#treat your s(h)elf

[dark-elf-writes]

WHAT IF OBORO LIVED AND WAS LIVING EVERY HIMBOS DREAM OF BAGGING A MILF AND TRIPPED HIS WAY INTO BEING IZUKU’S STEP DAD AND POST

#the elf talks #I was fully laying down ready to go to sleep #and then #in comes dadboro with the bonk stick #he’d full ass ‘this is Izuku’s father. no I wasn’t asking. I’m calling you to tell you I’m fucking your wife and that is my kid now bye’ #the C H A O S #also you know he would treat Inko right #which I’m not normally kind to Inko in my fics but this time #this time I could do it

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Treat Your S(h)elf: Gates of Fire by Steven Pressfield (1998)

At Thermopylae, a rocky mountain pass in northern Greece, the feared and admired Spartan soldiers stood three hundred strong. Theirs was a suicide mission, to hold the pass against the invading millions of the mighty Persian army.

Day after bloody day they withstood the terrible onslaught, buying time for the Greeks to rally their forces. Born into a cult of spiritual courage, physical endurance, and unmatched battle skill, the Spartans would be remembered for the greatest military stand in history–one that would not end until the rocks were awash with blood, leaving only one gravely injured Spartan squire to tell the tale….

- Steven Pressfield, Gates of Fire (1998)

This is one of my favourite books on war I’ve ever read. I took my dog-eared copy with me last year when I went with ex-military veterans friends to climb Olympus and hike around Greece. One of the places we stopped was Thermopylae - where you can still bathe in the hot springs as the ancient Spartans and Athenians did before their monumental battle with the Persians. The very recent death of the last king of Greece, King Constantine II of the Hellenes, made me think of my trip to Greece last year and of one of the books I read on that trip. I thought I might share some of my rambling thoughts I had written down at the time, and also since then, about the retelling of one historical turning point in our western civilisation that has now entered into myth.

In 1998 was the year Frank Miller’s iconic comic graphic novel 300 about the the Battle of Thermopylae – where a tiny Greek force led by 300 Spartans held out for three days against an immense Persian invasion in 480BC - was published to great critical acclaim. Zack Snyder highly stylised slick film version of Miller’s 300 defied audience and studio expectations when it stormed the box office with Spartan-like ferocity back in 2007. Its mix of ancient history, comic-book iconography and sound-bite dialogue immediately found its way into the verbal and visual lexicon of contemporary pop culture; but things could have been very different. In 1998 Miller’s publication overshadowed the publication of Steven Pressfield’s more conventional historical novel, Gates of Fire, took its name from the eponymous battlefield, Thermopylae (referred to in 300 as ‘the hot gates’).

Pressfield, an ex-Marine soldier, had worked as a screenwriter creating disposable action-movie scripts for the likes of Steven Seagal and Dolph Lundgren in the late 1980s and early 1990s before writing his first novel, The Legend of Bagger Vance, which was adapted into the Will Smith film of the same name. It too won critical acclaim and was a huge best seller. George Clooney’s film production company bought the rights and David Self (screenwriter of 13 Days and Road to Perdition) was brought in to adapt it. Bruce Willis was dying to be in it and iconic director Michael Mann signed on the direct it. Instead the film went into development hell before Snyder’s film stole a march on Mann’s version to come out first in 2007.

As a Classicist and ex-veteran I found Both Miller’s comic graphic novel and Snyder’s film a severe guilty pleasure. But I have to say I found reading Steven Pressfield’s brilliant novel deeply satisfying on many more levels.

The book I remember well as an American special forces chap I knew out in Afghanistan gave it to me to read because I was complaining I was fast running out of things to read between missions. I loved it.

Like a good officer I passed the book along to others in my corps - rank and file - and within a month or two it had been passed around a fair bit. It led to endless arguments about the Greeks and the Western way of war in and out of the cockpit with my brother/sister aviators and crew as well other officers and the men.

For the soldiers on the ground the book felt more visceral. As a fellow brother British infantry officer said the depictions of phalanx warfare raised his blood pressure at how well he and his men could relate. I never felt more Spartan than I did I sitting on my arse baking in the sun of Afghan red dust mornings. We all related to this story one way or another - the sand, sweat, blood, feelings of combat, and thoughts of mortality.

Most book reviewers loved the book. “Does for (Thermopylae) what Charles Frazier did for the Civil War in Cold Mountain’, enthused author Pat Conroy. The New York Times praised the book’s ‘feel of authenticity from beginning to end.’ Author Nelson DeMille  admired the ‘mastery, authority and psychological insight.’ Sarah Broadhurst, in The Bookseller, particularly wanted to recommend the book to women: “ Although it has a male feel to it, it will appeal to both sexes, as my two readers and I can testify. In fact, it is a great example of the rebirth of the historical novel, which I am sure is on its way.” Where people quibbled, it was usually about the violence of some of the descriptions, or on small errors of fact. The Times called it ‘a story of blood, biffing and bonking, thigh deep in blood, terror-piss and entrails’ but acknowledged that ‘their heroism still makes the hairs at the back of the neck bristle’. The Times Literary Supplement sniped at Pressfield for confusing two different Greek cities called Argos, and for what it called ‘phallocentric discourse’, but also called the book ‘a monument to the important twentieth-century art of pace.’

The novel stands out in the way it makes everything come alive from the soldiers' training, the scenes of actual battle, and most particularly the scenes after or between battles. The discussions of fear, and of how officers and soldiers should behave are particularly poignant and also felt very real to those of us who have experienced war first hand. What I found pleasantly surprising was how well written it was with its very strong portrayals of women as secondary characters. With nearly all military books women are often relegated to the background but here I found some of the strongest depictions of women in this genre. The women don't fight in the battles, yet are courageous and compassionate, intelligent and influential.

Many readers will be familiar with the broad strokes of the story of the battle. But it’s worth recapping here for those that don’t. In 480 BC, King Xerxes lead a Persian army of between one and two million into Greece. The Spartan King Leonidas lead 300 Knights and some 700 Thespaian allies to the narrow pass at Thermopylae, in order to hold the Persians back as long as possible. They proceeded to hold the pass for 7 days. These 300 Spartans died to a man defending the pass against a force of over a million and the epitaph provided to them by the poet Simonides, "Go tell the Spartans, stranger passing by, that here obedient to their laws we lie", is perhaps the most famous in history. Their example rallied and inspired all of Greece and eventually the Persians were defeated in the naval battle at Salamis and on land at Plataea.

The story is told from the point of view of its narrator Xeones of Astakos, a helot, a slave of the Spartans, and has his own conflicted feelings about Spartan society. He is taken, wounded, before Xerxes, and asked to explain “who were these foemen, who had taken with them to the house of the dead ten or, as some reports said, as many as twenty for every one of their own fallen?” In Xeones’ own words, therefore, we get the story of his life; from when his own city is destroyed, to when he comes to Sparta as a slave, to the time when he finally comes to stand beside the Spartiate in the fateful battle. As the sole survivor among the Spartans, Xerxes wishes Xeones to tell his story to the Persian court historian Gobartes. Xeones starts with the tale of how he came to Sparta. As a youth, his village of Astakos is destroyed and his family slaughtered, but he and the cousin he loves, Diomache, escape. As they wander the countryside, Diomache is raped by soldiers and Xeones is crucified after stealing a chicken, although Diomache saves him from death. Thrown into despair, because his hands are so damaged that he can never wield a sword, Xeones heads off by himself to die. But he experiences a visitation from the Archer god Apollo Far Striker and realizes he can still wield a bow. When Diomache, who is also distraught after being violated by the soldiers, takes off, Xeones heads to Sparta where he hopes to join the army.

The middle section of the book, which is at a much slower pace, deals with his life in Sparta and the training techniques used by the Spartans to create what was one of the most formidable fighting forces the world has ever seen. Eventually he becomes the squire of one of the 300 knights who are chosen for Thermopylae.

The final section, on the battle itself, depicts wholesale slaughter accompanied by acts of ineffable courage. It also relates two of the great lines of all time. When Xerxes offers to spare the Spartans lives if they will surrender their arms, Leonidas is reputed to have snarled, "come and get them." And upon being told that the Persians have so many bowmen that the cloud of arrows would blot out the sun, one of the Spartans says, "good, then we'll have our battle in the shade."

Pressfield being an ex-Marine grunt himself gives a very convincing grunt’s-eye-view of the battle and of Spartan society to create a fantastically blood pumping engaging tale. Pressfield sets himself the task of explaining Spartan culture to us in all its glory, humour, brutality and philosophy. To do so, he draws on his personal experience as a US infantryman, as well being strongly versed in Classics. The result is a fascinating tale, on one level a war story written with great pace and excitement, on another a ruminative tale of man’s capacity for honour, heroism, and self-sacrifice.

As a Classicist (since confirmed by Pressfield in many interviews) he makes excellent use of the ancient historical sources (such as they are). The most useful sources seem to be Herodotus first, his pages about the battle.  Plutarch’s Lives of various Spartans — Lycurgus, Agesilaus, Lysander, etc - can be discerned strongly as the section of his Moralia called Sayings of the Spartans and Sayings of the Spartan Women.  Xenophon of course was the best contemporaneous eyewitness to real Spartan society. Constitution of the Lacedaemonians, the Cyropaedia and even the Anabasis greatly help Pressfield pepper history with authentic detail.  Diodorus’ version of the battle added the thought of the night raid (which The 300 Spartans also had) and Pressfield takes that from him.  Pressfield has said that he didn’t consult recent archaeology, other than going to Sparta myself and checking out the ruins of Artemis, Orthia and so forth.

But still huge gaps remained. This is where Pressfield the ex-Marine and the well educated novelist come together. There was much detail that he needed to consciously to make up and make it sound plausible and even true. For instance, the concept of phobologia, the Science of Fear. That’s completely invented, yet Pressfield, as a Marine veteran, absolutely felt certain the Spartans, like every other warrior race, must have had something like that, a religious-philosophical doctrine of warfare understanding the principles of their culture, probably a sort of cult-like initiatory situation.  

Pressfield in one interview admitted that the speech that Alexandros recites holding his shield —  “This is my shield, I bear it before me into battle, etc.” — was a fictional invention based upon his own experience in the US Marine Corps, where Marines recite, “This is my rifle. There are many other like it, but this one is mine, etc.” Another huge fictional detail that he made central to the story was the prominence of the squire in hoplite battle.  Again he based this on pure instinct and common sense.  He thought the relationship must be much like that of a professional golfer to his caddie.  Pressfield firms believes that the bonds formed between man and batman in the course of bloody warfare must have been intimate on a level second only to husband and wife, and maybe more intimate.  The ancient sources make nothing of this, because they just passed it over as obvious, but I fully agree with Pressman. It’s an inspired insight. The fact that squires and armour bearers voluntarily stayed to die at Thermopylae says volumes.  (Also a squire was the perfect fly-on-the-wall narrator, like Midshipman Byam in Mutiny on the Bounty.)  Further I could not imagine that squires would stand idly by, watching their men fight.  They must have served as auxiliaries, not only dashing in and out of the field evacuating the wounded, but getting in their blows as light infantrymen whenever they could.  I suspect that, as prominent as Pressfield made their roles in Gates, if we could beam ourselves back and witness actual ancient battle, the part of the squire/auxiliary was even bigger than one might imagine.

The book then is not merely about the immortal stand at Thermopylae but delves into the Spartan lifestyle, how they achieved such military cohesion, how they viewed themselves and the world, what made them willing to march off to a suicide mission — it’s one thing to find oneself in such a situation, it’s quite another to jockey to be chosen for it, to know days ahead of time that this is it, you’re heading to your death and to do it unflinchingly. It’s about what binds men together in a group — what makes them willing to die for others. I think Dienekes’ thoughtful analysis of fear and how the opposite of fear isn’t bravery but love, tells it all. Love of a messmate, a family, a city.

Indeed as Pressfield shows the spartans would carry their shields on the left side of their body which allowed them to cover the blind spot of the warrior fighting next to them. Commanders would arrange it so that family members and friends were placed next to each other within the formation. The belief was that warriors would be less likely to abandon their comrades if they were fighting next to someone they deeply cared about. Love conquers fear.

Now the story isn’t perfect, there are some pacing issues when the plot seems to go extra slow, and there are time jumps that can feel a bit awkward. Some periods of our main protagonist’s life, that would be interesting, are just skipped.

In my opinion, the book balances fiction and facts quite nicely, not making the Spartans some over the top super heroes, like the movie “300” did.

The thing that I liked the most is the whole theme of the book: honour, the duty to your city and people, and the strength of the mind. The Spartans didn’t see war as a fun way of killing people, it was an inevitable fact of life. They didn’t kill fear, they learned to embrace it, keep it locked until the very last moment.

Now it’s a bit harder to judge characters in a book like this because some of them are based on real people and some of them are fictional. But what I will say is that these people feel real, grounded to the situation they are in.

I was very taken by the portrayal of Leonidas, the Spartan king who commanded at Thermopylae. One of the most stirring speeches in the book is addressed to Xerxes, the King of Persia, and contrasts Xerxes with Leonidas: "I will tell His Majesty what a king is. A king does not abide within his tent while his men bleed and die upon the field. A king does not dine while his men go hungry, nor sleep when they stand at watch upon the wall. A king does not command his men's loyalty through fear nor purchase it with gold; he earns their love by the sweat of his back and the pains he endures for their sake….”

I also appreciated the inclusion of the women of Sparta — no shirkers themselves. They would be the first ones out shaming the men into doing their duty for their city (and that’s what it was all about for these people — the survival of the city first) if that was what was needed. I have to say I shed a tear when Leonidas confessed his criteria for selection of the 300. So much is said about Spartan men but the women kicked ass in a time and place where women were almost never seen and certainly never heard from. The first female Olympic champion was a Spartan princess called Kynisca, in 392 BC. She was also the first woman to become a champion horse trainer when her horses and chariot competed and won in the Ancient Olympic Games. Twice.

Arete is in some ways the most powerful character in the book. She is very well written.  She just popped forth, full-grown from the brow of Zeus.  I liked her a lot.  Whether or not Sparta was a “good” place for women I can’t say.  Certainly it would be fascinating as hell to beam back there and see, for real, how they lived and what they were like.  It seems likely Pressfield drew inspiration of Arete from Plutarch’s Sayings of the Spartan Women. These, if you’ve ever read them, are unbelievably hard-core.  For example, here’s one: A messenger returns from a battle to inform a Spartan mother (Plutarch gives her name but I’ve forgotten it) that all five of her sons have just perished honourably fighting the enemy.  She asks this only: “Were we victorious?” The courier replies yes.  “Then I am happy,” says the mother and turns for home. Here’s another: A messenger returns from another battle to tell another mother that one of her sons has been killed, facing the enemy.  “He is my son,” she says.  Her other son, the messenger continues, is still alive but ran from the enemy. “He is not my son,” she replies. Pressfield doesn’t see Arete quite that hard-core but certainly someone tough as nails who imbibed the Spartan mythos even more than the men and lived it.  Pressfield admits in one of his interviews that this was all instinct, he could be wrong, but itt just was what felt right to him.

Before I had gone through Sandhurst after university I didn’t really condone crude language or lewd humour but it’s one of the ways that my stint in the army and especially out on a battlefield deployment changed me a little. I confess that I loved the sometimes crude humour - they’re soldiers in a time of war and you do or say whatever will get you through. Battle (especially foxhole) humour has a dark gallows feel and it’s entirely acceptable and authentic - just ask any veteran of any war. The battle descriptions are graphic - very graphic but not much worse than what’s in the Iliad. And we are talking about a battle in which thousands died by sword, spear, arrow and other various messy methods.

I also enjoyed how the book has a pleasing prose aesthetic that imitates the style of Homer. For the non-Classicist it may take a little bit of getting used to and slow down their reading but it sounds melodious to the ear.

Overall Pressman gives us a pulsating story in which the characters are not either super evil villains that cartoonishly want to “take over the world” or superheroes that can’t make mistakes. The author doesn’t take a side in this story, war is war, and people are people. They make mistakes, get angry or jealous, they do bad things in the name of good and vice versa. The book is not about good and evil, it’s about how different people and cultures understand the order, stability, good and even our minds and dreams. The enemies here aren’t some sort of Oriental magic freaks from far away lands, they are just men made in flesh and blood. Sure wanting to control more land or have more people serving them, but that’s everyone I know in the history of rise and fall of civilisations.

Was the Spartan defence of the Hot Gates worth it?  

Clearly, yes. Cultures, if not civilisations, are nearly always rubbing up against each other and even clashing where they can’t bridge differences. I think Pressfield has it right when he said, “What the defence meant to me was this: its significance was metaphorical rather than literal.  We are all in a battle that will end with our deaths and, like the Spartans at Thermopylae, we know it.  The question is how do we deal with it.  They answered by being true to their calling, to their brothers and sisters, and to their ideals.  Early in the book there’s a passage where the Persian historian is narrating; he’s speaking of King Xerxes and his interest in the fallen Spartans.  Xerxes says of them: “He knew they feared death, as all men.  By what philosophy did their minds embrace it?”

In two of my favourite passages, Pressfield has his protagonist explain why sacrifice is so beautiful to the Greeks (or to anyone who has honour), "In one way only have the gods permitted mortals to surpass them. Man may give that which the gods cannot, all he possesses, his life”. This is a very profoundly moving insight.

Pressfield goes further and tries to answer a much deeper question as to why men fight and perhaps this is where it’s the ex-Marine and not the novelist in Pressfield who is talking, "Forget country. Forget king. Forget wife and children and freedom. Forget every concept, however noble, that you imagine you fight for here today. Act for this alone: for the man who stands at your shoulder."

Amen to that.

At the end of the book, I would have probably stranded there fighting side by side with them against the Persians. Because at that point, they were my friends, comrades, and heroes. It was when I put the book down that I realised that I already had the humble privilege of serving with my fellow brother and sister officers and soldiers of whom all were comrades, many were friends, and a few were unspoken heroes.

Does the battle of Thermopylae provide any lessons to us?

That is harder to discern because it depends on what values we already hold dear. Sparta was a small, compact, basically tribal society where every citizen (forgetting about the helots for the time being) was vitally needed and where warfare was hand-to-hand and absolutely communal, with your own brothers, uncles, father and friends fighting beside you, so if you acted the coward, there was no hiding it.  The modern world of anonymity, mass culture, commercialism, shamelessness, indulgence of sensual desires, worship of money couldn’t be farther.  The Spartan society is like a culture from the moon.

On an individual and interior basis, I think, can we take lessons that might help us.  Self-discipline, loyalty, grit, hard work, perseverance, honour, humility, respect, and compassion.  

On a societal level Spartans were not selfish and didn’t worship the cult of individualism as we do today. It was all about the group. In our age when civil strife, economic hardship, and effects of a unrelenting pandemic erode our trust in our political and civil institutions and set neighbour against neighbour because of the political or religious beliefs they might hold, the only thing we have left to fall back on is just our individual selves. It’s every man for himself. The Spartans would balk at such selfish individualism. The strength (and ultimately the effectiveness) of the Spartan phalanx was encapsulated in the “next man up” approach. If a warrior was injured or killed on the outer edge of the formation, the next man behind them would step up and take their place. The integrity of the group’s formation was protected at all costs, because without the strength of the phalanx to protect them, each man on had little chance of surviving the battle on his own. In a real sense, they had each other’s backs. They had the cohesion of a collective spirit. They were in it for each other together.

It’s not a bad thing in this day and age to be a little bit “spartan,” don’t you think?

#treat your s(h)elf #book #review #book review #reading #gates of fire #steven pressfield #sparta #thermopylae #persia #leonidas #xerxes #society #culture #antiquity #classical #greece #war #warfare #special forces #british army #US marines #battle #soldiers #arete #women #afghanistan #civilisation #TYS

[wellthebardsdead]

Flynt: *was attempting to find his way up to bleak falls barrow on his own, somehow got turned around and ended up going in the completely opposite direction and ending up near pinewatch across the lake which he thankfully avoided else he’d of probably drowned, now managed to sniff out his path back to Riverwood after screaming in frustration for 30 minutes upon realising how lost he’d gotten himself* …hm?… *pauses and sniffs the air catching the scent of fresh blood as he walks by a hill leading to a shrine of Talos* eh?… *walks up the path smelling iron heavy in the air, unable to smell where the source is coming from until he trips over the dead body of one of the many worshippers, now all laying dead as well* h-huh???

???: oh- gods be praised I thought I was going to die up here- I- can you? Oh brilliant! What cruel joke is this?! I’m bleeding out and the divines bless me with a blind elf as my rescue!

Flynt: *sniffs the air smelling still warm blood ahead of him, high elf blood* H-helrr- hErll- *sighs* Hi. I’m Flr- Fryn- Ugh…

???: oh my god you can’t talk either. Can you at least hear me?

Flynt: *nods and shakily stands up moving closer to him before reaching into his bag and pulling out what he thinks is a healing potion* here.

???: oh so you can talk some words then- no I need a red one not a g- oh right…

Flynt: *sighs and reaches into his bag pulling out a bunch* re-d?

???: *takes one from him* thank you, yes this is a red one…

Flynt: *puts the others back, one missing the bag entirely and shattering on the ground soaking into his boots* … *sighs and takes a step back only to trip over another body* Ugh! I- FUCK!!! *gets up and kicks them in irritation, very clearly just having the worst time*

???: I take it, you’re not used to navigating the world around you?…

Flynt: *just huffs in response* …

???: well, My name is Taliesin, and seeing as my superior just attempted to murder me, Id rather not return to the thalmor embassy so how about I accompany you inst-

Flynt: *suddenly draws his sword and hisses at him with his ears pinned back and bosmer k9’s bared, very much despises the thalmor for torturing him and ruining his life*

Taliesin: I- woah woah! C-calm down friend let’s talk about this!! *backs up a little as the bosmer swings in his direction completely missing* I- stop that y- *moves as he swings again nearly slicing his own foot as he does so* Stop it! You’re going to hurt yourself! *grabs the sword from him and throws it to the side*

Flynt: *panics and reaches his arms out trying to find it before opting instead to hit the high elf with his fists but being easily caught by the larger mer* YOU RUIN MY IFE! YOU RUIN ME!!!

Taliesin: *adding up quickly the smaller elf’s condition was the result of the thalmor* Okay okay easy- easy now. I’m a friend, not your enemy, don’t make me fight back I wouldn’t feel right hitting a man who can’t see it coming… let’s just calm down and OW!!!

Flynt: *biting his hand* GRRRRRRR!!!!!

Taliesin: Gods you’re like a rabid chipmunk!!! LET GO!

*a few hours later*

Flynt: *seated in the sleeping giant inn looking defeated after being treated like a nuisance because he couldn’t communicate what he wanted to order* …

Taliesin: *sitting beside him, very much recognising Delphine as a wanted person by the thalmor and glaring back at her as she glares at him* … *looks at the bosmer seated beside him eating a loaf of bread and nothing else because he couldn’t see the menu or say what he wanted* … here, tell me what you want and I’ll order it for you…

Flynt: *looks up in his direction, ears pointed down showing his sadness even if his face remains rather vacant* …

Taliesin: You can take your time with me. I know you don’t like or trust me but I owe you for saving me. I’m not about to let you starve before I can pay off my debt to you…

Flynt: …mm…

*a few minutes and some back and forth and confirmation later*

Taliesin: *walks up to the bar with Flynts order written on a piece of paper* Right then, seeing as you want to treat a clearly struggling mer like a nuisance I’ll be ordering for him instead.

Delphine: *glaring up at him* Oh yeah? Your kind aren’t exactly welcome in here thalmor. And he’s no good for business either, just holding up the line so he can babble at us.

Taliesin: He’s a veteran from the Great War who was violently tortured. *leans in close* And unless you want me to inform my superiors you’re hiding here. Blade. And have the same thing happen to you. You’ll give him what he wants to eat. *hands her the note and a bag of coin*

Delphine: *face going ghostly pale* alright…

Taliesin: Good… It had better not be tampered with either… he’s been through enough. I wouldn’t put it past you to poison a man whose lost everything already. *huffs and returns to the table to sit with his new companion*

#Flynt dragonborn #Bosmer dragonborn #skyrim taliesin #skyrim

[catharrington]

💞A different type of rec list ask game, to rep your own fics and other authors you enjoy.💞 Spell out your username with fic recs. If the letter correlates to one of your fics you rec it (no duplicates use a different fic for repeat letters.) If you get to a letter you don’t have a fic title for you rec one you‘ve liked from someone else. 💖Send this to someone who might need a little love on their own fics or just like spreading the love.💖

How could you do this to me I’ve got quite a long name come on man

C - cry me a River, cause I’ve cried a River over you. My 1950’s house wife cat boy Steve Harrington and milk man Billy au🖤🖤 correct that this is first I love this fic

A - area 69. This is a goofy one about Billy’s friends trying to treat him for his birthday by buying a lap dance from stripper heather, but of course they are both gay so it doesn’t go as planned. I’ve got such a soft spot for this however cause its got Steve as an ambulance driver and ugh if that isn’t so perfect and sexy for him.

T - to have and to hold. Vampire Steve being obsessed and stalking human billy. Part of my TWO VAMPIRE AU!!! I love them so much. Got to write more soon.

H - he ain’t me, baby. A season 4 idea of billy coming back to find Steve with a new cute long haired metal boyfriend in a band, and getting very jealous about it. I miss this fic.

A - a little bit of last minute Christmas shopping. Made for the Harringrove holiday exchange last year. It’s a cute misunderstanding that ends in a fluffy first kiss. Also Steve in an elf costume😻

R - real pretty things by rvspberry. This was a valentines gift by my bestie Jonas who wrote Steve in lingerie body worship 🖤🖤 what’s better than this?

R - rigged by rvspberry. Oh my gosh I’m such a sucker for omega Steve as y’all know and this one is so sweet and cute and adorable please read it.

I - I need you to make me hurt. Fuck buddies to lovers but make it the roughest meanest sex possible. Exploration into the idea that Steve doesn’t think he deserves love and that billy doesn’t think he deserves to hold nice, pretty things.

N - nothin’ but a good time. Public blow job at the Hawkins community pool I’m sorry.

G - get scared. Ghost face billy getting a totally consensual role play non-con bow job I promise.

T - take me home tonight by HeckinaHandbasket. Great fic about Steve struggling with loneliness and the such, my very favorite thing for him.

O - owls have three eye lids by Callieb. Fuck this fic is so good it made me loose my mind. Single dad Steve is such a turn on!!

N - and this doesn’t start with N like okay sue me but surfs up! By Shewritesdirty. I am currently reading this it is good and billy is his best very sexy self in California🖤🖤

#fic rec #fic list #this took a long time I am crying #I’ve got 200 Harringrove bookmarked what the hell is wrong with me #harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington

[sorcerous-caress]

Imaginary Human and elf conversation I have in my head the past few day :

Elf : I’m finally 100 yo! I can’t wait to start picking up some study and hopefully start venture outside my home in the next 50 years!

Human : That’s neat. I left home when I was late teen to find job by that time I’m quite a competent wizard since I started immediately after I can read. I got accidentally captured by drows, lived in Menzoberranzan for a year or two. I escaped after poisoned Matron mother to death. Then I returned to surface, helped a random village from being wiped out by goblins and orcs. Dating one high elf, who I already divorced, and had two half-elves children. Oh and I probably changed nationalities two times by the time I’m 25. I don’t think I accomplished much as a 25 humans :(

Elf : Y O U W H A T

— RED Anon

Dudee that's what I'm saying! Elves are too coddled fr.

Humans start their education at 6 years old, sometimes younger if you count kindergarten, then finish it at 18.

And the second you hit 18, all the questions start pouring in like

"When are you getting a job?" // "When will you ge married?"

"Who will you vote for?" // "So, did you find a place to move out to?"

And don't let me get started on the weird 20's span where half your friends are married with kids and the other half are in the club.

And that's just the basic of human life, there is still their adventurer class studies or training.

Sure, elves consider their 18-year-old youngs technically adults, but that's just an excuse to allow them to drink and go wild with each other. But in their own circles, they still treat them as kids who don't know better and should wait for their 100th birthday to mature.

Also, the inherited human feelings of shame and incompetence, a tendency towards addiction.Like you're not doing enough, and you're lagging behind.

That is a real thing.

It's called the hedonic set point. Each human has it a certain point in a scale of "happiness" or the emotions responsible for it in general, the feel good hormones your brain releases on average.

If something happens that makes you feel good, your emotional state goes above the set point, if you feel bad, your emotional state goes below the setpoint.

But eventually, you will always return to the starting emotional state, your hedonic set point.

And we don't determine where it's set, nor do all humans have it equally set. Which means some people will always have a worse emotional state by default, with no faults of their own, no matter what they achieved.

Addictions are an easy source of happiness hormones, rewards hormones etc. It can be food, sugar, gambling, gaming, or even more extreme addictions. That's why human resistances to addictions varies widely

Which is what honestly drives some people to always seek more, to achieve more or climb higher.

( i removed a previous written part here after editing this post months later because I couldn't find sources to support the theory, it was the part about the hedonic set point being the caused by evolution and natural selection, that sad humans are more likely to survive)

It's also an existence crisis in It's own, isn't it? The feeling like everything cool has already been done before and you will never stand out from the billions of the humans on earth. The feeling that your life is meaningless and the world wouldn't change if you had stopped existence.

So you take art, like writing, hello there :), or music or climbing or anything that will leave your fingerprints behind. Leave an essence of yourself behind that says I was here. I am a human being and i effceted people and things, I Existed and I Mattered.

All of this is the human experience. To be human.

The constant race between each and every one of us, the constant need to shift and change and improve upon ourselves and our own society. Each generation is vastly different than the last and sometimes condems all their ancestors' rules.

By the time an elf matures, a whole generation of humans came snd reshaped society before bidding their goodbyes. All races will have to readjust to the most recent human culture that frequently changes.

If anything, one could argue that long-lived races hinder human progress. The only thing constant in humans is change and expansions. But for elves they rather take a small space and join the natural progress while humans seek to destroy and flee the the cycle of nature.

#ehe #kinda went off the rails #♡human reader #♡red anon

[yourlocalearthling]

N-y-m-p-h-o-l-o-g-y

Me: *vibing* Melanie: "Stick you're 👃into you're mouth" Me: *mixed emotions*

Lmaoooo Melanie must have been very upset when she was writing this song cause like-😭 Its no longer D-O-L-L-H-O-U-S-E it's now N-Y-M-P-H-O-L-O-G-Y

◇Lyrics◇

V1

Call me, you're nymph

Praise me for martyr, praise me for sin

Call me, you're muse A sprite or an elf you cry to then use

I will not suffer, (ah-ah)

Cry under covers (ah-ah)

Im not you're mother (ah-ah) ah-ah~

Chorus

It's nyphology, not psychology

Be the manic pixie dream girl that you Fukin' ought to be

Damaged oddity, bought by sothebys

Auctioned to a selfish man who thinks that he's the prophesy

You can't even spell but you're an 'expert' in nyphology

N-y-m-p-h-o-l-o-g-y, that's nyphology

V2

I'm not fiction, I'm not fae, I won't like you're wounds today

But I'll throw you in the ring

Get you with my suffering

I'm not crazy, I'm not wild you're just stupid, little child

Get you're image off my back. I'll give you a heart attack

I will not suffer, (ah-ah)

Cry under covers (ah-ah)

Im not you're mother (ah-ah) ah-ah~

Chorus

It's nyphology, not psychology

Be the manic pixie dream girl that you fukin' ought to be

Damaged oddity, bought by sothebys

Auctioned to a selfish man who thinks that he's the prophesy

You can't even spell but you're an 'expert' in nyphology

N-y-m-p-h-o-l-o-g-y, that's nyphology

V3

Don't treat me that way yeah, you're acting like a wannabe

I won't be ashamed yeah, for loving you so honestly

You're in the spell and it worked, and I'm returning the hurt

Im kicking you're ass out, flutter my wings while I pout

Stick you're👃into youre mouth, I'll make you choke on you're doubt Cut you off, watch you die just a fairy with knife

Chorus

It's nyphology, not psychology

Be the manic pixie dream girl that you fukin' ought to be

Damaged oddity, bought by sothebys

Auctioned to a selfish man who thinks that he's the prophesy

BEAT

Call me you're nymph

You can't even spell but you're an 'expert' in nyphology

Call me you're nymph

N-y-m-p-h-o-l-o-g-y, that's nyphology

RAP😍😍😍😍

Diamonds and rubies, the star, in all movie's wears me out

Big pockets I am her favourite locket keeps them drooling

BEAT

The semi-precious ain't as cold and they're curious

Where did I get refined? Get my cuts and my polishes?

I am too many karate for you're budget ask the jeweler

You're boyfriend tried me on, wore me out

Made him cooler, like moldavite or emeralds from Colombian andes

It will be the brightest, the brightest green you've ever seen

Ancient and its protective an expensive rarity, so rare it is offensive I think you will agree

IM SORRY BUT CAN WE SHOW MORE LOVE TO THE TRANSITION TO EVIL!???!?!?!???!???!?!!

#NYPHOLOGY #PORTALS #melanie martinez #EVIL #Lyrics

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[vivithefolle]

You said something about Hermione being “that white feminist” (and so you don’t think a black actress would fit in the reboot). What do you mean?

First off, why I headcanon Hermione as white!

Next off, let’s look at S.P.E.W.:

"How dare you!" said Ron, in mock outrage. "We've been working like house-elves here!"

Hermione raised her eyebrows.

"It's just an expression," said Ron hastily. - Goblet of Fire, chapter 14

So Ron uses a rather racist… speciesist? Expression, then quickly amends when he sees Hermione’s reaction. That is good. This shows that even if he uses the expression, he can recognize it’s problematic.

And now for S.P.E.W….

She brandished the sheaf of parchment at them.

"I've been researching it thoroughly in the library. Elf enslavement goes back centuries. I can't believe no one's done anything about it before now. "

"Hermione - open your ears," said Ron loudly. "They. Like. It. They like being enslaved!"

"Our short-term aims," said Hermione, speaking even more loudly than Ron, and acting as though she hadn't heard a word, "are to secure house-elves fair wages and working conditions. Our long-term aims include changing the law about non-wand use, and trying to get an elf into the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, because they're shockingly underrepresented." - Goblet of Fire, chapter 14

Okay, yeah, that’s not on, Ron. Nobody likes being enslaved, ever. He’s only met one house-elf, and she didn’t seem very happy with being enslaved - but she seemed to despise freedom a lot more.

Meanwhile Hermione is on the warpath and is showing that she did research her stuff, although…

trying to get an elf into the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, because they're shockingly underrepresented

Very good! That’s excellent, a very good goal indeed. Only house-elves would know how to treat other house-elves better. …………. though, um, Hermione, haven’t you noticed that your, erm… organization for the right of house-elves… seems to also shockingly underrepresent house-elves?

But hey! At least she’s trying. She may want to look into actually talking to house-elves rather than trusting the stuff wizards have been writing about them, but…

"Listen, have you ever been down in the kitchens, Hermione?"

"No, of course not," said Hermione curtly, "I hardly think students are supposed to -"

"Well, we have," said George, indicating Fred, "loads of times, to nick food. And we've met them, and they're happy. They think they've got the best job in the world -"

"That's because they're uneducated and brainwashed!" Hermione began hotly, but her next few words were drowned out by the sudden whooshing noise from overhead, which announced the arrival of the post owls. - Goblet of Fire, chapter 15

And

A light rain had started to fall by midafternoon; it was very cozy sitting by the fire, listening to the gentle patter of the drops on the window, watching Hagrid darning his socks and arguing with Hermione about house-elves - for he flatly refused to join S. P. E. W. when she showed him her badges.

"It'd be doin' 'em an unkindness, Hermione," he said gravely, threading a massive bone needle with thick yellow yarn. "It's in their nature ter look after humans, that's what they like, see? Yeh'd be makin' 'em unhappy ter take away their work, an' insutin' 'em if yeh tried ter pay 'em. "

"But Harry set Dobby free, and he was over the moon about it!" said Hermione. "And we heard he's asking for wages now!"

"Yeah, well, yeh get weirdos in every breed. I'm not sayin' there isn't the odd elf who'd take freedom, but yeh'll never persuade most of 'em ter do it - no, nothin' doin', Hermione. "

Hermione looked very cross indeed and stuffed her box of badges back into her cloak pocket. - Goblet of Fire, chapter 15

… aaaaaand here we come to the problem with Hermione. Once she has an idea in her head, she won’t let go of it.

Fred and George have actually met the house-elves. Then Hagrid, our resident expert in Magical Creatures explains that house-elves seem to have a different view of their job than humans do.

Okay, but that’s what we’re told the house-elves are like. What are they actually like? Let’s go find our proof!

"Hermione!" said Ron, cottoning on. "You're trying to rope us into that spew stuff again!"

"No, no, I'm not!" she said hastily. "And it's not spew, Ron -"

"Changed the name, have you?" said Ron, frowning at her. "What are we now, then, the House-Elf Liberation Front? I'm not barging into that kitchen and trying to make them stop work, I'm not doing it -"

"I'm not asking you to!" Hermione said impatiently. "I came down here just now, to talk to them all, and I found - oh come on, Harry, I want to show you!" - Goblet of Fire, chapter 21

(I just want to point out that Ron has managed to find a better name than SPEW for Hermione’s organization in just a throwaway bit of brilliance. House-Elf Liberation Front spells HELF. H-ELF. House-ELF. Ron is brilliant and I will not have anyone say otherwise.)

So, Ron doesn’t want to “barge into” the kitchen to “try to make them stop work”, it doesn’t say anything about why he doesn’t want to do that, but Ron doesn’t seem to want to go inside the kitchen. Probably doesn’t want to disturb the elves.

And Hermione has finally learned that she’d be much better at this activism thing if only she actually talked to the people she’s activism-ing for! Good on her! And what she wants to show Harry is Dobby, for those who tried to make it into a Harmione moment.

"Would Harry Potter like a cup of tea?" [Dobby] squeaked loudly, over Winky's sobs.

"Er - yeah, okay," said Harry.

Instantly, about six house-elves came trotting up behind him, bearing a large silver tray laden with a teapot, cups for Harry, Ron, and Hermione, a milk jug, and a large plate of biscuits.

"Good service!" Ron said, in an impressed voice. Hermione frowned at him, but the elves all looked delighted; they bowed very low and retreated. - Goblet of Fire, chapter 21

So, Hermione isn’t happy with Ron, but the elves… the elves are certainly happy. Heh. :’) And hell, Ron has just given them a genuine compliment, he wasn’t being condescending or disrespectful.

And now…

Dobby beamed very brightly, and happy tears welled in his eyes again.

"And Professor Dumbledore says he will pay Dobby, sir, if Dobby wants paying! And so Dobby is a free elf, sir, and Dobby gets a Galleon a week and one day off a month!"

"That's not very much!" Hermione shouted indignantly from the floor, over Winky's continued screaming and fist-beating.

"Professor Dumbledore offered Dobby ten Galleons a week, and weekends off," said Dobby, suddenly giving a little shiver, as though the prospect of so much leisure and riches were frightening, "but Dobby beat him down, miss. . . Dobby likes freedom, miss, but he isn't wanting too much, miss, he likes work better." - Goblet of Fire, chapter 21

Ten Galleons a week and weekends off!! That’s big. I’m pretty sure Arthur Weasley doesn’t earn ten Galleons a week. And Dobby refused to take it! Dobby would rather work than be “free” in the sense Hermione thinks of it!

There is absolutely Blue And Orange Morality at play here! The house-elves do not work the way humans do! They are different in terms of culture and beliefs.

"Can't house-elves speak their minds about their masters, then?" Harry asked.

"Oh no, sir, no," said Dobby, looking suddenly serious. "'Tis part of the house-elf's enslavement, sir. We keeps their secrets and our silence, sir. We upholds the family's honor, and we never speaks ill of them - though Professor Dumbledore told Dobby he does not insist upon this. Professor Dumbledore said we is free to - to -"

Dobby looked suddenly nervous and beckoned Harry closer. Harry bent forward. Dobby whispered, "He said we is free to call him a - a barmy old codger if we likes, sir!"

Dobby gave a frightened sort of giggle.

"But Dobby is not wanting to, Harry Potter," he said, talking normally again, and shaking his head so that his ears flapped. "Dobby likes Professor Dumbledore very much, sir, and is proud to keep his secrets and our silence for him." - Goblet of Fire, chapter 21

So, Dobby does speak of it as enslavement, but in the same way he seems to not mind it very much if it concerns Dumbledore. Mostly because Dumbledore doesn’t actually force Dobby to uphold the full contract.

It’s again Blue And Orange Morality. Even if a secret could be very harmful, it’s a matter of pride for house-elves to never betray them. Dobby wanted to flee the Malfoy family because they were going to harm Harry, and Dobby liked Harry more than the Malfoys, which was why he went out of his way to help him and risked disgrace.

Ah, and what had the other house-elves had to say about Dobby’s behaviour?

"Dobby has traveled the country for two whole years, sir, trying to find work!" Dobby squeaked. "But Dobby hasn't found work, sir, because Dobby wants paying now!"

The house-elves all around the kitchen, who had been listening and watching with interest, all looked away at these words, as though Dobby had said something rude and embarrassing. Hermione, however, said, "Good for you, Dobby!"

"Thank you, miss!" said Dobby, grinning toothily at her. "But most wizards doesn't want a house-elf who wants paying, miss. 'That's not the point of a house-elf,' they says, and they slammed the door in Dobby's face! Dobby likes work, but he wants to wear clothes and he wants to be paid. Harry Potter. . . Dobby likes being free!"

The Hogwarts house-elves had now started edging away from Dobby, as though he were carrying something contagious. Winky, however, remained where she was, though there was a definite increase in the volume other crying. - Goblet of Fire, chapter 21

Yeah, Dobby is the only one who wants and enjoys freedom. And even then...

Dobby likes freedom, miss, but he isn't wanting too much, miss, he likes work better.

Is it insane? To a human it would be, but to a house-elf it’s probably normal. And who are we to declare that house-elves are brainwashed because they think differently from what a human thinks?

The problem is that we’re never given a clear answer. Are house-elves brainwashed or is it truly the way they are? Do house-elves need humans to survive or have humans forced them to become like this? How can we know? No answer is ever provided!

And let’s see how S.P.E.W. ends in GOF:

Winky's eyelids drooped and suddenly, without warning, she slid off her stool into the hearth, snoring loudly. The empty bottle of butterbeer rolled away across the stone-flagged floor. Half a dozen house-elves came hurrying forward, looking disgusted. One of them picked up the bottle; the others covered Winky with a large checked tablecloth and tucked the ends in neatly, hiding her from view.

"We is sorry you had to see that, sirs and miss!" squeaked a nearby elf, shaking his head and looking very ashamed. "We is hoping you will not judge us all by Winky, sirs and miss!"

"She's unhappy!" said Hermione, exasperated. "Why don't you try and cheer her up instead of covering her up?"

"Begging your pardon, miss," said the house-elf, bowing deeply again, "but house-elves has no right to be unhappy when there is work to be done and masters to be served. "

"Oh for heavens sake!" Hermione cried. "Listen to me, all of you! You've got just as much right as wizards to be unhappy! You've got the right to wages and holidays and proper clothes, you don't have to do everything you're told - look at Dobby!"

"Miss will please keep Dobby out of this," Dobby mumbled, looking scared. The cheery smiles had vanished from the faces of the house-elves around the kitchen. They were suddenly looking at Hermione as though she were mad and dangerous.

"We has your extra food!" squeaked an elf at Harry's elbow, and he shoved a large ham, a dozen cakes, and some fruit into Harry's arms. "Good-bye!"

The house-elves crowded around Harry, Ron, and Hermione and began shunting them out of the kitchen, many little hands pushing in the smalls of their backs.

"Thank you for the socks, Harry Potter!" Dobby called miserably from the hearth, where he was standing next to the lumpy tablecloth that was Winky.

"You couldn't keep your mouth shut, could you, Hermione?" said Ron angrily as the kitchen door slammed shut behind them. "They won't want us visiting them now! We could've tried to get more stuff out of Winky about Crouch!"

"Oh as if you care about that!" scoffed Hermione. "You only like coming down here for the food!"

It was an irritable sort of day after that. Harry got so tired of Ron and Hermione sniping at each other over their homework in the common room that he took Sirius's food up to the Owlery that evening on his own. - Goblet of Fire, chapter 28

Typical Harry, he tunes out the argument between Ron and Hermione. Ron probably didn’t like Hermione saying he only likes the elves for the food.

But look at Dobby, indeed. Dobby wants nothing to do with Hermione’s SPEW. Dobby doesn’t want to be the poster boy for house-elf freedom. Dobby wants to do his own thing and not be bothered for it.

No more to see in GOF after this. Moving on to OOTP.

'What in the name of Merlin are you doing?' said Ron, watching her as though fearful for her sanity.

'They're hats for house-elves,' she said briskly, now stuffing her books back into her bag. 'I did them over the summer. I'm a really slow knitter without magic but now I'm back at school I should be able to make lots more.'

'You're leaving out hats for the house-elves?' said Ron slowly. 'And you're covering them up with rubbish first?'

'Yes,' said Hermione defiantly, swinging her bag on to her back.

That's not on,' said Ron angrily. 'You're trying to trick them into picking up the hats. You're setting them free when they might not want to be free.'

'Of course they want to be free!' said Hermione at once, though her face was turning pink. 'Don't you dare touch those hats, Ron!'

She turned on her heel and left. Ron waited until she had disappeared through the door to the girls' dormitories, then cleared the rubbish off the woolly hats.

'They should at least see what they're picking up,' he said firmly. - Order of the Phoenix, chapter 13

Thank God for Ron.

I highlighted the “her face was turning pink” part because this highlights that Hermione is actually aware that she is tricking the elves. Ron says it and Hermione knows it’s true. But… the end justifies the means, to Hermione. Rather Slytherin of her in fact.

Meanwhile Ron is outraged on behalf of the elves. While Hermione wants to make the decision for them, Ron wants them to see and be able to make the choice themselves. And no, this isn’t OOC. This is Hermione’s qualities, her good heart and drive, becoming flaws, like qualities are often prone to do. Just like flaws can turn into qualities too. Peter Pettigrew was a coward but it sure saved his life, didn’t it?

'Winky is still drinking lots, sir,' [Dobby] said sadly, his enormous round green eyes, large as tennis balls, downcast. 'She still does not care for clothes, Harry Potter. Nor do the other house-elves. None of them will clean Gryffindor Tower any more, not with the hats and socks hidden everywhere, they finds them insulting, sir. Dobby does it all himself, sir, but Dobby does not mind, sir, for he always hopes to meet Harry Potter and tonight, sir, he has got his wish!' Dobby sank into a deep bow again." - Order of the Phoenix, chapter 18

And it turns out Hermione’s efforts are doing more harm than good. Dobby now has to clean Gryff tower all by himself! House-elves have strong magic, but still it has to be rough on him. Ron is proved right by the canon text. Ron understands elves better than Hermione does, because Hermione is trying to apply her human reasoning and morality to them, while Ron is more of a “live-and-let-live” kind of person.

To give you a comparison: Hermione is that person who insists that two men together can’t have “proper” sex but she’s not judging not at all but still you have to admit you can’t find the same fulfillment in another man as with a woman but she’s not homophobic, it’s just- While Ron is maybe weirded out at first, but then he shrugs and says “yeah ok whatever works for you”.

They were so busy that Hermione had even stopped knitting elf hats and was fretting that she was down to her last three. 'All those poor elves I haven't set free yet, having to stay here over Christmas because there aren't enough hats!' Harry, who had not had the heart to tell her that Dobby was taking everything she made, bent lower over his History of Magic essay. - Order of the Phoenix, chapter 21

Uuuuuuggggggghhhhh and this is where I start getting mad…

How can people say that Hermione actually cares about house-elves? “Having to stay here over Christmas”? Yeah, have you noticed how miserable they were in the Hogwarts kitchens? How awful it is that they’re not outside in the freezing cold, without shelter, without food, in a place they love, employed by a man who doesn’t consider them slaves! Poor little house-elves who are stuck at Hogwarts rather than in the loving care of a family like the Malfoys!

Hermione cares more about saving the house-elves than she cares about the house-elves themselves! Hermione seems to care more about being the house-elves’ saviour than about doing what is right by the elves!

Ah and Harry of course, lies by omission because he doesn’t want to get involved. Typical Harry I’d say.

Oh sure, he “doesn’t have the heart to tell her”, oh, how romantic, he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings, but wouldn’t it hurt YOUR feelings that you spent countless afternoons doing something you thought was making a difference only to discover one day that it really never accomplished anything, or would you rather be put out of your misery fast by a friend telling you how it is? I dunno which one you’d pick but I’d rather take the second one. It may hurt on the moment but at least I’m not working on a pointless endeavour anymore.

(Find the whole essay at Quora here)

So. This is Hermione’s first foray into social justice. So of course she’ll fuck it up.

But she’s fucking it up pretty royally, by speaking over the very people she’s trying to represent, by trying to impose her values over theirs and trying to tell them her values are the “better’ ones (yes Hermione is a colonialist) and, worst of all: she seems to be doing it for herself.

All those poor elves I haven't set free yet 

I. I. I haven’t set them free. I am the saviour of house-elves, for I alone have noticed their terrible plight. I, Hermione the Enlightened, am special and will save an entire species from slavery, and I will be recognized by all in History!

Let’s also remember that Hermione is Muggleborn, so the fandom fawning over her “tolerance” and “progressism” is... um. Kinda pointless. Because it’s not exceptional for Hermione to believe that “slavery is bad”. Most countries have banned slavery. It’s not an amazing thing. All the other Muggleborns probably think the same thing. (That is without taking into account that house-elves are a wholeass different species of sentient beings, capable of making decisions and able to decide for themselves what to do.)

Anyway, that’s it. Hermione is Doing Activism Wrong, which is pretty much expected since she’s barely 15-16. But I’ve seen too many folks praise her for the way she went about helping the elves, which is certifiably awful.

S.P.E.W. should be something to, say, help abused elves be freed from their masters. That would be a good thing, that would help the cause. Help the elves that want freedom achieve that freedom. But free ALL elves without even asking them their opinion, treat elves as though they’re humans when they plainly aren’t, they’re a whole-ass different species? Hell no.

#vivi answers #ask #s.p.e.w. #hermione granger #hermione granger critical #hp meta #ron weasley #house elves #harry potter series #dobby #winky #goblet of fire #order of the phoenix

[jazzistolkienfanfics]

Darling, I’m right here - Eomer x reader

Hi!! I LOVE your Éomer fic. I was wondering if I could request another Éomer fic with the prompts 18 and 37? Thank you so much in advance! ❤

Thanks @elessandre​ ! 

One Eomer imagine, coming right up!

18. “Please, tell me this is a joke. This is a trick, right?” 37. “I can’t imagine my life without you.” “Please don’t.”

Type: Imagine Pairing: Eomer x reader Summary: when Y/N catches a drunk Eomer doing something he shouldn’t, her heart is broken  Warnings: sadness, kinda angsty, vomiting, ‘shit’, ‘dick’. Also, I’ve never drunk and subsequently never had a hangover before, so … sorry for my probably bad descriptions. Word Count: 

A/N - the title is from a song called ‘Butterfly’s Repose’.

It was a joyous night in Rohan, with dancing Hobbits on the tables, an Elf and a Dwarf somewhere having a drinking game (Y/N watching from Eomer’s side with amusement) and the return of Aragorn. 

Y/N had, indeed, stayed by the Captain of the Rohirrim all night, letting him give her drink after drink as they both danced, laughing loudly.

“I’ll be right back,” he promised suddenly, disappearing off to who knows where. Y/N shrugged, picking up a conversation with Eowyn, who seemed to be quite enamoured with Aragorn.

After fifteen minutes passed, and Y/N still didn’t know where Eomer had gone, so she excused herself, looking for the attractive man.

Of course, that was how Y/N felt about Eomer. Attracted to him. He was kind and funny, strong and stern, one of the best warriors she knew, and a total softie, all at once. 

There’d been several inexplicable moments where Y/N and Eomer had stared at each other with no sound but each other’s beating hearts, the space between them at once agonisingly far and strangely close. Y/N had always been the first to break eye contact with a deep flush spreading across her s/c cheeks, looking at the floor with a wide grin.

And tonight, with the help of a lot of alcohol, Y/N planned to confess how her racing heart had made her feel, how much she admired, and, truth to be told, loved Eomer. She was going to tell him.

It was difficult for the (height) girl to push her way through the masses of drunkenly staggering people and look for Eomer at the same time, but eventually she could see the long blond hair with a strands of brown, and she made her way towards him. 

His back was turned to her, and as Y/N edged around to try and approach him from the front, she saw something that she hadn’t seen from behind, and couldn’t stop a pained whimper slipping from her lips.

Eomer’s arms were wrapped around the waist of a h/c girl, and he was kissing her as though she gave him life.

I was such a fool, Y/N stared, shocked. Such an idiot to believe any of those ‘moments’ really mattered.

She couldn’t bring herself to just stare at the two anymore - it made her sick to her stomach, and a raging fire of jealousy and pain swelled within her.

“Please, tell me this is a joke. This is a trick, right?” Y/N had meant for the words to come out more powerfully, stronger, angrier, but instead her voice cracked and pain seeped through every broken word. 

The girl ripped herself away from Eomer, blinking rapidly and glancing at Y/N with a guilty side-look. When the mystery kisser took in the other h/c girl, she looked back to Eomer, shaking her head and slipping back into the drunken crowd. 

Eomer himself swallowed, staring at Y/N with a confused kind of drunkenness, guilt and happiness and love and impartiality all in one gaze. “Y/N, I-”

“No, go and be with … that was Leowena, wasn’t it?” Y/N swiped her eyes furiously, resolving not to waste any more of her shattered heart on him. “Go and be happy. I was stupid to think anything we ‘shared’ really mattered.”

 It looked like Eomer was about to protest again, but Y/N held up one of her hands, barely composing herself.

“No. You’re drunk right now. Go home, go sleep it off, and then you can be with her. I-I don’t care.” Y/N’s voice cracked on the last lie. 

He swayed slightly, and before he could reach out again, Y/N turned and disappeared, running to anywhere where she didn’t have to face him, didn’t have to show him how hurt she was.

Because even as she ran, she left a trail of salty droplets on the stone floor, and her soft cries echoed off the walls.

—

Y/N vomited again, retching until some liquidy mess that was mostly ale came up into the bucket before her. She wiped her mouth with a rag, a disgusted look on her face as she shoved the sick out of her sight.

Blinding pain made the pale morning sun’s rays on the floor seem like staring straight into the sun itself. Y/N squinted, falling backwards onto her bed with a groan.

Her memories of the celebration itself were fuzzy, but as she sat up and held her head in her hands, it began to swim back to her, along with a pain very different from her hangover headache.

“What a mess.”

Y/N looked up, wincing at the loud voice (that probably wasn’t at all so but it sounded like screaming to her), and felt a pang when she saw long blonde hair. Then, she cursed herself for being so obsessed, realising that it was, in fact, Eowyn.

“You think?” Y/N moaned. “I drank way too much last night. I feel like shit.”

“Did it go well, at least?” Eowyn asked, her  perpetual cheerfulness now toned down as she recognised the hell of a hangover Y/N was suffering through.

“Did what go well?” Y/N asked, her words muffled as she resolved to lie back down with a wet cloth over her face.

“You know what I mean.” The hungover girl could practically hear the blonde rolling her eyes. “You and my brother. He’s literally smitten with you - I assume that’s why you ditched me.”

 “Oh.” Y/N’s voice was suddenly very small. In her mind, she saw Eomer and the other h/c girl, kissing, hands everywhere, and she squeezed her eyes closed. “No, it didn’t.”

“Oh, Bema (basically God for the Rohirrim),” Eowyn growled. “He is such a dick.”

“No, Eowyn, he- he wants to be happy. I want him to be happy too. If that h/c girl gives him what he wants … then we are both satisfied.”

“That’s a load of shit, Y/N,” Eowyn retorted. “You and I both know that you and Eomer are head over heels in love with each other. You need to stop being so selfless and spouting this crap and tell him that he hurt you! And what’s this about a h/c girl?” 

Y/N told Eowyn the full story, and was shocked when she began to laugh, slowly and kinda sadly, but still her usual clear laugh nonetheless.

“Y/N … Lowena looks pretty similar to you. Eomer probably thought you weren’t reciprocating his feelings because I know that when you have a crush you can get cold because you’re confused.” Y/N winced at Eowyn’s accurate analysis, but motioned for her to continue. “He was kissing her because she reminded him of you. He wanted to know what it was like to kiss you.”

Y/N remembered how Leowena, a normally kind girl, had pulled away from Eomer, shaking her head. “Oh. But that doesn’t make any of this-”

“Right, I know,” Eowyn sat next to Y/N pulling her up into a cross-legged position. “Which is exactly why you should go and tell him that.” 

Y/N squinted at Eowyn. “You’re too damn psychologically talented for your own good.”

Eowyn shooed her out of bed, telling her Eomer was likely to be ‘sulking’ outside. 

She was right - as the wind pulled at Y/N’s dress and h/l hair, she found the large silhouette standing, silhouetted against the far-too-bright sun. He was sitting on some rock, curled in on himself in an unusual display of frailty. 

As she crept closer, she heard a single soft sniffle, instantly muffled as he rocked slowly back and forth. 

Y/N sat next to him without a word, following his gaze to the rolling green grasses of the Rohirrim lands.

“I was drunk,” he began quietly, without any greeting. But somehow, it was as good a start as any. “I was drunk, and I was the saddest I’d ever been.”

“When you left me to go-” Y/N cut herself off. “To- to go get drinks, you seemed happy.”

“Drunk me isn’t like drunk you,” Eomer said. “Drunk me thinks about every truth I’ve hidden from myself. And I was looking at this absolutely beautiful girl I was dancing with, I couldn’t stop myself from smiling when you did - and I thought to myself…” at this, he smiled sadly. “I thought: ‘I just had to fall for the one who wouldn’t like me back’.”

“And Lowena?” Y/N was determined to get the whole truth out of him.

Eomer confirmed what his sister had been saying. “She looks like you, Y/N. I saw her … and then I saw you instead of her. And I don’t know what happened, but I kissed her.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, looking to the side at Eomer, who, sometime during his explanation had let a tear fall down his cheek.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” his voice cracked on her name. “You don’t deserve to be treated this way.”

Y/N stared at him for a couple seconds, taking in everything that he was, and she reached out to squeeze his hand. “I think I can forgive you.”

“You can?”

“I can’t imagine my life without you.” Y/N smiled, and it was finally a happy one instead of sadness seeping through it. 

“Please don’t.” The words were barely a whisper.

Y/N leaned into him, resting her head on Eomer’s shoulder. He pulled her closer and let his arm around her shoulders, turning his head to press a kiss to her forehead.

“I could never replace you,” he admitted. 

“Good thing you don’t have to.” 

Slowly, hesitantly, but surely, she pressed her lips to his, in a soft, sweet kiss.

A promise.

Darling, I’m right here.

#eomer #eomer x reader #x reader #lord of the rings #lotr #lotr x reader #you #lotr fanfic #submission

[decaffeinatedenthusiastmusic]

The Malfoy's Mischievous Maid

A/N - This is a little blurb for fem! reader that works at Malfoy Manor as a maid but develops a crush on Sirius Black. Also, y/s/c stands for your skin color and f/c, favorite color, all that good stuff You worked as the Malfoy's maid in their large manor and were dealing with your usual daily troubles of cleaning cursed objects and trying to watch out for the occasional house-elf underfoot. As you walked into Mr. Malfoy's room, you were ready for a scolding or embarrassment of some sort, but instead, you were met with Lucius's cold voice. "Come here, look at this." He says, holding up the paper for you to stretch your neck over the edge of the black velvet couch. On the front page was a headline that a prisoner had escaped Azkaban, and you recognized his face despite the obvious tangles in his hair and filth on his skin. Sirius Black You originally went to Hogwarts together before you became employed at the Malfoy estate. Your y/s/c cheeks lit up as you remembered him. You had dated him in the later years, but when you graduated, he had moved on and ended up in Azkaban. Lucius noticed the color on your cheeks and immediately his brow furrowed. "You've got to be kidding- You're my maid, you obey me and you are indentured to this house for a reason!" He said, his tone raising a bit until there was a knock on the door. Your heart jumped in your chest as Lucius went to open the door, only to be met with a man with the exact hair you'd seen in the newspaper, holding a wand to the blonde man's neck. "Where is she?" He growled, sounding animalistic and looking around the room, only to find your form huddled in the corner. Stalking over, he leaned down, and you noticed the tears falling from his pale hollow cheeks as he pushed some of the y/h/c hair out of your eyes. "My angel...What has he done to you?" Black questioned, shooting a glare at Malfoy before helping you to your feet, and when you stumbled because of sore muscles, the glare intensified. No sooner had you been whisked away out of the house than Sirius had taken you (in disguise of course) to get new clothes and treat you to a nice lunch. "It's been a while, hasn't it y/n? I missed you in Azkaban, you were one of the only things keeping me alive in there." He mumbled a bit, head in his hands "Hey...Pads...I still love you, you know?" You said "Yeah, I've known for a while.." He leaned over and kissed your cheek before taking a sip of his hot butterbeer and getting to know you all over again.

#x reader #tooth rotting fluff #a little angst #sirius black #tw angst #indentured servitude #request #hp fic

[berri-hopefulspouse]

Windblume Songs

Characters: Aether “Traveler” X Self-Insert Character (Ren), Paimon, Kaeya (Mentioned)

TW: ED Imp, General Weight Issues, Abandonment Issues

Summary: After both him and Albedo confessing during the Windblume Festival, Aether and Ren spend some time together to take some time for themselves...

Cough,,, this took too long, I started writing this right after the Windblume Festival and it’s....August now... cough. Anyway take.

Something about the air felt surreal. Like at any given moment, they would wake up- and everything that had occurred today would be nothing but a dream. Maybe it was the way their face was still wet with tears, ones Ren would occasionally wipe off into the crest of their arm. Maybe it was the way their other hand was intertwined with his. Maybe it was the way the wind even smelled sweet with flowers and freedom and feeling almost completely at ease. Surreal. Like none of this should be happening. 

Everytime they tried to think about whether or not the scenario playing out before them was real...it was like their mind outright rejected it. Their traumatized, scarred heart, was so afraid of reality crashing in- that it refused to accept outright that this WAS the reality. 

More tears fell from their cheeks.

“Ren?” A voice snaps them back out of their way-too-thoughtful stupor, “You’ve been quiet…”

“Huh? Oh...s-sorry, I’m fine.” They immediately dismissed, out of habit, however when the blonde turned to face them, and thus stopping their walking in its tracks, they took a moment to observe the blonde before them.

5’2”, with soft curly blonde hair that was still set in its typical braid, Aether could only put his opposing gloved hand that wasn’t still held tightly in theirs to their cheek, wiping the soft galactic shimmers off their cheeks.

“You’re crying.” He remarked, as if it wasn’t obvious enough.

“I-I’m sorry,” They said again, a sheepish grin on their face, “I just...I don’t believe this is real. That someone like you could even...tolerate someone like me, let alone…”

Aether rose an eyebrow at that, wiping a few more tears from the corners of their eyes as they had trailed off. 

“Is it that unbelievable that I love you, Ren?” He asked, genuine curiosity in his tone with the smallest hint of teasing. Paimon, who had been behind the two for most of this time- thankfully quiet, Aether had noted to himself- finally spoke up with a cheeky little huff.

“That’s what Paimon’s been trying to tell them! But they don’t ever listen to Paimon!” She retorts, which earns her an embarrassed glare from the shorter half-adepti.

“I-It’s not! I just…” Ren stumbled for an excuse, shoulders bunching up as they tried to hide their face from him. Yet, none came, instead another outpour of tears, causing the traveler to bristle a bit with anxiety.

“H-hey, it’s okay, I’m just joking with you!” He quickly backtracked, “I mean- I know you struggle with a lot…Struggle with figuring out yourself, and struggle with keeping people close...”

“...It is a bit of a surprise…” They admitted, closing their eyes and steeling themselves before giving a soft sigh- deciding to try and let their walls down...just a bit, “You’re someone not from this world...someone who’s on a mission before going off to your next big quest...I didn’t think you’d get attached to someone like me. Someone who’s...afraid to lose more people. Someone who doesn’t want to get hurt again.”

“Yeah,” Aether nodded in agreement, “I didn’t...want to, honestly. But, I’m...glad I did, if it meant I get to be with you. I want to help you. Just like how you helped me stay here, in the present, rather than just focus on the future.”

“Aether…” Their voice was quiet, a bare whisper in comparison to their usual loud tone, “You don’t need to fix me. I just want you here with me, as you are. That’s enough for me.”

“I didn’t say you needed to be fixed. Or that you’re broken to begin with,” He remarked, earning him a light smack on the arm.

“Meanie!”

“Ow- Sorry!” He laughed a bit, Paimon slowly floating her way back beside Aether.

“Are you two done? Because Paimon’s hungry, and the Windblume Festival is still in full swing!” Crossing her arms, she glances to Aether, who sighs and nods.

“Yeah, let’s keep going…” He smiled over to Ren at that, “After that, I think I’ll let Kaeya babysit you for a while, Paimon.”

“Wh- HEY! Paimon’s not a child that needs to be babysitted! Babysat?...” Paimon’s protest died in her mouth as she fumbled with the right word to use, “Babysatted!”

“Wrong on all accounts,” Aether lightly poked fun at her, lightly jabbing her side, causing Paimon to squeal and bat at Aether’s face.

“Oh hush!! Language can be difficult sometimes!” She squeaked, face red from embarrassment. Aether burst into a fit of laughter, quickly taking off in a sprint to avoid Paimon’s assault. And as a result, dragging Ren with him- who after stumbling for a brief second, quickly matched his pace.

“Sorry Paimon!” Ren couldn’t help but laugh alongside him, “See you at Good Hunter’s!” 

Paimon squealed in annoyance, quickly taking off after them and shouting an array of what she would consider “insults” towards both the traveler and his partner as they headed back to the latter’s hometown, Mondstadt. 

Taking a couple breaths as the two had slowed to a stop at Mondstadt’s gate, Ren taking slow deeper breaths as they regained their will to stand. Aether only chuckled at them, giving a gentle pet to their head, “Sorry, I didn’t want to get bapped to death by Paimon.” 

“It’s fine...I’m just-” They panted between their words, tone barely mumbled as a hiss between their sharper teeth, “-Out of shape. Severely out of shape.”

“You’d think after all the travelling you did with me, you’d be more in shape,” Aether teases, earning him a swift kick to the shin, “OW!”

“Don’t joke about that, jeez!!” They pouted, embarrassed as they turned their face away from him, wide-set ears downturned in discontentment. Aether chuckled sheepishly, holding his shin with one hand for a moment in an attempt to ease the pain before setting his foot back down and rubbing the back of his neck.

“Okay, okay, sorry. I won’t joke about it anymore,” Aether apologized, a hand then reaching just behind their little elf-like ears and giving a small scritch, “I forgot you can be a bit self-conscious about those kind’ve things.”

“Hmph,” Still pouty, they tried to look away from him, but the slight flush of their face gave them away easily, and within another few moments they leaned in further to his hand, a soft rumble of a purr rising from their throat.

Smiling to himself, the two stayed like that for a few moments, letting Ren relax a bit more until their eyes shut in a soft contentment, before opening again and giggling.

“Okay, okay, let’s go get food, I’m sure Paimon’s already waiting for us.” They responded, a hand reaching up to gently hold his once again. Their hand was warm, both from holding it earlier and from their natural body heat, and Aether couldn’t help but blush a bit to himself as well as he nodded in agreement, following Ren inside. 

Heading over to Good Hunter’s, Aether went to go order the food for the three of them as Ren sat across from Paimon, who hovered in her chair impatiently, lightly bobbing her head from side to side in mild boredom. Ren couldn’t help but chuckle, a hand over their mouth to try and suppress the sound.

“What?”

“Nothing, I was just thinking about how well you and Aether get along.”

“Psh, as if!” Paimon pouts, still clearly fussed over the little dispute earlier, “He always calls Paimon emergency food and treats Paimon like a child!”

“Yet, you still follow him around, and still are willing to travel with him~!” Ren refutes, lightly twirling their finger idly in a circle to make a point, making a light pop sound with their lips, “Checkmate.”

Paimon gave a little huff, crossing her arms as she looked away from the brunette, seemingly not having a rebuttal to their claims.

Ren bursts into a small fit of catatonic laughter, trying to quiet themselves somewhat with a shaky hand over their mouth but to very little avail. Paimon couldn’t help but notice, when she looked away, Aether was staring over towards them- a simple soft smile on his face as he was waiting for Sara to finish preparing their drinks at the very least. Paimon couldn’t help but relax at that, knowing Aether was happy, and chuckled as well alongside the brunette- however for a different reason altogether.

Settling back down after a couple of moments, Ren rubs the mirthful tears from their eyes as Aether walked back over- a small armful of drinks in tow, “I told Sara to let me handle giving you guys your drinks, so she could focus on the food.”

“That’s quite sweet of you!” Paimon pointed out as Aether slotted himself into the chair between Paimon and Ren, “Paimon noticed you’ve been really happy lately!” 

“What gave you that idea?” Aether joked, knowing full well the two knew why, however Ren simply gave a confused tilt of the head, opting to just listen to the two banter as usual.

“Hmm, well, it just seems like ever since you and Soren had sorted your situation out, you’ve just seemed to brighten up! Paimon noticed how you smiled at them a lot more than usual, and your willingness to help those around you has gotten much more... proactive.” Paimon tried to explain, somewhat fumbling over her words, ending up sputtering as Aether simply put the cup to her mouth and tilted it towards her- causing her drink to start spilling into her mouth as she spoke. It earned a chuckle from Ren, as she bapped at the glass until Aether set it back down- a cheeky amused grin never leaving his features.

“Did you ask Paimon that just to do that?!” She exclaimed as she regained her composure from the surprise, “That’s mean!”

“It’s called a prank, Paimon,” Aether lightly teased, before whispering quietly, “Besides, you were saying too much.”

“But it’s the truth! Paimon knew you were harboring feelings before, but now after that whole mess, it seems like you’re ready to take on anything!”

Aether chuckled sheepishly, a blush having started to break his mischievous composure from before, “C’mon, I’m sure I’m not acting that different from how I normally do.”

Ren hummed in thought, ears lightly twitching as they considered the light bickering and banter between the two, before adding in their own two-cents. 

“Well, sure, you’re not acting much different,” They piped up, “But your energy is notably shifted. Like you're no longer as distant from the current state of things… like you're actually emotionally present, for once.” 

“Huh?” Aether tilted his head, a bit confused as to Ren’s sudden explanation, to which they further clarified.

“Your body language changes depending on your current psychological state of mind, and your overall well-being. If you’re in a decent mood, you stand as you normally would. Sad, and it’ll show. It takes much practice to hide emotions to the point your body language doesn’t give you away, but even so, someone like me can read how you feel pretty easily...  I just haven’t before until now.” 

Aether and Paimon sat in silence for a few moments, processing what they said and furthermore what in the actual hell any of that actually meant. Ren flustered up, ears twitching once more as they laughed almost nervously. 

“Did I forget to mention I’m an empath? It’s a type of person who’s exceptionally good at reading other peoples feelings, and feeling them themselves. It derives from the word empathy,” They sheepishly explained further, “I’ve been able to read people’s emotions for as long as I can remember… which, isn’t much, but I was probably able to do it before I woke up in Mondstadt as well. I just hadn’t before because I feel it’s usually intrusive to do so. So I repress doing so, unless I feel like others are in need of help.” 

“How do you repress something like that?” Aether asked, not in disbelief but rather out of curiosity, resting his cheek into the palm of his hand as he looked to them, and they knew he had to be listening quite closely. They turned even more flustered out of shyness.

“I-it’s something I’ve learned overtime...if I had my abilities on all the time, I’d go crazy. It’s more about training yourself to focus inward, and focus on yourself, rather than those around you. Sometimes I slip up, especially when I’m tired or in a bad mood, but I never read you before, Aether.” They turned to him as they spoke his name, and smiled, “...But you’re calming. Calm, mixing with joy and...and…” They stuttered, unable to say the word they knew was on the tip of their tongue. Aether only giggled as they shyly hid their face in their hands, a soft little shy whine drawing from the back of their throat. He could only reassuringly pet their head, and shake his own head.

“Don’t worry, I know. Still, that’s...an amazing ability to have.” Aether simply responded, “I’m glad you told us.” 

“I kind’ve….Kind’ve forgot to tell you both… we were so busy, it must’ve slipped my mind. It’s why I’m so invested in other people’s well being.” They mumbled between their fingers, eventually looking back to meet Aether’s calming yet deep gaze into their anxious dark brown eyes.

“Looking back, it makes sense...you always knew just when to step in and force us to either rest, or to take a breather to keep us from overexerting ourselves.” Aether noted, recalling all the times they helped out in what he thought were smaller ways- but were in actuality just as important as their abilities to fight and deduction skills, “You’re really talented…”

“I wouldn’t say that… You had to teach me how to fight and such, I’m not that talented.” They spoke down upon themselves again, brushing the bangs out of their eyes. Aether gave a bit of a pout, raising an eyebrow doubtfully at their statement.

“Ren, before we met you knew how to sing, how to dance, how to draw- to the point you had made it your job. And now you just mentioned that you had this ability to read others emotions. Not to mention,” Aether cheekily held up the poem they had written for him, and watched the tips of their ears flush in a galactic blush, “You can write exceptionally well. You’re amazing, Ren.”

Ren remained quiet, though they were clearly starting to smile, he could see it in their eyes. Letting their hands fall, sure enough, there was a sharp-toothed grin on their face. 

“I-I…” Eventually they tried to speak, “...Thank you.” 

That got Aether to chuckle again, a hand reaching down to gently scratch behind their ears once more, “There we go, that’s better.”

Still, he was surprised to find the brunette lightly yanking his chair closer to them, and hug the blonde tightly. He hesitated for a split second, before returning the gesture wholeheartedly.

“No, really...thank you. I-I know I probably make things difficult sometimes, but hearing that from you just...means so much...It lets me know I’m doing something right.” They mumbled into his shirt, cheek pressed into his chest, “I just...I...you mean a lot to me.”

Aether paused for a second. Did it sound like they were about to say something else, or was it just him? 

Still, before he would ask, Sara approached with food, coughing nervously to herself to get the trio’s attention. Sighing to himself, he watched as Ren jumped back a few feet with a nervous squeak, falling off the chair in the process. He guessed he would ask later on, after having dinner of course, so he smiled and thanked Sara for her effort, picking almost nervously at his food as Paimon began to eat, trying not to clearly laugh. 

═ ═ ═ ╰☆╮ ═ ═ ═

Later on that evening, after Aether had passed off Paimon to a very peeved Cavalry Captain, him alongside Ren were walking just around Mondstadt, taking in the cheer of the environment. Various forms of music played in the streets as many sorts of bards who called the city their home sang various tales from their lives, sung of the god Barbatos, Sung of the tale of the windfaring dragon. Hands intertwined, Ren hummed along to the songs as they passed by, seemingly calm in the city. Part of him was glad they were so calm in such a busy environment, as when they were in Liyue- during the time of the lantern rite as a matter of fact- he recalled they mentioned feeling overwhelmed with all the pretty lights and music and people. In a way, it showed that Mondstadt truly was their home. 

It was starting to get rather late, the sun barely shimmering still in a pale pink and orange sky. Thankfully, it was another gorgeous evening in Mondstadt. The Windblume Ceremony would be tomorrow night, a signal to the end of the festivities. As it turned out, Aether had been chosen to pick the flower to represent Mondstadt in this year’s celebration- although he still held the question in the back of his mind...truly, what WAS a Windblume flower? 

But, for the time being, he didn’t need to think about it, he supposed. Mostly because, for the time being, Aether’s focus was on Ren, and the way the sunset had framed their face in a soft reddish orange glow. Their eyes were-quite literally- sparkling, no longer worried about their own struggles or concerns, but simply enjoying the feeling in the air of the festival. They turned to look at Aether, and he flustered up a bit. 

“Isn’t the Windblume Festival just so much fun? It has such a better energy than the lantern rite in Liyue!” They spoke with conviction, letting go of his hand only for a brief moment to do a small sprint forward with an excited twirl and a cat-like chirp of joy. Aether only watched their movements with a small smile on his face, honestly only half paying attention to what they said. It had to be the first time since he first met them that he’s seen them this...legitimately happy. 

“Yeah, sure is...beautiful.” Aether said, though more-so to himself than to the twirling brunette, watching their sash twirl with them. Mostly because, in fact, he wasn’t talking about the Windblume Festival… he was talking about them, having fun for once without a care in the world. Beautiful.

For a long time, before he finally shoved past his fears and confessed to them, he had shoved these thoughts down into the deepest areas of his subconscious, not wanting to think of things like personal relationships or anything of the sort. Not when Lumine had told him to leave Teyvat, not when he still had to find his dear sister. 

Yet, like pandora’s box, it seemed those thoughts were resurfacing now, watching them goof off and twirl and spin and-

“Ren, be careful!” Aether snapped out of his thoughts quick enough to speak, however he could only watch them lose their footing and land into the water of the fountain that surrounded Barbatos’s statue. 

Rather than be upset though, naturally the hydro equipped adepti simply started cackling, not bothering to try and get back up for a few good moments while they rode the high of their positive energy. It was infectious, and sure enough a moment later Aether couldn’t help but to shake his head and laugh as well. He couldn’t help it, despite everything they could be so bright sometimes- and despite what they had faced, they still chose to smile and help others. It was admirable.

“Here, take my hand,” He walked over to where they sat, offering a hand to them. He watched water droplets quietly circle around their head- a habit they tended to do when they were in the water as a result of their vision. Smiling, they took his hand, although that smile quickly fell into an open mouthed gasp as he pulled them up and into his chest. And for that moment, time stilled. 

“Hey, Soren,” His voice was quiet, tender, and considerate, “...Do you remember when we first met? It was in this same plaza, and you were humming the song the bard’s playing right now.” 

As he spoke, they felt a slightly harsher, but still intending to be gentle wind along their back as Aether gently ran his hand up more towards their shoulder blades, using a small bit of his anemo abilities as he did so to dry them off from their spill into the fountain only moments prior. 

“I remember, yeah,” They responded after a moment of trying to find the willpower to actually speak again, “It was right after your first encounter with Dvalin...and before we became teammates.” 

“Mhm,” He couldn’t help but chuckle as he felt them shudder a bit from the cold bite of wind along their neck, “Sorry, your clothes can be pretty thick.” 

That at least got a giggle out of them, bangs fluffing out of their face and making a bit of a frizzy mess as it dried at the elemental magic, delicate hands that wielded a sword gently combing through the dark brown locks. Hearing a soft sigh, Aether only chuckled even more at their reaction.

“I remember that I inspired you.” Aether continued after a brief moment, “How you always wanted to be an adventurer yourself, but was...too scared to. But seeing someone like me, someone who was completely new to Mondstadt and this world, manage to scare off a dragon back to his lair… It inspired you to at least try.”

Ren couldn’t help but blush and let out an embarrassed little snort.

“Yes, and then I nearly got myself killed trying to take out one of the hillichurl camps.” They grumbled quietly, clearly sheepish about the event. 

“Still, when I came to help out and ended up hurt… It was the moment you got your Vision, wasn’t it? Finding your will to fight again and make things right, after your actions had gotten someone else harmed.” As the gentle breeze of anemo faded from his fingertips, they looked away flustered. 

“I mean, yeah, I suppose...It just hurt my heart to see someone else hurt because of my actions.” They mumbled, “I didn’t even think of what I had to do, I just...Put it on and went for it, I had to get them off of you.”

“You were really happy at being able to protect me, you actually started laughing and dancing not too long after that battle ended.” Aether pointed out, watching their face turn further shades of blues and purples from embarrassment. 

“I had really hoped you forgotten that...I probably looked really dumb,” They muttered, trying to cover their face with one hand, only for Aether to gently grab it, a thumb rubbing gentle circles across their knuckles. 

“I didn’t...but I know you definitely didn’t look stupid then. Part of me wanting to see how well you could do...well...other dances,” Aether started to fluster over his words, his somber facade cracking into a more goofy, awkward, yet very sincere one, “...I guess what I mean to say is, I wasn’t able to ask then but uh...better late than never, right? So, ah…” He cleared his throat into his opposing hand, before awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, unable to meet their eyes in his own slight embarrassment. 

“Little Dreamer, would you care for a dance?” He’d have to thank Xinqiu and Venti for the line later…

Ren could only blink in response to that for a few moments, fumbling over their tongue for the words to speak, and eventually stuttering out a simple little, “S-Sure…” 

And just like that, time had started to move, once again.

═ ═ ═ ╰☆╮ ═ ═ ═

Letting go of their hand for a brief moment, the traveler in question had simply turned to slip off his gloves, tucking them into one of the many pockets in his oversized pants. After a moment of contemplation, staring blankly at his hands for a few moments, he offered it to them with a small, shy smile.

“Shall we?” He chuckled as he spoke, watching with twitching and flittering ears as Ren had put their hand in his, the sound of the lyre nearby only seeming to grow louder as the world began to grow just more quiet. When Aether took a glance around however, he found it wasn’t a trick of his mind- while the little plaza that sat before the church of Barbatos was mainly empty- there were of course a few fortunate souls who took notice to the display, falling quiet and watching. Not to mention, the bard in question only smirked, seeming to play louder.  He’ll have to make another note to pay the bard a decent tip later, although it didn’t prevent his face from turning an embarrassing shade of pink.

However, seeing Ren’s expression still frozen in shock and flusteredness, Aether hummed quietly and put his other hand on their cheek, lightly scratching behind their ear. 

“It’s alright, relax. It’s just me,” He tried to calm them down, only to hear them chuckle shyly. 

“You do not understand how little that helps in this,” They respond, their face a delightful shade of blues and purples.

Chuckling as well, he moved his hand from their cheek slowly down to their shoulder….down their arm, and to their waist. Ren couldn’t help but notice at the moment, the varying degree of scars that littered his hand- his somewhat calloused fingers from each battle and the little paler lines that jagged across them...and they knew that he lived a life so much more dangerous than he did now. 

“Just dance how you normally would,” He spoke of reassurance, and to that they opened their mouth to say something...only to close it again seconds after with a small nod. Truth be told, they were...a bit shy about their dancing, but they wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to dance with him due to their fears and anxieties. 

They fell silent after that, looking down a bit sheepishly and stepping slightly closer to Aether. Raising an eyebrow at that, he couldn’t help but chuckle even more at their shyness as the hand that held theirs adjusted slightly. The hand at their waist tightened, just a bit, comfortingly. He wouldn’t let them go- not again. Not when he almost lost them several times now in several aspects.

So, slowly, taking the initiative, he began to move- carefully and elegantly. One step to the side turned to another, Ren following each movement almost naturally. Hands entwined, that felt like they were meant for this purpose alone- to be held by the other. One step, two step, three, he felt their shoulders relax a bit, their other hand loosely draped over his shoulder. Tightened, tense and nervous tanned fingers slowly loosened, as with each beat of their heart and the strum of the lyre melted away their anxieties. Right here, at this moment, nothing else mattered.

The only thing that mattered was the warmth of his hands, the warmth of his breath- which they could feel ever so slightly brush against their face as they pressed just a bit closer to him- feeling their chest brush against his stomach. 

Ren couldn’t help it, a smile started to escape their anxious features, letting the music slowly seep through the fear and worries that plagued their heart, and delve deep into the features of their soul. When nothing else was there for them- music truly was. It was the one thing they cherished in this world more than life itself. People could abandon them, people could leave, and yet music was always there waiting for them in times of sadness, or right now...in times of joy.

Slowly, their steps started to deviate, a slight bit. A bit more graceful, a bit more elegant, more relaxed and calm and at peace with everything in the world. Yet, more complicated- Aether had to focus to keep up with their movements- lest he trip. 

Aether could feel it too, the way the whole world started to fall apart around him- how everything else in the background had faded to nothing else but white noise all except for himself, and the tiny little nonbinary before him. The little hydro being with literal stars in their eyes and glitter radiating from their hair at each movement, with dewdrops starting to lightly dance around their face as they were losing themselves in the calmness of the music. All there was, was himself, and them. Nothing else- no one else- mattered for the time being. 

The more they relaxed, the more confident the two became in their movements. Uncertain steps of hesitation turned to confident strides, gliding across the concrete like it was made specifically to keep up with their movements. Just as quickly, the two fell into sync. Letting go of their waist at the perfect time as they gave a gentle twirl, never letting go of his hand and twirling away- then back towards him. Him, gently scooping them upwards into his arms to twirl them around, the braid of his hair starting to get messy in the flurry of movement and wind and peace. Yet, it was all so perfect. With every few steps, the two would step on the other’s foot, or his hand would slip a bit and accidentally grab at their hip, or he would almost be sent tumbling into the concrete- yet, it felt so fluid and simple and perfect. Simply perfect. Something that matched the both of them, he would even argue. 

Never letting go of the other’s hand, the two danced in a way that almost seemed like their souls were connected. Even if the one fumbled, the other made it seem intentional, and vice versa. Hands would trail between brushing away strands of hair, to gliding down the other’s body, gently grabbing at clothes and dramatic gestures that made them both smile. The music got louder still, but not in an overwhelming way...in fact, in a way that swallowed them both whole. Ren’s heart started to race, energy surging through them with a mix of overexcitement and pure joy. Their movements starting to get even more complicated, making Aether struggle to keep up if not slightly. He never had to really learn these particular dance moves- so where did they learn them from? Was there something they couldn’t do? 

Once again, they twirled, this time taking the blonde with them- him quickly gripping their waist to prevent either of them from falling as their hair whirled around them- catching in their face and then being swept away again in the wind as they kept twirling, twirling, twirling. He felt the band in his braid start to come loose, and eventually fly off with the force of gravity working against him- blonde strands starting to go into a chaotic cacophony of giggling and laughter as Aether could only scoop them back up, taking control of the whirls and twirls in both of their steps to keep them both from tumbling back into the fountain once again in their flurry of dancing. As if, if they didn’t keep moving, the world would collapse around them, and reality would come crashing back in once again. Aether couldn’t help but lightly toss them up, a surge of anemo accompanying it to send Ren flying up- and following his feeling, Ren elegantly twirled up into the sky, sending specks of water into the sky that caught the sun perfectly to light the plaza in a warm rainbow light of dew dropped light. Falling back to the ground, Aether easily caught them in his arms, continuing to twirl as the dewdrops followed them down, lightly raining themselves and the clearing in a gentle mist. Aether couldn’t help but laugh, them following suit as their air grew slightly damp, as they kept twirling to the song, Aether’s hands clasped to their form to keep them steady as their cheek nuzzled into his neck, his frizzy messy hair almost akin to wings that shielded them from the world. 

The music had started to slow, and with it, their movements- Aether setting Ren back down after a few moments as they pressed themselves straight to his body. The curtain of hair settled, revealing the two back to the rest of the world, although it definitely couldn’t be said that he looked as graceful as he did a bit ago with his hair starting to curl at the ends- strands frizzing up from the new humidity of the plaza. Following their slowing movements, Aether couldn’t help but lightly rest his head atop of theirs, cradling them to him as their feet moved slowly to the rhythm of the lyre that slowly ebbed away, until the plaza was quiet once again… leaving just them, in revire and a happy afterglow that could only be accomplished from feeling their souls truly connect on a level far beyond the mortal concept of love.

There were a few whispers amongst the small crowd that had gathered in the time; as well as the cheers of a very happy Paimon, but all Aether could hear was the ragged breath of his partner, a little worn from the burst of energy that had made their body act against its own accord only moments before. Blonde strands of hair fell in his face as he looked back down to them, brushing some dark hair from their face. 

“I love you,” It was something softly spoken, words he had previously only reserved for his sister. But now, he had even more reason to say them. His breath was equally hastened, catching puffs of breath after the excitement and adrenaline.  Ren looked back up to him in response, a smile on their face and sparkles in their eyes as they responded.

“...I love you too, Aether.” And a gentle kiss of reassurance placed on his mouth sent the crowd- and Paimon-  into rapturous applause. 

Windblume, afterall, was a time of love. Even for the Honorary Knight, and for the lost Dreamer of the Realms. If even those two could find love within each other; certainly there was always hope that love was truly out there- wasn’t there? 

Even then, that didn’t matter in the end- at the end of the day; Aether had Ren. And Ren now had him. And for that perfect moment in time, that was all that ever truly mattered. Their perfect little Windblume Dance….and their perfect Windblume song.

#[ Ren Rambles ] #[ Storytime! ] #[ Stormy Winds ] #I finished this yesterday during the blackout #Anyway taketh

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Treat Your S(h)elf: Tribe: On Homecoming and Belonging by Sebastian Junger (2016)

“Humans don’t mind hardship, in fact they thrive on it; what they mind is not feeling necessary. Modern society has perfected the art of making people not feel necessary. It's time for that to end.”

- Sebastian Junger,  Tribe: On Homecoming and Belonging

The phenomenon of tribal solidarity is the subject of Sebastian Junger’s enthralling book, Tribe: On Homecoming and Belonging. Junger offers a rich but unevenly researched patchwork of history, psychology, and anthropology to explore the deep appeal of the tribal culture throughout history. The result is less of a tour de force book that I would have expected from the likes of Sebastian Junger than an interesting and thought provoking read. Certainly it should be read by anyone interested in the human condition.

As a British ex-military veteran and a fan of Junger’s other books I naturally found it fascinating.The memory of my most recent tour in Afghanistan was still raw upon my return to Britain. Although the book really focuses on returning American army servicemen and their integration back into the American ‘tribe’ there were several themes that I and many others who had seen war could readily identify with.

“Tribe” is not a typical Junger book. He doesn’t tell one knockout story, as he did in the “The Perfect Storm,” which made him rich and famous, or as he did in “War,” which — along with his documentaries “Restrepo” and “Korengal” — established him as one of the world’s most mesmerising chroniclers of the Afghanistan war. Rather, he gives us an extended-play version of an article he wrote for for Vanity Fair — one that’s part ethnography, part history, part social science primer, part cri de coeur. Junger previously served as a war correspondent for Vanity Fair, embedding for long stretches at remote American outposts in Afghanistan’s frightful Korengal valley. This experience may help explain his interest in the intimate bonds that define tribal societies as well as the despair that can come from being wrenched out of a situation that makes those bonds necessary.

Junger’s premise is simple: Modern civilisation may be awesome, giving us unimaginable autonomy and material bounty. But it has also deprived us of the psychologically invaluable sense of community and interdependence that we hominids enjoyed for millions of years. It is only during moments of great adversity that we come together and enjoy that kind of fellowship — which may explain why, paradoxically, we thrive during those moments. (In the six months after Sept. 11, Junger writes, the murder rate in New York dropped by 40 percent, and the suicide rate by 20 percent.)

“I do miss something from the war,” Bosnian journalist Nidzara Ahmetasevic tells Sebastian Junger halfway through the book. Ahmetasevic is talking about the wartime closeness she shared with friends in a basement bomb shelter in besieged Sarajevo. “The love that we shared was enormous,” Ahmetasevic says. “I missed being close to people, I missed being loved in that way.”

The sentiment lies at the heart of Tribe, a book offering a surprising thesis about the ways humans have traded communal belonging for excessive safety.

Junger gets a considerable amount done in a quick 133 pages: Tribe posits a reason why white settlers found life among Native American tribes appealing, theorises about false PTSD claims among returned U.S. veterans, and conveys the author’s equality-minded view of how heroic behaviour varies between genders — all in addition to remarks on hitchhiking, attachment parenting, Junger’s dad’s opinion of military service, and more. It’s an awful lot of ground to cover in such a short book, and it’s inevitable that Tribe would either feel inchoate and sketched or else aggravatingly dense. Because Junger is an adventurous storyteller (rather than, say, an academic theoretician), he opts for the former.

It’s not necessarily a good thing. The book’s lightness makes it accessible, an easy entry point to weighty subject matter. But its concision can make Tribe feel breezy even as it discusses life and death — if not sometimes confusing.

As a former anthropology major, Mr. Junger takes a special interest in tribal life. He notes that a striking number of American colonists ran off to join Native American societies, but the reverse was almost never true. He describes the structure and values of hunter-gatherer groups, including the ones that lasted well into the 20th century, like the !Kung in the Kalahari.

Unfortunately, these parts of the book are also the dullest and most problematic. There’s a numbingly familiar quality to much of the social science research he cites. It is not exactly news that nations with large income disparities are less happy than those without them, or that group cooperation increases levels of oxytocin, the bonding hormone. He notes, for example, that American mothers in the 1970s had a level of skin-to-skin contact with their babies that traditional societies would consider criminally low. Fair enough. I wonder, though, if he realises that in saying this he’s crashing open the gate for every helicopter parenting (or attachment-parenting) demagogue out there? And that parents who actually have to go to work for a living - and therefore can’t have their babies pinned to their chests all day long for three years straight - will read these words and start rolling the eyes back in disbelief.

Though Junger cautions against romanticising tribal cultures, he sometimes does exactly that, and in ways that can be annoying.  Tribe aptly opens with Benjamin Franklin’s observation, decades before the American Revolution, that more than a few English settlers were “escaping into the woods” to join Indian society. Franklin noticed that emigration seemed to go from the civilised to the tribal, but rarely the other way around. White captives of the American Indians, for instance, often did not wish to be repatriated to colonial society. At this distance, it is simply astonishing that so many frontiersmen would have cast off the relative comforts of civilisation in favour an “empire wilderness” rife with Stone Age tribes that, as Junger notes, “had barely changed in 15,000 years.”

The small but significant flow of white men — they were mostly men — into the tree-line sat uncomfortably with those who stayed behind. Without indulging the modern temptation to romanticise what was a blood-soaked way of life, Junger hazards an explanation for the appeal of tribal culture. Western society was a diverse and dynamic but deeply alienating place. (Plus ça change…) This stood in stark contrast to native life, which was essentially classless and egalitarian. The “intensely communal nature of an Indian tribe” provided a high degree of autonomy — as long as it didn’t threaten the defence of the tribe, which was punishable by death — as well as a sense of belonging. Tribe is then essentially a critique of modern civilisation, beginning with Junger’s observation of the inexorable appeal of Native American way of life to early settlers (“The intensely communal nature of an Indian tribe held an appeal that the material benefits of Western civilisation couldn’t necessary compete with”).

“The question for Western society isn’t so much why tribal life might be so appealing - it seems obvious on the face of it - but why Western society is so unappealing.” Junger is making a provocative point, but he is no provocateur. He swiftly justifies this jarring idea:

On a material level it is clearly more comfortable and protected from the hardships of the natural world. But as societies become more affluent they tend to require more, rather than less, time and commitment by the individual, and it’s possible that many people feel that affluence and safety simply aren’t a good trade for freedom.

All of these points have been covered in other, heavier books. Jared Diamond’s The World Until Yesterday examines traditional tribal lifestyles’ usefulness in the present day. The entanglement of war with human closeness and purpose is the focus of Chris Hedges’s War Is a Force That Gives Us Meaning. (Both Hedges and Junger include the same anecdote, in fact, about a teenage couple in besieged Sarajevo, that dies, sniper-shot, on the banks of the Miljacka River.) Junger also briefly mentions the work of seminal disaster researcher Charles Fritz, noting that Fritz could find almost no examples of mass panic during large-scale disasters. This plays into his overarching point that difficult experiences can be unifying rather than shattering. The exact same studies by Fritz and fellow researchers — and that exact same, crucial point — are detailed in Rebecca Solnit’s brilliant A Paradise Built in Hell.

Junger uses these insights towards another point. “Because modern society has almost completely eliminated trauma and violence from everyday life, anyone who does suffer these things is deemed to be extraordinarily unfortunate,” he writes. “This gives people access to sympathy and resources but also creates an identity of victimhood that can delay recovery.” This is an important observation. It, too, resonates quite closely with previous work - in this case Harvard psychiatrist Judith Lewis Herman’s seminal book Trauma and Recovery, which remarks that “to hold traumatic reality in consciousness requires a social context that affirms and protects the victim and that joins victim and witness in a common alliance.”

At best what Junger tries to achieve, then, is to assemble parts of all those books into one slim volume. So much the better for the busy reader. Unfortunately, Junger’s quick look at violence, trauma, and modern anomie also omits important information from other books, and as a result ends up on shaky ground, failing to consider counterpoints or bring its own arguments to a close.

Junger in the second half of the book proceeds through an examination of how disastrous or violent circumstances can create similar human closeness, and includes a discussion of how our society’s distancing itself from such harsh conditions has inadvertently sharpened those events’ capacity to traumatise the people who endure them.

War is hell, so this scourge of loneliness may seem the inevitable price for those who fight in them. The second half of Tribe insists that this impression is gravely mistaken. “Studies from around the world show that recovery from war is heavily influenced by the society one belongs to,” Junger observes. Iroquois warriors, for instance, did not have to contend with much alienation because the line between warfare and normal Indian society was vanishingly thin. This is not to deny that the Iroquois were traumatised by combat, but it was generally acute PTSD, limited in duration and distress. Their trauma was ameliorated by the fact that the trauma was shared by the entire tribe.

War, then, for all of its brutality and ugliness, satisfies some of our deepest evolutionary yearnings for connectedness. Platoons are like tribes. They give soldiers a chance to demonstrate their valour and loyalty, to work cooperatively, to show utter selflessness.

Is it any wonder that so many of them say they miss the action when they come home?

Part of the takeaway from this book is that regarding military service as a source of permanent psychiatric disability is incorrect for most (American) soldiers. Junger includes a lengthy discussion of how the U.S. Veterans Administration mishandles former soldiers’ mental health issues, and how America’s cultural misunderstanding of war plays into that deleterious milieu. The information isn’t wrong per se, but what it has to do with the rest of the romanticising of foregone tribal way of life, etc., or why that necessitates anything more than the 2015 Vanity Fair article from which the book sprung is never quite made clear. Worse, Junger says that the low rate of combat engagement among U.S. soldiers means their diagnoses of post-traumatic stress disorder often aren’t real - but he fails to consider that some soldiers develop PTSD from military sexual trauma, or from other adverse experiences outside of combat or before their enlistment.

Worse, he seems to misunderstand the diagnosis entirely. Here, as in the Vanity Fair article, Junger describes his own bout with what he calls “classic short-term PTSD,” departing from this insight to further dissect trauma and the ways modern society misunderstands it. The problem is, there really is no such thing as “short-term PTSD.” It sounds like what Junger had was post-traumatic stress, a weeks - or months - long psychological adaptation to adverse events (in his case, exposure to war) that typically resolves on its own.

Although psychological care can sometimes be relevant, most mental health professionals don’t regard this as an illness. (Tellingly, Junger’s approach to his diagnosis involved little more than an acquaintance’s ad hoc comment at “a family picnic.”) Post-traumatic stress disorder is only diagnosable after three to six months, does not often go away on its own, and can endure for a lifetime if untreated. The implication that Junger’s case is typical PTSD is misleading - and to some extent, calls his conclusions into question.

The problems in his argument go even deeper. “In Bosnia — as it is now — we don’t trust each other anymore; we became really bad people,” Ahmetasevic tells Junger. “We didn’t learn the lesson of the war, which is how important it is to share everything you have with human beings close to you.” Junger’s thesis is that other cultures (the “Stone-Age tribes” white settlers once joined) did learn that lesson. But he assumes that violence is innate to humans and necessary for human closeness, never parsing evidence that it is not. And he doesn’t examine what this Bosnian journalist means by “really bad,” and how becoming so after the war might have arisen directly from the painful, long-lasting effects of the severe trauma Junger doesn’t quite seem to believe in.

If there is any doubt on this point, consider the alarming rates of PTSD among our warrior class, and the desire among many of them to return to war — a subject on which Junger has been at the leading edge of the public discussion. When combat vets return home, the alienation and aimlessness of modern society aggravates their psychological traumas and prompts them to yearn for the brotherhood of combat. It’s not for nothing that a recent book on post-traumatic stress is entitled The Evil Hours.

Many soldiers actually miss war. “Adversity,” he writes, “often leads people to depend more on one another, and that closeness can produce a kind of nostalgia for the hard times.” Soldiers go from a close-knit group in which everyone has a purpose to a society in highly individualised lifestyles are “deeply brutalising to the human spirit.” Soldiers who come home to situations in which there is no social support from family and community are more likely to suffer PTSD than others.

Thanking veterans for their service aggravates the problem, in Junger’s opinion. “If anything, these token acts only deepen the chasm between the military and the civilian population by highlighting the fact that some people serve their country but the vast majority don’t.” Tickets to games and other such perquisites can incentivise veterans to see themselves as victims, making their reintegration into society much more difficult.

What they really need is the one thing that will make them feel like valuable members of society: jobs. In their tribe-like military units, they each had a specific function without which the group could not perform. The worst thing that can happen to them when they return is to feel useless, marginalised. The suicide rate in America mirrors the unemployment rate, Junger points out. The best protection against devastating depression is meaningful work.

“Ex-combatants shouldn’t be seen - or be encouraged to see themselves - as victims,” writes Junger. Lifelong disability payments for PTSD, which is treatable and usually not chronic, actually debilitate veterans, Junger claims. In war, the passivity of victimhood can be deadly, he explains. Turning veterans into victims when they return is not only confusing but also destructive because it erases their sense of self. Instead of sympathy, “veterans need to feel that they’re just as necessary and productive back in society as they were on the battlefield.”

Of course much of this book is really around the American experience of war and the experiences of American veterans returning home. So some points don’t quite stick with either British or European experiences. For example neither British or other European societies thank veterans for their service as a matter of course. Of course there are special days to commemorate major war events and even an armed forces day but on a general day to day basis one doesn’t go up to a military person to thank them for their service probably because British and European servicemen and their service don’t enjoy a privileged standing. Respected and admired yes, but not deified. How British and other European countries take care of their returning veterans is hard to detail as the experience varies in terms of disability allowances and other measures. Certainly a misunderstanding of mental trauma or PTSD of returning veterans has led sometimes to a criminal mismanaging of taking care of those most affected. Again, it varies from country to country.  

Contemporary America is a considerably less consolidated society than it used to be. Cultural diffusion and economic stratification have increased the isolation felt by those who have borne the heat and burden of battle. I won’t a forget photograph shown to me by an older brother who had served with distinction in Iraq. He made a few American friends from the US soldiers serving there alongside and one day he was shown something that captured the dark humour and cynicism of war. The photo captured a graffito scribbled on a wall in Ramadi, Iraq, that read: “America is not at war. The Marine Corps is at war. America is at the mall.”

Multiple studies demonstrate that “a person’s chance of getting chronic PTSD is in great part a function of their experiences before going to war.” The relationship between combat and trauma seems to be a murky one. For instance, “combat veterans are, statistically, no more likely to kill themselves than veterans who were never under fire.” Junger says that even a significant number of Peace Corps volunteers report suffering severe depression after their return home, especially if their host country was in a state of emergency when they did. In Junger’s telling, particular burdens endured by socially disadvantaged Americans - from a poor educational background to chaotic broken family life - can make a candidate especially susceptible to PTSD. Indeed, these risk factors “are nearly as predictive of PTSD as the severity of the trauma itself.”

The decline of social order and solidarity has contributed to a loss of what researchers call “social resilience.” This has simultaneously supplied more potential candidates for PTSD and impaired society’s ability to help them recover. The United States must place a premium on boosting its levels of social resilience. Americans should no longer be content to simply thank veterans for their service; sporting events are not places of healing. Nor should they seek to outsource the responsibility to the federal government. The solution lies closer to home, in the mediating institutions of civil society — from families to churches to community and professional associations. I think this echoes the views of quite a few veterans in my experience with them.

More sensitively and perhaps controversially, ex-combatants shouldn’t be regarded, or encouraged to regard themselves, as victims. This I also agree with. America is still a tremendously affluent country, Junger writes, that can afford to perpetually care for a victim class of veterans dependent on government largesse, “but the vets can’t.” They have generally performed exemplary service for which they should be honoured, and they must know that their service is not over.

Next, Junger says, veterans (like most social animals) depend upon a sense of purpose that begins with a job and a position in society. Here the “hire vets” initiatives and retraining programs are necessary but insufficient. The traditional means of securing social resilience has been egalitarian social provision. Individualist America may blanch at that notion, but it should at least act to build a more open economy and inclusive culture where individuals can reliably advance by merit and develop social capital.

Not being an American I don’t wish to speak out of turn but as a veteran and especially in speaking with other British and foreign veterans I think Junger is on the right path. Victimhood and a lack of purpose are the unseen enemy that the returning veteran will continue to fight when he or she comes home.

To all this I would also that - arguably perhaps in America especially - a revival of national cohesion is needed if - as a nation that pays lip service to honour the sacrifices of its servicemen - it is to arrest the full savagery of battlefield trauma. This will require what Edmund Burke called “a revolution in sentiments, manners and moral opinions.”

One clue about how to achieve this can be found in the early pages of Tribe, when Junger tells an affecting anecdote about his father. Not long after the end of the Vietnam War, the author had received a Selective Service registration form in the mail, in case the United States government ever needed to conscript him into the military. When he announced that, if drafted, he would refuse to serve on political grounds, his father’s reaction caught him off guard. Although sternly opposed to the war in Indo-China, Junger’s father insisted that American soldiers had “saved the world” from fascism during World War II and many never came home. Junger writes;

“‘You don’t owe your country nothing,’ I remember him telling me. ‘You owe it something, and depending on what happens, you might owe it your life.’” This did not oblige anyone to enlist in an unjust war - “in his opinion, protesting an immoral war was just as honorable and necessary as fighting a moral one” - but it did mean that the country had just claims on its citizens, and refusing to sign a registration form constituted a dereliction of duty.

Year after year, Americans hear arguments for taking the stink out of their sulphurous political rhetoric. It would be better for congressional productivity. It would be better for our international dignity. It would be better for their national literacy, their local advocacy, their general civility and the future etiquette of their children. But the one argument I had not heard, until reading Junger’s book is that they should clean up their act for the sake of their returning troops.

Junger never makes this point explicitly. What he writes, simply, is this: After months of combat, during which “soldiers all but ignore differences of race, religion and politics within their platoon,” they return to the United States to find “a society that is basically at war with itself. People speak with incredible contempt about - depending on their views - the rich, the poor, the educated, the foreign-born, the president or the entire U.S. government.” Soldiers go from a world in which they’re united, interconnected and indispensable to one in which they’re isolated, without purpose, and bombarded with images of politicians and civilians screaming at one another on TV and cable.

It’s a formula for deep despair. “Today’s veterans often come home to find that, although they’re willing to die for their country,” he writes, “they’re not sure how to live for it.”

With that, Mr. Junger has raised one of the most provocative ideas for bitterly divided Americans to grapple with without mentioning a single political candidate, or even a president, by name.

In this age of social and economic fragmentation, many of America’s disadvantaged fellow citizens have begun to chafe against an elite class - left and right - that often behaves as if it were exempted from the national compact. Junger only hints at the necessary leap beyond a social-psychological view to a political-economic analysis. He writes, "As great a sacrifice as soldiers make, American workers arguably make a greater one…. [w]orking in industries that have a mortality rate equivalent to most units in the US military." He suggests, "It may be worth considering whether middle-class American life - for all its material good fortune - has lost some essential sense of unity that might otherwise discourage alienated men from turning apocalyptically violent."

Nobody then should be surprised if the ranks of disaffected citizens – not least those who have borne arms in our name and in their defence - ultimately decide that the sensibility of the tribe is superior to their own.

As a proud Brit who is guilty at times of poking fun at America but borne out of sincere fondness and respect for America I do sincerely hope during these turbulent times that they are capable of coming together and recognising their tribal identity is to be Americans first and other labels (liberal or conservative or red state or blue state) whilst not inconsequential are not important enough to undermine the primary American tribal identity. They did it so marvellously after 9/11, but that feeling as we all know soon dissipated. It can’t afford to be a house divided from within when there are predatory wolves pawing at the door (I’m looking at you Russia and China). Junger correctly writes America is a strong nation, “The only one who can destroy us, is, well, us…..which means that the ultimate terrorist strategy would be to just leave us alone.”

Tribe is an important, thought-provoking book that encourages Americans to see its veterans and American society in a fresh light. Policymakers of all political stripes would do well to consider Junger’s arguments, for as long as they fail to fully integrate returning soldiers, everyone will continue to pay a high toll for their incredible service and sacrifice.

Junger’s “Tribe” even if it was written in 2016, remains relevant and serves as an important wake-up call. Let’s hope we all don’t sleep through the alarm. But this too brief and too scattershot book with an important message won’t get us all the way there. There is an old South African Zulu proverb, ‘If you want to go fast, go on your own. If you want to go further, go together’. It’s up to all of us.

#treat your s(h)elf #book review #books #reading #sebastian junger #junger #tribe #war #battle #america #army #society #culture #anthropology #native indian #iroquoi #veterans #PTSD #integration #civilisation #state

[itsbenedict]

Two-Faced Jewel: Session 11

Horse On First

A half-elf conwoman (and the moth tasked with keeping her out of trouble) travel the Jewel in search of, uh, whatever a fashionable accessory is pointing them at. [Campaign log]

Last time, our heroes made contact with the Deathseekers, and opted to accompany them back to Barley to take care of some unfinished business. While the high-level adventurers take care of the dragon, the party goes to deliver a book and pick up some clothes from the tailor. No drama here, probably!

In the morning, the party is woken by a visitor to the inn. Looseleaf... acquires a new bit of background thanks to an excellent History roll.

The maid is here to retrieve the party, as the Deathseekers are about to set out. One thing that's somewhat surprising is that the deathseekers aren't riding giraffes, like normal people- they're riding these weird, hulked-out short-necked hornless giraffes that- and there must be some mistake here- are apparently called "whoreses"? It's weird. The best their Nature rolls can get is that they sort of resemble an exotic striped creature called a "zebra", maybe.

Lady Greatholder is there, with two of her maids- one of whom is an elf, who's staring at Oyobi in undisguised horror. To non-elven eyes, Oyobi might look normal, dressed sort of sporty, even- but to an elf's keen sense of propriety, she might as well be wearing an ahegao t-shirt and hammer pants.

Traveling conversation is light.

Looseleaf: "What are these things, anyways? They look like recolored zebras." Benedict I. (GM): You must've misheard something, because Doon says "What, you've never seen a whores before?" Saelhen du Fishercrown: "...pardon me?" Looseleaf: "Is this- this is a pun, right? Like, I'm supposed to ask why you call them whores, and you'll answer, 'because we're riding them'? Is that the joke?" Saelhen du Fishercrown: Oh, god, this is an elaborate gaslighting prank. They are going to try to convince Saelhen to call this thing a whore, and then they will laugh, and she cannot even blame them, because that would be hilarious if she did it, probably. Benedict I. (GM): "Is there something wrong with the whoreses, ma'am?" the human girl asks. Looseleaf: "No, like, you're calling these animals whores, and despite the fact that I wasn't allowed to look at those magazines when I was younger, I'm relatively sure that the Common word 'whore' refers to a lady of ill repute of a brothel- I'm making this worse, aren't I." "I didn't learn the wrong word did I. Oh gods I totally learned the wrong word didn't I. The books that taught me Common were messing with me weren't they." Benedict I. (GM): Lady Greatholder and Doon absolutely lose their shit, as does Oyobi, who's been grinning ear to ear this whole time. Kevin speaks up. "Ah, no, it's- H-O-R-S-E. Hor-suh." "They're from up north." Saelhen du Fishercrown: Saelhen covers her faint smile (read: shit-eating grin). "How novel." Looseleaf: Looseleaf emits a quiet buzzing sound not unlike the sound previously emitted by John Human. This is moth for 'quiet screaming'.

The party doesn't really withhold any details about Arnie and the tower- they just make an appeal for Arnie to be treated with as much mercy as they can muster. Doon implies that he was in a similar place when Lady Greatholder found him, so she reluctantly agrees to stay the hand of JUSTICE.

On arriving in Barley, the Deathseekers go over their plan, in the broad strokes: they're going to post up in the tower, and lay a trap for the dragon using Arnie as bait. By Arnie's reckoning, it'll take a little over a week before the dragon's next visit, so the party has some time to kill in town.

Their first order of business is to visit Chitch, a local lizardfolk farmer who was kidnapped by Lumiere:

Chitch seems surprised that they didn't get kidnapped or tortured- and even more surprised when they claim to have information on his missing daughter's whereabouts.

They hand him CHOSS BOOK, the diary of the girl who was raised in Lumiere's tower as his apprentice. He starts reading it, and his tears of joyful disbelief turn to anger as he reads through the contents- which describe an evil torture wizard raising his daughter as his own, and using her as a test subject.

When he's about halfway through, he puts it down, grabs his pitchfork, and starts strapping on his armor- intent on heading for the tower to kill Lumiere. The party has to hastily explain the situation and exhort him to finish reading the diary, please- Lumiere is already dead, and Choss is safe in Wheat.

Chitch thanks them for the information, and presents them with a reward- apparently, before fleeing to Barley to settle down with his infant daughter, he was a lieutenant commander in the fleet of one Umidono Kaiden, an elven naval commander attempting to take control of the lawless Cutthroat Isles. He gives them his jeweled badge, which could sell for a decent chunk of cash or potentially be useful if they ever need to deal with Kaiden in the future. Orluthe is the one to pocket it, as the rest of the party hems and haws over accepting such a gift.

SNext, they head to visit Kensa Kanthalga to pick up Saelhen's torn kimono- and after a lot of paranoid second-guessing re: heading directly for the Kanthalga house via the grass, go through the Temple of Diamode in front of it first, to update Malath on the situation.

They find her continuing to train the town militia in spearwork, in preparation for what she assumes is an impending assault from Wheat.

They... do not mention Arnie, because mentioning the culprit is Arnie could potentially fan the flames with Wheat. Instead, they mention that the murder weapon was found there, as was evidence of a dragon. Malath seems skeptical that a dragon would stealthily kill with a tiny weapon, and somewhat perturbed that Deathseekers are in town, but agrees to notify the town that the Deathseekers are at the tower handling the dragon issue, so no one does anything dangerous like going over there.

(Incidentally, Vayen has vanished, and Looseleaf's bugged medical kit has indicated that he's gone over to the tower. Hm.)

So, they pass through the temple and visit Kensa in her home. Kensa answers the door, wearing...

...ah.

See, Kensa assumed that after they went to the torture tower and didn't come back for several days, that they were dead or torture-enslaved- and like, the dead or torture-enslaved don't need a stylish kimono, right?

So she is suitably mortified when Saelhen shows up at her door, not dead in the slightest.

Benedict I. (GM): Kensa's down pretty quick, wearing the pink dress from before (if somewhat more disheveled), holding a folded kimono. To her credit, it looks very well-repaired- you can't even tell it was damaged. "I- my apologies! Here you are, ma'am!" Saelhen du Fishercrown: Saelhen takes it. "While I have you here, would you like to hear a secret about this dress?" Kensa Kanthalga: "I- er, of course! Thank you!" Saelhen du Fishercrown: "When I was of an age comparable to yours..." She leans in conspiratorially. "I hated this thing. I fell down in it in front of a ballroom full of people and I very honestly wanted to take a scissor to it." Kensa Kanthalga: "N-no way...!" Saelhen du Fishercrown: "I keep it because it was a gift and because I sometimes need it. But if it gives you pleasure to wear it, then it is accomplishing far more with you than it ever did for me." Kensa Kanthalga: Her eyes widen. "R-really?!" Saelhen du Fishercrown:"I do still need it, to be clear. I, ah, don't mean to get your hopes up." Kensa Kanthalga: "...Oh." "No, of course..." You totally got her hopes up. Looseleaf: Not only did you get her hopes up, you even got Looseleaf's hopes up. Saelhen du Fishercrown: To be fair, "prove that elves can be assholes too" is right there on her character sheet.

And as far as payment- Saelhen just implied that Kensa would be allowed to cut out a swatch or two of the silk during repairs, which Kensa immediately jumped on without discussing further payment. Except...

Then Saelhen... gives Kensa some advice.

Saelhen du Fishercrown: "Now, in your shoes, considering that I might have been still alive, what I would have done was this: cut out squares, maybe handkerchief-sized, here and here. 'One or two,' as I specified." The places Saelhen indicated on the kimono are... not great places for there to be handkerchief-sized holes. They would render it pretty much unwearable. "I didn't ever specify where the swatches should be cut out, true. And so you could certainly chalk up the issue to youthful enthusiasm and indiscretion." "A lady like myself could never do something so crass as ask you to pay for a dress you'd taken time out of your busy schedule to repair, working to the bone over long hours. And I certainly wouldn't have had use for something I couldn't wear or repair myself." Kensa Kanthalga: "I- wh...?" Saelhen du Fishercrown: "And so you would have had the swatches -- and, shortly, the entire dress with it." Benedict I. (GM): She is so confused. Is this lady trying to give her advice on how to grift her??? "That's- but that'd be...!" "I couldn't do that!" Looseleaf: oh my god is saelhen trying to recruit an apprentice is THAT what this is, Looseleaf thinks Saelhen du Fishercrown: "You could, dear."

Saelhen is trying to recruit an apprentice conwoman.

Saelhen retreats, at this point- they'll be staying for a week or so! There's time to lay groundwork!

Next time: some downtime in Barley, before the night of the dragon fight and the execution of Saelhen's master plan.

#tfj log #twofaced jewel

[berjhawn]

Angel On Fire - Chapter 13 - Jail

Warnings: None really that bad, a little nsfw toward the end but other than that pretty safe

Pairings: Bucky Barnes X Reader ; Thorin Oakenshield X Reader ; Bucky X Reader X Thorin ; Marvel X Reader X Hobbit

(A/N) I live!!!!!!! and i’m here to bring you two new updates!! So enjoy!!

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Thorin didn’t know what to do now that he was staring down the strung arrow of a blonde elf. He wanted to fight but knew he and his kin were no match for the elves in their foggy state. It was only when he saw (Name)’s (H/C) hair out of the corner of his eye did he lose composure. His eyes snap to her to see that a nearby elf was cradling her in his arms as her head lay gently against his chest.

“What have you done to her?” Thorin asks anger filling his chest and words.

“What is it to you?” The blonde elf asks narrowing his eyes at Thorin.

“She’s a friend. Now, what have you done to her?” Thorin inquires his brow narrowed in anger.

“We found her as she collapsed to the ground in fear.”

“Give her to us, we’ll carry her.” Thorin orders causing the elf to narrow his eyes at him and scoff.

“What help could you give her that we cannot?” The elf scolds annoying Thorin greatly. “She’ll remain in our care until the king decides otherwise.” He adds before turning from Thorin and to the other dwarves as his men start to search them all. As he is given Thorin’s sword he lifts it up and admiring its craftsmanship says, “Echannen i vegil hen vin Gondolin. Magannen nan Gelydh.”  (This is an ancient Elvish blade. Forged by my kin.) He pauses his eyes meeting Thorin’s as he adds, “Where did you get this?”

“It was given to me.” Thorin answers honestly but the elf scowls, and points the sword at Thorin.

“Not just a thief, but a liar as well.” He accuses before ordering his kin to take them.

After then blonde sheathes the sword he walks over to where (Name) is being held by another elf and after a brief word he lifts her into his arms to carry himself. Thorin stares at him with anger and jealousy filling his body as the elves begin to lead the dwarves away. As they begin to walk, Bofur turns and whispers to Thorin, “Thorin, where’s Bilbo?” Thorin looks around, but sees no sign of Bilbo.

The dwarves are led through the woods and over a bridge and into the Woodland Realm. After they pass through, the blonde elf pauses before he addresses the guards of the gate. “Holo in ennyn.” (Close the gate.)

The blonde elf turns, sensing something, and looks down the bridge. Seeing nothing after a few seconds, he turns and walks through the gates as they close. The dwarves are led through the raised wooden walkways of the Woodland Realm. The entire place is built out of tree roots in a subterranean cavern. The rest of his kin are taken deeper into the city, to the dungeons he reckons. He unfortunately loses sight of (Name) when he is brought to a familiar face.

Thranduil, the king of Mirkwood, and the elf that turned his back on the suffering of Thorin’s people sits on his throne his eyes focused on Thorin.

“Some may imagine that a noble quest is at hand. A quest to reclaim a homeland and slay a dragon. I myself suspect a more prosaic motive: attempted burglary, or something of that ilk.” Thranduil says as he looks closely at Thorin. “You have found a way in. You seek that which would bestow upon you the right to rule: The King’s Jewel, the Arkenstone. It is precious to you beyond measure. I understand that. There are gems in the mountain that I too desire. White gems of pure starlight. I offer you my help.”

“I am listening.” Thorin replies cocking an eyebrow at the elf.

“I will let you go, if you but return what is mine.”

Thorin turns and slowly starts walking away.

“A favor for a favor.” Thorin adds scoffing.

“You have my word. One king to another.” Thranduil concludes.

Thorin stops walking. Still facing away from Thranduil, he speaks. His voice gets louder and louder as he speaks. “I would not trust Thranduil, the great king, to honor his word should the end of all days be upon us!” Thorin spins around and point at Thranduil. He is now shouting. “You lack all honor! I’ve seen how you treat your friends. We came to you once, starving, homeless, seeking your help, but you turned your back. You turned away from the suffering of my people and the inferno that destroyed us! Imrid amrad ursul!” (Die a death of flames!)

Thranduil leaps down from his throne and puts his face right in front of Thorin’s.

“Do not talk to me of dragon fire. I know its wrath and ruin. I have faced the great serpents of the north.” As Thranduil speaks, his face contorts, revealing his face covered with what appears to be burns and scars from his past encounters with dragons. His left eye is milky and unseeing. He draws away, and his face returns to normal. “I warned your grandfather of what his greed would summon, but he would not listen.” Thranduil turns and walks up the steps to his throne. “You are just like him.”

Thranduil motions, and guards grab Thorin and haul him toward the dungeons.

“Stay here if you will, and rot. A hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an elf. I am patient. I can wait.”

“Wait!” Thorin calls making the guards pause. “What of my companion?”

“Your dwarves will remain in the dungeon along with you.”

“The human woman that was with us. Return her to us.” Thorin orders making Thranduil narrow his eyes at him.

“You are in no position to be giving me orders dwarf.” Thranduil spits.

“What will you do with her?” Thorin inquires trying to keep his composure.

“She will be seen by our healers and then who knows?” Thranduil waves his hand signaling the end of their conversation.

Thorin is dragged down the vast hallways until they reach the dungeon. Then he is thrown into a cell beside the other dwarves, and his jailer walks away with a ring of jangling keys.

“Did he offer you a deal?” Balin inquires from his cell.

“He did. I told him he could go ‘Ish kakhfê ai’d dur rugnu!’ (I spit upon your grave!) - him and all his kin!”

Hearing this, Balin closes his eyes and sighs wearily in frustration. “Well...that’s it, then. A deal was our only hope.”

“Not our only hope.” Thorin adds under his breath thinking about Bilbo.

“What did they say about (Name)?” Bofur asks making Thorin let out a defeated sigh.

“The good news is they are taking her to their healers. Bad news is that is all they would tell me.”

“Don’t worry Lads, the elves may be bastards, but they are some of the best healers. I’m sure she will be fine.” Balin adds making Thorin roll his eyes.

(Name) should be there with him. He pauses a moment as he realizes what he just thought. Thorin reaches up and scratching the back of his neck thinks back to when he had initially heard her screams of panic. He had tried to find her but it was too late as they were all surrounded by spiders. He hoped and prayed that she was okay.

Thorin wouldn’t admit it out loud but he had grown rather fond of her. Moving to the back of his cell he sits down and thinks back on when he met her. She was feisty, from the very moment he they had met she had challenged him. He smiles at the memory. If he survived this, he would tell her how he felt.

His eyes widen at the thought. What exactly did he feel for her? Even if it was more than companionship, he could never tell her. She wanted to return to her home. She didn’t belong here. Thorin’s heart clenches at the idea of never seeing her again; but what was he to do? She had made it quite clear she wanted to return to her world.

Would she change her mind if he told her he had feelings for her? Closing his eyes, he leans his head back against the cool wooden wall and lets out a heavy sigh. ‘Thorin…’ he hears her sweet voice calling his name causing his brow to furrow as he opens his eyes to see that a vision of her has appeared before him.

“(Name)?” He says his voice barely above a whisper.

She smiles as she kneels down in front of him, her hands reaching up to rest on his thighs. Thorin gulps down a breath of air as he, unable to move, watches her. ‘Don’t you have something to say to me?’ she asks as her hands start to drift awfully close to his aching member.

“You’re not real.” He says more to clear his head than to actually reply to her.

‘That’s not what you want to say, is it?’ She adds lust thick on her voice.

“You’re not her. I’ll tell her when I’m ready.” Thorin adds folding his arms over his chest.

‘What if you’re never ready?’ She inquires her fingers grazing over the ties on his trousers. ‘What if she doesn’t want to hear it?’

“Stop.” He orders narrowing his eyes at her as he gulps down a breath of air.

‘Stop what?’ She asks her eyes narrowing at him as she moves from her spot between his legs to straddle his waist. She reaches up gently cupping his face continues, ‘You said it yourself, I’m not real. I’m just a figment of your imagination. What I do, is what you want her to do.’

“That’s not the point.” Thorin growls reaching up to grab the vision’s hands and pull them away from his face but his hands go straight through her. “Get off.”

‘You should tell her sooner rather than later, or by the time you gather your nerve, it will be too late.’ And with that she vanishes leaving Thorin feeling irritated and little embarrassed.

Will continue

Tags:

@elysasthings @gaenahelleborus 

#berjhawn #berjhawn writes #bucky #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #thorin oakenshield #thorin fanfiction #marvel x reader x hobbit #hobbit x reader x marvel #marvel au #marvel fanfiction #the hobbit #hobbit fanfiction #thorin x reader #thorin x readerx bucky #bucky x reader x thorin #hobbit au

[santaverse]

THE BIG DAY drabble (2 of 3)

[ LOCATION ] : THE FESTIVE DIMENSION; STINKY CIGARS, COLORADO. CHRISTMAS EVE

“ WAAAAA- OOF!! “ As the portal opened from the sky, Gruzzlebeard landed headfirst into some snow. Secret Santa was right behind him, but landed on his feet. He dusted himself off and looked down at Gruzzlebeard. 

“ Oh my, are you alright Gruzzlebeard? ” He tried to offer to pick him up, but Gruzzlebeard smacked Santa’s hand out of his way and got up from the ground. 

“ Juuust peachy. Where’n the heck ARE we?! ” 

Santa looked around and tapped his chin with his finger. “ Why, I’m not sure! Why don’t we ask inside this workshop? Surely someone will know where we are.”

The two bearded men had arrived outside of an enormous workshop in the middle of a quiet town. Considering it was such an eyesore, the two headed inside in hopes of funding someone, anyone who could help them return to the North Pole. Once inside, Secret Santa gasped and stopped Gruzzlebeard in his tracks.

“ HEY WHAT’S TH’BIG IDE- “ The troll’s mouth was quickly covered by Santa.

“ Shh! Gruzzlebeard... look! ” 

Santa pointed towards a group of elves hard at work. They each were lined up in perfect formations, hammering away, and weren’t happy. Signs that read, ‘Santa is ALWAYS watching you’ were posted throughout the workshop. 

Gruzzlebeard forcefully removed Santa’s hand from his mouth and spoke quietly. “ Okay? It’s just a buncha elves workin. What’s the problem? ” 

Santa shook his head. “ No, no Gruzzlebeard. This is no way to treat elves, let alone friends! They’re completely unhappy! We’ve got to help them! ” 

Gruzzlebeard rolled his eyes at this remark. “ And’a HOW do you expect t’ do that ya Sainty Sap? ” Santa began to think, now stroking his beard. “ Well I- “

“ HOHOHO!! ” A deep voice shouted.

Both Secret Santa and Gruzzlebeard immediately hid behind a statue and watched as this world’s Santa kicked down the doors and entered the room. This Santa’s appearance wasn’t too different from the usual Santa; big, red suit, and white beard, but a very notable difference was the heavy amount of gold on this Santa! He had several rings on his fingers and even a unique giant belt buckle with his initials embroidered on them. As he made his way inside, the elves seemed to tense up.

“ And HOW are my favorite elves? ” He smiled towards the others, but no one replied. “ It’s the BIG DAY everyone! Surely you’ve got more cheer than none! ” The Santa approached a nearby elf and wrapped his arm around his head. 

“ BOB!! You’re excited aren’t you?! ” The elf began to sweat but he quietly responded with, “ M-M-My name is David, sir... ” Immediately, the Santa’s face grew irritated. He threw the elf off of him and shrugged. 

“ Whatever. GET THOSE TOYS DONE, EVERYONE!! I need them done NOW!! GET BACK TO WORK, ANYHOW!! ”

From behind the statue of the selfish Santa, Secret Santa was disgusted. “ My word! He can’t treat them like this! ” 

Gruzzlebeard shrugged, “ I like the guy’s style!! ”

 Secret Santa quickly rolled his eyes. “ Oh of course you do. This is serious, Gruzzlebeard! This isn’t what Christmas is about! In fact... ”

Secret Santa stepped out from the statue and shouted towards everyone. “ EXCUSE ME!! ” The elves gasped at the sight of another Santa. The other Santa was slightly stunned as well. He took a few steps back but ultimately was intrigued. 

“ What the?! Ho ho who are you, son? Don’t you know no one is allowed inside of my workshop that’s overrun? ” 

Secret Santa angrily marched forward and pointed a finger right at the other’s chest. “ Don’t YOU know how to treat friends?! ”

“ I beg your pardon?! ” The other Santa snapped. 

“ These elves are clearly miserable! They’re afraid of you! This is no way to run Christmas! ” Secret Santa pleaded, but the other Santa merely scoffed at his remark.

“ Of COURSE they are! FEAR runs a business! CLEARLY you know nothing about success!! ” Secret Santa gasped and retaliated by marching even closer to this Santa. 

“ How dare you! Why I’ll have you know I am my world’s Santa Claus! The way I run things is far different from this! I treat my elves as if they were my own children! They’re my equals! It is fun working together! ”

The elves began to chatter amongst themselves, which made this Santa’s eye twitch. He turned around and barked at them all. “ GET BACK TO WORK!! ” 

Of course, the elves did so out of fear. However, Secret Santa spoke outwards to them. “ No! Work only if you want to! Create what YOU think a child would like! ” 

The elves looked at each other and smiled, soon starting over which made this world’s Santa turn red. “ LISTEN TO THIS IMPOSTER THIS DAY AND NONE OF YOU WILL RECIEVE HOLIDAY PAY!! ” The elves briefly paused until one of them uttered, “ you already don’t pay us on the holidays ”, so they continued to work on what they wanted.

“ NO NO NO!! ” The Santa shouted and was about to head towards the elves until he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. 

It was Gruzzlebeard who shook his head at the other. “ Look ya jolly JERK, ya see those annoyin’ smiles? ” The other Santa looked at the elves whom were now laughing and singing as they worked. “ THAT is what this stupid holiday’s about. Why don’tcha leave the evil stuff to the PROFESSIONALS? ” After delivering his speech, Gruzzlebeard puffed out his chest with pride.

Secret Santa chuckled and joined Gruzzlebeard. “ Why, that was almost the perfect sentiment Gruzzlebeard! You are understanding the holidays! ” 

The troll turned away from Santa with his cheeks turning red. “ W-Well uh, guess stayin’ trapped wit’cha Jellybellies is startin’ t’ make me mushy ‘s all! ” 

This world’s Santa stayed fixated on the jolly work of the elves. “ They... haven’t been this happy in decades. We’ve had very efficient Christmases, but I haven’t heard them sing since we threw old parades! ” He turned towards the two with a smile and a tear in his eye. “ Thank you both! ”

Secret Santa smiled and wrapped the two Santas in a hug. “ Hoho, it’s what any Santa Claus would do! ”

 As soon as he spoke, a loud CRASH emerged. The elves and the Santa of this world each gasped, but Gruzzlebeard merely pointed a thumb towards the sound. 

“ Looks like our ride’s here, Santy. ”

“ What’s going on?! What’s happening?! ” This world’s Santa was looking left and right panicking, but Gruzzlebeard and Secret Santa placed a hand on his shoulders and reassured him. 

“ It’s best if ya don’t question it, pal. ” 

“ Come with us! You’ll love the North Pole and the other Santas! Oh, and don’t worry about your elves, you’ll be back tonight! ” 

The Christmas portal opened and as soon as it did, This world’s Santa tensed up. Secret Santa raced towards the portal and Gruzzlebeard did as well, but he quickly paused and looked behind him. 

“ Well... “

“ What the heck are ya waitin’ fer Big Boss? An invitation? C’mon! ”

The Santa looked at his elves, smiled then joined Secret Santa and Gruzzlebeard inside the portal back to The North Pole.

#INTO THE SANTAVERSE || ( drabble post! ) #NAUGHTY PERSONIFIED || ( gruzzlebeard! ) #A SANTA OF MYSTERIES || ( secret santa! ) #HE'S NICE OUT OF THE OFFICE || ( big boss santa! ) #[ a new santa on christmas eve! im adding another to keep things even but he's not being in the drabble sdlkfmsd ]

[mightbewriting]

Your writing is superb! Wait and Hope is now an all-time favorite fic of mine! I especially admire your ability to write dialogue. Do you have any tips on how to write distinct character voices?

Oh wow, thank you so much! I’m so happy you enjoyed W&H! Dialogue is actually one of my favorite things about writing so the fact that you liked it makes my heart pitter-patter! 

I apologize for sitting on this ask for a couple of days, but I wanted to actually think about some tips for character voice as it relates to dialogue! I do enjoy occasionally nerding out about writing… so without further ado, I’m about to nerd out A LOT (seriously, A LOT). I got a little carried away, but this was so much fun to think about! So, here are some of my thoughts on writing dialogue and using it to support distinct character voices.

The biggest tip I have on how to improve writing the way people talk is to listen to how people talk. Seems obvious, I know. But I mean how real people talk, not scripted movie and TV…which I think is often what comes to mind. I learned more about how people talk in the couple of months I did freelance transcription work than I did in the entirety of the first twenty-something years of my life. You don’t have to actually do transcription work to practice this, just find unscripted video or audio of people talking (interviews, vlogs, streamers, podcasts, whatever!) and type out it out.

The first thing I noticed when I actually had to transcribe real life conversations is that people often make NO SENSE when they talk. They have false starts, verbal pauses, non verbal pauses, they repeat words, they stop mid sentence to start another thought, they fumble with word choice, and so on. This is why professional transcription services offer VERBATIM transcription and NON VERBATIM transcription (I have a point to this, I swear!). Verbatim transcription is how it sounds, you have to type exactly what you hear:

Speaker A: “As I was— I was saying, ah, um, I think we should do— Mary, did you have thoughts on that? No, um, okay [cough], does anyone have any other thou— opinions before we move on?”

Like, what does that even mean? 

Non verbatim transcription teaches you to edit out the stuff that makes real life speech mostly unintelligible (I’m eternally amazed that we’re able to make sense of stuff like that on the fly! Brains are amazing!) and it turns the sentence above into something more like:

Speaker A: “Mary, did you have thoughts on that? No, okay. Does anyone have any other opinions before we move on?”

This is a pretty heavy handed edit, but I’d argue that the first 13 words of the verbatim sentence is nothing but a false start. I also removed the verbal pauses, the coughing notation, and the switch between words mid-speech. What I’m left with is something that looks and sounds more like what you might see in scripted dialogue. 

All of this is to say; when writing, for coherency’s sake, it’s helpful to write in a non verbatim style so you can be understood. BUT, I love throwing in the occasional false start or thought change mid-sentence, or even a rare verbal pause because I enjoy the bit of realism it adds. I know not everyone will agree with that, but that’s just how I enjoy dialogue.  

Character voice comes into play with dialogue in a lot of ways. If I could boil it down to two things; it’s about WHAT they say and HOW they say it. The WHAT involves things vocabulary: words one character might use that another wouldn’t, or a word they might know that another doesn’t. The HOW involves things like your dialogue tags and the associated actions and narrative surrounding the actual speech.

Rapid fire tips for the WHATs: people speak almost exclusively in contractions, they typically only saying things like “can not” and “do not” etc., for emphasis. Read dialogue out loud; if it sounds weird to hear then it’s probably not right. Character motivation is key; what someone says should make sense for their personality, traits, and history. People don’t always answer questions directly, or say what they mean. Less is usually more, unless someone is especially verbose or engaged in a debate, people don’t tend to wax poetic in long monologues all that often. 

My tips for the HOWs are less rapid fire because I want to talk about dialogue tags and that’s, idk…divisive? Here’s the thing; ‘said’ and ‘asked’ (or their other tense counterparts) are pretty much invisible and are used mostly to indicate who is speaking so a reader doesn’t get lost. Less is more with dialogue tags, too.

Alternative dialogue tags aren’t inherently evil (things like: whispered, shouted, grunted, grumbled, mumbled, growled, exclaimed, ordered, etc. have a place when used judiciously) but they are almost always a stand in for what could be a more interesting use of character voice. It usually ends up being a situation where a writer is telling the reader how to interpret dialogue instead of letting the dialogue speak for itself. So I try to use alternative tags very sparingly; you can actually see my evolution in this throughout W&H and then in S&S and my newer stuff, because I went from being subconsciously aware of it to more consciously practicing.  

Consider this real life example of something I wrote from Ron’s POV:

Malfoy forced them out of his office.

“Now you two figure out the details amongst yourselves; I have work to do,” Malfoy ordered.

I used ‘ordered’ knowing I was using an alternative tag and thinking to myself ‘it’s not so bad here, Ron would think Malfoy is ordering him around.’ Which isn’t necessarily wrong…but it’s not all that interesting. My rewrite, after being rightfully called on my bullshit for being lazy about it, looked like this:

Malfoy forced them out of his office.

“Now you two figure out the details amongst yourselves; I have work to do.” Malfoy waved his hands to dismiss them like they were elves he’d had more than enough of.

This version has a stronger character voice; we get Ron’s interpretation that Malfoy is treating him like an elf and we can imagine a physical movement from Malfoy showing how he’s speaking. I think that’s both more interesting to read and has a stronger sense of voice. When and where possible, I would say that substituting some kind of physical action or observation associated with dialogue usually results in a stronger sense of voice, either from the narrator or the speaker, or both! 

This response has gotten…lengthy. I’m sorry for that (but also, not sorry because writing is so interesting xD). In conclusion, writing is subjective and everyone has their own style. I don’t mean for this to be prescriptive advice, these are simply things that are on my mind when I’m writing dialogue and that I think lead to a stronger result. If nothing else: experiment. Write something exclusively in a verbatim style, write something exclusively with alternative tags, write something with no dialogue tags at all, write an enormous monologue and then figure out how to break it up. Try all sorts of different things to see what doesn’t sound right and what does. Learn the rules and then make your own.

Mostly, have fun. <3

#i did not mean for this to get so long #i got really into it #writing is wild and fun and interesting #writing #writing advice