessarily discern if that was a good or bad thing. A surprisingly whelming portion of me wanted to sink into his touch.

“Pretty piano.” His head tilted, hot breath raking across the side of my neck. My hands tightened around one another to suppress a shudder.

“I heard your playing through the halls,” he said, his breath and touch leaving my chest hollow, vast, aching for the lurid yet hypnotic sensory. “Why did you stop?”

I was finally able to speak, and with his touch gone, I seized the opportunity to stand from the bench. “I don’t know how it is in America, but here, people aren’t too fond of interruptions.”

Scarcely did his gaze ever spare my soul; as it bore into me it latched its fangs tight around its fiercely woven threads, piercing straight through them and injecting venom deep into my beating heart. He chewed at his matchstick with a cunning smile and said,

“Play for me.”

“Is that an or – “

Luca silenced me with another touch of his hand on my shoulder – this time the cold of his rings a bitter contrast to the warmth of his hand –, lowering me back to the bench, and, with the pressure of his thumb, forced my chin to face the instrument. What was left of my sentence hitched in my chest, and as if the venom had taken effect and the threads of chilling mortality were beginning to slither across my heart, I thought for one cruel second if all of this was because he planned to kill me after the stunt I had pulled, if my ambition and my pride had sentenced me in this world of monsters.

His other hand clasped around my opposite shoulder, weighing on them both as he leaned down again. The felt of his hat brushed the back of my scalp, sending a tingle down the neck that was warmed by his breath as he repeated, this time in something between a growl and a murmur,

“Play for me, mia piccola spia.”

My eyelids shut, darkness swathing me and my breaths grew lighter, feverish as his words plunged to the heat of my core. When I forced a deep inhale, my brain seemed to pick apart the freshness of rose, the sharpness of cedar, the dark musk of the ambrette that never failed to excite me. If this was to be my end, I wanted to focus on these things, wanted to acquaint myself with them as intimately as I could.

When I opened my eyes, my fingers had settled on the piano keys. And I played.

High notes pierced the veil of dark, stirring the beast from my shoulders as he cast a final breath against the nape of my neck, threads of disquieted hair tickling the lobe of my ear. The ambrette waned, only slightly, and my shoulders lifted with the release of his weight. But as my left hand struck the deeper notes of the piece, they resonated through my mortal body, so suddenly delicate, and tugged my chest back down, sunk it to the bitter earth as if the Devil were dragging me to his domain.

My heart played alongside the music like a drum in my chest, and it ached as Luca’s fingers began to explore the piano, dragging slowly across the black spruce and running along the engravings of my father’s mirror.

I played to drown out the wails, the screams. The tone that my father took as if a demon had possessed him.

My tiny fingers struck each chord with an aggression, pressed each high note with an almost desperation.

And in that greenhouse, as I played, some man was screaming just like my brother, a blade taken to his throat.

Luca adjusted the positioning of the mirror better so that I could see the tear in my soul through my eyes.

I darted my gaze to my fingers as they moved across the piano. Luca’s hand slowly ghosted over mine, the onyx gems of his rings contrasting the white of my gloves as the bright notes to the dark. Another knot collected in my throat, and my heart slammed against my ribs, his touch sending each nerve into overdrive. Before disappearing behind me, his sleeve brushing along my bicep, he tugged at my ribbon.

The wall trembled as a force struck it, and a wet cough sounded. I jumped, as if I had been the one stricken, my fingers seeking the ribbon around my neck. My soul was pulled taut, tethered to Alexander, clenched each time I heard him cry out.

Arthur was likely being overwhelmed, jumped by men who had violence etched not only into their hearts but their souls. Men like my father.

But I did not stop playing like I had when I was a child. I kept on, because someone had to play their song. Though my fingers tensed so as not to tremble, forming sharp, cruel, macabre shapes.

Luca reappeared around my left side, his fingers resuming their venture of the piano and brushing achingly slowly across the spool of ribbon.

Trembling fingers commenced their playing once more, my soul yearning for the beauty of music past the sounds of calamity.

I imagined the notes to be played as Luca and Thomas’ men fought, blade to blade, bullet to bullet, imagined it to be their ballad as their souls were ripped from their bodies.

Finally, Luca’s fingers met the photographs of my brother, blood welling on the tip of his index as it scraped its edge. He didn’t so much as flinch, but did pull away slowly, staining the edge of the photograph a deep crimson.

I wouldn’t know what my father was doing to Alexander until later, when he would appear at the dinner table and his wounds would speak for him. Long, red gashes, streaking across his arms, or poking from the collar of his shirt. Bruises, on his neck and his wrists and sometimes his jaw. And I wouldn’t know why until he would tell me that it was because our father was cruel, sick, ill in his heart.

I wondered if Thomas or Arthur would return with fresh scars.

Luca smudged the red over one of the half-fingers of my gloves, the red sinking into the white as my heart sank into my gut.

When my brother emerged from the bedroom, and I played the last, eerie notes of the song, I felt my heart clench, for I had done nothing but turn his torment into an instrument in a symphony of pain.

I had sent Arthur to his death. I had sent Thomas. I’d sent every Blinder that had gone to that greenhouse.

A tear splattered against the tiles of the piano as the notes died at my fingertips, and Luca’s touch left me with a shudder along my arms. My fingers trembled now, as they fell lax against the keys, and I hissed out a breath.

“You know…” Luca said. “… my mother used to play the piano.”

I slowly unfurled from the instrument, despite invisible talons still dragging me to Hell, my breaths still shattering against the tiles. My eyes, brimming with tears, fed the world to me in a blur, streaking the red of Luca’s blood across my hand as if it were one of Alexander’s wounds.

“Family, you see, is the most important thing,” he said, his voice finally settling somewhere a few meters behind. “Family is why I’m here.”

I blinked, another tear falling against the silk of my dress. And I looked in the mirror. Luca stood, leaned against a corner of the wall, eyes downcast to the toothpick he toyed with in his uninjured hand.

“Arthur Shelby, he killed my father,” Luca hissed bitterly, his lip curling over the flash of white teeth. “And my brother was assassinated in his bed. Killed in the dark by cowards.

“My mother, she used to teach at the local school. Used to bake sweets for the Shelby brothers. When they took my father from her, they had to restrain her as she screamed for him and begged them to have mercy.”

Thomas had told me loosely about Luca’s vendetta, about the death of Vincente Changretta and his son, Angel. He had never told me the details. I had never asked. Because when I’d arrived in Small Heath, all I had known was that Luca needed to die in order for me to succeed.

I thought of the legends about Thomas, of the rumoured blood on his hands.

And I also thought of John, with his ashen lashes and pallid face, and how he resembled the corpse of the brother that haunted my nightmares.

Past the thick silence I could hear the echoes of his own screams as he was dragged away by those men in that snowed-in alley. And they grew, louder in volume, building like pressure in my head until I spoke, voice soft but enough to quell them,

“I watched my brother die in America.”

Luca’s head tilted to me curiously in the mirror. As if this had been what he was waiting for. And, since I had his attention, since speaking silenced the cries, I continued.

“He took me to New York to see the snow.”

The last words formed a choke in my throat, and I forced back my tears, swallowing roughly and dipping my head. I noticed the blood on my glove again and I tucked my hand into my lap to hide it from sight.

“He took me there because he wanted to get away from the violence,” I breathed. “And he walked right back into it.”

I heard Luca’s footfalls against the floor, boards groaning slightly under his weight. His presence loomed behind me, electrifying the air between us and tugging at the bright of my soul.

“I don’t sleep at night because every night, I think of the man who’d dealt the killing blow. I never saw his face – never saw any of their faces. But I imagine what it would look like.”

Luca’s finger swept the falling tear from my cheek as he listened. I bit my lip, a part of me aching to bury my face in the warmth of his chest as I once had my brother’s, to drown out the memories in the dark of cedar and ambrette rather than the bright of jasmine and citrus.

“I imagine it sometimes covered in blood.”

Each sentence I uttered was a confession, a truth that burrowed deeper into the black pit of my soul.

“Sometimes it’s Alexander’s blood. Sometimes it’s his.

“Sometimes…” I whispered. “… in my darkest visions, it’s there because of me.”

“For justice,” Luca murmured, repeating my words from before but sounding unconvinced.

“Yes. For justice,” I agreed weakly. I was not entirely convinced myself.

I gave my ribbon a tug, tightening it from when Luca had loosened one of the tails, and I wiped the last of the tears from my face before I stood and faced him.

There was a softness to the green of his eyes that took me off-guard, that hadn’t been there before. It seemed to consume me, but in such a way that made me want to spill every secret, to share with him every desire and every burden I carried in my wretched soul.

“My brother meant everything to me,” I told him.

He tilted his head at me in that way of his that seemed simultaneously innocent and predatory. “And now, piccola spia?” he murmured. “What has meaning to you? Other than revenge?”

I did not correct his choice of words this time.

My eyes wandered as I thought, from the matchstick he chewed to the black hair that poked from the base of his neck. And this only seemed to make him more curious; the gold of his eyes glittered with intrigue, and he tilted his head by another slight fraction.

And when the answer came from my lips, it was as empty as the soul that reached so desperately for his, that sought him as if he were the only other being left in this hellish world,

“My throne.”

Luca’s lip pulled into a smile at that. Only slightly. Only enough to tell me that I had either given the right answer, or that he had seen in my eyes that it wasn’t my truth.

In this moment, I did not care about a throne. I did not care about justice. I did not care about revenge. I only wanted to feed the aching, famished part of my soul that seemed to tether me to him as it once had the brother I had lost. I only wanted to devour him. Every truth. Every lie. Every whim. And I needed to be closer, close enough to feel his fingers run along my flesh again and to feel the heat of his breath on my neck.

Sometimes, in loss, there was freedom. Sometimes, in freedom, there was courage. And so I stepped forward, his eyes watching every movement and seeming to beckon me forward with a growing smile to match.

Once we were close enough that my heart sped and my lungs were whelmed by ambrette, I lifted his hat, slowly, my gaze darting across his face as it revealed more of his features – the slight creases of age and stress, a lock of hair that stirred from his head and flopped down to a curved brow, the scar that ran parallel to it.

His matchstick had stilled, and his smile vanished. I set the hat down on the end table next to us. And I reached my left hand up to brush his sharp cheekbone, my breath hitching in my chest as our skin made contact. With the finger he had smeared blood across, I traced the scar, gently, my touch barely a whisper against his flesh. I blinked against the sudden breath he expelled and shivered.

“How did you get this scar?” I asked him.

That serpent gaze darted down to my neck, and a smirk tugged again at his lip. “How did you get that ribbon?” he countered.

My jaw tightened, and my hand stilled on the side of his face as I built my guard back up. I swallowed, and drew my hand away. “Family,” I said simply.

He gave me another one of those glances that seemed to strip me of my words and reveal only my truths.

“Mine, too,” he said, still sporting the hint of a smirk, as he ran a finger across the scar.

I wanted to ask more, but he had me trapped; if I did, I would have to tell more of my own truths.

After a tense silence, Luca removed the matchstick from his mouth and said, “So, how about dinner, uh?”

After thinking of the men fighting out there, of reliving the hauntings of my past, I had no appetite.

“I’m not feeling well,” I told him.

Stay, I thought. Stay, and banish my nightmares.

Luca wedged the matchstick between his teeth again and gave me a once-over, as if to see for himself if I looked ill. I had crossed my arms over my chest, and my gut had seemed to sink in. Though I didn’t have my mirror in front of me anymore, I could only imagine that I looked pale as a ghost. It was just as well that I didn’t take him up on dinner. I would have to spend another hour just making myself presentable.

“You owe me,” he said, and reached for his hat. He looked me dead in the eye as he settled it back over his skull, tilting it just enough that the right side of his face still showcased a fraction of the scar.

I nodded, and as he went to leave, I remembered how he had gotten in, and I called pointedly with the palm of my hand held out,

“My key, Luca.”

He stopped, and when he turned, he grinned at me cockily. A few steps were made towards me and he dug in his pocket for the key.

“It belongs to the innkeeper,” he said as the metal landed in my palm. It was nearly as cold as his rings. I told myself it was from this that made me shiver, and not the brush of his burning hand against mine.

I cocked a brow at him. “And did you plan on returning it?”

His smile broadened as he stepped back, and he flashed me a wink with one beguiling green eye before he swung the door shut behind him. And the room, at last, depressurised, and I released a tremulous sigh as I turned back to the piano. My fingertips went to my lips, hand covering my mouth as if I might’ve really been ill, and the tinge of iron spiked my sinuses.

Luca’s blood was still streaked across my glove. But I did not yank the fabric off, nor pull my hand away. Rather, I kept it settled against my parted lips, and I inhaled with a reverence the lingering scent of ambrette and cedar and rose and blood.

NEXT CHAPTER

SERIES MASTERLIST / FULL MASTERLIST

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Taglist:

#luca changretta #luca changretta x oc #peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #my writing #alfie solomons #thomas shelby #tommy shelby #polly gray #arthur shelby #peaky blinders fanfic

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sarcastic--metaphor · 7 months

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spoilers

bro i have so many thoughts about the F&C finale 😭

i had a feeling in my gut that vampire!world marcy and bubblegum both died but it still felt like such a sucker punch to see their tank with baby Finn... but no them. But also I fucking LOVED the implication bc I love unhappy endings, but theirs isn't necessarily unhappy, it's more cosmically in line with their entire dynamic to both accept their fate but to do so together

Also did Jay just leave behind his dad and all his siblings?

idk idk but what's important was that Simon's arc came to fruition and he realized how (very unintentionally) poorly he treated Betty and the side of me that loves tragedy is SO HAPPY rn but I'm also so fucking sad like yeah, maybe I did hope just a little bit that Simon could have a giant eldritch GF and be happy with her

But GOLBETTY did undergo a kind of transformation herself at the end of EP 10 and I'm so curious to see what became of her as well.

I have more thoughts but these r my most rambling ones for now

#fionna and cake #fionna and cake spoilers #simon petrikov #fionna campbell #spoilers #f&c spoilers

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nympippi · 1 year

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warning for unnecessarily long ask ahead but 100% yes on the "robin trying to find dignity in dying" thing he does not want to accept that his death was that far out of his control. we wants to believe that he had some influence in the matter, like that he could have survived but just made some kind of stupid preventable misstep somewhere

i've also always entertained the idea that maybe later down the line, after the events of the movie, he might try to find some false reassurance in his fate by being like "well, i had to be down there to give finn the nudge he needed. if i hadn't been taken in the first place, he'd be dead, and the grabber would keep killing. it just had to end that way. it had to." <- desperately trying to deny that it could've gone any other way because if so then he suffered for no reason and had no agency or choice and nothing can be done to fix it and he'll never get to grow up and make his dad proud and-

nope. he can't let himself think about that. it's... too much.

my friend tommy and i were once talking abt robin and they said "he wanted to be more than just a tragedy but now that's all he'll ever get the chance to be" and i immediately wanted to strangle them that line has STUCK with me it's so accurate and it makes me so sad

but i can imagine having been given a chance to actually live, that mindset wouldn't stick quite as hard, since now that he's alive and can feel more willing to entertain certain scenarios, he'd think about how finn was able to kill the grabber and he'd think Fuck... Why couldn't that have been me. Why couldn't i have done that instead. If he could do it why shouldn't i have been able to. WHICH leads him into hardcore blaming himself for his own death and finney being kidnapped in the first place

he doesn't want to delve too far into self pity and just... dwell on that, because he's alive! he's fucking alive! he needs to get his shit together and move on, right? he can't waste this second chance. not now that he has it, when he thought he'd never have a shot at it!

but... god. he just can't help it sometimes. just zoning out and imagining alternate scenarios where he gets the upper hand and bludgeons the grabber's head with that fucking phone so hard that his face doesn't even look like a face anymore. he gets wrapped up in the violence of it a lot. wishing a million times worse his own fate on the man who's already received his comeuppance. although, to robin, it really didn't seem harsh enough.

he wishes they could've gotten knives involved. kill the fucker with his own axe, actually. no- chainsaws. How could he have possibly accessed a chainsaw in those circumstances? it doesn't fucking matter because imagining that monster under the whirring blade is cathartic as hell and robin loves it. if you asked him, (and he'd be lying,) that's the only "coping mechanism" he'll ever need.

...i didn't actually mean to go off on that tangent about the grabber dying brutally and sometimes whenever i do that i feel like i got possessed by the spirit of robin for a second but like yeah do ya get me

I’ve said before and I’ll say it again, I want to pick apart your brain because your Robin takes and headcannons are so frickin good!!!

Like yes, I get it. Robin would have those moments of fantasies of what if he was the one to never die, what if he was the one to kill the grabber and not Finn. He would get swept up in the violence of it all because that’s his own fucking abuser, a man who canonically sexually assaulted him why wouldn’t he want to turn his face into a puddle of brains and blood. He will never get that chance of revenge both dying and coming back, and I think sometimes those thoughts scare him because of how violent they actually are.

Just this. I’m taking this and shaking it by the neck like a goose my god.

Also how dare your friend say that, expect my therapy bill by the end of next month, how dare, how dare!!

#pippi speaks #the black phone fandom #the black phone #tbp robin #and like yeah Robin thinking about how he absolutely could’ve killed the grabber because he is the strong one. the one everyone sees as #strong. he’s the one Finn looks to for courage and strength #but somehow he was the one to become a victim #Robin physically cannot think about his death and him being a victim because to admit he was a victim was to admit defeat #and that he lost.#once again tying back into the dying with dignity #i frickin love your asks they are so interesting to me because it never misses MY GOD

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endpolarnight · 8 months

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Who are we? (ENG)

We are a group of united Karelians who care about the future of people in the Republic of Karelia. We believe that our voices have been muted and we should start to be loud. Nothing about us without us.

We want to create a platform that will help us, Karelians, “see each other” in order to feel that we are not alone, but keep it anonymous and safe for everyone. Our function is purely logistical - to give people an opportunity to connect and share information safely supporting equal exchange. We want to learn about ourselves through our land’s and families’ history. We want to promote free access to archives and give people a chance to decide what they want to do with that information. This movement is alive as long as our idea exists at least in one person. Our movement is faceless, because we don’t (plan to) have main characters, but many people who are united by the same idea. Knowledge of our victories will inspire, knowledge of our tragedies will remind us we survived, knowledge of our families history will bring back important parts of us. It’s all our national trauma we could go through it together and become stronger. As long as we remember who we are, nothing is lost.

How do we feel about people of various cultural backgrounds:

We want to learn through our own history how to build a free and civilized society. We don’t want and don’t plan to “take back” any territories outside of the Republic. We will be glad to make a cultural exchange with people from Karelian regions of Finland or any Karelian diaspora around the world, but we respect the sovereignty of other countries. Our movement is about radical acceptance. While we’re working together the only thing that matters is our idea, not your age, gender or any other characteristics. But we don’t accept those who took part in russian aggression against other countries and nations: 1st and 2nd Chechen, Sarkatvelo, Syria and Ukraine wars. We don’t want to give a platform to justify or legalize this ideology. You can’t fight for independence while taking independence from others. It’s non-negotiably.

All people are welcome, including Russians and Finns. We have clear boundaries on what the colonial parts of your culture are. We want you to achieve a full understanding about how to find a non-harmful way to express your national identity without imperialism, and to stop using your culture as a weapon to erase other’s. Co-work means equal effort from all participants, and you’ll need to listen to nations which suffered by colonial parts of your culture without starting to be defensive. You should listen or you should go. Make your choice.

Being inside of society which normalizes imperialism means you don’t actually know how harmful it could be without an external view. You should recognize and acknowledge the injustices and harm caused by colonialism. Reflecting your imperialism is a challenge and it WILL be hard to rebuild your mindset. You will feel discomfort, anger, guilt, shame and sadness. It's long-term work. Be ready for many unexpected discoveries, most of which will not be pleasant ones. It’s okay for this kinda process, but remember: listen.

What are our goals?

To reconnect with ourselves and our culture, country, land (nature) and people. And because of it we will work on archives. Save open archives of repressed people in the USSR, open archives that weren’t open yet.

Regional decentralization. Independence of Karelia Republic from russian federation and decentralization inside of Republic. It's about transfer of political, administrative, and decision-making powers from a central authority to regional or local levels of governance.

Cultural decolonization refers to the process of challenging and undoing the cultural dominance, impositions, and influences of colonial powers on indigenous people. It will involve reclaiming indigenous knowledge, traditions, languages, and cultural practices that were suppressed, marginalized, or disrupted during the colonial era. We need to restore self-determination and pride in cultural heritage.

How do we want to achieve them?

Create a resource which will safely contain all information without control of russian law enforcement, make sure it’ll work even if some of us will not be able to continue. Use open archives to save and structure information in it. Collect non-digital and unwritten information from people who wish to share. We need to co-work with Karelian diasporas and be able to use all the archives, including russia’s (USSR) and Finland's.

… [under construction] Ecology: people of Karelia know what’s better for their land and nature. We know better if someone could make a forel farm on our lakes or not; cut our 200 years forests or not;

"Хочеш знищити народ, лишити його без суті, — убий насамперед його мову." (UKR) "If you want to destroy a nation, deprive it of its essence — kill its language first."

We believe that all indigenous people in the Republic of Karelia should be able to use their languages as means of communication with the government and businesses. As an example, the Karelian language must become one of the official languages in the Republic of Karelia. This means that people speaking Karelian should be able to use it for communication with public services.

Popularization of the Karelian language, most importantly for children. It must be accessible for everyone, our language isn’t a museum exhibit. Popularizing an indigenous language in the Karelia Republic requires concerted efforts from various stakeholders, including individuals, communities, educational institutions, governments, and cultural organizations.

We plan to governmentally support projects about languages and cultures of native people of Karelia. It could be self-governing organizations formed by people who desire to renovate their culture and work on it, participate in decision-making processes, choose representatives and manage a budget.

Vepsian National Volost’ (Vepsän rahvahaline volost’). It showed results in the restoration of the culture of Vepsian people even under russian law control. This example of local decentralization already shows us it’s possible.

We will officially (governmentally) support russian/Finnish language and culture projects ONLY with decolonization context within.

KRL / ENG / RUS / FIN / UKR

#karelia #karjala #karjalazet #karjalaiset #karelian #derussification #decolonisation #decolonialism #indegenous #independence #текст #text

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novelmachine · 2 years

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The Stars Move Still

The latest Bittersweet release, as well as the recent Finn art stream, have got me thinking once again. Last time my Faust post turned into a Finn post. This time I’m really going to talk about Faust, I promise. Let’s go.

I did the thing where I look up the origin and meanings of character names to find any sort of insight. Finneas and its other spellings brought results such as “oracle” and “serpent’s mouth.” Faust recalls how Finn would wax poetic, and remembers him as a metaphorical all-seeing lighthouse. This all tracks. Faust, on the other hand, means “auspicious,” “lucky,” and “fortunate one.” This on its own fits the character as we know him. He lives an opulent lifestyle and has been able to pursue his career as a streamer. What struck me, and what I didn’t know beforehand, is that Faust is the titular character of a 500 year old legend. This particular legend was based on Johann Georg Faust, an alchemist, astrologer, and magician who lived during the German renaissance of the 15th and 16th century. The first published story of Faust—Doctor Faustus— was an Elizabethan tragedy. Although there have been several versions of the story, the important beats remain. Faust is a mortal man that realizes the limits in his abilities. He strikes a deal with the devil for unlimited power and knowledge in exchange for his soul.

We can see traces of this story and it’s many iterations in Bittersweet. In the context of the story thus far, we can conclude that Faust may be Finn Prime’s fellow steward. During the Chapter 3 Interlude, Finn describes his former partner as ambitious, creative, and hopeful. We see this in Faust as he pushes and fights to do better and seek more opportunities for himself. One thing that slipped during the art stream is that a cape color for Finn’s outfit was nixed because it was too similar to the “fellow steward.” That ombre of colors looked nearly identical to the one Faust wears now. (This may mean nothing, but I found that interesting.) Together they watched over the Dreamers. Over time, Faust longed for more, despite Finn reminding him that it was forbidden to meddle. Left only to watch over the Dreamers and never interact was not the life he wanted. He made a deal with the devil, and traded his magical abilities and his knowledge of the cosmos for a chance to experience life outside of the dreamscape. He was given a comfortable life of wealth and fame. Instead of using this to effect the world around him, Faust indulges in his own desires whenever he pleases. He receives constant adoration from fans, yet is burdened by familial death and loneliness.

Another hint to this connection is Faust’s tarot reading during livestream. “I still can’t put my finger on it, but sometimes it’s not so much about the why but rather how you approach a situation. I have to accept that I am still finding my way. And in pulling the moon upright, I feel like I could certainly choose to chase my tail seeking answers and basking in the strife of trying to understand those things that are beyond me. Or I can see it, acknowledge it, and take control of the things that I can. Sometimes the cards will tell you what was, what is, or what will be. But I am a firm believer that nothing is written in stone, and all signs are simply that: signs. What we make of our story is ours, and ours alone. At least I certainly hope so.” Throughout the years, the story of Faust has had several endings. In some versions, Faust is whisked away to hell as holy entities look on in disappointment. In others, Faust is granted some semblance of salvation. The legend’s tone ranges from tragic to hopeful. Faust’s story has not reached an ending yet, and is therefore uncertain.

If all of this is relevant, it then begs the question: who is the devil? Maybe Auron represents Mephistopheles in this Faustian tale. The distain between the two is apparent from their first interaction. In Chapter 3 Part 10, Derek alludes to things being all too convenient. While this is referring to the Bittersweet Listener and their experience with Alphonse and Seth, this could be applied to other aspects of the story as well. Things seem to have lined up perfectly in Faust’s favor. He unintentionally points it out when referring to Auron’s status. “CEO, no degree. Didn’t have to go out and prove yourself. You had it all handed to you.” For all that Auron prides himself in being unmoved, this is the line that makes him lose his cool. “And you should thank me for it!” he shouts. This might be the frustration of having to listen to someone complain about what they have been given over and over again. Auron took on several responsibilities while his brother has the option to do whatever he wants. Soon after, Auron askes “Are you not comfortable? Do you not have everything you need?”

Like the Faust of the legends, he is granted all he desires, but is doomed to be dissatisfied.

Characters and scripts written by YuuriVoice Artwork created by Jackie Eleanor Name resources (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6) Faust resources (1, 2, 3, 4, 5)

#yuurivoice #yuurivoice faust #yuurivoice finn #yuurivoice auron #faust #finn #auron #bittersweet #[redacted]#faust may be an allusion #i'm fucking screaming #*game theory theme echoes in the background*#this is what i use my english degree for lol #still love the meta theory that faust is a listener and y!finn is chasing him across time and space #what the fuck are the other finns even #yandere and bun are pretty sus still #this series is killing me but in a good way #it's theory crafting hours #hannah talks nerdy

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justvibingallday · 2 years

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This is more of a documentation of the timeline post Volume 2 So I wanted to give my thoughts on the Byler situation and how it’s put forward to the General Audience. Now keep in mind that these are my thoughts so before I get into it please take what I say with a pinch of salt!! I may be wrong.

Let’s see if my English Literature essay skills pay off in this. Lmao.

Note: this is me trying to show my friends the possibility of how a version of marketing plays a big role.

So let’s get into it!! I was thinking about what’s happening with the marketing for Byler and it is fucking genius.

We see in Vol 2 Will confess his feeling through El, and it’s blatantly clear he’s talking about himself and we see that it’s hurting him so much but despite that he’s pushing it away in order to make sure Millimetre is happy. Sacrificing his own feelings thinking of an unrequited love. He’s accepting the fact that love isn’t for him and in turn making the viewers root for his happiness next season.

The Byler fandom thinks we’re losing because we didn’t get what we were expecting, but the season was to build awareness to Byler, which it did and it’s starting to get more attention from the general audience. Proof: the increase of followers on the tag and how other social media platforms are increasingly talking about it.

Then we have Noah coming through and confirming Will is gay. He’s solidifying the fact now so when it comes to S5 release, it’s not new knowledge. They could have left it until before the seasons release but announcing it two years previous to said release means more time for the viewers to understand the character a lot more. It means some viewers will rewatch the show with that knowledge and pick up on on the fact Will is in love with Mike, they may even begging to look into the interactions a lot more. Why do this? Well so they can pick up on Mikes expressions too. The more rewatches the more realisations.

In addition, The release of the Dear Billy Script is VERY significant in the timing of to all this as well. (It could also just be a coincidence.)

It’s the first one to be released and out of all the episodes why this one first, personally I think this was the strongest episode out of the season. Not only is it popular among audiences, it’s pretty Significant to Byler, why? We see them acting like themselves again, we see them together for the first time this season, alone. Having Wills feelings WRITTEN on paper clearly for anyone to read, makes the narrative clearer for those who struggle to pick up subtext or have difficulty reading emotions. It’s also to get into a characters head easier. Having this in writing means it can be spread more, yes it does come across like ‘fanfic-y’ at times but remember the connotations of what Will is thinking and acting is romantic.

Having the cast OPENLY discussing it too also strengthens the possibility of it happening, we have Noah and Brett explicitly talking about them, David, Finn and Caleb making comments about it, Caleb’s dig at Mathematics, and acknowledging the social media traction, Noah and Gaten liking Byler tik toks. It’s building the chance more and more.

Brett also talking about midleven seems like he’s been told to tweet that by pr. This in particular does not seem as enthusiastic as when he’s talking about Byler.

I’m not discussing Twitter because it’s not something I look into, everything I’ve just written is a response to what I’ve seen here in the Byler tag.

Now like I said earlier why establish this two years prior to Season 5s release?

It gives Will a chance. He becomes a potential love interest. Will at the moment is a tragic hero. For anyone who’s unaware of the term it is a great or virtuous character who is destined for downfall, suffering, or defeat. This type of Character is usually found in tragedy.

All throughout the show we’ve seen him suffer at the hands of the upside down or how he’s being treated.

This is important. It’s loss after loss and the audience is meant to feel sick of this. We want to see Will win.

The Duffers said, (paraphrasing this as I don’t remember the exact quote) they like the unexpected and don’t want to follow the usual tropes. I believe they’ll do this with Will. There’s too much that points towards requited Byler than a one sided love.

IF this is a Marketing strategy then they’re establishing a strong foundation to build upon. The timeline at the moment is all leading to Byler becoming canon.

What does this lead to is Byler isn’t canon?

It leads to a SIGNIFICANT amount of backlash. Not only to the writers but to the actors/actresses as well and it will not look good on the show or any of them. This time it’ll be from major audiences, and they MUST have seen that the impact of Using harmful and disrespectful trope is not a good one. There’s too much on the line.

To round up my thoughts I think Byler happening is on the cards! Please be respectful and remember that I may be wrong. It’s more of an exploration into what I’m thinking so…

#byler #byler is endgame #late night ramble.#idk how to tag #hoping it happens

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creative-bananas · 1 year

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THE FAMILY RITUAL

It’s the 5th day of the 5th month. The sun shone dimly and the chilly wind blew, making the people shiver in cold while waiting for the ritual to begin. The loud and scary strong ocean waves crashing against the shore can be heard below. The sky is so dark like it feels the tragedy that is about to happen.

Earlier that day, everyone was celebrating. It is the 5th month of Sarah Patterson, the new female baby addition to the Patterson family. Sally looks at her baby sister with tenderness. She is very happy to finally have a female family member to play with. Almost all of her cousins are boys so she always hoped for a sister. Dorothy, her mother looked at his daughters lovingly but the panic growing in her eyes can be seen. Peter felt it and held her hand tightly. He knows that something like this will happen sooner or later but he can not prevent an important family ritual that has been going on since their ancestors built this family. The guests are starting to come. Uncle Arthur’s family came first. Finn and Ned, his twin sons, greeted the family aloofly. Dorothy just forced a smile but her hands are starting to sweat. Peter greeted his brother but Arthur just looked at him and started to gaze at Sally. Sally looked at his uncle with confused eyes, wondering why his favorite uncle before is now staring at him with mad eyes. After the greetings of Uncle Arthur, Uncle Kenneth’s family arrived. He looked at Peter and greeted him happily, contrasting Uncle Arthur’s greetings. Aunt Martha congratulated Dorothy for her successful birth and cooed Sarah. Ethel, their eldest daughter that is a little bit plain-spoken, called them about the unluckiness they brought in the family. Dorothy is shaken because of the young lady’s words and can’t help herself to tear a bit. Peter took her wife and excused themselves to their room. Aunt Martha stared at her daughter madly and said, “What are you doing? Stop it before something happens to you and your brazen mouth”. Uncle Kenneth just laughed at her daughter and told her wife that it is just the truth. Their 10-year old son Herbert goes to Sally and asks her if she wants to play. Sally gladly accepts the offer and the two go to Sally’s backyard.

Dorothy and Peter finally left the room but the swelling in Dorothy’s eyes is still visible. The couple headed to the living room and greeted more of the guests. Close friends of the Patterson family arrived and congratulated them for their newborn baby. After a while, Uncle Kenneth’s family arrived. Dorothy greeted them with a smile and the family responded positively. Uncle Kenneth looked at his baby niece and kinda grimaced a little bit. Peter notices it but he chooses to ignore it to avoid conflicts on the special day. “Ain’t this child looks peaceful amongst the storm eh?” Uncle Kenneth’s older son Warren said. Everyone laughed at his joke except for Uncle Arthur’s family. The twins looked at the people around them with hatred. Warren notices it and feels a little bit guilty of what he said. Uncle Kenneth's other sons, Frederick, Herman, and Chester go to the backyard to escape from their chatty and gossipy aunts. Herman and Chester found Sally and Herbert playing so both of them asked if they could join and the two gladly welcomed them. Frederick saw Ethel smoking and asked if he could join her. Ethel is shocked to see his cousin but still hands him a cigarette. “Another bruise in the eye? That’s the 5th this week.” Ethel remarked. Frederick just looked at her with disdain and said, “Do not say another word.” Ethel just chuckled and rolled her eyes and said “Then stop being such a damn fairy.” Frederick ignored her and walked away. He gazed at the strong waves in the ocean below and felt a heavy feeling. Seeing his 2 aunts fall down there left a heavy feeling in his heart. He stared at the sky and decided to go inside the house.

Grandmother Claire and Grandfather Joe arrived next. Everyone paid their respects and Grandmother Claire eagerly looked at her granddaughter and pinched her small cheeks. Uncle Wallace, nicknamed as “Mad Wallace” arrived lastly. Everyone became silent after seeing him and they all looked at Ethel. Ethel noticed the stares around her and felt a little bit uncomfortable. Uncle Wallace looked at her niece and went straight to the corner. Grandfather Joe descended from the stairs, brought out his basket and asked the family members to put their items. “I will call your names and you will put the items you have chosen in the basket. As usual, the family who gave birth are not included in this.” He said, saying the same directions just like before.

“Arthur”

Uncle Arthur places his hat inside the basket.

“Finn”

Finn looked at his twin brother and asked for his watch. After getting his watch, he dropped it in the box.

“Ned”

After hearing his name, he loosen his bowtie and place it inside the box.

“Kenneth”

He took his glasses away and said “Damn I should just bring my gun. I can not see at all.” His wife sighed and said “You are such a stubborn man. Do not ask me to assist you. I have told you many times that glasses are not a good idea”. Uncle Kenneth just laughed at his wife’s remarks and went forward to drop his item in the basket.

“Martha”

She unclasped the necklace on her neck and dropped it inside the box.

“Ethel”

“I forgot to bring my item, mother.” Ethel said. “Then go and drop your cigarette holder there. I know that you brought those nasty things here.” Aunt Martha replied with a stern voice. Ethel just shrugged at her and placed her cigarette holder inside of the box.

“Herbert” Little Herbert nervously put his marbles inside of the basket. He saw the look in his mother’s eyes. It was full of emotion.

“Billy”

Uncle Billy put his dark cane in the box. Frederick winced at the sight because he remembered how those cane often touched his face.

“Lorraine”

Aunt Lorraine, who is very timid unlike his husband, took her earrings off and dropped them inside the basket. She almost fainted before coming back to her seat if his older son didn’t catch her immediately.

“Warren”

Warren opened the container holding his cigars. He took one of them and dropped it inside.

“Frederick”

After hearing his name, he remembered the terrible memories of his aunts again and shakingly loosening his necktie. Uncle Billy noticed it and said, “You wimp! Take that necktie off quickly or I will use that one to ch9ke you”. Frederick looked at his father flintly and took off his necktie and shove it on the basket.

“Herman”

The boy fetched his ball that rolled in front and placed it in the basket.

“Chester”

Chester put his hands in his pocket and handed the wooden doll to him in the basket.

“Wallace”

Uncle Wallace put out his cigarette and shoved the bible inside the basket. Everyone became silent, especially Ethel and Martha. “Isn’t that the bible of Jane? The thing that she placed in that basket before being picked?” Dorothy asked her husband. Peter nodded and looked at his younger brother's solemn face. Uncle Wallace goes back to his seat and lit another cigarette.

“My wife Claire”

Grandmother Claire said “Oh I am really getting old. All this sitting is making this old woman sore.” She dropped her fan inside the basket and slowly went back to her seat.

“And lastly, my item.” Grandfather Joe said. He dropped his ring inside the basket. After dropping all the items, Grandfather Joe asked for Wallace’s assistance to put the basket in the living room so they could start the feast first.

The feast started very lively. Uncle Kenneth talking about his successful investment. Everyone in the room is eager to learn more about his success and how they can do it too. They also started talking about the situation of the harvest season. “Those pests destroyed almost everything.” Uncle Billy angrily muttered. Dorothy heard it and looked down, ashamed. Peter glared at his brother to stop and thankfully, Uncle Billy followed. All was going well until Grandmother Claire brought up finding a new wife for Uncle Wallace. “Don’t you have plans to find a wife and settle down again? When are you going to have children? I know that Mildred does not want you to be like this.” Grandmother Claire told him. The table became silent because they know exactly what will happen whenever Uncle Wallace’s wife is brought up in the topic. “I do not have plans to replace my wife. Don’t act like you know Mildred. I know that all she wants is to have a family and take care of our children. But all of that turned into dust because of that damned tradition.” Uncle Wallace shouted. Everyone became silent. No one can talk because of the dark aura surrounding the dinner table. Until Grandmother Claire stood up and slapped Uncle Wallace’s face.

Everyone is flabbergasted. Peter stood up to interfere but Uncle Kenneth stopped him. “As long as I am alive, no one is allowed to slander our family’s precious tradition. This ritual is important to us. You know since when you are a kid that without this tradition, you or your brothers will be standing here, having a feast with your own families.” Grandmother Claire said loudly. Uncle Wallace just glared at her at storms outside the dinner room. To ease the sour mood in the room, Peter called the maids to bring the strawberry cake that is prepared by one of the famous bakeries in their town. The mood is starting to lighten and after their lunch, Grandfather Joe announced that the ritual will start in a while.

It is exactly 3:00 in the afternoon but the sky became overcast and the clouds scudded by, like huge smoky cotton balls. It looks like that any time soon, heavy roars of thunder will be heard. The family starts to gather in the backyard. The anxiety in the mood can be felt. Warren gulped so hard that you can see his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. “We are now starting. Peter, prepare Sarah. Billy and Kenneth, get some smooth rocks. The rest of you, compose yourselves.” Grandfather Joe said sternly. Everyone became more nervous. Peter came back in the group, carrying Sarah. Warren settled the basket. Peter carried Sarah towards the basket and demonstrated to her what she was going to do. The men in the family started placing rocks in a big circle formation. After the construction. Each member of the family got together inside the circle and joined hands together. “Mama, I am so nervous. I want to pee”, Chester whispered to Aunt Lorraine. Uncle Billy heard him and shushed him. The boy cannot do anything but endure until the ritual ends.

Grandmother Claire started the chant and everyone started to chime in. “Do it now Peter,” Grandfather Joe commanded. Peter brought his daughter to the basket and demonstrated what she would do. Sarah innocently put her small and chubby hands inside of the basket to get an item. Time seems to go slowly for them as they stare at the helpless infant, selecting who will live or die. After a long time of shuffling, Sarah finally caught an item and slowly showed it to the family.

Everyone’s breath suddenly stopped when they saw a long and black cigarette holder. Uncle Kenneth and Aunt Martha looked at their oldest daughter helplessly. Herbert stared at his sister and the tears in her eyes were starting to drop. Uncle Wallace’s bellowing laugh can be heard as it echoes around them. The rest of the family can’t help but feel pity for their young niece who hasn't even experienced the harsh reality of the world. Ethel just stared at her cigarette holder, her breath hitching. “No! That can’t be true! There must be some mistake! Are you sure that cigarette holder is even mine? No! Father, Mother! Help me! Do something, please! Frederick! Hey! Do not just look at me! Wait- What are you doing? Unhand me Uncle Billy! Do not touch me! No! Stop! Stop! Please do not push me! I am begging all of you!” Ethel screamed with all her might but it just fell on deaf ears. The younger members of the family were terrified by her screams and started crying too. Uncle Billy and Uncle Wallace dragged her to the cliff where you can see the pointed rocks and rogue waves below.

“Please stop! Have mercy on me! I do not want to die! PLEASE HELP M-” Ethel’s voice suddenly stopped and her body crushing below can be heard. All of the members eventually turned around and went back to the house while Frederick remained outside, stared below and lit his cigarette.

WRITTEN BY: XIAN YUN

#fiction #writer #creative writing #short story #rituals #mystery #family #writers and poets

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redemptivexheroics · 2 years

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About The Muse - Nika Mikaelson

BASICS

Full Name: Nikole Louise Mikaelson

Nicknames: Nika [It’s the only nickname she will allow]

Age: 17

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Date of Birth: March 7, 2014

Place of Birth: New Orleans, Louisiana

Gender & Species: Female/Half Witch

Current Location: San Francisco, California

MORE BASIC INFO

Languages: English, Latin

Religion: N/A

Education: High School

Occupation: Coffee Shop Barista

Drinks, Smokes, & Drugs: No/No/No

PERSONALITY

Zodiac Sign: Pisces

MBTI: N/A

Likes: Breezy Days, Apple Pie, Puppies

Dislikes: Spiders, Spinach, Rain

Bad Habits: Rolling Her Eyes, Talking Under Her Breath

Secret Talent: Nika Is Very Talented At The Violin.

Hobbies: Violin, Poetry, Singing, Puzzles

Fears: Nika Is Afraid Of Small Places And His Been Diagnosed With Claustrophobia

Five Positive Traits: Accepting, Brave, Cheerful, Dependable, and Friendly

Five Negative Traits: Devious, Evasive, Rebellious, Stubborn, and Reckless

Other Mentionable Details: Nika is the second child to have a vampire for a parent, though at the time Kol was under a spell that made him human for twenty four hours, she shares this distinction with her cousin Hope.

APPEARANCE

Tattoos: None

Piercings: Ears

Reference Picture: See Above GIF

FAMILY INFORMATION

Parent Names: Kol Mikaelson [Father], Davina Claire [Mother]

Parent Relationship: Strong Relationship With Her Parents

Sibling Names: None

Sibling Relationship: None

Other Relevant Relative: Klaus Mikaelson [Uncle], Elijah Mikaelson [Uncle], Finn Mikaelson [Uncle], Henrik Mikaelson [Uncle], Rebekah Mikaelson [Aunt], Freya Mikaelson [Aunt], Hope Mikaelson [Cousin], Marcel Gerard [Cousin Like Figure]

Children: None

Pets: Ferret Named Lucky

BIOGRAPHY

Nika Mikaelson is the daughter and only child of Kol Mikaelson and Davina Claire and is the second child to be born in the family, this was only made possible when Kol was made human for twenty four hours in which no time was wasted between Kol and Davina to see if a child could be made. Nika is also two years younger than Hope, putting them very close in age, of course tragedy struck not long after she was born, her father was cursed and he lost control of his blood lust and killed her mother and despite what his siblings said, he did not trust himself to raise their daughter and entrusted her to a family friend, Raven, a witch. Nika did not reunite with her family until after the mess with the Hollow which also resulted in her mother being resurrected. Before being reunited with her family, Nika was raised away from New Orleans with Raven who made sure she knew who her father was but did not dare tell her about Davina, saving that conversation for when she was reunited with Kol. Nika was a happy child and knew nothing but a good life. After being reunited with her parents, the same love she was shown with Raven was displayed by her parents and she quickly developed a relationship with them and without a doubt became a daddy’s little girl. Nika eventually met Hope and being as they were the only two of the second generation Mikaelsons a bond was quickly formed between which was easy given there was only two years between them.

Like most of the family, after getting to know her Uncle Klaus and Elijah, she too mourned their deaths, she had even became sad with the passing of Hayley as she grew to like Hayley. Nika’s personality is a split between her parents, she’s rebellious, reckless and free spirited like her father and strong willed and open minded like her mother. She was told from a young age that she was a witch and though she still has a lot to learn she’s quite capable for her age.

#About The Muse #Nika Mikaelson

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thnxforknowingme · 2 years

Text

Miles To Go (1/12)

Written for the Klaine 3-2-1 Prompt Bang 2022, art by @datshitrandom

Pairing: Kurt Hummel/Blaine Anderson

Rating: Mature

Notes: More info about the fic here. I have been to some of the places that Kurt and Blaine travel in this story, but not the majority of them. Thank god for Google Maps and Street View, as well as the tourist board websites of all the cities and national parks mentioned. While much of this story is based in reality, I’ve also taken artistic liberties when necessary for the plot. I apologize for any accidental inaccuracies or mistakes in portraying these varied places. Also, I’m sorry specifically to Kansas. I’ve been to your state and had a perfectly nice time. That’s not the case for Kurt, unfortunately. You can generally assume that things in this story are based on canon through season 4, with the following major exceptions: Kurt never spied at Dalton, so he and Blaine never met, and neither of them transferred schools. Also, Kurt was accepted to NYADA on his first try, so he and Rachel have been attending the school for the same amount of time, and Blaine is the same age/grade as them.

All Chapters | Read on AO3

Chapter 1: Embarking

The water was cold, much colder than Kurt anticipated, and the shock of it made him minutely aware of his physical form - freezing water lapping at his ankles, sand pressing between his toes, wind whipping his hair and stinging his eyes. He was reminded that he was his body, and nothing else; that if he were pulled under by the waves and dragged out to sea, Kurt Hummel would cease to exist entirely.

But even if he were gone, he knew he would be remembered - he had someone on the beach waiting for him, and friends on both sides of this strange, beautiful, massive country. He had a family who loved him, a family that he’d helped to build.

He clutched the container in his hands against his chest, feeling the vital thump of his heart, and looked out towards the endless horizon. He’d reached his destination at last, and after months of feeling like he was drowning, he thought that maybe now he could finally take a breath again.

This was another goodbye, but like all things in life, it wasn’t really over. Finn had changed Kurt. This trip had changed Kurt. And so they would live on in him, and in everyone he changed.

He could taste the salty air as he blinked through the tears in his eyes.

It was time.

- / / -

Somehow March stuttered into April, which melted into May. It didn’t seem right to Kurt that time should continue to move forward after Finn died. Concerts and movies and birthday parties shouldn’t still be happening when Finn was dead. Flowers shouldn’t continue to bloom, seasons shouldn’t continue to change. People shouldn’t be expected to go to school or work, to pay bills, to buy groceries. Kurt wanted to freeze everything, to staunch the flow of time like a leaking pipe, so that he could just grieve, without the rest of life getting in the way.

However, the world kept spinning. The sun rose anew each day, every sunrise representing a day Finn didn’t get to see. The dates on the calendar ticked by, stores opening and closing, holidays coming and going, weather steadily changing. The universe didn’t care that a tragedy had occurred, that the whole world was suffering from the loss of kind goofy talented clueless wonderful Finn Hudson.

Kurt did his best to retreat from this unsympathetic world. He went to class and to work most of the time, but moved through his responsibilities like a zombie. His shifts at the diner were performed in a fugue state, repeating the same stock phrases to customers over and over, methodically bussing tables and punching orders into the register, his attention never fully there. When he went to class he made clumsy attempts at following the professors’ instructions, but he couldn’t muster the passion or discipline necessary to do any valuable work. He wasn’t becoming a better actor, singer, or dancer. He just did the bare minimum to scrape by, gazing blankly ahead while his classmates put their whole heart into performances. Kurt couldn’t do that anymore. He wasn’t sure he still had a heart.

Any time he wasn’t obligated to be somewhere he was at home, typically in sweatpants, eating comfort food and watching Sex and the City or The Real Housewives. He craved the soothing routine of trashy television, the familiar patterns of each narrative arc, the knowledge that the stakes were never actually that high. It offered a predictability and stability that he now knew didn’t exist in reality.

When he’d been worrying about his dad’s cancer, he’d constantly felt like a tightly-wound spring. His fear and anxiety choked him like a noose, and the only way he could find relief was by exerting small bits of control over arbitrary things - sticking to routines and relying on superstitions and making up comforting rituals.

Finn’s death seemed to break that instinct in him, though. He’d been shown that there was no way for him to control anything. He’d experienced the elation of discovering his dad had a clean bill of health, only for his stepbrother to die unexpectedly soon after. Life was cruel and senseless, and Kurt didn’t have any power to influence it. No amount of meaningless tics could bring Finn back.

Rachel seemed to react in the opposite way. Kurt rarely saw her anymore - her every waking moment was spent outside of the loft. Balancing NYADA coursework and a waitressing job and rehearsals as the lead of a Broadway play was an immense challenge, and Rachel was throwing herself into it wholeheartedly. In some moments, Kurt resented her dedication. How could she care so much about school and her career, things that paled in importance to Finn? How could she seek the attention and approval of a world that allowed Finn to die, and then kept on going without him?

Santana fell somewhere in the middle - not as apathetic as Kurt, nor as work-obsessed as Rachel. She was just a sadder, sharper version of her usual self. She spent a fair amount of time with Dani, the Spotlight waitress who had shown an interest in her. Under other circumstances, Kurt would have badgered her for details, teasing her about her new relationship. As it was, he just waved her off vaguely whenever she left the apartment, calling out that she’d be at Dani’s for the night.

Whatever camaraderie they’d built up, the three of them taking on New York together, had been shattered. They retreated into their grief in their own ways, facing it alone, no longer a united front.

“You need to clean up your act,” Carmen Tibideaux said, staring at Kurt over her glasses, “or you will not be invited back to NYADA next semester.”

Kurt was sure that this was a very dire warning, but he felt detached from the whole situation. He was sitting in Madam Tibideaux’s office, her chairs just hard enough that he could never feel comfortable in them. He’d received an email demanding that he attend a meeting with her to discuss his academic future. He’d always felt intimidated when in her presence before, but now he couldn’t find it in himself to worry about what she thought of him. “I’m sorry,” he said automatically.

“Your attendance has been slipping,” she went on, her disapproval easily apparent in her tone. “Your professors say you have not been engaged during classes, and have performed unsatisfactorily on assignments. This is not behavior befitting of a NYADA student. We accept very few applicants, Mr. Hummel. We expect you to honor the privilege of being at this school by putting in your best work.”

Kurt swallowed. He knew he had to stand up for himself, but he hated having to tell other people about this. “I…I’ve had a recent…I’m grieving a loss in my family.”

Madam Tibideaux looked at him, her face impassive. He should have known she wouldn’t immediately give him a free pass just because his brother died. She had never been a sympathetic person, and at NYADA, the show must always go on.

Finally, she spoke. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Kurt.” She sounded genuine, at least. “You have the right to grieve in whatever way is best for you. But if this is getting in the way of your schoolwork, then it is not the best situation for your education or your emotional well-being for you to be at NYADA right now.” She opened a drawer in her desk and pulled out a few sheets of paper. “If you want to take a leave of absence, that’s a possibility we can discuss. However, you should know that with the competitive nature of our school, deferment can lead to a loss in financial aid funds and a longer path to graduation. Alternatively, if you want to continue your education as it stands, you will need to make significant changes in your current performance. If you cannot achieve sufficient passing grades in your current classes - which I suspect will be challenging, considering how late in the semester it is - then some of your professors may be able to give you Incompletes, and you can make up or retake the classes later. Taking classes over the summer may be beneficial if you want to stay on track for your current expected graduation date.”

Kurt listened numbly as she listed off the things he’d have to do to arrange for these plans, and took the papers she handed him. He managed to offer her a small smile when she dismissed him. “Thank you, madam,” he said, although he didn’t feel any gratitude.

Kurt found the loft empty when he got back, so he lay down in bed and dialed his dad’s phone number.

He was going to tell him about the issues at school and ask for advice - that was the plan. But then they started talking about the trip to Los Angeles that his dad and Carole had just returned from, where they’d accompanied the New Directions to Nationals. Burt put the call on speakerphone so Carole could join in too - she was much better at recounting the experience and remembering important details.

They told Kurt about the performance, how it had been dedicated to Finn, how the choir sang some of his favorite songs. Carole and Kurt were both crying by the end of her description, but this was to be expected - they’d shed so many tears in each other’s presence over the past few months that it was no longer remarkable, just a typical part of conversation.

“Finn was so excited to go to LA, too,” Carole said, her voice thick. “As soon as they won Regionals, he started making plans…doing all the Hollywood tourist stuff, you know, asking Puck for suggestions.” She laughed, in a wet half-crying way. “He really wanted to swim in the Pacific. When he was a kid he was obsessed with that for a while - I think he’d seen something on Animal Planet about swimming with dolphins and got that in his head. I don’t even know if there are dolphins on the coast of California, but when he was little he had a phase where he wouldn’t stop talking about it.”

Kurt stared at the wooden beams of the ceiling, smiling sadly. He could picture a child-aged Finn daydreaming of dolphins. It was odd, the experience of losing someone, and learning new things about them after they were gone. He’d never be able to ask Finn about this, never be able to tease him about his childhood dream.

But he suddenly realized that maybe, in some way, he could help Finn achieve it.

He sat up, his heart rate accelerating abruptly as the idea overtook him. “Carole,” he said urgently. “Have you thought about - what you might want to…do, uh, with Finn?”

It was an absolutely unintelligible sentence, but Kurt was confident Carole would know what he meant.

After Finn died, his body had been cremated, a second urn joining the shelf in the Hummel-Hudson house where Finn’s father’s ashes were displayed. Carole had simply decided to follow the same steps that she’d taken for Christopher’s remains, not having any other guidance. It’s not like they knew what Finn wanted. A nineteen-year-old shouldn’t have to plan for this kind of thing.

“Oh,” Carole said after a moment. “Uh, no. I don’t have any plans.”

Kurt propped himself up with his free hand, palm pressing hard into his bedspread. He bit the inside of his lip. How did one ask this question tactfully? How to ask it at all?

He inhaled. “What do you think of - I mean. Um. Of the Pacific Ocean? Is that - do you think he would have wanted that?”

In the silence that followed, Kurt worried that he’d overstepped, that Carole would be offended by the suggestion of giving what remained of Finn up to the elements.

But then she said, “Oh, Kurt, that’s - I really like that idea. That would be - really beautiful.”

Kurt let out his breath. “It doesn’t have to - it’s just an idea.”

“Is that something you would want to do?” Carole asked. “Take him there?”

Kurt stared at the bookshelves on the other side of his room, at the carefully-arranged decorations that he’d once cared so much about. “I think I would,” he said softly.

He’d felt so helpless and powerless for so long. Finally, this was something he could do about losing Finn. Screw taking summer classes. He was going to bring Finn to LA.

A few weeks later, Kurt stood in his parents’ driveway in Lima, the Navigator crammed full of everything he might need for a cross-country road trip.

There had been a lot of logistical planning since he first had the idea to bring Finn’s ashes to the Pacific. He’d finished out his semester at NYADA and then quit his job, with the understanding that if they still needed a server when he came back he could be re-hired. His academics had still been pretty lackluster, but he hadn’t been kicked out of school yet, so he was waiting to deal with whatever the consequences of his poor grades would be until the fall.

He’d stayed up late many nights researching gas prices, poring over Google Maps, and budgeting. He didn’t have much in his savings, but his dad was going to give him a chunk of money for the trip. His biggest money-saving strategy was to not rely on motels for lodging. Instead, once he got back to Ohio, his dad pulled a tent out of the garage. Kurt practiced setting it up and taking it down over and over, until he could do it precisely and consistently, and then he spent a few nights sleeping in it in the backyard to acclimate himself.

Then there was the most crucial factor. Carole had gone to the mortuary to have Finn’s ashes split. Half of them remained in the house, next to his father’s. She provided Kurt with a black, airtight container that held the other half of what remained of his brother. He was used to thinking of Finn as such a big presence - always towering over him physically, but also huge in his personality. It was odd that he could be reduced to something so small, fitting into the palm of Kurt’s hand. Carole had shown him how to remove the lid, revealing the opening through which the ashes could be scattered.

He was as ready to leave as he was ever going to be. It was pleasantly cool on the morning that he began his journey west.

“You call me if anything goes wrong, okay?” Kurt’s dad said, pulling him into a tight hug. “Actually, call me every few days anyway.”

“Okay,” Kurt said into his dad’s shoulder. He thought about pointing out that he’d been living in New York for most of a year without parental supervision, but he held his tongue. This was different, after all.

Carole’s embrace wasn’t as familiar as his father’s, but it was something Kurt had gotten used to over the past few years. Carole would never be his mother, but she was his family in a true, unassailable way. The same way Finn had been.

“Thank you,” she whispered as they hugged goodbye. “Good luck.”

Kurt nodded, his throat tight, and pulled back.

He got into the Navigator and started the engine. He mentally ran through his packing list one last time, ensuring that he had everything he needed. He glanced over his shoulder to see the cardboard box placed securely on the floor of the backseat - the box that contained a bag, that contained an urn, that contained Finn.

He switched the car into drive and took his foot off the brake, his parents looking on in the rearview mirror as he drove away.

#fic: miles to go #mtg chapter #my fic

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amazonworrier · 3 years

Note

You should do:

Person B is a hot sleeper, and Person A likes to cuddle. Person B constantly wakes up sweating in the middle of the night because Person A is glued to them

For Quinntana! A could be Santana and B could be Quinn.

Yas!

Quinn's not going to pretend she hates Santana anymore. 'Hate' feels like too strong a word. Quinn tolerates Santana on certain days, and dislikes her on all others. She wonders if, perhaps, that might be because she also somewhat dislikes herself most days, and no one reminds her more of herself than Santana Lopez.

That's why it's almost laughable when, just as Quinn is contemplating hitting the self-destruct button on her rather enjoyable life at Yale over her first A- on a paper, she opens the door to her dorm to find Santana standing there waiting for her. Her 'psychic Mexican third eye,' has, after all, always been impeccable.

"Don't be such an idiot, Quinn."

As it turns out, what Santana is actually referring to, is Quinn's decision not to attend the funeral of one Finn Hudson, who rudely opted to die last week at a college party and threw all of their lives into absolute upheaval. As his ex, and arguably most controversial, girlfriend, Quinn was granted the humble honour of hearing about his death through the social media grapevine while at a college party of her own. It's not as if she'd expected a personal phone call from Rachel Berry, or anything, but a text from someone involved in the tragedy wouldn't have gone amiss.

Nonetheless, she's surprised it's Santana who shows up at her door. Their relationship has been rocky ever since that... seven(?) time thing at Mr Schue's bomb of a wedding. Apparently Santana is fine with the idea of college experimentation as a once-off, but when her 100% heterosexual high school best-frenemy is falling apart on her tongue for the umpteenth time that night, she basically views it as her civic duty to award the flannel badge to Quinn herself.

Quinn absolutely did not accept, and they haven't spoken to each other since.

"Santana," Quinn stands aside to let her old friend in, or gets pushed. She's not sure. "What a pleasant surprise."

"Cut the crap," Santana rolls her eyes, scanning the room with disgust. "What the fuck happened here?"

Quinn glances around at the mess she's made over the last few hours. She wasn't joking about self-destruction, it was just lucky she'd been short on matches at the time. She opts not to respond, simply because she doesn't owe Santana an explanation.

For anything.

"What are you doing here, Santana?" Quinn asks instead.

"I've come to tell you that you're a selfish bitch," Santana fires back, rifling through Quinn's closet without explanation.

"Message received," Quinn folds her arms. "Don't let the door hit you on your way out."

Once again, Santana seems less bothered by Quinn's words as she does the current state of their surroundings. "How do you live like this?"

"Without judgement, usually."

Santana scoffs, locating one of Quinn's more conservative black dresses and yanking it out of her wardrobe. The next thing Quinn sees is a flash of black, as the garment is thrown forcefully at her face.

"Pack a bag," she hears, "We're gonna be late."

Quinn listens, because she thinks a part of her might actually have been waiting for this; praying someone, anyone, from McKinley would care enough to come here and force her to attend the funeral of a boy she once imagined spending the rest of her life with. A funeral she couldn't possibly attend alone, and therefore one she'd rather planned on skipping today.

Santana gets them back to Lima just in time, and holds Quinn's hand until it's all over.

They fall apart together, quietly, in the darkness of Santana's childhood bedroom later that evening. Santana is the first to fall asleep.

That's when Quinn first makes the discovery, and it's an alarming one at that. For all her bark and bite, a Santana at rest is more koala bear than bull terrier. She wraps herself around Quinn's body in her sleep, tangling their legs together and clinging to Quinn's shoulders as she nuzzles into her neck with a breathy sigh. If it so happened that Quinn were, in fact, a lesbian, she supposes the whole thing might've left her feeling somewhat hot and bothered.

It must only be a few minutes before her body temperature rises to the point of absurdity. Quinn's always been a hot sleeper, and having a flaming, Santana-sized parasite wrapped around the length of her body right now isn't exactly conducive to a night of easily earned rest. She unsticks herself from Santana, rolling to the other side of the bed, as far away as she can possibly go without falling onto the floor. The cool pillow hits her cheek, and Quinn sighs, allowing sleep to wash away the remains of one of the worst days of her life, so far.

A warm hand closes around her waist five seconds later, and something inside Quinn snaps.

“Santana,” she hisses, spinning around and shoving at her friend’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

Santana wakes with a grumble, one eye cracked open. Her frown is obvious even in complete darkness. “What?”

“You’re so hot.”

“Well, you’re not so bad yourself, Fabray.”

It’s smug. Too smug. Quinn can hear the smirk in her voice. She kicks at Santana’s leg under the covers, stopping it midway through its quest to once again weave with her own like some sort of horny grapevine.

“Stop that,” Quinn shoves at the warm body again. “I’m serious. Get off me!”

There’s silence for a while, or at least long enough to stir the faintest of butterflies within Quinn’s stomach as her mind runs wild with possible theories about what Santana, arguably her most psychotic friend, might be contemplating in response to the rejection. For a brief moment, she weighs up the odds of that rumour about Lima-Heights residents sleeping with knives under their pillows actually being true.

There’s a sudden movement under the blankets, away from her this time, and a lamp clicks. By the time Quinn's eyes adjust, Santana is already standing up and stomping towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Quinn asks, only to receive a murderous scowl in return.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Santana sneers. “God forbid Quinn Fabray catch the gay.”

The door slams, and Santana is gone. It’s textbook Lopez, a barb both targeted and catchy enough to leave a mark, then an exit made before the opponent can strike back. Quinn’s had too emotional of a day to think about why Santana’s words leave her reeling, although, in truth, the answer struck her months ago in a different bedroom; when she was the one walking out on Santana. She bites back a sob, leaning over to turn the light out on the other side of the bed and forcing herself to get some sleep.

It’s too cold.

Quinn opens her eyes again with a sigh. It goes against everything she stands for to get out of that bed and drag herself into the living room, but she does it anyway. Santana is buried under an abundance of blankets and pillows, snoring lightly, which is odd, given that she insists she doesn’t. Snore, that is.

Quinn watches Santana sleep for longer than she’d care to admit, before biting the bullet and tearing the blankets off her in one fluid motion.

Santana wakes up with a startled gasp. “What the fuck, Quinn?”

There’s barely a second between Santana’s outburst and the feeling of a cold, hard surface against Quinn’s back, as she’s thrown into the living room wall. Santana’s forearm presses painfully into her chest, pinning her in place.

It’s... not as unpleasant as it should be.

If Quinn’s eyes flicker to Santana’s lips, then so be it. She’s tired, and grieving, and Santana might currently be the only person in her life who sees her for who she really is. There’s something oddly attractive about that. Magnetic, even. It's less 'the mortifying ideal of being known' and more 'the gratifying relief of being understood.'

At Quinn’s reticence, Santana grows hesitant. Their lips are inches away from each other, to the point where Quinn can feel Santana’s hot breath against her cheek as acutely as she can feel the beat of her own, reckless heart. To the untrained eye, one might even suggest Santana’s own eyes stray towards Quinn’s lips, which would be an outrageous thought, if not for the fact that Quinn can recall the taste of Santana’s tongue tangling with her own as readily as she can recall her middle name; and, if Santana has half as fond a memory, then it’s perfectly within reason she might find herself similarly distracted by their present state of being.

“Come back to bed,” Quinn whispers. It's broken, pleading.

Santana falters, backs away. So much so, that Quinn almost fears she won’t abide by the request. The very thought induces a troubling ache within Quinn's chest, and she contemplates crumbling completely. That is, until a hand closes around hers, and she looks back up to find Santana watching her intently. Waiting.

“Okay.”

They fall asleep together that night. Santana is far too hot, and between the sticky flesh and the snoring, Quinn struggles to fall asleep for hours. She struggles to fall asleep, until she doesn’t. Until the stifling warmth of Santana’s body offers solace instead of suffocation. The next morning, Quinn wakes up covered in a layer of sweat, pressed into the mattress by the small, muscular body of a girl she once hated, and realises she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Years later, as Quinn watches the woman she loves sleep soundly beside her, she supposes very little has changed.

#anon #writing things #quinntana #okay i actually don't mind this #i should write quinntana more often damn #quinn fabray #santana lopez

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staarshines · 3 years

Text

Alderaanian Tragedy || P.D.

Warnings: Mentions of ecstasy (in the song), mention of getting drunk

Word Count: 1.8k

The story as to how you ended up in the middle of a cantina on Ajan Kloss, dancing with the love of your life, foreheads pressed together while laughing, still high from the first two kisses just a mere few hours after the war of your generation ended.

[A/N]: i said i would write it 😌 NO THIS IS NOT ANGST I PROMISE!! it’s based off of the song “greek tragedy” which’s remix went viral on tiktok lately—if you’re gonna listen to it while reading the story, please do not listen to the remix because that’s the complete opposite of the original 😭 And yes if like five of the words seem changed I did change a few lyrics to fit the universe better!!

Poe.

That was the only person you wanted to find when you landed—everyone else could wait. Rey, Finn, L’ulo, Rose—they all could wait.

The love of your life couldn’t.

Maybe it was the absolute high you were still riding from watching all those allies drop out of hyperspace. Maybe it was relief about the war you’d been fighting for for nearly half a decade finally being over. Maybe it was fear of how many blasts had barely missed your X-Wing that last battle. Or maybe, just maybe, it was just exhaustion of keeping the secret for so long. But you needed to tell him.

After all, you had no excuses now.

We’re fighting in a war.

We can’t risk being distracted.

What if something happens to one of us?

It’s not a good time.

If he doesn’t feel the same, we won’t be able to work together anymore.

No. None of that. All those “excuses” went down with the dreadnoughts on Exegol.

You’re too lost in your thoughts to even be actively looking for him, just wandering through the crowd of ecstatic rebels because you know the moment you see his eyes, you’ll be racing toward him.

And you’re damn right.

You run into his arms so hard that you knock the breath out from your own lungs—forget about his. You know he’s saying something, you just can’t hear it over the rebels’ cheers and your own sobs. It’s practically impossible to get out of his grip, but once you do, you press your forehead so hard against his that it hurts, laughing through your tears, his face cupped in your hands and vice versa—you swear to the Maker you would’ve kissed him right then and there had Rey and Finn not nearly tackled you both to the ground with a hug.

Nobody says a thing for who knows how long—the silence in between the four of you is more than enough. Once the four of you pull apart, it takes mere seconds for you all to break out in laughter after seeing the fatigue on everyone’s faces. Nevertheless, the flyboy has something else on his mind.

“We’re definitely getting drunk tonight, right?”

“I thought we were dressing cute—” you blurt out, looking at your black skater dress and Finn’s collared shirt before seeing Poe in his signature tank top-half flightsuit and Rey in one of her regular sleeveless tunics and a jacket.

“I thought we were dressing homeless…”

“I was just too tired to change out of my flightsuit.” Finn snickers and you just roll your eyes, fighting back a smile (and failing, obviously). “It doesn’t matter, really. I look hot either way.” He sends a wink your way which you hope looks like you blatantly disregarded it—because your mind certainly didn’t.

“Don’t get too cocky, Dameron.”

Making your way down to the cantina, you can’t help but let your mind wander a little because of how flirtatious Poe is being. Sure, he was always flirty little shit, but something about this was… different.

Probably just the weight of the war off his shoulders, you tell yourself.

But that couldn't be the only thing. There had to be something else.

This. This is what you hated about being a rebel—were you still a rebel if the war was over? That’s beside the point—the hope. The hope is what you hated. Rebellions were built on hope. As long as there was hope, a rebel would keep fighting. No matter how improbable or impossible, even, the situation was, a rebel wouldn’t give up on it. It’s the only reason the Rebellion won the war, really.

And you’ve told yourself more times than you can count that work’s ideology should stay in work’s life. A motto that outrageous doesn’t just transfer over to a, well, to any love life. You’ve talked yourself down in your quarters, the hangar, your X-Wing, a fucking dreadnought, and even this cantina where you’re sitting right now.

Your heart just wouldn’t listen.

“This song—hell yes!” Poe’s excited yells pull you out of your thoughts, and it takes you a few seconds to realize that Alderaanian Tragedy is playing. “C’mon flygirl, get up! Let’s dance!”

“Flygirl?” you don’t hesitate to question the nickname—not that you were complaining, no. The opposite, really. “Since when has that been my thing?”

“Since I said so.”

“Oh really?”

“Mhm. I practically own the brand. I say what goes.” You nod teasingly but don’t budge, earning a groan from him. “Fine. You made me do this, then.” He grabs your hand and pulls you out of the booth with a surprised yelp from you. You reach a hand out to Finn and Rey but Finn just waves you off and Rey blows you a kiss, winking. Sighing, you decide to accept your fate, catching up to Poe so he doesn’t have to drag you through the crowd anymore.

“We’re smashing mics in karaoke bars…”

“Are you really going to pull us into the middle?” you yell over the pumping music, barely even being able to hear yourself.

“Is this your first time meeting me?”

“You’re running late with half your makeup on…”

Poe comes to a stop and grabs your other hand, beginning to sway to the music. You’re still a bit reluctant, which earns you a pout from him. Maker, not the damn pout.

“This method acting might pay our bills…”

You smile just the tiniest bit at remembering how much you loved this song—Poe’s grin when he sees that you’re having fun makes you start giggling almost uncontrollably.

“But soon enough, there’ll be a different role to fill…”

You sing along, finally starting to let yourself loosen up and have some fun, which makes Poe happier than he’s been in a long time.

“I love this feeling, but I hate this part…”

Poe sings along with you, giving you a little “Yeah!” of encouragement at the end.

“I wanted this to work so much, I drew our plans in the stars…”

You swear you see him point to you both before pointing up at the ceiling like you could see the stars—damn this dim lighting. Did you just imagine it, or did Poe really make that verse about the two of you—?

“Speeders are flipping, I’m in hot pursuit…”

He grabs your waist and twirls you into his chest—you swear your heart stops right then and there.

“My character’s strong, but my head is loose.”

He rolls his head back and sticks his tongue out at you—as stupid as it may be, you laugh. The bass of the beats start shaking the floor, and you both look at each other like you know what to do next.

“She hits like ecstasy…”

You’re jumping like crazy with your hands on Poe’s shoulders, laughing gleefully and letting your hair whip around without a care in the galaxy.

“Comes up and bangs the sense out of me…”

He’s singing along now, and as loud of the music may be, you can hear him—you’re closer and honestly? He’s louder. Like the song means something to him.

No, he’s just enjoying the night. Stop being a romantic for once.

“The tarot cards say it’s not that bad, the blades rotate there’s just no landing pad…”

Dramatically falling back with full faith that Poe will catch you—which he does—you try to stop yourself from thinking about how deep you are in your love for him. Dancing like this, it’s not… It’s not how best friends dance. There shouldn’t be this much tension, and there sure as hell shouldn’t be this much meaning.

“And better have said it, but darling you’re the best…”

You mouth the last four words—as does he—and pointedly tap his nose, as if to solidify that you were talking about him.

“I’m just tired of falling up the Penrose steps…”

He slows down a little bit and you gladly oblige, a little bit out of breath yourself as well.

“I hate this feeling, but I love this part…”

You let your arms drape over his shoulders, feeling like he was trying to tell you something. You look into his eyes but you can’t read them because of the lack of light—you swear you see a shimmer or a sparkle somewhere in there, though…

“She really wants to make it work, and I clearly want to let it start…”

One of his hands travels up your back while the other tucks a loose strand of your hair back in place—the simple motion setting off that Maker-damned fizzing feeling in your stomach again.

“We’ll build a podracer as soon as I get home…”

Your hands switch positions from over his shoulders to holding his face—were you two getting closer? You honestly couldn’t handle the suspense.

Fuck it.

“Oh and she hits like ecstasy…”

Your veins throb and you swear your heart explodes as your lips crash into his, which he gladly welcomes. He’s everywhere, up your back, your neck, your hair, and suddenly, he’s kissing you harder, deeper, with some sort of urge that you’ve never known before. It’s dizzying, because you feel the same thing—you’ve never wanted anyone like this before. Ever. In this moment, all you wanted was Poe. You want him closer, closer, closer, even though he can’t get any closer. Maybe time stopped when your lips met his.

“Comes up and bangs the sense out of me…”

You don’t want to break the kiss—in fact, you want to let it go on forever—but you need a second to think without his lips on yours.

Did you really just kiss him?

Poe Dameron?

The love of your life?

And he’d kissed you back?

“It’s wrong, but surely worse to leave…”

You’re searching his face for answers and he seems to be doing the same—that is, until, you both come to the conclusion that another kiss is probably the answer.

“She hits like ecstasy…”

It still isn’t clear whether or not you’d just dreamed this moment into real life, but there was something about the way he was gripping onto you. Something that screamed “I’m never going to let you go. I’m never going to let you go. I’m never going to let you go.” And honestly? You didn’t want him to.

“So free up the cheaper seats…”

Even though you’re too out of breath for kissing, you still need to be as close to him as possible—thus being the last detail of the story as to how you ended up in the middle of a cantina on Ajan Kloss, dancing with the love of your life, foreheads pressed together while laughing, still high from the first two kisses just a mere few hours after the war of your generation ended.

“Here comes an Alderaanian Tragedy.”

Masterlist

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bellamyblake · 3 years

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As usually I'm a big fan of your meta, I was wondering what you would say Bellamy and Clarke's biggest tragedies are and if they define them and how do you think they define them as characters? Thank you

ohhh, another very tough question! thank you, nonnie!

well i'd say that if you look from the outside perspective of things, that is the not fandom side of things, like if you pull yourself out from all of it you can quite clearly define their tragedies and what shapes them as characters and more importantly, why they are HEAD and HEART to begin with.

i think because it is not as much talked to on the show, their first tragedies and what shapes them tend to get quite undermined (that also is because the show really does bring so many tragedies in their lives as well, one crises over the other, so we tend to ask ourselves not only when does it end but where it began, right?)

and for me i think it all began both similarly and at the same time very differently, a paradox of sorts, just like the head and the heart.

both their first tragedies were about their parents.

bellamy loses his mother and feels guilt over it because he was the reason for it to happen, taking octavia to that dance, do you ever wonder how many times he probably asked himself in that year on the ark all alone-what if he had just stayed home, what if he never took her, right?

his mom's passing was his first major sin and that is one of the reasons why i was certain that if he, as a character was to die and if j/ason was any semblance of a storyteller, he had to bring his mom before the end and i was right even if he absolutely fucked it up. you had to go to that original first big tragedy/sin just like clarke saw her dad more than once right?

and i should add here that bellamy can't be entirely blamed for what happened. i think aurora herself knew this was inevitable it was just the question of when and how and bellamy ended up being the answer to those questions.

i think it wasn't just bellamy who stopped existing the day octavia was born-from then on his mom was a ghost of herself, a person as if sick with case of untreatable cancer-she knew she was going to die, she was living on borrowed time, how much?

nobody knew but i assume with time, seeing as how much bellamy loved octavia, she guessed it could be him who resulted in this and i still believe it'd have been great to see that last moment before she was floated that i am sure happened between her and bellamy and what they talked about.

anyway- that aside

so his first big tragedy was his mom's passing and clarke's was her dad's and those two deaths shape their stories going onward.

bellamy is all heart, he is all family, he is all about saving those you let into your heart and fighting for them no matter what. his tragedy is that he loves too much and in his love he makes mistakes because he just wants them to be okay but they never truly are no matter what he does, right?

he is a character looking within, both himself and everyone else-he loves passionately and dearly and it is to a point that can kill him and everyone else as it becomes reckless in its goodness-so those are both his blessings and his curse.

aurora set a model for him-family is everything.

i think one problem the show never truly managed to fix is that octavia and bellamy's protective streak over her sl ended in season 1. bob talks about it himself-it was finished and from then on it should've only ever extended to the others AND octavia but not just her. that works well in season 2 and 3 but then it regresses after her beating and HIS beating up over what happened and what he did for the good of the many that ended up leading to a massacre. and they never let him get rid of that constant self-beating that chases him from the moment his mom dies.

so we have bellamy, family, heart.

clarke's model is quite the opposite, set as an example by her dad who wants to tell the truth about the ark and let people decide, take care of THE many, not the FEW or just HIS family. clarke takes up on that model and she never stops fighting for it. on many instances she doesn't just fight for the 100, she fights for her father too and for what this belief that people deserve the truth and that THEIR people should be saved stands for, right?

so she is external, head.

and what i think makes both of them as characters and as a dynamic so unique and why people love the head and the heart parallel is THEIR meeting point.

ultimately bellamy and clarke fight for the same thing, coming from different angles. so bellamy extends his heart to not just his sister, but jasper, monty, monroe, harper, etc, all the hundred and grows to LOVE and care for them as HIS family, as part of one WHOLE and he FIGHTS for that family and Clarke looks on it logically, accepts the 100 as HER people now who she has to TAKE care of like her dad wanted to take care of the arkers and she intends to fight tooth and nail to do this.

apart from those first big tragedies that set the trajectories of who they are as people, as characters, i'd rather say for Clarke her first next big tragedy is killing Finn and Mount Weather and for Bellamy it is Mount weather and then the bombings of it that results in Gina's death.

Those two lead to two bigger tragedies and mistakes-one is losing L/exa for Clarke and the massacre for Bellamy as well as Lincoln's demise.

That is why by the time they reach season 4 I believe both of them are sad and d.epressed as fuck, say what you want about it but so many things in the dialogue point out to it, for Clarke it is so pronounced you can basically shudder if you take out just those lines of hers and frankly I think so is for Bellamy.

They believe they ultimately failed at their goal-they tried to do the best to save their kids/their people by killing other kids/people and losing others that they loved-they are so lost and alone that I think both of them in a way welcome the death wave and don't believe they should ever survive or outrun it.

And as much as I don't like the time jump it was in part a necessity. They couldn't keep being the same people IF we wanted to see them alive-they simply had stopped existing they were so sad, so they had to be buried in the ashes and reborn and they were.

How well it was done is another question but anyone who fails to see what happened to them isn't really paying attention.

So...that's all I guess LOL.

#bellarke #bellarkeedit #bellarke meta #bellamy blake #clarke griffin #the 100 #my ramblings #that nobody cares about #answered

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livlepretre · 3 years

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This is prob a weird question, but do you wonder what a ‘typical vampire’s’ relationship to religion would be like in the tvd universe if it had been explored (&I get why it wasn’t), at least upon being turned, considering that most vampires would have been brought up in eras where religion (generally) played a comparatively more serious role in everybody’s lives? I mean, how would one BEGIN to grapple or fit in this critical aspect of one’s (prior??) worldview, with rising from the dead as what’s essentially a demon, w supernatural powers & preying on humans — what would be t implications of your existence? Were the Salvatores never believers? Plus, do u have any hc on the Originals’ faiths as humans?? Were they Pagans? Christians? Or… I guess not the latter/they would have believed in the spirits as their mother was a witch..? Thoughts? (Srry if I’m bothering you with this question btw, I appreciate that you’re probably busy)

No, not bothering me, I'm very interested in the intersection between religion and vampirism.

We have to assume that religion played a huge role in the lives of MOST vampires-- secularism is relatively recent, and even then all that's happened is that older gods have been replaced with newer gods. And I can't think of any religion where rising as a vampire would be anything other than, as you say, rising as essentially a demon, a night hag, an abomination. And also, to make a blanket statement here, many religions focus a lot on the progression from life into death-- on making sense and peace of the natural order of birth, life, death (and rebirth). Vampirism breaks a person from this cycle, forever divorcing them from the natural world, the natural order. The combination of becoming that demon, of fearing themselves, and of becoming trapped in the netherspace between life and death is a horror unto itself-- one of the main reasons I find tvd vampires in particular so fascinating is because it is not just that they are truly monstrous and frightening, but that the show delves into the way the vampires horrify themselves with their own monstrosity (at least, it used to). They can only be horrified by that monstrosity if they retain some sense of what it is to be human-- and therein is the key. TVD vampires don't lose their human souls, as the vampires in BTVS do-- they simply... transmute. They're cursed with that never ending bloodlust that turns them inevitably into monsters, and they go further and further down that road until they just give in. It's a very dark curse. I'm sure there are plenty of vampires who lose faith... but there are probably even more who don't lose their faith, but instead come to accept their role as the dark mirror in opposition to life. There are a lot of really profound psychological implications to all of this.

As for the specifics of the religions of the vampires-- Damon and Stefan would have almost certainly been raised Catholics-- and I've never thought they weren't still Catholic, although, being Catholic doesn't necessarily make one devout, as with any other sect of any religion. Damon obviously crossed a lot of lines as a human. Also, the show would never have gotten into the thick of us, but how much of Stefan's guilt and shame is tied up in an understanding of the world and morality based on his religious upbringing? We can talk about Humanist ideals all we want, but I think it would be stretching credulity that someone turned as a 17 year old in the 1800s would be feeling so much shame from pure philosophical ethics and not from a sense of morality built into the religion he was brought up in. (And how do we know that Damon isn't so furious with Stefan for forcing him to turn because Stefan has essentially damned him?)

The other vampires are interesting because they're medieval people, so their worldviews would have been even more strongly intwined with religion than the Salvatores.

Katerina I've always assumed would have been Bulgarian Orthodox (you could make an argument for other religious takes based on the Travelers-- but that came later and I tend to just blot that all out of my memory because frankly I think making Katherine exceptional at all other than as the doppelganger is stupid and actually robs her story of tragedy-- it's tragic for her to just be living her normal life and losing her baby the way she did and then to discover that no, she has this dark fate she had no idea about-- it's somehow less tragic if she also is from a family with superpowers and her daughter just gets vamped to track her down) -- nothing much to this other than that is a likely choice. Although I have ALWAYS wondered about Katerina's life in Bulgaria, since it was part of the Ottoman Empire at the time and of course, the show has no interest in history so there's nothing that even touches on this potentially fascinating detail.

Okay the Originals. I have a special place of loathing in my heart for the Viking!backstory and have basically decided to whole heartedly reject it. I think Elijah's "my father was a landowner in Eastern Europe" story was much more convincing and likely. I prefer the idea of Russian!Originals, for various reasons I've documented here on this blog, so I think they would also be Orthodox Christians. (But: potentially before the schism between the Catholic and Orthodox Churches? so perhaps they wouldn't really think of themselves as "orthodox," or perhaps they later started to think of themselves this way.) The Orthodox Christian thing also ties into Tatia Petrova, whose descendants I headcanon as Orthodox. (I'm also fond of the idea that the Originals were Jewish, or the idea that Esther was Jewish.) There are a lot of mystic arts buried in religious arcana, so I don't see there being a conflict between Esther's witchcraft and simultaneously practicing a religion. I think in a medieval context, framing the world in terms of religion would have been just so inevitable, so tied in to every other element of life. It's actually fascinating to consider what hold overs of this thinking medieval vampires would have. (And I think of the Originals as deeply medieval in outlook, in ways in which they are largely unaware)

At any rate, the Originals are by far the most monstrous of the vampires, and the ones that have slipped the furthest from their humanity. I wonder in what ways they developed such horrific tastes as a means of spitting in the eye of their faith? If some of their differences could pertain to who held on to faith (Finn) vs. who felt most abandoned by it (Klaus)? Food for thought!

#anonymous

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megashadowdragon · 3 years

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why ben solo deserved better

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comments on youtube:

You may think Ben Solo did not deserve mercy, but let's all remember this is a FICTIONAL universe and fictional characters. It's ok to indulge in wishful thinking, even if Ben would not be received with welcome arms on Earth even after his redemption. Dealing with a complicated character like that and trying to find a way to give him a future in the story is hard, I will admit. It's hard to know where someone's role in society is after they've betrayed and murdered since our answer usually ends in their execution or incarceration. But imagine an ending where Ben Solo is willing to answer for his crimes, Rey contends for him, and the future of the galaxy has hope. What we were given was NOT hope. Ben Solo simply deserved a better ending than he was given. He wasn't a soulless monster like Palpatine. He had remorse. He hesitated. His anger was fueled by his mistreatment and feelings of abandonment from his family. Comment below and tell me why/why not Ben Solo deserved a better ending. Even if you don't agree, do you think his abrupt death was satisfying?

I agree with a lot of your points. He 100% should have survived and it doesn't make any sense to me that they killed him off. Ben should have been given a chance to live and atone, he could've spent the rest of his life being a better man, despite other people scorning him at first. Ben and Rey are so powerful - they are stronger together and could've helped so many people in the galaxy. Surely there would still be pockets of the First Order out there - or whole planets of innocent people still enslaved that need their help. ( I have to point out that it was never clarified how many people knew kylo ren was ben solo and its quite likely that only a small group knew ben was kylo ren so you wouldnt even need to consider the galaxy at wholes reaction for they could just claim kylo ren was dead while ben solo was still alive (people didnt know anakin was vader for years ) and poe in resistance reborn talked about ex imperials atoning for their actions so poe and the people who knew ben was kylo ren would be willing to accept ben coming back and atoning for his actions . no prison or exile he would ahve a happy ending with rey on naboo the place where anakin and padme would have raised luke and leia anidala being torn apart was the original sin ) ( I am sick and tired of redemption equals death it sends the message that if you mess up and go down the wrong path the only out is death that the most you can expect is finding a cause to die for its bs the notion that he had to die is bs

“the redemption = death bs doesnt give hope to anyone its like if you mess up you cant just make up for it

ben deserved better because in the 30 years he lived he wanst truly happy and calm until his last 20 seconds of his life”

Western story writers and directors are too set on the idea of redemption of villains through death, it's an unhealthy all too common message I don't agree with, Vader's sacrifice meant something because he saved his son, but what about Leia? What does her sacrifice mean? Why is the final shot just a lone Rey in the desert with a robot? I'll never understand these decisions, it just doesn't work.

The whole Rey replaces Ben in the Skywalker line is just disgusting. Ben was "bad" so he didn't deserve the name but Rey is perfectly "good" so she does? Kids, if you ever do anything bad watch out because your family will find a good kid, replace you, and act like you never existed. Love Disney for that message.

. There’s a clear reverse Anakin/Padme thing going on for me as is. I just think they could have gone for that full reversal, where Ben lives instead of dies like Anakin essentially did when he became Vader. And then I’m always reminded of how little Ani wanted to “free the slaves” ... and while he didn’t have to take that literal route, atonement, or working to break broken systems, would have been a wonderful close to that part of the story as well. I thought it would be nice to tie his and Finn’s stories together a little in that regard.

I don't think they ever understood what they had story wise or character wise. I don't think they ever knew what message these movies were supposed to have. TROS kept making strange story decisions without thinking through their implications. With regard to Ben Solo, they give us two fake deaths after multiple characters sacrificed themselves for him, then kill him off for real. That's the kind nonsense you find in the D-grade movies mocked on MST3K, not a Star Wars film. Worse yet, they offer the audience no catharsis for Ben's death. It happens suddenly; Rey had already given her "life force" to both the giant snake and Kylo/Ben and she's fine. So the audience doesn't expect Ben to die when he gives his "life force" to her. Then after his sudden death, he's not mourned. Rey barely reacts. He's not mentioned and his sacrifice is never discussed. Then we don't even see his Force ghost. The air got sucked out of the movie and it just ends with a thud. It's like if Titanic had ended with Rose saying, "Oh well, I guess I'll just marry Cal" and it's "The End."

Ben Solo definitely deserved better & I truly thought we would get a happily ever after, a reversal of Anakin & Padme’s fate. I also thought the stormtroopers would side with the Resistance & that the reason Leia’s allies didn’t respond at the end of TLJ was because most were disguised as stormtroopers & mingled among the First Order. 🤡 I think the Skywalker saga has ended but the Solo saga will continue. 🤞🏻 The majority of fans LOVE Kylo/Ben and that’s a fact. The general audience loved & rooted for him without ever knowing his heartbreaking backstory & that he had been targeted by Palpatine from conception. Let’s hope Disney/Lf has an ace up their sleeve.

I actually thought Ben was going to live because JJ kept marketing the film as being happy, uplifting, hopeful, and Ben's arc being "fun." In 2015 he called Star Wars a "fairytale." I had been waiting for Ben to reunite with his mother since 2015 & since 2017 to end up with Rey. Neither really happens because Ben dies, thus turning Star Wars into a tragedy that pretends it's not. We didn't even get a mother/som forceghost visual reunion as a "consolation prize". I was so sure we'd get an actual living redemption arc because I thought forgiveness and the healing of the family was their intention , but nope, just a complete annihilation of the Skywalker family. I left IX feeling depressed for all of Christmas break. ...And don't even get me started on the retcon of TLJ's Rey Nobody background setup and theme.Show less

You have to ask yourself this when thinking of Ben and Anakin. If Anakin fell to the dark side because he had an unhealthy selfish love for Padme but Ben rose from the dark side because he had a healthy selfless love for Rey. What message does it send to have both characters have the same fate when it comes to being with the women they love? (Split apart) What's the point of the saga if nothing anyone does means anything? JJ and Chris failed to ask themselves these important questions.

the theme of the original trilogy was love, hope, family, forgiveness, redemption

lucas described the star wars as a space fairy tale soap opera about love, family , hope forgiveness, redemption the skywalker saga is a family saga about the skywalker family killing off ben breaks that for it ends the saga in tragedy where every last skywalker has died the line has ended palpatine won bens abusers won

george lucas quote about story being a family-oriented fairytale of hope, love and redemption (not to mention he hates killing anyone unnecessarily bens death wasnt necessary and goes against star wars themes

George Lucas: *talks for forty years about fairy tales and HEAs and not wanting to kill characters

( this is why lucas didnt kill any of the main cast be they the trio or otherwise and chewbacc killing off ( killing off ben goes against that ( ben was a mc he was part of the narrative trio ( no matter how many antis try to claim otherwise and claim it was rey finn and poe when no ) or act like bendemption wasnt set up from day one. ( ben, rey, and finn were all main characters

on the comparison between benVader died as a middle-aged man in ill health with two living children who would carry on in the light after a golden period in his life where he was a prosperous jedi knight, Ben died a healthy 30-year-old with no family or good phase in his life, plus Vader's sacrifice was instrumental in his redemption while Ben's sacrifice happened after redemption out of narrative contrivance, they are not the same

@emeraldspiral

@a-manda-lorian

@frumfrumfroo

#ben solo deserved to live #ben deserved better #save ben solo #anti tros #star wars #ben solo #ben solo deserved better

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