#Story seems to be set in Germany which never comes up in the story at all but if VERY good to know

[cats-and-hydrangea]

😴💭🐑🤍👨‍❤️‍👨

[oldfashionedbooklove]

tell me about your favorite lm montgomery novel please <3

Okay this is SO hard because her books are amazing but I just have to admit Rilla of Ingleside is my favourite, which is saying a lot because I LOVE HER BOOKS, okay! I adore the Story Girl duology and I absolutely love the Anne series and Jane of Lantern Hill.

But Rilla. This book is a heartbreaker. And it’s so beautiful.

I don’t know if I can fully express how much is to be found in this book. I have been reading it yearly for many years, and always come away with new thoughts. As I grow older, and see more of the world, I relate and understand more, and another level of the book is discovered.

The setting—a small P.E.I. town carrying on through WWI. I’m pretty tough when it comes to war books, but I have to take breaks from this one because it is so raw and real. The agony is intense. I cannot even cry over it—my heart hurts too much for tears. This shows exactly what the Great War was for people. You sway back and forth, feeling the dread and terror. You know how it ends but you are broken anyhow. And when the end comes, you too can only rejoice softly. You feel as if you have paid part of the price yourself.

“‘We’re in a new world,’ Jem says, ‘and we’ve got to make it a better one than the old. That isn’t done yet, though some folks seem to think it ought to be. The job isn’t finished—it isn’t really begun. The old world is destroyed and we must build up the new one. It will be the task of years. I’ve seen enough of war to realize that we’ve got to make a world where wars can’t happen. We’ve given Prussianism its mortal wound but it isn’t dead yet and it isn’t confined to Germany either. It isn’t enough to drive out the old spirit—we’ve got to bring in the new.’”

The characters in this book—they are alive. Splendid Jem, brave and merry and true; Jerry, steady and dutiful; Walter, sensitive and courageous; Carl, cheerful and fearless; Shirley, honest and reliable; Nan and Di and Anne, all heart-wrung and smiling; Gertrude, tragic and grasping for hope; the Doctor, determined and self-sacrificing; Susan, simple and true—and Rilla, who starts out a silly, frivolous girl and ends a strong, mature woman. Then there are all the minor and side characters—the Merediths, Cousin Sophia, Jimsy, Ken, Irene, Whiskers-on-the-Moon & his family, Mary and the Elliotts, Norman + Ellen, and everyone else. They’re all so alive, so real, so funny and terrible and beautiful—I swear Glen St. Mary exists and all the inhabitants thereof.

The story follows the Great War, from the first days in August 1914 to the bitter Summer of 1919, where peace has come but normal will never return. As a child, this story was simply World War One—a faraway, long-ago grief and horror and agony. Now, in 2024, as a woman, I have experienced a slight taste of what the people of 1914 felt, and it has humanized the story of the War. This, more than any other book I have read, brings the War and the world of 1914-1918 to life, showing how they were people just like us. The heart is wrung by their suffering, and there is no escape, for the war must drag on for long bitter years. And the price! Walter has become the face of unknown, forgotten heroes, and Jem has become that of the scarred heroes who returned. Every November we grieve the young men who never came home, and for the ones who came home missing a part of themselves, physical or otherwise. I have wept thinking of the children of Rilla, Ken, Faith, Jem, and the others—children who fought in WWII and whose parents were forced to relive the horrible conflict of mankind.

“It has been such a dreadful week,” she wrote, “and even though it is over and we know that it was all a mistake that does not seem to do away with the bruises left by it. And yet it has in some ways been a very wonderful week and I have had some glimpses of things I never realized before—of how fine and brave people can be even in the midst of horrible suffering.”

And yet the book overflows with humour—real laugh-out-loud scenes and witty, clever banter on princes and politics. It is another aspect of the humanity—the part that cannot fully let go of laughing despite the drain. Another angle is the shrewd commentary on principalities and powers, nations and cultures, is thought-provoking, as is the remarks that show us how the war truly changed the world.

“There was a time,” she said sorrowfully, “when I did not care what happened outside of P.E. Island, and now a king cannot have a toothache in Russia or China but it worries me. It may be broadening to the mind, as the doctor said, but it is very painful to the feelings.”

But the biggest things to me is the SPIRIT of this book. The spirit of perseverance, endurance, courage, and love. Of course, man is man, and there is suspicion, contempt, and a feeling of superiority—but this is not exclusive only to Anglo-Saxons. As someone who isn’t Anglo-Saxon myself, and actually of mixed cultures, I can attest every nation is guilty of such. World War One was a battle of good vs. evil—not of man vs. man, but Idea against Idea—the idea of civilization against militarism. Perhaps not on the part of the leaders—but when one studies the writings, letters, poems, and speeches of the everyday folks caught up in the war, one sees this distinction plainly. It was not a war of European against European, Anglo-Saxon against German—it was a war between an old, terrible Idea of Prussianism (Frederick the Great, anyone?) and the Idea of Respect and Peace.

“And you will tell your children of the Idea we fought and died for—teach them it must be lived for as well as died for, else the price paid for it will have been given for nought.”

May we never forget.

A REMARK: I discovered that Rilla of Ingleside was abridged by about 4,300 words (~14 pages), so I searched for an unabridged copy. I definitely encourage you to take the extra trouble to find an *unabridged* copy. It is SO worth it! I’ve read both versions and the unabridged is so much fuller, with a great deal more humour and fun.

I just have to pick out my favourite quotes, too…

“We all come back to God in these days of soul-sifting,” said Gertrude to John Meredith. “There have been many days in the past when I didn't believe in God—not as God—only as the impersonal Great First Cause of the scientists. I believe in Him now—I have to—there's nothing else to fall back on but God—humbly, starkly, unconditionally.”

“‘Our help in ages past’—‘the same yesterday, to-day and for ever,’ said the minister gently. ‘When we forget God—He remembers us.’”

Below her [window] was a big apple-tree, a great swelling cone of rosy blossom.... Beyond Rainbow Valley there was a cloudy shore of morning with little ripples of sunrise breaking over it. The far, cold beauty of a lingering star shone above it. Why, in this world of springtime loveliness, must hearts break?

And I can’t leave without some humour:

“‘The Germans have recaptured Premysl,’ said Susan despairingly… ‘and now I suppose we will have to begin calling it by that uncivilized name again. Cousin Sophia was in when the mail came and when she heard the news she hove a sigh up from the depths of her stomach, Mrs. Dr. dear, and said, ‘Ah yes, and they will get Petrograd next I have no doubt.’ I said to her, ‘My knowledge of geography is not so profound as I wish it was but I have an idea that it is quite a walk from Premysl to Petrograd.’ Cousin Sophia sighed again and said, ‘The Grand Duke Nicholas is not the man I took him to be.’ ‘Do not let him know that,’ said I. ‘It might hurt his feelings and he has likely enough to worry him as it is.’ But you cannot cheer Cousin Sophia up, no matter how sarcastic you are, Mrs. Dr. dear. She sighed for the third time and groaned out, ‘But the Russians are retreating fast,’ and I said, ‘Well, what of it? They have plenty of room for retreating, have they not?’ But all the same, Mrs. Dr. dear, though I would never admit it to Cousin Sophia, I do not like the situation on the eastern front. [But] Grand Duke Nicholas, though he may have been a disappointment to us in some respects, knows how to run away decently and in order, and that is a very useful knowledge when Germans are chasing you. Norman Douglas declares he is just luring them on and killing ten of them to one he loses. But I am of the opinion he cannot help himself and is just doing the best he can under the circumstances, the same as the rest of us.’”

[imasinnerimsorry]

Substitute Pleaser

A story where Harry Styles is the substitute professor, and one of his students (Natasha, black, she/her) wants her grade fixed. Harry tries to find ways to help, and soon offers her a “request”.

SMUT; Kinks include: TeacherxStudent trope (college setting btw), shoe riding, deepthroating, facefucking, hair pulling, creampie, spitting, choking, degradation, some praise if you squint

It’s almost the end of the semester and Natasha was tired. Very, very tired. She was in one of the best universities in the country studying to be a physical therapist. Now in her third year, the work had gotten so much more strenuous, often leaving Natasha to study for hours with no end. All she needed was a break, but she’s never had the time to.

All of her professors this semester were pains in the ass. Their grading systems were fucked, and it seemed like they were always out for her- like they wanted her to fail. Maybe that wasn’t true, she’ll admit, but that’s just how she felt.

It was time for her English class, and Natasha was furious. She hated that old bastard of a teacher, Mr. Carson, so much. He gave her a 63% on her last English paper, which was worth 35% of her grade, resulting in her average dropping tremendously. She was definitely not a bad student; she’s always had straight A’s and a couple of B’s, so this poorly-graded assignment was definitely unexpected. She planned on seeing him for office hours right after class to question him about her poor grade.

Natasha walked into that horrible classroom, expecting to see that gross man with the crusty-looking beard sat at the front desk by the whiteboard. Instead, she noticed a sexy man with healthy chocolate brown hair, a jawline as sharp as a knife, and beautiful fingers which were adorned with the finest rings, a unique one dedicated to each finger (except his left ring finger, which was a great sign for Natasha).

Yes, he was cute, but who was he? Natasha questioned herself. Because he sure wasn’t Mr. Carson’s ugly, old ass. He couldn’t be a professor, could he?

She sat down at her seat, making sure her posture was proper and that her appearance was up to par with the sexy man at the teacher’s desk. Using her hands, she brushed her hair to the front, making sure they cascaded down past her shoulders reaching her breasts, but also making sure they didn’t cover her cleavage (She thanked God she wore a push-up bra).

The young man finally stood up from the professor’s seat and walked to the front of it, leaning himself against it. He quickly scanned the classroom before his eyes landed on her.

A beautiful young woman, appearing not much younger than him, was sitting in the second row of the lecture room. He noticed her hair, an ashy blonde color, contrasting her beautifully moisturized brown skin. She had a cute button nose, round brown eyes, and her lips shined with lip gloss of a pink tint and glitter. His eyes glanced down at her obvious cleavage, but he quickly looked away, as not to seem invasive or crude. He hoped she hadn’t noticed.

He didn’t know, however, that Natasha did indeed notice. She couldn’t help but to look down and blush.

"Good evening, class,” the man started. “I am your substitute professor, Harry Styles, but you’ll call me Mr. Styles for the rest of our lectures together. As you all might know from your emails, your usual professor Mr. Carson has recently lost his wife and has followed his family to his native country Germany, which is where he will be spending the rest of the semester to grieve and mourn with the rest of the family. Make sure you send all the love and prayers to Mr. Carson in any way you can at some point.”

Natasha didn’t check her email recently. Oops.

Mr. Styles continued, “So, we will pick up from where he left off. My office hours will remain the same as Mr. Carson’s and in the same room. If you have any questions or concerns, or if you just want to have a chat, come down to Carson’s office, now mine. I’m all ears!” He gave the class a kind grin, one that Natasha was smitten with. His dimples were perfectly carved into his already sexy face.

As the lesson began, Natasha’s best friend Andrew turned to her from the table to her right and said, “Hopefully he’s not as boring as Mr. Carson,” to which the two students laughed amongst themselves.

Until Harry noticed and caught their attention by clearing his throat.

“You know,” he began, “Just because I’m a substitute, it doesn’t mean that the rules have changed. Pay attention and don’t speak, unless you have something to share with the entire class.”

Andrew rolled his eyes and fixed himself to face Mr. Styles. Natasha closed her legs and faced Mr. Styles with her head looking down to her lap. Yes, that got her a bit... aroused.

And Mr. Styles noticed. He turned back to the smartboard to hide the cheeky smirk that formed on his lips.

The class continued with its lesson for about an hour an a half, which meant an hour and a half of Natasha fixing her appearance, making her cleavage more noticeable, taking off her blazer and putting it back on, fidgeting and changing her seating positions, all to make Mr. Styles notice her.

And Mr. Styles noticed. Every time he would hear the creak of a chair or the shuffle of someone’s body, he would know it was that beautiful girl he had his eyes on from the beginning.

***

It was the end of the lecture, and the impatient half of the class who literally couldn’t care less about the topics discussed had ran out of the classroom. The few students who cared about their grades and about learning or understanding the class material had stayed back to ask Mr. Styles questions. And Natasha was one of that few.

Natasha waited until she was the last person in the room to ask Mr. Styles about her grade. She usually did this with every class so that she didn’t have to rush herself to make room for other waiting students. She wanted all the time for herself and her teacher so that she could truly understand the subject. And she definitely wanted some time to herself with this sexy professor.

“You can come over here now, sweetheart,” Mr. Styles said from his desk.

That “sweetheart” almost made Natasha fall to her knees, but she maintained her composure. Of course, he would call me something so endearing, Natasha deciphered to herself to keep the dirty thoughts from overwhelming her mind.

Harry looked down at his class seating chart. “Hm, Natasha, right?”

She nodded.

He looked up at her. “Hello, sweetheart, how are you?” he inquired. The look on his face seemed sincere, but Natasha could feel an aura lurking underneath that sincerity. Frustration? Desire? Lust?

She finally answered, “I’m doing alright, sir. And you?” She gulped.

Harry smirked. “I’m doing alright as well. So, what seems to be the case?” He looked down and searched through student profile sheets until he found hers. His eyebrows narrowed as he looked at her grade, and then he looked back at her a bit puzzled. “It says here on your profile that you’re quite the smart cookie. An A-... that’s high compared to many of the other students! What could be the issue, love?”

Natasha blushed at his compliment toward her grade. “Thank you so much, sir. But, yes, I do have an issue regarding my last essay.” She placed the papers she brought with her onto the desk and set them neatly in front of him. She then pointed at the circled 63% sitting at the top of the page. “I’m confused about the grade I received. I don’t know what could have made it so poor.”

Harry screwed his eyebrows as he scanned through the pages of her essay. Even without reading in depth, he could tell it was a well-written paper (at least better than a majority of the class). “I understand your concern. All of your research papers so far have been nothing less than a B, so I know you expected so much from this one. Unfortunately, I was not the person who marked your paper, so I technically cannot change your grade for it.”

Harry could see Natasha’s face change from a bright glow to a duller undertone. He felt really sorry for the girl. He really wished he could help her out. But, as he said, there was nothing he technically could do.

“A-Are you sure, Mr. Styles?” She asked with struggle. “I mean, I understand that Mr. Carson was the one who graded it, but surely you could reread it and give your own input?” Harry’s face remained the same. “Maybe you could send your review to the board and have them override Mr. Carson’s since he won’t be attending for the rest of the semester?”

Again, Harry’s face showed no signs of a change in his decision. “I’m really sorry, love.”

Natasha’s eyes started to well up with tears, and Harry noticed. He really did not want to see this beautiful girl cry in front of her. It was devastating. He leaned back into his chair and crossed his arms into a pensive position to think about how he could help her. Then, he smirked as a thought, a rather promiscuous one, popped up in his mind.

“Well, Natasha, you’re a smart girl, right?”

She didn’t know where this random question came from, so she just nodded her head to hear him continue his thoughts.

“I told you that I technically can’t do anything about your grade,” he turned his body around to face Natasha, his knees accidentally brushing against hers as he looked into her eyes, “But, let’s forget about all of the technicalities for a minute, yeah?”

Natasha looked down into her lap as she noticed his eyes trying to meet hers. This man really made her nervous. Was she intimidated by him? Afraid? Aroused? All of the above, maybe? Her thoughts were cut off abruptly as Harry lifted her chin up with his index finger so her eyes could meet his gaze.

“I’m sure we could be a bit more informal now. I mean, after all, that’s what you have been doing this entire lecture,” he gave her a sly grin.

The woman’s face warmed as her head flashed back to her behavior during the lecture. It was truly out of order, but she couldn’t let him know that she was aware of this. “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Styles?”

Harry chuckled and leaned his arm against the desk, putting his face in his hand as he observed her body language. “Oh, you mean to tell me that all of that fidgeting and movement you were doing back there in your seat was just that? It was just “fidgeting and movement” ? Or were you trying to gather my attention, Ms. Natasha?”

She could not believe what he was saying. Not only because it was totally out of his code of conduct as a professor, but also because he figured her out completely. Natasha couldn’t help but to close her legs and cross her arms around her chest, covering herself with her cardigan. She wasn’t uncomfortable, just a bit too aroused and did not want Mr. Styles to delve into her body language even deeper.

But Harry noticed this, and placed his hands on her shoulders, giving them a light massage. “Oh dear. Are you feeling uncomfortable now?” He ultimately didn’t want her to feel unsafe with him, despite the arousing conversation they were having at the moment. To his surprise yet relief, she shook her head no.

“Well, that’s just great, dear,” he sighed in relief. “Listen, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, so if you decline my following request, I would respect it. Would you like to hear this request, sweet girl?”

She nodded.

“I’ve mentioned the technicalities of the situation. However, if you were to do me some favors, then I will present your paper to the board to have them change your grade.” Harry brought his lips to her ear and whispered, “I want you to make me feel good.”

Natasha’s heart skipped a beat. As Harry moved himself from her ear, he stared into her widened eyes with a little grin. She felt as if she was dreaming.

Harry chuckled and laid back onto his chair, his head landing onto his hands with his arms now raised behind his head in a relaxed position. It was almost as if he was showing that he was open to whatever she wanted to do to him. Like a dog laying its belly up to show its trust to its owner. “Would you like to make me feel good, Natasha?”

Natasha hesitated, of course. Her professor was insinuating for her to have sex with him so that her grade could rise. It was the typical teacher/student trope she would read about in her erotica. It was just too…favorable for her.

And yet, she nodded in response.

Harry stood up from his seat, Natasha’s eyes trailing up his body as he did so. He looked down at her with a smirk on his face and slid his hand through her hair. He simply uttered a “Good girl” from his mouth, but Natasha could have died there and then from those two words.

Harry took his time to undo his pants’ zipper and stared at Natasha while doing so. He pulled his pants down just a bit to reveal a sight Natasha was not prepared for. His briefs sat tightly fitted against his bulge, which looked hard through the thin material. Natasha’s mouth began to salivate out of her control. She absolutely wasn’t prepared for this.

The substitute finally drew his underwear down to meet his pants, and that was the pièce de résistance. His cock shone brightly under the lights of the classroom. The tip had a slight tinge of pink, mimicking the hue of his lips, and was leaking with precum. His shaft was riddled with vessels that were surely pumping with lots of blood by the look of how hard and heavy his cock was. Natasha had never seen anything like it. Not even her previous boyfriends have had dicks as gorgeous and delicious-looking as her substitute professor’s. Harry couldn’t hold back the teeth-baring, obviously egoistic grin that he was trying to hide as he noticed the girl admiring his prick. It boosted his ego whenever his penis, or any part of his body as a matter of fact, was looked at like a prize that his partners had won; their own little trophy that they deserved if they had won Harry’s affection. He put his cock up near her cheek and held it there, imagining what would happen if he put himself far into her mouth. His tip reached the back of her jaw. Perfect.

Harry finally spoke up after a beat of silence. “Now, listen to me carefully. When I put myself in your mouth, I want you to ride my shoe like a good girl. Do you get what I mean?” It could be viewed as a strange request to others, but Harry loved to see his partners look desperate on their knees for him. Riding themselves on his shoe, looking up at him with wide doe-eyes that were stained with tears, their cheeks hinted with blush as they held his cock down their throats. What a sight, indeed.

Meanwhile, Natasha stared up at the man in shock. She had only heard about people doing such things like “riding a shoe” in the erotica she’d read and the movies she watched. To hear someone say it to her out loud in person- no, to hear someone command her to do something like this in person- was something shocking, yet appealing. And she was more than willing to do that at this moment. She nodded her head as Harry stroked her jaw with his thumb.

Harry smiled. “What a good girl.” The tip of his cock, now a darker shade of pink due to its desperation for release, was shoved between the young woman’s lips. Harry winced at the beautiful feeling he had longed for this whole time. “Fuck,” he whispered under his breath, “What a good girl, indeed.”

Natasha moaned into his mouth at the feeling of his cock being placed into her mouth. The stretch it gave to her mouth was something indescribable. She wanted to feel it even deeper into her throat. The salty taste of the man’s precum was purely divine to her. She couldn’t wait to experience the flavor of his semen. Her tongue moved to the underside of his cock, and she could feel every vein and vessel, every tissue of his skin, every inch of his manhood. It was something she had experienced before in previous relationships, but it was never this good. Mr. Styles was just something else.

Remembering his orders, the young woman managed to spread her legs and place her cunt onto his shoe. Although still covered with her panties, the sensation still sent shockwaves through her spine. Natasha started to make small, slow rotary motions on the top of Harry’s shoe, which caused her to let out little, muffled moans from her cock-filled mouth.

The feeling of Natasha’s moans around his tip caused Harry to buck his hips forward in pleasure. Natasha gagged a bit as his cock touched her uvula, but the feeling didn’t last long as Harry pulled back as soon as he heard her cough. “Your lips feel so plush around me, love. Sorry for that,” he apologized while giving her lips some taps with his cock. Even that felt good for Harry. But then he continued, “But I’m sure you liked that, huh? You liked feeling my cock go so far back your throat, yeah?” Natasha nodded and her mouth seemed to salivate even more at the mere thought of his cock going deeper. He put himself right back into her mouth and angled his abdomen in a way where he could go as far back as he could, but right before her uvula so she wouldn’t gag prematurely. He wanted her to feel every thrust so that she could gag around him at the perfect moments.

Harry started to thrust in a bit slower than he preferred, but he wanted to get the girl used to his movements before he went wild. He could feel his tip glide against her uvula as he hit the back of the throat near her epiglottis, which spasmed at the touch and made her gag. He noticed Natasha’s eyes and mouth start to water as she held her mouth open for him. Her pussy was still riding against his shoe, and he decided to fuck with her a bit to make the situation more… thrilling.

Natasha could feel as Harry’s shoe started to rub up and down against her pussy. He was tapping his foot as if he was listening to one of his favorite songs. And he pretty much was- the song of cunnilingus sung by a pretty girl submitting beneath him is what motivated him. Natasha started to moan a bit more heavily as he continued the motions of both his foot and his cock. She stared at him as the man thrusted into her mouth with more vigor, the tip of his cock constantly hitting against her epiglottis, causing her to gag each time. She was in pure bliss.

Harry’s moans started to get louder as well, turning almost animalistic. He huffed as he felt the back of her throat spasm around his cock. “Yes, princess,” he mumbled through gritted teeth. Suddenly, he grabbed the back of Natasha’s head and pressed himself down so far back into her esophagus. He was curious how she would feel if she took all of him. Natasha’s nose managed to touch his pubic hair with how far he had gone. Her mouth started to drool with more saliva as she tried to maintain herself around his cock. Harry could feel her choke around him, but he didn’t care. He started to thrust himself into her mouth at this angle, and it felt absolutely heavenly. Her mouth was like a vice to him, and the squelching sounds emitting from her gagging throat were literal music to his ears.

He continued his thrusts for about a minute or so before Natasha started to slap her hand on his thigh for him to stop. Harry obliged, not wanting to suffocate her, and released her from his grasp.

Once he pulled her off of him, Harry noticed her hips atop his shoe- they weren’t moving. He gave her a light slap across her face and grabbed her jaw to look up at him. “Did I tell you to fuckin’ stop riding me?” Natasha managed to look at him through teary eyes. “N-no,” was all she could answer.

Harry lifted his eyebrows in a mocking way, almost as if to say, “Well, what do you think you should do?”, and Natasha immediately picked up on it. She started to move her pussy on his foot again, this time with more intensity. She moaned and kept her eyes on him, which he loved.

“Yeah, there you go, bunny. Ride my shoe like a fuckin’ slut.” He stared down into her doe-eyes which were tinged with tears from her previous gagging session.  “Feels good, yeah?’ Natasha could only moan in response as she continued dragging her cunt against his shoe.

“Well, you look fuckin’ pathetic,” he spat. In normal situations, this would have made Natasha try to run away from him. Being called “pathetic” and a “fuckin’ slut” was humiliating, but she liked it. She liked hearing those degrading words come from her substitute professor’s mouth. Oh, the woman was so far gone.

After a few more rotations of her hips on top of his shoe, Harry patted her head. “Alright, bunny, off. I’m sure that got you wet enough, right?” She nodded. “Good girl.” Harry helped her up with a bit of a tight grip to her forearm. It was unintentional; he would never want to hurt her, but he was growing more aroused by every second that passed. He could only hold off an orgasm for a little longer, and he didn’t want to cum without feeling the beautiful girl in front of him wrapped around his cock first. ‘ Harry leaned Natasha against his desk rather abruptly, causing the content sitting atop of the surface to shuffle and even fall with the impact. Natasha’s breasts and the side of her face were placed onto the cold surface of the wooden desk, and her ass was held up by her two feet planted onto the ground to make herself more comfortable in this position. She loved doggystyle, but never did it on top of a table.

Harry stood behind her, his hands gripping her hips with a force tight enough to make indented marks in her skin. “Make sure you stay quiet f’me, alright bunny?” Natasha nodded with a quickness, her anticipation for feeling his cock inside of her clouding her mind.

Harry finally brought his cock into her cunt, making the two of them wince at the feeling. The stretch that his girth gave her walls was delicious. It felt as if he was ripping her in two, but she absolutely loved it. “Thank you, professor,” she moaned as he went further into her vagina. Harry grinned. “Well, you’re a polite thing, aren’t you?,” He asked as he began his thrusts slowly. “Saying thank you without me telling you to. What a good girl.” Natasha moaned at the praise and it was music to Harry’s ears. And he wanted that song to continue playing. So, he continued his thrusts, speeding up a bit as he felt her walls get used to his length.

At one moment, Harry hit a particularly deep spot that made Natasha let out the loudest moan (or loudest sound generally) that she ever let out in her life. It was so pornographic, so disgusting, but something Harry didn’t want to risk his career for.

Harry quickly covered her mouth with his palm and brought his other hand to pull at her hair, making her body lift from the table and hit his own. Her head hit his shoulder, which allowed his lips to travel to her ear, and he questioned, “You want your grade to go up, don’t you?”  Natasha strained her neck as she tried to look into his eyes and nodded, a soft whimper escaping her lips. “Well, keep it fuckin’ quiet so no one walks in here and catches us, whore,” he spat at her, still thrusting into her pussy while pulling her hair back with more force.

After a couple more thrusts, Harry then brought the hand pulling her hair right down to her pussy, trying to find its way to her pretty little clit. Once he recognized the feeling, his index and middle finger began to rub themselves on her clitoris at a good-enough pace to prolong the process of orgasm, but not to make it come quickly. The hand that covered her mouth to hush her made its way down to her throat and gave her a tight squeeze that constricted her blood vessels, giving her the sensation of him choking her. Harry tilted her head up against his chest and he took a look down at Natasha’s face. “Oh, you’re enjoying this,” he teased Natasha, and she responded with a strained and quiet, “yes”. He straightened her head to allow himself to put his lips against the helix of her ear, nipping and licking against the skin as his thrusts got deeper with faster strokes.

His lips, still against her ear nipping and licking, stopped to utter a statement. “Look at you, a little braindead slut. This dick’s too fucking good for you, huh? It’s all you’ve ever wanted, right?” He paused to bring his hand that was choking her neck down to her left breast, and his fingers entwined with her nipple to play with it, bringing a whole new sensation for the girl against him. “You’re such a whore that you were willing to fuck your substitute teacher for a better grade.” He took a quick pause with his words to lick against her earlobe for a quick second, his tongue missing the flavor of her warm skin. Then Harry continued, “You’re a smart girl- a very, very smart girl, bunny. Your grades speak for themselves.” His fingers continued to play with her nipple and her clit, his thrusts only increasing in pace. “But what you’re doing right now- your body melting away at your professor's touch on his desk- now, that’s a bit stupid, isn’t it, love?” His fingers continued to tug at her nipple, and all Natasha could do was let out a needy whimper. “Risking your academic life- your career- just for some cock?” Another whimper.

As Harry continued his rough thrusts into her increasingly sopping pussy, Natasha drooled. It was like her entire body lost itself and gave Harry all of the control. He could touch her, move her anywhere, and play with her any way he wished, and she would have obliged. Her brain seemed to be void of any thought, only awaiting for more commands and words of defamation given by her substitute professor. She wouldn’t have it any other way.

The man halted his hips for a moment and grabbed onto Natasha’s thighs, managing to lift her up with her legs spread and pussy still wrapped around his cock. Natasha let out a gasp and a moan, but covered her own mouth as she realized how loud she was. Harry started to lift her up and down on his cock, which gave Natasha a new sensation she had never felt before. She could feel this man’s cock so deep inside of her, like it was constantly poking the lower portion of her belly and she couldn’t help but moan into her hand.

Harry kissed her neck and continued to bless Natasha with deep, yet long strokes of himself. This was one of his favorite positions, and hearing this beautiful woman, his literal student, struggle to moan while receiving him made him feel like the best man on Earth. He hummed into her shoulder as he continued to slowly lift her up and down for a few more strokes.

Wanting to see her face after realizing they’ve only been in positions where he could only view the back of her neck, he lifted her up as high as he could and turned her around to face him. Bringing her down to face level, he noticed her eyes welled with tears, both dry (from her deepthroating him) and wet (from their actual intercourse), and saw drool dripping from her mouth, sliding down her chin and dropping onto her gorgeous chest. Her makeup was messy and runny, and her hair was disheveled. Harry wished he could snap a photo of her. “Oh, pretty girl, you’re stunning. Have to make you cum now. Wanna see your pretty face when you cum.” He was insistent on making her orgasm, not only to see her face, but also because he was in a rush and did not want anyone to notice their little session.

Harry lowered Natasha back onto his dick with ease; it was wet enough with all of the cream that her cunt was pouring onto him previously. Natasha immediately clenched around him as she felt him enter her. He lifted her up again, removing himself from her and watched as her face contorted and her pussy clenched around nothing. “Professor, please,” she whimpered. She knew he was getting a kick out of watching her beg. He repeated the motion a couple more times though, only putting himself inside halfway then lifting her back up off of him, just to tease her and watch her struggle. “Professor, please, please, please!” She whined out.

Harry let out a laugh and finally brought the girl back down, really, really deep this time. He started to fuck into her wet cunt, and the noises in the room reminded him of a porno. Her cunt clamped around his cock so hard as his pelvis banged against her entire vulva. He knew her clit was enjoying the impact of his pubic bone as he saw her face contort in ways that only made him fuck her harder.

As Natasha neared her orgasm, she tightened her entire body around her professor even more. Her arms and hands dug into his back and shoulders, but Harry didn’t mind. Harry nudged at her nose with his own with the intention of her looking into his eyes. She obliged and her pupils met his own.”You’re doing so well for me, honey,” he stated, his thrusts still going at a fast pace. Natasha whined and gave him a quick, yet sloppy kiss. Her cunt tightened. “My belly..,” she whined into his ear as her chin rested against his shoulder. Harry cooed into her ear, “Your belly? You feel me in your belly?” He could feel the girl nod against his shoulder. “Yeah, you feel warm? Gonna cum for me, love? You’re creaming all over my cock.” She nodded again and gave him a cute “Mhm,” before Harry went even harder, not even caring about how loud their skin was slapping anymore; he wanted this girl to spill all around him, more than the cream she was already creating on his shaft, and he wanted to watch how her body reacted to an orgasm.

And that is exactly what happened.

Her orgasm finally came, and he slowed his thrusts to help her through it and to watch her unravel around him. Her body became limp in his hold as her cunt spasmed around him, and her face was screwed in such a pleasurable way that showed how relieving her release was. Her toes were curled and her clit was visibly throbbing from the impact it was receiving. Harry was lucky to see this happen in front of his own eyes.

The spasms of her walls milked Harry of his own orgasm. He stopped his thrusts and spurted all of his semen into her, and Natasha could see the veins of his cock throb as he spilled into her. The feeling of his cum painting her from the inside was amazing, and she wished he could just stay inside her for the rest of the afternoon. But, Harry finally pulled out of her, and his cream-covered length went limp. He placed her onto the desk carefully, making her sit down and spread her legs wide in front of him.

Both Harry and Natasha watched as the mixture of their orgasms dripped out of Natasha’s hole, which was as wide as Harry’s girth. He managed to gape her because of how strong the impact his cock had on her pussy, and it was such a gorgeous sight to him whenever he could achieve it with his partners. Natasha pushed some cum out as well, and her tightening cunt made a little squelching noise that one could only hear in the most disgusting of porn films. Harry slid his finger against her gaping hole and picked up some of their mixture onto the tip. He sucked his finger into his mouth and swirled the cum inside, mixing it with his saliva.

Harry brought his mouth above Natasha’s and opened up her own with his thumb. He spilled his saliva and cum mixture into hers. “One final request,” he murmured into her lips. Natasha stared into her professor’s eyes as she swallowed what Harry gave her, and as she finished she opened her mouth. Harry smiled and stated, “Say aah. Wanna know if you swallowed it all.” Natasha fulfilled his request and gave him an “aah” as if she had just drank the best drink of her life.

As Natasha got off of the table, she looked up at the corner of the room and let out a gasp. “Um, Professor?” She pointed at the camera facing directly at the teacher’s desk where they had been fucking. “Well, I hope they had a jolly good show. I know I have.” Harry let out a belly-laugh, to which Natasha followed with a laugh of her own after a bit of hesitation.

“So… what about my grade?” Harry looked at her and gave her a smirk. But it was not like the cheeky ones before, it was much more sinister. “Your grade?” He laughed again. “Oh, sweetheart, you really aren’t the brightest light, huh?” Natasha tilted her head to the side quizzically. “Wh-what do you mean?,” she asked him with a scared undertone. Harry picked up Natasha’s bag for her and held it out to her. “Did you genuinely expect me to change anything, love?” Natasha stood there in shock and silence.

“Jeez, I’m only kidding, gorgeous! Looks like you’ve seen a ghost,” Harry said with a bright smile as he helped Natasha put her bag on her back. When he finished, he slapped her ass. “Your grade will be just fine. You did me a favor, now I can help you. Now, get on out of here. Don’t want anyone to see you look this fucked out.”

Natasha giggled and made her way out of Mr. Styles’s room with a pep to her step. As she turned down the hallway to the point he couldn’t see her, Harry locked his door and sat back at the desk, putting the contents of the desk he just bent his student over right back into their proper places. He chuckled to himself, “That girl is not getting her grade fixed.”

[footprintsinthesxnd]

The Interlude: I Promise

Gale Cleven × Hope Armstrong (ofc)

Series Masterlist

This story is based on on the fictional portrayal of these men from the MOTA to series.

Summary: As Hugh comes to terms with loosing everyone he cares about, Gale finds himself in Germany with his war over, but he does find something he cares about very much.

October 16th 1943, Thorpe Abbott AAF base

Munster had been Hugh’s 25th mission. It was an achievement he could only have dreamt of when he first set foot on English soil. He had imagined celebrating the achievement with Gale and John, not sitting alone on the wing of his plane. It hadn’t felt right celebrating the evening of the Munster mission, not when they had lost so many. Hugh had arranged with Harding to push the celebration back until the weekend but his crew was becoming impatient and he couldn’t deny them their chance to celebrate.

The rest of his crew were celebrating in the mess hall, he’d been there for a good portion of the evening, drowning his sorrows in the corner. His crew couldn’t wait to go home to their families but Hugh… well he couldn’t bear the thought of going home without Hope. How could he leave her behind?

He sat precariously on the plane's wing, his legs swinging beside one of the engines as he took a long swig from the champagne bottle he’d stolen from the officers club. The liquor was foul, but then again Hugh did only really have a taste for the VAT-69. What he wouldn’t give for a glass of it right now. Hell, if only Bucky hadn’t stolen his 25th mission bottle from his footlocker.

Hugh slouched back, an elongated sigh leaving his lips. What he wouldn’t give to have Bucky sat beside him now. Damn, he’d give him the bottle just for some company. For some normality. Despite having bickered like an old married couple, Hugh missed Bucky more than anything, or was it the link that Bucky bought with him. Wherever Bucky was, Buck wasn’t far behind, which meant Hope wouldn’t be far behind him.

Hugh rubbed the single tear that slipped down his cheek, as he sucked in another mouthful of the cheap, nasty alcohol. He was surprised he had any tears left to cry, between losing Hope, then losing nearly all his friends, completing his 25th mission seemed so insignificant when no one was there to celebrate with him. Rosie had tried to reassure him, and Croz had sat with him for a long while as he cried, then again Croz had his owns demons to fight after losing Bubbles.

The sun would rise soon, a very bright, orange line appeared on the horizon, bringing the promise of a new day that Hugh couldn’t wait to see the back of. ‘Just fly your Goddamn plane and kill some Nazis’ he’d told himself when Harding had informed him of today's mission, ‘Do it for Hope.’

The rumble of an approaching jeep stirred Hugh from his thoughts and Ken Lemmons could be seen below, waving up at him.

“Good mornin’, Major,” Ken smiled cheerfully, but his face soon fell as Hugh waved back at him, bottle of champagne still in his hand. “Major, you been out here all night?”

“I don’t know, Ken. Honestly, I don’t really remember much from last night,” Hugh admitted, lighting up a cigarette and taking a long drag, admiring the way the smoke wafted into the early morning sky.

“That’s probably for the best,” Ken laughed, climbing up beside him, taking the cigarette from his outstretched and inhaling deeply. “You had quite the night.”

“Oh yeah, any good stories?” Hugh mumbled, he could barely remember reaching his plane let alone anything before that.

“Well, I can safely say that Pappy thinks you were a stripper in a former life.”

Hugh cocked his head, staring at Kenny as he waited for the punchline that never came. Ken’s face remained plain and stoic and Hugh realised that he was speaking the truth. He’d wondered where his jacket and shoes had gone.

“I guess I did have a good night then,” he mumbled, taking another swig from the bottle. He rubbed his hand along the Forts wing in admiration. “She sure is a fine one, Ken. Hope would be proud.”

Ken nodded solemnly, placing a comforting hand on Hugh’s shoulder. “I really am sorry Hugh.”

“Ah, it’s not your fault, Kenny,” Hugh turned to face the young mechanic. “Hope was always a free spirit, it was only a matter of time until her luck ran out. I guess that’s what happens to us all eventually. Our luck runs out.”

“Don’t go thinking like that, Major. You’re coming back here in one piece and you're bringing this Fort back with you. Remember you’re a member of ‘Hope’s Heroes’ now, she’s looking out for you.”

Hugh chuckled at the Fort's name, it had been a surprise from Croz and Rosie after he’d completed his 25th mission. They’d had Ken and his boys paint over the original pinup and replaced it with a nurse with an uncanny similarity to Hope, paired with the name… well Hugh couldn’t have been more proud. He wasn’t sure what crew would be flying with him, his original crew had become family and it would be strange to fly without them. It didn’t matter really, as long as they did their jobs. Besides he’d be flying with his sister now so he’d never truly be alone.

“This one’s for you, Hope.”

He raised the bottle high, pouring the rest of the alcohol down onto the plane's wing, watching as it ran along the rivets, dripping down onto the tarmac below.

He nodded towards Ken who sent him a small smile in reply, helping him up and off the wing.

“For Hope,” he mumbled under his breath, glancing back at the plane one last time before reluctantly following the mechanic to the jeep. “For Hope.”

October 22nd 1943, Stalag Luft III

His whole body ached, each step felt like a mammoth effort as his sharp eyes stared up at the gates before them. The track through the pine forest felt like an eternity, and yet now when stood in front of the gates that sealed his fate, Gale realised he could have walked for miles if it meant not ending up in another camp like Dulag Luft. The large gates swung back on their hinges with a clang, shaking the barb wire along the fences. Gale could feel the eyes of guards on him from every angle. Large watch towers stood high above the camp, every area under intense scrutiny from the Luftwaffe guards. Demarco mumbled something beside him but he barely registered his copilot's voice, too preoccupied by the intense feeling of dread. He prayed Hope hadn’t ended up in a place like this.

The sea of prisoners moved as one, sweeping through the gates in a mass as the Kraut guards shouted at them. Everything had to be shouted, to be loud and unsettling. It was the way they worked. Gale shuffled onwards, keeping his head down and ignoring Benny’s protests from beside him. He glanced up when a few unfamiliar voices began to call out to them.

His eyes trailed along the barbed wire fencing, looking into the compounds on either side of him. Multiple wooden huts occupied each compound and people began to funnel out of them. The prisoners began flocking towards the new arrivals, moving as fast as they could in their incapacitated states. Their clothes hung loosely to their starved bodies, grime and dirt clinging to their skin. Gale winced at the smell as they enclosed around them, forming ranks against the wire fencing.

Their hands reached through the wire, grasping and shouting at the new prisoners. Some were dressed in the easily recognisable AAF uniforms, while others were RAF. Gale tried to keep his head low, moving forward one step at a time.

It wasn’t until Benny’s elbow dug sharply into his ribs that his head shot up. He glared at his copilot who pointed forward.

“I may be hallucinating but isn’t that Hope?” Gale’s heart leapt and he followed Benny’s outstretched finger to a small, dark-haired figure huddled near the end of the compound.

"Hope?"

The figure raised its head and he meant the unmistakable dark eyes of his fiancée.

"HOPE!" He rushed forward, ignoring the fact that he was breaking formation and he no longer cared. It was Hope, his Hope. She was alive.

As he reached her, he squeezed his hand through the fence, grasping hers. It felt cold and frail beneath his touch. What had they done to her?

"Oh Hope," the words fell weakly from his lips, his voice cracking at the effort of containing his emotions.

"Gale?" Hope whispered, her dark eyes looking at him tearfully. She weavedher hand through the fence further to grip hold of his jacket, "Gale?"

"It's me. I'm here," he reassured her, needing her to know that this was real. He pulled her as close as he could through the fence, craning his neck so he could place his lips to hers. Despite the awkward angle, their lips met briefly. It was the faintest and briefest kiss they had ever shared, and yet Gale knew it would be a kiss he’d remember for the rest of his life.

"I can't believe I found you,” he admitted, letting large tears rolled down his dirty cheeks. He didn’t care who was watching, it didn’t matter anymore. "I found you, just like I promised."

Hope opened her mouth but the shout of a guard behind them silenced her. Gale felt a hand gripping his back, dragging him back and inline with the other prisoners. Gale tried to stand his ground but the guard raised his weapon, prodding it into Gale’s chest as he shouted.

He threw his hands into the air, backing further away but his eyes stayed on Hope's. "I'll find you, Hope. I promise I'll find you," he shouted as he was moved further away from her. He couldn’t stand to see the pain in her eyes but he couldn’t bring himself to look away from her. His eyes remained trained on her small figure until she completely disappeared from view.

His heart sank and he felt Benny’s arm wrapping around his shoulder, encouraging him forward.

“It will be okay, Buck. She’s alive, that’s all that matters.”

Gale knew he was right but the image of Hope looking so distraught and broken was seared into his mind. How could someone so brave look so broken? Gale hated to think what his girl had to endure but he was here now and he wasn’t about to let her suffer if he could help it.

Tags: @georgieluz @docroesmorphine @major-mads @violetdaze25 @bcofl0ve @precious-little-scoundrel @blurredcolour @artlover8992 @b00ks1ut @xxluckystrike @hockeyboysarehot @groovin2beats @kmc1989 @ginabaker1666 @hesbuckcompton-baby @beebeechaos @forsythiagalt @prettyinlimegreenboots @malarkgirlypop

[starlight-and-the-moon]

AHHHHHHHHH

gift for the @mcyt-halloween event for @a1sart

SORRY THIS TOOK ME SO LONG!!!!!!!

_______________________

He didn’t remember much of the accident.

He remembered chatting, talking, but about what?

His father turned around to respond, and in this moment- he could still hear the screams, could still hear metal crunching.

Ranboo buried his parents a week later. 

After this… incident, he was taken into foster care, sent to a strange town. Ranboo would survive, he had to, but at what cost?

Luckily, this cost would never be found, for his sister had come home from Germany.

Niki was a woman of many strengths. After their parent’s passing, she saved and saved so she could come back to the United States to take care of her little brother. A miracle came in the form of the house on Prime Path.

The real estate agent warned her of a haunting, mysterious incidents in the house, but why would she listen? It made the market value drop. 

So that was how Ranboo, aged sixteen, found himself in front of a single story house in the middle of nowhere.

“Okay, so, welcome to the place,” Niki said, trying to appear confident.

Her emotions were always, forever, present. And she let them be, because why would she not?

Ranboo could never, Crying hurt their soul in a way that bled.

Niki continued talking. “I set up your stuff in the attic, come take a look!”

Dubiously, Ranboo climbed the ladder to the attic. Surprisingly, it seemed… half decent.

There was a bed and a bookcase, with a wardrobe against the other wall. On the bed was a black, small book.

“My memory book,” they whispered. “Thank you, Niki. Really.”

Niki looked at him, and smiled. “THis is hard, but we will get through this, okay? I am here.”

Ranboo hugged his sister, overcome with emotions. Not the sad stuff, the happiness. Or maybe not that.

It was the feeling of driving by a childhood home. It was the feeling of reading an old favorite book, almost forgotten.

Wrapped in this feeling, neither sibling noted two little shadows, watching from the ceiling. 

ᯓ★

As Ranboo settled into the house, strange things would happen.

“Hey, Niki, did you see my notebook?” they asked one day.

“No!” his sister had shouted back. Ranboo and Niki had looked everywhere for the memory book, but they didn’t find it. It wasn’t on a random bookcase or on a counter, wasn’t in between the couch cushions.

Niki sighed. “Ran, maybe we should-” she slumped on the couch, then reached behind her. “Oh.”

In her hands was the little black book.

“That’s odd,” Ranboo whispered. “I could have sworn we checked there.” The irony of forgetting his memory book was not lost on him. But, there was nothing to be concerned about, so he slipped upstairs to the attic.

Another time, when Niki was out at her bakery, he’d made himself breakfast. 

“Where’s the milk…” he muttered. 

Cheerfully, a voice behind him shouted, “in the fridge, you menace.” He turned around to thank the voice-

-and then remembered he was home alone. Oh well.

These strange, recurring incidents came to a head on January 4th. Ranboo knew because it was all laid out in his journal- he’d stopped bringing it places in fear of losing it.

He had been rummaging for a letter he had received when he was young, needing to relive the memory. He reached up to the top shelf of the bookshelf-

-two pairs of eyes, one blue, one brown, met his. 

Excuse him for fainting straight away.

ᯓ★

“Tubbo, did you fucking kill him?’ a voice said above him.

HAnds on his wrist, hands on his face. 

“Nope, bossman. He seems alive.” 

Something slapped Ranboo’s wrist. He jolted up.

“Holy fuck, you can touch him!!!” the first voice yelled. Ranboo couldn’t quite make sense of it. “Does this mean-”

“No, I don’t think-”

The two boys fought back and forth while Ranboo observed their surroundings. The two boys seemed to be… translucent? One of them had blonde hair and bright blue eyes. When Ranboo tried to focus on him, his appearance distorted into green. 

The second boy, which was apparently Tubbo, was much shorter. Brownish eyes and brown hair. Both boys wore extremely dirty, tattered clothes. 

Ranboo cleared their throat. “Uh… what’s happening?”

The two boys craned their necks, turning around to look at him. 

“We’re your roommates, dumbass,” the blonde snarked. Tubbo elbowed him. 

“This ray of sunshine is Tommy,” Tubbo added. “I’m Tubbo. And yes, we are your roommates.”

“Wha- how?”

Tommy’s blue eyes appeared to cloud over. “S-sometime before, there was a man in the house. He liked to visit my brothers. One- one day, he was there, and the next… he found me taking a walk. I woke up and was like this. A spirit.”

Tubbo nodded. “Same here. I moved into this house, and one of the neighbor kids- he was coming towards me, and I woke up like this.”

Ranboo nodded. Then, a thought came to mind. “Prove it.”

Tommy stared, resembling a koi fish. But Tubbo stood. 

“As you wish.”

And, just like so, he walked through the wall.

Look, if he was going to faint twice in one day, he might as well do it with style.

ᯓ★

When Ranboo awoke, the sun was shining. 

“Get up, sleepyhead,” Niki said, standing on the attic to the ladder. “You have school.”

Ranboo’s blood ran cold. Ah, yes, the school. That was a thing. 

He had been good in school before the accident. After, he just couldn’t focus. It had been winter break, but now it was over, and with it came the greeting of a bell.

“Don’t get in trouble, Ranboo!” said Tommy’s voice from behind him. and Ranboo jumped.

“Tommy,” he said, voice patient. “You cannot do that.”

Tubbo faded in behind him. “Good luck in hell, bossman!” 

Ranboo’s brows knitted in concern. “Uh, why do you say that?” 

“I don’t know!” the smaller boy replied. “Now go!”

ᯓ★

The first day of school. to put it lightly, sucked. 

It was all a blur. 

“What’s your name?”

“Ranboo.”

“Alright, Ranboo, this is the class. Now everyone, pull out your notebook, we will be doing quadratic equations. If you fail, you will be executed.”

Or something like that. He might have exaggerated a tad. 

At lunch, he sat alone, picking at some questionable pizza. He made a mental note to ask Niki to start packing him a lunch.

“Yo, kid,” said a voice. “This is my table.” Ranboo looked up. The speaker wore a hoodie in the ugliest shade of green known to society, and his face was fully covered. 

Deflect, deflect, deflect. 

“...uh…”

“I said move!” the kid raised a fist, and Ranboo flinched back.

He did not need to worry, for the kid decided to punch himself in the face.

“W-what’s happening!” they screeched, before seeming to be yanked back.

Ranboo ate his lunch in peace that day.

ᯓ★

When Ranboo got home, Tommy and Tubbo greeted him.

“Hey-”

Ranboo looked at them. “Why did you follow me to school today?”

Both boys looked down, before Tommy spoke. “You’re literally the only one that can see us!”

Tubbo looked at the floorboards. “You have people, but we only have each other. We- we can’t risk it.”

What does it take, to be locked in a home on your own?

Suddenly, it all clicked for Ranboo.

Everyone would come and go, next to them but never able to see them.

No one could tell their story. No one could see them. No one but Ranboo.

What’s worse, finishing your story or writing more that no one will read?

“Oh…” he said softly. “Oh.”

The boys nodded. “Y-you’re the closest thing to a friend we’ve had in ages,” Tubbo explained.

Tommy nodded. “We’re sorry.”

Ranboo looked at them, in their eyes. Stared at them, saw past Tommy’s green static.

“No. Don’t be.”

And that was how a second beginning began.

There was a house on Prime Path once, where they said monsters lurked.

If you enter the house, you might see a woman baking. Climb the ladder, you’ll see a boy on the floor. He’ll be talking to someone, and you won’t see who.

It won’t matter. 

There is no monsters in this house.

And if things crash and break, and the lights flicker, just yell “I see you.”

Because anything looks like a monster if it’s shrouded away. 

[schraubd]

The Day After Hamas

The New York Times reports increasing "daylight" (to use an old term) between President Biden and Netanyahu regarding what the aftermath of the Gaza campaign will look like -- specifically, regarding the role that the Palestinian Authority might have in governing Gaza once (knock on wood) Hamas is defeated.  Paul Campos thinks this is reflective of the worries regarding "the administration’s up until now very muted response to the siege of Gaza, and the gathering human rights and public health catastrophe that it represents." I'm not sure that's quite right, though it's perhaps lurking in the background. The more prominent instinct, I think, is that Biden fundamentally agrees with Israel regarding the merits and necessity of destroying Hamas, but fundamentally disagrees with Bibi regarding "the day after". The more "the day after" becomes salient in our minds and we start thinking not in terms of the war's prosecution but its aftermath, the more we're going to see latent but always-present disagreements between Bibi and Biden come to a fore. One sees this dynamic particularly in how Biden relates his response to Bibi's claim that the allies "carpet bombed Germany" -- "I said, 'Yeah, that’s why all these institutions were set up after World War II, to see to it that it didn’t happen again.'" The former point is about prosecution of the war, the latter point is about how we handled the aftermath. For Biden, destroying Hamas has to be followed by aggressive state-building efforts meant to provide a real future (economically, socially, and politically) for the Palestinian people. The allusion to the Marshall Plan after World War II is clearly part of this, and other relevant players are also insisting that any plans for rebuilding Gaza credibly commit to a realistic pathway for Palestinian statehood. For Bibi -- well, I really have no idea what Bibi's "day after" plan is. I don't think he actually wants to fully reoccupy Gaza; but he also doesn't want the PA involved; or international involvement; and certainly Hamas is out the question; so ... where are we left? He seems much more interested in what he'll say "no" to than what he can plausibly say "yes" to, because at this stage in the game reality has become Bibi's unconquerable enemy. And Biden, in turn, isn't going to have a lot of patience for Israel post-war simply refusing to let Gaza rebuild itself or have any sort of self-governance structure whatsoever just because Bibi can no longer square the circle of "no formal occupation" and "no Palestinian independence" by building a castle around Gaza and then never thinking about it again.. Even if one accepts that Israel is pot committed to destroying Hamas, that doesn't obviate but rather accentuates the need to have a serious answer to the "day after" question. Anyone remotely serious figure understands that the war in Gaza is the middle of the story, not the end, which makes it unsurprising that Bibi wants to treat it as an end and just close his eyes to what happens in the aftermath. Biden is a more serious person, and so he's actually contemplating these questions.  via The Debate Link https://ift.tt/FUY0IK1

[chrisevansonly]

EXCITING NEWS I NEED TO SHARE WITH MY TUMBLR PALS/FAMILY🤍

You guys are like my family, you’ve constantly been there for me, checking in on me, as well as just providing so much support and love towards not only my work on here but towards me as well and there will never be enough words to thank you all for everything you’ve done for me.

Most of you know I graduate soon, June 14th I’ll be handed my degree, but i’m done April 12th, and i’ll be the first person in my family to graduate university. That has always been something i’ve wanted to do since I was little but always struggled to find my passion until I found Law and fell in love with everything it has to offer.

Another part of my story you all know or recently found out is i’m a survivor of abuse from my stepfather, and neglect from my mother which left me to fend for myself growing up, and looking after my younger brother as well who graduates high school this year and is moving to Germany. I never thought 1. I’d make it to 20 and next month i’ll be 24 and still here, still fighting for myself even if it hurts like hell. Watching my brother grow up to be strong, and resilient like me only helped pushed me to continue on with my journey, because I owed it to him to live my own life after looking after him for basically 18 years now.

It’s still crazy to me that I’m even here writing this news to share with you all because some of you genuinely have been with me through this whether it’s from tiktok or just tumblr.

BUT WITHOUT FURTHER ADUE…

Ive been debating this decision for a while, if you don’t know i’m british canadian, my father lives in the UK and I live in Canada, he moved back when I was little but since then he’s kept in contact with me everyday, and been a parent to me from across the world. I’ve had my eyes set on moving to the UK eventually, specially the London area to practice law and build my career and my life in a new place, a new city and a fresh start which I keep telling myself I deserve. So to stop rambling and being annoying, as I’m currently working on getting my British Passport, since both the UK and Canada recognize dual citizenship; the possibility and opportunity of moving is almost set in stone.

So basically it looks like i’ll be moving to London next year, and I couldn’t be more excited for this new adventure and for the sudden weightless feeling I have…i’ve always fallen behind and lost who I was and it just seems like everything is coming together and I couldn’t be more excited…my neighbours think i’m crazy with all the tears and dancing i’ve been doing all morning🥹😭

[historymakesmeangry]

Hogan's Heroes after the war headcanons

Carter:

I'm taking this from a fic I read (can't remember the name rn), but he would totally become a high school chemistry teacher- would be the students' favorite teacher for sure

Starts a family pretty soon after coming home, has a big family which he loves wholeheartedly

Tells stories of the war to his children and grandchildren despite it being classified, no one knows if he's telling the truth or not (and yes, he does both, he loves tell more tame, false stories to make the real stories seem more outlandish)

Goes partially deaf during the war from his explosions

Helps create the town's Fourth of July fireworks show, people come from all over the state (and sometimes surrounding states) to see it

Hogan:

Stays in the military afterwards - the higher ups wanted to make him a General but he reasoned he would be stuck behind a desk more often than not, so does as much as he can (read: gets into trouble) to stay a colonel

Stays in Germany, officially working in West Germany but takes frequent trips to East Germany as a spy (perhaps he works for the newly formed CIA with his military job being a cover)

Keeps in touch with Shultz and Klink after the war, mostly to bother them or to use them for a scheme of his. But makes sure they have enough food during the hard times (which isn't as bad bc they live in West Germany)

Marries Tiger a long time after the war, they both got busy and hardly ran into each other, but they knew they wouldn't find someone else better for them after years had past (they wanted to settle down before they did and both of their jobs didn't allow that)

Kinch:

I see him staying in the military as well, do know what he would do, but I don't feel like he would be stationed or work in Europe. Maybe he works as a translator

Keeps on learning new languages, he loves languages and tries to learn as much as he can

Boxes in his spare time, he's the champion of his category for a long time running, it becomes a challenge in his neighborhood to beat him in a fight

He keeps up with radios as well, taking in old ones to fix and resell and making some by scratch, never sees the interest in TV, the radio is all you need

Starts a good sized family, it was never a question on wanting to (as so many decide not to have kids to bring them into horrible situations the world can throw at them), he had his mind set on a family since he was a child

LeBeau:

Starts a successful pastry restaurant in Paris

Has enough money and respect to open another or even make his restaurant bigger, but denies it, wanting to have the smaller, homier feel

He tries to find Mayra to marry, but gives it up when he finds a woman much better than her (the rest of the team all gave a collective sigh of relief when he met his wife)

Rescues dogs to a point it becomes an issue that his friends had to hold an intervention

Newkirk:

Also inspired by a fanfic (which I also don't remember it's name), he goes into the BBC, first starting with radio, but when TV becomes popular he moves onto that - acting of course, but once and a while he'll help with the costumes when they are understaffed and out of time

Is asked by the government to keep on spying for them, but he never liked that stuff anyway, too many people getting shot

Does marry but never has kids by choice (he had a horrible father and doesn't even want the chance of becoming like him), he spoils his nieces and nephews instead

Goes without question that they all keep in contact, with Carter sending the most letters, and even meet up in one of their respective countries every couple of years

[regarding-stories]

When your backstory beats your story (Part 1): Aventuria

(This is going to be a bit of a crossover story between two of my blogs.)

You may not have heard of it, but Germany's best-selling role-playing game is called "The Dark Eye" ("Das Schwarze Auge"). Its first edition beat D&D to market in Germany in the early 80s and has been the dominant tabletop RPG there ever since - generating also several computer games, and finally an English edition that was able to create some hype in the US market, something which its publisher Ulisses increasingly targets (because more customers).

The game itself evolved from a very simplistic system that was fast to pick up over two more editions that revised and expanded it, only to become an overly complex monster in its 4th edition where most people needed a fan-made PC editor to create characters. I don't particularly like the system, which always tended to be "whiffy" (lots of rolling for little effect in combat) and has never been truly fixed, unable to let go of its poor game design legacy.

I have a soft spot for 1st edition, though. It's the first RPG I ever played. It's simple. You're not feeling like a complete idiot (like in many editions of D&D at the beginning). It quickly got you into playing. And there existed some decent adventures of the kind I like.

Sold by the stories

While I personally was more into dungeon-style exploration fantasy, Dark Eye adventures tended more towards stories. (I just happened to be led through an adventure of the style I loved when playing first.) The Dark Eye is probably the most-supported system on this planet when it comes to published adventures, numbering in the hundreds.

Most of these are story-based or focus on character interaction to a good degree, and in fact many Dark Eye gamers are kind of stereotyped as wanting to hang out in taverns and with nobles to have long conversations, invoke the setting gods in their exclamations, and generally be more like LARPers (Live Action RolePlaying - when you dress up). I've encountered way too many of them off- and online to disagree - just like D&D is known for its murder hobo power gamers for a reason.

But given the endless focus on dungeon adventures in D&D and saving the world, The Dark Eye can be a breath of fresh air for getting into well-rounded characters, finding solutions to complex problems, and generally, you know, actually role-playing your character.

You know, most of the things that these days make RPG streaming a thing.

A mixture of more low-key stories and various ideas certainly made it stand out compared to D&D, and to this day such preferences can make you chose one game over the other.

So it makes sense we're talking stories here. So why did the Dark Eye have a backstory problem?

Because it was like this

When you started playing in the 1980s, you basically came into a very settled civilization. There was a large "Middle Empire/Realm" which was the successor the original Empire, and it was a country spanning a big part of the map which was, politically, very static. So were most of its neighbors.

If you picked up the official zine of the setting you would hear of events such as the umpteenth "war" between two impoverished mini-states full of country bumpkins with long rivalries as a recent event. In the early 90s a part of the setting evolved towards the renaissance, but that made it seem even more static. (It was, in some ways, a mirror image of part of the history of the Holy Roman Empire of German Nation. The not-so-exciting parts, depending on your tastes.)

There were tantalizing hints that some much cooler place existed beyond the ocean, the Golden Land (or Myranor), but they largely remained hints back then. Years later, after I lost interest, it was published as an alternate setting for the game, IIRC. Think about hearing of it being hinted for a long time in the 90s and then finally starting to appear in 2000 onwards. It was just too late for me, personally.

Stoking desires but not fulfilling them was a hallmark of The Dark Eye for a long time. Because interesting things did happen, but they either happened somewhere else, far away, or outright unavailable (like Myranor, a discontinued Hollow Earth setting with Japan as inspiration), or in an even less reachable place - the past.

Splendor Of Days Gone By

There is a temptation for any fantasy author, especially authors writing setting books for players, to make up grand chronologies of past events. People generally blame Tolkien for this, given that he created a grand mythological setting with several long ages as backdrop for his "Lord of the Rings".

The reason the "Tolkien did it too" argument is rather weak (in my book) is, however, that Tolkien created his mythology as the backdrop to an engaging, much-beloved story. Compare how many people have read "The Lord of the Rings" with how many have read "The Silmarillion" and you can immediately see how Tolkien did not slack on giving us a good, dramatic story when we first heard about it.

Not so most fantasy authors.

Reading the Dark Eye's history of the setting itself, you have to wonder about the state of mind the authors. Here they put all those exciting events that almost none of their adventures contained:

A royal family of the Old Empire that fell to demon worship and incest.

A march of 1,000 ogres that razed the biggest city in the world.

Wars of conquest, rebellions, the formation of nations.

Several orc invasions.

A sorcerer-king that was in league with demons.

A magican and philosopher-king who ended that threat and ruled a looong time.

A viking era.

Etc.

I really remember reading this back in the day and, being the newbie I was, just being desperate about how boring the present was. Basically the backstory often kicked ass. It had movers and shakers, big dramatic events, and what the Chinese might call "interesting times."

Fixed After All

Eventually the makers of the game (the editorial board, as they are called), noticed themselves. Somewhere around the year 2000 games with meta-plots became a thing, especially in Germany, and big events kept changing their settings, keeping them interesting and preparing the ground for new adventures. And eventually Aventuria, the world of the Dark Eye, followed suit.

For example by bringing the sorcerer-king back and letting players be the protagonists influencing the events that end up bringing him down. What a novel idea...

Looking at the time-line since you kind of think that maybe these people realized they had buried all the excitement in their own, made-up history, because now there are events in there that are clearly inspired by what "came before" as the setting keeps marching forward.

Why it took them up to two decades to realize this is anybody's guess.

The role of backstory is typically to establish the "why" of elements in your story - or here the why of the setting. In Aventuria's case, it did the job of explaining the borders and where the various nations come from, but somehow, and rather unintentionally, it painted the picture of a dynamic and exciting world that eventually solidified and ended up as a rather sclerotic, phlegmatic version of itself.

In the end, as an author, that would have been the point to ask yourself which makes the better story. And go with that.

[spongebobafettywap]

you know after all the retconing and rewriting they've done to established characters these past 4 years that often contradicts all we knew about them and renders their motivation absolutely irrational, i ain't surprised that they'd pull something like that for nightcrawler which fucks up slightly less than 30 years (mystique reveal) and 20 years (azazel reveal) of his publishing history

what i don't get is

if the problem is azazel's character in nightcrawler's backstory (from the draco storyline),

why choose to entirely alter fundamental things about nightcrawler's life which makes some of his biggest heroic decisions overall pointless (giving up his place in heaven to keep azazel out of it since he was his anchor there + use his blood ties to him to clock him on earth) and make things more complicated and questionable about his origins by 1) giving an entirely new setting to nightcrawler's origins (cuz why the hell germany now, why the baron ...) 2) having mystique totally change roles, motivations and actions throughout the origins which goes against everything we've seen so far in main continuity and the alternative realities and 3) removing azazel completely

instead of improving on azazel's character?

there's so many blank spots in his backstory that could be filled, like a millennia worth of filling

we also don't have his pov on stuff... at all and a pov can give so much insight on someone's thought process especially villains

or hell you could reveal the draco was entirely from his pov and he preferred simplifying and seeing things this way rather than what actually happened (something people do)

it's not about making his actions redeemable here tho, it's about putting some dimension to a dimensional hopper's character and their actions

people complain about wanting to follow the "original plan" and doing anything with azazel now would lead to a lack of consistency, when what they call original plan wasn't that at all and consistency stopped mattering in marvel a long time ago with krakoa being its biggest offender

they literally retconned azazel into being a demon after austen's run ended and now went back to calling him a mutant like he originally was as if nothing happened

if i had to pick a poison, it would be that

This will be the last Marvel related question I answer for a while because I don't think the attitude of Marvel and writing of it's characters in such a pessimistic purely for shock value way is good for me to think about mentally. I am also going to make this a broader point about the Marvel/DC method of writing and rewriting and how it causes a stagnation effect.

I am not too sure really why people seem to think instead of trying to make a story work we have to go back and pretend none of the story happened, what is the point? Why should we read stories that go back and decide they didn't happen?

I guess when the goal is to have a series of characters who never age or progress beyond a year at best then you run out of new stories to tell. You have to keep going back and writing things over and over again because there is a certain point you cannot cross. But really I just feel like a story that has no ending is a pretty pointless one to read when it comes to a action adventure series.

I think in the late 20th century of Marvel you saw more of an effort to try and progress the story onwards and that whilst not always perfect at least resulted in it being a overall beloved part of Marvel. But I can't really think of anyone saying anything recently done by Marvel would ever have that same impact on them?

It seems oversaturation of comic books for the big 2 led to stagnation and retcon abominations over and over again. Maybe it would have been better for Marvel if they concluded 616 and moved onto a new universe, at least with DC the reality is always changing itself so that has a minute excuse of how the inconsistencies can work there.

Also anon I do think your idea for making the Draco be from Azazel's pov would explain a lot rather than the way they keep changing his character origins on a whim. But I don't know I don't really have faith in Marvel after what they did with Magneto and the Maximoff twins. I think Marvel is just going to be endlessly rewriting characters origin stories without there being an excuse like realities being reset in DC. They have a main timeline but with all they do it might as well not be 1 timeline.

And you are right that it makes the Amazing X-Men stories not have that sacrifice anymore which is a shame because that series at the start really felt like a return to form but I feel like Kyle and Yost kinda ruined it by focusing on Wolverine. (because we are all so starved for stories about him lol)

[anniekoh]

elsewhere on the internet: cancel culture, tech ideologies and more, per adrian daub

Literary scholar Adrian Daub wrote a thorough debunking of Stanford’s latest “cancel culture” kerfuffle on “banning” the word American.

Also have really been enjoying Daub’s 2020 book What Tech Calls Thinking: An Inquiry Into the Intellectual Bedrock of Silicon Valley.*

From the intro: “This is a book about the history of ideas in a place that likes to pretend its idea don’t have any history.”

From page 74: “The genius aesthetic that rules the tech industry relies again and again on this purely gestural kind of courage, on hyping everyday things into grand acts of nonconformism and even resistance.”

From page 86: “Silicon Valley has a habit of pretending to have a debate when in fact desiring no such thing. One version of this is reflected in the infamous ‘Google memo’ that James Damore uploaded.

There’s a delightful close reading of Ayn Rand’s “funhouse version of capitalist society“ (p 61) / “an economic system dreamed up by Borges” in which the “all-powerful architectural critic (yes you read that right) Ellsworth Toohey who is a Marxist and also in league with monopoly capitalists and also beloved by the populace, schemes to take over Gail Wynand’s newspaper on the strength of (and I’m not making this up) his writing a column in it.”

* Though there is a now anachronistic, overly kind to Musk aside on the “billionaire’s sense of responsibility to others and planet.”

Other helpful posts on Daub’s Substack (note that the German version is first, the English translation comes second)

Ein paar Überlegungen zu Cancel Culture Transfer (on their new book)

there is a mini-genre of Starbucks-related anecdotes that in fact almost seem like cancel anecdotes, but almost never appear in the context of cancel culture discussions (in Germany, as far as I could see, they do not appear at all ). These are incidents in which police officers in restaurants in the United States are (or claim to have been) the target of abuse or disrespect from staff — it’s not clear which, often testimony stands against testimony in such cases. Even though of course these incidents are clearly concerned with freedom of expression (of which we are told that we have to tolerate it, “even if” it is repugnant, objectionable or whatever), even though the case is amplified by an outraged response from the public (particularly online), even though the employer usually panics and just goes ahead and fires the employee(s) in question: in spite of all of this, these aren’t usually treated as episodes of “cancellation.”

Macht es was aus, dass es ein Sandwich war?

Does it matter that it was a freaking sandwich? "You've  definitely heard of silly stories like this," playwright, novelist and  PEN President Ayad Akhtar told his audience at the Festsaal Kreuzber on  December 2. "Students at Oberlin College protested that sushi was being  served in their university cafeteria." It was a bánh mì, not sushi. And  the story is almost ten years old. And it wasn't about cultural  appropriation. And the story turns out to be incorrect.

Maybe  none of that is super important. But with exactly two examples, at  least in the (according to the newspaper “slightly abridged”) speech  text that was published in the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, the fact  that one of the two is wrong feels sort of relevant. In my book Cancel Culture Transfer I  try to show that the sloppiness of these anecdotes represents something  of a hermeneutic alliance between the author and a certain  reader/listener. I'm sure you've heard of this made-up story, Akhtar  told his audience. I'll tell it to you again, of course without googling  it first. Speaker and listeners gather around a fiction as though  around a warming campfire – that can of course be the role of the  writer, but perhaps not when he sets out to provide facts.

I  take no pleasure in having to dissect Akhtar's text here. I'm generally  a big fan of his writing, Homeland Elegies was one of my favorite books  during the pandemic years. But maybe that's also important here: when  Akhtar is good, he's tremendous. But for topics like this, he is … not  tremendous. He doesn't have to be. That's part of the genre. In recent  weeks, many interviewers have asked me incredulously whether I really  think all the cancel culture Cassandras, many of them luminaries (Peter  Sloterdijk! Anne Applebaum! Josef Joffe! Frank Fukuyama!), are “that  stupid”. No, I do not think that. I'm friends with some of them — and  find much of their other work good, or at least interesting. But what I  do think is this: once they sound off about Twitter shitstorms, “woke  mobs” and so on, they're almost never doing their best work. Or their  best thinking. The same goes for Akhtar. He didn't google the case in  Oberlin because it didn't matter. Such gestures of casualness are not a  by-product, but rather the beating heart of this discourse, and they  seem to infect anyone who ventures into its shallows: look, this kind of  text says, I don't even have to bother.

My strategy in Cancel Culture Transfer  was simple: I did bother. You don't have to follow my analysis at every  point, but I hope you've learned something from reading the book even  when you don’t. And you don't get that with a text like Akhtar's  — at  least I don't think so. So in my next few posts, I'm going to do a few  close readings of Cancel Culture articles in the German press, how they  function, and why I think they're grounded in a hermeneutics of  sloppiness that tells readers: don't worry too much about the facts.

Two more from Daub

Here at the End of All Things : On losing oneself in the geography of fantasy worlds, from Middle Earth to Westeros (Longread, Aug 2017)

The technolibertarian crossover of Germany’s would be kaiser (NY Mag, 2022)

[n-rnova]

GILLIARD NOTE

was able to ascertain this for myself at the end of 1915. At the house of some friends one day I met a young officer whose political opinions were favorable to the Court. He told us with intense indignation that on the Tsarina's orders someone had taken gifts and money to the German officers being treated at the same hospital as he had been in. This envoy had not even entered the rooms occupied by the Russian officers. Astonished at his story. I asked for details. An enquiry was ordered. It completely confirmed the story I had been told, but it was impossible to trace the individual who had succeeded, by the use of forged papers, in making the authorities believe he had an official mission. Pure chance had brought me into contact with one of the many provocations organised by German spies with German money.

GILLIARD NOTE: At the time I am writing I find what I have said fully confirmed in the following passage from an article by M. Paleologue, French Ambassador at Petrograd: La Russie des Tsars pendant la Grande Guerre (Revue des Deux Mondes of March 15th, 1921):"I have several times heard the Tsarina charged with having preserved sympathies, predilections, and a warm corner for Germany when she was on the throne. The unfortunate woman in no way merited these strictures, which she knew of and made her so unhappy. Alexandra Feodorovna was German neither in spirit nor in sentiment. She never was."Her education, bringing-up, her intellectual and moral outlook were entirely English. She was English in appearance and bearing, in a certain element of reserve and Puritanism, in the intractable and militant austerity of her conscience, and, lastly, in many of her personal habits. In any case, that 'was all that was left of her Western origin. The basis of her character had become entirely Russian. In spite of the hostile legend which was growing up round her name, I did not doubt her patriotism. She had a fervent love of Russia."

GILLIARD NOTE

should like to record a slight incident at the beginning of spring when the Tsar was at Tsarskoe-Selo between his visits to the front. It illustrates the kind of feelings the Tsar entertained for Germany and tried to instil into Son. The Tsarevich was playing in the park that day, and the Tsar and the Grand-Duchesses were also there. He slipped behind his youngest sister, who had not seen him coming, and threw a huge snowball at her. His father had witnessed the act. He called the boy to him and talked to him severely. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Aleksey! You're behaving like a German, to attack anyone from behind when they can't defend themselves. Cowardly. Leave that sort of behavior to the Germans".

GILLIARD NOTE: It really seems that a perverse fate intervened to protect Rasputin. One day the Tsar was given a document in which the excesses of the staretz were set forth highly circumstantially. In reading it the Tsar observed that on the day and hour at which one of the acts mentioned in the document were alleged to have taken place Rasputin had actually been at Tsarskoe-Selo. Nothing more was required to convince the Tsar that the whole report was simply a tissue of lies.

[bopinion]

2024 / 08

Aperçu of the Week:

"The greatest glory in living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall."

(Nelson Mandela)

Bad News of the Week:

Saturday marked the second anniversary of the Russian attack on Ukraine. One of the macabre highlights was that the mother of political activist Alexei Anatolyevich Navalny was allowed to receive the body of her son, who died under still unexplained circumstances in a prison camp in Kharp, Siberia. Perhaps his death (after all, he was by far the most prominent opposition figure in Russia) is most emblematic of Vladimir Putin's self-image, which simply does not tolerate any contradiction. He is the all-powerful tsar who alone knows what is good for his people - even outside Russia's borders.

That very Saturday, we were invited to dinner with friends. Our hostess comes from Ukraine. There are - of course - Russian traces in her family memory too. After all, she spent her childhood as an Ukrainian in the Soviet Union. Back then, she would have liked to do sports and loved dancing. She was not allowed to do either. She wasn't good enough to be promoted by the system as a cadre. And she wasn't supposed to do it just for fun. When the children of a society are not allowed to pursue their childhood interests, it shows the ignorance of a system towards its citizens - who only count as high achievers, not as people.

I was most impressed by the story of her grandmother. She was "relocalized" from western Ukraine to the Urals under Joseph Stalin. Without being asked, she had to leave overnight with her six children, leaving all her belongings behind, her husband was separated, officially considered "missing" and declared dead a few years later. Josef Vissarionovich Stalin ruled the country with a heavy and cruel hand - from 1927 until his death in 1953. Countless people died under his dictatorship, the figures range from 7 to 60 million. Both are incredible numbers. He strategically uprooted the lives of many more people, as there was to be no sense of (national or personal) identity in the Soviet Union. Like for our friend's grandmother, who was deported over 3,000 kilometers with her children.

It is well known that Putin considers the collapse of the Soviet Union to be the greatest misfortune in human history. From this point of view, his wars in Chechnya, Georgia and now Ukraine are only logical. In the "good old days", the Soviet Union covered almost a seventh of the planet's land mass. And it was the only system, before China today, that dared to challenge US supremacy in the world, see for example the Cuban Missile Crisis. The end of the Cold War, which among other things enabled Germany to reunify, may seem like a great liberation to us in the West. In the Russian self-image, however, things may be different. Despite all the atrocities, Stalin was extremely popular in the Soviet Union and his death was sincerely mourned, our friend told us. Perhaps Putin did not "hijack" the country, but is an expression of a human longing for authoritarian leadership. Which would also explain Viktor Orbán, Recep Erdogan and a whole series of African despots. And in their world, there is no room for dissent or questioning their power. Anyone who dares to do so will pay dearly for it. Like Navalny.

But perhaps that's not really bad news - after all, who is really surprised by this prime example of the nefariousness of Putin's regime?

Good News of the Week:

Not so long ago, NATO was declared "brain dead" (French President Emmanuel Macron) and "obsolete" (US President Donald Trump). And then came the Ukraine war. Suddenly, everything happened in quick succession: Sweden and Finland were or are being admitted to NATO, Secretary General Jens Stoltenberg is postponing his retirement, Germany is setting up a "special fund" of 100 billion to modernize its military, various troop units are being deployed to the Baltic countries, the arms industry is ramping up production everywhere, more and more members are targeting 2% of their gross domestic product for defence spending, the largest manoeuvre in the history of the defence alliance is being carried out, some of Russia's neighbors would rather apply for membership today than tomorrow ... In short: NATO suddenly seems to be alive and kicking.

Why? Quite simply because it is needed. At least Article 5, i.e. the duty to provide assistance in the event of defense, has become extremely attractive in view of the new threat situation. As a kind of life insurance against the new Russian danger. I don't understand why this should be new, as it has been on the cards for long enough. All the hope that "But Putin won't really..." was rather naive. Democratic values are being called into question and the security situation in Europe is unstable. In this respect, it is good that there is a solidarity between the states that have learned from past wars. And who have therefore clearly positioned themselves as a defense alliance.

But perhaps that's not really good news - after all, who can feel comfortable in the face of security policy uncertainties?

Personal happy moment of the week:

I met my wife 36 years ago. In French Canada. We both have family there. We will see them again in late summer. Because we're finally making it back across the Atlantic. We made the initial plans at the weekend and booked the flights. The anticipation is a happy moment that will last a long time. Nice. Very nice.

I couldn't care less...

...about the latest battle in which PeTA is currently engaged. The rebels for animal rights (PeTA = People for the ethical treatment of animals), as justified as their mission is, sometimes overshoot the mark. But this time you could almost take it for a media hoax: they no longer want animal figures on carousels. Because "the use of artificial animals can create the wrong image for people." What's next? A campaign against zodiac signs? Or that horses should no longer be abused in chess?

It's fine with me...

...that FC Bayern is terminating the contract with its coach Thomas Tuchel at the end of this soccer season. After Paris St. Germain and Chelsea FC, he has simply not delivered (enough) in Munich either. Besides, a coach is easier to replace than an entire team.

As I write this...

...I'm listening to "50s Rock" - a tip from my daughter. Because this music (Elvis, Bill Haley, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, Buddy Holly, The Everly Brothers...) would simply put you in a good mood. Works for me.

Post Scriptum

Germany is not doing well economically. The country that achieved the "economic miracle" after the Second World War, mastered the reunification with his east part, was instrumental in overcoming the euro crisis and has always been the largest net contributor to the European Union, is groaning. Too much bureaucracy, too little digitalization, too high labour costs, too little space, collapsing exports, too high tax burden, dilapidated infrastructure, too high energy costs, a lack of innovative strength, too slow regulation, too much pandemic, too much inflation, too much war...

This more than unfavorable mixture of factors has been felt for some time and with increasing intensity, and now we have it in writing. The latest economic report presented last week by Federal Economics Minister Robert Habeck states in short that Germany is expensive, bureaucratic and slow. Habeck therefore sees "cause for concern". Fortunately, he blames this not only on external factors (historically low global trade, loss of purchasing power or high interest rates), but also on home-grown problems: Due to the many disputes, the government has lost confidence, he says.

Now defense spending is set to increase significantly, Federal Finance Minister Christian Lindner is already publicly considering freezing social spending, the investment backlog would like to be resolved and then there's this annoying climate change that nobody takes seriously enough. I had the luxury of growing up in a world where things basically seemed to be on the up. But apparently only seemed to be. Now I fear that my children will have to pay a price for this.

[tipsycad147]

Our Ancestors’ Gods & Goddesses: Why & How To Work With Them

posted by : kitty fields

When beginners come to the path, the first thing they want to know is how to choose a god and/or goddess. This isn’t necessarily the first thing you have to know, but it can definitely help begin your spiritual journey. Often, the experienced pagans will tell the newbies to go with whatever god or goddess calls to them – whatever deity they feel the biggest connection to. While choosing a deity that you feel drawn to is perfectly fine, as you move forward on your spiritual path, look into your ancestors’ gods and goddesses. We will explore the reasons why it is beneficial to work with your ancestors’ gods, as well as discuss how to begin this enlightening process.

How to Choose An Ancestral God and Goddess

Choosing an ancestral god or goddess isn’t as difficult as it may sound, though it will require time and effort.

First, get to know your ancestors.

You won’t know how to choose an ancestral god or goddess if you don’t know your ancestors. Typically the excuses for pagans not working with their ancestors include: “I don’t know anything about my family”, “I’m adopted”, or “my family doesn’t talk to me”. These seem like valid excuses not to speak to our ancestors, don’t they? Wrong. If you don’t know anything about your family, start by speaking with the eldest person in your family and ask them questions. You’d be surprised what that person might know – even if it’s just a random story about an ancestor who died in the 1960’s. Even if it’s a rumor or family legend about where your ancestors originated. Whatever that person tells you, write it down.

DNA tests can help.

Secondly, for those who are adopted, get your DNA tested. There are dozens of companies testing DNA now including Ancestry and MyHeritage and 23andMe. They sometimes have discounted rates around the holidays, so keep an eye on the prices if you are on a limited budget. Or ask for it as a present for your next birthday or Christmas.

WARNING: if you are adopted (or even if you’re not), DNA tests sometimes reveal things in the family that you and your family might not be ready to handle. For example – grandpa might have lived a double-life back in the 60’s and has 2 kids the entire family never knew about. Sounds crazy, but it happens. You’ve been warned.

DNA Results and Google Searches

Next, Work With Your Ancestors

What does this mean to “work” with your ancestors? Cultures all around the world believe and participate in ancestor worship. It is calling on your ancestors and honoring your ancestors in your spiritual practice. You can set up an altar or a corner of a room and dedicate to your ancestors. Hang pictures of them on your walls. Give offerings to them based on what they might’ve liked while they were alive (anything from food to incense to flowers). Talk to them.

Find out what gods and goddesses they might have worshiped.

Now this might not apply to recent ancestors, as much of the world has been converted to abrahamic religions such as Christianity and Islam. But you can go back in time and research the pagan gods of your ancient ancestors. Keep in mind when you discover the potential gods of your ancient ancestors, there will be guesswork and intuition that comes into play. At some point, the world was in a tribal state of community. And each tribe sometimes had their own god and goddess which was different from the next tribe’s god or goddess. Depending on the time period and region, you might find a god or goddess that was widely venerated which can be the deity you choose to work with. Or the deity might choose you.

Searching for my Mother Goddess.

For example, I researched extensively the gods and goddesses of Southern Germany, Switzerland, and Northern France. My DNA is from this region and much of my ancestors are from these areas according to my research. I had a difficult time finding information on deities, as much of the information has been lost or watered down. After digging into the history, folklore, and fairy tales from that region I found my Mother Goddess. Or perhaps she found me. There were too many signs to deny her.

Learn how to work with the old gods in our new practical guide here:

Why Are Our Ancestors’ Gods Important or Beneficial?

Working with our ancestors’ gods is not only important, it is beneficial to your spirituality and life. Your ancestors’ blood runs through your veins. Your ancestors’ DNA combines and makes up your DNA. Not only do their physical traits transfer over to you, but their memories pass on to you, as well. No, you might not remember your ancestors’ lives, but it is an inherent part of your four bodies – physical, mental, emotional, and ethereal. There’s a literal blood link between you and your ancestors, which means that their gods are passed down to you through your DNA.

Awakening DNA Memory

Awaken your DNA memory by working with your ancestors. Research their origins – location, culture, religion, history, etc. Once you do this, you might discover you have awakened ancestral memory and an ancestral god or goddess easily comes through to you. Think about this. You initially choose the goddess Sekhmet, an Egyptian lion-goddess of war, revenge, and ferocity; however, you have no Egyptian DNA or ancestors. Another person of Egyptian blood seeks to work with Sekhmet on a spiritual level. Who do you think will benefit more from this relationship? Sekhmet will see the direct correlation with the individual whose ancestors once venerated her in Ancient Egypt and gravitate towards that person. It’s NOT racist. It just makes sense.

Obscure Gods & Goddesses: They’re waiting for you!

This isn’t to say this goddess would deny a person of non-Egyptian descent, it’s just pointing out the benefits of one who may be of Egyptian descent. Another benefit of choosing one of your ancestors’ gods is sometimes obscure gods and goddesses who haven’t been recognized in hundreds or thousands of years might be more willing to help you since you are one of few who actually address them. They might have been forgotten in the annals of time, and UP pops little ol’ you! You’ve built an altar for this obscure god, researched your ancestors’ beliefs, and now you’re trying to honor this god in your own way and bring your ancestors’ memory alive. How excited and willing to help would you be if your family forgot about you for hundreds of years than suddenly some kid decides to honor and talk to you out of nowhere? You can see the benefits of this relationship with obscure ancestral gods and goddesses. There’s a lot more out there than you could ever imagine. And they’re waiting for SOMEONE…ANYONE to remember them.

Arguments Against Working With Ancestral Gods

Some arguments against working with ancestral deities involve the person’s heritage. I made it seem simple above when discussing how to start working with one’s ancestors, but sometimes it’s difficult to decide which ancestors to focus on. Why is this? Because the majority of people on this planet have heritage from many different places and cultures. So how do you decide which flock of ancestors to work with? If you can’t figure this out, you won’t be able to choose an ancestral god or goddess. The choice is up to you whether you focus on the majority of your ancestors and their ancient beliefs or try to include a god or goddess from differing ancestors’ cultures and regions. Yes, it could get sticky, but you will figure it out eventually. And your ancestors will be there to guide you.

Is it racist to be proud of your heritage?

To some this is a deeply controversial topic, working with ancestral gods and goddesses, as it seems to denote the label of “racist” to those who don’t understand the deeper purpose. Why is it racist to honor your heritage by working with your ancestors and their ancient beliefs and history? No matter what your heritage is, it shouldn’t be considered racist to honor your ancient origins – be it indigenous African, indigenous American, Aboriginal, Celtic, Roman, Greek, Indian, etc. Be proud of who you are and be accepting of others who are also proud of who they are. And know that NO ONE in this world is of pure heritage (as some claim), unless their people have lived on an island or place completely separated from the known world. That being said, there are indeed racist pagan groups who use this knowledge for their own hateful agendas. Be wary of anyone who tells you to be proud of who you are but degrades others who are different.

Past Lives bring through Deities

Another argument against choosing an ancestral god or goddess is that many people believe they are drawn to a deity because of a past life. Perhaps you feel you had a past life in Egypt and are drawn to the Egyptian deities. This could be true; however, don’t completely ignore the fact that your ancestors’ gods might be calling to you. Another possibility is that you had Egyptian ancestors that you might not know about. These are all things to consider. It might also be a possibility that we lived our own ancestors’ lives in the past.

In the end, it’s totally up to you!

It’s completely up to you what god and goddess you choose, as paganism is a liberating and personalized path to growth and connection with the divine. If you feel connected to your ancestors or a call from your ancestors, try incorporating your ancestors’ gods and goddesses into your practice. If you feel no connection but feel pulled towards another culture’s deities and practices, continue with this path but be careful to be respectful of another culture’s precious ancient beliefs as they are fragile in a world that’s been dominated by the Abrahamic religions for the past fifteen-hundred years or more.

[sethnakht]

I'm so glad to find someone else who's seen it! I've only seen it once — the DVD won't play in my region code — but remember finding it fascinating, both structurally and as a historical document (with much, some extremely disturbing, left to unpack given who made it and when). Shaw hated it, iirc.

Some memories that may be misremembered details - would love love your take on what is actually in the film:

Eliza speaks a fantasy argot of Berlin and Vienna dialects (Jenny Jugo, the actress, was Austrian), which has a slightly alienating effect, as though to suggest that this story cannot fully translate, ie. could never have taken place anywhere but England. Or maybe it's a Brechtian touch from the film's director, Erich Engel. (There's also a really weird choice regarding Sie/du usage between Higgins and Eliza that I don't remember well enough to mention in more than passing but that did seem like a cultural translation error.)

In the play, Eliza sends for a musical instrument, but it's never specified in the text what Alfred ends up bringing to Wimpole Street. In this film, I seem to remember it being a concertina (a bellows-driven free-reed instrument with buttons at the ends). Smaller than an accordion and thus easily portable, developed independently in England and Germany, the German concertina has an association with dance music and the working classes. (Both the Dutch and English films also give her a concertina, iirc — the instrument plays a huge role in the Dutch film, and you can spot it in her rooms in the English one.) In any case, she plays and sings a raucous song written for the film, "Ich bin lustig ob ich Geld hab' oder keins", "I'm jolly whether I've got money or none". The song potentially says as much about Germany in 1935 as about this specific iteration of the character — it has fatalist, devil-may-care lines like, "ich bin lustig ob die Welt zum Teufel geht" (I'm jolly if the world goes to the devil), etc.

Higgins twice invokes Schubert's "Ständchen" (Serenade), once on the piano and once, whistling, after returning home from the ball. It's a wistful love song — softly imploring the beloved to listen, to come out, to not fear being overheard — that would have been instantly recognizable to a bourgeois audience raised on Romantic Kunstlieder. This marks a change from the 1912 play, where the crew is implied to have gone to see the new Puccini opera set in the wild west; Higgins whistles an air from that opera after coming home (ironically, since it's a piece about a woman cheating to win a bet and save the man she loves). Perhaps there's irony in having German!Higgins reference a song about being overheard, not least because he never sings the lyrics, only plays/whistles the melody — thus going over Eliza's head.

Much is made of the fact that Eliza took a boy with her on her initial taxi ride to Wimpole Street. Alfred implies a fairly young boy in the play; here he turns out to be a blond, strapping fellow named Johnny. While Eliza goes in to ask for lessons, Johnny waits outside for an all clear signal, like a kind of bodyguard, adding an element of mistrust to her character as well as independence (she has the means to threaten). Overall, Jugo's Eliza seemed to me a good deal less vulnerable than the Liza of the play (where there are hints that other flower girls bully her, where she specifically wants a taxi ride in her new clothes to get her own back). Johnny reappears in a couple of other scenes, including as an ice cream vendor at the first outing taken before Mrs Higgins' at home, the horse races, but I forgot what he says or does, exactly; part of his purpose iirc is to show that Eliza can seamlessly code switch. In terms of the scene, was it that someone tried to walk off with ice cream without paying for it? I seem to recall Eliza demonstrating she can hold her own — springing both physically and verbally into the fray — only to begin speaking high German again once the disgruntled toffs (Higgins) appear.

Alfred ends up lecturing for a temperance society, I believe. Altogether they make something more Brechtian of him, at least in my memory — and wasn't there an extra scene including Eliza's sixth stepmother?

Another added scene is right before the ball — it shifts the balance of power (Higgins is never particularly in control in this film, however, iirc). Higgins is in a state, he comes out from his room upstairs in his dressing gown with his face almost totally masked in shaving cream and bumbles down a long set of stairs to interact with Pickering. I forgot why — maybe helping Pickering look for the ball invitation, which both have misplaced. Eliza then joins them, but not before looking down on them from above. There follows a scene where she immediately solves their problem, then asks for advice on what to wear — maybe which earrings? — and offers three options. Is that right? Or is it two? Higgins is iirc useless at fashion but does inadvertently reveal that he finds her smile charming. The posing of three options — or maybe it's two, and Higgins gives a third — is also used at the very end of the film.

After the post-ball fight, Higgins doesn't storm off to bed; instead, as you mention, he wanders into Pickering's room for reassurance. There I seem to remember he sits at the window, staring at the moon (another German Romantic association, like the Schubert), and wonders whether Eliza's rage is anything he can trust: whether it's something she copied from a book or whether her soul has really been transformed through the experiment. Pickering is astonished. I wish I had access to a screenplay or screencaps for this sequence to recall what he says exactly in the German. I remember thinking Gründgens sold this scene — in part because there's tension and intimacy with Pickering, in part because he's so incapable of expressing himself except in literary abstraction.

The final act includes several major changes. Mrs Higgins' artistic Chelsea drawing room has become a lakeside villa, Freddy is there playing lawn games and the mandolin? (I have a weird memory of a ukulele?) and setting up a boat, Higgins shows up and immediately has a cocktail I think? Maybe? Once alone with Eliza, and faced with the prospect that she'll marry Freddy, he leaves off some of the insults and challenges her — does she really think these people will accept her once they learn the truth of her origins? Eliza is initially dismissive, maybe? but ultimately decides to tell the truth over lunch with the Eynsford-Hills, causing a minor sensation and prompting the whole family to up and depart. Freddy bounds back and shouts to Eliza from outdoors that he doesn't care and wants to marry her anyway. Higgins congratulates her on her splendid honesty (as though to finally acknowledge that she's won the bet, though of course he's egged her on to do this with a kind of bet of his own). Eliza once more poses two/three questions; she asks him whether she ought to marry Fred or do something else, and he asks her to do neither and come back, and the film ends.

Very curious how much of this is made up on my end, and to hear more of your thoughts!

got my hands on German Pygmalion from 1935🦫

[elrics-inferno]

Selim Bradley's name has always struck me as out of place, and I just realized why. It's foreshadowing, and it's absolutely brilliant.

I consider Amestris to be mostly based on Germany (although I do see influence from other Western European nations) with the exception that its lore and alchemy are connected to ancient Persia. The main characters largely have Western European/German-sounding names, such as Edward, Alphonse, Hohenheim, Roy, and so forth, which makes sense considering the setting.

Except for Selim.

Selim Bradley is the only major character whose name is Arab-coded. As an Arabic speaker, I noticed this difference immediately, but I didn't think much of it. In Arabic, the word "selim" translates to intact, safe, undamaged. It's a common name, which is why it eluded my scrutiny.

When we meet Selim, he is all those things. Before we realize he is a homunculus, he is just a normal boy. A harmless, happy, normal boy, whose innocence appears whole and unblemished.

However, when Pride reveals himself, we see that the monster that lives inside Selim, that is Selim, is fragmented. Any innocence we thought he had as a child is completely shattered, along with whatever knowledge of his character we thought we had. As pride, Selim is literally made of dark, glass-shard-like shadows. In other words, he is the opposite of selim. Anything but intact, undamaged, and safe.

This serves three purposes in the narrative.

1. It sets Selim apart from the other homunculi. Because he is Arab-coded, it automatically gives him a stronger connection to the Persia-inspired lore of Amestris, and therefore a stronger connection to Father and Hohenheim's origin story. Pride was the first homunculus, the first one separated from the Dwarf in the Flask because it recognized its pride as the biggest threat to its plan to become "god." As Father's fatal flaw, he has the strongest bond to Father/the Dwarf in the Flask. It makes perfect sense that his human identity would bear that cultural connection in name and in design.

2. Selim, both in name and character, is foreign. Even if the viewer doesn't catch on to the Arabic meaning, any English speaker (or anyone familiar with English or Western European languages) can catch on to the fact that "Selim" does not sound like a European name. Even before we learn that he was "adopted" or that he is a homunculus, we feel like he doesn't belong there. The name alone has us questioning things before we know we should even be asking questions. This leads me into

3. Foreshadowing, but mostly in hindsight (unless your critical eye is sharper than Pride's knife tentacles). Apart from the uneasiness that his foreignness sparks, the subtle but brilliant irony of his name being Selim when he is concealing the broken, deadly mess that is Pride in the adorable, innocent body of a child becomes dramatic irony when we rewatch the show. And it's not just because we obviously know Selim is Pride while the characters don't yet, but because we are aware of a completely new layer of deception with the aforementioned details in mind. The meaning of his name is never brought up in the show, meaning that it's not just Selim/Pride who is deceiving us and the characters, it's Hiromu Arakawa. With just his name, Arakawa is telling us to trust this character. It's ok, it's safe. The same way Selim so easily deceives Ed, Al, and Roy--a disarming facade. All of this contributes to the horror of realizing that Selim Bradley, this cute little boy, is not cute, or little, or a boy. And if your critical eye really is as sharp as Pride's tentacles, then it is absolutely possible to put together the oddity of his name and the visual, more obvious hints dropped throughout the show, to figure out that Selim Bradley is not what he seems, and that he might even be connected to the homunculi.

To conclude, I am once again in awe of the storytelling master who is Hiromu Arakawa, but what's new? I have a feeling I'm going to be discovering ways in which I was fooled and didn't even notice for years to come.