#I have a lot of shame towards my regression and part of that is how other people see it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

patrophthia · 2 years ago

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impossible | theodore nott

pairing: theodore nott x reader

genre: FLUFFFFF!!! established relationships! slightly suggestive but nothing bad i promise,, mention of reader getting hurt (quidditch :< ) not proofread

wc: 2.4K

originally posted on AO3: 23/07/2022

Theodore didn't miss a beat before landing by my side, casting a charm for the curtains to close behind him. "How are you feeling?" he asks and when I made to answer, Theodore slipped in another question. "How are you doing?"

He seemed to have caught himself, smiling timidly at me when he apologized. "I'm sorry, I just wanted to hear your voice."

I don't think he meant it much because I know full well that if he could, he'd asked me what I'm thinking of and hang on to every word I give him.

And when I laughed tiredly. Theo asks once more, his tone light. "Am I amusing to you?"

Theodore isn't quite as intimidating when you were his girlfriend. I smile when I tell him: "very."

Why were the Ravenclaws so aggressive whenever they played against the Hufflepuff? Theodore didn't care for it then but he surely did now. Now that I was playing for the Hufflepuff against the Ravenclaw.

Theodore stood by the sidelines, watching Blaise cheer way louder than he should've been for a team that wasn't theirs. A part of him was happy that his friend was close enough with me to support me outwardly while the other part of him found it embarrassing that he was associating himself with him.

But he regress, turning back to the quidditch pitch as he watch the game play out.

Theodore understood quidditch to a certain extent (maybe a lot more than he thinks since Draco spend a decent amount of his time droning on and on about quidditch during their second year), he knew that the beater were the one with the bats, the chaser is the position that I play, the seeker is the position that Draco plays and that was all. He thinks.

Now back to his point, why was the Ravenclaw so aggressive towards the Hufflepuff —nay, why was every house so violent towards the Hufflepuff whenever they have a match against them.

Theodore watches on, silently praying that his girlfriend wouldn't get hurt in the field as I raced towards one of the hoops after my teammate passed over the quaffle.

I turn sharply, barely avoiding the other Ravenclaw keeper. My head cocking to the side, testing the keeper just for the fun of it. My arm stretches backwards, quaffle in hand, ready to shoot at any given moment.

And when I finally let go, the quaffle barrels into the loops as if it was born for this. It's a shame that the bludgers were also born for this. Hitting the end of my broom the second I let go of the quaffle.

Theodore could see the look of surprise on my face from a mile away. Then came the helpless realization that I would be landing on the floor in a matter of seconds, only hoping that someone would save me before I fall to my demise.

The panic sets in first. Then Theodore was on his feet. He can't recall how many second has passed since I'd fallen but can recall himself reaching down the stairs and into the pitch. Blaise was following him. So was Draco. So was Pansy, he thinks. He thinks Pansy cared about him and his girlfriend enough to have the decency to be distressed.

He thinks and thinks and thinks. And silently panics, not knowing what's to come when he comes face to face with me. Finding me out cold. He felt himself being pushed aside. Madam Promfrey rushing over. He didn't argue. Watching her work as he prays that I get to live another day.

•••

I don't remember much. I don't know what happened fully but I do know that we won. And somewhere along that process, I got my ass knocked off of my broom by an aggressive bludger.

That's quidditch for you, I guess.

A chorus of voices is the first thing I hear when I woke. They were talking or arguing –I can't really tell. I'm too doped up and groggy to fully take in my surroundings.

They were talking about something (or maybe someone). Me, I think. I think I'm their topic of conversation but that would be narcissistic for me to assume. Although, my thoughts were proven correct when Malfoy brought attention to my now conscious self listening into their words.

He seemed to have caught himself, smiling timidly at me when he apologized. "I'm sorry, I just wanted to hear your voice."

I don't think he meant it much because I know full well that if he could, he'd asked me what I'm thinking of and hang on to every word I give him.

And when I laughed tiredly. Theo asks once more, his tone light. "Am I amusing to you?"

Theodore isn't quite as intimidating when you were his girlfriend. I smile when I tell him: "very."

He didn't make to reply, checking every inch of my face for any injury that Madam Promfrey might've missed. His hair a moving mop of fluff above his head when his head shifted too quickly.

I prop myself on my elbows, reaching out to touch it. "You grew out your hair."

Theodore tilted his head, easing the stretch of my arms. "I didn't mean to," he says first, leaning into my hand when they brush against the side of his cheek. "I'll cut it soon."

"Don't," I tell him, Theodore sits himself on the empty side of my bed, his own hand reaching up to cradle mine. "It looks good on you."

The look on his face turns unreadable, eyes shifting away from me. "I was so worried."

"I'm sorry," I say, sitting up properly in my bed. "Did my team win at least?"

A breathy laugh falls from his lips. "Yes." Gaze turning back to me. "They did."

"That's good," I murmured, trying to savor every second of this moment. "Did you cheer for us?"

"No," he answers honestly. "I was too preoccupied with thinking that you were dying." And then, "sorry," he smiles so softly that my heart aches at the sight of it. "Will you ever forgive me?"

"I think I can forgive you for that." Theodore smile never falter, face turning in my hand, his lips pressing a kiss against my palm.

"That's good," he says, he says knowing that I would always forgive him no matter what. "I can't even begin to fathom what I'd do if you didn't forgive me."

"It's a good thing I forgive you then."

He nods. "Really good," his voice barely above a whisper. When my eyes grow tired, barely able to keep myself awake for long seeing as my body was still recovering. "I think it's time for you to rest." He drops our hands, linking them together. And softly, he asks, "is there anything you need?"

I could feel a smile pricking at the corners of my lips. "A kiss?"

Theodore hesitates, every part of him growing shy. "A kiss?" A year spent together and he still is hesitant about a kiss. I nod. "A kiss is all you need?"

"Yes."

Theodore releases my hand, his own reaching out to cup my face. Palm pressed flat against my skin, his thumb making quick work at caressing my cheek while the rest of fingers cupped my jaw. "A kiss it is."

He leans forward, just enough for his lips to comfortably press against mine. The kiss soft and tender, slowly easing me into him when I made to kiss him back, Theodore pulls away.

"A kiss," he says, as if he was reminding me that that was all I'd asked of him. "Now rest, I will give you millions more when you're well."

"I'm quite well," I tell him tiredly, fighting sleep under the warmth of his hand holding my face. "Where's my millions more?"

"Where ever you want them to be." He presses a kiss on my forehead. "I will give them to you. But not now." Not now when I felt so terribly enervated.

"I'll be back in the morning." He tells me finally.

Sleep takes over the minute Theodore slips away from me, his hand away from my face, his voice far from my ear, his presence that I could no longer sense. Succumbing to sleep wasn't hard, it was no where near hard for I knew that when I woke the next morning, I will once again be basking in everything him alike. And I can truly rest with that.

•••

Theodore exudes a kind of comfort that I can't categorize. But if I'm being honest, I don't even know where to start when it came him.

He was tall, quiet, smart, that much was true. The other parts that people didn't mention as much was how handsome he was, how soothing his voice sounds despite the rare usage of it and when he does use it, the way he words his sentences can charm anyone into giving him what he wanted.

The door unlocks before the two of us, the boy's Slytherin dorm now my third (because my own dorm is my second) home. The room was empty, saving for the mess scattered round as proof that five teenage boys were living in that very dorm.

We step through, Theodore locking the door behind us, and dropped our book bags. I head for the bathroom's sink, wanting nothing other than a nice cold splash of water against my face.

When I returned, Theo hands me a pair of soft cotton plaid pants and one of his old oversized shirts. I think our next actions stems from the fact that we've long grown used to one another.

Silently slipping off our clothes with no embarrassment, no outwards reaction, nothing but small smiles when we catch the other staring at us. I slipped on my pants shortly after Theodore finished changing, him walking forward so that we stood face to face.

Theo took the shirt he'd given me from where I'd last placed it, helping me into it with soft eyes. The bottom hem of the shirt falls around my waist, not having yet adjusted it when he took my lips in his.

This is the millions more kisses he owes me, I think.

He pulls away, hands hanging around the exposed skin between the shirt and my cotton pants. "Are you sure you're okay, baby?" He asks for the hundredth time, the only different being the pet name that he uses now. And when I told him that I was, he asks: "Shall we take a nap?"

I'm okay. But I will like to take that nap. I tell him and he nods, tugging me with him towards his bed. Theodore shuts the four posters, cloaking us in with green silk. From where I laid on his bed, I could hear the lake water lapping against the window, brushing by the glass pane with each movement it made.

Theodore laid besides me, turning at an angle which he could see me clearly. "You owe five sickles."

"For what?"

"Parkinson and Draco."

"You're kidding," I said first, and when all he did was smile at me, his hand coming to lay on the dip of my waist. "Surely not."

He squeezes the flesh of my waist. Surely yes.

"It's barely been a month," I said, finally accepting my faith. "How could they already break it off? There was so much tension between them."

"That's your fault for reading between the lines," he teases. "I told you it was only a fling and you didn't want to believe me. Now look who's five sickles richer."

As if he won't spend that five sickles on me. "I'll pay you tomorrow then?" I ask him, feeling his other hand that wasn’t resting on my waist reach for my own. "Will that be okay with you?"

" 'course," he says. "All is well when it comes to you." And then, "Are you sure you're feeling well enough for class tomorrow? We can skip if you aren't."

"I'm fine," I tell him, squeezing our now linked hands, trying to reassure him as much as I could. "Plus, I'm failing potions. I don't think my grades can handle any more of me missing classes."

Theo frowns. "You are?" He asks, playing with the hem of my —his— shirt. "Why didn't you say something?"

"Because, it's nothing. And I didn't want to bother you," I tell him. "I know you're busy with your studies, I didn't want to be a burden on top of that."

His hand falters, turning to a halt. Dark eyes narrowing, searching and assessing, trying and trying to see if I was being serious. And when there was no indication that I was anything but, he says: "never in a million lifetimes could you ever be a burden."

"If you ever need help with anything, say it," he tells me. "Say it and I’ll be there. My time is yours. I'm yours and I will move mountains to give you anything you could ever want."

Sappy. This is so incredibly sappy. But I still smile nonetheless, I still kiss him until I feel breathless. I still store every single sentence, word, syllable, letter in a special box in my head that is uniquely made up off of Theodore.

Theodore who can't seem to treat me like the other boys have treated me. Theodore who goes over the top with everything he does when he wants me to feel cared by him. Theodore who would never make me feel anything less than beautiful.

Theo props himself up on one elbow, leaning over me with his lips pressing against mine, his other hand slipping beneath my shirt and laying flat against my tummy. His lips drags down peppering kisses from my jawline and down to my neck.

When my legs press against him, wanting more and more of what he could give me, he pulls back, leaving the scent of him in his wake.

"I know we're young," he begins. "But I wish more than anything to be your husband, I want to give you everything that I have. I have no intention in doing anything else, my love."

Theodore paused, as if he was letting me know that if I didn't want him as much as he wanted me, he will let me go just to make me happy. And then, softly he says, "I hope you feel as irrevocably in love with me as I do you."

—from bee: happy valentines days everyone!! i hope you’re spending it with you loved ones!!

#theodore nott x reader #theodore nott imagines #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott #theodore nott x you #theodore nott fanfiction #theodore nott fluff #theodore nott fanfic #Spotify #🧳: my writing

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maynardotheratman · 4 months ago

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Rambling about age play and how it hurts victims

Trigger warnings: CSA, pedophilia, and mental illness. If you are a minor I strongly encourage you not to read or interact with this post.

So I have a confession. When I was younger I used to be into “ageplay”.

I say this in air quotes bc I was introduced to this “kink” at the age of 12. At this point in time I had just barely began to recognize my own history of CSA and incest, and I was also struggling with sh and mental illness. I also (unknowingly) experienced impure age regression in response to certain triggers and would regress to childish behaviors. (I still do this but I am more self aware)

Overall this combination mixed with how normalized predatory behavior towards me felt was extremely detrimental to me and only served to worsen my trauma and ptsd symptoms.

I was not properly educated on the difference between age play and age regression and assumed that my age regression was inherently sexual. Overall this was extremely detrimental to my already traumatized and developing mind. Even after I stopped engaging with this kink, I still was stuck in a continuous cycle of compulsive seeking out predatory partners who would take advantage of me and sexualize my perceived childlike behavior and tendencies. I was groomed by multiple people online which I learned to justify in my head and I was overall indifferent to my own mental suffering when it came to toxic and abusive dynamics.

Because of my own experience and because of the behavior I’ve seen from others who engage in this kink I wholeheartedly believe that this kink is a way for pedophiles to engage in their fantasies of abusing children by taking advantage of survivors of CSA and incest.

I can understand and empathize with people who engage in this kink as the “little”. Many are csa victims much like myself who have normalized this behavior as acceptable (mostly due to their own negative self believes they developed from the abuse. Believing it’s acceptable behavior because it’s happening to THEM) and if you are someone who engages in this kink as a little I see you and I understand you. I cannot control your actions or behaviors however I do implore you to seek help and therapy if you can to work through your trauma in a healthy way.

However I do believe there is a-lot of harm that you as the little contribute to when talking about and advocating for this kink does, not just to yourself but to other victims. I was introduced to this kink by someone my age who was a little and while I luckily did not engage in this kink in any public spaces and did not talk about it often, I do feel shame and disgust at the thought that I could’ve unknowingly introduced someone else to this kink and continued the cycle. To clarify, most of the fantasies I engaged in were engaged through reading and writing, and occasionally role play. For the most part I kept it to myself.

I do ask you as a victim to question why anyone would find sexual satisfaction in someone behaving and regressing in a child like manner. Not just because it is you who they are engaging with, but because they fetish childlike behavior. Please recognize that you are most likely enabling a pedophile in acting out their fantasies. Just because both of you are able to consent does not mean that this should be acceptable.

“But why would you care so much about what two consenting adults do” I normally don’t. Generally I am a very accepting person when it comes to most kinks, even one’s I personally am uninterested in, but I draw the line at anything that corrupts or defiles childhood.

This is not “harm reduction” for pedophiles. Research shows that people who watch violent pornography are more likely to normalize and engage in those behaviors, and I wholly believe this logic can be applied to pedophiles. The only harm reduction that exists for pedophiles is therapy (if they have not offended) or death (if they have offended)

If you are someone who engages in this kink as the caregiver, you disgust me. Regardless of whether you are engaging in this behavior with a consenting partner or not, you are still taking advantage of a SA survivor and I hope you seek help before you harm an actual child because once you do you are irredeemable garbage who deserves a fate worse than death. Pedos are less than human in my eyes and should be put down like a rabid animal to protect the rest of the world from them.

I wanted to talk about this because I rarily see people who are former littles talk about this due to shame, and I am hoping that with me doing this it will encourage other littles to speak out and hopefully stop engaging in this behavior.

Up to a certain extent I believe that former littles should be offered grace and the chance to grow as a human being. I think shaming them only serves to continue this harmful cycle for everyone involved. I say up to a certain extent because I do believe there are littles out there who cross that threshold into irredeemable behavior.

#agepl@y #k1nk #little #tw sh implied #tw csa mention #tw trauma

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gimme-mor · 3 years ago

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ACOTAR THINK PIECE: ELAIN ARCHERON, UNTOUCHABLE

*DISCLAIMER*

This will be a long post.

Please take the time to read this post in its entirety and truly reflect on the message I am trying to send before commenting. My goal is to use my background in Gender and Women’s Studies to deconstruct the comments I have seen on Tumblr and Twitter and bring awareness to the ACOTAR fandom.

The reason I am tagging “Elriel” in this post is to call attention to the arguments in the Elriel fandom that: weaponize Elain’s femalehood to shame real life people for their opinions about Elain’s character and her relationship with Lucien; victimize Elain’s character in fandom discussions; and coddle Elain’s character, which limits fandom discussions about her narrative development and prevents the ACOTAR fandom from holding Elain accountable for her actions and inactions in the same way that the fandom holds other characters accountable for their actions and inactions. It is for these reasons that I WILL NOT remove the “Elriel” tag from this post because all of the above points contribute to the toxic discourse surrounding Elain’s character.

I urge those who use these arguments to understand their implications, why they are problematic, regardless of intent, and reexamine their contributions to the ACOTAR fandom. I WILL NOT tolerate anyone who tries to twist my words and say I am attacking people and their personal shipping preferences. In fact, I AM CRITIQUING THE ARGUMENTS THEMSELVES NOT THE PEOPLE USING THE ARGUMENTS.

Also, I highly encourage the Elriel fandom to read this post because it addresses how the concept of choice as an argument enables arguments to exploit social justice and feminist languge in order to vilify Elucien shippers, among other problematic things.

Elain Archeron is one of the most polarizing characters in the ACOTAR fandom. Though opinions about Elain vary, arguments in the Elriel fandom cite society’s perception of traditional female characters in comparison to non-traditional female characters as the reason behind the hate, and this belief is used to provide an explanation as to why other characters in the series are favored over her. In the series, Elain is portrayed in a wholly positive light and this image carries over into the Elriel fandom, painting her character as a good and kind female who has been unfairly wronged and a victim of circumstances that were out of her control. When arguments in the Elriel fandom oppose other viewpoints in the fandom, they fall into one of three categories:

Category 1: Weaponize Elain’s femalehood to shame real life people for their opinions

Maybe people who hate Elain are just jealous of her in a weird way similar to when someone hates the pretty, nice, and charming girl in school just because she is too perfect

Disliking Elain is misogynistic

What happened to feminism? What happened to women supporting women? What happened to she can say no? All of that disappears the second you force Elain to be with Lucien

Elain antis are misogynistic

All Eluciens are Elain antis

Antis claiming they’re feminists when in reality they hate on Elain and Feyre but love Nesta

Elain antis are such sore losers. Y’all were that bunch of people who could not get over being rejected from hanging out with the cool kids so y’all are projecting your hatred towards pretty people now to get validation

I don’t get how Elain’s love for gardening equals boring for some people. I’m sorry your misogyny finds traditionally feminine activities boring

Why are you attacking a female? What did Elain do? Where are your feminist voices?

The fandom is misogynistic towards Elain

If people loved Elain they would ship Elriel

If you hate Elain it says a lot about your feelings toward women

If you hate Elain because she has no “development” then you must hate Azriel because otherwise you’re misogynistic

Eluciens are turned off by the idea of a woman that has the autonomy to reject a man for the simple reason that it is her choice

Eluciens are all about feminism and “it’s HER choice” until it comes down to females not wanting a male

Eluciens don’t respect Elain’s feelings when they ship her with someone that was part of her trauma and makes her feel uncomfortable

The way some Elucien shippers completely disregard how uncomfortable Elain is around Lucien is so hilariously not funny. Prioritizing being mates over Elain’s feelings is just regressive

It’s hard as a fan of Elain to see someone ship her with a person who makes her physically uncomfortable to be around. Wouldn’t you want both characters to be happy to be around each other

Imagine if SJM saw all the awful things her “stans” had to say about Elain

It’s true that we know comparatively little about her, but is she really boring or do you just not value stereotypically feminine traits?

So y’all are just gonna tell me you prefer Elucien over Elriel? Even though Lucien treats Elain as if she’s something that belongs to him? The only reason he wants to be with her is because she’s his mate, he doesn’t respect her, doesn’t treat her as his equal, even though that’s what mates should be? He doesn’t bother to look past what’s on the outside to see her for who she is. And Elain is obviously repulsed by the idea that she should belong to anyone or have no choice in who she can be with. Azriel is her friend and the only person who sees her quiet strength. He has so much faith in her, in her abilities; he’s the one who kept her company when no one else did, he’s the only one who bothered to see her for more than her brokenness. You’re going to tell me you still prefer Elucien over Elriel?

The more I see Gwynriels that ship Elucien out of their hate for Elain, the less I can understand Elain stans that ship Elucien. Pls Elain has made it very clear that she doesn’t want Lucien, why would you ship her with him? Do you hate her too? Smh

The real question would be, if you care and understand Elain why would you ship her with Lucien (where she canonically shrinks when he is near)?

People crying over Helion and Lucien’s mom not getting to be with each other and her being forced into a relationship she didn’t want, but also ship Elucien? Just say you hate Elain

When Elain’s book is out, Gwyn stans will look like clowns and I will laugh because they set her up by shipping her with Azriel just because they hate Elain. Watch them play the victims now because Elriels are clapping back the hate they’ve sent towards Elain

As romantic as wanting girl who is visibly uncomfortable around a guy who caused her trauma to end up with the said guy. Guess their standards for romance are in hell

Category 2: Victimize Elain’s character

Gwynriels only want Gwyn with Azriel because they despise Elain

Gwyn stans and Gwynriels are Elain antis

No one in the books dislike Elain, so why are there so many people who do?

Elain hasn’t done anything wrong or questionable to warrant the hate she gets

Not having Elain’s POV makes it easy for people to be swayed a certain way about her character if you already don’t relate to her in some way

It’s been years since this series came out and we haven’t gotten a lick of an Elain POV, but people still hate her for what? We don’t know her thoughts, dreams, or aspirations

We haven’t even had Elain’s perspective yet and people are passing these judgments off on her

Elain antis who say she’s boring are just cruel when she has obvious symptoms of PTSD like Feyre and Nesta

Gwyn is one of the most overhyped characters and that’s only because most people hate Elain and they couldn’t wait to find a random girl to ship Azriel with

Nesta was abusive to her sisters but Elain (who has only ever been kind) is painted as the villain

From the text we know that Elain is the epitome of feminine stereotypes (gentle, gardening, baking, non confrontational for the most part). Yet people still call her boring or deny that she has any interesting character traits?

You can’t love Nesta and hate Elain

People hate Elain because of internalized misogyny and lack of taste. All the girl does is tend to her garden and mind her business and they treat her worse than Tamlin

Does Gwyn deserve all this support? Of course yes! She is amazing! But where’s that support when Elain was in the same situation as she? Where’s that support for her right now? Why do they idolize Gwyn for her interactions with Azriel and hate Elain for having any interaction with him?

It’s not even a ship war anymore, they just hate Elain

People hate Elain for no reason

Some of y’all don’t like feminine traits and it shows

We know less about Eris and Helion but people don’t call them boring. Why would rejecting femininity make Elain more interesting?

Elain has had a lot forced upon her

The main reason I believe most people love Gwyn so much is to get Azriel away from Elain. It’s not a secret that Elain has been a widely hated character for years so suddenly we get a new female who has a minimal amount of interactions with Azriel and BOOM. New ship that once again doesn’t make sense (just like Azriel x Emerie after ACOFAS)

Elain hasn’t done something so terrible for her to get this hate. At this point some of you are just being misogynistic and you don’t want to accept it. Don’t call yourselves feminists and then say bs like this, it’s embarrassing. She’s pretty and everyone agreed to hate on her

Just a personal feeling, but I feel like a lot of the Elain hate stems from internalized misogyny. That to be a strong female lead, you need to pick up a sword and fight. That to be strong, you need to adapt traditionally masculine traits

Elain is feminine. She is beautiful. She loves to bake and garden. She is docile, quiet, observant, and a people-pleaser. All traditionally feminine traits. Yet for some reason, she’s like the worst in these people’s eyes?

I think also maybe a lot of people can’t relate to her femininity? That her being so beautiful and quiet doesn’t allow for the people who dislike her not to self-insert? Most of the hate stems from people not wanting Elain to be with Azriel. It’s mean, but maybe the people who hate Elain literally just can’t self-insert if they have a story and that’s why they’re vehemently against it?

Poor Elain. The Cauldron dealt her a bad deal. Upon emerging as Fae, she is immediately declared by Lucien as his mate, never mind that she was already engaged to a prick. Her love life is not good

It blows my mind how they really think that they can compare all the shit that Elain gets with some dumb jokes about Gwyn on Twitter (and yes, the “hate” towards her started mostly because Elriels are clapping back, it was bound to happen)

I would think of it as anti-feminist with Elain and Lucien because she has consistently stated that she does not want him so if she was forced to embrace the bond that would be taking away her right to have a choice but with Az she feels comfortable around so if they were mates then Elain would be happy and feel safe which again should be the priority for women to feel safe in their relationships with anything and to not be forced into any type of situation aka the mating bond in this

Category 3: Coddle Elain’s character

Elain has value the way she is, in all her domestic girly glory. Not every character has to be badass

We don’t speak of Elain’s flaws frequently because everyone else already speaks badly of her, mainly in an unfair way

There is definitely something deeper going on with Elain but by no means will she ever be evil or any less feminine. That goes against everything we already know about her

It’s ok to critique Elain because she needs growth but y’all keep forgetting the shit her and her sisters went through

The last “bad” thing Elain did in ACOTAR was not help Feyre when they were impoverished and I’m tired of people acting like she’s a terrible character when it was their father’s responsibility. It happened 4 books ago and Feyre has forgiven both Nesta and Elain

Elain’s character and the evil Elain theory are a great example of the trend where people only consider female characters interesting if they reject femininity

We don’t know enough to hate Elain

Many people want Elain to turn evil (which in my opinion seems to come from a place of internalized misogyny)

However we don’t tend to talk about her faults, at least not publicly, as that has been, and still is, done to death, and I--personally, at least--find it much more fun to theorise about potentially interesting aspects of the overall plot, than dwell on negatives

And ultimately, I would be shocked if Elain has a more karmically-charged story than Nesta, considering that Elain’s “wrongs” are so much less severe and bad than Nesta’s, and Elain has already apologized for them (or paid the price in other ways, like through what Graysen did)

I guess I also think Elain has suffered and been punished enough. I hope her story is about finding hope in terrible situations, and learning to love her new life, and choosing her own path after everything that has been done to her. I don’t think she needs to be punished anymore or face any additional trauma

Also, why is she being judged on her decisions as a human at all? Fae are monsters to humans! They enslaved them for thousands of years, and the Wall was erected to keep them out

Like I’m sorry, but think Elain would want to leave her ONLY FAMILY AND FRIENDS for the Spring Court where she has no one because--oh look, lots of flowers!--is the craziest thing I have ever heard

Her sisters are in the Night Court. Her nephew is in the Night Court. Her closest friends (Nuala and Cerridwen) are in the Night Court. Her love interest is in the Night Court. Her extended family is in the Night Court. Her home is in the Night Court

SJM isn’t going to keep two sisters together and split up the third. Especially not keep Feyre and Nesta together and separate Elain. They were either all going to end up in separate places, or together. Not 2 here and 1 there

Compared to the other female characters in the series, Elain is the only character whose femalehood is at the center of conversations; this is because arguments in the Elriel fandom fixate on it when discussing her character. While Elain, Feyre, Nesta, and Mor are all representations of white womanhood and white beauty, Elain epitomizes the most fragile version of white womanhood. It’s easy to blame society’s perception of traditional female characters in comparison to non-traditional female characters when it comes to the discourse surrounding Elain’s character because it: falls in line with the fixation on Elain’s femalehood to silence opposing viewpoints; is a simplistic explanation that fails to tackle the underlying issues with Elain as a character, the same issues that are downplayed in-universe; absolves Elain of her wrongdoings; prevents the ACOTAR fandom from holding Elain accountable for her actions and inactions within the series; and diminishes the impact Elain’s actions and inactions have on those around her. It’s not that Elain is hated in the fandom because she’s a traditional female character; it’s the fact that arguments in the Elriel fandom deflect a critical analysis of Elain’s character because she’s a traditional female character who embodies the ideal white woman in need of protection. White fans and white-aligned fans of color, especially white women, have a tendency to vehemently defend, gatekeep, and coddle white female characters in fandom; this makes it difficult for other fans to engage in critical discussions about these white female characters because they’re viewed as flawless and all around perfect characters despite evidence to the contrary. Since Elain is viewed positively by the other characters in the series, it has rendered her character untouchable to any perceived slight or criticism in fandom discussions because those negative opinions challenge what has been said about her character thus far. And as a result, her character has been placed on a pedestal and implicitly hailed as the epitome of white womanhood; and when she’s criticized, it’s seen as a direct attack against white womanhood. Arguments in the Elriel fandom: exploit feminist language and perpetuate white feminist tactics under the guise of defending Elain’s character; center Elain in conversations about female oppression in the ACOTAR world and uphold white feminist ideologies in their critique of ACOTAR’s patriarchal society; and use the fragile white woman narrative to victimize Elain in Lucien’s presence, playing into racial biases that are associated with white supremacy’s defense of white womanhood.

Feminism is a social movement that seeks to promote equality and equity to all genders, and feminists work toward eradicating gender disparities on a macro-level, in addition to challenging gender biases on a micro-level. As feminism became more mainstream, a flat and oversimplified version of feminism emerged: mainstream feminism. The mainstream feminist movement is meant to represent all women, but rarely does it center conversations around issues that concern most women. The problem with mainstream feminism is that it’s just a popularized version of white feminism. White feminism has relied extensively on an individualized understanding of women’s oppression, exclusively from the lens of privileged white women. White feminism only focuses on the oppression experienced by white, able-bodied, affluent, educated, cishet women; and it views gender as the key mode of privileged white women’s oppression, isolated from the privileges granted by their other social identities. White women can be and are oppressed under the patriarchy but only because they are women; their identity as women does not exempt them from the privileges granted by their whiteness. The term white feminist does not mean any feminist who is white, but refers to feminists who prioritize the concerns of privileged white women as though they are representative of all women. However, the term is not exclusive to white people. Because white feminism is so pervasive, people of other racial and ethnic backgrounds often buy into white feminism, believing that if they work hard enough, they may be able to reap its rewards.

Just like white feminism, mainstream feminism only recognizes the identity of being a woman, assumes that all women share common experiences of gender oppression, fails to address other social identities in relation to overlapping systems of oppression, and disregards privilege in relation to various social identities. Just like white feminism, mainstream feminism is palatable because it doesn’t seek to challenge the systems in place, instead its goal is to succeed within them. Essentially, mainstream feminism and white feminism are extensions of performative feminism. Performative feminism is a type of performative activism that’s used to describe feminist views that are surface level and solely for the benefit of one type of person. It’s a pretense which often has nothing to do with genuine activism. Arguments in the Elriel fandom normalize and promote performative feminism because the topic of feminism is only referenced when discussing Elain. This indicates that these arguments are engaging in disingenuous discourse to push a personal agenda within the ACOTAR fandom, and it becomes more apparent when they use white feminist tactics to shut down opposing viewpoints:

White feminists weaponize and exploit feminist language to silence the opinions of other women, especially when they’re called out for their problematic behaviors

White feminists use the phrase “Women supporting women” to defend other white feminists who exhibit problematic behaviors instead of holding them accountable

White feminists weaponize phrases like “Women supporting women” and “You just hate women” to attack other women who disagree with them on any given topic

White feminists use phrases like “All women face challenges” and “Stop pitting women against each other” to sidestep conversations about privilege

White feminists divert conversations away from privilege and towards the Trauma Olympics to equate their struggles to the oppression of marginalized people

White feminists skirt around the realities of other forms of oppression and discrimination, downplaying the experiences of marginalized people

White feminists diminish or ignore the ways in which gender oppression affects other marginalized people

White feminists paint those they harmed as aggressive, mean, or divisive when confronted with the ways they have harmed a marginalized group

White feminists deflect criticism by focusing on the anger or emotions being expressed rather than the issue that is being discussed, invalidating the concerns of marginalized people

White feminists speak over marginalized voices in an attempt to sound “woke”

White feminists get defensive and insist there’s no way they could be a part of the problem because of what they’ve done to help marginalized groups already

White feminists say they don’t see color in an attempt to obscure racial issues that need to be addressed

White feminists center and victimize themselves in conversations about racism, which derails necessary conversations from taking place

White feminists who are white weaponize the intersectionality of their race and gender to avoid accountability

Feminism is not meant to be approached from an individualistic perspective nor is it only about addressing the experiences of privileged white women, it involves addressing the intersections of race, class, gender, sexuality, (dis)ability, and other social identities as well; and it involves addressing how these social identities relate to privilege. Moreover, feminism is not about women upholding complete loyalty to other women because of a shared gender identity, and to claim that it does implies that women should be held to different emotional standards than men. If men are able to dislike and criticize other individual men, real or fictional, without their characters being compromised, why aren’t women granted that same privilege?

It’s clear that SJM set up the ACOTAR world to mirror a patriarchal society, and that the imbalance of power between males and females stems from sexism. Arguments in the Elriel fandom analyze the ACOTAR world through a feminist lens to show how ACOTAR’s patriarchal society, to which the mating bond is innately tied, contributes to female oppression and limits their agency. When choice and free will are emphasized as part of Elain’s arc, they imply that Elain, through the mating bond, experiences female oppression under ACOTAR’s patriarchal society because of her identity as a female with that identity being the focal point of her oppression in the world. Elain is one of the most privileged characters in the ACOTAR world: she’s High Fae; she’s the sister of the High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court, which gives her access to wealth and political influence because of that connection; she’s able-bodied; she was magically blessed by the Cauldron; and she lives in Velaris, a place that grants females autonomy and power because of the beliefs of Rhysand and Feyre. Arguments in the Elriel fandom trivialize female oppression in the ACOTAR world because they disregard the fact that Elain’s privileges prevent her from experiencing female oppression in the same way that other marginalized females in the world do. The mating bond being one such example because those around Elain are not forcing the bond on her, instead they’re allowing Elain to reach a decision about the bond for herself; a privilege that other marginalized females in the world probably wouldn’t have. Just because Elain has endured hardships in her life and is a female in a patriarchal society, they do not erase the privileges she holds within the ACOTAR world. The failure to include Elain’s privileges in discussions about Elain being a female in a patriarchal society feeds into white feminist ideologies because white feminism operates from a very narrow perspective; it doesn’t take other intersecting identities into account when it examines gender oppression, leaving no room for discussions about privilege (or lack thereof) in relation to those intersecting identities. When discussing oppression in hierarchical societies, it’s imperative that privilege is also included in the conversation because privilege and oppression are not mutually exclusive; they equally affect the ways in which people navigate those societies through their social identities.

Rather than attributing Elain’s uncomfortability to her new life as a Fae female or the mating bond itself and her trauma to the Cauldron, the King of Hybern, or Ianthe, they’re placed on Lucien to cast his character in a negative light. Moreover, fandom discussions portray Lucien as a possessive character to further emphasize Elain’s discomfort despite the inaccuracy of this characterization in canon. Arguments in the Elriel fandom play into racial biases when it comes to Lucien (a male character of color) because they mischaracterize his character in order to victimize Elain (a white female character), placing her character in the role of the white damsel in distress. In Western society, the concept of womanhood has been conceptualized from a Eurocentric perspective with femininity and feminine attributes favoring white women. It’s the idea that a certain type of femininity is only inherent to white women as they are seen as the embodiment of an ideal womanhood. White womanhood has been a symbol of innocence and purity, and white women have been viewed as fragile beings in need of protection. The reason white womanhood functions within white supremacy is because it’s the same idea that has motivated white men to kill and beat black and brown men. The so-called protection of white women has been used as a justification for the horrific violence committed by white men because black and brown men were stereotyped as aggressive and seen as a threat to the virtue of white women. The white damsel in distress trope considered white women as worthy of protection because of their perceived innocence and purity; women of color were not granted that same treatment because they did not fit into the ideal image of womanhood. Over the years, this trope became a means for white women to exercise limited power in a patriarchal society with white women weaponizing their status as the damsel much to the detriment of black and brown men. It’s through the white damsel in distress trope that white supremacy sustains its dominance in Western society. The misrepresentation of characters of color in fandom, the dismissal of their importance to the overall story, and using them as tools in arguments centered around white characters are the foundation of fandom racism; they’re examples of how racism moves silently in fandom spaces. Instead of examining their behavior and taking constructive criticism from fans of color, white fans will often double down on their bigotry and center their uncomfortability in the conversation when confronted with their complicity in fandom racism. White fans expect fans of color to swallow fandom racism in its many forms in order to not ruin the experience of fandom, dismissing the fact that racism is prevalent in nearly every aspect of society. This mentality ensures that no one is held accountable for the harm they caused and alienates fans of color in fandom spaces.

To reiterate what I mentioned in my first think piece: terms like “oppression”, “the right to choose”, “feminist”, “feminism”, “anti-feminist”, “anti-feminism”, “internalized misogyny”, “misogyny”, “misogynist”, “sexist”, “sexism”, “racist”, “racism”, “classist”, “classism”, “discrimination”, and “patriarchy” are all used in specific ways to draw attention to the plight of marginalized people and challenge those who deny the existence of systems of oppression. Yet these words and their meanings can be twisted to attack, exclude, and invalidate people with differing opinions on any given topic. When social justice and feminist terms are thrown around antagonistically and carelessly to push a personal agenda, it becomes clear that these terms are being used to engage in disingenuous discourse and pursue personal validation rather than being used out of any deep-seated conviction to dismantle systemic oppression. Being an ally, activist, or feminist is not an identity, it’s a practice. It requires: ongoing self-reflection; holding ourselves accountable; listening to marginalized people; educating ourselves; dismantling implicit biases; challenging those around us who are exhibiting problematic behaviors; and action behind our words.

It’s important to be aware of the language that is used within the fandom when defending or critiquing characters and ships. It’s also important to question how an argument is framed and why it’s framed the way that it is to critically examine the intent behind that argument: is it used as a tool to push a personal agenda that reinforces problematic behaviors, or is it used as an opportunity to share, learn, enlighten, and educate?

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Tagging: @spell-cleavers @bookofmirth @m0bulidae @ilya-boltagon

#elain archeron #elriel #acotar fandom #acotar: fandom critical

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princessgemma12 · 2 years ago

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Hey you don't have to publish this but I wanted to thank you. I found it really comforting that you mentioned that you support folks (like me) who have trauma around the word queer and don't see us as enemies of ppl who use it as a self identifier. It meant a lot to me to see that.

Honestly, I really don't get people that do see y'all that way--it makes no sense! I totally get not using certain words for yourself, for any reason--whether you just don't like it or it's triggering for you, or you just don't like the word! That's fine, hon. No shame, no hate. I get it.

kind of a ramble under the cut

There are some lgbt+ terms, which are slurs or have been slurs, that I am comfortable using and feel that I am entitled to reclaiming, for various reasons. I respect other people that feel the same way. I also completely understand when and why people don't want to use certain words for themselves or others. It's normal, natural.

I use the word (Q) as a shield, it's my armor, my crown, the shining jewel in my collection. It encompasses every aspect of my sexuality, from the socially acceptable to the socially rejected. The surface level things and the highly personal ones. It connects me to more people than just "ace" or "bi" or "sapphic" do. It's a weapon that has been used against me, and I've remade it into something beautiful.

It would be hypocritical and inconsiderate of me to demand anyone do the same. What's the difference between me demanding someone call themselves (Q) and someone demanding I not? What's the difference between me forcing the word on you, and someone forcing it on me, as a weapon? Is it not more of a weapon when it's held by someone who is supposed to support you? Understand you? Would that not hurt you more? Would that not lower me to the same level as the usual bigots that weaponize lgbt+ terminology?

I think it does.

Because really, what's the difference between me demanding you define yourself a certain way, and a straight-cis person doing it? How does that not go against everything the lgbt+ community stands for? How does that not defeat the purpose of reclaiming language? I'm using (Q) as a shield, a point of pride--wouldn't that use be rendered inefficient, mocking, if I weaponized it against someone else?

this isn't really directed at you, anon. just generally speaking. reclaimed words are shields--they can and should be used to do damage when needed, as that is half the purpose of a shield. If you're being attacked, you need protection and helps to have protection that can be used against your aggressor. there is a very big difference between using language defensively and offensively--to shield or to harm. likewise, there is a big difference between telling someone not to use a certain term for themselves or even as a general term (such as Q), and asking someone not to use that word to refer to you. Both people who identify as (Q) and those who don't deserve respect toward the language they choose to describe themselves with.

if you scroll through my blog long enough, especially a few of my (Q) and pride tags, you'll undoubtedly find a few posts where I'm using what a lot of people would consider offensive or harmful language towards myself--this may be in response to an attack toward me or in response to a positivity post of another person using similar language (such as the posts @megatronismegagone and I have reblogged from each other). I tend to use the word (Q) in ways that most other (Q) people find regressive, harmful, and offensive. I understand why. I respect their views. I don't respect the people who attack me for embracing the innate otherness--the feeling of isolation, the stigmatization, the ostracizing--that comes with being part of the lgbt+ community in our current society. We are a minority--we're treated as a minority, for better and for worse, and that's not going to change in my lifetime. It sucks but it's true. We are different--we're not the "typical" cisgender, straight allosexual. I am none of those words!

Even within the community, my sexuality and the language I use, is ostrasized. I'm on the ace spectrum. I'm very often rejected from even the ace community because of my unique experience with sexual attraction. I'm bisexual--that's more ostrasization. I'm panromantic--yet more! I use the word (Q) for myself and often as an umbrella term--I've gotten a lot of flack for that, from other sapphics especially. I've been told I should be straight--I've been told I should be gay. Such are the woes of bisexuality. I've been told that I just "haven't met the right person, yet" or that I'm "just not there, yet" and such are the woes of being ace. I've been told that romantic attraction is the same as sexual--such are the woes of experiencing life with a split-attraction brain. the thing is, is no one can win.

If I say I'm (Q), I'm homophobic. If I say I'm bi, I'm faking or a cheater or perverted. If I say I'm ace, I'm inexperienced, naive, or broken. If I say I'm panrom, I'm broken, biphobic, faking, pretentious. If I use all of my words, even just bi-asexual and panromantic, I'm all of it. But what's the alternative??? What's the alternative to these words? What's the alternative to my experience and existence???

There is none.

so, either we make our own choices--we use the language we're comfortable with and demand respect regardless of it--or we cower beneath unending tides of linguistic tyranny. I vote for the former.

#I'll reblog this with the Q tags #pride #anon #ask #long post #ask to tag

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dotthings · 4 years ago

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The gaslighting needs to stop. Systemic power imbalanced in the tv industry are real. Network interference is real. Erasure and unkindness towards marginalized characters is real.

I’m more on the canon analysis end of things personally, but I assure you the fans trying to figure out WTF happened here and account for stuff that objectively, even the people more skeptical acknowledge is weird and points back towards network interference, try to debunk their own theories. They are telling you that, they are transparent about their information, if you don’t feel like playing detailed murder wall, then don’t, but to deny there is a very very real power imbalance behind the scenes that hurt marginalized characters and fans, and hurt the story, is toxic. Stop it.

Things like the Spanish dub and people who have worked on the show coming out of the woodwork to support Destiel should be a clue. Latin America believes it’s a mutually requited love story, canon confirmed from both sides, because that is what aired on a big tv network there. And watch out for that US-centric thinking that somehow thinks this doesn’t count. (Also plot twist: the US is the restrictive market. Wake up).

My wheelhouse is more canon analysis so I’m going to say now that the gaslighting about canon, about aired canon, about confirmed canon, about implied canon, seems to me a whole lot of toxic detached-from-reality hand waving so hard to still, STILL!!--try to deny the validity of Destiel. I’m glad some of y’all think this is merely hilarious, and after not showing up and not being supportive and not sticking your neck out at all to protect Destiel shippers from bullying, you came back just to eat the popcorn because it amuses you and I’m supposed to think that’s pro-Destiel supportive or something, or it’s people who have no horse in the race who just want fandom entertainment so everything’s a joke while they reinforce the exact attitudes that let this kind of systemic oppression perpetuate and get away with erasing marginalized voices in the tv industry, in fandom, in stories. Nice work, people. Your holier-than-thou attitude is real convincing.

Then there’s the people trying to convince everyone it’s convincing to play false equivalency cha-cha and as if people only see this as canon due to a) 1 slash joke b) they stared at each other that one time c) drapes. Because old school fans are so proud that in their day, nobody wanted their queer ships to be canon and Destiel is just like *insert whatever slash ship of the past that had about 1/10th of the loud textual material and canon development Destiel has*. You want to try to argue against the epic nature of the text on Dean and Cas, hey give it your all, but it’s not going to hold up. If I started listing off the immensity, things that are textual plot points, it would be a 3,000 word essay. Stop playing false equivalency. Stop trying to artificially yank this back into the past because you can’t handle the textual validity of Destiel.

Deal with the fact that this is not an easily classifiable situation.

Even if in the end the same old systemic crap stifled its full due, and that’s the part that is tiresome, Dean and Cas deserve better than have their actual canon content demeaned.

After the story we have seen. After 12 seasons of deep-dive development. After Cas was finally openly confirmed as queer, and in love with Dean, in the final season, 2 episodes from the end, and Misha echoed it, and from Dean’s side, because full confirmation on Dean’s side is being held down, Jensen protected a romantic reading, protected people’s right to see Dean as in love with Cas not having a chance to speak his heart. Protected the right to that reading within the ambiguity that he knows is as far as the canon was able to take it. After the ship became canon confirmed as at least unrequited love story. Whether Jensen ships it or not, he has been very loudly and openly protective of fan readings and has been very openly excited about 15.18 and the handprint, he knows this is a great story and he’s been openly excited about how excited and joyful fans were about that episode.

But what we have seen on our screens, what the story told us, transcends the muzzles placed on it. What we have seen is a mutually requited love story. We already saw in action how Dean loves Cas. We are left with, in the end, the silencing of Dean Winchester. Gosh I wonder why the silencing of Dean Winchester. Why was it necessary. Why was he not even permitted to speak at all, to anyone, to confide about how he even felt about Cas’s love confession. Why did Jensen have to do the heavy lifting to meta it for us. Why did Cas have to be left fully out of the series finale on a show he was so key on for 12 seasons, as a 3rd lead. Why is that? Because the only thing the creative team would ever be allowed to do by corporate is friendzone it and they didn’t want to friendzone it.

So we are cursed with ambiguity from Dean’s side. And if the series finale had done better by Dean’s story, including his death, and by Cas’s story (instead of shoving him out of sight), if it hadn’t erased Eileen and Saileen, if it hadn’t failed Sam’s story, if it hadn’t been a regressive, awkward mess, most shippers would have accepted ambiguity if Dean and Cas has been given at least the respect of a reunion, if Dean had at least been given the chance to partially speak even if it couldn’t be removed from ambiguity. But the system was too scared of it. It had to be held down and muffled hard.

It was yanked out of the story artificially in ways that don’t match Destiel’s narrative importance before the series finale and don’t match 12 seasons of storytelling. It’s artificial. It is a silencing. And it shows.

That sudden silence was a scream.

"The writers” were for it. “The writers” wanted to tell that story even if network interference prevented it. Some of us were gaslighted and smeared and bashed just for pointing it out, and we turned out to be right.

DESTIEL IS CANON. And the parts where fans still have to rely on interpretation for have ample, AMPLE, story evidence and external evidence--that has nothing to do with deeper dive murder walls, it has to do with support shown, and confirmed information--all point to a mutually reciprocated love story.

How many more times do shippers have to be proven right before people stop this. I was bullied for several seasons just for saying Destiel was a purposefully crafted a valid textual reading, by my own lane. For asserting it was a love story designed to dodge under network radar. I was bullied for years before that by antis, who didn’t like seeing people love this ship too much, who didn’t like that I refused to get down on my knees and label myself as delusional just for seeing it, for refusing to bow down and say “it’s only about 2 brothers so I am wrong to say Destiel matters too.”

The unkindness in this fandom over all this continues to be overwhelming. Get your shit together. You worship your favorite actors and then they show you up every time by being kinder and more open and understanding than fans manage to be. Jensen and Misha are showing you how to roll and people are ignoring it in favor of continuing to try to silence and demean Destiel shippers.

For Destiel shippers, don’t let all this gaslighting and shaming nonsense and the systemic corporate nonsense that wants Destiel silenced knock you off from your reading of canon. It was valid. It was real. Thanks to the magic of bleedback effect, now it was always textual, the subtextual has been transformed retroactively, and it’s from both Dean and Cas’s end. If you still feel doubt on Dean’s side, because we didn’t get the same loud explicit confirmation, go back to the text itself. If you believed it already for Cas, if Cas’s confession to Dean only validated what you already knew, why can’t you see it for Dean, because it’s already there.

#Jensen Ackles #Misha Collins #Destiel #The 15 Year Show #Castiel #Dean Winchester #i'm not burying this behind a wank tag #i need people to pay attention and not dismiss it as mere 'fandom drama' please

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persepholline · 4 years ago

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I've read that article about the romanticization of the Darkling and while I absolutely understand people who are pissed off/sad and I agree that it's shitty, I find LB's attitude towards Darkles stans very funny in a "girl what are you doing" sort of way because it's so petty like I've never heard of a bestselling author writing a portion of their fans into their books as a crazy cult before, it clearly hit a nerve

I'm new to the fandom but the feeling I get is she wrote something problematic ten years ago and became very embarrassed about it afterwards so she turned on the fans that liked it as a way to absolve herself. Especially since fandoms in general have become a lot more focused on discussion of what constitutes healthy/acceptable relationships to write about. And in a way I get it I had a huge Twilight phase in high school and afterwards I was super embarassed about it because of how problematic and cringe it was. But now with distance and more maturity I'm able to both still see why it was problematic and also why I was drawn to it (mostly the very unhinged representation of female desire) and like...it's really not the end of the world and no it never made me believe that breaking into somebody's room at night to watch them sleep was actually ok in real life lmao. This feels so obvious to me but apparently it needs to be said.

(More under the break this is turning into an essay, I've been thinking of this a lot recently)

And of course it's good to have these discussions about how historically romance tropes have echoed social dynamics of men's shitty behavior being romanticized and excused. But these days they often are so simplistic and focused on chasing clout that they become this weird new puritanism and moral panic about oh now women are reading novels it's going to make them hysterical or something

So you have these weird assumptions that you can't like a character and also be critical of their actions, or enjoy certain parts of a character and not others, or wish they were written differently and like them more for their potential (which I'm sure stings a bit for an author lol) - it assumes that if you like a character it means you would approve of their actions in real life, or that people just stupidly reproduce whatever they see on TV. That tendency to treat fictional characters like real people is the thing that actually worries me, to be honest, because it indicates a lack of distance and critical capacities regarding how stories are used and received. But people - fans and authors - are so scared of being called out as problematic and harassed for it that they're going to shy away from any nuance.

And yeah I think that it's good that standards of what constitutes an ideal relationship are evolving and becoming more feminist and communicative and all that and we definitely need more of that. But not all fiction has to be aspirational! Sometimes you just want to read about fucked up shit, because it's cathartic or fascinating, even healing at times because with fiction you are absolutely in control and can choose when to close the book. Toxic relationships in fiction can have an appeal specifically because they go to extremes of feeling that we don't want to go to in reality, in exactly the same way as horror movies or very violent action movies - which I don't see a lot of people besides fundamentalist Christians argue that they turn you into violent psychopaths (and that feels very obviously sexist). And for women, who are often taught growing up that love is the purpose of life, the "saving someone with your ability to love" can be a power fantasy in the same way that being a buff superhero who saves the day with their capacity for incredible violence can be a power fantasy for men. Still doesn't mean those women are going to fall in love with actual murderers or that those men are going to start beating up people at night. And love is scary, and weird, and weirdly close to horror at times, with all the potential for loss of self and being vulnerable and overwhelming feelings and potential for being horribly hurt and it should be possible for stories to explore that without anybody screaming about how this is going to Corrupt the Youth or something

And I mean I get it LB wanted to write a cautionary tale for teenagers, but it just did not work for reasons a lot of people have already written about - the fact that the Darkling is the leader of an oppressed minority and is the only one with a real political agenda to end that oppression in the first trilogy, the fact that he helps Alina come into her own power while her endgame LI is someone she keeps herself small for, that she's shamed for wanting power after growing up without any, a generally very wonky conception of privilege, and a lot of other stuff with yucky regressive implications to the point where stanning the villain actually feels liberating and empowering which is a surefire sign that the narrative is broken (unless it's a villain focused story lmao). But of course that Fanside article makes almost no mention of the political dynamics, it's all about interpersonal stuff which is an annoying trend in YA, there are those massive events happening in the background but it's made all about the feelings of the hero(ine) ; war as a self-development quest (which is kind of gross). Helnik is kind of an example of this too - I like them, I think they're fun ! But Matthias spends a big part of the story wanting to brutally murder Nina and her kind, and he mostly changes his mind because he finds her hot. Like you don't feel there is some sort of big revelation that his entire moral system and political framework is completely rotten ; it's all better because of feelings now.

As a teenager that kind of sanctimonious bullshit would have annoyed the hell out of me ; I read those books in my early twenties and I found the ending so stupid I wouldn't have trusted any message or life lessons coming from them. And I liked reading/watching dark stuff as a teenager, as a way to deal with the very intense inner turmoil I was dealing with - and I turned out fine ! Meanwhile I've seen several times women in very shitty relationships being obsessed with positive energies and stories ; they were so terrified of their life not being perfectly wholesome they ended up being delusional about their own situations.

Like personally I think the Darkling is a compelling, interesting, alluring character and also a manipulative, murderous piece of shit and that Alina should get to punish him (like in a sexy way) - but he's also the end result of centuries of war, oppression and trauma and reducing that to "toxic wounded boy" feels kind of offensive ngl ESPECIALLY since the books don't offer any kind of systemic analysis or response to oppression beyond "the bad guy should die" and "now the king/queen is a good guy our problems are solved!!!!"

In Lives of the Saints, we see how Yuri is abused extremely badly and almost killed by his father, and so when his father dies when the Fold swallows Novokribirsk, he thinks the Starless Saint has saved him. Later in KoS/RoW he's turned into this fanatic who explains away all the Darkling's crimes. The other followers talk about how the Starless Saint will bring equality for all men. Then the Darkling comes back and actually thinks his followers are pathetic, which feels again like a very pointed message to his IRL stans. Which is absolutely hilarious to me. Like oh no, if he was real he would not like you and think you're pathetic ! Yeah ...but he's not. Real. Damn right he would not like the fics where Alina puts him on a leash. I'm still going to read them. What is he going to do about it, jump out of the page ? Jfjfjjdhfgfjfj

Anyway I think the intended message is "assholes will use noble political causes for their own gain and to manipulate people" and "being abused/oppressed is not an excuse to behave badly." Which. Sure. But that's kind of like...a tired take, honestly ? A big number of villains nowadays are like this ; either they've been bullied as kids, or they're part of an oppressed group, or they have "good ideals but too extreme". This is not surprising because a lot of mainstream heroic narratives present clinging to the status quo as Good and change as chaotic and dangerous. And like sure in real life people often do bad shit because they're wounded and in danger. But if you want to do a story like that, you have to do it with nuance, talk about cycles of violence, about how society creates vulnerable people to be exploited, about how privilege gives you more choices and the luxury of morals, etc. The Grishaverse does not have this level of nuance (maybe in SoC a little bit but definitely not in TGT). So it kind of comes off as "trauma makes you evil" and "egalitarianism is dangerous" and "if you're abused/oppressed you're not allowed to fight back". And ignores the fact that historically, evil generally comes from unchecked privilege.

I guess my point is that there are many things I like about LB's writing, she knows how to create these really exciting character dynamics, and the world she has created is fascinating. But these stories are not a great starting point for imparting moral lessons. And her best characters tend to be, at least in canon, the morally grey ones. I hope one day she'll be at peace with the fact that she wrote the Darkling the way she did and leave his fans alone but in the meantime I'm just not going to take this whole thing seriously I'm sorry

#darklina #the darkling #alina starkov #aleksander morozova

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suzukiblu · 3 years ago

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I wish you would write a fic where there's age regression, and possibly more Kon/Conner. How do you age-regress a quick-aged genetic experiment? Or, conversely, Conner takes care of an age-regressed teammate (and has no idea what he's doing)!

I LOVE age regression but I like neeeeever write it, it's such a weird oversight on my part. I actually even HAVE an unfinished YJ fic about the whole team getting de-aged that's just, like, chilling in my docs. I never figured out where it was going aside from "making things weird for Superman", though, although I really liked it at the time.

So hey, you know what, have a read more:

There's some kind of fuss going on around Young Justice, although Clark isn't sure what. He overhears Hal and Dinah bickering about something to do with Artemis and Speedy—Red Arrow, although “Speedy” is so much clearer a memory—but they don't go into detail. Something about mad science and a mission gone wrong and . . . Lunchables?

Clark very rarely mishears things, but that he is CERTAIN he did.

It isn't his business, though, so he doesn't ask for clarification. If the League needs his help, they'll ask him; otherwise it has nothing to do with him.

Unfortunately, then Bruce actually asks for his help.

There's no excuse good enough to get by Batman, and so Clark finds himself materializing inside Mount Justice with the halfhearted hope that they just need something improbably heavy moved—ANYTHING that will just take a moment, in and out. Oddly, there's no one waiting to meet him, although he can hear arguing and laughter and running water and a dozen other sounds of life from different corners of the mountain.

Closer, and more concerning, he can hear tears.

Clark ignores the other voices and Bruce's distant, Kevlar-muffled heartbeat to follow the tiny, hitched breaths down the hall. He doesn't have to go far.

There's a little boy curled up in a shadowed alcove not even big enough to be a broom closet, five years old if he's a day and wearing a black T-shirt and cargo pants and oddly heavy-looking boots. He looks wounded and small and brokenhearted from the lie of his shoulders alone.

Clark stares in bemusement for a moment—a child THIS young in Mount Justice?—but another muffled sob takes immediate precedence and he drops into a crouch just outside the boy's personal space.

“Are you alright?” he asks gently, and the boy jumps in surprise and jerks his head up. He has the most ENORMOUS blue eyes Clark thinks he's ever seen, and also the most horrified.

“I wasn't crying!” the boy blurts, still crying, and scrubs the tears away frantically.

“It's fine if you were,” Clark tells him, gentling his voice even more, and the boy looks at him like the world just ended. Blue eyes, black hair, broken heart; he remembers Dick four years ago, remembers what happened to make Dick ROBIN. Wonders what Bruce is doing, exactly, and if THIS is the emergency he is supposed to help with.

“YOU wouldn't,” the boy says, hiccuping around another sob, and Clark just smiles reassuringly at him.

“Everyone does,” he says, and fresh tears well in the boy's eyes and he turns his face into the corner, huddled up so small it actually HURTS to see. Clark is used to misery, he has seen more of it than he can stand to remember, but that doesn't make it any easier to watch.

He could ask what happened, what is so upsetting, but doesn't want the boy to have to think about what's making him cry like that, so devastated and LONELY in a place full of people, and so instead reaches out and rests a hand on his shoulder, carefully. The boy freezes, sobs and breath and HEART all stopping, and Clark lightens the contact, but doesn't quite withdraw.

“Are you hurt?” he asks with all the gentleness he would usually reserve for restraining the full scope of Superman's strength down into catching a falling body, embracing a victim, kissing a loved one. The boy SHUDDERS and starts back up again, tears falling faster and his attempts to respond all breaking up too much to finish. Finally he just shakes his head, HARD, and buries his face back in his arms.

He is so small.

“Is there something I can do for you?” Clark asks, and the boy just cries HARDER, somehow, and now he's concerned because how can every attempt to do something for the boy make him that much more UPSET? All the power in the world means nothing when he can't help a person who's in pieces.

There's a shriek somewhere in the base, loud and childish and startlingly giddy in comparison to this moment, and Clark startles slightly and looks towards it, automatically dropping the hand on the boy's shoulder to touch his earpiece, meaning to call Bruce and ask what, exactly, is going on here—but then the boy whimpers.

But no. “Whimper” is not enough of a word, “whimper” cannot possibly contain the pain and DESPAIR in that sound, the way it TEARS out of the boy and through Clark worse than any other kind of hit, worse than perhaps ANYTHING.

“It's alright,” he says, fast, forgetting about the communicator altogether and reaching out again. “Shhh, it's alright, it's alright, son—”

The boy SOBS.

Clark has never in his life heard a worse sound than that sob.

Something like panic flits through him, he doesn't even know where from, and he barely keeps himself from grabbing the boy and yanking him to his chest—it would be too hard, too sudden, too frightening for an already distraught child. The moment it takes him to force down the driving NEED to is literally painful, and when it passes it still doesn't really pass.

Clark takes off his cape, carefully, and wraps the boy up in it—hides him in it, he admits to himself, but it's not hard to admit when the boy himself seems to welcome the idea of vanishing inside its folds. He picks him up in one arm, cradles him in the crook of it, and the boy curls up as tight as if he really COULD disappear. The sobbing dies down into almost-silence, barely more than hitched breath again, and Clark holds him close and heads towards the sound of people. He can't help the child if he doesn't know what's wrong, and clearly the boy's in no condition to explain what's happened to him for himself.

He thinks of plenty of awful possibilities on the way, but doesn't get halfway there before a sudden blur of black and red and yellow tears down the hall and skids to a stop in front of him, solidifying into two more small boys, although not as small as the one in his arms.

Infinitely more recognizable, though.

Clark blinks, and looks down at a brightly grinning nine-year old Robin riding piggyback on a beaming Kid Flash . . . that IS Kid Flash, isn't it, he thinks, except he can't be a day past nine himself, and Kid Flash DEFINITELY never wore that suit or ran like that when he was nine.

NEITHER of them should be nine.

“What . . .” he starts, slowly, and the boy in his arms peers out from underneath his cape and sniffles, once.

“Found him!” Kid Flash yells back down the hall, and Robin throws both hands up in the air with a crow of triumph, falling off Kid Flash's back into an effortless back walkover in the process.

“We win!” he says gleefully. “Go Team Batflash, suck it, Team Aquamartian and Double-Arrow!”

“'BATflash'? Why isn't it FlashBAT?” Kid Flash demands indignantly, and Robin just laughs condescendingly and reaches up to give his head a little pat.

“Oh please, it is SO Batflash,” he says. Clark stares down at both of them with a certain sinking feeling, and the boy in his arms scrubs at his tear-streaked face again, and the cape slips lower and for the first time he sees the front of the boy's shirt.

Sees the symbol on the front of the boy's shirt.

He hears a Kevlar-muffled heartbeat and then Bruce is there, staring evenly at him. For a moment Clark is . . . shaken, that is the only word for it, and then Bruce's arms are up and then he's completely bemused, because it LOOKS like Bruce wants him to give him . . .

“Superboy,” Bruce says, and the boy fumbles out of his cape and his arms and into BRUCE'S and latches on, latches on so hard Bruce's body armor audibly CREAKS. Clark feels a sudden irrational rush of frustration—Superboy did anything BUT hold onto him—and then everything actually sinks in.

“What happened?” he manages, or mostly manages, still holding his empty cape and feeling . . . feeling very strange for it. Kid Flash starts babbling at super-speed, Robin too busy scowling sulkily up at Superboy to properly contribute, and it's not very different from overhearing Hal and Dinah—mad science and a mission gone wrong and Black Canary totally bought them all Lunchables she is the AWESOMEST EVER—except this time Clark is actually listening.

This time it has something to DO with him.

“I see,” Clark says when Kid Flash finally runs out of air and falls over gasping, taking Robin down with him. Robin yelps, and Kid Flash laughs breathlessly, and they scuffle for no apparent reason. Superboy is still hiding against Bruce, holding on with that Kevlar-creaking grip.

Then it occurs to Clark that he's been too busy staring at Superboy to pay attention to Bruce, and his eyes flick to the other man's.

It . . . takes a lot of distraction to not notice Bruce has been glaring at you.

To not notice BATMAN has been glaring at you.

“You're late,” Bruce says, sharply.

“You only called ten minutes ago,” Clark reminds him, and Bruce's lips thin and even without the X-ray vision Clark can read the look the other is sending him: you could've been here in two. It's not that he . . . he didn't mean to AVOID . . .

He didn't want to come, Clark admits to himself, and his eyes trail back down to Superboy like all the weight of creation is calling them down. If he has ever, ever held that weight, this is that moment. But why should it be, he wonders, why NOW—

What a stupid question, he thinks, watching the closest thing he will ever have to blood hide from him in such obvious shame and fear.

“Superboy,” he says, slowly, and Superboy flinches. Kevlar creaks, and Bruce's lips go even thinner; Clark doesn't have to be Superman to know that HURT. But Bruce doesn't say a word or change his grip at all, and . . . and Clark remembers being a child, remembers running into Pa's arms crying and covered in mud and Pa hadn't cared about getting his good suit dirty; remembers Ma wrapping her arms around him when he slipped in shivering from sleet and rain, not minding the icy meltwater soaking into her dress. Remembers growing older, watching other families, and thinking that parents who did things like that were the best anyone could hope for.

Remembers finding out he would never BE a parent, because he wasn't human. Because Kryptonians and humans couldn't crossbreed. Because he was the last and would ALWAYS be, because he was going to die someday and so would EVERYTHING of his people, everything his birth parents had wanted to SAVE—

Clark is aware, very suddenly, that he is responsible for Superboy's existence. He is the one who decided to put on the cape. He is the one who decided to BE the cape.

He made Superman, and no one would ever have made Superboy if he hadn't.

He made a choice.

He made a choice, and that means . . .

Bruce inhales, a little stiffly with the way Superboy is crushing his body armor, and turns on his heel and walks away. Robin and Kid Flash tear after him, Robin grabbing the edge of his cape like a little . . . like a child, of course, Clark thinks, and follows as well.

Superboy is still hiding from him.

“Batman,” he starts, but doesn't know where to go from there. Bruce ignores him, and Clark struggles for words, for SOMETHING that will . . . for something. Robin disappears under Bruce's cape, Kid Flash bolts restlessly from place to place in the hall, almost fast enough to blur to even Clark's vision, and Superboy never releases his grip on Bruce's armor or lifts his head.

They come to the end of the hall, and it opens into a common room; Dinah looks up, her face flushed and upset and a boy who can't be more than one or two sniffling in her arms, chubby little hands covering his masked face. Red Arrow, Clark recognizes immediately, because Dinah could not possibly look like that for anyone else, and that armored and forbidding costume looks so ODD on a child so small—as odd as Superboy's steel-toed boots. Artemis is scowling angrily, arms crossed in a defensive posture, and she is all skinny limbs and knobby knees, twelve years old if she's a day. Kid Flash and Robin immediately fix her with matching scowls.

“What'd you do to Speedy?” they demand in near-perfect indignant unison, and Artemis GLOWERS.

“Nothing!” she snaps. “He just wants Green Arrow and Green Arrow's still in Star City, it's not MY fault he's too stupid to understand, y'know!”

“I bet you were a jerk to him again!” Kid Flash accuses, pointing at her.

“I was NOT!” Artemis fumes.

“Then how come he always ends up cryin' whenever we leave him with you?” Robin asks grumpily, foot tap-tap-tapping erratically against the floor and fingers fisting tighter in Bruce's cape. He keeps sneaking glances that are closer to glares up at Superboy, and Clark, irrationally, wants to scold him for it—as if that were even his place, in regards to either boy.

“'Cause he's STUPID, I told you!” Artemis snaps back, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder, and Dinah grits her teeth.

“That's ENOUGH,” she says sharply, cradling Red Arrow tighter to herself, and he sniffles again and grabs at her hair with his sticky little tear and snot-stained gloves, burying his equally sticky little face in it. Dinah's expression turns pained, but she doesn't shoo him away. “I'm going to kill Ollie,” she says, in a surprisingly sweet tone, and pats Red Arrow's back soothingly.

“Wan' OWWY!” Red Arrow wails, and the children all cringe at the volume, clapping their hands over their ears. Clark barely represses the urge to do the same.

“There, there, darling, Ollie's coming,” Dinah croons, swaying gently and stroking a hand through Red Arrow's hair. “And he'll probably bring a camera and NEVER let you live this down, oh no he won't. And blubber all over you, that too, yes!”

Clark considers asking what Red Arrow was even DOING with Young Justice and also if anyone in the room even slightly cares about Green Arrow's secret identity, but decides there's not much point. He's more curious about the fact that the kids have somehow all turned out vastly different ages despite apparently having been hit with the same still-unidentified ray—with the exception of Robin and Kid Flash, that is, but even that's strange considering they were different ages to start with, and the gaps between one and eighteen and twelve and fifteen are MILES more than that. As for Superboy . . .

Clark's not even sure Superboy ever actually WAS five years old, and if he was it probably didn't last this long.

“Is Red Tornado still with Aqualad and Miss Martian?” Bruce asks, and Dinah nods, looking weary but almost amused despite that.

“Aqualad INSISTED on checking the pool and showers for Superboy,” she says. “He seemed pretty convinced no one could possibly want to hide anywhere dry if they were feeling sad.”

“Well, we HAVE found him holed up in the showers before,” Artemis says, tugging absently at the bottom of her ponytail. “They kinda remind him of his pod, y'know? But they're, y'know, probably too big now.” Bruce grunts assent, and Clark remembers how tight the alcove he found Superboy tucked into was, and feels . . . strange about it.

He should have the whole SKY, something whispers in the back of his head. He should have wide open fields and miles and miles where the only buildings are barns and silos and little houses and there aren't even trees or planes overhead, where everything is flat and bright and clear and ENDLESS.

“Contact Miss Martian and inform her we've found Superboy,” Bruce tells the—currently—older children, and they all nod and squeeze their eyes shut tight with extremely concentrated expressions. Clark wonders when Bruce is going to put Superboy down. That can't be COMFORTABLE, being held onto that tightly for so long; the merciless grip of Superboy's small arms probably feels like being slowly crushed.

Clark isn't sure how strong the boy actually is, of course, because Superboy wasn't holding onto him at all when he carried him, much less holding on that hard. Much stronger than he was at that age, he knows, just like Kid Flash is much faster than he should be and Robin and Artemis both a little too graceful.

He should say something, he thinks in the silence, but then Red Arrow starts sniffling again and Dinah starts singing him a lilty little Irish lullaby and Robin and Kid Flash immediately swarm her while Artemis pretends not to be perking up curiously, and Superboy lifts his face just a little, just for a moment.

Then he sees Clark, and hides it again.

That's . . .

“We're here, we're here!” a loud, childish voice shouts, and Miss Martian darts into the room on chubby little-girl legs, huffing and puffing excitedly and with her cape all tangled up around her shoulders. She looks five or six, and Aqualad who's right on her heels with a worried expression and attempting to untangle her might be seven. Red Tornado follows them in, apparently unconcerned about the clothing issue, and Miss Martian hops up into the air and starts tugging at Superboy's shirt. “Superboy, don't be—don't be scared, you're not lost anymore! We found you!”

“WE found him!” Robin protests indignantly, scowling up at her.

“Superman found him,” Batman corrects, visibly unimpressed, and it's the most acknowledgment Clark's had from anyone in the conversation since they left the hall. He tries to take it as reason to speak, but the right words won't come—they never do, when it's about Superboy.

“Superman doesn't count,” Kid Flash says, glowering with startling vehemence, more startling for the way Robin and Artemis match it. Even Miss Martian frowns, although on her it looks closer to a pout, and Aqualad just sighs and reaches up to tug lightly at the bottom of Superboy's shirt, so small and so serious.

“Superboy, do you want to come play with us?” he asks, the picture of a too-responsible and too-concerned little boy. “It is your turn to pick the game.”

“I don't know any games,” Superboy mumbles, still hiding against Bruce. “Just the ones you guys taught me today.”

“Which was your favorite? We can play that one again,” Aqualad suggests, and Superboy finally peers down at him. He still looks uncomfortable and unhappy, but not so upset anymore—thirty seconds, and Aqualad has calmed and comforted Superboy in a way Clark hadn't even come CLOSE to when he'd tried.

Annnnnd that's as far as I ever got, alas. But I did really enjoy writing it, so I'm all for an excuse to share it, haha.

#percygranger #rintalk

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angelhummel · 3 years ago

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i’ve got an unpopular opinion that i’m not sure how you’re gonna feel about but sam evans to me, is like a diet brittany pierce with some finn hudson thrown in

like he makes micro aggressions to mercedes friends and the scene plays him off as awkward and quirky for saying those things then he never really apologises or learns from it, which gives a lot of brittany energy

then when mercedes is questioning the relationship he doesn’t consider mercedes feelings and makes about how sad he is that he can’t date the girl he wants, which feels like something finn would do

i still significantly prefer him over those two because he had some decent redeeming factors like his friendship with blaine and tina as well as having some good storylines, but i just can’t get over how some of his actions really remind me of those two

👀👀

i hate to say it, i hope i don't sound ridiculous... i don't know who this man is you're making some good points

Honestly my love for Sam comes mostly from clinging to s2 Sam. And that's what made him drop down from like number 5 to number 8 on my list of favorite characters. But tbh at this point he might not even be in the top 10 lol. Sad day

Like season 2 Sam is pretty great. Standing up for Kurt, being a hopeless romantic but also kind of a dumb ass lmao. Dumb ass with a heart of gold. Who is a nerd and is dyslexic and is taking care of his kid siblings. Lots to work with, off to a good start

S3 Sam is honestly also kind of a mess but idc bc everyone and everything sucks especially hard that season. I hate his whole "idc who you're with, I'm gonna get you back!" bullshit but it also kind of cancels out bc every couple had a moment like that lmao. Kurt, Brittany, Finn. I can't single Sam out as the worst, even if none of the behavior is good

And then s4 I don't ENTIRELY hate. It's like with Blaine, where I don't think it's fair to cry "character regression" and have that be the end of it. Like s2 Sam is dealing with a ton of stress. He's literally homeless, and basically has to act like a parent towards his little siblings. And then s3 he gets the Puck treatment where he's a teenager getting involved with older women for money and ??? it's a gag for part of one ep then hardly brought up again except to lightly slut shame him lol thnx blaine

So yeah. That's a lot for any 16 year old to deal with. But then once s4 comes around and he's got a lot less stress and responsibilities, I don't mind him acting a little goofier and having fun. But of course they didn't stop there. They had to dumb him down to make him the male Brittany then made Brittany a math genius for no reason and Sam was left in the dust and never recovered lol

And yeah s5 is a bit of a hot mess. He has good moments here and there but holy shit all the racist comments and microaggressions and it's like, s2 Sam would never do this. They're basically two separate entities at this point. His best writing towards the end of the season came at the hands of Chris, and I'm forever grateful for that. Then s6 was kind of ??? again who cares bc everything and everyone was a hot damn mess

But idk. It's probably easier to cling to him as a beloved character bc we got to see all his good moments first and foremost. So that's what people think about when they think Sam Evans. His worst moments are on par with Brittany's, sadly. Well maybe just the ignorant comments. He never tried to out someone three separate times. And no one can come close to Finn's public outing and multiple slur droppings he truly is the worst. But I think he has more redeemable moments than Brittany and Finn combined lmao. Which is why he's so much higher on my ranking and the other two are constantly flip flopping at the bottom

#glee #sam evans #unpopular opinions #asks #answered #my thoughts #anonymous #long post #anti finn hudson #lol finn hudson #anti brittany pierce #lol brittany pierce

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gothgirlmahi · 5 years ago

Text

Princess Chapter 1

Dark!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You never thought one date with an Avenger would end up with you locked in his house, playing out his fantasy.

Warnings: forced age regression, smut, non con

Your eyes shot open, frantically darting around the unfamiliar space. You were laid on your back completely naked, tied to a bed. The white sheets were rough under your bare skin. Your wrists and ankles were bound, seemingly attached to ropes at the bottom of the bed.

Panic took over your mind. This was definitely not your house and not your bed. The room you were in was small and unpainted with two doors, one leading to your left and the other to your right. There were no windows to see out of.

Part of you wanted to call for help but you suppressed the urge. The person who brought you here was probably still around. A light and hazy feel clouded your brain and after tugging at your restraints for a while, you were tired. You bit your lip, trying to silence the tears you knew were coming. You didn’t want to cry. You had to be strong. Whatever this was, you would get out.

A few minutes passed and your breath never calmed. Still agitated, still waiting to see why you were here, why it had to be you. You hadn’t done anything to anyone, at least not that you’d known. You were a nice law abiding citizen who certainly didn’t have any enemies so why were you here?

The door to your left began to creak open you supposed you would get answers soon. You nearly had a heart attack when he walked through.

“Bucky?” you asked, chest heaving wildly with fear. His mouth was pressed into a hard line as he approached you, staring down at you in the bed.

You knew him. You knew him! You and Bucky had gone on a date, on one date and you hadn’t planned on seeing him again after that. Although he was an Avenger, there something about him set you off. Now you knew what.

Bucky’s lips curled into a sweet smile and he put a hand on your cheek.

“Good morning, princess. Did you sleep well?”

There were a lot of things you wanted to say.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

Why the hell did you bring me here?

You’re crazy.

But you settled for something less combative.

“Can you untie me?”

He shook his head and gave your cheek a pat before sitting down next to you.

“No. Not yet. I guess we need to talk, huh?”

“Why would you do this? You don’t even know me,” you stammered out. Bucky shook his head.

“I know you need me. The world is a dangerous place and you need Daddy to take care of you.”

A tear slipped down your face and Bucky swiped it away with his thumb.

“Please don’t hurt me,” you begged, attempting to curl in on yourself and being held back by the ropes. Bucky set his hand on your hip, rubbing circles into your bare skin.

“Shh. None of that. I won’t hurt you unless you make me.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Daddy loves you, honey. Don’t be scared, it won’t be so bad. I’ll make you feel so good and all you have to do is be a good girl.”

“I’m really confused and I’m scared. Please let me go,” you begged. Bucky shook his head. A look of frustrated anger took over his face as he looked down at you.

“I know this isn’t going to be easy but you will accept me.” The cold anger raging in his eyes almost made you gasp. He stood and pulled off his shirt which sent adrenaline running through your veins.

“You don’t have to do this. I promise I won’t tell anyone. Please. Please just let me go. I swear on my life I won’t tell anyone.”

He slid his pants and his underwear down and you were greeted with the sight of his half hard cock. His hand wrapped around his cock, jerking himself off as he looked at you.

“You’re so pretty when you beg. Keep that up. You’ll be begging for my dick soon.”

Bucky climbed on the bed and you closed your legs quickly. He pried then apart easily despite your attempts otherwise. He laid between your legs, keeping your thighs open with his own. You wanted to push back against him but your restraints could just barely reach him.

“Your body is mine. You belong to me. Remember that.”

“Stop!”

He slid the head of his cock against your clit and you squirmed. He did it again, taking up a gentle rhythm against you. There was nothing you could do to stop him, nothing you could do at all but cry and beg him not to go through with this. With every protest you uttered, he only seemed urged on more. Slick started to gather between your legs and you hated yourself for it. Bucky just smiled and began to press into you.

His member was thick, stretching you open uncomfortably even with your growing arousal. When he was fully sheathed in you, he threw his head back with a groan.

“I knew your pussy would be amazing but fuck.”

He slammed into you with a hard thrust before doing it again and again until he was ramming into you with abandon. His hips slapped against yours mercilessly and the headboard hit the wall with every thrust. A hand came to close around one breast while his mouth went to the other. With his free hand, he pulled your leg closer around his waist to get better leverage over you.

“Please stop,” you tried again. He pulled off of your nipple and shook his head. In the low light his blue eyes were nearly black and his gaze seemed absolutely feral as he took you.

“Daddy loves hearing you beg, princess. Do it again. Tell me to stop.”

He pressed his face into your skin, giving a low growl before biting your shoulder. You yelped in surprise and he licked the bite mark slowly, sucking a bruise into your skin. After the pain and shock subsided, you tried to ignore the growing feeling inside you. Your breath was ragged as you tried to keep a level head, keep from slipping into—

“Are you gonna cum?” he asked suddenly. You shook your head with silent tears streaking your skin. Bucky slid his thumb into his mouth before bringing the wet appendage down to your clit. As soon as it made contact, your eyes were rolling back.

“I’ll let you cum if you do one thing for me.”

“Stop,” you said weakly. Bucky increased the pressure on your clit and you felt yourself barreling towards an orgasm.

“Beg daddy to let you cum,” he demanded. When you shook your head, his metal hand was almost instantaneously wrapped around your neck.

“Beg daddy to let you cum,” he repeated. The little smirk on his face showed the sadistic pleasure he was taking in this. When his hand began to squeeze around your neck, you were nearly frozen in panic although the tingling in your core was still distracting you.

“Please daddy let me cum,” you begged, humiliated at your situation. Bucky laughed and let up the pressure on your neck, but he kept his hand there. The cold metal on your skin was contrasted with the heat between your legs and Bucky working you towards a shameful release.

“That wasn’t hard, now was it? Cum for me, baby. Squeeze that pretty cunt on my cock.”

Your legs shook uncontrollably as your orgasm took over. Back arched off the bed and moaning wantonly. Bucky seemed pleased at the sight, not stopping his ministrations until you were completely strung out. To your surprise, he pulled out. Cock still hard and leaking. When he started to untie your legs, worry set in.

“Are you letting me go?” It was wishful thinking on your part but you had to ask. Bucky looked at you like you were stupid and gave your now free leg a little pat.

“Daddy loves you but first he has to break you. I’m gonna fuck your pretty ass, sweetheart.”

“No, please! No! I’m not ready, I’ve never—“

“Shh, baby girl. It’s okay. Just calm down,” he said while roughly flipping you over. You flailed around on the bed, kicking your legs but he was able to very quickly subdue you. He roughly opened your legs, once again settling between them. His metal hand slapped your ass before groping you roughly.

“Bucky, please, I’ll suck you off. I’ll do anything. Please don’t do this.”

Bucky chuckled darkly, leaning over you to whisper in your ear.

“Baby, you’re gonna suck my dick later anyway.”

He pulled your hips up, forcing you to arch your back. His metal fingers dipped through your folds, collecting your slick on his hand. He pulled your ass cheeks apart and slid one metal finger through that tight ring of muscle. When you cried out in pain he hushed you.

“Don’t act like nobody’s ever fucked your ass before, slut. I know your holes were like a revolving door before you met me. I saw that vibrator you have. The double penetration one. So I know you like it.”

When he pushed another finger into you, you held tightly to your restraints, gritting your teeth. He pressed into you as far as he could go before finally adding a third finger. Silent tears ran down your face while you laid face down on the mattress.

“How does that feel?” he asked. Your only response was a groan of pain. When he had enough of working your open for him, you felt the head of his cock press against your tight hole. He slid in with some force and you screamed out in pain. It felt like you were being ripped apart. Bucky moaned loudly above you, taking hold of your hips and slowly pressing in further.

“I’m not gonna last long. I’ve never felt anything this tight in my life. It’s like every part of you was made for me.”

He pulled you back against his dick and you sniffed through your tears. You knew there was no use in begging him but you couldn’t stop. You would do anything to stop the pain.

“Please stop, please! It’s hurts so much!”

“Fuck. If you keep begging me like that I’m not going to be able to control myself. I hope you know the tears only make me want to fuck you more. Your ass is so goddamn tight. We’re definitely doing this again.”

Bucky wrapped his metal arm around your waist while the flesh one rested against your back. He held you still while he fucked into you quickly. You clenched your jaw, just wanting it all to be over. His hips stutters in their rhythm and his breath hit your neck in a little gasp. He was close.

“Oh fuck yeah. That’s it. Taking my big cock like a good girl. I’m gonna cum so deep inside you, sweetheart. Has anyone ever cum in your ass?”

You vigorously shook your head.

“You’re a liar, but we’ll work on that.”

Bucky groaned above you and spilled into you, filling you with his warm seed. He pulled out slowly and you winced from the pain. Tears still flowed freely down your face and you laid face down in the sheets. Bucky got off the bed and slapped your ass before leaving and closing the door behind him.

You cried until you were out of tears. The situation you were in was unbelievable but you couldn’t find it in yourself to cry anymore. He said he wanted to break you and he was doing a good job of it so far. You were shaking from the pain and from the cold of the room. Your wrists were sore from being trapped in the same position for hours. Between your legs felt disgusting.

It was impossible to know what was going through his mind. you thought you had parted on good terms. Besides, Bucky had seemed so nice. He just wasn’t right for you. Now at least you knew your instinct was right.

Bucky came down later with a glass of water. He didn’t say anything, just shoved it toward your lips. When you didn’t drink, he grabbed your chin in his hand.

“Open your fucking mouth,” he told you. Fear compelled you to listen. You gulped down the water, finally realizing how thirsty you were. Bucky gave a nod of approval when you were done.

“That should help you sleep.”

Bucky sat next to you in silence, just staring at the wall. As the minutes passed, you could feel your body calming and eyes struggling to stay open. Eventually you couldn’t fight it anymore and fell unconscious.

.....

Masterlist // Chapter 2

A/N New series! Loosely based on my Princess one shot. Sorry, no tags on this one because I have it all written up and scheduled to post. Hope you guys enjoy. Next chapter will be up soon.

#dark!fic #Dark Fic #Bucky Barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky x reader #dark!bucky x you #dark marvel #marvel x reader

282 notes · View notes

suca-loca · 4 years ago

Text

it’s been a long year since we last spoke (how’s your halo?)

Read on Ao3

Words: 11.5k

Tags: Hurt No comfort, Angst, No Happy Ending, No beta we die like Wilbur

Warnings: Body horror, Blood, Death, Suicidal Implications/Thoughts, Mentions Of Torture, Beating/Fighting

Author's Note: I tentatively present you all this fic as my ticket to board the Dream SMP Fandom. I took some creative liberties with this, such as hints of Niki and Wilbur being childhood friends, as well as Niki living near Techno's cabin, and making Niki respawning to restock her hunger bar during her spiraling/villain arc one of her canon deaths. Also, despite Niki wearing a new skin she has stated that her character still wears Wilbur's coat. Just adding that in here so people don't comment that I got her outfit wrong during a certain scene. And finally, even though I feel this is obvious, this is about the characters and not the streamers themselves. With that out of the way, enjoy the fic!

Summary:

"Time down here is like stars, Niki. We're dead, dead for thousands of years, but to them," he points up, "we still shine. It'll take light years for them to realize they are staring at just a memory."

She tries to take a step back, but she's rooted where she stands. "Wilbur," she weeps. "How long have you been down here?"

He laughs.

(There was a time it made Niki's heart stop. It still does, but for different reasons now)

"Eleven years."

Niki covers her mouth to stifle a broken cry.

or; Niki tries, unwillingly may she add, the whole being dead thing. Oh, and Wilbur is there to "help"

The worst part about it is that Niki's whole life doesn't flash before her eyes. It doesn't happen in slow motion and neither is there some comforting, bright light for her to walk towards. It's simply this: one second she's at Church Prime and the next she's falling into pitch blackness.

Then again, she should have known better than to expect any of that dumb cliche stuff 'cause it's not like she died or anything. Not really. Her communicator may say she did, but she knows the truth. She was teleported.

So why does this feel like dying?

foolish girl breaking at the seams from using the same stitching of a burning flag to put yourself back together again. you think the afterlife cares how you arrive? the entry fee is the same for all

She comes in screaming and doesn't stop even when that's all she is anymore. Her body is unrecognizable to her, turned inside out, muscles stretching and bending and snapping in an attempt to mimic the shape she once was.

(She wishes her muscles luck in regressing back into a memory because oh primes, oh dear primes did she try, try again to be the girl wore a white and blue uniform with pride, but that girl only exists now in dreams and sometimes nightmares)

But they can't, for her organs and bones and flesh do not know what it means to not be confined (but they should know, they really should, because she still finds it hard to breath in small spaces ever since Schlatt caged her between iron bars and dirt and Sapnap left her in a hole in the ground over a fish) and so they shake. Convulsing and spasming until she is just sound, just an echo of shrieks that are happening in the past or the present or the future depending on how fast it travels down this tight, narrowed cave she lands in.

Wait, lands in?

She finds herself laying flat on the ground. She blinks. Then does it again for good measure to make sure she's not imaging having eyelids.

She touches her face. Feels the crook of her nose, the curve of her chin, and her soft round ears.

It's all skin. No muscle, no tissue, just her.

Still her.

(For now)

Her body is back. Not whole though - never whole - for she will always be a walking empty space within a solid object, but for now, her body is right. Her body is here. She closes her eyes in relief.

Someone is staring down at her when she opens them again.

"Hello Niki," Wilbur says. "It's been a while."

(It's Doomsday. His name shows up on your communicator and so you become a lit match. The fire eats you away just like the bark of a tree, like the walls of a bakery, two things you once loved most, and you're watching them both burn with his coat over your shoulders, which doesn't help you ignore who you must look like, who you're acting like, whose footsteps you're following in; and doesn't it hurt to know that what's before you isn't just a friend but a reflection?)

She's already scrambling back before she's even fully sat up.

She doesn't get very far, not with the way her wrists twist and bend before finally buckling under the pressure, and she can't find the strength to stand up and run. So all that's left to do is hyperventilate at the way his eyes land on her face, roaming, analyzing, absorbing, trying to read her like a book, unaware she's ripped out the pages long ago. At the way his shadow covers her and maybe once it felt like a blanket, but that time has passed, now all it is is heavy, suffocating, pinning her down. At the way he wears his Pogtopia outfit, pressed and cleaned when the last she saw of it it was covered in ash and black feathers and red, so much red.

But it never comes. In fact, her lungs don't move at all. Almost as if she doesn't need to breathe. As if she hasn't been breathing since she's been down here.

Is that why it was so easy to keep screaming?

"You're not here," she whispers. "Not really."

Wilbur tilts his head to the left.

(Does it in a way a predator would while observing its prey from afar, waiting for the right moment to strike)

"Oh? Where am I then, Niki?"

"My head," Niki responds, practically blurting it out. "Yeah - yeah, that's right. This is just my head playing tricks on me again. A horrible horrible trick, but that's all it is. I - I know it."

Wilbur hums. He sits down as if this will take a while. As if she won't blink and he'll be gone. "Well, that's a damn shame. I was hoping it'd be a beach. Mexican Dream has been talking a lot about La Jolla lately. Sounds like a nice place."

He smiles, suddenly.

(No, not smiles, more like baring his teeth. His very normal teeth that give off the impression that they should be very sharp and very large and very deep in her throat right now)

"Let's hope I don't blow it up."

(Niki is shouting for Wilbur over the chaos when her communicator pings in her pocket. It gets hard to breathe as she reads what it says, and it isn't because every inhale of smoke and pulverized concrete from the tumbling buildings poison her lungs. There's a ringing in her ears, and it isn't because of the TNT that just detonated in front of her. She feels broken, and it isn't because the force of the explosion knocks her back and she skitters across the field, hitting rocks and choking on dirt until she stops on her stomach, limbs bent at weird angles. Her communicator lands right beside her, the screen shattered and static flashing, but she can still catch glimpses of what is on the screen, as clear as day, like a taunt: WilburSoot was slain by Ph1lza)

Niki scrambles to her feet, presses herself as much as she can against the walls, and maybe, just maybe, she'll glitch and go through it and suffocate in a block.

She immediately throws herself away from it when she realizes what she just thought.

Wilbur stands with her. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding," he says. "I thought it would lighten up the mood. So, how are you?"

"How am I?" Niki echoes. "I'm imagining my dead best friend even though I thought I was getting better and I could have sworn I was, I was I swear I was, and this place, this place, I don't know where this is but it, it just feels - I don't even know why - so familiar and so - "

She pauses.

She looks around.

She was so busy panicking from Wilbur's presence that she never took in her surroundings. She stares at the smooth stone walls, the occasional hanging vines, the little aquarium in the corner right next to the entrance, and, finally, the stand. The stand with two signs on the front that read -

No. It can't be. It just can't.

She won't believe it until she's seen the whole thing.

She walks further in, each step hesitant.

And she notices the way everything around her seems so devoid of life. Almost colorless. Close to numb. She thinks it's her body shutting down, the stress finally getting to her, but no. This is worse. Something's going on. She doesn't know what it is exactly, but she knows it isn't her that's wrong here.

(This time)

Wilbur follows closely behind and, as if to prove her point, his footsteps sound muffled, distant, apart from him, like in the way you hear something underwater.

Maybe she is underwater because everything is getting blurry and her face feels wet.

(Or maybe the better comparison is like hearing something behind glass. She's been tapping against the window of a caravan for months as men in suits discuss a country she bled for just as much as them, if not more, without her. The tapping turns to banging, but it is not the glass that shatters. Not the glass that breaks)

She stills as she catches sight of the small wheat farm in the back room, dried and frail and unkempt.

(Like a flower shop)

It really is her bakery.

"No," she mumbles. Then, more stern, as if it'll blow this place away, as Wilbur should have done the first time. "No no no no this can't… this can't be true. I, I shouldn't be here I - it doesn't make any sense, how how how - "

She whirls on Wilbur, the tears coming in waves now. "What are you doing to me?"

(It's his fault she's back here. It has to be, he's the reason you wanted to burn the memories why this is all gone why this should be gone why isn't this gone gone gone gone)

foolish girl who has become like the nation she despises, you are a crater, there is a hole inside of you where a soul once was and it was caused by your own hands because the only destruction you're good at is your own. you couldn't even kill a child with a nuke, so what makes you think you can end a small room on the side of some hill?

"What do you see?" Wilbur says, and the voice in her head disappears. She can't remember what it said. She shakes her head as if the words will fall out her ears.

Suddenly she can't remember why she's shaking her head.

Her next words come out frail.

"My… my bakery. But how? This shouldn't be possible I, I destroyed it - I - "

"Limbo is different for everybody," Wilbur interjects. "For me, it's a train station."

"Limbo? What are you talking about? What is going on? I was nowhere near L'manburg I was - " Niki's mind blanks.

(Smooth quartz all around her and she feels safe there, that she remembers because there is no killing here, the one place bloodshed does not haunt her, and then crushing disappointment that turns into actual crushing as her body gets shredded, mangled, undone like a ribbon except it does not look pretty)

Wilbur gives her a slicing smile. It cuts her down. "This is the afterlife, Niki."

She blinks. She tries to take a step back, but she's rooted to the spot. "What?"

"The afterlife," he continues, eyes sparkling. "Hell. The void. Eternal darkness. Whatever you wanna call it. I call it home."

"Home?" She repeats, shakily.

foolish girl with no place, no one to call home because she's an expert at finding comfort in things that don't stay, of course he sees this place as home. Although if he really wanted to surround himself in emptiness so bad then he just needed to wait a few months for you to become just that

"I'm not dead," she mutters. She attempts to laugh, because if she laughs then this will sound like a joke. Wilbur would joke about such a thing. After all, he poked fun at exploding L'manburg just a while ago. So of course this is a joke. It has to be. It is, and she will not allow her breakdown to be the punchline.

At Wilbur's unflinching smile she says it again, with more conviction. "I'm not!"

"How else do you think you're talking to me? How your bakery is still in one piece? Sorry to be your grim reaper Niki, but you're dead. And now you're here, in the afterlife, with me!" He leans in close, close enough that she should feel his breath on her.

There is nothing. He is nothing.

(And maybe, so is she)

"Isn't that great? We're together again! You and me, just like the old days. And look," His eyes glance at what she wears. It's the coat. Specifically, Wilbur's coat, wrapped around her shoulders.

"We're even matching," he coos.

She thinks she might scream.

She throws herself away from him, almost throws the coat too, but into the furnace next to her.

('I gotta burn the memories I need to destroy it I need to destroy it I need to destroy it,' she once screamed to no one but herself. History repeats itself)

How she ever found comfort in this ratty, old coat she'll never know. And she'll never care to find out. Not when Wilbur is acting like this, like before, like a loose city wire, all dangerous and unpredictable, each word an electric spark, and Niki is trying not to get stung. She remembers how that story ended.

But her's will not end. Not yet.

"I can't be dead," she argues. "I don't remember that I would remember something like that so I - I can't be dead, and I have two lives left so, no, no I can't be I'm alive I'm alive I'm alive and I'm in bed I'm alive I'm alive I'm alive and you're not real, just a nightmare. I'm alive I'm alive I'm - "

"It's really me, Niki," Wilbur says, and the fire from the furnace roars in response as if his words fan the flames. It's the first time something in this wicked place has felt alive. "In the flesh. Or, rather, a close imitation of it. I think my corpse must have liquified by now, swelling up for months before bursting open, leaving nothing but a skeleton behind. What about you? What did you leave for them to find?"

She covers her ears. "Stop! Stop it stop it stop it!"

"Remember it. Remember your last moments."

"Wilbur, please - "

"Feel your wrist," he says. No, orders. And she does. Because she, at her core, is still his soldier.

(She says that she is loyal to him and he responds by saying he wants her to be loyal to L'manburg. She remembers being confused, for she saw them both as the same. Wilbur is L'manburg and L'manburg is Wilbur, one cannot coexist without the other. A few months later, amongst the wreckage of her nation and a father's anguished screams, she'll realize too little too late how true her statement holds)

She doesn't find her heartbeat.

For a second she thinks she made a mistake. That she has her fingers in the wrong place, but no. A soldier knows where to look for life so that they may snuff it out. She can't be making a mistake.

Still, she presses her fingers down, harder this time, nails first, that blood draws, and sobs as she's still met with nothing.

She has no heartbeat.

She is dead.

She chokes. She clutches her chest, not because it hurts to know what she lacks in her chest, but because she remembers. Remembers it so intently, remembers it happening in the snap of a finger, literally, from a smiling God (and maybe it is quite a fitting end, for she goes out the same way she lived, giving second chances to men who don't deserve it) and how the world tilted as the ground slipped away.

But what's worse is the realization that comes after.

"I didn't leave anyone anything to find," she says.

Wilbur raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"I didn't leave anyone anything to find because I didn't die," she says again, but weaker. More horrified. "I was teleported. I was on the holy lands when - "

"Teleported?' Wilbur interrupts. His features, just a second ago, eccentric and mad, turn curious. "Wait wait wait, hold on a second, are you telling me you were sent to Hell, Hell, on the fucking Holy Lands? "

Niki weakly nods.

It goes silent.

Suddenly, a snort. A snort that does not sound like it once did, back before the war for independence, before the election, before banishment, before it all, when all there was was a caravan and the worst of their worries was getting Sapnap a vegan hotdog. It's meaner, more shrill, and laced with a madness that seems to roll off his tongue so easily nowadays.

If she weren't watching how hard Wilbur's shoulders shake she'd have never guessed such a sound would come from him.

But there's something else about this snort that chills her to the core. Although she never could have imagined it coming from Wilbur doesn't mean she hasn't heard this kind of laugh before.

It's almost breathless, almost like something left on a stove, steaming, almost like the sound of -

(Dream and Wilbur worked together, both wanted L'manburg gone, both almost killed a kid, both cut off attachments, both lost trust in others, all things Niki has done too, and if Niki is like Wilbur and Wilbur is like Dream then that means - )

(No. Please, no)

"That is -," Wilbur wheezes, wiping away a tear. "That is horribly ironic."

"DreamXD!" She shouts, head tilted up. "Take me back! Take me back right now!"

Wilbur shakes his head. "Oh, no need to try that. I've been there. The whole shouting for help thing? Yeah, will do you no good. No one can hear you down here."

"DreamXD! I'm here!"

"Scream all you want, prime knows you don't need to breathe down here so nothing's stopping you from doing it for forever, but when your screams are all you hear for eternity… well, it'll drive any person mad."

"DreamXD," she shrieks. And her lungs don't shake, don't even give a small quiver, she knows it. Nothing in her does, for the gears don't need to be turning to keep this machine of a body that's been on autopilot since an explosion knocked her off her feet alive anymore. "Please!"

"You stop talking after a few years of just endless screaming for your voice becomes a reminder of your entrapment. But then the silence itself, after a few years, is unbearable. Yet you don't dare speak or make any noise, so it's just madness of a new kind."

She pushes her way past him and makes her way to the exit of her bakery. "I - I liked the magic trick, DreamXD! I really did! You - you can teleport me back now!"

"Too scared to make a noise, but too scared to keep quiet. So you stand still. Your body deteriorates, muscles numb from lack of use, and all you do is use your nails to scratch marks onto the walls to mark how many years have passed since… since absolutely nothing."

She stills. She slowly turns around.

(L'manburg is surrounded by a wall. A wall so mighty and tall she never thought she'd see the day it'd be torn down, much less by its own inhabitants. But this wall right here, the one between her and this old friend, this is a wall that will never meet the same end as its predecessor)

"Wilbur," she whispers. "What do you mean by years?"

Silence.

Wilbur has a far-away look in his eye.

(That look was born in a dirt hole on the side of a small hill and Niki doesn't learn that lesson for she builds her bakery in a similar place. Two places, so small, so cramped, started with hope, have become their worst downfalls, their unfinished symphonies. She parallels him in all the wrong ways)

She tries to take a step back, but she's rooted where she stands. "Wilbur," she weeps. "How long have you been down here?"

He laughs.

(There was a time it made Niki's heart stop. It still does, but for different reasons now)

"Eleven years."

Niki covers her mouth to stifle a broken cry. She was paralyzed before but now, with fear pumping through her veins, she runs. Fear is a more dependent motivator than strength or bravery could ever be, for fear, unlike any other heroic emotion, can't be beaten out of you. Can't be threatened out of you by a friend on your birthday as you try to stop him from pressing a button. Fear only grows, like a weed, you can try to get rid of it all you want, but it multiplies the more you struggle.

She finally gets to the exit, nearly throwing herself at it, only to find a stone wall staring back at her. It's been cemented shut.

She's trapped.

(She is in a cage, a zoo animal for Manburg citizens to point and laugh at. It is cramped, it is humiliating, and it is her home, her everything in wake of becoming nothing to people she once considered friends, Schlatt tells her. Until Quackity frees her. But there is no one to free her now. Except herself)

She pulls up her sleeves and begins mining with her bare hands.

She's been torn apart before, but at least it was quick. This, the way her flesh slowly peels off at each scratch is its own kind of torture. Not because it's painful, but the torture in knowing what you're willing to do to yourself just to see the sky again.

She keeps going.

(She does not throw up at the sight of chunks of flesh dangling where nail once was because she is a soldier and she has seen worse. Seen a child trapped in a box screaming for help and she's unfortunate enough to have a seat in the splash zone. Helped patch up Ponk's wound where his arm should be, afraid she might lose him to blood loss because whoever chopped his arm off didn't cut across the joint to avoid the bone and therefore had to hack again and again and again to get through the bone. Sewed Fundy's head back together from when Schlatt beat him over the scalp with a beer bottle before dying in the caravan; it took a couple of hours to finish because his fur made it hard to spot the bits of glass sticking out his skin. This is not the first or last time she will wash blood off her clothes, she just has to hope it will continue to be someone else's and not her own)

Wilbur comes up beside her. He doesn't even try to stop her, much less flinch at all the red on the wall. "Don't worry, you'll get used to it. Tommy did."

She snaps her head to him, her clawing ceasing. "Tommy was here?"

He nods. "Arrived a few years ago. I have to admit, when a space opened up here I thought it would be him again, not you. Not that I'm complaining. Don't get me wrong he's a good kid but, well, you know how Tommy gets."

(Everyone you've ever hated, everyone you've ever sworn to end; Schlatt, Tommy, and although you do not hate Wilbur or Jack you're relationship with them is complicated because they remind you of when you spiraled, you lot are all connected now, bound together from sharing the similar experience of death. She can never separate herself from them. Will be rever grouped in with the people she can't stand most)

"How long was Tommy here for?" She asks softly.

Wilbur clicks his tongue. "Two months I think."

She closes her eyes.

(She wanted to look deep into the crater Tubbo's nuke made and confuse Tommy's charcoal, burnt body for obsidian. She wanted to catch Tommy's choked last breaths in a bottle and get drunk on it every night. She wanted to leave spruce wood on his grave as a sort of flag marking her latest conquest. She wanted to stop thinking that if Wilbur was wrong for believing in Tommy then that means he might have been wrong for believing in her)

She doesn't want Tommy dead anymore and although they're still not friends even she wouldn't wish this on him.

"Two months," she says, and it sinks in.

Is that how long she'll have to wait until someone comes looking for her?

That is if someone even cares to look.

(Puffy doesn't respond to any of her messages after their first date. She turns Jack away when he tries to pull her back into the obsession of caving Tommy's head in. Everyone grieving L'manburg remembers her setting L'mantree aflame. Anyone in the Eggpire is too far gone to even care about themselves. She doesn't have a Tubbo. Isn't anyone's disk. She's just Niki, forgotten, ignored Niki, the first ghost of the server before Ghostbur. Why spare a glance at someone transparent? Someone, not all there?)

No one will come for her.

Wilbur cracks his fingers, and Niki winces, for her bones are still on flesh display and slowly repairing. "Well, now that we've played twenty questions let's move on to a new game. You up for some solitaire?"

She rises to her feet and numbly nods. She might as well have something to do to, to try and prevent the inevitable insanity with a card game.

Might as well accept her fate.

Wilbur reaches into his pocket and pulls out the cards. He sits down on the ground. "Sorry," he says. "I'd offer we play on a table but there are no tables in a train station and I doubt your bakery has one either." He hands her half of the deck. "Help me set it up."

But Niki doesn't take them, for she's focused on the word table because -

(There's a table, a weird table, made up of this block she's never seen before. It's sponge-like, with a hole on top decorated by a blueish-green frame, and she's about to ask where they found it when Phil suddenly apologizes for exploding her bakery. At her shocked expression, he explains he'd like to air out all possible tensions before starting their first-ever official Syndicate meeting so that no past grievances keep them from working as an effective team. Techno merely snorts, saying it's not their fault her bakery was on government land, and Phil responds by shooting him a glare fit for his title as Angel of Death. She'd have laughed, she'd have cried because such a look was once how Phil got Wil to eat his vegetables if it weren't for the fact she tells them they have nothing to apologize for. Tells them she left the oven on the day before the attack and by next sunrise, it was already burnt to the ground. Ranboo doesn't blink once from where he sits across from her as she talks. She sees in his eyes that day, how her laughs and her wails blend in with the chaos around her, as if it belongs there, as if she is one with it. And maybe she is, for the fire that consumes her bakery grows and grows and grows but Niki just gets smaller and smaller and smaller as if she has to sacrifice bits of herself to keep the fire going. Perhaps she is, for every monster requires an offering, and her bakery is that. A representative of the old her burning alive to make room for the new, merciless, unhinged her. Good. She looks down at the flint and steel in her hand and in the reflection of the metal she sees a boy with mismatched eyes standing behind her, staring. And then he takes out his book and writes. It feels like Ranboo has placed a noose around her neck. The memory fades and she holds her breath. She waits for him to say something, to call out her lie. This time, Ranboo undoes the knot. He looks away)

Because she needs to tell Ranboo she appreciated his silence that day. Needs to joke about how all this snow reminds her of an ice cream shop and watch Ranboo nervously laugh as she lightheartedly punches him on the shoulder.

Because she needs to know how that story Phil was telling her about his adventures with Techno on another server, something about an Antarctic Empire, ends. Needs to feed the crows with him to make sure he doesn't stare at their wings for too long.

Because she needs to braid Techno's hair one last time while they talk about how pink is clearly the superior hair color. Needs to thank Techno for giving her these becauses, for they wouldn't exist in the first place had he not offered her a place in the Syndicate.

Ironically enough, she always knew she'd die before she could give back all that she owed them. But only because what she owed them was too long a list, too difficult to be expressed in any way that captured what they deserved.

(Somewhere, in a snow biome, there is a family. They're different from each other, too different at times, and yet Ranboo and Techno could wear each other crowns, each fitting perfectly on their heads and no one would know of the switch, except for Phil of course. Right now they're probably looking at their comms around the dinner table, confused by the last message. 'Nihachu fell from a high place.' They aren't worried. Not yet. But in a couple of days, months for her, they'll start to pace. Phil will stand at the edge of the roof, ready to step off, only to remember he doesn't have wings, can't look for her high up in the sky like he used to when she was a kid. Ranboo will force himself through experiments, lose sleep, break himself in, trying to learn how to teleport so as to cover ground faster in the search, to do more than just let his powers go to waste when they could be what brings her home. Techno will grab her rainbow sweater and put it to Steve's snout, but the trail will go cold every time until eventually all of Niki's clothes don't smell like her anymore. They'll do this every day. Nothing will change but their hope, dwindling away each day. So will they just stare at that last message, her unintentional goodbye, looking for some sort of explanation? For some secret message? Some coordinates until they go mad? They won't think she's dead until they've found a body. Won't stop looking, won't leave a corner of the server untouched. Won't stop till they have something to bury)

She can't do that to them.

She slaps the cards out of Wilbur's hands.

"No," she growls, trying to sound tough and less like a kid throwing a tantrum. Perhaps slapping the cards away was not the best start. "I am not going to waste my time playing Solitaire when I could be spending it finding a way back home. And I will if it's the last thing I do."

Wilbur frowns. Niki has the inkling suspicion it has more to do with the cards being all scattered about than from her declaration. "There is no 'last thing I do anymore.' You dying was the last thing you'll ever do. All you have now is this. This is your forever. Our forever."

She turns away from him, just for a second. Away from the sight of his furrowed brows and the crinkles in the space between them where her index finger would go to poke as she teased him. Away from the scrunch of his nose she would joke made him and Techno finally look like twins. Because despite everything, despite all the months that have settled into their bones since the last they saw each other and the wars they've fought on land and in their minds, it's still Wilbur's face. But only in the physical sense. After that, he stops being her Wilbur.

This would be so much easier if his face had physically morphed into a stranger, to prove to her how much he's changed, what he's become over the months, is not all in her head.

Somehow, she finds a way to start.

"You know, not too long ago I'd have stayed with you here. I wouldn't have even put up a fight. I'd have just laid down, closed my eyes, and let the vines on these walls grow over my body until I was just moss. I was… I was so tired, Wilbur. A part of me always will be. I understood. I finally got why you acted the way you did. There was a time I was on half a heart and instead of eating I would - "

Her body begins to shake so hard she almost expects to look down and she cracks in the ground from an incoming earthquake. The only cracks see she's are her own.

She can't say it. Not like that. Not yet.

" - I would respawn to restock the hunger bar," Niki chokes out instead.

(She respawns with dried blood on the back of her head and bones still rattling from the fall. Along her jutting spine, in an almost perfectly straight line that could be confused for an unkempt path lost to weeds and drought, are bruises. She doesn't feel them. All she feels is the urge to do it again)

She blinks and her hand is in her hair, looking for the bump. She pulls her hand away as if it's a hot furnace. "But I can't stay. Things have changed. I've changed. This is not the first time something dark has tried to consume me, but I can't let it win this time. I can't let this place turn me numb and unhinged, or worse, content. Not when I have people to go home to. Not when - "

She looks down at her hand, the one that traced her scalp, and sees it has clenched into a fist.

(At the count of three, Niki throws rock. She groans as she notices all the other hands make paper. Ranboo and Techno exhale as if the losing sentence wasn't shoveling the front lawn, but death. Or worse, going shopping with Phil for a refrigerator to put in the Syndicate meeting room. Ranboo lost that one. Niki points at Techno's hooves and says it's cheating since they can't ever tell which shape he chooses. She demands a rematch with the same tone one uses to declare war. A few minutes later, they're shouting, going over the rules of rock, paper, scissors, and they only stop when Phil comes home and pulls out the dad voice. They begrudgingly agree to do a rematch another time, once they've cooled down. That was yesterday)

She holds her fist close to her heart. The hand was never her rock, it was always three men in a snowy cabin, handing her a mug of hot cocoa. "Not when I have a lawn to shovel."

Silence.

Then, Wilbur sighs. "You know," he says. He places his arms behind him and leans back to get a better look at her. Somehow, even on the ground, he looks to hold all the power. "Years ago your determination would have been a sight for sore eyes, but here's a reality check. I've been here for almost a dozen years. Eleven years of letting the passing train rip right through me in the hopes it would send me to another layer of hell or maybe propel, heck, even drag my body to the next station. But every time I'd wake up back in the train station as if nothing had happened. Like my body breaking under the wheels was nothing."

He is an avalanche, growing and picking up speed with each word, and Niki realizes, too little too late, she's about to be buried alive. She tries to step back, but Wilbur is up quick and approaching. "There is no escape. The limbo is our stage and we have our lines, our cues, but we do not have a curtain call. We just keep going and going, an endless loop. You can't not play your part. It won't let you."

"I have to at least try," she says.

"Why? What's the point? They'll never know you tried."

Her fear turns to disgust. "Is that why you think I'll try? For the sole reason that one day they'll know what I've done for them? That's far from the truth."

(People built statues of Tommy, for all he's done, for all the influence he had on this server. Niki knows they will not give her the same treatment. But that's fine, more than fine. All she needs is a grave in the snow, beside a little cabin)

She didn't want to look at Wilbur's face before, but now, glaring at him straight on, all she sees staring back is Phil.

The day they found out Wilbur didn't inherit Phil's immortality was the day Phil looked like he should, centuries-old instead of thirty-three, the age when angels stop physically aging. Niki will never forget how deep the lines on Phil's face ran. They might as well have been cracks. And maybe it was, for Phil was breaking as he held his dying son - not dying now, but for an immortal, every second a mortal breathes is just inevitable death - in his arms.

But what still haunts Niki the most after all these years are his eyes. They carried the weight of the world in them. She could feel it, even now, pressing down on her shoulders. All the wars, the fall of cities, the birth of them, children with big smiles and even bigger graves.

Niki was not a soldier yet. She was just a nine-year-old girl who wanted to sleep over at her best friend's house.

She threw up in their sink and they mistook it as her reaction to the news. She didn't correct them.

The only reason she slept easy that night was from the knowledge she would never see those eyes on Wilbur's face. And yet, lo and behold, here it is, like a punch to the gut.

Except now, Niki has had time to numb herself to it. It's hard to get surprised by such a dead look when it's on the face of your roommate.

(Phil's screech - no, not a screech, a caw, high pitched and grief-stricken - is like an alarm clock. Except, instead of Niki waking up to the rising sun outside her window, it's to moonlight and blinking stars. This is the fifth time this month she's met Ranboo and Techno outside Phil's cabin, armed to the teeth, ready for war. The door creaks open, loudly, but they don't wince, for they know it won't wake him. Nothing really does when he's in this state, except for one thing. Techno holds him down and it's weird, will always be weird, to see Techno use such force, such retaliation, on Phil of all people, and then Phil nearly throws Techno through the wall with just a brush of his fingers, and she remembers it's necessary. This isn't Phil they're dealing with, it's the Angel of Death. It takes a while until Techno can get all of the Angel's limbs down, but even then they know it won't last long, and that's when Niki throws a slowness potion on him. Ranboo, meanwhile, turns around all the photos of Wilbur in the room, a safe distance away. They told him it's best he handles that since he's built like a stick, putting him anywhere near a powerful avian would be an accident waiting to happen. It definitely has nothing to do with them freezing up whenever they see Wilbur's smiling face, all happy, and so very alive. Phil's movements turn sluggish as the potion kicks in and Niki holds his face, murmurs soft words, and Techno gives his own weird, but comforting, comments. Something about how Phil can't afford to lose sleeping beauty to these night terrors, what with his old age. Niki snorts. Phil's eyes open immediately. Phil sucks in a sharp breath, like he's forgotten how to breathe, his fist clenching and unclenching. The eyes are back. Based on Techno's face Niki knows then she's not the only person that has seen them. They look at each other, nod, and hold him as he cries. They don't need to ask. There's only one person that could cause such a look. They force Ranboo, who is awkwardly standing to the side, to join. Eventually, they break apart, and Techno coughs. He says he hates them for making this all emotional and bans such an awkward event from ever happening again. And yet, when Phil keeps waking up with eyes too dark around the corners, Techno is there. And so is she and Ranboo)

She will not be the reason Phil's eyes age another year.

"It's about Phil, Techno, and Ranboo deserving someone who will never stop trying to find their way back to them," she says, with conviction. "I'm sorry you're too twisted to see not all actions stem from reward or acknowledgment."

She expects a laugh, a glimpse at his forked tongue spewing words so sweet she could use them as sugar in her desserts, only to take a bite and realize it was salt all along. But what she gets is silence. The type of silence before a storm.

"Phil?" Wilbur whispers.

Niki closes her eyes.

She should have never said their names.

She also should have never opened her eyes again, because Wilbur is looking more like Phil each second. Not because of the eyes. No, worse. Because she sees a boy, a boy with his arms spread open wide and flapping about in an attempt at mimicking his father's wings, and they're both running around in circles in the backyard as he tells her how she'll never have to walk anywhere ever again. He'll carry her when she's tired, when she's not tired, whenever she wants wherever she wants. They stop running around in circles flapping their arms when too much time has passed and his wings still haven't grown in, but the acceptance that it never would did.

She blinks and the memory is gone. Slipping through her fingers like sand.

"How is he?" Wilbur says. His voice wavers a bit. He hides it quickly with a cough, but Niki catches it. Niki thought she always would.

(But then a button was pressed and she realized just how untrue that was)

Niki hesitates. She thinks about the night terrors again. She almost mentions them but falters as she remembers Ranboo telling her how it was Phil who gave him a place to stay after L'manburg was blown up for the last time. How as Technoblade hibernates there's a blanket over his shoulders that wasn't there before and a stick missing from the fireplace. How he always places Niki's plate of breakfast down before the others, as if he knows of her first canon death.

He is a kind man, but that is not why he does these things.

"He misses being a father," she settles on.

Wilbur's shoulders slump. Somewhere, in a different life, Niki's hand is there, squeezing comfortingly. "Is he… is he mad at me?"

"No." She answers quickly. "He's just tired, Wilbur. We all are."

Wilbur laughs. It sounds defeated. Mournful. "Understatement of the fucking year."

He slumps against the wall and Niki is sure it's the only thing keeping Wilbur on his feet. His head hits the smooth stone when he suddenly throws his head back and laughs. Niki doesn't know if she winces from the loud crack the impact makes or from the shrill, unhinged laugh.

"I told him to kill me," Wilbur chuckles. His eyes are blinking rapidly. "I told him to fucking kill me."

(The diamond sword has collected dust. Sometimes, everyone jokes, Phil looks like he has to. Playful teasing about how he's a walking antique that should be displayed in a museum. Phil always laughs them off. But it's moments when he stands too still, alone in his thoughts for too long, that Niki wants to put him behind glass with signs that say 'do not touch,' because all it takes is one gust of wind for an artifact to shatter. But that is no way to live and Phil is not so easily breakable. Worn down a bit, rusted from the loss throughout the eons, yes - who hasn't on this forsaken server? - but not breakable)

Niki thinks she might throw up. "I know."

Wilbur looks at her. His eyes are red, but there are no tears. "You said you understood me. You get why I had to ask him to do it."

"Wilbur - "

" - And so you also understand why you have to stay here."

"What?"

"We've changed Niki," Wilbur starts. "For the worse. Don't you feel it? How that server has destroyed every cell in our body? A slow painful death eating us from the inside out until we've just withered away into someone new, someone unrecognizable?"

(Niki feels she's in a never-ending house of mirrors. Constantly encircled by reflections that are her and not her staring back, each representing different points in her life. Some are unrecognizable, stretched, or squished beyond identification, like a fuzzy memory of a girl carrying a backpack, skipping down a path she was told by a best friend would lead to a nation with yellow and black walls. Some are too terrifying, demonizing her features, giving her slits for eyes and claws for nails holding flint and steel over TNT. All of them she wants to smash)

Wilbur either ignores the horrified expression on her face or doesn't see it. "We killed our old selves as a sacrifice, an offering, to the monster we saw lurking in the edges of our mind. And once you let the monster in there's no going back. All we know from then on is to destroy, to rip apart all we once held dear with no remorse until there's just ash and dust. We thrive, no, revel in it."

(Nemesis, she names herself. Goddess of divine retribution and revenge. Maybe that's who Niki sacrifices herself to. Why she felt such an attachment to the name. A remorseless Goddess said to have led Narcissus to a pool, knowing full well he'd be too captivated to leave his reflection for food or warmth. He died there. It's no coincidence a few weeks before she lived the story herself, leading Tommy to his death in the form of a hot blast of air at the speed of light and seeing it as justice)

"I'm not having this conversation with you," she says, voice shaking. She whirls around, nearly tripping over her feet, fully willing to ignore him as she looks for an exit.

But his next words make her go still.

"Phil didn't know what I'd become. That's why he had to be the one to do it."

She winces. "Don't."

"He didn't even pull out the sword, his arms were too busy holding me, holding me, as if the shape of me still fit against his chest even though I felt so hollow, so much thinner - "

"Wilbur - "

" - he stroked my hair too. Even though it was dirty and unkempt and a mess like everything else about me and I'm pretty sure his fingers got stuck a few times he just wouldn't stop untangling each knot with such care and precision that I remembered my last thought being - "

"Wilbur - "

" - could he have brushed away all the knots and twists in my soul like this? Cleaned me up on the inside like he's doing on the outside? I thought I went crying, Niki. Maybe I did. I'll never know because all I felt was his tears ricocheting on my face - "

"Stop - "

" - he tries to wipe them off. He's cursing at himself, apologizing profusely through hiccuping sobs and, and I don't understand why he's so sorry when it feels like, like when he'd lick his fingers and scrub the grimes of our faces after we played outside too long. Do you remember that Niki - "

"I don't wanna - "

" - because I do. We'd screech so loud, saying it was disgusting and unsanitary as we slapped his hand away and ran, but he'd always catch us a second later because of his wings. I don't wanna run away this time. I'm relishing it, craving every stroke because I'm starting to go cold - "

"Please - "

" - and I wish you weren't teleported here. I wish you had died instead - "

"Wil - "

" - so you would know, so we could relate to what it feels like for the limbo to claim you. To mark you. It's like, it's like being mutilated over and over again. A mallet to your bones, a hole in your brain, everything from your skin to your tendons unraveling before you - "

"Wil listen - "

" - spilling out and about like confetti, and you, you are confetti! You're shredded pieces, everywhere and nowhere all at once, and just as the mangling begins it stops, replaced by the limbo trying to put you, no, force you back together again. It's the same sensation, but in reverse, almost a loop, a tunnel with no light at the end, and all you can do is scream - "

"WILBUR SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO ME!"

Something shatters

Wilbur falls silent.

Niki looks down. There is a puddle, slowly growing at her feet. She looks to her left. Her hand has punched through the aquarium. Blood trickles down her hand, some get over the glass. She doesn't pull her hand away.

"You never listen," she mumbles, but it seems so loud to her ears. "No one does. No one wants to. I talk and I talk and I talk and yet no response. Not even from the wind. I am a voice box stuck on rewind, repeating myself as life moves on without me."

Niki can hear her voice ring down the bakery, bouncing around with nowhere to settle. Until it does, in Niki's chest, rattling, crackling like a fuse has been lit, and perhaps it has, for her anger feels sizzling. "You used to always say how words were powerful. How they could stop wars, how they could build nations." She lets out a laugh. It burns her throat. "But what would I know?! You and everyone else never gave me a chance to use my voice! Always talking over me whatever chance you could. Even before Pogtopia you walked all over me! Even when I was screaming at top of my lungs you'd - "

She gasps. The glass presses deeper into her skin as her hand trembles. She does not feel it. "Oh primes, oh primes Wil, didn't you hear my screams? I came here screaming, Wil. I, I do know what it feels like for the void to take you. I still feel it, even now, why, why do I still feel it - "

Wilbur staggers to his feet, so quick he promptly falls. He catches himself halfway on Niki's wrist.

His hand scratches on the glass. He doesn't even flinch. Their blood mixes.

(They are one)

He doesn't even grip too tight, and yet it hurts. Stings. "You do understand," he grins. Wide, too wide for his face, that she almost expects his nose and eyes to sink into his skin to make more room. "You do, you do oh thank primes. I'm not alone in this. I've been alone for so long but now, now you're here and you understand! Oh, Niki, I'm so happy you're here."

"You're… happy, I'm here?" She mutters. "You're happy I'm dead?"

He nods frantically. "It's more than that Niki," he says. "DreamXD, whoever that man is, he's my hero for sending you here."

(Parallels between Wilbur and Dream and her and now Wilbur and Dream and DreamXD no no no she can't be them she can't she can't she won't she won't - )

"You don't mean it," she cries. "You don't mean that Wil. Say you don't mean it."

The grin, somehow, becomes wider. She realizes then his eyes don't have to disappear. They're already gone. Replaced by a black hole, too dark in the corners and its gravitational pull making it hard to look away even though she knows staring at it too long will get her sucked into an endless void.

He leans in close like he's sharing a secret. "I only wish he had sent you here sooner."

(Wilbur's life, Niki is realizing, is like a house of mirrors too. Except Wilbur has smashed every mirror. No, actually, not true. Niki sees, if she squints, that Wilbur has abandoned the sledgehammer and is observing a still intact mirror. He didn't keep the mirror depicting a little boy sitting on the steps of a home, their home, trying to play a song and failing because the guitar is too big for his body, but he refuses to buy a smaller one because "this is my Dad's guitar Niki! So, therefore, it's by default the best guitar in the world". Or the one of a father panting heavily on a couch, cursing his human legs while Niki is doubled over laughing because there is a baby fox is running on all fours around the house at 45 miles per hour who doesn't want to be put to bed. Nor the one of a leader, handing out purpose and meaning in the form of a blue and white uniform with a soft smile. No, it's the one of a man who's just pressed a button. Who long before L'manburg's destruction, always felt like he was breathing in smoke, but now kept warm by the ash and dust of his nation flying up to the red sky, it feels - for the first time in a long time - easier to breathe. Niki can't believe he didn't destroy it. He's… preserving it. Why is he preserving this version of himself of all things?)

foolish girl with dreams for a better nation, better server, better future, too much better somethings, you've ruined reality for no one but yourself. think for once about what is and not what was or could have been. he is different. changed for the worse. he's preserving it because he doesn't care about you. can't you see how happy he is over your death? how there's light in his eyes for the first time over yours being snuffed out? how he shows no sympathy in your entrapment here, forever away from Techno, Phil, and Ranboo because it benefits him. so give in and fight fight fight fight

She sees red.

Her fist collides with Wilbur's nose.

She doesn't even wait to hear the crack before she's already reeling back her arm for the next hit.

This time she aims for the jaw. She feels something split. It could be Wilbur's lip or bone. Maybe her mind. She doesn't know and she doesn't care.

What she does know is how familiar this is, having something break under her knuckles. It's easy, familiar even, throwing punch after punch, like some sort of autopilot response. Perhaps it is, for every punch is instinctive, out of body almost. No longer is there a before in the blows, only an after.

Except, that's not true. Not entirely. Because Niki is realizing why there is no before. Because before each blow there is always a struggle from your opponent. Flailing limbs trying to make contact with something, choked wheezes, an attempt to curl into a ball, and, sometimes, begging.

Wilbur does none of that. He's silent the whole time.

It's almost like he takes it willingly.

clever girl with hands too bruised, too scarred, too violent to ever be held so gently. a finger trained to pull the trigger is not meant to bear a promise ring. who's fault do you think that is? you've held back for so long, don't stop now. so give in and get revenge revenge revenge revenge

A swing at his eye. A swift kick to the ribs. A fistful of his hair so tight she could yank his scalp off if she twisted her wrist just so.

It's all a flurry of movements really, too fast for even her own eyes to catch. Half of the time she's lost on where the hits land, totally dependent on wherever the blood leaks the most and the bruises that weren't there a second ago to tell her. Eventually, the damage starts to blur, too much of his face has swelled up to spot any new marks and too many limbs bend at weird angles to differentiate what is and isn't broken, so she stops trying to guess.

Which is why she doesn't know which strike finally gets Wilbur to fall, all she knows is that he does. He doesn't even sway. One second he's on his feet and the next he's on his back.

It's kinda pathetic really, that this was her general.

For a second he's still, too still, and then he spits out a tooth. He licks his gums with a grimace, looking for the gap before finally speaking.

"I see Technoblade's been training you. Do you feel better now?"

clever girl who's seen her fair share of men with livewire tongues, spitting rogue sparks at your skin in the form of harsh words to quiet you down. do not be silenced once more. you let him speak before and it cost you a nation. this time silence him, and I will secure you a limbo without him. so give in and maim maim maim maim

She screams. She thinks she does. It's hard to tell over the deep reverberated banging of Wilbur's head against the stone floor.

The first slam simply causes blood to trickle down his forehead.

The second one caves in the front of his scalp.

The third one he's unrecognizable.

The fourth one there's nothing left to bash.

She keeps going anyway.

"Shut up," she pants between each crack and occasional splat. "Shut up shut up shut up shut up SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP."

Wilbur tries to say something. All that comes out is a gurgle, wet and sharp and loud. So very loud. And it keeps going, stringing along and along and along longer than the large chunks of skin and brain on the pavement. It shouldn't be possible, his mouth, along with everything else, is practically gone. Nothing but a small pit inside a bigger pit.

Yet it continues, getting increasingly louder in pitch.

And then she gets it.

He's scared.

clever girl of never-ending war zones, jumping from one horror to the next. this is the last one. and I know that's been said before but you can trust me. just end it and you can finally rest. wouldn't that be nice? so give in and kill kill kill kill kill

She smiles. It hurts her face.

She picks his head up from the ground one last time. She's humming, like a lullaby. Maybe it is. She's putting the baby to sleep. She knows he can't die again, but wherever he goes after this, if the limbo keeps its promise, it can't be pretty.

"I said," she laughs. "Shut up."

She brings his head down.

She blinks.

Her empty hand meets black stone slabs.

"Niki?"

She looks up and immediately regrets it. Everything is too bright, scorching, a burning gaze on every inch of her skin, but what really hurts are her eyes. She thinks they're sizzling, like actually sizzling, because her sclera feels as if it's bubbling and her iris is definitely melting into her brain and there are so many spots dancing behind her eyelids.

And then the voice, soft and familiar, speak's again.

"Do you have your stuff?"

It takes a while, and a lot of blinking, but her eyes eventually readjust.

She gasps.

The first thing she processes isn't that George and DreamXD stand just a few feet away or that it was George speaking. No, it was how absurdly colorful, everything was.

Here there was life. Life. It was like she poked her head through a kaleidoscope, what with how the specks of a rainbow illuminated itself in the clear blue water of the fountain and the sight of shimmering white quartz glistening under the sunbeams that poured through the purple-tinted windows. No longer was everything dulled around the corners and drained at the center like anything in her dreadful, cramped space of a bakery she shared with -

Oh primes.

Her bakery.

This isn't her bakery. This is Church Prime.

"She's back," DreamXD exclaims. He turns to George, bouncing on his heels excitedly as if expecting some sort of reward, but George pays him no mind/ He's too busy looking at Niki, or, more so, through her.

"What happened?" He asks.

She opens her mouth, then slams it shut.

She's alive. Dear primes, she's alive and she's back and she should be happy, cheering, jumping up and down to feel the livelihood ache in her bones but…

She looks back down at the floor. The floor should be covered in blood. Wilbur's blood, and his bits of flesh and tissue and muscle and -

Oh primes. What has she done?

Or better yet, what didn't she do?

"George," she whimpers. "I don't know what's going on. I, I don't know what's going on here."

She hopes it was her imagination. It had to have been. Otherwise, she hosted Wilbur's head up by the splits of his hair, pushed down as hard as she could and -

She wouldn't. She couldn't, not anymore at least. She left that side of herself in a gate full of slaughtered chickens as Jack demanded they try and kill Tommy again. That side of her is as dead as those chickens.

Right?

She prays so, for this is a church after all, and that means prayers have to be answered here. They have to come true. They have to.

There's a smile in DreamXD's voice when he speaks again as if he knows how much this torments her. "I sent her to hell and then I brought her back."

No.

She sobs. She looks down at her hands. Their bear and yet they feel so heavy. As if the ghost of Wilbur's blood and gore is still there, a new thick-coated layer of skin.

She tortured him. Broke him brick by brick again and again and again even as he tried to beg. Her best friend, her general, her family, begging at her feet, and she kept going, would have kept going too, with an ear-splitting grin, like it was some sort of game.

And it had felt so good to finally get a checkmate.

Wilbur is not a demon. He's just seen too much in too little time. Too much pressure on too little shoulders. Too tired to be all there. It's not an excuse for all the pain he's caused, far from it, but it shows his actions didn't come from a place of malice, but rather a cry for help. Niki knows this, she gets it, and she'll say it time and time again. But all she could think about at that moment, before the final strike, was how happy Wilbur was about her death. He deserved a piece of her mind, but not like that. Never like that.

What is wrong with her?

No, no it wasn't her. It was that place, that voice. It was a parasite, burrowing deep within her brain and planting itself in the center, telling her what to do and what to say. Telling her to slaughter left and right. It was so loud, rattling around in her head and echoing like war drums. She couldn't just ignore it, it was too much. So, no, she is free of guilt, free of responsibility, hands all clean.

But she knows that at the end of the day the host still needs to be somewhat conscious for the parasite to thrive.

Oh primes. Is this what Techno deals with every day?

Then, she jumps to her feet.

Techno, Phil, and Ranboo.

It's coming back now, that memory of fury in her eyes, that fire in her voice as she told Wil she had people to go back to. How she was willing to claw her fingers down to bone to make an exit. But that voice, that stupid stupid voice, it told her she could rest, could get revenge, and against her better judgment she listened. It caught her at a moment of weakness, Wilbur's words of memory lane, of Phil, of everything that came before and after his death, she was at a low point. And like a moth to a flame, she was there one moment and gone the next. Back to the old her.

She thought she had left that version of herself behind when she joined the Syndicate. She was so sure she was getting better with Techno, Phil, and Ranboo around.

But all it took was one voice to ruin all her progress.

Her chest constricts and her head feels heavy.

She needs to find them. She needs to tell them what she saw. She needs to tell Phil. She needs… she needs…

She just needs them.

"What did you see?" George says, snapping her out of her thoughts.

This time, her mouth has no problem moving. "George," she starts, voice trembling. "I have seen things. I... I... I have seen things. I don't know what's going on here but I don't know if I should - "

Niki gulps. It's getting so hard to breathe. She should feel thankful that she can breathe in the first place, but every inhale stings as her lungs try to remember to do a motion so foreign to her.

How long has she been down there?

She doesn't want to know.

She just wants to go home.

She walks away, backward, from the two, eyes fixated tightly on them and barely blinking. She remembers the last time she let her guard down around DreamXD. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry George. Good luck with him but I - "

She doesn't finish, because she's already out the door. She wants to run, but she's so sure her lungs would explode at the first push forward of her heel. So she walks.

And walks.

The world walks with her, with each rotation. As if they’re friends taking a stroll. As if it hadn’t cracked open and swallowed her whole, chewed up everything good in her and spat her out when she turned bitter. Returned her back to a world that didn’t change one bit while she was gone, despite her herself changing so much.

It’s like what happened to her didn’t happen at all.

And then she realizes a horrible thing.

Everyone on this server is going to see today as a normal day.

Is it bad that a part of Niki wishes something like the Green Festival could happen right now, so that they could all feel the monstrosity of today?

She stands still. Stationary, like this Earth wants her to be. She thinks she could do it, stay like this forever. She feels numb enough.

Somewhere above, a crow caws.

She burst into tears.

#dream smp #fanfic #fic #niki nihachu #wilbur soot #technoblade #philza #ranboo #the syndicate #the syndicate are found family because I said so #dsmp #niki #niki fic #niki nihachu fanfic #niki fanfic #dream smp fanfiction #dream smp fanfic #dsmp fanfic

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flying-elliska · 4 years ago

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I am reading about avoidant personality disorder and it rings a lot of bells (lol still on the diagnosis merry go round...my therapist asked me questions about avoidance last time I wonder if it will come up) and so now I found a pdf of this book about it

It has a lot of interesting insights but also oh my god its perspective on love and life in general is so antiquated and regressive (bisexuality and asexuality are described as a mental illness symptom I am not even kidding ; there is this idea that friendships that are as important as romantic relationships are somehow unhealthy ; and a general attitude that having a romantic relationship is the end all be all of life. Yikes) I mean the fact that it quotes Freud is a massive red flag already but yeah. And then I was like oh this book was probably published in the 90s, things must have evolved since then and then I looked at the publication date and BITCH 2010???? Jeeeesus.

I mean there were a lot of interesting things I wrote down to look into. But to me this illustrates one of the core problems of modern psychiatry/psychology which is its lack of social and political awareness. Opposition to mainstream behaviors/culture is pathologized even when a particular cultural norm is deeply oppressive and questionable. It also overlooks the fact that many symptoms probably come from, at least partly, the unhealthy demands that modern society puts on individuals.

The thing is, it's often a delicate balance of several things. I have seen attitudes in political/activist circles, especially online, that seemed very unsound for people's mental health. Myself, I have engaged with those things in ways that were bad for my mental health and put me in a passive mindset, a place of "well this is society's fault and I can't do anything about it and getting better isn't even desirable/politically acceptable." I have seen a lot of people drag each other down and not being willing to look at their own shit and putting their personal unresolved baggage into their politics (especially online).

But that doesn't mean that having a social consciousness is always an excuse to avoid responsibility for your own behavior/mental state. I wish there were more books that tangled with mental illness from a more social, community oriented, politically aware place. Because as a poli sci/social science student a lot of the time I have this pervasive malaise in therapy that I am being sold a bunch of convenient bullshit to make me fit better into the productive soulless capitalist employee box. Which is not always the case ! A lot of stuff out there can be deeply healing and transformative. But the blind spot makes me uncomfortable and that's just not something I can kid myself on.

So yes I think a path towards that would be more recognition that the notion of health needs to be adaptive and that often, having a sense of generative political imagination, to being able to imagine new standards of living and thriving beyond the constraints we are given, can be a key part of mental healing. I also want more of a focus on resilience ; instead of being told that the bad things in the world are in my head and I should just try to ignore them harder, I want to have ressources on things like climate grief, minority stress, moral scrupulosity problems, and how to handle the trauma of being neuroatypical in this world. I want more stuff on how to foster community in your life, and combat capitalistic alienation, not assuming that a monogamous romantic relationship needs to be at the center of your life and fix all your worries. I want ressources on how to overcome shame so you can become an advocate for yourself and others. I want discussions of the "good patient role" that is often imposed and that can feel so dehumanizing. I want stuff that recognizes the world can be incredibly shit and traumatic especially when you're marginalized in a certain way, that it's not just "in your head" and that healing yourself will not magically solve everything - and that even if it will help, and it's very important to work against apathy and powerlessness, you also need solidarity and action.

To start with, I am going to try and bring up my political worries more in my next round of therapy. I often convinced myself to sideline it, to not be seen as some embarassing snowflake that cared too much or a pretentious nerd or whatever (lol self esteem issues hello), but the truth is, engaging in politics in a mentally healthy way is a key challenge for me. And I want to have a forthright conversation without letting myself be convinced to just try denial. I want to give myself a path towards healing that is embedded in the world instead of being purely individualistic.

And if my problem is avoidance, I'd say that's relevant as hell.

#mental health #mental illness #avoidant personality disorder #avoidance #psychiatry #therapy #healing

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mk-wizard · 4 years ago

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Top 10 Things Robots In Disguise Did Wrong IMO

Hello, fans.

I really hate knocking a series because I hate trash talking, so I won’t do it, but rather, I will some criticism on Robots in Disguise aka RID. I had a lot of high standards for this show especially considering it was supposed to be a sequel to Prime. There are many things about it that didn’t sit well with me, but there ten things I feel really stood out that really hurt the show the most. Note that Strongarm is not one of those things. Not liking Strongarm is a matter of taste it is not the make or break aspect of an entire series. Despite what many people think, one character you don’t like doesn’t ruin an entire series.

1- It didn’t feel like a genuine sequel to Prime. - I understand that in RID, some time has passed after the end of Prime so things around going to be different. However, the only thing from Prime that was brought over to RID was Bumblebee himself and I felt he did not have a lot in common with his Prime counterpart. RID felt like a completely new show or rather like the sequel of another series. The old cast is never brought up or shown, old alliances seemed to have been forgotten and whatever happened to the Predacons? When making a sequel TV series, it should follow a certain level continuity with the series it is following kind of like how Beast Machines followed Beast Wars so smoothly.

2- Fixit’s performance as the first handicapped Autobot was rather insensitive towards the viewers. - I don’t mind Fixit being handicapped or being the comic relief, but I do find it kind of insensitive especially in today’s day and age for Fixit to be comic relief because he’s handicapped. He was portrayed as weak, an invalid and at times, incompetent which he clearly isn’t. In fact, he has an arsenal and can hold his own, but even after this was found out, he was put back into his “weakling” role. This is not a good look for Transformers. A lot of people watching the show wound up handicapped because of an accident like Fixit did or have handicaps similar to his, and I don’t think it’s very nice to give off the message that people like them are “broken” and this makes them clowns we should laugh at. This is backwards writing at its worst and shame on Hasbro for that.

3- Forgettable human characters. - In Prime, Jack, Miko, Raf, agent Fowler and even Jack’s mom had very strong personalities that made an impact in the show. They were actually helpful to the Autobots and could even be forces to be reckoned with. You could never say the humans of Prime were weak or just played humans in distress. They would rescue the Autobots just as often if not more so than the Autobots rescued them. In RID, Denny and Russel were not as impressive. If anything, Russel felt like a copy of Jack at times, but in a much weaker way. He lacked Jack’s maturity and character development. At times, I also wondered why Bumblebee never just tried to make contact with Agent Fowler at least upon returning to Earth (more on this later).

4- The quality felt like a step down from Prime. - I understand RID was supposed to appeal to a younger audience, but when you’re following an act like Prime, you should put your best foot forward even when presenting to kids. After all, Rescue Bots was also made for kids, but it took place in the same universe as Prime and never compromised its quality. RID felt very silly in its humour, the majority of the episodes felt like the old fashioned and outdated “monster of the day” formula, the plot felt made up as it went along and the characters were rather one dimensional.

5- It should have brought back a large majority of the Prime cast as regular characters. - I understand that even a sequel series is going to have a few new characters. Beast Machines did, but what it didn’t do was scrap 99.9% of the old cast for a new one. It didn’t fix what wasn’t broken and kept the characters who worked best for the series. Like I mentioned before, why didn’t Bumblebee ever try to contact the old human gang especially agent Fowler? Didn’t they keep in touch? And didn’t Ratchet stay on Earth at the end of Prime because he wanted keep Earth safe from any remaining Decepticons? And what happened to the Decepticons who were already on Earth? RID is supposed to be a sequel to Prime not a parallel. It should have brought back most of the old gang especially for its setting.

6- It had tons of plot holes. - As well as forgetting its own cast, RID forgot a lot of pivotal plot elements left behind by Prime that it should have worked with. The most obvious being the Predacons considering most of the enemies in RID had animal motifs. Also, if Bumblebee was so important on Cybertron, his absence would have been felt on Cybertron. People would have gone looking for him. And as mentioned before, there were already a lot of Decepticons still on Earth. It wasn’t necessary to bring in these new animal themed Decepticons.

7- Optimus stole Bumblebee’s spotlight. - RID was supposed to be the series where Bumblebee was supposed to shine, be the hero and leader, and possibly become a Prime. He kind of did those things, but the way Optimus was brought back overshadowed him a lot and that’s no good. Rescue Bots showed a good way to bring in Optimus as a guest or secondary character without overshadowing the heroes of the story. In Rescue Bots, Optimus is assisting, but stepping out of the way for the most part. In RID, as soon as Optimus came back, he completely got in Bumblebee’s way and even made him look bad. This just seems like muddled storytelling to me. Maybe it would have been better if Optimus hadn’t been brought back at all.

8- The enemies were rather lackluster. - Prime gave us tons of enemies that shocked us, had grit and were not afraid to be truly bad like Megatron the conqueror, Starscream the snake and of course, Unicron himself who truly did live up to his chaos bringing persona. And even Predaking was the stuff of nightmares yet at the same time, has this majestic aura hence his name. The enemies of RID felt like a bunch of thugs, they were mostly monsters of the day and even Megatronus felt like a step down in villain quality. He didn’t make me feel anything really and while I know the series wanted to be child friendly, I think it tried too hard. Megatronus just felt like a lesser version of Unicron and many of the villains felt like lesser versions of their Prime counterparts. And this is bad. Even when they explained their motives, I didn’t feel like they delivered that impression that they were all that bad. Just more like they were trying to play the role of being bad like actors in a show. Pardon the harsh criticism, but that’s how I felt.

9- The ideas it presented had been done before. - I hate saying this, but everything I saw in RID had been done before in other Transformers series. None of the ideas felt that fresh at all especially not the setting of Autobots being marooned on Earth and then needing to fight the Decepticons marooned there with them. Like, come on! Even the idea of reviving Optimus had been done before. I think the plot of RID would have benefited more and would have had more of an opportunity to be original if it had literally picked up where Prime had left off with rebuilding Cybertron or tying up loose ends left by Prime.

10- Bumblebee’s performance felt like a step down after Prime. - In Prime, Bumblebee went from being a Scout to a full blown Megatron slayer. He was a badass who didn’t take trash from anyone and he knew what to do without needing to say it. And as soon as he did have a voice, he showed a lot of promise as a leader in every way possible. However, in RID, he seems to have regressed in both leadership skills and in maturity. He’s goofy in all the wrong ways, he is overly concerned with catchphrases and he can’t keep his team together. As mentioned before, RID Bumblebee did not give me the impression that he was the same Bumblebee from Prime. He felt like a different guy.

To anyone who is a fan RID, I don’t mean to offend you. I just had to get this off of my chest. Usually, I don’t care for a sequel following its legacy, but RID felt like a huge drop in standards to the point where it didn’t even look like a sequel anymore.

To anyone who agrees with me, what are your thoughts and what reasons can you think of that caused RID to not live up to Prime’s legacy?

#transformers #transformers fandom #transformers prime #transformers robots in disguise #robots in disguise #prime #tfp #arcee #bulkhead #ratchet #transformers rid #rid #bumblebee #autobots

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kindredspiritsarentsorare · 5 years ago

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Post episode 6 (It’s messy and unedited but will hopefully inspire someone to write something better)

Anne was furious, livid, enraged. She was so angry she couldn’t even think of any other synonyms for her anger. How could her classmates so easily dismiss Josie’s ruin? Anne couldn’t work on an entry for the paper, not when something so unfair, so wholly wrong, something so… so… unjust had happened! She had to do something. Clearly no one else was going to. Something must be done. But what? What could she do? She couldn’t even bake a cake right. But surely, there must be something.

Anne slowly sat down, but she did not begin to write. She merely sat and thought. She watched everyone else writing and happily discussing the quilts and treats and dances. Trivial, she thought, how trivial all of that seemed when Josie’s entire future was ruined by something she had not consented to.

“Anne,” at the voice Anne felt color rising in her cheeks, drawn from her thoughts she found Gilbert staring at her intently.

“Anne?” He repeated.

“What?” Anne asked, rather sharply.

Gilbert winced slightly at the venom in her voice. His feelings still stung from her earlier comments. He was uncertain of what had caused this new rift in their relationship… their friendship. They had been getting along really well since he’d returned from sea. But now it felt as though everything had regressed back to when Anne had first arrived to Avonlea. She looked at him with anger and loathing when she looked at him at all.

“I was only going to tell you that we’re all leaving for the night.” Gilbert said. When Anne only glared at him in response, he cleared his throat awkwardly, “I also, uh, told everyone to save the hot air balloon piece for you to write.”

“How gracious of you,” Anne said coldly, standing and turning on her heel to gather her things and pointedly ignoring Gilbert’s presence.

“Balloons!” She scoffed to herself, “That had been the only good thing about the fair and even that joy was short lived. How could I write about that with what Billy has done. How could I…write…”

Suddenly an idea grasped Anne so fiercely she nearly shouted. She could write! She grabbed her things as quickly as she could and practically flew from the schoolhouse.

Anne hadn’t noticed she and Gilbert were the only ones left in the building. Gilbert had noticed, of course, as had Diana. And when Anne ran, Gilbert could only assume that it was because of him. He looked after her as she ran, feeling… he didn’t even know what. He met Diana’s eyes and she nearly glowered at him. Diana was never unkind with him, and she hadn’t really glowered, but the lack of her usual kindness felt just about like it.

“Diana, I- I must confess I don’t understand what I’ve done-

“No, I expect you don’t” Diana said quietly, cutting Gilbert off and hurrying after Anne.

----

Everyone else had left the schoolhouse. Anne rubbed her eyes. It had been a long night. But she had done it. She had written and made copies of an article she hoped would change things. At least for Josie. She had hidden the papers in a desk after they had dried. She was planning on secretly inserting them into the papers after everyone left the school house today.

She watched as her fellow writers left the schoolhouse after assembling this week’s papers. She listened as the door to the schoolhouse swung shut, and then she leapt into action. She pulled her articles out and dashed to where the neat stacks of completed papers rested.

“Anne, what are you doing?”

Anne was halfway through inserting her articles and had been so absorbed she must not have heard the door open again. She whirled around to see Gilbert staring at her. Why was he always staring at her? Why did his eyes always look like... Like that.

They stared at each other for a moment before Anne finally shook herself back to reality. This was a matter of ethics. Not about her feelings toward Gilbert Blythe.

“I wrote an article.” She said, standing tall and jutting her chin out a little.

“About the balloons?” Gilbert asked, “We could have helped you earlier to put that in the papers.”

“No, actually,” Anne said, “It’s actually about the unfair expectations we hold towards women and how easily blame and shame is placed upon them for things they did not choose.”

“Oh,” Gilbert said, furrowing his eyebrows, “Is this about Josie?”

“As a matter of fact, it is,” Anne said, “But also more than that. It is unfair that Josie must suffer for something Billy did to her. It’s unfair so many women have to bear the burden men force upon them.”

“Anne, I don’t understand,” Gilbert started, but Anne cut him off. She had had enough of whatever it was that was going on with him.

“I don’t see what is so hard to understand, Gilbert Blythe,” Anne snapped, “Josie Pye has been wronged. Billy... He forced himself on her. And even if he hadn’t, he should not be able to walk around with his head held high when Josie is hiding at home and is utterly shamed! I would think you of all people would understand! You see the injustice Bash faces because of the color of his skin! You saw what Miss Stacy was up against when she first arrived. How can you not see what Billy has done and be enraged!?” Anne felt tears pricking her eyes.

“Anne,”

“No! I am not finished. I do not understand what has changed you, but I- I don’t like it. Bad things happen when good people stand by and refuse to act. How can you watch this unfold? How can anyone? How is everyone able to just forget about this as though it never happened!?”

“Anne, I’ve had a lot on my mind. I haven’t... I didn’t think-

“No, clearly you didn’t.” Anne snapped, “You know what happened to Mary. You know how Elijah was conceived. That could have happened to Josie! But I suppose you have more important things to think about. More important people to impress.”

“Anne, I don’t see how Winnie has anything to do with what has happened to Josie.” Gilbert cried.

“She has nothing to do with any of this. This has to do with you. You haven’t been acting yourself. I thought you more understanding, more empathetic. I never expected you would just ignore what happened. I thought you of all people would be my ally in this.”

Gilbert was floored. He gaped at her, unable to find words. He’d never been so thoroughly called out before in his entire life. Had he really been acting differently lately? Was Anne right?

Anne let out a short breath and turned around, continuing to insert her article into the paper. Gilbert had never seen her so disappointed before. And she was disappointed in him.

“Anne,” Gilbert said quietly. She didn’t respond.

Gilbert walked over to where she was working and silently he began unfolding a paper. He grabbed one of her articles and placed it inside. Maybe Anne was right, he had been acting out of character, but he could at least help her now.

---

“That’s the last one,” Gilbert said, placing it atop the stack. It had taken them the better part of an hour to get all the papers fitted with Anne’s article.

“I hope these will awaken people to the injustice. It’s just so unfair. Poor Josie. She didn’t deserve this.” Anne mused.

“If anyone could write something to change their minds it would be you, Anne,” Gilbert said quietly, “And I’m sorry I didn’t recognize the injustice sooner. I just... I wasn’t thinking. But you’re right. It’s unfair.”

Anne glanced up. Gilbert was staring intently at her. She couldn’t seem to pull her gaze away from his. She couldn’t help but think of the dance. When he looked at her so... softly.

“Thank you.” Anne said shortly, shaking herself. She turned away quickly, feeling her face heat, and after gathering her things, made for the door.

“Anne!” Gilbert called. She kept walking.

“Anne, please! Wait!” Gilbert called. Jogging after her, “I’m sorry. I haven’t been thinking like myself lately. I’ve just... Everything has been so very complicated.”

“Yes, I suspect courting must be quite complicated,” Anne said quietly

“Courting?!” Gilbert was flabbergasted.

“Yes. Courting. That is what you are doing with Winnie, isn’t it?” Anne asked.

“I. I mean. we.”

“Forget about it,” Anne said. She couldn’t handle having him looking at her any longer. His eyes were always saying something, peering into her. It was too much.

“Anne!” Gilbert grasped her wrist as she started to leave. “Anne, please wait!”

“What is it, Gilbert!?” Anne asked, exasperated.

“I can’t help but feel you are angry with me over something more than Josie. What have I done to wrong you?” Gilbert asked.

“I- You- Nothing.” Anne said, “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Then why are you avoiding me and acting like you hate me again?” Gilbert asked, “I thought we were friends?”

“I. I did too. But I suspect I have misunderstood.” Anne said.

“I don’t understand,” Gilbert said, gazing down at her.

Anne was aware he was still holding her hand.

“I don’t either. But I have clearly misread... It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” Gilbert said firmly, “It matters to me.”

“I just. When we. At the dance. I thought. You looked. Can you just please stop!?” Anne snapped, pulling her hand from his.

“Stop what?! What have I done?” Gilbert asked.

“Can you stop looking at me like that?” Anne snapped.

“Looking at you like what?”

“You know what. And it really is unfair when you were clearly otherwise involved and I can’t.... I have misread this relationship and I would kindly ask you ensure that you do your part to not give me the wrong idea again. For both mine and Winnie’s sakes. And for the record, she seems lovely. But I need to go. Marilla will be beside herself.” The words rushed out of Anne and before Gilbert could respond she had ran down the steps of the school and was on her way to Green Gables.

Gilbert remained standing by the open school house door.

“Looking at her? Winnie? Wrong idea? Misread the relationship?” Gilbert could not understand what was happening. He closed the door to the school slowly, walking toward home.

---

“He didn’t!” Cole gasped.

“Yes! He chased after me and I was foolish enough to think he knew I was upset about her.” Anne buried her face in her hands.

“I thought Gilbert Blythe was clever.” Cole sighed, “Wasn’t that just like a man?”

“I thought he was... for a moment... It seemed like... I thought there was something there. I thought he felt it too.” Anne whispered, “But, how could I ever stand a chance against a woman like Winnifred?”

“Anne, if Gilbert Blythe is stupid enough to let you go for a woman way too old for him then he isn’t worth having.” Cole said firmly.

“I thought unrequited love was romantic, but really it is just sad, Cole!” Anne cried.

---

“Here are the nappies and her bottles are in there too!” Anne said, sitting the bag onto the kitchen table as Bash greeted Delphine.

“I hope she was good for you,” He said with a smile.

“Oh she was lovely as always,” Anne grinned, “Perfectly charming in every way a baby possibly could be.”

“I saw the article you wrote,” Bash said, “It was good. Important. It would’ve made Mary proud. She would have agreed with you.”

Anne took his hand. “Thank you. That means so much. Truly. She is part of the reason this feels so important to me.”

At that moment the door opened and Gilbert walked in.

“Bash! I’m home! You won’t believe what Winnie’s father said today-- Oh. Hello Anne!” Gilbert grinned as he walked into the room.

Anne stiffened.

“Hello, Gilbert.” She said, “Well, anyway Bash. I’ll just be going. I’d hate to interrupt your evening.”

“Won’t you stay for dinner?” Gilbert asked, “We’ll have plenty. I’ve brought the most amazing cookies from Charlottetown-

“No!” Anne snapped, “Marilla will be expecting me. And I’d hate to take your special Charlottetown cookies. Goodbye!” and she practically flew out of the room.

“I- What- Why?” Gilbert turned to Bash looking utterly confused.

“You’re clueless, Blythe.” Bash rolled his eyes.

Gilbert let out an exasperated sigh and dropped the cookies onto the table rather aggressively.

“Do you know what’s going on?” He asked finally.

“I think everyone knows what’s going on except for you.” Bash said, bouncing Delphine on his leg.

“Well?” Gilbert asked, looking at Bash expectantly, “What has Anne said to you? Why is she so angry with me?”

Bash sighed.

“Blythe, she’s jealous.”

“Jealous? Jealous of what? What do I have that she doesn’t have? What could Anne possibly be jealous of? The cookies? I’d go into Charlottetown and get them for her myself. Or have Winnie get some for her if she’d just be my friend again.”

Bash laughed. “Oh Blythe. It isn’t the cookies. And it isn’t you she’s jealous of. It’s Winnie.”

“What on earth are you talking about? Jealous of Winnie? Why on... earth... wo...” Gilbert trailed off. Suddenly his eyes flew up to Sebastian’s.

“That seems like a look of understanding.” Bash laughed, “Now what will you do about it, Blythe?”

#awae #anne with an e #anne x gilbert #shirbert #season3ep6 #awae fanfic #awae fanfiction #awae s3 spoilers #I didn't edit this sorry!

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